The Mission

CHAPTER 19

The pilot checked his map one last time, then carefully folded it so that the portion he needed was faceup. He used a band of elastic to attach it to his kneeboard. He had no electronic devices on board other than the engine, windshield wipers, and the rudimentary instrument panel, so this truly was going to be a seat-of-the-pants navigation job. He did have a small FM radio to be used to contact the people on the ground when he got close. The pilot was used to such missions and felt confident he could find the target runway. He looked like Baldrick’s brother — tall, his six-foot-two frame crammed into the cockpit, with straight blond hair and brilliant blue eyes.

He’d been waiting here for two days, the aircraft — a specially designed, top-secret prototype named the Sparrow — under camouflage nets at a deserted airstrip as close as he could get to the target area without actually entering the suspected infected zone.

He flicked the on switch and the engine coughed once, then smoothly started. It was a specially designed rotary engine, quieter than a conventional piston engine and mounted directly behind the cockpit in a large bubble. The propeller shaft extended forward from the engine, over the pilot’s head to the high-mounted propeller, supported by a four-foot pylon mounted on the nose. The long shaft allowed a high reduction ratio for the prop, and the very large blades — over eight feet long — turned very slowly. The resulting sound was no louder than a moderate wind blowing through the trees.

The Sparrow was made by a South African company off of designs stolen from Lockheed’s Q-Star (Quiet Star) program. The company was a subsidiary of Terra-Lei. The entire aircraft was designed with two factors in mind: reduced noise and radar signature. It wasn’t built for speed or endurance, but the target was only sixty miles away. The pilot knew he would be there in less than forty minutes.

The runway was dirt, and the rain had further complicated what was going to be a difficult takeoff with no lights. The pilot released the brakes and the plane began rolling. Peering through the Plexiglas with his night-vision goggles, the pilot ignored the sweep of the wipers and concentrated on staying straight. In two hundred feet he had sufficient speed and pulled back on the yoke, lifting off. As soon as he cleared the trees, he turned due west.

Colonel Lorenz had moved the AWACS until they were now farther south along the coast, opposite Peru. The only aircraft on his screens was moving in this direction, because he had ordered it to.

He keyed his mike. “Spectre One One, this is Eagle. Over.”

“This is One One. Over.”

Lorenz quickly relayed to the pilot of the Spectre gunship what he wanted. The AC-130 didn’t look like a bloodhound, but it was the best Harris could come up with in the inventory. A C-130 transport plane modified to be an airborne gun platform, the Spectre could throw a lot of bullets in a very short period of time. From front to rear, along the left side, the Spectre boasted 7.62mm Gatling guns, 40mm cannon, and a 105mm howitzer, all linked to a sophisticated computerized aiming system on board the craft. The crewmen’s job was to shovel away expended brass from around the guns so they could keep firing.

Using its low-light-level TV–LLTV–Lorenz wanted the Spectre to head to the bouncer’s location, then begin a circular search pattern, literally looking for the people they were after.

“Roger that,” the pilot of the Spectre acknowledged when Lorenz was done with his instructions. “ETA at target sight, fifteen minutes. Out.”

“Another kilometer,” Toland said. He pulled his canteen out and drank deeply while still walking, trying to replace some of the fluid he was losing and keep his temperature down.

He looked over. Faulkener and the other man weren’t doing too well either, but Baldrick seemed all right. Of course, Baldrick hadn’t been with them at the ambush.

Lexina listened to the report from Elek in Qian-Ling and then one from Gergor and Condan, still making their way south. Neither was good. Gergor’s description of what happened when he turned on the ship link did not bode well for current events. And Elek being trapped inside the tomb without access to the lower level was frustrating. The fact that the guardian in Qian-Ling could give no information on the location of the key had not surprised her, but she had had a faint hope it might. That hope was now gone.

She was seated in a tall black chair, a few inches too big for her. One small screen glowed in front of her, the rest of the devices in the room dark and powerless.

She knew little of this base from the records other than that the Airlia had established one at this location during the height of their domain on Earth. Its purpose was unclear, and who had attacked it, and why, were also unknown, although Lexina had to assume it had happened during the long struggle between Aspasia and Artad, and their minions: the Guides and The Ones Who Wait. There was so much that had been lost over the years, so much information.

