The Chameleon Factor Read online

  He hated to admit it, but Harrison had come through as promised. The schematics seemed very complex to Woods, but he was no scientist. This was it, the key to the future! The ultimate stealth shield. By God, with this in the hands of the enemies of democracy, war in the Middle East was assured, and then Congress would be forced to unleash the military might of the nation, and America would finally rise to its proper position as the ruler of the world. Millions would die, of course, but billions would be freed from starvation and slavery. It was a more than fair exchange in his opinion.

  Standing near a bubbling coffeemaker, Tommy Mannix was leaning against the concrete wall and talking on the phone.

  “Yeah, okay, thanks,” Mannix said, and replaced the phone on the wall. “We might have some trouble. Brian just reported gunfire from the loading dock. He’s going over to check it out.”

  “Probably just another bum,” Woods rumbled, running his fingers along the pages of electronic circuitry. History was in his hands. The new history of a better world. “Any word from the Bloodhawks yet?”

  “Not since they first got hit by the Comanches, no, sir.”

  “Hmm, well, tell Brian to stay where he is. Have Yang and his brothers check it out the loading dock. They’re walking the perimeter today.”

  “Can’t. They don’t answer their radio.”

  Woods snapped up his head at that. “Yang doesn’t answer?” he said, speaking each word individually. “That anal-retentive nancy would report if he was having brain surgery. How long has it been since they last called?”

  Mannix shrugged. “Not long. About fifteen, twenty minutes,” he replied confidently. “Chief, we got 120 guys here today, along with me and the Magnificent Seven. Let the Comanches come if they want. We’ll mop the floor with the little bastards. It’ll be Custer’s Last Stand all over again.”

  “General George Armstrong Custer lost that battle, Tommy,” Woods stated. “Are the phones operating?”

  “Sure, no problem there.”

  Chewing a lip, Woods looked at the papers in his hands, then stuffed them into a waterproof folder and sealed it tight.

  “I don’t like this,” he said, standing upright and tucking the folder under an arm. “Send out two armed recon teams to sweep the exterior perimeter for strangers. And call a red alert using the house phone. I want this whole building sealed and ready for combat. Get some people on the roof with LAW rockets and Stingers.”

  “Just because there’s trouble with our radios?” Mannix chided, crossing his arms. “Come on, Chief. Sure, the timing seems a little odd, but—”

  “And what about the gunshots in the garage?” Woods interrupted.

  “Hell, we don’t even know there were any, yet.”

  “I’m betting there was gunfire,” Woods replied. “Actually, Tommy, I think we’re already surrounded and the Feds are getting ready to come in.”

  “The Feds? What makes you think so?”

  “This!” Woods roared, shaking the computer printout. “Because if I just bought a million bucks’ worth of mil tech, then those flickering lights at the airport were a trick to make us reveal our headquarters.”

  Furrowing his brow, Mannix thought that over for a minute. “No way,” he decided. “Not even the FBI could get the authorization to mess with the power at a major airport.”

  “On that point we fully agree,” Woods growled, picking up the private phone on his desk and hitting a red button.

  “Sir?” a man answered.

  “How soon can we send the plans for the Chameleon over the Internet?”

  “Whenever you wish, sir. We’ve just finished the decoding process so it can be read by everybody.”

  The jingling of the cell phone in the pocket of his sports coat interrupted Woods just then. Pulling out the phone, he flipped back the cover and thumbed the accept button.

  “Yes?” he demanded, but there was only a hiss of static and then a click.

  More irritated than suspicious, Woods scowled at the device, and on impulse hit redial. But the screen stayed blank. The return call had been blocked.

  “Who was it?” Mannix asked.

  “Nobody,” Woods muttered.

  “But wasn’t Harrison the only person who knew that unlisted number?” the chief of security for Cascade asked pointedly.

  Ice exploded in Woods’s stomach at the stark realization that Mannix was right. Dropping the cell phone, he grabbed the receiver for the house phone again.

  “We’re under attack! Send the files!” he shouted just as the lights went out and the room became pitch-black.

