Authors: Lance Horton
Shadow Dragon (29 page)
The helicopter settled into the clearing, sending up great clouds of whirling snow. The side door slid open. As lithe as panthers, four black-clad men leapt from the chopper and fanned out and set up a perimeter. Inside, Myles shuffled toward the door, afraid of tripping over something. He reached out for the wall to steady himself. It was difficult to see in the cargo bay with his helmet on. He wasn’t used to the night-vision display, which turned everything into shades of luminous green and severely reduced his field of vision, not to mention that it painfully mashed his glasses against the bridge of his nose and forehead.
As he stood in the doorway, Myles could make out the shapes of two of the men about twenty yards out. They lay flat on the ground, facing outward, their weapons at the ready. His knees nearly buckled and he grabbed the door frame even tighter as snow swirled into the chopper. His body was wracked with shivers as icy spiders scurried down his spine.
“Jump!” Ainsworth’s voice crackled in his ear as he was shoved from behind. He tumbled from the helicopter, arms windmilling about wildly. He landed awkwardly and stumbled forward a few steps before he fell face-first onto the hard, frozen ground.
A hand grabbed the collar of his suit and hauled him back upright. “You all right?” Ainsworth’s voice came again, lighting up the small icon at the top of his display. It sounded sincere, but Myles could imagine the laughter and jokes being cracked over the private links.
He was afraid his voice would fail him, so he just nodded. He returned to the doorway of the chopper along with Ainsworth, and with the help of the copilot, unloaded the rest of the gear, including two large equipment trunks and two eight-foot-long-by-two-foot-diameter cylinders, which contained twenty carbon-fiber/titanium rods and twenty flat panels that would be assembled into a transport cage. In spite of the lightweight composites, the cylinders were still incredibly heavy.
Once offloaded, Ainsworth saluted the copilot as the door rolled shut. “All clear,” he reported.
“Happy huntin’,” Peaches radioed as the chopper lifted off. “You boys call when you need a lift. And don’t keep me waitin’ too long now, you hear? Blackbird out.”
Myles watched forlornly as the dark helicopter disappeared into the night.
“Damn, I’d love to bang the shit outta that,” radioed one of the men over their private link.
“Dream on, Busey,” Johnson’s frequency lit up. “Just ’cause she’s from Georgia doesn’t mean she’d waste her time with a big-eared country dick like you.”
The radio crackled, and the display lit up as the others joined in on the laugh. Then Ainsworth’s voice came through loud and clear: “All right, let’s get set up.”
Pentagon cabin was a small, one-room way station located just off the Spotted Bear River trail. Situated in a small meadow, it was normally open from late June through August, providing a remote campsite for anglers fly-fishing along the Spotted Bear River or an overnight stop for the hikers and backpackers traversing the trails along the Limestone and Chinese Walls. About twelve miles from the Spotted Bear Ranger Station, the trail leading to it was closed the remaining nine months of the year because of the heavy accumulations of snow, which brought with it the threat of avalanches and, during the spring thaw, mudslides. During the off-season, the cabin was sealed, windows shuttered and the front door barred and locked with a thick padlock.
It took only seconds for Ramirez to unlock the door with the small laser cutting torch he pulled from his pack.
A short while later, the two large trunks were unpacked, and their remote ops station was up and running. Ainsworth unpacked the field tactical data unit, a highly ruggedized computer and display that everyone simply called the FTU, and set it up on the wooden table in the middle of the room. The FTU communicated with small transmitters built into each of the men’s helmets. The unit displayed telemetry readings from each of the suits up to three miles away, including distance and direction in relation to the base unit, a live video feed from the small, helmet-mounted camera, which was capable of viewing in night-vision and infrared mode, and the wearer’s vital signs—heart rate, blood pressure, respiration, and body temperature.