There was little power left in the base’s energy source, and she had carried few supplies in with her. Until Gergor and Coridan arrived with more, she would have to make do. Her sat-link still worked — after she had hooked it into the facility’s monitoring array. That allowed her to talk to them, but there was little she could do other than monitor. The conversation with Duncan had not gone well.

But one thing she had learned in her years with STAAR was that there was always a way to turn what looked like a negative into a positive. She punched into her sat-link.

The other end was answered promptly.

“Duncan.”

“Dr. Duncan, this is Lexina. Have you thought more about my request that you give us the key? If you have it, that is.”

“Oh, we have it,” Duncan said. “But I see no reason why we should give it to you.”

“My people are in Qian-Ling.” “Is that where the key goes?” “It is possible,” Lexina said. “But you don’t know for sure?” Duncan pressed.

“My people in Qian-Ling have Professor Che Lu in their custody.”

“Are you threatening to harm her?” There was a touch of anger in Duncan’s voice.

“Perhaps I should,” Lexina said. “After all, you killed two of my agents at Area 51. But I would prefer to act in a more civilized manner if we can. Qian-Ling has been sealed off from the outside world. The Chinese army has it completely surrounded. Unless you give me the key, Che Lu and those with her will never get out of the tomb.”

“What does the key have to do with Qian-Ling?”

The question gave Lexina pause. Exactly what did Duncan have? Or were they ignorant?

“That is why you must give me the key,” Lexina said. “I know how it is to be used.”

“So do we,” Duncan said. “And maybe you’re tying to me. Maybe it doesn’t go to Qian-Ling.”

Lexina realized this was going nowhere, a poker game where both sides were refusing to show their cards.

“I understand your shuttles have launched to link up with the mothership and the remaining talon.”

“The whole world knows that,” Duncan said.

“But I know something that could critically affect their mission,” Lexina said.

“What?”

“You don’t get something for nothing.”

“I’m not giving you the key,” Duncan said. “We not only don’t know who you are, we don’t know what you are. Until then, there are no deals.”

“You are making a mistake,” Lexina said.

“Perhaps, but we didn’t think STAAR had our best interests at heart before, and now that we know you aren’t even human, we think it even less.”

“I’m human,” Lexina said.

“That’s not what the autopsies on your two people revealed.”

“We are here to protect you,” Lexina said.

“And it was an easier job when we were ignorant.” Duncan said. “But we’re not ignorant, and frankly, protect us from what? Yourselves? Sort of like the Mafia? We’ll protect you from us? If it’s to protect us from Aspasia, we took care of that problem on our own.”

“So you think,” Lexina said.

“We will take care of the Airlia survivors on Mars on our own also.”

“So you think,” Lexina repeated.

There was a pause. Then Duncan spoke. “What do you know of the Guides?”

“They are your enemy.”

“The Mission?” Duncan asked.

“They seek to destroy you,” Lexina said.

“Using the Black Death?”

“They have done that in the past.” “But we have always survived.”

“You do not even know who you are, yet you think you can do all this? You are children! Ignorant children playing in a very grown-up universe.”

“If you are willing to work with us,” Duncan said, “perhaps something can be arranged. But I do not respond well to threats.”

“On your head be it.” Lexina cut the connection. She sat back in the chair designed for the Airlia, her feet dangling just above the floor.

“Is there any other way out of here?” Croteau kept his voice low, even though it appeared Elek was totally engrossed in the golden pyramid.

Che Lu shook her head. “The main passageway was blown up by the army. Our friend there closed off the tunnel.”

Lo Fa had been silent the entire time they had been inside the tomb. Che Lu had attributed it to his displeasure over being captured by these mercenaries on what she knew he considered a foolish mission. But he broke his long silence. “How did those others get in here last week?”

“What others?” Che Lu asked.

“The Russians,” Lo Fa said. “I know they did not go in the front door of the tomb, because I cleared that for you. And they did not go in the large runnel, because that was how you got out. So — how did they get in?”

“A side tunnel,” Che Lu said. She remembered Colonel Kostanov, the Russian officer who had been in here before she arrived last time. He had pointed to the side of the large chamber. “Over there. But he said it was sealed from the outside.”

“Yes, but I have some explosives,” Croteau said.

“The army will be waiting outside,” Lo Fa said.

