Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection Page 8

  Michelle’s voice was argumentative and approaching shrill. “I have just checked the inside cameras and microphones — they are all burnt out, as well. Without the cameras and the microphones, how could you have known to protect me?”

  Xiang glared at his mike. He said nothing. A moment of silence passed as he gripped the microphone in front of him. Enough banter with this underling. He wanted to tell Dailey to shoot her dead on the spot. But she might still be useful. Without her, this time could end up in miserable failure, as had many others. The project could easily proceed without Robert Weller — still, it would be a letdown. He had extraordinary promise. They had gone so far with him, and optimism was high. Weller had exceeded all of their hopes in the lab. It would be a terrific waste for him not to be included in the upcoming operation, besides the adjustments that would have to be made and targets changed.

  The interlude seemed to have given Michelle time to consider her mistake and the consequences of it. Her voice was calmer and more apologetic as she said hesitantly, “I-I am sorry, Dr. Xiang. I beg for another chance. I will prove valuable.”

  Good. She had reminded herself of the severity of her mistake and the importance of her mission. Xiang surveyed the other monitors as three men in the same of dark-blue lab coats came in and immediately began working on the computer system around him.

  “One last chance, then,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “No more. If you fail again, you will no longer be of value. You will become a liability I cannot afford.”

  “Yes, sir. I will not disappoint you again.”

  “No. You will not.”

  Chapter 7

  Five minutes earlier, Staff Sergeant Chambers had returned from the helicopters that were stationed at a small discrete clearing a few miles away. Immediately, Corporals Tippin and Dorsey proceeded with their new mission and slipped through the perimeter fence.

  Chambers now joined Jax, who waited impatiently nearby. Twenty-five feet behind them at the DPVs, Lieutenant Carpenter continued to monitor the town’s radio and telephone conversations with the sophisticated listening device attached to the team’s satellite communication unit.

  The waiting allowed Jax’s mind to slip into the past. He looked at the colorfully beaded bracelet on his wrist and toyed with its tiny arrowhead pendant as he considered what an odd team of friends they had been. Lionel Jackson, his mother Hawaiian and father black, had married a beautiful Cherokee Indian named Moonfeather. Jax’s parents made him what he was, and he was thankful for it. His African-American father had given him courage to overcome adversity, and his Polynesian-American mother contributed a free spirit and live-and-let-live attitude. Factoring in the influence of Moonfeather’s spirituality, Jax found comfort in knowing who and what he was.

  Then there was Sunny O’Donnell, one hundred percent Irish Catholic, married to his best friend Dan McMaster, a California surfer boy and the best Marine to ever hit a beach. Sunny and Moonfeather had hit it off from the start, regardless of the night-and-day differences in appearance that their names implied. Both possessed a unique beauty that proved to be much more than skin-deep. Whenever he looked at Sunny now, Jackson was reminded of Moonfeather. The memory of his dead wife caused an empty ache to return to the middle of his chest, awakening familiar longing from the deepest pit of his heart.

  Again, the suppressed doubts crept into Jax’s mind. If something should happen to Sunny, he would never forgive himself. Perhaps there had been another way he hadn’t considered in their haste. Perhaps the plot could have been stopped without a rescue mission or the terrible alternative of a nuclear strike that he was sure the boys in Washington were now considering. Perhaps there was a way they could have pulled this thing off without involving Sunny.

  When three men wearing active-camo ghillies came trotting up on the other side of the fence, Jax refocused on the mission. Chambers ran out to meet them — the counter-sensor laser team. The patrol ducked under the chain-link barrier through the large gap. On hands and knees, they pushed their heavy equipment through. Once each man had made passage, Chambers kept guard at the fence while the men jogged into the tree-lined ravine where Jax waited. The first soldier, Senior Airman Winestat, held a long, black, rifle-like device. The counter-sensor laser weapon was about the size and shape of an M-16 assault rifle, except its barrel was tapered and much thicker. The next two soldiers carried burdensome black cases in each hand, and thick power cords hung from their shoulders. The group gathered around a topographical map spread out on the ground in front of Jax.

