Tyrannosaur Canyon (32 page)
Read Tyrannosaur Canyon Online
Authors: Douglas Preston
Masago was sorry about what he had done to the Brit in the museum. It was always a tragedy when a human life had to be taken. Soldiers lost their lives in war, civilians in times of peace. Sacrifices had to be made. Others would take care of the laboratory assistant, Crookshank, who was a lower priority now that the data and samples had been fully secured. Another regrettable but necessary discontinuance.
Masago was the child of a Japanese mother and an American father, conceived in the ruins of Hiroshima in the weeks after the bombing. His mother had died several years later, screaming in agony from cancer caused by the Black Rain. His father had, of course, disappeared before he was born. Masago had made his way to America when he was fifteen. Eleven years later, when he was twenty-six, the Apollo 17 landing module touched down at Taurus-Littrow on the edge of the moon's
By that time, Masago was already a junior officer in the CIA. From there, because of his fluency in Japanese and his brilliance in mathematics, he followed a convoluted and branching career path through various levels of the Defense Intelligence Agency. He succeeded by virtue of ultra-cautious behavior, self-effacing brilliance, and achievement cloaked in diffidence. Eventually he was given the leadership of a small classified detachment known as LS480, and the secret was revealed to him.
The greatest of all secrets.
It was fated, because Masago knew a simple truth that none of his colleagues had the courage to face. He knew that humanity was finished. Mankind had gained the capability of destroying itself, and therefore it would destroy itself.
QED. It was as simple and obvious to Masago as two plus two. Was there a time, in all of human history, when humanity had failed to use the weapons at its disposal? The question was not if, but when. It was the "when" part of the equation that Masago controlled. It was in his power to delay the event. If he performed his duty, he personally might be able to give the human race five years more, maybe ten-perhaps even a generation. This was the noblest of callings, but it required moral discipline. If some had to die prematurely, that was a small price. If one death could delay the event by only five minutes . . . what flowers might therefore bloom? We were all doomed anyway.
For ten years he had headed LS480, keeping the lowest possible profile. They were in a holding pattern, a waiting game, an interregnum. He had always known that someday the second shoe would drop.
And now it had.
It had dropped in a most unlikely place and in a most unlikely way. But he had been ready. He had been waiting for this moment for ten years. And he had acted swiftly and with decision.
Masago's sapphire eyes gave the terminal a second sweep, noting the wall of vending machines, the gray polyester carpeting, the rows of plastic chairs bolted to the floor, the counters and offices-cheerless, spare, functional, and typically Army. He had been waiting two minutes; it was close to becoming intolerable. Finally, out of an office stepped a man in rumpled desert camouflage, with two stars on his shoulder and a thatch of iron hair.
Masago waited for the man to reach him before extending his hand. "General Miller?"
The general took the hand in a firm, military squeeze. "And you must be Mr. Masago." He grinned and nodded out toward the Tomcat refueling on the runway. "Navy man once? We don't see many of those around here."
Masago neither smiled nor responded to the question. He asked instead, "Everything is ready as specified, General?"
"Of course."
The general turned and Masago followed him into a spare office at the far end. On the metal desk lay some folders, a badge, and a small device that might have been a classified version of a military satellite phone. The general picked up the badge and phone, and handed them to Masago without a word. He picked up the first folder, which had a number of red stamps on it.
"Here it is."
Masago took a few minutes to scan the folder. It was exactly what he'd requested, the UAV equipped with synthetic aperture radar, multi- and hyper-
spectral imagery. He noted with approval the diversion of one SIGINT KH-11 infrared photographic satellite for his mission.
"And the men?"
"A team of ten, previously assigned by the National Command Authority from the Combined Assault Group and DEVGU to a branch of the CIA Operations Directorate. They're ready to roll."
"Were they read in?"
"These men don't need to be read in, they already deal solely in classified ops. They received your Warning Order but it was pretty vague."