“I’d rather take my chances out there than in here,” Croteau said. “This Elek fellow doesn’t have what he wanted, and I got a feeling he’ll sit in here forever. Every hour we wait, the more troops are going to be outside. Now is our best shot. Plus it’ll be light soon. We wait another day, we’ll never get away.”

“I agree,” Lo Fa said.

“I must stay,” Che Lu said.

“Suit yourself,” Croteau said.

Raindrops pelted Toland. He had quit using his night-vision goggles, because nothing could help a person see in this. He was back to the basics he’d learned as a young lieutenant in the Canadian Army: compass direction and pace count. He looked down, then knelt and felt with his hand. Dirt, no grass. He squinted into the dark. It appeared that the runway ran perpendicular to their path.

“We’re here!” he yelled, reaching out and grabbing the back of Faulkener’s backpack. The signal was passed and the men gathered in close.

“How will we know when the aircraft lands?” Baldrick asked.

Toland was shivering now — a down spike in his fever — as water rolled down his body. “If I knew what type of aircraft, that would help. We might have to wait until this thunderstorm passes and the pilot gets an opening. When it lands,” he pointed out, “we’ll see it. Don’t worry. Let’s just hope it gets here.”

He hadn’t told Baldrick about the FM frequency. Toland had his survival radio in an ammo pocket on his vest. So far nothing. His stomach twitched, and he leaned over as he vomited into the mud.

The pilot of the Sparrow was circling on the edge of the thunderstorm, just above stall speed, creeping west with this part of the storm. There was another thunderstorm behind him, and he estimated he’d have about a five-minute window to hit the landing strip, make the pickup, and get back in the air.

Two kilometers to the west, Turcotte and the others in the bouncer waited. Turcotte tapped Kenyon on the arm.

“Could this thing be some sort of space bug that Earth Unlimited gathered?”

“There’s nothing alive up there,” Kenyon said. “But I’ve been thinking about it ever since you told me about the satellite, and I think I know what they did. Zero g.”

“What?”

“Zero g,” Kenyon repeated. “Things work differently under zero gravity. Biology, physics — at the molecular level the rules change.” He was tapping his forehead. “I read a paper about manipulation of the RNA under zero gravity.

“There’s a thing called transduction. A virus infects a bacterial cell that has a toxin…” Kenyon shook his head. “Forget about all that, it’s not important right now. But this is starting to make some sense. The blisters on the black rashes. I think that’s the way the virus moves — the blister explodes, the virus goes into the air. And this is different than, say, Ebola, because it lasts in the air. It holds together under ultraviolet light longer. And zero g would be the only way to manipulate the virus to get that effect.”

“Then the satellite wasn’t sent up there to spread the virus,” Turcotte said. Kenyon shook his head. “No. It was a zero-g lab.”

Turcotte looked over at Yakov.

The Russian had been silent for a long time. He continued his silence, not responding to the look.

“You shot it down, didn’t you?” Turcotte finally asked.

Yakov raised a bushy eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Sary Shagan,” Turcotte said. “The Earth Unlimited satellite was over that site when its orbit began to suddenly deteriorate.”

“Ah.” Yakov waved a hand. “Yes. We fired a laser at it.”

“Why?” Turcotte demanded. “You started all this!”

“We started all this?” Yakov was incredulous. “You give me too much credit. This started ten thousand years ago! It has been a war that has lasted that long, and we humans have been pawns. Well, we fought back. This disease — do you think they were going to put it in a bottle at The Mission? What do you think those four scheduled Earth Unlimited launches from Kourou are for?”

“Can they spread this via a satellite?” Turcotte asked Kenyon.

“This”—Kenyon indicated the immediate area—“was spread via a satellite coming down, but it’s not very effective. A single point to start from.”

“Tell that to Vilhena.” Yakov snorted. “The payloads in those four rockets are different. A Section Four man lost his life finding that out. They hold multiple atmospheric return crafts that can spray the virus. Between the four payloads there are sixteen craft. Enough on their flight paths to blanket the world. You would have preferred we waited until they perfected their plan? We acted, and Section Four was destroyed in retaliation.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“I am sure of nothing,” Yakov said, “except that we have to stop this Black Death.”

In the Spectre gunship the storm didn’t matter in the slightest. The four powerful turboprop engines cut through the wind and rain and the men in the inside were on task, particularly the targeting officer, watching his TV set.

