Temple

DATE TIME SUBJECT

3.1.99 1801 SUPERNOVA MISSION

4,1.99 1635 WILLIAM RACE ISSUE ‘See the one with your name on it?’ Nash said. Race eyed the second message, doubleclicked on it. A message screen appeared:

4 JAN 1999 16:35 US ARMY INTERNAL NET 617 5544 8951607 N0.187 From: Special Projects Division Leader To: Nash, Frank Subject: WILLIAM RACE ISSUE Do not leave Race in Cuzco. Repeat. Do not leave Race in Cuzco. Take him with you to the jungle. Once the idol has been obtained, liquidate him and dispose of the body accordingly. GENERAL ARTHUR H. LANCASTER

U.S. Army Special Projects Division Leader

‘I just wanted you to know that you should have been dead a long time ago, Professor Race,’ Nash said.

Race felt his blood run cold as he stared at the email. This was a death warrant his death warrant. A missive from the general in charge of the Army Special Projects Division ordering that he be killed. Jesus Christ. He tried to remain calm. He looked at the time of the message. 16:35, January 4. Late in the afternoon on the day he’d left New York. Hence this message must have arrived while he had been flying to Peru on board the cargo plane. The flight to Peru. Jesus, it seemed like years ago now. And then suddenly Race recalled when, at one point during the flight, the little singsong bell on Nash’s laptop computer had tinkled. He remembered it clearly—it had been just after he’d finished translating Nash’s partial copy of the manuscript. And then it dawned on him. This was why Nash had brought him to Vilcafor— despite the fact that at the very start of the mission Nash had said that if he finished translating the manuscript before they landed Race wouldn’t even have to get off the plane. But Nash had brought him along anyway. And why? Because Nash couldn’t have any witnesses. Since his was a secret mission—an Army mission trying to undercut a Navy mission—

Nash couldn’t risk leaving any witnesses alive. ‘I was going to kill you two days ago,’ Nash said, ‘after we opened the temple. But then that German BKA team arrived and interrupted my plans. They opened the temple and, well, who could have guessed what they’d find inside it. But then, then we got those extra sections of the manuscript, and I was glad I hadn’t killed you.’

‘I’m so pleased you were happy,’ Race said flatly. Just then, out of curiosity more than anything else, while he had the computer in front of him, Race doubleclicked on the other message that mentioned his name, the one titled ‘SUPERNOVA MISSION’. The full message appeared on the screen. Oddly, however, it was a message that Race had seen before, right at the start of the mission, back when he had been travelling through New York in the motorcade.

3 JAN 1999 22:01 US ARMY INTERNAL NET 617 5544 8821105 NO.139 From: Nash, Frank To: All Cuzco Team Members Subject: SUPERNOVA MISSION Contact to be made with Race ASAP. Participation crucial to success of mission. Expect package to arrive tomorrow 4 January at Newark at 0945. All members to have equipment stowed on the transport by 0900. Race frowned at the words. Contact Race ASAP. Participation crucial to success of mission.

When he had first seen the message, Race hadn’t really paid much attention to it. He had just assumed it was a reference to himself William Race—and that it was he who should be contacted immediately. But what if it actually meant someone else the Army had to get in touch with. Some other Race. In which case it meant that contact should be made with., Marty. Race looked up from the computer in horror, just as his brother stepped out of the line of dead Navy and DARPA people and shook hands with Frank Nash.

‘How are you, Marty?’ Nash said familiarly.

‘I’m well, Frank. It’s good to finally catch up with you.’ Race’s mind was in a spin. His eyes flashed from Nash and Marty to the dead bodies on the muddy street, and from them to— the copy of the manuscript lying in the mud next to Ed Devereux’s body. And then suddenly it all made sense. Race saw the ornate calligraphy on the text, the stunning medieval artwork. It was identical to the Xeroxed copy of the Santiago Manuscript that he had translated for Nash on the way to Peru.

Oh, no… ‘Marty, you didn’t…’

‘I’m sorry you had to get caught up in all this, Will,’ Marty said.

‘We had to get a copy of the manuscript somehow,’ Nash said. ‘God, when those Nazis raided that monastery in France and stole the real manuscript, they set off a chase like you wouldn’t believe. Suddenly, everybody in the world who had a Supernova had the chance to get a live sample of thyrium. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. Then, when we intercepted a DARPA transmission saying that there was a second copy of the manuscript in existence, we simply arranged for someone at DARPA to get a Xerox of it for us—Marty.’ But how? Race thought. Marty was with DARPA, he wasn’t with the Army. Where was the link? How was Marty associated with Nash and Army Special Projects? At that moment, he saw Lauren go over to Marty and kiss him lightly on the cheek.

What the… ? It was then that Race saw the ring on Marty’s left hand. A wedding ring. He looked at Lauren and Marty again. No… Then he heard Lauren’s voice in his head: ‘My first marriage didn’t exactly work out. But I’ve recently remarried.’

‘I see you’ve met my wife, Will,’ Marty said, stepping forward holding Lauren by the hand. ‘I never told you I got married, did I?’

‘Marty—’

‘Do you remember when we were teenagers, Will? You were always the popular one and I was always the loner. The geek with the thick eyebrows and the hunched shoulders who stayed at home on Saturday nights while you went out with all the girls. But there was one girl you didn’t get, wasn’t there, Will?’