  “Mission accomplished, sir,” Winestat said. “Took three of the cameras out. They were mounted on streetlights.” He smiled. “Fried ‘em like eggs.”

  As the other two men chuckled, the major clenched his jaw. This was not the time for humor or cockiness. “You weren’t seen?”

  Winestat’s smile left quickly at the stern tone of Jax’s voice. “No, sir. We did pass Tippin and Dorsey.”

  The major nodded. “What’s the charge on the laser?”

  One of the other men checked the small meters on each of the black cases. “Looks like about fifty percent, sir. Should have enough for two, maybe three more heavy pulses.”

  “Good work, men. Winestat, take your team back to the helicopters. Load up six more covers for the infrared and motion detectors along this fence line and stand by. We may need an alternate penetration point, and I want to be ready.” Jax narrowed his eyes at the young soldier. “If Mrs. McMaster or Corporal Tippin push their panic buttons, we’re going all out. You get back here and follow us up the ravine. At that point, we’ll grab our people, rendezvous with the choppers and assault the facility.”

  Winestat nodded. He and his two men carefully set their equipment next to a clump of nearby bushes, climbed into the closest DPV and strapped in. The small all-terrain vehicle’s engine came to life; however, only a low hum emitted from its five-foot-long, extra quiet muffler.

  As the team drove away, Lieutenant Carpenter’s voice came over Jax’s headset. “Chatter on their com lines, sir.”

  Jax hoped they were not found out. He looked to Carpenter and spoke low into the small, voice-activated microphone attached to his helmet. “What’s up?”

  “Seems they’d had some other power failures even before we hit them. Don’t know what happened. They’re talking about someone having more power than they thought.”

  The major raised an eyebrow. He wondered if they were talking about Dan, or perhaps this new guy he hoped to snatch and question — Robert Weller. In the past, Jax hadn’t been one to believe in things he couldn’t touch or see, or what couldn’t be explained by scientific formula — even though he’d been married to one of the world’s most renowned remote viewers whose only equal was his best friend. That was their realm — he would rely on what he saw in the tangible, real world. But with the happenings of late, he was inclined to consider a more objective way of thinking about the paranormal. After all, the American government itself had toyed with paranormal projects for over three decades.

  But if these Biotronics lunatics somehow had been successful with what they were trying to do, the potential was incredible and horrific — making a human weapon without bounds.

  * * *

  I was soon able to put the agoraphobic episode behind me. But, with the premonition of impending doom, what was to be a pleasant stroll to my store had become a lively stride. Still, I could not deny the lovely morning, my senses seeming more open, more sensitive than I could ever remember. I took a deep breath. Except for a hint of the smoke the weatherman had reported, the air smelled fresh. The light haze on an otherwise bright morning was not uncommon. Numerous national parks and half-a-dozen national forests lay within a couple hundred miles of Gold Rush, and the dry summer had contributed to a larger than usual number of forest fires. The smoke traveled a long way, tending to gather in the valleys and around the mountains.

  As I took in the lovely morning at the brisk pa
ce, I thought of what it would be like for Will to be out of the hospital and able to use his legs again — the ballgames, the fishing trips, the hiking and the ski trips we’d enjoy together.

  A pleasant morning breeze flowed down from the Rocky Mountains, and the chirping birds added to my optimism. Somewhere in an American elm across the street, a cardinal sang a cheerful jingle. The tree’s fine branches swayed gently in the soft wind like waving hands. A good omen, I thought, even though I didn’t consider myself superstitious.

  In the next block I strode by my childhood home, now owned by a couple who had recently moved to Gold Rush from Virginia. They’d fixed it up nicely, repainted and hung new insulated windows and doors. It still looked like home. I remembered passing the football in the front yard with my father, my mother coming to the screen door and calling us in for supper. The remembrance made me smile. My mother’s cancer and father’s bad heart had saw to it the memories of my parents did not extend past my twenty-second birthday. They had both died that year.

