Synopsis :
Book by LaManna Ross
Extrait:
The American hadn't moved. Barely breathed. He'd been crouching on the cold desert ground for nine hours and forty minutes, and a light film of khaki-colored dust coated his boots, jeans, leather bomber jacket, even his hair and face. Just like the bloody aborigines, thought Major Edward Linden of the Australian Defence Force-- he'd seen native hunters stay in that same intense, trancelike state for hours, even days.
As the first shafts of sunlight touched the rock mountaintops in the distance, reflecting pink and gold onto the salt flats below, Special Agent Matt Wilder snapped off the tiny infrared video monitor at his feet. His sudden movement startled Linden, who had cramps in his legs and back and needed to piss so bad he could taste it. He wondered how Wilder had remained so focused. They were both thirty-three, six feet tall; they could almost pass for brothers. Although Linden considered himself a fucking specimen, Wilder's feat of concentration vastly exceeded his endurance. Turning, he spoke into the bullet-sized microphone clipped to his collar: "Stand down, mates."
Six young Defence Force troops in camouflage fatigues--two sharpshooters, an electronic surveillance expert, and three strike-force Commandos--appeared from behind the scruffy vegetation to groan and stretch. Two more of Linden's Commandos--big, tough bastards--were inside a cluster of windowless, bunkerlike concrete buildings. He'd put them there as a greeting party, in case anyone managed to slip through the outside perimeter. In unison, the men outside lined up to relieve themselves along a twelve-foot-high chain-link fence separating the buildings from the salt flats. Some passed around cigarettes while others took vacuum bottles of coffee from their packs. Linden pissed and smoked by himself, apart from the enlisted men, and he scowled when Wilder walked over to them.
"Morning, sir," a Commando said. "Cup a coffee?"
"Yeah, thanks."
Having arrived yesterday, Wilder's body was still on Washington time--fourteen hours behind local time. He scooped a handful of water from a fifty-five-gallon metal drum next to the fence and sniffed it. Satisfied at its relative purity, he submerged his entire head. The Australians looked at each other, amused--the Yank was definitely not your typical officer. Wilder held his head under water until the fog of fatigue lifted, then ran his fingers through his hair and took a plastic cup of lukewarm coffee from the Commando. He smiled and listened to the Defence Force kids laughing and joking; after the long, uncomfortable stakeout he appreciated their lively camaraderie and the new light of dawn. Remembering his first years in the Air Force, he wondered what the men did while off duty. The choices had to be limited being dead-center of nowhere: 78,000 square miles of the undulating plateaus, salt flats, and low vegetation comprising the Woomera Prohibited Area of South Australia.
The concrete buildings on the edge of the Island Lagoon flats were part of the Woomera Instrumented Range, the most private location in the world for space, air, and ground weapons testing. For the past year designers from a joint U.S.-Australian hypersonics team had been leasing the range. Experimental aircraft components--low-orbit thrusters, cold-burning stealth engines, and combo air-breathing/solid propellant boosters--went from blueprint to prototype in the buildings, then were moved to the testing area on large, specially modified semis.
"Back out at sunset, looks like," Linden said, walking over to Wilder. He didn't look forward to another night in the desert.
"Next time you should tighten the perimeter," Wilder said. "Put some additional surveillance on the back of the buildings."
"Look, Wilder, we went over this last night. They're concrete. Solid. Anyone wants in, they'd have to go in here, or up there." He pointed at the front entrance and at the roof.
Wilder understood Linden's resentment--the American and Australian brass made it clear the U.S. Air Force Office of Special Investigations would do nothing more than observe this operation. Although American personnel first detected the earlier infiltrations, and the prototypes at Woomera included some sensitive new technology from the States, the Aussies had home-turf advantage. They would plug the security leak.
Linden turned to his men. "Get to the jeeps." Then he radioed for the two Commandos still inside the building. "MacGregor, Ahearn; let's hustle."
The men outside began walking to their jeeps, hidden near the test area, but Wilder stared expectantly at the building's doors--the other two should've come out by now. He shot a look at Linden, who was thinking the same thing. Linden tried the radio again.
"MacGregor? Who copies inside?"
No answer. Wilder pulled his nine-millimeter Sig Sauer P226 from its holster and started toward the entrance. The men instantly fell silent.