Race was silent.

‘And it looks like I got her,’ Marty said. Race was stunned. Was it possible that Marty had been so bitter about his childhood that he had pursued Lauren just to get even with Race? No. Not possible. Such a theory failed to give Lauren any credit. She wouldn’t have married anybody she didn’t want to marry—which really meant she wouldn’t have married anyone who didn’t advance her own career. It was then that another image leapt into Race’s mind. The image of Lauren and Troy Copeland standing in the Huey two nights ago, kissing like a pair of teenagers before Race had stumbled onto them. Lauren had been having an affair with Copeland.

‘Marty,’ he said quickly. ‘Listen, she’s going to betray you—’

‘Shut up, Will.’

‘But Marty—’

‘I said, shut up!“ Race fell silent. After a moment, he said in a low voice, ‘What did the Army give you to sell out DARPA, Marty?’

‘They didn’t have to give me much,’ Marty said. ‘My wife simply asked me to do her a favour. And her boss, Colonel Nash here, offered me an executive posting in the Army’s Supernova project. Will, I’m a design engineer. I design the computer systems that control these devices. But at DARPA that makes me nothing. All my life, Will—all my life—all I’ve ever wanted was recognition. At home, at school, at work. Recognition of my ability. Now, finally, I’m going to get some.’

‘Marty, please, listen to me. Two nights ago, I saw Lauren with—’

‘Drop it, Will. Show’s over. I’m really sorry it had to happen like this, but it has and I can’t help that. Goodbye.’ And with that Frank Nash stepped in front of Race—cutting off his view of Marty— replacing it with a view down the barrel of Nash’s SIGSauer.

‘It’s been a pleasure, Professor, really it has,’ Nash said, squeezing the trigger.

‘No,’ Van Lewen said suddenly, stepping forward—in between Race and Nash’s pistol.

‘Colonel, I cannot allow you do this.’

‘Get out of the way, Sergeant.’

‘No, sir, I will not.’

‘Get out of the fucking way!’ Van Lewen straightened as he stood before the barrel of Nash’s pistol. “Sir, my orders are clear. They came from you, yourself. I am to protect Professor Race at any cost.’

‘Your orders just changed, Sergeant.’

‘No, sir. They did not. If you want to kill Professor Race, then you’re going to have to kill me first.’

Nash pursed his lips for a moment. Then—with shocking suddenness—the SIG in his hand discharged and Van Lewen’s head exploded, showering Race all over with blood. The Green Beret’s body fell to the ground in a heap, like a marionette that had just had its strings cut. Race stared down at Van Lewen’s fallen frame. The tall, kind sergeant had sacrificed his own life for his—had stared down the barrel of a gun for him. And now, now he was dead.

Race felt like he was going to be sick.

‘You son of a bitch,’ he said to Nash. Nash reaimed his gun at Race’s face. ‘This mission is bigger than any one man, Professor. Bigger than him, bigger than me, and definitely bigger than you.’

And with that, Nash pulled the trigger. Race saw the flash of brown shoot across in front of his face before he even heard the whistling sound. Then, just as Nash pulled the trigger on his pistol, a miniature explosion of blood flared out from the Army colonel’s forearm as it was penetrated by a primitive wooden arrow. Nash’s gun hand was knocked sideways and the SIG discharged wildly to Race’s left. Nash roared with pain and dropped the pistol just as a volley of about twenty more arrows rained down all around them, killing two of the Army crewmen instantly. The wave of arrows was quickly followed by a blood curdling battlecry that ripped through the early morning air like a knife. Race spun at the sound and his jaw dropped at the sight that met him. He saw all of the natives from the upper village all the adults, fifty of them at least— charging out from the trees to the west of Vilcafor. They were shrieking wildly as they rushed forward, brandishing whatever weapons they could muster— bows, arrows, axes, clubs—and they wore on their faces some of the angriest expressions Race had ever seen in his life. The charge of the natives was nothing short of terrifying. Their fury was intense, their anger almost tangible. Frank Nash had stolen their idol and now they wanted it back. Abruptly the crack of M16 gunfire rang out from somewhere close behind Race. A couple of the helicopter crewmen had opened fire on the Indians. Almost instantly, four of the natives at the front of the rushing horde were hit. They stumbled and fell, crashing face first in the mud. But the others just kept on coming. Nash—now with an arrow lodged in his right forearm, complete with a ragged piece of his own flesh dangling from its point—turned instantly and, with his people behind him, abandoned the village and made for the two Army choppers.

Race hadn’t even moved. He just stood there in the centre of the street, rooted to the spot, staring dumbstruck at the horde of charging natives. Then suddenly someone grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. It was Renée. ‘Professor, come on!’ she yelled as she dragged him toward the empty Super Stallion on the other side of the village.

The Army people reached their choppers. Nash, Lauren, Marty and Copeland leapt up into the rear compartment of the Black Hawk II at the same time as the chopper’s two crewmen threw themselves into the pilot’s and gunner’s seats. The Black Hawk II’s rotors began to turn instantly. Nash looked out from the rear compartment, saw Race and Renée running for the Super Stallion. He yelled to the crewman manning the chopper’s rear mounted Vulcan minigun.