  Two houses down, I would walk past Michelle and Mike’s childhood home. My wife and brother-in-law’s parent’s, Sam and Suzan Wu, still lived in the house but were away now on a Caribbean cruise to celebrate their fortieth anniversary.

  With my eyes on the Wu house up ahead, I walked by a clump of late-blooming honeysuckle and mountain wild flowers, and the sweet scent drew my attention. Not one to normally be attracted to such things, still I couldn’t help but be pulled in by the colorful flowers enclosed with a white picket fence, next to the sidewalk.

  An elderly black gentleman busied himself in the same shallow yard dabbing paint onto the porch railing. George Washington Banks had been my childhood neighbor when my family lived in the house next door. I’d known him all my life. A picture like a family photo came to mind. It was of this man, an elderly Oriental woman, their daughter and her husband — both of them in their early thirties — and a granddaughter around ten.

  When Mr. Banks noticed me about to walk past, he laid his brush on top of the paint can and then took long, slow strides in my direction. His mustache and hair were so white that they seemed fluorescent against his coffee-brown skin. The Denver Broncos cap he wore protected his shiny, bald crown.

  I waited by the short ornamental gate leading to his front door and smiled at the elderly man as he approached. He didn’t return the gesture, and for a reason I couldn’t explain, I became slightly unnerved.

  “You look like a nice young man,” the old gentleman said, his eyes dark and clear. “Brown Suit. That’d make you Mr. Weller, wouldn’t it?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Banks,” I said and held out my hand, remembering that his Alzheimer’s had allowed him fewer clear-minded days of late. I hadn’t a clue of what my brown coat and pants had to do with my name and figured the terrible disease that gnawed away at his memory had confused him. “Please call me Robert,” I said — he had called me Bobby since I could remember, but at least calling me Robert would be better than Mr. Weller.

  We shook hands while Mr. Banks studied me.

  “That’s right, Robert,” he said and nodded. He pulled his head back and studied me. “They’ll be wanting to get you some new spectacles, that’s for sure.”

  “My glasses just suddenly broke this morning,” I said, but didn’t wish to explain more.

  He grunted as if it didn’t matter, then said, “Name’s George Washington Banks. Corporal, United States Marine Corps, serial number five-five, six-one, two-four, seven-seven. Korea, nineteen hundred and fifty-two.”

  The Alzheimer’s seemed to have a firm grip on his mind this morning. I couldn’t help but feel for the poor old guy. I raised my eyebrows trying to look very impressed. “Retired military?”

  He chuckled. “I guess that’s one way to put it.”

  “Painting, huh?” I asked, nodding toward his porch.

  “Yeah,” he said as the faint ringing of a telephone came from inside the house. He turned toward his home. “Winter’s coming on. Want it to look nice before the weather sets in.” He glanced back at me. “Got that paint at your hardware store two weeks ago from the last guy.”

  I smiled again. I liked Mr. Banks and always had, no matter now that he seemed to be rapidly growing senile. I’d purchased my store from old man Whitaker over twelve years ago. Except for an occasional high school student helping me part-time, I’d been the only one behind the register.

  Banks continued, “This is my crib.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the house. “They give it to me. But it ain’t home. Closest I could get, though.” He looked down at his feet. “Whole hell of a lot better than laying naked in a muddy pit, I’ll tell ya that.” He shook his head and looked at me again. “Yeah, boy. Got a wife here, purdy daughter, grandbaby. I love ‘em all like they was life itself. That’s why I do it. That’s why I keep on.”

  I nodded politely, again not understanding exactly what he meant. “Yes, Mr. Banks, I know them. Lovely family.”

  “Robert . . . ,” the old man said with a sudden frown. He glanced around us as if he was making sure no one else could hear. His voice lowered. “. . . it ain’t too late for you. You got to get outa’ here. Go home where your family be — where they love ya.”

  I stared at him in puzzlement as his daughter came out the front door. Jolene Berry was a pretty, slender woman with her father’s height and her mother’s lovely Asian eyes. She was two years behind me in school. She came to us with one of those is-he-bothering-you? sort of grins on her face.

