He read on. “There are two types of scientists: the steely-eyed killer and the beady-eyed minion and it’s hard to tell them apart. The latter can get you killed. I don’t think I’m paranoid”—it was Moms’s turn to snort—“but keep as close an eye on any Acme Asset as you do the problem. Sometimes they can dick it up even worse than it is.
“We love Doc as one of us,” Nada said, “but even his brain starts thinking of the wonders of science sometimes before he faces the reality of the danger. He got snakebit in the shoulder on our last op and didn’t even notice until we told him.” Nada raised an eyebrow. “The snake had a Firefly in it.”
Nada slid his finger down the page, reluctantly skipping some of the ones he’d accrued over the years for sake of expediency and focus. “They give these people guns? Besides the scientists, sometimes you got locals on scene. Their guns don’t know the good guy from the bad guy. We parachute in and then come in on the Snake — you’ll meet the Snake later, it’s pretty cool — we scare the shit out of people. We’ve been shot at by supposed friendlies. So no one is friendly except another member of the team until we have containment.”
Nada snapped the Protocol shut with a snap and put it back in his pocket. He looked Kirk in the eyes. “This last one is key. No matter what Doc or an Acme says, my bottom line is this: Just tell me how to kill it.” Nada smiled and stood, along with Moms. “Well, I think that’s a pretty good introduction, don’t you?”
Kirk staggered to his feet, burdened with binders. “Uh, yeah. I’ll get to work—”
He was cut off as the phone on Moms’s desk starting playing a tune: “Lawyers, Guns and Money.”
“That’s a Zevon,” Nada said as he ran toward the door, his phone also now playing the tune and the PRT chiming in a second later.
Despite the very slight time delay, they were all in sync.
CHAPTER 7
The rusted sign pointing toward the old corrugated barn had a dozen old bullet holes in it and one could barely make out the faded lettering in the dark: SEE ALL THE POISINUS SNAKES 75cents. Eagle was driving the blacked-out Humvee using night-vision goggles, because Eagle always drove, and Roland was singing “Lawyers, Guns and Money” while manning the fifty-caliber machine gun in the roof turret because Roland always sang that when they headed to the Barn holding the Snake and he always manned the fifty. Whom Roland hoped he could shoot out here in the middle of the Ranch was something that wasn’t even worth asking. One never knew, but someone had to stand in the hole because it was pretty crowded inside the Humvee. Moms was in the passenger seat, head hunched over, speaking on a secure line to Ms. Jones.
Roland got to his favorite, slightly altered lines—“Send lawyers, guns and money, Moms, get me out of this”—as Nada flashed his security badge at the two guards who popped up out of hide holes, automatic weapons at the ready, night-vision goggles on, and red lasers aiming dots on Eagle and Moms. Those dots also designated a target for a Hellfire missile remotely mounted somewhere out there in the darkness. If the guards pulled their triggers or their monitors went dead, the Humvee would be a smoking hole in the ground.
The two contractors had seen the team more than enough times to know who they were, but Protocol was somewhere between cleanliness and godliness for Nada, so they peered at the badge, then leaned into the Humvee and flashed the retina scanner at the team jammed inside, Eagle lifting his goggles momentarily for the check.
“What if one of us isn’t who we think we are?” Eagle asked, because Eagle always asked questions like that. He received no answer as the guards waved them through.
Eagle gassed — technically dieseled — the Humvee and they raced toward the Barn doors, which looked like they were ready to fall off, but were actually two-inch-thick reinforced concrete and steel and could take a direct hit from an RPG and pretty much ignore it — pretty much like the team ignored most of Eagle’s observations about the universe.
The sensor above the door picked up the transmitter in the Humvee and the doors ponderously swung open. Red night-lights flickered on inside, preserving the night vision of those not wearing goggles and keeping Eagle’s and Roland’s NVGs from overloading. Eagle didn’t slow and they slipped through the still-opening doors with less than an inch to spare on either side, and not one of the others — except Kirk, who’d never been with Eagle on a drive — had a moment’s worry that Eagle would crash them.
Eagle slammed the brakes and spun the wheel, skidding the Humvee around to the side of the Snake. Moms was still on the link to Ms. Jones, occasionally nodding or asking a question. As Nada carefully watched, the team loaded the craft with a quick, well-honed routine, Kirk bumbling along as best he could, mostly trying not to get in the way.
Except nothing was routine for Nada, so he had taken out his acetated Nightstalker Protocol, checking off the twenty-three items in the pre-op load Protocol. He’d erase the checks when they got back, in order to be ready for the next mission.
If they got back.
Moms signaled with her free hand to Nada, still listening to Ms. Jones on the sat phone.
“We’ve got a Courier gone black near Salt Lake City.”
“Package?” Nada asked.
Moms shook her head. “Don’t know yet.”
Roland pointed Kirk toward his area. It was packed and ready to move, and he grabbed the rucksack containing the portable satellite radio, along with a freshly generated set of codes that were spilling out of a printer next to the ruck.
Then he helped Mac carry the heavy plastic demolitions case into the cargo bay and secure it next to the larger team box that stayed in the Snake at all times. That box held a wide variety of gear, from climbing ropes to arctic clothing to chemical/biological protection suits, parachutes, dry suits, spare radio batteries, two million in gold coins for barter, etc. etc.; someone with an extremely paranoid and inventive mind had packed it.
Nada was always bitching it was missing a lot of stuff they were gonna need.
Doc, med kit in hand, slid out of the way by getting into the aircraft and taking a seat.
Roland easily carried an M-240 machine gun in one hand and a Barrett fifty-caliber sniper rifle in the other while his ruck bulged with ammunition for both along with other deadly goodies. Roland slapped the M-240 into a mount that could extend when the back ramp went down, while Eagle was doing preflight, even though a Support mechanic did a preflight on the Snake every day.
At Nada’s order, Roland removed the left side gun mount and bolted the rescue/lift hoist in its place, connecting the power cable. Just in case. Mac, having secured the demo, loaded the ramp-mounted M-240, making sure the belt would run free and clear. Roland slid the Barrett upright into a sheath along the forward bulkhead, then checked his MP-5 submachine gun, while Kirk dialed up the proper frequency, linked his PRT with the radio, and did a Satcom check, locating the nearest MILSTAR satellite to bounce a signal off of. Then he found two backups. Just in case. He updated the current set of codes.