‘Take out that chopper!’ As the Black Hawk II’s rotors whipped into overdrive and the big helicopter slowly began to lift off, the copilot jammed down on his trigger and a blazing barrage of gunfire blasted out from the Vulcan. The hail of gunfire that assailed the Super Stallion was shocking in its intensity. It pummelled the reinforced walls of the helicopter with thousands of bullet holes, each the size of a man’s fist. And then—just as Race and Renée were coming toward it—the Super Stallion exploded into a billowing ball of flames. The two of them dived to the ground a split second before a storm of burning hot metal whizzed over their heads, shooting out in every direction. Two stray shards of red hot metal, however, slammed into Renée’s shoulder, sizzling on contact. She roared with pain. ‘Now take them out!’ Nash yelled, pointing down at Race and the injured Renée. The Black Hawk II was about fifteen feet off the ground now, rising quickly into the sky. The gunner immediately whirled the massive Vulcan around and drew a bead on Race’s skull.

Blam!

The crewman’s head snapped violently backwards, shot right between the eyes. Nash spun around in surprise, searching the ground below for the source of the shot that had killed his gunner. And he saw him. It was Doogie. Crouched on one knee over by the moat with a stolen Navy MP5 pressed against his shoulder, aimed directly up at the Black Hawk II! Behind him stood Gaby Lopez. Just then Doogie loosed another shot and it pinged off the steel roof above Nash’s head. Nash yelled at his pilot, ‘Get us the fuck out of here!” With his arm looped underneath Renée’s good shoulder, Race scrambled for the ATV. The crowd of natives was now standing underneath the two Army helicopters, shouting angrily at them, waving their sticks, firing their arrows in vain at the armoured underbellies of the flying steel beasts. Race leapt up onto the back of the ATV, yanked open the small circular hatch set inside it and helped Renée in through it. Just as he was about to follow her, however, he saw Doogie and Gaby hurrying across the main street toward him, waving their arms wildly. Gaby was helping Doogie as he limped along as fast as he could. They arrived at the ATV, clambered up onto it.

‘What the fuck is going on here?’ Doogie said in between breaths.

Race saw his bloodied left leg. It had a makeshift tourniquet tied around it. ‘We got here just in time to see the colonel shoot Leo in the fucking head!’

Doogie’s face was contorted with a mixture of rage and helpless confusion. ‘The colonel had other priorities,“ Race said bitterly. ‘Priorities that didn’t include us.’

‘What are we going to do?’ Doogie said.

Race bit his lip in thought. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Get inside. We’re not out of this yet.’

The two Army helicopters—the Comanche and the Black Hawk II—rose into the sky above the main street of Vilcafor. Nash looked out the side door of his chopper at the crowd of angry natives beneath him, yelling and screaming and waving their fists at the helicopters. He snorted a laugh as he turned away from them and looked out through the forward windshield of the chopper. The two Army helicopters cleared the treetops. And Nash’s smile went flat. There were eight of them—Black Hawk I helicopters— similar to his own but older; superseded models that the Army had discarded years ago. They were all painted black, with no markings on them whatsoever, and they hovered menacingly in a wide, 500yard circle around Vilcafor like a pack of hungry jackals waiting on the periphery of the battle, waiting to pick up the scraps. There came a sudden puff of smoke from one of the unmarked Black Hawks as, without warning, a missile shot out from one of its stublike wings. A long fingerlike trail of smoke extended through the air in front of the helicopter as the speeding missile cut a beeline for the Army Comanche. The Comanche exploded in an instant and dropped clumsily out of the sky. It smashed down onto one of the stone huts on the main street of Vilcafor, flames spilling out from its charred, twisted shell. Race and the others were inside the citadel and about to climb down into the quenko when they heard the sudden explosion outside. They hurried back into the ATV and peered out through its narrow slitlike windows to see what had happened. They saw the blazing wreck of the Comanche lying awkwardly on its side on top of one of the small huts of Vilcafor. They also saw Nash’s Black Hawk II hovering above the village, not daring to move. The rotors of the Army Black Hawk thumped rhythmically as the big helicopter hovered over Vilcafor, in the centre of the circle of ominous black helicopters. Suddenly, two of the unmarked choppers banked out of their formation and flew in toward the village. Blackclad soldiers sitting in their doorways opened fire on the natives on the ground and the Indians scattered immediately, hurrying over the logbridges, darting into the dense foliage around the town.

A voice came over a loudspeaker from one of the choppers. A man’s voice, speaking in English. “Army Black Hawk. Be advised, missile lock has been established on your aircraft. You are to land immediately. I repeat, you are to land immediately and prepare to hand over the idol. If you do not land immediately, we will blast you out of the sky and pick it out of the wreckage later.”

Nash and Marty exchanged a look. Lauren and Copeland did the same. ‘They’re not lying about the missile lock, sir,’ the pilot said, turning to Nash.

‘Take us down,’ Nash said. Flanked by the two unmarked Black Hawks, Nash’s Black Hawk II slowly descended back to earth. The three choppers hit the ground together. The moment the Army chopper’s wheels touched the mud the voice on the loudspeaker came again.

