Cap examined the apparatus closely, searching for brand names and serial numbers. The Anger Institute’s computer digitally recorded every word transmitted over their radios as part of its myriad duties. Cap’s transmitters scrambled the messages so that anyone even capable of intercepting the spread-spectrum transmissions would interpret the rasping signals as nothing more than static. If they tried to decode the apparent noise, the most powerful computer in the world—even the Anger Institute’s—would need centuries to find the incredibly huge prime numbers used as multipliers in the intricate mathematical function known as the One Way Trapdoor that served to encrypt the signal.
“All the serial numbers have been removed,” Cap said. “No unique components here. Off-the-shelf technology. I don’t expect there to be any fingerprints.”
It was when he concentrated on a deep mystery that Cap looked like the genius he truly was. Even in the absurd, almost surreal costume he wore, the power of his intellect shone through. Standing on the roof overlooking the advance of the ocean of silver locusts, he tugged at the last vestiges of his disguise. He stroked his beard in contemplation. Bits of latex rubber and spirit gum peeled away in his fingers, exposing more of his sharp features.
His lean and rugged face, though tanned from exposure to sun and wind, displayed none of the creases and leatheriness associated with sun-damage. His ally and personal physician— Dr. Uriah West—used Institute funds exceptionally well in his research into cell repair. Cap’s hair—dark as the rust on ageless steel—lay austerely close to his scalp. Cut short for utilitarian ease, it still revealed a roguish wave that gave him a piratical look, which was not out of character, considering his ancestry.
His eyes, though, captured the attention of any who saw them. Eyes that looked almost black at first glance revealed themselves to be a deep, rich emerald green when they gazed intently in the search for knowledge and truth. Those eyes gazed now over the parapet at the relentless advance of the microbots.
“Let’s get back down there, Rock. I want a live sample before we freeze that mass.”
That’s when the bullets started exploding around them.
Chapter Eight
Argent Slaughter
One of the helicopters circling overhead among the television and police choppers dropped out of the sky, twin turbine engines whining. From concealed weapons pods blazed the unmistakable flashes of machine gun fire. Lead bullets slammed into the roof with the crack and smash of copper-clad death. Splinters of shattered wood and clouds of exploding concrete blossomed around Cap and Rock.
Cap drew first, whipping the odd black pistol from his holster. Rock—only an instant behind him—snapped the weapon up to aim at the killer swooping in from above. The pistols roared in powerful bursts, firing armor-piercing tracer bullets into the air.
An instant after firing, both men threw themselves aside and rolled out of the path of the oncoming machine gun blasts. Cap’s headband videocam flew from his skull, clattering across the bullet-riddled roof. The rounds tore apart the mystery camera and its satellite dish. Bits of glass, plastic, and aluminum flew everywhere, accompanied by copper swages and lead fragments from the bullets.
“Take this up your tailpipe, zhopu kozina!” Rock shouted, using his thumb to flip a switch on the pistol. Fully automatic now, the pistol fired a steady stream of tracers at the retreating helicopter. The orange-red streamers of color flew inexorably toward the aircraft.
Captain Anger joined in, his pistol still semi-auto. Each shot— though
fired in rapid succession—was well-aimed, with Cap swiftly, reflexively calculating the proper angle of fire to ensure that bullet and chopper arrived in the same place at the same time.
Neither of the matte-black pistols ejected any brass casings. The weapons used caseless 10mm ammunition, which allowed for more than double the number of rounds in a magazine of similar size. And these pistols sported long, fat, double-column magazines, each holding forty-eight rounds, plus an extra one already chambered.
Rock’s volley and Cap’s more steadily paced stream of rounds hit the copter nearly simultaneously, peppering the fuselage with several direct hits. Undaunted, the aircraft rotated about for another assault.
With a loud curse, Rock realized that he had fired off his entire load. He ejected the magazine and drew a second from his ammo pouch, slamming it home and releasing the charger, which had locked open after the last round. There was no slide to drive home for there were no cases to eject. The weapon simply blazed out its projectiles without the chatter and rattle of conventional automatic weapons.
Cap still had half his ammo left. Carefully aiming each rapid shot, he squeezed off an even dozen at the onrushing helicopter. Every one hit their mark, punching twelve holes in the cockpit windshield. He avoided the fuel tanks, knowing that the tracer bullets could turn the onrushing aircraft into a fireball.
Rock blasted another deafening burst at the chopper, many of the fiery streaks making an impact on fuselage, rotor, and turbines.
“Run for it!” he shouted, scrambling to the left.
The chopper, its engines and murderous pilot both dead, hurtled toward them, a mass of metal, glass, and inflammable fuel. Cap estimated where it would hit and jumped far afield, running across the roof to the right and rear, practically under the advancing, falling machine.
With a shattering collision, it hit the edge of the building and tore out a section of the roof. Without even slowing, it dragged the debris along as it twisted and cartwheeled to the pavement four stories below. A sickening crunch of impact arose from the street.
Cap rushed to the demolished edge of the building to look down at the scene.
The helicopter lay in ruins a few yards in front of the advancing silver tide. The smell of spilled jet fuel rose from the wreckage. The other helicopters overhead—police and reporters—jockeyed for the best view of
the disaster.
Without a word, Cap holstered his pistol and climbed down into the gaping wound in the side of the building. Rock followed, warily testing each shattered beam to ensure that it supported his not-inconsiderable weight. Cap moved with far more agility, maneuvering down the tangle of musty old wood and crumbling masonry like an experienced mountain climber on an alpine peak.
The damage reached to the windows of the second story. Cap gained his footing and paused on the ledge to search for a landing spot clear of detritus. After an instant’s deliberation, he lightly bounded from the ledge and plummeted feet-first toward the sidewalk. Extending his legs without locking his knees, he braced himself for the impact. Feet slammed against the concrete, powerful leg muscles contracted to absorb the energy of the fall. Like a cat he stayed on his feet, bending under the impact of a twenty-foot drop until his haunches very nearly touched his heels. Hands splayed, his fingertips hit lightly against the pavement to steady him and absorb the last few foot-pounds of energy from his fall.
From that position, he leapt forward like an Olympic sprinter, leaving Rock on the second story to contemplate a less drastic method of reaching ground level.
Captain Anger bounded over to the crushed bubble of the helicopter. Tearing open the door with one mighty hand, he reached in with the other to feel the throat of the blood-spattered corpse inside. Cap regretted the death of someone who could have provided valuable information. A quick pat search of the body turned up no identification. Cap’s hand came up from its exploration smeared with kerosene and lifeblood.
He turned the man’s head up; having lost his videocam on the roof, he memorized every feature that might still be recognizable. One ten-millimeter slug had hit the pilot in his jaw, shattering the bone and rendering the lower part of his face an unidentifiable red mess.