Outside, six tripods were located in a circumference around the cabin, stakes driven through the eyelets in each of the feet to hold them in place. A dish-shaped antenna that was similar to a miniature satellite dish was mounted to each of the tripods and switched on. The units were extremely sensitive ultrasonic receivers capable of detecting the slightest sounds at a range of up to five miles, although that range was severely reduced in mountainous terrain like the kind they were in now. For this mission, each of the units had been attuned to detect the emanation of one very specific frequency.
Inside the cabin, Dr. Bennett moved in close to Ainsworth, struggling to see the FTU’s screen. A series of beeps emanated from the unit’s speaker, and the row of icons across the top of the screen switched from red to green as each of the transponders came online.
Tears blurred Carrie’s vision as she drove back to the motel. It was always the same whenever she needed help from the authorities. It had been the same way when she had gone to the police about Bret. All they did was sit around and make excuses for why they couldn’t do anything. And to think, she had actually trusted Kyle when he had told her he would help. He had seemed sincere, but when push came to shove, he was just like all the rest of them.
She felt so stupid, rushing in there all made-up like a cheap whore, raving about what she had found only to fall apart and go running out in tears. After all she had been through recently, she thought she had become tougher because of it, but obviously, she had been wrong. When Agent Edwards had yelled at her, she had crumbled just like the old Carrie. Nothing had changed.
Sitting at a stoplight, she noticed a convenience store on the corner across the street. Brightly colored, neon beer signs lit up the night, calling to her like the bright lights of Vegas. Only these lights didn’t offer riches. They offered something even more enticing to Carrie. They offered a means by which she could escape into a haze of numbness, a momentary sanctuary from the cruel reality of the world. It was so much easier to simply wash away the pain instead of enduring it.
She switched on the left-turn blinker.
As she did, she thought of her parents and grandparents and how disappointed they would have been if they were still around, especially Audrey Gran, who had always given her credit for being stronger than she really was. But now that her grandmother was gone, there was no one left who believed in her, no one left to prop her up when she needed it most. She hated that they were gone, but worse, she hated the fact that she was all that remained of their legacy. They had been such special people. They deserved better.
A sob escaped her. The red light across the intersection shimmered as fresh tears gathered in her eyes.
The turn signal continued its steady
tink … tink … tink.
The light turned green.
Tink … tink … tink.
Biting her bottom lip so hard that it hurt, she drove on through the intersection without turning.
*
Carrie opened the door to her room, flipped on the light switch, and tossed her purse on the table as she stepped inside. She felt wrung out, like a dirty dishrag left to dry out in the sink. She thought about soaking in a long, hot bath to try to forget about what had happened. At least she hadn’t gone into that—
Something smelled odd. She sniffed, trying to place it. It was slightly sweet … like cinnamon. That’s what it was. It smelled like—
A hand clamped down over her face, pressing a noxious-smelling rag against her nose and mouth.
She tried to turn, but her attacker was strong. He held her tightly against him. She kicked and clawed, trying to break free, trying to scream. But it was no use.
Her mind raced, fear pounding through her veins. She felt light-headed. The corners of her vision grew dark.
In desperation, she reached behind her between the attackers legs and grabbed a handful of his manhood.
She squeezed—hard.
The man grunted and moved back, trying to escape the death grip she had on his testicles. She threw her other elbow behind her, slamming into his gut just below his ribs. His grip faltered, and she broke free. He blocked the door, so she raced for the bathroom, screaming for help as she ran.
He reached her before she made it. Together, they slammed into the far wall.
The breath was knocked from her. His big hands crushed her arms as he slung her about and slammed her into the other wall. Her ankle turned, and she fell. They tumbled to the floor between the bed and the dresser.
The man pulled his way up her body. She kicked and punched and clawed at him, but he was too strong. He crawled on top of her and pinned her arms to the floor. Behind the black ski mask, his pale blue eyes were electric, charged by the excitement of the struggle. As he crushed her arms beneath his knees, he pressed the rag over her mouth again. She whipped her head back and forth, struggling to keep from breathing in the fumes, but she could already feel herself beginning to slip away. Dark shadows gathered around her.
