Zero option, p.15
Zero Option, page 15
Bolan triggered a burst that took away the back of the gunner’s skull. The impact kicked him forward and he flopped on his knees, his gun going off and driving a bullet into the dirt a moment before he fell facedown in the dirt.
Someone appeared in the doorway of Beringer’s house. He aimed his own weapon at Beringer and fired. The computer expert yelled in agony and dropped to the ground.
Bringing up the Beretta, Bolan triggered a 3-round burst that impacted against the clapboards to one side of the door. The shots drove the shooter back inside.
The second guy by the SUV ran around the bulk of the vehicle, his weapon tracking toward the Executioner. He was too slow locating his target and was still looking when Bolan dropped him with a burst that cored through his chest and into his heart. The guy spun, arms waving. He slammed into the side of the SUV, dropping to the ground a deadweight.
Bolan ran to the SUV and jumped behind the steering wheel. The key was in the ignition. He fired up the engine and slammed the stick into Drive. He released the brake and jammed his foot hard down on the gas pedal. The big vehicle surged forward. Bolan flicked on the headlights, the bright beams flooding the front of Beringer’s house. The soldier drove with his right hand, his left fisting the Beretta through his open window as he swung the SUV in close.
A figure stepped through the front door, one hand up to shield his eyes, the other waving the handgun he carried. The glare of the headlights prevented him from identifying any potential targets.
Bolan had no such problem. He jammed on the brake and brought the SUV to a slithering stop, kicking open the door and dropping to a crouch beside the broad front tire. He pushed upright, leaning against the hood, and took quick aim. He stroked the trigger and put three 9 mm rounds in the man framed by the headlights. The shots punched the guy backward and he fell out of sight.
Bolan went to where Beringer lay. He recognized the man from the photo Brognola had given him. The light from the SUV showed the bleeding wound in Beringer’s left hip. The man moaned when Bolan rolled him on his good side. Checking the wound, he saw that it was a through-and-through, a clean shot that had missed the bone.
“Beringer, on your feet. We need to move in case there are more. And before any cops show up.”
He hauled the man to his feet, ignoring his protests.
“Wait. I have important data I need to take away. Eric Stahl wants to get his hands on it.”
Despite his misgivings Bolan helped Beringer back inside. They stepped over the body by the front door.
“I wounded one in the shoulder,” Beringer said.
Bolan had already seen Hecht. The man was still down, blood pooling on the floor around him.
“In there,” Beringer said.
Limping and in agony, Beringer went to where he had left his laptop and the CD containing the information he had rescued. He pushed it into a black leather carryall.
Bolan escorted him out of the house and helped him into the front seat of the SUV. Reversing from the house, the soldier drove back down the lane to the main road. He pulled in behind his own car and quickly transferred his duffel bags to the SUV. He climbed back into the black vehicle and drove off, heading for 66. He picked up the interstate and followed it west until the intersection with 495. Once they were on this route, Bolan stayed with it. The curving swathe of the 495 took them through Annandale, bypassing Alexandria and over the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge and then along the final stretch of the highway until they reached the off ramp for Andrews Air Force Base. During the intense drive, Lewis Beringer said nothing. He sprawled in ungainly silence, holding the field dressing Bolan had given him against the bloody wound in his hip, inwardly contemplating an uncertain future.
CHALLENGED at the air base gate, Bolan produced his Mike Belasko identification. After a telephone call from the gatehouse and confirmation, Bolan was allowed through. He had an armed escort across the base to the waiting C-130 J transport.
Joshua Riba was waiting to meet him. The man glanced at Bolan’s passenger.
“Did you do that?”
“No. A crew from Eric Stahl. Beringer has something the senator needs. Bad enough he wanted him dead.”
Bolan picked up the carryall, along with his duffel bags.
“Is that what Stahl wants?” Riba asked, indicating the carryall.
“Beringer risked going back in his house for it. If it has something to do with Zero, Kaplan should see it.”
