Atlantis (21 page)

Dane used the side of the car for cover, firing an entire magazine in quick three rounds bursts at the sources of the tracers. Freed was on the other side of the car, shooting across his field of fire, covering him.

Dane recognized the chatter of AK-47s, a sound he'd heard many times before. He slid a new magazine home. A man with a rocket launcher on his shoulder stood up, aiming down. Dane fired a quick burst, slamming the man back out of sight.

Dane paused as he recognized a slightly different sound of automatic fire coming from the rooftops. Someone up there had a weapon other than an AK. Dane raised the M-16 to his shoulder when a body tumbled over the edge of the roof and fell to the street between the front of the limo and the burning pick-up truck. Another quick burst from the same new gun followed. Then two more.

Suddenly, all was silent. Dane glanced over the hood of the trunk at Freed, who raised his eyebrows in question. “Let's get out of here,” was all Dane said.

As Freed slid in the door on his side, Dane ran forward and grabbed the body that had fallen. He tossed the slender Cambodian over his shoulder and carried him, tossing the body into the back to the consternation of Michelet and Lucian and Chelsea who whined and cowered as far away from the corpse as possible.

“Go!” Dane ordered.

The driver needed little prompting. He pushed the wreckage of the truck out of the way with his front bumper, then accelerated.

“Easy girl,” Dane whispered to Chelsea as he knelt next to the body.

“What is the purpose of this?” Michelet demanded.

“It's always good to know who's shooting at you,” Dane said as he quickly searched the man's pockets. All he found was a thick roll of local currency. He didn't know what the going rate for murder was in Bangkok but even with high inflation it looked like the roll would meet the going rate anywhere in the world. Other than that, there was nothing.

“Know your enemies,” Dane said as he ripped the man's shirt off, “and know who the enemies of your enemies are. Because they might be your friend but then again they might not. They might be even worse enemies.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Michelet demanded.

“You tell him,” Dane told Freed.

“Someone busted the ambush for us from behind,” Freed said.

“How do you know that?” Michelet asked.

“We heard a different weapon from what the ambushers had being fired on the rooftops and there's no way we killed them all from our position,” the security man explained.

Dane pulled a Leatherman out of the case on his belt. He extended the large knife blade and dug into the mangled flesh around one of the bullet wounds. He pushed in, then with his free hand, pressed two fingers into the hole. He felt the hard knob of a bullet between the two fingers and with great difficulty pulled it out.

He put his bloody hand under one of the small lights. “9 millimeter. The Cambod's were firing AKs; 7.62 mm. Someone hit them from behind with a submachinegun.”

“Who?” Lucian asked, his face still pale from the bloody incident.

“Someone who knew we were going to the warehouse. Someone who knew we were going to get ambushed. Someone who must have been following us from the airport,” Dane said. He was tired. The bad feeling was gone and now he was drained. He sat back in the deep upholstery and closed his eyes.

“We were followed?” Michelet asked. He turned to Lucian. “What do you know of this?”

Lucian sputtered out a protest, but Dane's weary voice cut in. “Sihouk sold us out to someone. He got your money, and then he got money from someone else to give us up. It was just a good day’s work or him, nothing personal. You got any enemies?”

“Hie-Tech,” Freed said.

“What's that?” Dane asked.

“A rival company.”

Dane opened his eyes. “Would they try to kill you?”

Michelet gave a harsh laugh. “We're talking hundreds of millions, if not billions of dollars involved here. Yes, they'd kill for that. Wouldn't you?”

“No,” Dane said, which prompted another laugh from Michelet.

“Actually, I think you were paid considerably less when you were in the army.”

Dane stared over Chelsea at the old man. Their eyes locked, then Dane leaned back and nodded. “You're right. I was paid considerably less then.” He turned his body away from the others, placed his hand on Chelsea’s neck and closed his eyes to rest.

They made it back to the airport without further incident, but instead of pulling up to Michelet's plane, then went around the main runway to an old hanger. Dane opened his eyes once more as they pulled inside. A battered two engine C-123 transport plane and an aging Huey helicopter rested inside.

The limousine came to a halt. Lucian did not get out with them. He looked at Michelet. “Our business is concluded. Contrary to your feelings, I believe there is much that money cannot replace or buy. Please do not ever call me again.”

