This was a risky business, the assault. If it went sour, it would probably be bad enough so he'd be looking for a new job.
He laughed to himself. It seemed like every time he turned around, his job was at risk. But that went with the territory. Steve Day, the first Commander of Net Force, had never mentioned that part to him. Maybe if he hadn't been killed by that Russian computer genius's assassins, he would have eventually gotten around to telling Michaels about it…
It was really dark out here, the only source of illumination his headlights, and he bounced along for what seemed like a lot longer than a mile, the little car rocking pretty hard over some of the dips and holes in the ground. He reached the dirt road.
Finally.
For just a moment, he wasn't sure about which way to turn.
Then he remembered he had followed Howard's Humvee off the road into the desert by making a right; therefore, he should turn left to head back in the direction of the highway. He hadn't been tracking on the odometer, but it seemed like that had been a couple-three miles.
Alex paused, then made up his mind. There was no danger, he knew, not to himself nor to Colonel Howard's strike team. The terrorist camp was several miles away — at least four or five — so he could head this way for a couple of miles. If he didn't hit the highway by then, he'd turn around or check his virgil… something he was reluctant to do. That would be admitting defeat. He had always hated to ask for directions, a legacy from his father, and even looking at a map was considered unmanly in his family. The Michaels didn't get lost, according to the old man.
He turned left and picked up a little speed now that he was on a road of sorts.
A large bug splashed against the windshield in front of his face, leaving a blob of greenish goo. The body fluids of that one joined those of several other low-flying moths, mosquitoes, beetles, and whatevers. Apparently the insects didn't hibernate for the winter here. He wasn't driving that fast, and you'd think they could see him coming for a long way off, but they kept splattering against the front of the car. He turned the wipers on, smeared the bug goo around, added the washer fluid to the mix, and managed to clear a patch of glass he could see through.
The road dipped into a gully, then came up, and he rolled over several half-buried rocks in the dirt, jolting him hard enough so his head nearly hit the ceiling.
He didn't remember that part of the drive coming in. None of it looked familiar. Dark as it was, he couldn't see anything but what was in the cone of his headlights, but surely he should have reached the highway by now.
Had he somehow taken a wrong turn?
He looked at his odometer. The highway couldn't have been more than three or four miles from the dirt road. He must have come that far, he'd been driving for at least twenty or thirty minutes. It was 2:20 a.m. Howard would be hitting the terrorists in five minutes.
Maybe it was time to check the GPS.
Well, not yet. Give it another mile. If he didn't see the highway by then, he'd turn around and backtrack.
Michaels shook his head. Brother. Wouldn't that be a story for the folks at HQ? You heard about how Commander Michaels got lost in the desert?
I don't think so, Alex, m'boy.
There was a hillock ahead that curved to the left. As he rounded the curve, the dirt was loose, and the car fishtailed and slipped traction, so he slowed to a crawl. To his left, there was a little stand of scrub trees, stunted pines or some such, none of which looked to be more than ten or twelve feet tall. That was practically a forest out here.
A man stepped out of the scrub growth. He wore chocolate-chip desert camouflage pants and a jacket, and held a short assault weapon in his hands, pointed at Michaels's car. He waved the weapon, his meaning clear: Pull over.
An AK-47?
For a moment, just a moment, Michaels thought it must be one of Howard's troops, but then he knew the man was all wrong. Wrong clothes, wrong gun, wrong place.
Fear spasmed in Michaels' belly as he realized who this must be:
It was one of the terrorists—!
Oh, shit! What had he done? Better still — what was he going to do now?
Chapter Eighteen
Howard looked at his watch. A gift from his wife on his thirty-fifth birthday, it was a Bulova Field Grade Marine Star, with a black face and a dial light, an analog quartz whose battery was recharged by the smallest body motion. It wasn't the most expensive watch made, not by a long shot, but she had saved for a year to buy it. It kept dead-on time, and right now the sweep second hand was moving toward 0225 hours. Thirty seconds left…
It was time.
"Ready to rock, Sergeant?"
"Just call me Elvis."
The four vehicles were rolling, slowed somewhat to time their arrival. The compound was just ahead, a smear of hard yellow flaring in the spookeyes' optical field from the security light mounted high on the wall of the barn. Which illumination should be going out just… about… now…
The compound went dark.
"Better make sure your filters are up, Colonel, the light show is about to begin."
"I've been down this road before, Sergeant." Both men smiled.
Time slowed for Alex Michaels as the gunman walked toward his car. It seemed as if he had days, weeks, months to decide what to do. The problem seemed to be that he couldn't move. Well, he could, but the speed of his movement bogged down to match the gunman's walk. Just to lift his hand from the steering wheel seemed to take forever.
In what couldn't have been more than a couple of seconds, Alex sorted through all the possibilities he could think of. He could try to talk his way out of it. He could stomp the gas pedal and haul ass, ducking low so that when the guy opened up on him he might not get hit. He could pull his taser and hope to get the needles into the man in camo gear before he was hosed with jacketed death. He could shit or go blind.
So many possibilities. How to choose?
The gunman got to within a foot or two of the door, and motioned with the assault rifle's muzzle for Michaels to roll his window down.
Choose, Alex. Choose!
The PEE lights strobed like an electrical storm gone insane. The polarizing niters in the suit's helmet visor blocked the effect — plus they were behind the lights, and thus got only a partial hit anyhow.
"Gate dead ahead!" Fernandez yelled. "Looks like our sappers have taken it down along with the guards. Might as well have rolled out a red carpet for us."
"Don't count those chickens just yet."
The Humvee rolled through the gate, and one of the sappers waved at it as it went past.
"Alpha has landed," came a voice over Howard's LOSIR. "We're in the door."
"Beta's got the back door," came another voice.
"Delta's on patrol," came a third.
Fernandez slewed the Humvee to a stop by the shed where the chickens were kept, not far from the barn. Howard bailed out, the Thompson held ready, and Fernandez was next to him in two seconds.
"You didn't lock the keys in the car, did you?"
"Negative."
"Good, I hate it when you do that."
Truth of it was, Howard himself should have stayed outside the fence in command mode and directed traffic from there. He didn't really have a function here, except as backup for Alpha, which they ought not to need—
"We're in, got static, stand by—"
Howard heard gunfire, both over his helmet phones and in real time. It came from inside the main house.
"Two terries down, two down! Alpha intact!" Alpha's team leader called. "Target just down the hall, stand by." There came the sound of more gunfire from inside.