“What about Beringer?”
Bolan crossed to the escort team and spoke to the sergeant in charge. Standing back, Bolan watched the Air Force escort climb into the SUV and drive off across the base.
“They’ll take care of him until my contact decides what to do with him.”
Bolan turned and climbed on board the Hercules. He made his way to the flight deck, where he spoke to the Air Force pilot. Riba had settled himself by the time Bolan returned. The sound of the turboprop engines firing up reached them. Once the engines had reached working capacity, the huge aircraft rolled forward, turning as the pilot made for the assigned runway. Once it was lined up, the pilot increased the power. The C-130 J eased forward, picking up speed as it coursed down the runway, the noise increasing until it broke free and pushed its way skyward.
“There’s no going back now,” Riba said quietly.
“That’s never been an option,” Bolan said.
CHAPTER TEN
Wyoming
Midmorning and Warren Air Force Base lay behind them. Riba was driving as they barreled along Interstate 80, west across the sprawling expanse of southern Wyoming. The air outside the vehicle was cool while inside the sealed vehicle the temperature was comfortable. They passed a few vehicles, mainly massive semitrailers shunting goods back and forth across the state, and local traffic. Riba kept his speed at a steady fifty, aware of the vigilance of local and state police when it came to breaking the speed limit.
When they had arrived at Warren, they found that Brognola had called ahead and arranged for them to be supplied with clothing and equipment. The Air Force also had food supplies and water. A pair of large steel flasks contained hot coffee.
Riba had helped Bolan load the gear into the back of the Laredo.
“Now this is what I call real clout.”
On the road Bolan unfolded one of the area maps the Air Force had supplied. He studied it until he had their route worked out.
“Stay on 80 for the next two-hundred-odd miles. When we see the sign for Rock Springs, we exit and take 191 north. Another 150 miles should bring us up into the Gros Ventre and Wind River Mountain area.”
“Still doesn’t pinpoint Kaplan’s place exactly.”
“I spoke to my contact when you were asleep during the flight. They got results from that telephone intercept. Calls to Kaplan’s home phone were rerouted to his place up here. Only a couple, but they were enough. A satellite sweep gave us a location.”
Bolan took a folded printout that had been sent to the Hercules on-board computer system. It showed a satellite digital recon photograph with the distinctive shape of a timber lodge, close to the bank of a placid lake. He held it up so Riba could see it.
“I used the coordinates that came with the photo to work out on the map where Kaplan’s lodge is. With that and your tracking skills, we should find it.”
“Hey, I’m a strictly twenty-first-century Apache. GPS. Radar. I believe in progress.”
Bolan grunted as he reached for one of the coffee flasks.
“Great help you’re going to be.”
“I still take my coffee black.”
“No creamer?”
“What do think I am, some kind of pussycat? Your contact have anything else?”
Bolan showed him a couple more photographs.
“Mug shot from Chicago PD. Hank Winston. His people tried to take out the security team previously attached to Zero, now looking for Kaplan and probably Buchanan. Winston had been seen earlier in Hawaii talking to this guy. My people finally identified him. Chosan Xiang, People’s Republic of China. He’s military and works for a General Tung Shan. Apparently Tung is no lover of the U.S. Chosan runs a special squad that specializes in covert work. And from intelligence reports, not all of it in China.”
“Do we figure this General Tung might be behind the original attack on the Zero facility?”
“When you start adding up all the information and the tie-ins, there’s too much you can accept as pure coincidence.”
Riba looked at the photographs again. “Okay, so this Winston and his team of hitters got stopped. Has he sent in a backup squad?”
Bolan shook his head. “Chicago PD can’t locate him. He seems to have vanished. A local snitch came up with the story he emptied his safe and took off. The snitch got that from some of Winston’s own people.”
