“Normal air defenses will expend all of their ammunition, destroying some of the Predators, yes, but because they can swarm, the redundancy will defeat even the best defenses.”
“What are their targets?” Matt asked.
“They made me program about fifty different targets: people, places, ground transportation hubs such as ports, as well as nuclear power plants and electrical switching grids. There are many others. They made me put the targets into a central database. Now all they have to do is use a computer mouse to click and drag a specific target to a UAV icon on the computer screen and the queen will automatically program that specific UAV for that specific target. Even if the target is moving, like a convoy, the drones can follow, mass, and destroy the target.”
“Using the digital pheromones?”
“Precisely. That’s how they followed you.”
“How do you stop it? Kill the queen? Destroy the colony?”
“If you kill the queen, the drones can act independently, sending the digital pheromones to one another. They have a survival instinct. If you don’t kill the queen, she programs the drones to attack one, some, or all of the fifty targets I loaded.”
“Let’s go!” Rampert shouted.
Werthstein paused for a moment, then looked Matt in the eyes.
“Will God forgive me?”
Matt continued to look at Werthstein, unable to remove his eyes from the man who might have rigged the terrorists with the ultimate weapon. The enemy could find what it wanted, mass on the target, and destroy.
“Perhaps — as soon as we kill these bastards,” Matt said, standing.
Matt walked to and leaned over a small computer terminal that was hooked up to the satellite antennae atop the MC-130. He typed a quick e-mail and sent it to the one person in the world he felt he could trust right now.
Stepping back, he took a deep breath, slipped into his parachute, and walked toward Rampert, who quickly inspected him and handed him an M4 carbine. Matt tucked the weapon inside his parachute waistband. He donned the helmet and oxygen mask, took a couple of deep breaths, and exhaled heavily.
“Ready?” Rampert asked through the microphone in the helmet.
“We need to talk about Werthstein when we get back,” Matt said.
Rampert gave him a thumbs-up.
“One minute!” came the jump master’s voice over the loudspeaker.
Matt watched as the jump master crawled along the lowered ramp. He could feel the cold air rushing into the back of the MC-13 °Combat Talon. How many times had he done this as an operative for the Agency? he asked himself. He had lost count.
Matt watched the light turn green.
“Go!”
Then he was tumbling into the pitch black night with Colonel Jack Rampert and his two men.
Matt’s mind was processing about as much as the human brain could handle: terrorists on U.S. soil, nuclear Predators that fly and communicate like insects, and the remote possibility that his dead brother was alive.
Truly, Zachary’s fate was all that mattered to him as the cold Canadian night air buffeted him.
CHAPTER 29
It was the image of Jacques Ballantine’s face hovering directly above his own that brought Zachary Garrett/Winslow Boudreaux back to reality, like a time traveler bobsledding at warp speeds down a dark, icy tunnel. His first stop was the hot, smoky desert floor where he had first seen Ballantine’s face. Next was an apocalyptic battle in a steamy jungle valley, his last memory as Zachary Garrett.
“I must be living right.” A distant voice invaded his reverie.
And now, a Canadian trout pond in Quebec Province.
“Hello. Captain Garrett.”
Zachary Garrett pulled out from the day dream. He tried to shade his eyes from the lamplight, but realized he was handcuffed with what seemed to be a plastic flex cuff much like a trash bag tie, though much stronger, when his hands wouldn’t respond. He wiggled them behind his back only to feel the sharp edges of the plastic cut into his wrists. His ankles were tied to the legs of the chair. He struggled to bring the face hovering above him into focus.
“We meet again. But this time we are on a different battlefield. Mine.”
Zachary surveyed his confines. He noticed the large rafters in the ceiling of what looked like a cabin. There were the usual accompaniments of a lakeside cabin: a wooden table and chairs; some older, overstuffed furniture; and a wooden stairway to a loft above the kitchen.
He vaguely remembered a mission to snatch a target from his command post. The memories of his two worlds were overlapping, not without a fair amount of confusion. Then he grimaced, the face of his captor becoming clear, a dark woman standing next to him. “You…” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Garrett. Me.”
“Ball… Ballan—”
“Ballantine. Jacques Ballantine. You should remember a man’s name when you murder his brother.”
Zach struggled to remember, vague images playing in the back of his mind like an old home video poorly shot on a 16mm camera. “What does this have to do with me?” he asked, confused.
“We have, as you like to say it, ‘taken the fight to the enemy.’”
“I’m all ears,” Garrett said.
“We have initiated a plan which, you may care to know, you have only been temporarily successful in averting—”
Again Zach struggled. As Boudreaux he had a mission to kill this man. He knew little about what Ballantine was planning to do, just that it was important to kill him… and that he had failed.
Ballantine smiled.
“Tell me, Garrett, we all heard you were dead. How is it that you have been brought back to life?”
“Frankly, I don’t remember much about that.”
“Let me refresh your memory about one particular aspect of your history.”
“Please,” Zachary said through clenched teeth as his restraints suddenly seemed much tighter.
Ballantine lowered himself so that he was eye-level with Garrett.
“You killed my brother, shot him in the face.”
Garrett’s eyes lowered to the floor much as they had twelve years earlier in his armored personnel carrier.
“That I could never forget,” he said in a whisper.
“Nor will I ever let you forget it,” Ballantine shot back. “Your brother should be here shortly, and I intend to let you watch him die at my hands, just as you did to me. Then, I suspect I will let you live so that you can experience the years of never-ending pain that only seems to grow as time passes.”
Garrett lifted his head and met Ballantine’s stare.
It had been a long time since he had consciously thought about his younger brother, Matt, and their days of growing up on the farm near Charlottesville, Virginia. Though he suspected warm thoughts of young Matt were always there, hidden away, to have the memory come rushing back so rapidly caused a visible reaction.
“I see that I have your attention now,” Ballantine said.
“Why would Matt be coming here?”
“Because we have caused it to happen that way.”
“Who has caused it to happen that way?”
“You would be very surprised.”
“Surprise me.” Zachary studied the scar on Ballantine’s face as his rival began to speak.
“We’ve got inbound!”
Ballantine and the dark woman snapped their heads toward the door. A tall man wearing a camouflage hunting outfit and carrying an M-16 rifle came running up the steps. “Our radar showed a four-propeller airplane flying slow at twenty thousand feet,” he said. “Drop speed and altitude for jumpers.”
Ballantine looked at his watch and said, “They are early.”
He turned toward Zachary Garrett and said, “When was the last time you saw your brother?”