“Now exit the helicopter with your hands up.’ Nash, Lauren, Copeland and Marty did so, accompanied by the chopper’s pilot. From the safety of the ATV, Race and the others stared out at the scene before them in awe. Race couldn’t believe what was happening. It was like one of those fables where a big fish eats a smaller fish, only to be eaten itself by an even bigger fish moments later. Frank Nash, it seemed, had just come across a bigger fish.

‘Who the hell are these guys?’ Doogie asked.

‘I would guess,’ Renée said, a strip of gauze pressed firmly against her bloody shoulder, they are the people who were responsible for the breakin at DARPA headquarters two days ago. The breakin that involved the theft of the Navy’s Supernova.’

Half a world away, Special Agent John Paul Demonaco and Commander Tom Mitchell were sitting inside Bluey James’ filthy Baltimore apartment, waiting for the phone to ring. They were waiting for the call that would instruct Bluey to send out the VCD of Bittiker’s message to all the TV net works. Naturally, Bluey’s phone had been hooked up to a bank of FBI tracing equipment. There was a knock at the door.

Mitchell opened it to reveal two agents from Demonaco’s Domestic Terrorist Unit—a man and a woman, both young, clean cut thirtysomethings.

‘What have you got?” Demonaco said.

‘We checked out Henry Norton,’ the female agent said. ‘The guy whose cardkeys and codes were used in the break in. Our own investigations have confirmed that he had no known paramilitary contacts.’

‘So who did he work with, then? Who could have seen him enter his codes and then pass them on to somebody?’

‘Apparently he worked closely with a guy named Martin Race Martin Eric Race. He was one of the DARPA people working on the project, the ignition system design engineer.’

‘But we checked him out too,’ the male agent said. ‘And he’s clean. No militia links, not even a history of contact with any extremist groups. He’s even married to a highranking Army scientist named Lauren O’Connor. She’s technically a major, but she’s had no combat experience. The rank is purely honorary.

Race and O’Connor were married late in 1997. No kids, No apparent discord. But…”

‘But what?’

‘But exactly three weeks ago, her FBI file was flagged when she was spotted leaving a motel in Gainesville with this man’—the agent handed Demonaco an 8 x 10 black and white photo of a man leaving a motel room—

‘Troy Copeland. Also a major with the Army’s Special Projects Unit. Seems Ms O’Connor has been having an affair with Mr. Copeland for the last month.’

‘So… ?’ Demonaco said expectantly.

‘So. Copeland has been under periodic surveillance for the past year, under suspicion of passing Army security codes to certain militia groups, one of which is—wait for it—the Republican Army of Texas.’

‘But since the affair is only a month old,’ the female agent said, ‘DARPA probably hasn’t picked up on it with any followup checks.’

Demonaco sighed. ‘And the Army and the Navy aren’t exactly the best of bedfellows. They’ve been pulling the rug out from under each other for years.’

He turned. ‘Commander Mitchell?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does the Army have a Supernova?’

‘They’re not supposed to.’

‘Answer the question.’

‘We think they are working on one, yes.’

‘Is it possible, then,’ Demonaco said, ‘that this O’Connor woman was getting her husband to pass secret DARPA codes to her and the Army and then she was passing them on to her lover Copeland, not knowing that he was giving them to the Texans?’

‘That’s what we figure,’ the male agent said.

“Damn it’ With the Spirit of the People in his hands, Frank Nash stepped out of his grounded Black Hawk II. Lauren, Marty, Copeland and the pilot did the same. The two unmarked Black Hawks that had landed on either side of the Army chopper kept their rotor blades turning swiftly.

“Step away from the helicopter!’ the voice on the loud speaker demanded. Nash and the others did so. An instant later another fingerlike trail of smoke raced down from the sky at incredible speed—from one of the other Black Hawks hovering above the village. The missile slammed into the Army Black Hawk II, blasting it to smithereens. Nash winced. A long silence followed, the only sound the rhythmic whumpwhumpwhump of the rotors that still turned atop the two unmarked helicopters. After nearly a full minute had passed, a lone man got out of the nearer of the two unmarked choppers. He was dressed in full combat attire—boots, fatigues, combat webbing—and he carried in his left hand an odd looking semiautomatic pistol. It was a big gun, black in colour, and easily bigger than the famous IMI ‘Desert Eagle’, the largest production made semiautomatic pistol in the world. This gun, on the other hand, had a sturdy grip and an unusually long slide which ran for the entire length of its barrel. Nash recognised it instantly. It wasn’t a semiautomatic pistol at all. It was a rare and very expensive Calico pistol, the only truly automatic pistol in the world. You depressed the trigger and a stream of bullets blazed out from the barrel. Like an M16, the Calico could be set to fire either short three round bursts or full auto. But whatever mode you chose, the result was still the same. If you shot someone with a Calico, you opened them up bigtime.

The man with the Calico stepped up to Nash while the men in the unmarked chopper behind him kept their M16s trained on the others. The man held out his hand. ‘The idol, please,’ he said. Nash appraised him for a moment. He was middleaged but thin, gaunt, with muscly, wiry arms. He had a hollow, sanguine face that was pitted all over with scars, and a messy shock of thinning blond hair that came down to his eyes—blue eyes that brimmed over with hate. Nash didn’t hand over the idol. It was then that the man with the Calico calmly raised his pistol and blew the Army pilot’s skull open with a short threeround burst.

