The driver at his rear did the same, and then the driver behind him, the signal rapidly making its way down the line of jeeps.
Their engines coming to life, they began rolling toward the fire and thunder of the blasts, the way into the installation open before them.
His face chalk-white, Thibodeau passed the radio headset back to Delure with an unsteady hand. Even underground, the detonations around the compound had been audible as muffled thuds, the last and most powerful of them shaking the walls as if there had been an earthquake. But it was not until after they’d heard from the ambushed quick-response team — or what was left of it, God help those poor boys — that he had started to tremble. Now, in the ominous silence that had followed the blasts, he realized only a supreme effort of will would make that trembling stop.
Thus far they, whoever they might be, had outmaneuvered and outthought him. Been ahead of him at every stage. And that couldn’t be allowed to continue.
He meshed his hands behind his back and paced the room, his teeth clenched, struggling to exert control over himself.
What was happening out there? And what was he going to do about it?
He figured the best way to start answering those questions, or trying to answer them, was by reviewing what he already knew — bad as it all was. The west gate was down, the most direct route there blocked by the fiery wreckage of his own chase vehicles. A group of heavily armed, well-trained men had penetrated the installation and were now rampant within its borders. And they had proven themselves capable of ruthless murder as well as sabotage.
He didn’t yet know the size of their force. Nor could he know their ultimate goal. But it was a sure thing their plans extended beyond scattered attacks at the periphery of the compound.
No matter what they wanted, it would be in the core manufacturing and storage areas. Possibly even the living quarters — there were some very important members of the ISS scientific team on the facility. He had already ordered these areas sealed up tight, but did he have the manpower to maintain that seal against a concentrated strike?
Thibodeau stopped pacing and laid a hand on Delure’s shoulder.
“How many people we got protecting the buildings?” he asked.
“Fifteen, twenty, sir.”
“That’d be our full day and night details. Am I right?”
“Yes, sir. With the exception of the men in the cars and choppers. And whoever’s off base.”
Thibodeau nodded. A handful of Sword operatives and other staffers preferred the long daily commute from Cuiabá to the isolation of living on the compound.
He was silent a moment, his jaw tight. Ahead of me all’a way, those devils, while I been dancing like a turkey on hot coals.
He suddenly released Delure’s arm, strode over to a steel supply cabinet across the room, and extracted a Zylon ballistic vest from inside it.
“You boys hold the fort down here,” he said, and slipped into the vest. “I’m goin’ topside.”
The jeeps stopped briefly about ten meters after passing through the gap in the fence. Little blazing islands of debris were spread over the grass around them, casting dashes of light and shadow across the faces of their occupants.
The remnants of Blue Team and Orange Team were waiting there as arranged. They scurried into the vehicles.
Manuel climbed into Kuhl’s jeep without assistance, but not without difficulty. He could hear droplets of his own blood splashing the rear seat as he settled into it beside Antonio.
“You performed well,” Kuhl said. He sat perfectly still in front.
Manuel leaned against the backrest, breathing hard. It felt as if a thousand white-hot needles had been jabbed into his arm. “Marco was killed. Two men from Orange Team had to be left behind.”
Kuhl remained motionless.
“Losses must be expected,” he said tonelessly.
Then he sliced his hand in the air and the jeep started to move again, the others following in close procession. The first thing Ed Graham thought when he spotted the jeeps from his Skyhawk chopper was that the sight reminded him of his many years as an LAPD pilot. His second thought was that the first thought was an odd and scary comment on modem American society, given how once upon a time it would have been the Hollywood sign and Mann’s Chinese Theater that were symbolic of Los Angeles, not maybe twenty men riding around in full combat gear.
His third thought, which followed within a heartbeat, was that he had better stop thinking and start acting toot-sweet, because he was right now looking down at a major shitload of trouble.
“Christ, we got us a helluva situation,” said the man seated at his right, almost yelling to be heard above the loud whop of the rotors. He reached for his communications handset. “Better radio for an assist and then shine the welcome light on our guests.”
Ed nodded, his hands working the sticks. Mitch Winter was the best copilot on the installation. They thought alike and got along well, which made partnering together easy.
He took the bird down lower as Mitch sent his message out to base and the rest of their fleet. A hundred feet beneath them, the jeeps had come to an abrupt halt, their drivers and passengers craning their heads back, staring directly up at the Skyhawk.
Peering out his bubble window, Ed briefly released the cyclic and hit the chopper’s Starburst SX-5 searchlight. At the same time Mitch touched a button on his comm unit to shift from radio to public-address mode.
The searchlight’s 15-million candlepower beam washed over the men in the convoy, its stark illumination transfixing them, turning night into brilliant noonday.
Ed glanced at Mitch. “Okay, all yours.”
Mitch nodded and raised the control mike to his lips. “Stay where you are and—”
“—drop your weapons!”
Bathed in merciless light from above, Kuhl thrust his head out his open window and looked back down his row of jeeps, shielding his eyes with one hand. The command booming from the helicopter’s PA had been unequivocal. His response would be equally straightforward.
“Open fire,” he shouted. “Ahora!”
The four members of Yellow Team had approached to within a few yards of the building, darting from one position of concealment to the next like specters in the night. Their probings had led them to conclude that their primary objective was too heavily guarded to be achieved, but they had been prepared with flexible alternatives and the one ahead of them looked much more vulnerable.
Pausing behind a maintenance shed to check their weapons, they heard the burp of automatic gunfire from off near the west gate, and then the overlying sounds of cars and helicopters converging on the area.
It might for all intents and purposes have been a prearranged cue.
Moving as one, they slipped toward their target.
Bullets rattling against his underfuselage, Graham shoved forward on the cyclic and added collective to pull pitch. The cockpit’s lightweight boron shielding had literally saved his ass, but he wasn’t about to press his luck by taking any more direct hits. Not without being able to return fire owing to Brazilian restrictions against Sword’s fixed- and rotary-wing aircraft being fitted for attack capabilities. Muito obrigado to whoever came up with that one.
As the Skyhawk banked into a steep climb, he glanced out his windscreen and quickly noted the firepower his attackers were bringing to bear. Neither the rifles nor the HMDs to which they were connected looked like anything he’d ever seen before.