"Two by two, follow me," Linden said, then turned to Wilder. "You're bringing up the rear."
Wilder snapped the safety off the Sig. AR-15s set to three-shot bursts, the platoon moved cautiously, single-file, toward the buildings. Linden held his hand up to halt their movement, then made sharp movements to the left and right to indicate they spread out. He crawled knees and elbows the last ten yards and paused at the orange-painted metal door. Listened. Nothing. He reached up, tried the handle. Locked. No surprise--he'd bolted it himself nine hours ago. He glanced over at Wilder, who shrugged: It's your show, bro.
Linden slipped the key into the lock and turned it. A tall Commando everyone called Farm Boy, with Clark Gable ears and an overbite, stepped forward to assist. Linden pushed the door open a quarter of an inch and they heard a whoosh of air--the building's air supply was filtered and the atmospheric pressure kept slightly higher inside than outside to minimize dust contamination. While Farm Boy held the door in position, Linden took a dentist's mirror from his belt kit and ran it along the cracked door, searching for tripwires. Satisfied, he took the handle from Farm Boy, gestured him to step back, and opened the door. No explosion, so they went inside.
Except for a few halogen task lights on the desks and worktables, the windowless building was dark, and nothing seemed disturbed since last night. Linden gestured to proceed and the Commandos came forward in pairs. One pair checked the offices and cubicles to the left, one went to the large assembly area to the right, and one stuck with Linden. No one spoke.
Wilder, entering last, immediately sensed something that gave him the creeps. A smell, he decided, sharp and coppery.
"Oh, Jesus!" A startled, shit-scared voice, coming from the assembly area.
Wilder and Linden were the first ones through the double doors. The voice belonged to Farm Boy. He and his partner, a short, tough Tasmanian with black hair and thick, connecting eyebrows, stood paralyzed at the edge of a twenty-by-forty-foot room with a high ceiling. Around the perimeter were long metal construction tables supporting prototype jet engines in various stages of completion.
In stark contrast to the white linoleum floor, a twenty-foot-wide russet puddle slowly expanded toward the feet of Farm Boy and his partner. It came from MacGregor and Ahearn, the two Commandos positioned inside. They'd been bound back to back and hung by their ankles from a block and tackle used to move jet engines. A small, neat slit had been made in each of their jugulars, right below their ears, and with each pump of their hearts thick ribbons of blood spurted from the holes. Normally, such a wound would be fatal in moments, but being upside down gravity continued to supply blood to their brains. Their bodies would have to drain dry before they lost consciousness and died.
"Mother a God, get 'em down, quick!" Linden shook with fury.
The Commandos moved forward to help their comrades, walking carefully on the linoleum floor made slippery from the blood.
Wilder, saddened and disgusted, remembered how he'd sat next to Ahearn in the jeep during the ride from base and the kid had excitedly told him about his upcoming marriage.
"This just happened, maybe five minutes ago," he said to Linden. "Any longer they'd be bled out."
Wilder looked around the room, spotting faint bloodstains on the floor beyond the big blood puddle. Footprints. One pair. It made no sense to Wilder: How could a single man overpower two armed, highly trained Commandos and hang them up like this? He followed the footsteps, slowly. Another prickle of danger nagged at him.
Farm Boy, meanwhile, stood motionless at the edge of the bloody pool, his eyes locked with MacGregor's. His friend tried to speak, but could manage only a garbled, hissing gurgle.
Four men linked their arms and gently lifted MacGregor's and Ahearn's heads up, while others pressed squares of gauze to their wounds. Everyone knew it was too late, but they weren't going to let their mates die hung up like pigs.
Wilder paused from tracking the bloody footprints on the floor, noticing MacGregor still trying to communicate something to Farm Boy--urgent, a warning. Linden crossed to the wall panel and lowered the block and tackle so the men could lift MacGregor and Ahearn off the hook.
"Wait!" Wilder yelled, just as they freed their feet.
A small, metallic ping was the last thing most of them heard. As they disengaged the hook, they simultaneously pulled the pin from an M-33 "baseball" antipersonnel grenade hidden between the men. Wilder knew that sound. He dove for cover behind a metal table, tackling Farm Boy as he went, then a fierce, fiery explosion enveloped everything. A jumble of blackened arms, legs, and torsos flew from the epicenter of the blast, thudding against the walls and ceiling. The explosio...
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