“Sea Eye is gone, as far as I can tell,” the sonar man reported. “Snapped off, like a door shutting.
“So the shield blocks sonar,” Forster summarized the first thing they’d learned so far from this mission. “Weapons?” he asked.
“All tubes loaded and ready,” his weapons officer informed him. “Intel?”
“Ten seconds until we power up Sea Eye again,” his intelligence officer told him.
“Multiple targets!” the sonar man yelled. “Two eight zero degrees. Three hundred meters and closing.”
“I got three clear objects!” The radar man’s voice was overlaid on top of the sonar operator’s.
Forster looked over the shoulder of his radar man. He recognized the signature. “Foo fighters!”
“Two hundred meters and closing.”
“Intel?” Forster yelled.
“Sea Eye is on. All we’re getting is a power feedback. Growing.” “One hundred and fifty meters,” radar reported.
“They’re using the wire to track us,” Forster realized. “Cut wire. Complete power down!”
“Foo fighters?” Duncan had listened to the exchange in the operations room of the Springfield before the radio went dead after Forster ordered his ship powered down. “I thought we got them all.”
The small, three-foot-diameter glowing spheres were the guardian’s eyes and ears. Capable of moving through both air and water, their recorded history dated back to World War II when they had been spotted by Allied and Axis aircrews, following airplanes on their war missions.
A nerve was twitching on Admiral Poldan’s cheek. “We nuked their base. We’ve got two subs watching that location and they’ve reported nothing.”
“Then these had to come from somewhere else,” Duncan said.
“Status on the Springfield?” Admiral Poldan demanded.
“She’s powered down. Descending,” one of his crewmen watching a screen responded.
“The foo fighters?”
“Staying between the Springfield and the shield. Holding.”
“That alien computer knows we know how to fight them now. They’re keeping their distance.”
Duncan thought that was a bit optimistic of the admiral.
“How much water does the Springfield have under her?” Poldan snapped. “Bottom is four hundred meters.”
Poldan relaxed slightly. “She can bottom out and handle that depth.” “And then?” Duncan asked.
“She sits, so those damn things don’t attack her.”
“Until?” Duncan pressed.
“Until your goddamn politician bosses get off their asses and let us blast the crap out of the island. And destroy these foo fighters like we did the other ones.”
Easier said than done. Duncan kept the words to herself.
“Five minutes out!”
The interior of the Osprey was crowded with men and equipment. As it banked, the tie-down cables strained, keeping the gear from rolling. Turcotte went forward and stuck his head in the cockpit, looking over the shoulders of the pilots, while he kept a tight grip on the door frame.
It wasn’t hard to see where Scorpion Base was. About a quarter mile to the east of where they were landing, the surface of the ice and snow had been splintered by a powerful force that had dug out a quarter-mile-wide trench.
Turcotte returned his attention to more immediate matters as the surface below came up quickly, a rush of white. The plane was very low now, and the pilot banked hard left.
Turcotte looked down as they flew over. There were several prefab structures on the surface where the digging crew lived.
“Better go buckle up,” the pilot said to Turcotte.
They roared over a snow tractor with a large red flag tied off to the top. A man on top of the tractor was holding a green flag pointing in a northeasterly direction. Turcotte went to the cargo bay and pulled the seat belt tight across his lap. His take on military seat belts had always been that their only purpose was to try to keep the corpse with the plane if it crashed.
Turcotte watched through the small window as the wings slowly began to rotate upward, slowing the plane’s forward speed, while at the same time making up for the loss in lift from the tilted wings.
The plane bounced once, then was down. Turcotte could see the snow tractor had a flatbed trailer hitched to it and was heading toward them.
The silence as the pilots turned off the engines was as shocking as any loud sound. They’d lived with that noise for eight and a half hours on the flight down here from the USS Stennis. As his senses adjusted, the steady whine of wind bouncing off the skin of the plane became noticeable. With the airplane’s heater off, the interior temperature immediately started dropping.
Turcotte cinched his hood on his Gore-Tex parka. He made sure all his gear was secure before finally pulling the bulky mittens on over his hands.
For this trip, Turcotte had pulled his cold-weather equipment out of the duffel bag that traveled everywhere with him. He was wearing a Gore-Tex camouflage parka and overpants over Patagonia Pile jacket and bib pants that zipped on the sides. He had polypropylene underwear next to his body to wick away any moisture from the skin. Large boots — Turcotte referred to them as Mickey Mouse boots — covered his feet. Despite all the advantages in technology over the years, this outfit was little different from what he had worn for cold-weather training five years earlier. The boots were the same soldiers had worn twenty years earlier. Turcotte was always disgusted with the way the Pentagon would spend billions on a new jet but wouldn’t spring to get the soldier a warm boot.
The back ramp cracked open and the blast of cold air slammed into Turcotte’s lungs. The air on the tiny parts of his face that were exposed hurt. His skin automatically rebelled, trying to shrink from the pain of the cold, and he felt his muscles tighten as if he could make himself smaller and that would in some way make him warmer. He tried to force his body to relax as he walked toward the tractor.
The tractor roared up, treads clattering, placing the trailer alongside the plane. The driver, looking like a bear in his garments, waved down at them, pumping his fist. There were several drums on the trailer, and the crew of the plane began refueling.
“Let’s off-load,” Turcotte called out.
Once all the equipment was off the aircraft, Turcotte climbed into the cab of the tractor. The other members of the party climbed on board and all grabbed on for dear life as the driver threw the tractor into gear and roared off toward the site of Scorpion Base.
“Welcome to hell,” the driver said.
Turcotte didn’t say anything. His gaze was focused on the thrust-up ice not far away.
Ruiz buttoned his pants and threw several bills on the ground. The whore scooped them up and they disappeared into the robe she wore. She hadn’t even bothered to take it off for their brief coupling, simply hitching it up at her waist. Prostitution was not exactly an art form this deep in the Amazon basin. Vilhena was the district headquarters for this province, an area bigger than the state of Texas in western Brazil. Ruiz had been very glad to see the small town, population of less than five thousand, appear earlier today after backtracking downstream all night from their gruesome discovery the previous day. Vilhena was remote, but it was the known world.
Ruiz walked out of the house made of cast-off cardboard and squinted up at the sun. It was good to be out from underneath the gloom of the triple-canopy jungle.
“There you are!” A man who had been on the boat ran up. “The American wants to see you. He is at the governor’s office.” Ruiz frowned. “What for?”
“How should I know?” The man pointed at the hut with a knowing smile. “How is she?” He didn’t wait for an answer, disappearing into the black hole of the doorway, already tugging at his pants.