Area 51: The Grail-5 (19 page)

"What about weapons?" Turcotte asked.

Graves led Turcotte over to a table. "We've got some kick-ass stuff. This is the Mark 98. It fires a depleted uranium round for kinetic energy impact."

It was three feet long, a thick cylindrical shape that tapered to the end where the tube was about an inch in diameter. At the other end, there were two pistol grips: one about six inches from the flat base, the other eighteen inches in with a trigger in front of it. The non-firing end ended in a flat plate. The entire thing was painted a flat black.

"You can fire it either attached to the suit arm or detached." Graves grabbed the two-foot-long cylinder

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and loaded it into the top of the gun. "Want to give it a try?"

Turcotte picked up the heavy gun and aimed out the hangar doors into the desert.

"You have a laser aiming sight," Graves said, "that is turned on when you activate the gun's main power—the switch is there. When you're wearing the suit, you'll get an aiming point on your screen that's one hundred percent accurate."

Turcotte turned the gun on and aimed at a small boulder on the edge of the runway. He pulled the trigger. There was no report as it fired, but a loud pinging sound. The rock disintegrated as the round smashed into it.

"It'll go through any body armor made," Graves said. "High tension, pre-loaded, ten rounds per cylinder. Pulling the trigger releases the spring.

The barrel is electromagnetically balanced so mat the round goes right down the center, never touching the walls and thus not losing any velocity and staying true to target. That's why you have to turn the gun on—to charge the barrel and to rotate the cylinder. It fires the rounds as quickly as you pull the trigger, which unfortunately is not as fast as you can pull the trigger.

It's as fast as the weapon will allow. The trigger locks up until the barrel is set. The cylinder also rotates, aligning a new round. You can fire once every second. When the system is attached to the firing arm of the TASC-suit, the suit's power system will allow you to handle it with more ease than you can here.

"We also have the Mark 99." He tapped another gun that looked just like the Mark 98. "The only difference with this one is that it can fire a high-explosive round. Better than the M-203 grenade launcher and more accurate. Combine that with the fact the suit can take hits 161

from small arms up to and including 7.62mm machine gun fire, we've got a big advantage over the bad guys."

Turcotte was pleased with that. "Communications?"

"Integrated secure SATCOM."

Turcotte considered that. Not much help underwater or underground. "What about among team members?"

"FM capability."

That would restrict them to line of sight. Better than nothing, Turcotte allowed.

"Let's run you through your suit orientation," Graves said. '

Down below in the Cube's main room, Larry Kincaid was staring at a computer screen feeding him live images from the Hubble of the surface of Mars. Quinn had managed to wheedle more live time off of the scope, but Kincaid had a feeling he was going to get shut down soon.

The mech-robots directed by the guardian on Mars had uncovered something, of that there was no doubt. Something that had been destroyed long ago and covered with rubble. There were still mechs at the site, but only a fraction of those had cleared away the rubble. The imagery wasn't detailed enough to know exactly what the object was or what they were doing. All he could make out was a network of black metal. And it was moving.

Kincaid stared at the imagery for several moments. Where the hell were they going now? He typed in commands to be relayed to those controlling Hubble. As long as he could, he wanted to keep an eye on what was developing.

Kincaid picked through the many papers on his desk

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until he found the translation that Mualama had done of Burton's manuscript so far. The account of Ngorongoro intrigued him—most particularly the part about the black network of metal that had been constructed on the side of the mountain and destroyed.

He pulled out a photo from the "face" at Cydonia and looked at what had been uncovered. It appeared to be the remnants of a black network of metal.

QIAN-LING, CHINA

"It's moving." Elek's observation didn't register with Lexina for several seconds.

"What is moving?" she asked.

"The wall." Elek pointed at Gergor's clothes.

Lexina wasn't sure what he was indicating until she realized that the gap between the clothes and the wall was larger than it had been before.

"It's going back, very slowly, but it is going back," Elek said.

Lexina felt a tremble of excitement. They'd simply been in too much of a rush. It was working after all. She looked up at the shimmering black surface.

