Wormhole (22 page)

“Where the hell did my Global Hawk feed go?” Commander Patterson’s voice came from a spot immediately behind Chief Petty Officer Swan’s right ear.

“I don’t know, sir. One second the signal was great and now it’s like the bird quit transmitting.”

“You talking to the Global Hawk Mission Control Element?”

“They’re working it, boss.”

“Not good enough. Those are my men in harm’s way out there. You tell those air force video jockeys, if they don’t get my video-feed working right now, they’re gonna find my boot so far up their asses they’ll be gagging on laces.”

“Wilco.”

Swan had heard that tone before. It was the sound of one pissed-off Navy SEAL.

Mark watched as Jennifer directed the Global Hawk’s powerful infrared camera, panning across the SEAL platoon’s position. Fourteen SEALs, not sixteen.

“Bring it back to us,” Heather said. “Give me eyes on this compound, white hot.”

The infrared image shifted from black hot to white as the camera zoomed in on the Frazier hacienda’s headquarters.

“Shit!”

Mark’s exclamation escaped his lips as he saw the two glowing white forms kneeling by the barn, less than fifty meters from the comm center where they now stood. By the time the single syllable reached the ears of the two girls, he was already at a dead run, the SIG Sauer nine-millimeter pistol rising into firing position as the window and blinds exploded inward.

From the corner of his eye he saw Heather press her laptop’s
ENTER
key.

Forty-five thousand feet above, the B-52’s bomb bay doors began to open.

Lieutenant Morrow knelt in the darkness, his M4 leveled to provide covering fire for his master chief should that become necessary. But it wasn’t going to be. Master Chief Lucero had already applied the setting from the laser range finder to the nonlethal munition that currently occupied the chamber of his M25 counter-defilade rifle, his finger tightening on the trigger. The M25 normally fired high-explosive air burst rounds. It was a lovely weapon that denied enemies the chance of hiding behind walls or ledges. The user just aimed the sight at the wall or windowsill, got the range from the laser sight, thumbed in an extra meter, and fired just above the ledge. The munition’s safe-arm circuit armed it thirty meters downrange, the round continuing on to the programmed range before exploding. Bye-bye, bad guy.

But, if possible, this was a live-capture mission. So the master chief had loaded the magazine with nonlethal rounds the troops
had nicknamed goobers. These little guys armed themselves upon exiting the barrel, but exploded at the programmed distance. The difference was the way they splashed the target with an instant-drying goo with a tensile strength greater than that of superglue. To get the target free from a goober you had to apply a special spray-on solvent.

Gazing through the thermal sight, Morrow could clearly see the heat signatures of three people gathered near computers through the drawn window blinds. With a thump, the round accelerated from the M25’s short barrel. Almost simultaneously, one of the three people inside spun toward the window. Moving with impossible speed, the glowing figure drew its sidearm as it raced toward the window.

The Ripper. The thought flashed into Morrow’s mind as the grenade penetrated the blinds, exploding one meter beyond, detonating exactly as programmed. The Goober filled the room with sticky strands and globs, trapping everything it touched in a rapidly hardening web that would have made Spider-Man salivate.

Morrow could see the blast catch the running man, spinning him backward in the air, then locking him in place before he hit the floor. The other two figures also froze to their positions in front of the computer consoles.

The man he had tagged as the Ripper continued to struggle against the tremendous tensile strength of the aero-gel, and although Morrow had been told that such a thing was impossible, he appeared to be breaking some of the strands, the weapon in his hand gradually rising toward the two special operators.

“Enough of this.” Morrow fired a single round into each of the three individuals, the tranq darts burying themselves deep in the targets’ exposed flesh.

For several seconds the webbed man continued to struggle, but then he, like the other two before him, hung limp in the clutches of the goo web.

Beside Morrow, Hob Lucero rose up, lifting the goo-solvent sprayer as he stepped toward the target. “Mission accomplished.”

Morrow hesitated, scanning the area with his thermal scope, seeking additional heat signatures. Intel had said to expect five baddies. Just as he had convinced himself that the action was over, and turned to follow his master chief, the sky burned white and orange. Then the shock wave lifted and flung him like a rag doll in the wind.