‘The idol, please,’ the man repeated. Reluctantly, Nash gave it to him.

‘Thank you, Colonel,’ the man said.

‘Who are you?’ Nash demanded. The man cocked his head slightly to one side. Then, slowly, the edge of his mouth curled into a sly smile.

‘The name’s Earl Bittiker,’ he said.

‘And who the fuck is Earl Bittiker?’ Nash snorted. The man smiled again, that same supercilious smile. ‘I’m the man who’s gonna destroy the world.’

Race, Renée, Gaby and Doogie were all peering out through the windows of the ATV, watching the drama outside unfold.

‘How did they know how to get here?’ Renée said. ‘Surely there can’t be another copy of the manuscript out there.’

‘No, there isn’t,’ Race said. ‘But I think I know how they got here.’

He began to look around the ATV, searching for something. A few seconds later, he found it. The BKA team’s laptop. He turned it on. After a few seconds, he brought up a familiar screen, written in German. COMMUNICATIONS SATELLITE TRANSMISSION LOG 4476’BKA32 NO. DATE TIME SOURCE SUMMARY.

1. 1 4.1.99 1930 BKAHQ PERU TEAM REPORT STATUS

2. 2 4.1.99 1950 EXT SOURCE SIGNATURE UHF SIGNAL

3. 3 4.1.99 2230 BKAHQ PERU TEAM REPORT STATUS

4. 4 5.1.99 0130 BKAHQ PERU TEAM REPORT STATUS

5. 5 5.1.99 0430 BKAHQ PERU TEAM REPORT STATUS

6. 6 5.1.99 0716 FIELD (CHILE) ARRIVED SANTIAGO, HEADING FOR COLONIA ALEMANIA

7. 7 5.1.99 0730 BKAHQ PERU TEAM REPORT STATUS

8. 8 5.1.99 0958 FIELD (CHILE) HAVE ARRIVED COLONIA ALEMANIA; BEGINNING SURVEILLANCE

9. 9 5.1.99 1030 BKAHQ PERU TEAM REPORT STATUS

10. 10 5.1.99 1037 FIELD (CHILE) CHILE TEAM URGENT SIGNAL; CHILE TEAM URGENT SIGNAL

11. 11 5.1.99 1051 BKAHQ PERU TEAM REPORT IMMEDIATELY It was the screen they had seen yesterday, before the Nazis had arrived, the one showing every communication signal that had been received by the BKA’s Peruvian team. Race saw the line he was looking for immediately. The second line:

12. 2 4.1.99 1950 EXT SOURCE SIGNATURE UHF SIGNAL

‘Doogie,’ he said, ‘you said something about a UHF signal yesterday. What exactly is it?’

‘It’s a standard homing signal. I sent one to our air support team yesterday, so they’d know where to pick us up.’

Renée pointed at the screen. ‘But this UHF signal was sent out two days ago at 7:50 pm on January 4. That was well before my team arrived here.’

‘That’s right,’ Race said. ‘And that time has significance.’

‘How?’ Doogie asked.

‘Because at exactly 7:45 pm on the first night, Lauren did her nucleotide resonance scan of the area and determined that there was thyrium in the immediate vicinity of this village. This UHF signal was sent out exactly five minutes after that successful scan. And what were we doing at that time?’

‘We were unloading the choppers,’ Doogie said, shrugging. ‘Getting our gear ready.’

‘Precisely,’ Race said. ‘The perfect opportunity for someone to send up a UHF signal while nobody was looking, a signal that would tell his friends that the presence of thyrium had been confirmed.’

‘But who did it?’ Gaby asked. Race nodded out the window. ‘I think we’re about to find out.’

Earl Bittiker pulled another Calico pistol from his spare holster and tossed it to Troy Copeland.

‘Heya, Troy,’ he said. ‘Nice of you to join us,’

Copeland replied, cocking the massive pistol. Lauren’s face went ashen white.

“Troy?’ she said in disbelief. Copeland smiled at hen It was a cruel, nasty smile.

‘You should be careful about who you fuck, Lauren, cause they might just be fucking you over. Although I imagine it’s not often that you’re the one who gets fucked over’ Lauren’s face darkened.

Beside her, Marty blanched. ‘Lauren?’

Copeland started to chuckle. ‘Marty, Marty, Marty. Little fucking Marty who sold out DARPA so he could get himself some goddamn respect—you oughta be more careful about who you give your information to, my friend. But then, you didn’t even know that your own wife was screwing another man.’

Race watched the scene outside, his entire body tense, still. He could hear what Copeland was saying to Marty, humiliating him.

‘She liked it, too,’ Copeland said. ‘In fact, I can’t think of many things I liked better on this earth than hearing your wife scream as she orgasmed.’

Marty’s face reddened, both in anger and humiliation. ‘I’ll kill you,’ he growled.

‘Not likely,’ Copeland said, pulling the trigger on his Calico, sending a rapidfire burst of bullets into Marty’s abdomen.

Race almost jumped out of his skin when he heard the gun go off. Marty’s shirt was ripped open by the sudden three round burst, his stomach raked into a ragged mass of red. Race saw him fall to the ground hard.