Soon what they desired would be revealed.

EASTER ISLAND

Another flight was taxiing down a runway on the opposite side of the world. An F-14 Tomcat reached the end of the Easter Island International Airport and slowly turned to face the long expanse of concrete. A man sat in the cockpit, but he was not a pilot. He had been

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chosen at random from among the thousands of humans who had survived the nanovirus experiments. He was there to throw the right switches when ordered to by the guardian. The alien computer was going to fly the plane.

With a jerk, the brakes were released and the F-14 accelerated down the runway. Using information culled directly from the Naval Flight Center master computer, the guardian followed correct procedure and the plane's wheels lifted off the runway a half mile short of the end. It arced upward, afterburners kicking in. It headed directly for the inner curve of the black sphere when the guardian began a hard right bank over edge of the island.

Too hard. The wings lost their grip on the air and the plane slid sideways.

The guardian tried to compensate and almost pulled it out, but the engine stalled and the F-14 dropped like a stone. The man in the cockpit watched with dead eyes as the ground rapidly approached, his hands at his sides, no attempt to pull the eject lever.

The F-14 hit the western slope of Rapa Karu crater in blossom of explosion.

Within minutes, a cluster of mech-robots were gathered around the flames waiting. As soon as the wreckage cooled they would go in, retrieve all the pieces, and bring them back to the nanorobots at the edge of the runway. The nanorobots would then rebuild the plane. The man was a loss, but humans were more easily replaced than machines for the guardian.

The data from the flight was analyzed, flight tolerances adjusted.

On the runway, another F-14 moved into position.

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Two hundred miles to the north, Captain Robinette, the commander of Task Force 79 by default, was looking at satellite imagery forward from fleet command at Pearl Harbor. There was no missing the huge ship and the broad wake that spread out from its blunt bow.

"ID?" He asked his operations officer, Command Lesky.

Lesky had an identification book open. "The Jahre Viking. 564,763 deadweight tons."

Robinette whistled. "What's the plot on this?"

"One hundred and eighty miles west of Easter Island, bearing directly down on the island at eighteen knots." Lesky waited a moment. "Should we prepare a strike to interdict?"

"If that thing's loaded with crude, do you know what kind of ecological disaster that would make?" Robinette said. "Besides, you know what it would take to sink that thing? We'd have to breach every hold or else the oil would keep it afloat."

Robinette picked up a tighter shot of the tanker's deck. There was a cluster of small objects. The next shot was more focused. Groups of people. Hatches were open. "It's not carrying crude. It's carrying people." Robinette looked up. "Contact Pearl and ask them what they want me to do about this."

"Yes, sir." Lesky relayed the order.

"What about the SEALs?"

"Nothing yet, sir."

Popeye McGraw was in the center of the lake that filled Rapa Karu's crater, treading water. He had surfaced a half hour ago and could have been over the rim and down to the shore by now if he had tried. But what he 165

saw when he broke the surface had stopped him. The rim was lined with people.

Hundreds of them. All staring down at him with lifeless,eyes. He knew what would happen if he tried to climb up. He didn't have enough ammunition in his weapon to kill all of them. Plus, a SEAL never abandoned a buddy.

He knew what would happen next, and he waited.

When the hand from below grabbed his ankle and pulled him under, Popeye had his pistol ready. He had a brief glimpse through the water of Olivetti's blank face as the man pulled himself toward him.

Popeye McGraw put the muzzle against his comrade's forehead. "I'm sorry, buddy." He hesitated pulling the trigger, looking into his friend's eyes. And in that moment, the nanovirus flowed over his hand, freezing his nerves, infiltrating his system.

McGraw's last free thought was that he had failed his buddy, his mission, and his country.

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"Our mission is to infiltrate operational area Aker—the Giza Plateau—and secure both Doctor Duncan and any alien artifacts we come across, with emphasis on finding the Grail." Graves slapped the pointer on the acetate covering the small-scale map of the Middle East. "We will depart this location at 0500 Zulu time via bouncer for transport to an Israeli military airfield located here at Hazerim, ten miles west of Beersheba. There we will crossload onto an Air Force MC-130."