Flashes lit the southwestern sky brighter than a Bolivian sunrise, the fireball rolling above the bomb line, swirling high in its own heat tornado five seconds before the blast wave passed over the deep canyon. Janet glanced down at Robby’s wide eyes, expecting her child’s scream, but failing to have her mother’s expectation rewarded. Although his tiny hands pressed tightly to his ears, her baby’s face held a look of awed fascination.

Ten feet to her left, Jack’s black-clad form stared back toward the hacienda.

“Are you going back?” Janet’s voice seemed a whisper in her own ringing ears.

“No point,” Jack replied. “Either they’re already in the tunnel and will catch us or they’re dead.”

Janet shrugged off the wave of dread that clenched her heart, snuggled the M4 up against Robby’s front-pack, and turned to follow Yachay down into the outstretched arms of the Amazon.

“Mr. President, we have a solid update from Bolivia.” James Nobles pressed a button on the remote control, replacing the large-screen monitor’s map display with an infrared image showing some thatch-roofed buildings and a number of glowing figures spread out around the compound.

“Go on.”

“SEAL Team Ten has its Second Platoon on the ground at the Frazier compound. Perimeter is secure.”

“First Platoon?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. President. It’s not good. Fourteen KIA. Lieutenant Morrow, the First Platoon commander, has a broken arm, but remains on the scene coordinating with Second Platoon.

“Gregory?”

“No sign of him or Janet Price.”

“Damn it! What the hell went wrong?”

“We don’t know for sure yet, but early indications are that they managed to hack into a number of secure national systems.”

President Jackson felt the blood drain from his face. “How is that possible?”

“We don’t know.”

“Find out!”

His national security advisor nodded. “We’ve recovered two laptops from the Frazier compound. The information on those computers could prove invaluable.”

“Two laptops...” It felt like a hollow prize, especially considering the loss of life.

There was a pause. Then his advisor said, “But that’s not all, sir. The Ripper and Janet Price had help. Significant help.”

The president felt hope rise within him. Perhaps the mission hadn’t been a total disaster.

“We’re still getting an injury assessment, but SEAL Team Ten reports the capture of three terrorists. We think they might have been the hackers who inserted errors into the GPS feed and took control of our Global Hawk sensors. They also managed to retarget the B-52 payload, killing fourteen of our Navy SEALs. We’re bringing the terrorists and the laptops to one of our special facilities. Interrogation may take some time, depending on the condition of the detainees and the interrogation methods you authorize.”

President Jackson didn’t pause. “You have my direct authorization to use any methods required.”

As his advisor nodded and headed for the door, the president held up a hand.

“Oh, and James, in case somebody has forgotten, I want Gregory. Dead will be just fine.”

Dr. Louis Dubois sat in his office staring at the computer screen, his red-veined eyes testament to the fact he hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. Despite the angry grip captivity had on the quarantined scientists, engineers, and technicians under his direction, their professionalism and love of their work had again produced spectacular results. First-phase analysis of Dr. Stephenson’s design had found no fault with his equations, which meant, considering the hatred the LHC team directed at the Rho Project physicist, Stephenson’s theory was correct.

True science revolved around peer review to validate a confederate’s work. The more controversial the paper, the harder other scientists and mathematicians tried to find its weaknesses. The fact that this massive collection of the world’s greatest minds couldn’t punch a hole in Dr. Stephenson’s work didn’t prove he
was right, but it was good enough for Louis. And that frustrated the hell out of him.

As he stared at the engineering report, a cold sweat dripped down the back of his neck, dampening his once-dapper ponytail and staining his shirt collar. The project to build what Louis had dubbed the Rho Gate would require an effort that dwarfed the construction of the Large Hadron Collider. Not in physical size. The device itself would be contained within an expansion of the ATLAS chamber. But its complexity, the power required to generate the wormhole, and the seven-month timeline for its construction—that combination truly boggled the mind. It would take a project the like of which the Earth had never known.