Rogue Threat (20 page)

“What are you saying?” Peyton asked.

“I think there’s a level of capability and organization here that we haven’t seen before. I think this is only the beginning.”

“And the second thing?” she asked.

“Bees.”

“Like the birds and the bees?”

“Well, birds too, but mostly bees,” Matt said. The airfield was in sight, about four miles down the long valley. He picked up Stephanie’s cell phone and dialed Meredith’s number. “Meredith, I need two things. First, what is Rampert’s ETA? Second, I need you to get me information on the leading mind on nanotechnology.”

“Rampert will be there in fifteen minutes. The nanotech thing might be a bit tougher. Why do you need that?”

“Just a hunch. Just get me his name and a phone number, ASAP, please.”

“Okay, hang on. Let me do a Google search for you.”

Matt cocked his head, holding the cell phone to his ear, and listened as he heard Meredith peck away at the computer keys. “Get ready to write this down,” he said.

Peyton searched in the truck’s dirty glove box for a pen, found one, and prepared to take a note.

However, Peyton’s eyes were fixed on the horizon. “That can’t be Rampert’s plane can it?” she asked.

Matt looked up and saw a small, white Sherpa on approach to the airfield. “That looks like the airplane Hellerman told me Ballantine flies.”

Meredith’s voice came back on the phone. “Okay, there are two names that keep popping up. One is Martin Fierman. He lives in Atlanta and teaches nanotechnology at Georgia Tech. Big physics background, and then he branched into computers and digits and so forth.” She gave him the number.

“And the next?” Matt asked.

“Well, this is different, but his name is Samuel Werthstein. He is described as a leading mind in biotech and nanotech, and has recently branched solely into nanotechnology with an emphasis on using digits to replicate insect behavior.”

“Bingo,” Matt said.

“Bingo, what?” Meredith asked.

“That’s who I’m looking for. Where is he?”

“Well, the Internet has got him listed as being an adjunct at the University of Vermont.”

“This starts making more sense by the minute,” Matt said, eyeing the Sherpa. They were less than a mile from the runway.

Meredith gave him the phone number, which Matt repeated to Peyton, who dutifully scribbled it down. “He also has an extensive background in entomology—you know, the study of insects.”

“Okay, gotta run, here, but one last question,” Matt said, negotiating the parking lot and hearing the distinct pop-pop of small arms fire. “Is there a picture of him on any of those Web sites?” Then he motioned to Peyton to reload the shotgun. She needed no instruction as she opened the box of shells and clicked them one at a time into the receiver.

“Of course, I’m looking at one right now. Looks like a typical absent-minded professor, like Albert Einstein.”

“Matt, we’re taking fire!” Peyton shouted.

He shut the cell off and stuffed it into his shirt pocket, pulling hard on the steering wheel to drive toward a small building that would provide cover.

Machine-gun fire chewed the right front fender of the truck as Peyton dove into Matt’s lap, avoiding a spray of bullets that shattered the windows on the passenger side. Without losing control, Matt veered left off the side of the road and into the ditch running alongside.

Matt dove from the truck, pulling Peyton through the driver’s-side door, which afforded them the most protection.

“How the hell do these guys know where we are all the time?” Peyton shouted.

They scrambled into a small culvert that gave them cover from the bullets zipping past them like angry hornets. They were safe, for now, but it was a precarious position. All someone needed to do was get onto the second floor of the hangar, and their location would be exposed.

“Bees, that’s how,” Matt said.

A burst of machine-gun fire spit dirt into their faces.

“We can’t stay here for long,” he said, pushing Peyton into the dirt. “They know we’re here, and it’s only a matter of time before they maneuver on us.”

They moved farther down the ditch and hunkered down against the fire aimed at them from over one hundred yards away. The shotgun was completely useless.

More bullets gnawed at the top of the road that separated them from the flight-line warehouse.

“Bees? What the hell are you talking about?” Peyton asked.

The cell phone rang. It was Meredith.