Fighting against the darkness, she managed to wriggle her left arm free from the elbow down. Her hand was growing numb. She flopped it about, desperately grabbing for something—anything—that might keep her from going under.
Beside the dresser, her hand closed around a thin plastic cord.
Her vision faded around the edges, the light shrinking to a distant circle as if she were falling down a well.
Clinging to the wire, she pulled with everything she had left.
The lamp tumbled to the floor with a crash, plunging the room into darkness.
Thanks to the thermal warming feature of the suit and the fire in the cabin’s fireplace, Myles had stopped shivering, but he knew it was only a temporary reprieve. He could already feel them returning—tiny tremors that started low in his spine and radiated upward through his shoulders and into his hands.
Having already assembled the cage, the rest of the team waited patiently. Busey and Johnson stood behind Ainsworth, watching the FTU and quietly offering an occasional comment or suggestion. Sitting in one of the rough wooden chairs, Ramirez calmly cleaned his handgun while Dietrich sat on the edge of the wooden bunk bed, passing the time by balancing a large knife with the point down on the back of his knuckles.
“There it is,” Ainsworth said, startling Myles as the computer began to beep. The target was located approximately four miles southwest of their current position, moving at about thirty miles an hour in a westerly direction. Ainsworth switched to the mapping screen, which showed their location in the center of a topographic map and the location of the target as it sped across the screen before it disappeared from view.
“Damn,” Ainsworth growled. “All right, men. We’re in business. Time to go hunting. Johnson, I want you and Dietrich to head north. You’ve got Shadow Mountain. Busey, you and Ramirez take Bungalow Mountain to the south.”
The plan was for the men to head in different directions from their current location, setting additional transmitters as they went in order to increase the coverage area. Then, when the creature returned to its roost, they would be able to pinpoint its location and go in after dawn to tranquilize it while it slept. If they were unsuccessful the first night, they would repeat the process each successive night until they were successful. When they were ready for pickup, Ainsworth would use the satellite radio system to call Peaches.
The only real risk involved came from the fact that they were tracking the creature while it was hunting. There was a chance it would see the men as prey and attack, but with all of their specialized equipment and training, the threat to the team had been determined to be minimal.
“And remember,” Ainsworth continued, “we want this thing alive, so no weapons other than the tranq guns unless it’s a matter of life and death, and then you’d better think twice about it. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” the men replied in unison.
“All right,” Ainsworth said. “Move out.”
The men helped one another quickly shrug into their gear. Each of the black, hard-shell packs contained three transponders, a half-dozen tranquilizer darts, rope, rock hammer, carabineers and other repelling equipment, first-aid kit, thermal blanket, two MREs, and other necessary survival equipment along with a pair of small, lightweight snowshoes strapped to the outside of it. Each of the men carried a black, oddly angular air rifle capable of firing the tranquilizer darts at a velocity of 1,200 feet per second. The darts contained 30 cc’s of a potent tranquilizer made from curare, which would paralyze the creature almost instantly without killing it. The weapon was fired from the shoulder but was also designed for use when the men were wearing their helmets. It had no scope attached to the top of the barrel. Instead, sighting was accomplished from a miniature digital camera mounted at the front, where the sight would have been located. The camera transmitted the image via a wireless link to the helmet’s visor, which displayed a barrel’s eye view as if one were looking through a typical scope, including targeting overlay. The system was capable of 20X optical and/or 30X digital zoom.
Each man pulled on his helmet and performed a quick systems check to verify his video and vital signs were being properly transmitted. Once these were cleared, they opened the door. Frigid wind swirled in from outside. Flakes of snow and ice sizzled and hissed as they landed in the sputtering fire. Then, like shadows on a moonless night, the men disappeared into the darkness.
Even after the door was closed and the fire had regained its strength, Myles found it did little to quell the shivers that racked his body.