“Wait up,” Riba said. “This Winston screwed up the first hit on Zero. He didn’t know it, but he left Buchanan alive. Buchanan returns from the dead, and Winston’s Chinese paymaster comes back and says ‘Finish the job.’ Am I still on the trail?”
“Fine so far.”
“For whatever reason Winston’s boys screw up again. Only this time they don’t walk away. Next we know, Winston has left the Windy City, which leaves the question, what are the Chinese going to do about Buchanan and Zero? If they went this far to take out the whole setup, are they going to quit now? I mean we’re not talking a fortune-cookie franchise here. This Zero system would mean hard times for the Chinese and their Asian neighbors.”
Bolan stared out the windshield, leaving a silence for Riba to fill.
“Tell me if I’m just reaching here, Mike, but can we even assume what’s jumping around inside my head? Such as this Chosan Xiang guy making a personal try at taking out Buchanan and maybe Kaplan?”
“One thing I didn’t mention,” Bolan said. “Chosan disappeared after his meeting with Winston. He didn’t take a flight out of Hawaii back to Hong Kong. Or anywhere. He engineered a vanishing act to distract anyone watching him.”
“So where’d he go?”
BOLAN TOOK THE WHEEL after a couple of hours. The interstate ran ahead, a man-made ribbon cutting through the immense spread of the Wyoming landscape, wide sky above, an endless flow of land beneath. They merged in the far, hazy distance, always leading him on yet never seeming to get any closer.
He checked his watch. It was going to be dark by the time they located Kaplan’s lodge.
Washington, D.C.
ERIC STAHL LEANED over and picked up the telephone.
“Ryan? Please give me some good news.”
“How about the location of Kaplan’s lodge in Wyoming? Is that making you smile, Senator?”
“I almost had a funny thought. I guess that will have to do for the moment. I hope, Ryan, that you’re in transit for Wyoming as we speak.”
“Been in the air for almost thirty minutes, Senator.”
“Ryan, no more fuckups.”
“It has to be our turn for things to go right.”
“No, Ryan, it has nothing to do with good luck. It has to do with not letting the other man keep on kicking your ass. Make your own good luck.”
“Whatever you say, Senator.”
Wyoming airspace
“BIG COUNTRY down there, Jackson.”
“I guess.”
“I thought all you boys liked places like this. Cowboys and all. Big horses. Big mountains. Big guns.”
Byrde turned to stare at his partner.
“What is this with you? Always bringing big guns into the conversation.”
“Never had one when I was a kid.”
Byrde shook his head. He stared out the aircraft window and watched the mountainous Wyoming landscape slip by. He noticed there was snow on some of the higher peaks.
“What time you got, Claire?”
“Five to midday.”
“We should be landing soon.”
“You think we’ll find Doug Buchanan down there?”
“I hope so.”
HE AWOKE LATE, his body wet with sweat from yet another dream.
Or was it nightmare?
During the night, he had twisted and turned, his sleep crowded with dark, unsettling images, alternately hot, then cold, gripped in the embrace of soundless visions he couldn’t escape. It was impossible for him to tear himself out of the paralyzing terror holding him captive. He was forced to endure the parade of silent images, and his single wish was to be able to yell his defiance. To at least scream out in order to break the spell.
He was alone, again, in a dark limbo that might have been eternal night or the cold of empty space. Underfoot he felt solid ground. At least something firm to support him. His body felt alive, with moving, insidiously crawling objects beneath his skin. He knew they were the implants, placed there as part of his transformation. His hands and arms floated into his vision, and he saw the moving shapes beneath his skin. The flesh was raised, like thick veins close to the surface, darker than the surrounding tissue. He could feel the rippling expansion. He knew that the same thing was happening all over his body, distorting its natural formation.
He felt a tearing sensation in his right hand and arm, and when he looked down he saw the flesh splitting open. There was no blood, just the snakelike protuberance of the implant. It arced about, like a blind snake, the blunt tip casting back and forth, searching for something that wasn’t there. Again and again the implant tendril curled and uncoiled, restless in its quest to locate some unknown contact. Now there were more implants, bursting from his body, each new one probing the air around him, finding nothing, and then they all turned on him, the smooth, blind heads hovering in front of his eyes.