“Matt, Rampert’s five minutes out with an MC-130. He says it’s a small airfield and wants you to mark it for him.”

“We’re in a firefight here, Meredith,” Matt said. “That airplane needs to land quickly and be careful. Tell Rampert there are about five tangos shooting at us from the west side of the large runway hangar. He’ll need to get a team into the hangar right away. If he has any kind of escort, they can provide some covering fire.”

“No escort right now. Every fighter plane flying right now is protecting critical targets around the country.”

The cynic in him registered immediately that he was not considered a critical target. He smiled and said, “Just give him the intel. He’ll know what to do. Ballantine’s airplane might be in there, too.” He hung up.

They continued to take fire, though it was not well aimed.

He rolled over in the dirt and looked at Peyton lying next to him. She was dirty and tired, but he noticed her steely resolve, which had been consistent throughout their ordeal for the last twenty-four hours. She looked at him.

“What?” Peyton asked.

“You seeing anyone?”

“Come again?” she said, looking up into the top of the mound as dirt spilled onto her face from a burst of machine-gun fire.

Matt shrugged and looked away. As always, when under pressure, he saw no point in fretting over that which he could do nothing about until an opportunity presented itself. They were pinned down and surely the bad guys would run out of ammunition, get bored and give up, or advance upon them. Matt was betting on the third option. Until that time, unsure why, he found himself uncharacteristically attracted to this enigma playing army with him.

“What’s the plan?” she asked.

“I figured we’d start slowly, you know. Maybe dinner and a movie—”

“I’m talking about—”

A loud explosion interrupted Peyton’s protest.

Matt looked at her and said, “Okay, that’s the diversion. I figure there are three men providing cover fire for one or two others maneuvering on our position. This shotgun is totally useless until someone gets within fifty yards of me. The warehouse is about three times that. I have four shells in this weapon. I’ll use one or two on the attacker or attackers that try to root us out of this hole. That will leave two or three for the enemy in the building. If Rampert gets here, fine. If not . . . well, then, we have to think of something else.”

“Ever consider the possibility that there might be more than a few of these crazies out there?” Peyton asked.

“This is suppressive fire intended to keep our heads down so we don’t see them moving on our position here. As soon as you hear a large volume of fire, it will mean that the team has reached their assault position and is about to move the final distance across the open ground. Probably from the left, over there near the woods. When you hear the fire from the building stop, that’s when you know they are within fifty yards, because they won’t risk shooting their own guys.” Matt pointed at the north side of the ditch, where he and Peyton could see the tips of a wooded area just above the top lip of their protective ground.

She stared at him for a moment.

“No. Not right now. Not really,” she said.

Matt did not seem to register that she was answering his original question about whether she had a boyfriend. Enemy fire picked up intensity with orange tracers whipping overhead.

“Get ready,” he said, lifting the shotgun. “As soon as the heavy fire stops, I’m popping up. If I get hit, you grab the shotgun and defend yourself until special ops gets here.”

Suddenly he could hear only the echo of automatic gunfire rumbling along the valley floor.

“Screw that,” she said, standing with him.

Matt immediately picked up one man moving low, holding an AK-47 at the ready. Matt raised the shotgun, felt two shots zip past his ear, and then dropped the attacker with one shot to the torso.

“Watch out!” Peyton shouted. She spun around and grabbed the AK-47 of another man, who had approached them from the backside. Three shots ripped from the assault rifle, spewing powder and fire into Peyton’s face as she pulled him into the ditch, using his forward momentum as an assist.

Matt spun, placed the shotgun on the man’s forehead, and noticed Peyton was holding the AK-47. It took every ounce of control he had not to pull the trigger, and perhaps he should have, but he saw Peyton standing atop this enemy combatant, taking deep breaths and staring down at the man with frightened eyes. She wanted to kill him. He could see the blood-lust in her eyes.

“Don’t do it,” he whispered.

Those eyes darted toward him and then back toward the Middle Eastern man lying in the ditch, staring at both of them.

“Go to hell,” she said, lifting the rifle.