  “Good morning, Robert,” she said.

  I nodded to her. “Jolene. Good to see you on such a beautiful morning.”

  She glanced around at the lightly smoked sky. “Yes, it is a pretty morning. Not supposed to last long, though.”

  I nodded. “We better enjoy it while it’s nice.”

  She smiled putting her hand on her father’s shoulder, and he cowered slightly. “Daddy, better come in, now. Mama’s got breakfast ready. And little Rachael wants to see you before she goes to school.”

  Without protest, the old man turned away and walked toward the front door of his house, but he paused midway. Not looking back, he said, “Maybe they’ll let me buy some more paint today. Maybe we can talk more, then.” He stepped up on the porch and opened the screen door.

  Jolene gave me a half smile. “I’m sorry if Daddy bothered you.”

  “He’s a wonderful man,” I said. “He’ll never be a bother to me.”

  Jolene nodded.

  “He did say something that made me a bit curious — something about ‘laying naked in a muddy pit.’”

  Jolene frowned momentarily, then seemed to understand. “He was a POW during the Korean War. Still has nightmares. And that Alzheimer’s is getting worse every day. Don’t take him too seriously.” Jolene smiled. “Nice talking with you.” She turned away and followed her father inside the house as I watched.

  I paused in front of the flora, gazing down at the honeysuckle. What a shame Mr. Banks had Alzheimer’s — such an awful memory-stealing disease. With my concussion and seemingly minor memory problem, I could relate, only slightly.

  Seconds after I turned and proceeded toward the store, a woman appeared from nowhere about fifty feet down the sidewalk. Perhaps she’d stepped out from the end of some tall hedge bushes edging a short section of the footway. She wore sunglasses, a green sweat suit and tennis shoes. For this woman, I had no mental photo, no words coming from a memory filed away but within easy reach.

  The woman stepped toward me, the red hair covering her shoulders thick and full of bounce. I couldn’t help but watch her. Such an attractive figure. Fifteen feet away, she raised her glasses revealing her large green eyes and gazed at me as she drew nearer. For a moment, I became entranced, finding something familiar in those lovely eyes. I slowed my pace cautiously as we were about to pass. When she stepped up to me, a big smile came across her face like she’d bumped into an old friend she hadn’t seen in a while. Her full lips parted as if
she was going to speak to me.

  But then, her expression changed. She glanced down the street, frowned and tapped her sunglasses back over her eyes.

  She stepped past, and the next thing I knew she slapped me on the back of the neck.

  I saw stars and cringed. “Damn!” It felt like I’d been stung.

  “Bee,” she confirmed. She didn’t say it like Watch out, bee! — only, matter-of-factly, Bee.

  I winced, not knowing whether I should slug her back or thank her. “What the hell, lady?” I said, but when I looked around, the bushes rustled and she was gone.

  Feeling the fresh wound, I realized the thing had stung the lump — the remnant of my fall in the shower. But I found no bee, no insect of any kind. Inspecting the ground around me, I discovered no small perpetrator there, only what looked like the eraser end of a pencil. What kind of madness was this? I was careful to check under my collar and shirt to ensure the little bastard hadn’t fallen inside where it could cause more trouble. Still nothing. Had it flown away after such a solid smack? Had it somehow stuck to the woman’s hand or fallen onto her clothing somewhere?

  Suddenly, something seemed to click inside my brain. As if the proverbial dam had broken, a rush of incredible images came at me from behind my eyes. I saw helicopters, guns spitting fire, ripping up the ground around me; fierce explosions in the air and on the ground; soldiers bloodied and dying; then a huge conflagration — a nuclear blast, sweeping away all of the town‘s buildings and houses in a terrific tsunami of flames — the shock slamming into me, making me stagger, rattling my lungs.

  I grabbed onto the spirea branches next to me to keep from losing my balance. I sucked in a deep breath as the horrific images dissipated as quickly as they had come. What did it mean? Was it something from the past — memories that suddenly were flung to the forefront of my mind, repressed by my concussion? Or could it be some kind of a premonition — a view of what was about to happen?