Turcotte followed the pointer in Graves's hand as the team leader continued the briefing. It was standing operating procedure (SOP) for a team to present a brief-back—their operational plan—at the end of isolation to their commander in order to get final approval of the mission and plan. Turcotte was a believer in following SOP. It reduced the possibility of screwups, and routine also reinforced men's confidence. Turcotte leaned forward and followed the tip of the point as Graves drew it west, bisecting the Sinai Peninsula.

"We will fly low level across the Sinai to the Gulf of Suez. At that point, the MC-130 pilots have several possible routes to the target and they will decide the safest one to take depending on electronic intelligence of Egyptian air defenses at the time. All routes put us over the drop zone, DZ Nile, located here, two kilometers upstream on the Nile from the underground river which we have designated as Route Alpha."

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Turcotte held up a hand, causing the captain to pause. "Two klicks upstream?

Why so far?"

"I've talked to the navigator for the MC-130 on a secure SATCOM link,"

Graves said. "He says they go any further to the north, they will most definitely be spotted. It gets crowded very fast as you move north toward Cairo. As it is, they think they have a small window to get us over the river with a steep bank, a long enough flight over it to get all of us out, then they will have to bank hard again to get over the desert and out of sight."

"Hdw long will it take us to cover two klicks swimming?" Turcotte was trying to remember the times he'd done what special forces called maritime operations. Two kilometers was going to take a little while, even wearing the TASC-suits.

"We won't be swimming it, sir," Graves said. "The TASC-suits have fittings for propulsion units. Based on other operations we've conducted underwater using the suits, we can make it to the opening of Route Alpha in under ten minutes."

Turcotte caught the note in Graves's voice. He knew that the captain had everything locked down from the second they took off in the bouncer to the moment they entered that tunnel, but from there this mission was an unknown.

And that bothered the officer. Turcotte now knew why Yakov had been hammering at him to slow down, to read the translation of Burton's manuscript, to gather intelligence. For just a moment, Turcotte considered whether they should scrub the evening's mission and delay it for twenty-four hours. Then he thought of Lisa trapped somewhere under the Giza Plateau and he knew they had to go.

"Continue with the briefback," Turcotte ordered the team leader.

The operational briefing was depressingly short.

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There was a lot of "playing it by ear" once they got in the tunnel. So much so that even Turcotte had to acknowledge the scarcity of good intelligence.

Exfiltration was also iffy with no backup to the helicopters from the peacekeeping force.

To balance the lack of planning and intelligence, Turcotte felt they had an advantage with the TASC-suits. Duncan had been told that the suit had taken four billion dollars and fifteen years to develop under a covert research program funded by the black budget. She'd confessed her concern to Turcotte that Majestic-12 and Area 51 had a lot to do with the technology that went into the suit—appropriated Airlia technology.

The briefback was over and Graves was waiting for any questions.

Turcotte only had one. "Are we all set?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Let's get the gear ready for loading." He noted that Yakov had entered the room for the latter part of the briefback. The Russian came over to him once it was done.

"The professor has translated more of the manuscript."

"How much?"

"Another chapter."

"Is it important?"

"We don't know what's important or not yet," Yakov said.

Turcotte stretched out his back, feeling the strain of memorizing flight routes, emergency rally points, primary and alternate exfiltration points, code names, call signs, radio frequencies—all the details needed for the upcoming mission.

Turcotte bowed to the inevitable and followed Yakov to the elevator. The descent was made in silence, each

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man left to his own thoughts. Yakov wasn't going with them, despite his protests. He was too large for any of the TASC-suits. Besides, Turcotte wanted him here at Area 51 to monitor everything that was happening.

Che Lu was sitting in her seat and it appeared to Turcotte she hadn't moved since last they were there, although he knew she had been working with Quinn on Nabinger's coordinates. He assumed she hadn't come up with anything since she didn't say anything.