"Intentionally so." Masago paused. "There is, shall we say, an unusual psychological component to this mission which has just come to my attention."
"And what might that be?"
"We may be asking these men to kill several American civilians within the borders of the United States."
"What the hell do you mean by that?" the general asked sharply.
"They're bioterrorists, and they've got their hands on something big."
"I see." The general gazed steadily at Masago for a long time. "These men are psychologically prepared for just about anything. But I'd like an explanation-"
"That won't be possible. Suffice to say, it is a matter of the gravest national security."
General Miller swallowed. "When the men are given their patrol order, that should be dealt with up front."
"General, I will deal with these issues in the way I see fit. I am asking you for assurance that these men are capable of handling this unusual assignment. Now your response leads me to believe I might need better men."
"You won't get any better men than these ten. They're the best damn soldiers I've got."
"I will rely on that. And the chopper?"
The general nodded his grizzled head toward the helipad. "Bird's on the tarmac, ready to fly."
"MH 60G Pave Hawk?"
"That's what was requested." The general's voice had grown as cold as ice.
"The chalk leader? Tell me about him."
"Sergeant First Class Anton Hitt, bio in the folder."
Masago flashed an inquiring glance at Miller. "Sergeant?"
"You asked for the best, not the highest ranking," responded the general,
dryly. He paused. "The mission isn't here in
"That information falls into the need-to-know category, General." Masago's lips, for the first time, stretched slightly in the semblance of a smile. As they stretched, they whitened.
"My USAF crew needs a briefing-"
"Your aircrew and pilots will be given mission cards and coordinates once in the air. The CAG/DEVGU team will receive the patrol order en route."
The general did not respond, beyond the slight twitch of a muscle in his jaw-line.
"I want a cargo helo standing by, ready to fly at a moment's notice to pick up a cargo of up to fifteen tons."
"May I ask the range?" the general asked. "We might have a potential fuel problem."
"The bird will fly seventy-two percent fueled." Masago slapped the folder shut, slipped it into his briefcase. "Escort me to the helipad."
He followed the general through the waiting room, out a side door, and across a broad, circular expanse of asphalt, on which sat the sleek black Sikorsky Pave Hawk, rotors whapping. The eastern sky had grown brighter, turning from blue to pale yellow. The planet Venus stood twenty degrees above the horizon, a point of light dying in the brilliance of the approaching sunrise.
Masago strode over, not bothering to shield himself against the backwash of the rotors, his black hair whipped about. He leapt aboard and the sliding door closed. The rotors powered up, the dust rose in sheets, and a moment later the big bird took off, nosed toward the north, and accelerated into the dawn sky.
THE GENERAL WATCHED the Pave Hawk disappear into the sky, and then he turned back to the terminal with a shake of his head and a muttered curse. "Goddamned civilian bastard."
2
AFTER MANACING TO find each other in the upper canyons, they had hiked all
night long, guided by the light of a gibbous moon. Tom Broadbent paused to catch his breath. Sally came up behind him and rested her hand on his shoulder, leaning on him. The badlands stood in silent repose, thousands of small gray hills like heaps of ash. In front of them lay a depression in the sand, with a cracked bed of silt whitened by alkali crystals. The sky had brightened in the east and the sun was about to rise.
Sally gave the silt a kick, sending up a whitish plume that drifted off. "That's the fifth dry waterhole we've passed."
"Seems the rain last week didn't extend out this far."
She eased herself down on a rock and gave Tom a sideways look. "I do believe you've ruined that suit, mister."
"Valentino would weep," said Tom, mustering a smile. "Let's have a look at your cut."
She let him peel off her jeans, and he carefully removed the improvised bandage. "No sign of infection. Does it hurt?"
"I'm so tired I can't even feel it."
He discarded the bandage and took a clean strip of silk from his pocket, earlier ripped from the lining of his suit. He tied it gently in place, feeling a sudden, almost overwhelming rage against the man who had kidnapped her.