Even then he was unable to make any sound, remaining mute and terrified as the many slender implants merged into one thicker shape that struck at him suddenly, exploding in his face and sucking him into a vortex of utter darkness that sucked him down, turning and twisting him as it went on and on. And in his silent terror he found the strength to yell out and break the grip of the formless horror that had snared him.
Doug Buchanan burst into the light, sitting up with a force that almost threw him from the bed. He sat there, panting, his whole body aching, nausea rising from his stomach. He remained in his sitting position, his head against his chest, sweat dripping from his face.
That was how Saul Kaplan found him when he barged into the bedroom, concern etched across his lean face. He saw the twisted bed covers, the sweat that coursed down Buchanan’s naked upper body and flinched at the expression in Buchanan’s eyes when the man raised his head.
“What have we done to you, Doug?”
Buchanan wiped at the sweat running into his eyes. He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly.
“Given me a few sleepless nights, Saul.”
He swung his legs to the floor and stood, swaying slightly, reaching out to place a hand against the wall until the sensation passed.
“Can I get you anything?”
Buchanan glanced at his watch. “I would ask for breakfast, but it’s closer to lunch. A cup of coffee would be nice.”
Kaplan shook his head, turning to go.
“Hey, Saul, don’t beat yourself up over this. I knew what I was doing when I signed up for Zero.”
“I don’t believe any of us knew what we were doing, Doug. We only thought we knew.”
“I’ll go take a shower. Then we can talk.”
Saul Kaplan returned to the kitchen. From the wide window he could look out over the expanse of the lake that lay just beyond his lodge. Seeing the tranquil spread of water, overlooked by the timbered mountain slopes, had always given him peace and a release from any concerns he might have had. It was the reason he had always resisted any offers to sell. It was a refuge from the demands of his intense lifestyle and something he valued above any amount of money. It was the first place he had thought of when he had relinquished his post at the university for health reasons. In part that had been true because he had been unable to distance himself completely from Zero. He had imagined, at first, that leaving the project would work, but he had been wrong. The memories had been too strong. His attachment too personal. His nights started to be sleepless, leaving him tired and unable to give his full attention to his work. So he had left, packing his bags, and had set out for Wyoming and the lodge. When he had first arrived, spending time settling in, he had been able to return to the peace he had always found. Standing looking out across the lake had always brought him contentment.
This day that idyllic panorama did little to ease his conscience. Seeing Doug Buchanan confused and tormented by the visions of his condition left Kaplan with strong feelings of guilt. He was the one person who had convinced Buchanan he was doing the right thing, that he was embarking on an historic journey. Something never undertaken by any other human being. His persuasion had been the pivot that had swung Buchanan to his final decision.
“Damn you, Saul, you had no right.”
He crossed to the sink and turned on the tap, filling the coffeepot. He moved to the stove and lit the jet to heat the water. His movements were automatic as he took mugs from the cupboard and brought out the jar of coffee. His mind was elsewhere, drawing him back to a few nights ago when Doug Buchanan had showed up at the lodge.
IT HAD BEEN COLD, a thin rain whispering off the high peaks. When Kaplan heard the banging on the door he knew who it was. Buchanan had telephoned a couple of times previously, talking, sometimes rambling as he told Kaplan he was on his way. Kaplan, feeling both relieved and guilty, had listened to his friend’s near incoherent speech. He understood that Buchanan had to have been suffering some degree of discomfort. Since the attack on the Zero facility, Buchanan would have been denied his drug injections, the treatment designed to ease him through the implant transition. It was possible for Buchanan to survive without them, but the loss of the treatment would have left him open to the change in his body, without the calming effect of the drugs. In his present state of mind, that loss would have simply added to his overall suffering.
