High above the payload storage bay, the ’hog went swiftly toward him, its navigational sonar mapping its surroundings in layered echo patterns.
This was a built-in redundancy to prevent accidental collision, for Jezoirski now wielded full command of its operation from the monitoring room. Having donned virtual-reality glasses, he could see three-dimensional graphic representations of everything the ’hog “saw” with its optical array. At the same time, the joystick controls on his console were now directing its robotic mobility systems, allowing him to guide and determine its every turn and action.
Biting his lips, Jezoirski rushed the ’hog over the catwalk. Like a sorcerer possessing an entity from afar — using technology instead of talismans, and algorithms instead of incantations — he had extended himself into the hedgehog’s physical space and was, in effect, in two locations at once.
Felix glided around a curve, its wheels whispering softly, the immense room’s recessed fluorescents reflecting twinkles of pale blue light off the poker-chip sensors on its turret.
Then, all at once, it came to a halt.
Was brought to a halt.
Panic sweeping through him like a whiteout blizzard, wiping all his training from his mind, Jezoirski had frozen at the remote controls. A hundred feet above him in another building, yet right in front of his eyes, Rollie Thibodeau was about to die.
And Jezoirski suddenly didn’t know what to do about it.
“What’s wrong?” Cody asked.
Jezoirski’s heart bumped in his chest. His eyes were wide under the VR wraparounds.
He gripped Felix’s controls, blinded by indecision, knowing his slightest error or miscalculation would mean Thibodeau’s end.
“I asked what the hell’s wrong with you!” Cody repeated beside him. His voice trembled with stress.
Jezoirski inhaled, felt his muscles unclamp. Cody’s demanding, excited tone had jolted him from his momentary paralysis.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” he muttered quickly, as much to himself as his superior.
Taking another breath through gritted teeth, he resumed working the controls.
Thibodeau’s glazed eyes widened with surprise as Felix came speeding toward him from the right, its wheels swishing over the catwalk’s runner, its gripper arm extending straight out in front of it.
Startled by the sound of its advance, the invader standing over Thibodeau whirled toward the ‘hog, bringing his rifle up from Thibodeau’s head. But the ’hog’s side-mounted shotgun discharged with a belch of smoke and flame while he was still bringing the rifle around to fire at it.
The invader spun back against rail of the catwalk, his rifle flying from his hands. The advancing robot tracked his movement, angled its gun, and fired another shot at nearly point-blank range, hitting him hard enough to lift him off his feet. Shrieking and clutching at the air, the invader went sailing over the guardrail and plummeted to the floor of the storage bay, his body landing with a heavy crash.
The roar of its shotgun still echoing in the air, Felix hurtled toward the second invader, who triggered his own weapon, spraying the ’hog with a short burst of automatic fire. But he’d been unable to recover from his surprise in time to position himself for his shots, and only one or two nicked Felix’s carrier, the rest going completely astray, ricocheting off the wall and catwalk.
He did not get a chance to unleash another volley. The hog’s gripper claw shot out just as he was taking aim, snatched his leg below the knee, and clamped down with several hundred pounds of force.
His trouser leg suddenly wet with blood, the invader screamed and tried to twist away, but Felix’s hold was unyielding. Screaming in pain, his rifle clattering from his hands, he bent and wrapped his fingers around the robotic arm, struggling in vain to tear it loose.
Watching blearily from inches away, Thibodeau saw him sink onto one knee, then heard the bones of his opposite leg splinter with a sickening crunch under the relentless pressure of the gripper claw. His screams growing in shrillness, the invader continued to pull at the arm as the robot resumed its advance, shoving him implacably backward, out of reach of his fallen weapon.
Sonsabitchin’ contraption’s good for somethin’ after all, Thibodeau thought, then let his head slump to the floor again, no longer able to keep it up.
His field of vision contracting to a small, fuzzy circle, he lay there motionless, the side of his face against the floor. He was vaguely aware of footsteps far below him, a lot of them. Someone shouted — first in Spanish, then English. He heard a fusillade of gunfire.
Before he even had time to wonder what any of it meant, Thibodeau’s eyes rolled back under their lids, and he ceased to be aware of anything at all.
As the Sword ops bolted into the payload storage bay, they heard two reverberating shotgun blasts over their heads, and then saw a man in a black cammo suit fall from one of the catwalks, screaming and flailing as he dropped to the floor to their left, slamming down with a hard thud, then neither screaming nor moving anymore. An instant later there was a chop of automatic fire in the air high above them. Looking up, they spotted another dark form on the catwalk, this one suddenly folding to his knees as a hedgehog launched at him across the catwalk, its gripper arm rapidly whipping out to snatch him like the foreleg of a preying mantis. Several of the ops saw a third man sprawled on the catwalk behind the ’hog, and noticing his Sword uniform, realized instantly it must be Thibodeau.
But before they could react to this sight, a third figure in black sprang from a crouch below a towering work platform up ahead, leaving an object behind on the floor near one of its supports. All of them were experienced enough to know it was a satchel charge — and they could see two more in plain view below other platforms.
“Stay right where you are!” one of the ops shouted, raising his weapon.
The man wasn’t inclined to listen to his warning, regardless of the language. He raised his gun and swung it toward the group of Sword ops.
The response from the Sword op who had called out to him was immediate and conclusive. Bullets spurted from his gun, cutting the invader down before he could fire a single round.
Lowering his barrel, the op sprinted past the invader to the platform support, knelt over the satchel charge, and rapidly assessed its threat. He was no demolitions expert, but it looked like it was on a simple timer pencil and fuze configuration… although looks could be deceptive. There could, he knew, be internal wiring that would detonate the explosives if he tried yanking out the fuze, or other types of booby traps totally unfamiliar to him. Yet the timer’s pin was nowhere in sight, and it only had a couple of minutes left on it, leaving him with no chance to move the bomb or call for help—
He hesitated briefly, feeling his body tighten. Then, gritting his teeth, he pinched the fuze between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a hard pull.
A moment later he took a deep breath, and then another, thanking God that the bomb hadn’t gone off in his hands, that he and everyone around him were still there, still there and not blown to bits.
Which did not yet mean they were in the clear, he quickly reminded himself.
“This one’s out of commission, we better get on to the others!” he shouted. “Let’s hurry!”
Back in the driver’s seat of his chase car, Carlysle looked out his windshield at the fleeing group of invaders and swore aloud. Less than a minute ago, their jeep had sped through the gap in the perimeter fence and he had followed on their tail.
The problem was that he wasn’t at all certain he ought to be doing that.