‘Marty…’ he breathed. Out on the main street, Copeland turned his gun on Lauren, while Bittiker turned his on Frank Nash. ‘What did you call it, Frank?’ Copeland said to Nash. ‘The law of unintended consequences—terrorist groups getting their hands on a Supernova. Face it, you only saw this weapon as a bluffing tool—a weapon that you possess, but which you will never have the courage to use. Maybe you should have thought about it another way: don’t build it if you don’t intend to use it.’

Copeland and Bittiker fired at the same time. Nash and Lauren fell together, splashing into the mud. Lauren was killed instantly, shot clean through the heart. Nash, on the other hand, was hit in the stomach and he fell to the ground screaming with pain. Then, with the idol in their possession, Bittiker and Copeland hurried back to one of the unmarked Black Hawks and leapt aboard. No sooner were they on board than the two big black choppers rose quickly into the sky. Once they had cleared the treetops, they both tilted sharply forward and powered off, heading south, away from Vilcafor.

As soon as the Texan choppers were gone, Race threw open the rear hatch of the ATV and charged out onto the main street. He slid to his knees beside the fallen figure of Marty. When he arrived at his brother’s side, Marty was feebly trying to put his intestines back in his stomach. Blood gurgled from his mouth, and as Race looked down into his brother’s eyes, he saw only fear and shock.

‘Oh, Will… Will,’ Marty said, his lip quivering. He grabbed Race’s arm with one blood smeared hand.

‘Marty, why? Why did you do this?”

‘Will…’ he said. ‘Ignition…’

Race held him in his arms. ‘What? What are you trying to say?’

‘I’m… so sorry.., ignition.., system.., please, stop… them.’ And then slowly Marty’s eyes glazed over, settling into a frozen vacant stare. His bloodied body went limp in Race’s arms. It was then that Race heard the soft gurgling sound from somewhere behind him. He turned and saw Frank Nash lying on his back a few yards away. Nash’s midsection was also torn to pieces. He was coughing up blood, gagging on it. And then suddenly, beyond Nash, Race saw movement. Saw the first curious native emerge slowly from the trees.

‘Professor,’ Doogie called softly from the ATV, ‘I, ah, think it might be a good idea to step away from there.’ The other natives emerged from the forest. They still carried their primitive weapons— their clubs and sticks and axes—and they looked angry as hell. Slowly, Race lowered Marty’s body gently to the ground. Then he stood and slowly—very slowly—walked back to the ATV. The natives hardly even noticed him. They only had eyes for one person—Nash—lying in the middle of the street, gurgling blood. And then with a savage, high pitched shriek, the Indians rushed forward as one and converged on Nash like a swarming school of piranha. In a moment Race lost sight of the murderous Army colonel and soon all he could see was a roiling mass of olive skinned natives crowding around Nash, hacking violently with their clubs and their sticks and their axes, and then suddenly, horrifically, above it all he heard a single ear piercing scream— a scream of such pure terror that it could only have come from one man. Frank Nash.

Race slammed the rear hatch of the ATV behind him and looked at the three faces before him. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Looks like we’re gonna have to do this all over again. We have to stop these assholes before they get that idol to a Supernova.’

‘But how?’ Doogie asked.

‘The first thing we have to do,’ Race said, ‘is find out where they’re taking it.’ Race and the others flew through the narrow tunnels of the quenko, running as fast as their injured bodies would carry them. They had practically no firepower—just a couple of SIG Sauers and the single MP5 that Doogie had found in the upper village. As far as armour was concerned, Doogie still wore his combat fatigues and Race still wore his unusual kevlar breastplate. That was it. But they knew where they were going and that was all that mattered. They were heading for the waterfall. And the Goose that lay hidden on the riverbank there. After about ten minutes of running, they came to the waterfall at the end of the quenko. Another four and they arrived at the Goose—parked exactly where Race, Doogie and Van Lewen had left it—underneath the overhanging branches of the riverside trees. Uli, Race was pleased to see, was still sleeping safely inside it. Four more minutes and the little seaplane was back in the water, skipping across the waves, shooting across the wide brown surface of the river It accelerated to takeoff speed quickly before suddenly, gloriously, it lifted off the surface and soared into the sky. Once it was airborne, Doogie banked the plane sharply around so that it was pointing directly south, in the direction that the Texan Black Hawks had gone. After about ten minutes of flying, Doogie caught sight of them eight black specks on the horizon. They were veering right, heading southwest over the mountains.

‘They’re going for Cuzco,’ Doogie said.

‘Stay on them,’ Race said.