  “Son of a bitch,” Mannix muttered, and then came the sound of flicking. A moment later, there was a flicker of light as the man got a butane lighter working. “We blow a fuse or something?”

  Saying nothing, Woods opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a Sam Browne gunbelt. His father’s initials were branded into the thick leather, and the buckle was proudly notched with the three dozen men the Texas Ranger had shot down in the line of duty, before an nearsighted storekeeper had accidentally shot the man in the back during a robbery. Watching his father slowly die in the hospital had been a life-changing moment for ten-year-old Peter Woods, gaining the knowledge that heroes died, and only the rich and the strong could survive in a world of betrayal. Cascade was born that day, and now his dream was in danger of dying stillborn. Unacceptable.

  With a loud clack, bright lights flooded the office from the corner of the ceiling as the battery-powered emergency lights come on automatically.

  There was a knock on the door, and it swung open to show Frank Wojtowicz, one of the Magnificent Seven. The big man was wearing an unlaced flak jacket and carrying an M-16 assault rifle. The bayonet on the end shone mirror sharp in the harsh glow of the emergency lighting.

  “Report,” Mannix snapped, tucking away his lighter.

  “We lost all power from the city grid,” Wojtowicz answered.

  “Orders, sir?” Mannix asked, turning.

  “Switch to the backup generator,” Woods demanded gruffly.

  “Already on it, Chief,” Wojtowicz replied. “I sent one of the hackers down to the basement with a flashlight. We should be back on-line in just a couple of minutes.”

  “Send somebody to keep him company,” Mannix said. “We may have intruders.”

  Bringing the M-16 to his chest in a salute, Wojtowicz nodded in acknowledgment and left, closing the door.

  “With the power dead, we can’t send the plans over the Internet,” Woods said in a deceptively calm tone. “That cell-phone call must have been to make sure I was here, before they pulled the plug.”

  “But we’ll have power back soon enough,” Mannix said.

  “That was just the opening shot.” Lifting the house phone, Woods punched for an outside line and got only silence.

  “As expected, the land phone lines are cut, and the radio is jammed,” he said, replacing the receiver. Woods was trying hard to control his temper; this wasn’t the time to go on a rampage. A million dollars’ worth of computers reduced to paperweights because some clerk pulled a plug.

  “We can use a cell phone,” Mannix offered, pulling out a small model. “Here you go.”

  “Go ahead and try,” Woods muttered.

  The man worked his phone for a few minutes, then tucked it away. “Dead,” he said grimly. “You’re right, it’s the Feds. Who else could kill the city power and block all cell phones and the landlines?”

  “Navy SEALs, CIA hit team, Delta Force, the secret police, lots of people,” Woods said, checking the clip in the Colt .45 pistol.

  Mannix threw a glance at the door to make sure it was closed. “Are there really secret police? I know we tell the members that,” he said slowly, lowering his arms. “But I thought it was just bullshit to keep them in line.”

  “It was until today,” Woods replied. “However, we’ve always been too small for them to bother with.”

  “Not anymore, Chief.”

  “No
, Tommy, not anymore.”

  Just then the lights returned and the banks of computers in the next room revved back to their usual humming state. With a click, the emergency lights turned themselves off and began recharging their batteries again.

  Holstering his weapon, Woods lifted the receiver on the desk. “Security desk,” he said, and there came a fast series of clicks.

  “Yes, sir?” Brian Ledbetter answered.

  “Anything on the video cameras?” Woods demanded.

  There was a pause. “They’re still down, sir,” Ledbetter replied. “Should be back at any second.”

  Without comment, Woods replaced the receiver.

  “They’re coming,” he stated. “Very well, this is our day to be tested in the fires of war.”

  “Good! Let them come!” Mannix snarled, going to the wall locker. “We have more than enough firepower and troops!”

  Yanking aside the door, he pulled out an M-60 machine gun, and a slung a canvas bag of coiled ammunition belts over a shoulder.