Freed and Dane barely had time to get the lockers out of the trunk before the limousine raced away. A figure detached itself from the shadow of the C-123 and ambled over.

“Good day,” the man said in a deep Australian accent. “Or good morning, I should say as the day is not yet upon us. I'm Porter, your pilot.”

“Is the plane ready?” Michelet demanded.

Dane noted that Michelet had recovered from the events of the past couple of hours. Dane imagined a person did not get to be in the position the old man was in without having hard nerves.

“Aye, it's ready.” Porter glanced over his shoulder. “But these fellows your friend in the limo lined up. Not too sure about them, if I was you.”

“You aren't me,” Michelet brusquely said.

More men were coming out of the shadows. There were four of them, dressed in plain green jungle fatigues that had seen better days and were stripped of all insignia. Their boots were encrusted with mud and they had large knives prominently strapped to their belts. Rambo knives, Dane noted. Such weapons looked very impressive but were impractical for either slitting a man’s throat, which took a small commando stiletto, or cutting through the jungle, where a machete worked best. Each man had several days worth of beard on their face and their eyes were red. Dane picked up the odor of alcohol.

“I'm McKenzie,” the largest of the four introduced himself. “Major McKenzie.”

Dane watched as Freed stepped forward. “I know who you are, McKenzie. You're not a major any longer.”

“These are my men,” McKenzie said, looking over the small black man in front of him, trying to size up the situation.

Dane walked over and stood off of Freed's left shoulder. Two of the men wore faded red berets with an insignia pinned over the left eye: a set of jump wings surmounted with a maple leaf. From that Dane knew these men were formerly with the Canadian Parachute Regiment. He also knew that the Canadian Parachute Regiment had been disbanded a while ago amidst allegations of various atrocities during peace-keeping missions.

“Break a pile of shit apart and you never know where the flotsam will surface,” Freed said, which confirmed to Dane where the mercenaries had come from and their circumstances.

McKenzie popped a lightning quick jab with his right hand, but Freed was already moving, sliding under the punch and delivering four quick blows to McKenzie's ample gut. The larger man doubled over gasping for breath.

“Easy,” Dane said, holding the M-16 generally pointed in the direction of the other paratroopers. “I think the fight is one-sided enough as is.”

As McKenzie straightened, wheezing for breath, Freed hit him again, a stinging blow to his nose, bringing forth blood. Freed nimbly moved behind McKenzie and a hand snaked around his neck, the hold tightening, causing the Canadian to labor for breath.

“You're not a major anymore,” Freed hissed in his ear. “Clear?”

“Fuck you, nigger.”

“Mistake,” Freed said. He dug the knuckle of his free hand into McKenzie's temple, bringing a yelp of pain as he hit the nerve. Freed pressed down harder, bringing tears of agony from the Canadian's eyes.

Dane saw McKenzie’s left hand grasp the handle of his large knife. As McKenzie whipped the knife out, Freed let go of him and stepped back out of reach. McKenzie swung wildly twice, before settling down into a fighter’s crouch, eyeing his opponent with much more wariness.

“Now listen here!” Michelet started forward, but Dane swung his arm out, hitting the old man in his chest and holding him in place.

“Wait,” Dane said.

McKenzie slowly straightened out of his crouch. The point of the knife wavered, then went down. “Hey, I just didn’t like you coming in here trying to piss on me and my men.”

“You’ve already pissed on yourself,” Freed said.

McKenzie’s face got even redder, something Dane thought wasn’t possible.

“You're hired help,” Freed said. “Clear?”

McKenzie smiled, a twitch of his lips that no one in the hanger bought. “Sure. Just a misunderstanding.”

“My name is Freed. Mister Freed to you. That clear?”

“Clear.” McKenzie slid the knife back home in its sheath.

“Clear, what?”

McKenzie again twitched a grin. “Clear, Mister Freed.” McKenzie stared at the smaller man, the hand going up to his head and tenderly touching the spot where Freed had elicited such agony.

“You've been well paid up front,” Freed said. “You get the same when we return. You do exactly what I say when I say. Clear?”

All four men sullenly nodded.