An hour later, the eight Black Hawk helicopters landed at a private airfield just outside Cuzco. Sitting majestically on the dusty dirt runway waiting for them was a massive Antonov An 22 heavylift cargo plane. With its powerful quadruple propeller system and a wide rear loading ramp, the An22 had long been one of the Soviet Union’s most dependable tanklifters. It was also a valuable export commodity, having been sold regularly to countries who couldn’t afford— or who weren’t allowed to buy American cargo lifters. With the end of the Cold War and the crumbling of the Russian economy, however, many An22s had found their way onto the black market. While movie stars and professional golfers bought Lear Jets for $30 million, paramilitary organisations could buy a second hand An22 for little more than $12 million. Earl Bittiker and Troy Copeland leapt out of their chopper and strode over to the rear loading ramp of the massive cargo plane. When he arrived at the back of the plane, Bittiker looked up into its cavernous cargo bay and beheld his pride and joy. An M1A1 Abrams main battle tank. It looked awesome. The picture of brutal, untameable strength. Its blackpainted composite armour didn’t shine, its monstrously wide tracks stood planted on the cargo deck, splayed wide. Bittiker gazed at its imposing trapezoidal gun turret. It faced resolutely forward, toward the front of the plane, its longbodied 105mm cannon pointing upward at a 30degree angle. Bittiker stared at the Abrams with cool satisfaction. It was the perfect place to keep the stolen Supernova. It was impregnable.

He handed the idol to one of the Freedom Fighter techs and the little man went scurrying back up into the plane, heading for the tank. ‘Gentlemen,’ Bittiker said into his radio, addressing the men in the other helicopters. ‘Thank you very much for your loyal service. We’ll take it from here. See you in the next life.’ Then he discarded his radio and pulled out his cell phone, and dialled Bluey James’ number. The phone rang in Bluey’s apartment. The FBI’s digital tracing equipment lit up like a Christmas tree. Demonaco slipped on a pair of headphones, then nodded to Bluey. Bluey picked up the telephone.

‘Yo.’

“Bluey, it’s Bittiker. We have the thyrium. Send the message out now.’

‘You got it, Earl.’

Bittiker hung up his phone and, with Copeland in tow behind him, headed up the loading ramp and into the back of the Antonov. It was 11:13 am. ‘Jesus! They took off already!’ Doogie exclaimed, pointing down at the old Antonov as it thundered along the dirt runway and lifted off into the sky. ‘Look at the size of that thing,’ Renée said. ‘I think we just found out where they’re keeping their Supernova,” Race said. The Antonov soared into the sky, its outstretched wings glinting in the morning sun. In the womblike silence of the Abrams main battle tank that sat inside its cavernous cargo bay, two Freedom Fighter technicians were working carefully at a vacuum sealed work chamber, slowly excising a small cylindrical section from the base of the thyrium idol with a laser cutter. Behind the two technicians, taking up nearly all the room inside the big tank, sat the Supernova—the Supernova that until two days previously had resided in the vault room at DARPA headquarters. After they had extracted the cylindrical section of thyrium, with the aid of two IBM supercomputers that lined the walls of the cargo bay outside, they subjected it to alpha wave augmentation, inert gas purification and proton enrichment, transforming the section of thyrium into a subcritical mass.

‘How long till it’s ready?’ a voice said suddenly from above them. The two men looked up and saw Earl Bittiker staring down at them through the tank’s circular upper hatch.

‘Fifteen more minutes,’ one of them replied. Bittiker looked at his watch. It was 11:28 am. ‘Call me as soon as you’re done,’ he said.

‘Doogie,’ Race said as he stared up at the enormous cargo plane above them. ‘How do you open up the loading ramps on those big cargo planes?’

Doogie frowned. ‘Well, there are two ways. Either you press a button on a console inside the cargo bay or you use the exterior console.’

‘What’s the exterior console?”

‘It’s just a pair of buttons, hidden inside a compartment on the outside of the plane. Usually, they’re located on the left-hand side of the loading ramp and covered by a panel to protect them against the wind.’

‘Do you need a code or anything to open the panel?’

“No, not at all,’ Doogie said. “I mean, it’s not like anyone’s going to open the loading ramp from the outside in midair, now is it?’

He turned to Race. And then suddenly his eyes opened wide. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘We have to get that idol before they put it in their Supernova,’ Race said. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

“But how?’

‘Just bring us up behind that plane. Stay right underneath it so they don’t see you. Then bring us in nice and close.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Race turned, looked back at the sorry group of people in the plane around him: Doogie— gunshot wounds to the leg and shoulder; Renée—wounded shoulder; Gaby—still slightly in shock from all their recent skirmishes; Uli—out for the count. Race snuffed a laugh. ‘What am I going to do? I’m going to save the world.’ And with that, he stood up and grabbed the only submachinegun they had, the Navy MP5.

‘All right, now. Take us up.’

The two planes soared through the bright morning sky. The Antonov was cruising at about 11,000 feet—three kilometres above the Earth coasting along at an easy cruising speed of 200 knots as it rose steadily into the sky. Although the Antonov didn’t know it, rising through the air behind it, closing in quickly on its tail section, was a much smaller plane—the Goose. The little seaplane’s panels shuddered violently as it hit its maximum speed of 220 knots. Doogie gripped his steering vane as hard as he could, trying to keep her steady. This was bad. The Goose’s operational ceiling was 21,300 feet. If the Antonov kept rising, it would soon be physically out of the Goose’s reach. The little seaplane gradually closed in on the massive cargo lifter, the two aircraft acting out a bizarre kind of aerial ballet—the sparrow chasing the albatross. Slowly—very slowly—the Goose moved up behind the Antonov and edged its nose right in behind the bigger plane’s hindquarters. Then suddenly, without any warning, the hatch on the nose of the Goose popped open and the tiny figure of a man appeared out of it from the waist up. The blast of wind that assaulted Race’s face as he stuck his head out through the Goose’s forward hatch was absolutely colossal. It slammed into his body, pounded against him. If he hadn’t been wearing his kevlar breastplate it almost certainly would have knocked the wind out of him. He saw the Antonov’s sloping hindquarters looming large in front of him, about fifteen feet away. Christ, it was enormous… It was like looking at the rear end of the biggest bird in the world. And then Race caught sight of the earth below him. Ooooh…luck! The world was a long way down—a long way down. Immediately beneath him, he saw a rolling patchwork quilt of hills and fields and, away to the east—ahead of the two planes—the never ending sea of rainforest. Don’t think about the fall! a voice inside him screamed. Keep your mind on the job! Right. Okay. He had to do this quickly, before he ran out air, and before the two planes rose to a height where the combination of thin air and windchill would freeze him to death. He waved at Doogie through the Goose’s windshield, instructing him to bring the little seaplane closer to the Antonov. The Goose edged further forward.