“Let me ask him a few questions first,” Matt said, lifting his hand and pushing the AK-47 away.

She quickly moved the weapon back and fired a single shot into the man’s head, killing him.

“Damn it! What the hell did you do that for?” Matt shouted.

“He tried to kill you. You should be thanking me,” she said. “Watch yourself.” She pointed her rifle at the grenade in the man’s hand.

Matt looked at the dead man, then at his hand. The grenade, pin still intact, was nestled in the palm of his hand reminding him of how a pitcher might grasp the ball for a changeup. He looked up at Peyton, then over the lip of the ditch.

“They’re jumping in broad daylight,” he muttered.

“What? Who?” Peyton asked.

“Special Ops.” Matt lowered his head again, trying to avoid becoming a target for too long. He moved to another portion of the ditch and reemerged. As he peered over the ledge, he saw four square parachutes deploying dangerously low to the ground.

“They’re landing on the roof,” he said in amazement at the balls of the four paratroopers. While he had done that himself in a previous life, watching it was another thing all together.

He heard four small thumps as the commandos landed on the hangar. Though he could no longer see them, he could visualize their actions. In less than ten minutes, the hangar would be under the control of the special operations forces.

“Let’s move. Maybe we’ll draw some fire and take some heat off the spec ops while they move,” Matt said.

“The least we can do,” she muttered sarcastically.

“Let’s go,” Matt said, leaping from the ditch and dashing toward a small copse of trees to his left. He watched Peyton emerge from their protected space. She was holding the AK-47 and looked like she might have stuffed the grenade in her coat pocket.
Interesting.

Matt could hear the stray rounds zip through the trees overhead. They had been seen, but clearly the shooters were not aiming their fire.

“Hear that?” she said.

Rapid gunfire was echoing from inside the building. They were short bursts that Matt knew from experience were typical of close-quarters combat. Multiple shots in short succession indicated surprise and defensive actions. The special operations guys would be using silencers for the most part, so he took this as a good sign.

“Let’s move now,” Matt said, rushing toward the building. This time, there was no fire as they slammed into the side of the hangar, breathing hard.

“Door?”

“Door. I’ll go first,” Matt said.

They slid along the hangar wall until they reached the gray metal door secured by a small hasp and padlock.

“Watch out,” Matt whispered.

He butt-stroked the padlock, which held, but the hasp came swinging free. He kicked the door into the hangar and did a combat roll through the opening, coming to one knee and looking down the shotgun’s barrel. He felt Peyton move into the room and go to his left . . . just how an infantry fire team performed the drill.

“Clear right,” he said, instinctively.

“Clear left,” she responded.

They moved slowly in the darkness of the hangar, letting their eyes adjust.

“Listen,” Matt whispered.

It was the sound of a small aircraft engine cranking.

“That’s Ballantine’s Sherpa. Let’s go,” Matt said, running to the far side of the hangar only to be pushed back by intense machine-gun fire.

Peyton laid down a base of covering fire, but was unclear where she should be aiming. Matt rolled to the right and felt an explosion push them backward. His first reaction was that it was a thermite grenade. He hoped that he was not fighting with friendly forces but didn’t figure they would be down from the upper floors of the hangar yet.

Suddenly the hangar doors flew open. Through the smoke, Matt saw the Sherpa taxiing rapidly along the apron, then lifting off quickly and banking hard to the north.

Running outside, he took two hapless shots at the low-flying aircraft, as if he were shooting quail that had already taken flight beyond his reach. He had done it before and once even got lucky with a long shot.

But not this time.

“You okay?” Peyton asked, jogging up next to him.

“Yeah. That was Ballantine’s plane. But we’ve got to find the special ops before they shoot us.”

“Let’s check out what they destroyed,” she said.

They scrambled to a smoking hulk of scrap metal. The contraption was totally disfigured and nonfunctional. Matt recognized it for what is was immediately.

“No way to tell what that was,” Peyton said.

“On the contrary. You’ve been asking me about this since I met you.”