“Any booze in your gear, you dump it now or I dump you out of the plane without a chute. Got it?” Freed stepped closer. “I can't hear heads shake. Got it?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Get the gear on board,” Freed ordered.

As the Canadians carried the footlockers to the C-123, Freed turned to Dane. “Thanks for the help at the warehouse.”

“Next time I tell you there’s an ambush,” Dane said, “I suggest you listen.” He gestured at the Canadians. “I'm not being paid to back you up.”

As Freed turned away, Dane froze both him and Michelet with his next words. “I want to know what happened to your first rescue team and I want to know what our plan is to get to the plane. I want to know who your enemy is that attacked us and I want to know who attacked them. Otherwise, I am not going anywhere.”

***

One entire wall in Patricia Conners office was covered with a mosaic of satellite imagery. She'd gone to the NSA Imaging Communications Center and pulled up all requests for imagery from Foreman for the past twenty-four hours. She wasn't surprised to discover that there had been other requests besides the two she had handled. What did surprise her was the nature of the requests: they were directed to a comrade of Conners, the ELINT or electronic intelligence specialist just down the hall from her. ELINT also included magnetic and radioactive data, so it covered a lot of ground.

She'd printed out the results gathered by the string of ELINT satellites the US had circling the globe and now she had a mosaic that encompassed the entire planet. She had no clue, of course, what the various colors and lines overlaid on top of the basic geo-data meant. She knew it represented various spectrums in the electromagnetic realm, but that was the extent of her knowledge in that area.

Conners walked down the hallway and stuck her head in a doorway. “Jimmy, dear,” she smiled.

A young man with long hair pulled back in a pony-tail looked up from his computer screen with a slightly unfocused stare. “Yes?”

“Jimmy, I need your help interpreting something.”

Jimmy blinked. He wore a loose-fitting t-shirt and a pair of jeans that had seen better days. His eyeglasses were thick, the metal frames holding the lens almost sagging under the weight.

“Interpreting? Interpreting what?”

“Come to my office, Jimmy. I'll fix you a cup of that special tea that you like.”

Conners led the way. Jimmy walked in the door to her office then paused. He whistled seeing the mosaic. “Whoa, Pat, when did you do that?”

“Just now.”

Jimmy walked over and started tracing lines with his fingertips, peering intently. “This data is new. I got the request this morning. Forwarded it all. You're not supposed to have this.”

“You didn't look at it?” Conners plugged in her small hot water heater.

Jimmy turned away from the wall in surprise. “We're not supposed to look at it unless directed to do so. We're supposed to forward and file.” He paused in thought. “Do
you
look at everything you're requested?”

“Of course, dear.”

Jimmy's bottom lip curled in as he chewed on it. He reached over and swung Conners' door shut. “Actually I look at everything too. I mean what's the point in doing this if you don't. Hell,
I’m
supposed to be the expert. It's not that--”

“Jim,” Conners gently interrupted, “you don't have to explain it to me. Remember--I do the same thing. The point is, that means you've looked at this data, right?”

Jimmy turned back to the wall. “Yeah. Foreman. I don't know who the hell that guy is, but he's into some weird shit--Uh, sorry, stuff.”

“What kind of weird shit?”

Jimmy's hands were back on the mosaic, tracing various colored lines as if his fingertips could feel what they represented. “These blue ones are electromagnetic flux lines. The reds ones are geomagnetic. The green ones show radioactivity.”

“And?” Conners prompted when Jimmy fell silent.

“Well,” Jimmy tapped the mosaic, “this isn't right.”

“What do you mean it isn't right?”

“It's not the normal patterns for any of those images. Something’s happening. On a global scale.”

“What kind of something?” Conners asked.

Jimmy shrugged. “Something is upsetting the natural flow of the earth's geo-and electro-magnetic fields. That something also carries a trace of radioactivity with it, although how that could be I have no idea.”

“Radioactivity?” Conners repeated.

“Yeah, but I’ve never seen anything like this. Really weird. Bizarre. In fact, downright impossible.”

Conners was startled by this information. “Have you told anyone about this?”

“Why?”

“Because according to what you just said, something abnormal is going on,” Conners said in exasperation.