The thermal imaging also wasn’t affected by the weather. He could see as clearly as if it were broad daylight.

They were flying low, doing shallow S-turns. They’d started at the bouncer and were ranging out in a clover-leaf pattern, always coming back and then back out at a slightly different angle.

In the back of the AWACS a young technician stared at her screen. She played with her computer for a little while, then she reached up to the rack above it and pulled down a three-ring binder. She flipped through, searching. Finding what she was looking for, she tapped the man next to her. “Hey, Robbins, align with me.”

Robbins switched to the same radar frequency. “What do you have, Jefferson?” “Just watch.”

“What am I looking for?” Robbins asked after a minute.

“There! See it?”

“A shadow,” Robbins said. “There’s a thunderstorm outside, in case you didn’t notice.”

Jefferson ignored him. “Look what happens when I let the computer project a cross section based on the shadow.”

“What the hell is that?” Robbins asked.

Jefferson handed him the binder. “You haven’t been doing your homework. Colonel Lorenz wouldn’t be pleased.”

Robbins read. “The Lockheed Q-Star. It says here that it’s an experimental aircraft, and not in production. Hell, it says this thing was tested back in the early seventies.”

“That doesn’t mean someone couldn’t copy it and make their own,” Jefferson said. “And they didn’t have the radar technology and computer systems we have on this plane back in the seventies. It would be invisible back then. But it isn’t now.”

Robbins handed her back the binder. “Your find, you do the honors with the colonel.”

The Sparrow pilot knew he was very close now, He pressed the send button on his stick. “Horseman, this is Sparrow. Over.”

Toland sat up straight, ignoring the pain in his stomach and head. He fumbled, then pulled out the radio. “Sparrow, this is Horseman. Over.” He squinted up into the rain. It was getting lighter. The worst was passing.

“Horseman, this is Sparrow. I’ll be down in three minutes. Be ready to load fast. Over.”

“Roger that. Out.” Toland stood with difficulty. “Aircraft’s inbound. Let’s get ready.”

“Got him!” Colonel Lorenz called out. “Got them both!” He had the small airplane on screen for sure now, and they had pinpointed the FM ground source. “Direct in the Spectre and the bouncer,” he ordered.

Inside the Sparrow, the pilot held the stick between his knees as he pulled the bolt back on his pistol. He had room for only one man, and that man was Baldrick.

The pilot of the Spectre gunship leveled off. “What do you see?” he asked his targeting officer.

“I’ve got them on the ground. Four people.” The man played with his camera controls. “I have the plane too. Off to our left. About a half a mile away.” “Eagle, this is One One. What are your orders? Over.”

Colonel Lorenz didn’t really understand what was going on. He relayed that question to Captain Turcotte on board the bouncer.

Turcotte’s reply was curt.

“Take the plane out.”

The pilot of the Spectre blinked. “Say again. Over.”

“Shoot down the aircraft. Over.”

As far as the pilot knew, no Spectre had ever even engaged another aircraft, never mind shot one down. “Keegan,” he asked his targeting officer over the intercom, “did you hear that?”

“Yeah,” Keegan said. “Far out. We’re a fighter now. The jet jocks will crap when we tell them this. Give me level flight, azimuth, two one seven degrees.”

The pilot of the Sparrow saw the edge of the runway through his NVGs. He nudged the stick forward, descending. He had about a second and a half to figure out what was happening as a solid line of tracers appeared just in front of him before the plane — and him with it — was torn to shreds by a combination of 7.62mm and 40mm rounds.

“What the hell is that?” Faulkener called out as they watched the tracers streaking over head, parallel to the ground.

“Sparrow, this is Horseman,” Toland called into the radio. “Sparrow, this is horseman!” There was only static.

They all turned to look as a bouncer flashed out of the rainy dark and silently flew by.

“There they are!” Turcotte cried out. “Put us down!” They landed, a hundred meters from the four men.

The radio dropped from Toland’s fingers into the mud. His head drooped on his shoulders for a long second, then came back up, and he looked about. There was just the slightest hint of dawn in the east, and the clouds appeared to be clearing.

The third man from Toland’s patrol was lying in the mud, black vomit coming out of his mouth, blood seeping out of his eyes, nose, and ears.