"I'm going up on that ridge to see if that bastard is still following us. You take a rest."
"Gladly."
Tom scrambled up the slope of a nearby hogback, keeping just below the ridgeline. He crawled the last ten feet to the top and peered over the edge. Under
other circumstances it would have given Tom a rush to see the magnificent country they had just come through, but this time it only made him weary. In the past five hours they had hiked at least twenty miles, trying to put as much distance as they could between themselves and their pursuer. He didn't believe the man could have tracked them through the night, but he wanted to make damn sure they'd really shaken him.
He settled in for a wait. The landscape behind him looked devoid of human life, but many low areas and canyon bottoms were hidden; it might be a while before the pursuer emerged into the open. Tom lay on his belly scanning the desert, looking for the moving speck of a man, seeing nothing. Five minutes passed, then ten. Tom felt a growing sense of relief. The sun rose, a cauldron of fire, throwing an orange light that nicked the highest peaks and ridges, creeping down their flanks like slow-motion gold. Eventually the light invaded the badlands themselves, and Tom could feel the heat of it on the back of his head. Still he saw no trace of their pursuer. The man was gone. He was probably still up in Daggett Canyon, Tom hoped, staggering around, dying of thirst, the turkey buzzards circling overhead.
With that pleasant thought in mind, Tom descended the ridge. He found Sally with her back against a rock, sleeping. He looked at her for a moment, her long blond hair tangled up, her shirt filthy and torn, her jeans and boots covered with dust. He bent down and gave her a light kiss.
She opened her eyes, like two green jewels suddenly unveiled. Tom felt his throat constrict. He had almost lost her.
"Any sign?" she asked.
Tom shook his head.
You sure?
Tom hesitated. "Not totally." He wondered why he had said that, why a doubt lingered in his own mind.
"We've got to keep moving," she said.
She groaned as Tom helped her to her feet. "I'm as stiff as Norman Bates's mother. I never should have sat down."
They set off hiking down the wash, Tom letting Sally set the pace. The sun climbed in the sky. Tom popped a pebble in his mouth and sucked on it, trying to ignore his growing thirst. They weren't likely to find water until they hit the river, another fifteen miles distant. The night had been cool, but now that the sun was coming up he could already feel the heat.
It was going to be a scorcher.
3
WEED MADDOX LAY on his belly behind a boulder, looking through the 4x scope
of his AR-15, watching Broadbent bend over and kiss his wife. His nose still ached from the kick she'd given him, his cheek was inflamed by her vicious scratch, his legs felt like rubber, and he was getting thirstier by the minute. The sons of bitches had been hiking at an almost superhuman pace, never stopping to rest. He wondered how they managed it. If it hadn't been for the rising of the moon and his flashlight he would surely have lost them. But this was good tracking country, and he had the advantage of knowing where they were headed-to the river. Where else would they go? Every source of water they'd passed had been dry as a bone.
He shifted, his foot having gone to sleep, and watched them set off down the canyon. From where he was he could probably drop Broadbent, but the shot was dicey and the bitch might escape. Now that day had come, he'd be able to cut them off with a quick burst of speed and an oblique approach. He had plenty of country to set up an ambush.
The key here was not to betray his presence. If they believed he was still following, they would be a lot harder to surprise.
With the scope of his rifle he scanned the landscape ahead, being careful to keep the lens out of direct sunlight; nothing would give him away quicker than a flash of light off ground glass. He knew the high mesa country well, both from his own exploration and from having spent hours pouring over the U.S.G.S. maps that Corvus had supplied him. He wished to hell he had one of those maps now. To the southwest he recognized the great ridge known as Navajo Rim, rising eight hundred feet above the surrounding desert. Between here and there, he recalled, lay a broken country called the Echo Badlands, riddled with deep
canyons and strange rock formations, cut by the great crack in the earth known as