  “To fight the whole army? Don’t be a fool, Tommy,” the leader of Cascade said, glancing at a locked box set on his desk. Inside that were the controls for the self-destruct charges, the poison gas and several other devices that his security team knew nothing about.

  In brutal logic Woods knew that the wisest course would be to release the poison gas right now and flood the building. But Mannix wouldn’t allow him to do that without giving the others a chance to get to safety first. Fine, if the man wanted to be a hero, so be it. Woods didn’t like running, but he hated losing more.

  “It seems you can have that fight, Tommy,” Woods said grimly, inserting a key into the lock and twisting left, then right, then left once more. The safety disengaged and the thick metal lid of the box lifted up to reveal a set of glowing buttons and a single dial.

  Mannix narrowed his eyes at the sight, until Woods closed the lid and tossed him the key. Still holding the M-60 machine gun, Mannix made the catch.

  “Left, right, left again,” Woods reminded, tapping the box. “Then hit the green button. Tap it twice and you’ve got ten minutes, three times gives you fifteen. Your call. But don’t dawdle, or you’re dead.”

  “No problem,” Mannix said, pocketing the key.

  “I’ll take the plans and head for the tunnel,” Woods said, sliding the folder under his arm again. “Use the house phones to direct a recall of our people into the vault. You and the Seven stand guard at the door until the last man is safely inside. Then set the self-destruct charges and meet me down in the tunnel.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Mannix grinned, swinging up the breech mechanism to insert a belt of armor-piercing cartridges. “Afterward, the Feds can sift through the rubble for ten years trying to figure out if we escaped or died in the blast.”

  You mean, whether or not, I lived, Woods corrected privately. They’ll know for sure about you, hero.

  “Exactly, my friend.” Peter Woods smiled coldly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Matua Island

  Approaching Matua Island, James fought the trembling hovercraft over the cresting waves of the surf while the rest of Phoenix Force swept the island with binoculars to try to locate the departure point of the speedboat. Fast and small, the craft was little more than a launch, suitable for ferrying people, but not for very long distances.

  “It had to come from something else,” McCarter grumbled, adjusting the focus on the binoculars. “A yacht, a seaplane, a base maybe. No way it motored here from the mainland.”

  There was nothing in sight except fields of grass, hills of wildflowers, evergreen trees, grooves of bamboo and the central volcano, Sarychev Peak. Steam was coming from the craggy top, but that had been happening for a long time. According to Carmen Delahunt, Sarychev hadn’t erupted since 1986.

  Not today, Lord, McCarter silently prayed, tucking away the binoculars. Please, not today.

  Driving the hovercraft out of the ocean and onto the white sandy beach, James eased the physical tension in his shoulders as controlling the machine got noticeably easier. Its operation was a lot smoother with solid ground beneath the three remaining turbines.

  “Wichita Thunderbolt, my ass,” James muttered, flexing his tired hands.

  Seals barked loudly in annoyance as the hovercraft swept by, throwing out a stinging wind of sand. Most of the seals scattered at their approach, the females barking defiantly as their pups scampered behind them for safety. The males snorted challenges and ran away, trying to lure this strange new enemy away from their families.

  “These animals are terrified of people,” McCarter said in some satisfaction. “But this island is supposed to be deserted. Not even a weather station here.”

  “Fear like that takes time,” Encizo rationalized. “Sounds more like a permanent camp than merely a layover.”

  “If that’s true,” Manning said, squinting into the distance, “why would they have Harrison deliver the Chameleon right to their doorstep?” Frowning, the man continued in a rush of words, “Aw shit, they’re planning on using the jamming field immediately!”

  “But for what?” McCarter demanded, swaying to the motion of the hovercraft as it went around another colony of seals. “What are they planning to do with it, and who are they?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Hawkins said, craning his neck to look over the lush island. “If the buyers are here, then we’ll find them.”

  “Them?”

  “Nobody builds a camp just for himself, and we aced two of their guards already.”

  “Wish we had gotten a look at the uniforms on those two bodies Harrison threw overboard,” Manning said, shifting the huge Barrett slung across his back. He was down to six rounds for the sniper rifle, and who knew what was coming? Swinging up his MP-5 submachine gun, he checked the clip and worked the arming bolt.

  “Those sure as hell weren’t Russian or Japanese armed forces,” Hawkins added.

  “Think those men might have been working for the buyers and Harrison did another double cross?” Encizo asked. “Same as he did with Cascade.”

  “Could be. I’m glad he’s dead.”

  “Traitorous little prick,” McCarter growled, unconsciously rubbing his upper arm where his SAS tattoo was located.

  The hovercraft dipped low as they flew over a stream, and now a jagged wall of rock formations appeared ahead. The lava ridge rose too high to go over, so James swung the hovercraft onto the beach once more to get around the obstruction.

  “Well, their base isn’t going to be in the volcano,” James said, switching hands on the laboring joystick. “Heck, that’s half the island covered already….” His voice trailed away, and the man started swinging the hovercraft back around.

  “Trouble?” McCarter demanded, raising his AK-105.

  Appearing pensive, James didn’t answer at first, then he snarled a virulent oath and drew his MP-5.

  “Ambush!” he shouted, firing at the beach.

  At first, the rest of Phoenix Force saw nothing but vague outlines in the sand disturbed by their wake. Then the outlines stared to rise and shoot back at the hovercraft with cloth-wrapped rifles.

  “Camouflaged!” McCarter snarled, cutting loose with the Kalashnikov in a figure-eight pattern.

  But both of the men on the beach dived away from each other. They came out of a roll into firing positions to unleash a burst, then dived away again, pulling out grenades.

  Shit! Aiming his AK-105 ahead of one man, Hawkins cut the fellow down with a short controlled burst as he stepped into the stream of lead, then the Kalashnikov jammed. As Hawkins savagely worked the bolt to clear the ejector, he staggered and almost fell when an incoming round from the other gunner hit him the chest, his jumpsuit ripping to expose the molded NATO body armor underneath.

  “Etta kuri!” the man snarled in Japanese, throwing the grenade.

  McCarter held his breath and shot the grenade out of the air. The glancing blow sent it tumbling yards away before the deadly
egg exploded harmlessly.

  As the cursing gunner on the beach dropped a clip to frantically reload, James accelerated the hovercraft and went directly over the fellow, only to cut their height in a sharp drop. There was a hard impact, a horrible grinding noise combining with a brief, high-pitched shriek and then red fluids splashed out from under the vehicle in every direction.

  Circling about a few times to check for other buried enemies, James finally landed the hovercraft near the water and killed the motors to save their dwindling supply of fuel. As the struggling motors died away, the sound was replaced by the pervasive noise of the gentle surf.

  “So much for covert,” Hawkins said, tucking the torn flap of his commando suit into his web harness. “After that grenade, half the island knows we’ve arrived.”

  “Good. Saves us the trouble of flushing them out.” McCarter hopped out of the craft and started for the dead men.

  “Cal, are you sure we can get this thing airborne again?” Encizo asked in real concern, as the machine settled into the beach.

  “Hell, no, I’m not,” James replied honestly.

  “Yeah, thought so,” the Cuban said, touching his throat mike. “Stone House, this is Firebird Two. We need an evac ASAP.”

  Leaving the others to stand guard, McCarter and Hawkins went to check the bloody corpses. The man near the lava ridge was only a mess of tattered clothing, bones and gore. Even his weapon was reduced to splintered wood and seared metal. But thankfully the first man was relatively intact. He lay face upward, his dead eyes staring directly at the sun. One hand still gripped his T-89 assault rifle, a pouch at his side filled with antipersonnel rifle grenades, their stubby shafts sticking up like arrow shafts.

  “Good thing he didn’t have time to use one of those babies on me,” Hawkins commented, nudging the Japanese rifle out of the dead man’s fingers. As the T-89 fell away, the left hand turned over, displaying a blue tattoo of three interconnected blue rings.