Eight feet away. Earl Bittiker and Troy Copeland sat in the cockpit of the Antonov, oblivious to what was going on in the air behind their plane. Abruptly, the wall mounted phone next to Bittiker buzzed. ‘Yes,’ Bittiker said. ‘Sir,’ it was the tech in charge of arming the Supernova.

‘We’ve placed the thyrium in the device. It’s ready.’

‘All right, I’m coming down,’ Bittiker said. The Goose was three feet away from the Antonov—and 15,000 feet above the world and still rising. Race was standing with his entire upper body protruding from the Goose’s nose hatch. He saw the Antonov’s loading ramp in front of him. The ramp was still firmly shut, its existence betrayed only by a set of thin grooved lines that ran in a square around the rear of the massive plane. Then Race saw a small panel to the left of the ramp lying flush against the exterior wall of the plane. He waved for Doogie to bring the Goose closer still.

Bittiker emerged from the upper deck of the Antonov and looked down upon the cargo bay from a thin metal catwalk. He saw the gargantuan tank beneath him, saw the barrel of its mighty cannon pointing directly up at him. He looked at his watch. It was 11:48. The VCD would have gone out a good half hour ago. The world would be in a panic. Judgement Day had arrived. Bittiker slid down a rung ladder and then stepped up onto the turret of the tank, climbed down into it. He arrived in the belly of the Abrams and saw the Super nova—saw the two thermonuclear warheads suspended in their hourglass formation, saw the cylindrical section of thyrium lying horizontally in the vacuum sealed chamber in between them. He nodded, satisfied. ‘Start the detonation sequence,’ he said. ‘Yes, sir,’ one of the techs said, leaping for the laptop computer on the front of the device.

‘Set it for twelve minutes,’ Bittiker said. ‘Twelve noon.’

The tech typed quickly and within seconds a countdown screen appeared: YOU NOW HAVE 00:12:00 MINUTES TO ENTER DISARM CODE. ENTER DISARM CODE HERE The tech hit ‘ENTER’ and the timer began to race downwards. As it did so, Bittiker pulled out his cellular phone and dialled Bluey James’ number again. The digital tracing equipment in Bluey’s apartment lit up like a Christmas tree again. Bluey picked up the phone.

‘Yo.’

‘Has the message gone out?’

‘It’s out there, Earl,’ Bluey lied as he stared into the eyes of John Paul Demonaco. “Is there panic in the streets?’

‘Like you wouldn’t believe,’ Bluey said.

The Goose edged closer to the Antonov’s hindquarters, two feet separating the two speeding, rising planes. In the face of the battering, pounding wind, Race held onto the Goose’s hatch with one hand while he reached out with the other for the panel on the cargo plane, stretching out as far as he could. It was still too far away. Doogie brought the Goose in closer still, as close as he dared… and Race grabbed the panel, flipped it open. He saw two buttons inside it—one red, one green—and without so much as a second thought, he slammed his fist down on the green button. With an ominous rambling whir, the rear loading ramp of the Antonov began to lower, right on top of the Goose’s nose! With the reflexes of a cat, Doogie quickly manoeuvred the little seaplane out of the path of the lowering ramp—in doing so, almost flinging Race out of the nose hatch! But Race’s grip and balance held firm and he remained standing half-in half-out of the Goose’s hatch while Doogie deftly swung the little seaplane in behind the Antonov as the giant cargo plane’s ramp yawned open before them. The two planes continued to fly in tandem through the Peruvian sky—the massive Antonov and the tiny Goose flying barely two feet apart, hitting 18,000 feet only now the Antonov’s rear loading ramp was open, right in front of the little seaplane’s nose! Then, at the precise moment that the ramp came fully open and despite the fact that he was 18,000 feet above the earth, the tiny figure of William Race climbed up out of the hatch— into the roaring wind—and leapt across from the nose of the Goose onto the open loading ramp of the Antonov! Race landed flat on his face on the loading ramp of the giant cargo plane. He clawed for a handhold to stop himself getting sucked out the back of the plane, grappled his way along the length of the ramp—flat on his belly, hand over hand, the wind roaring all around him—crawling on his stomach with nothing but the Goose and 18,000 feet of clear open sky behind him. It’s funny where life takes you .. The enormous cargo bay opened up before him. He saw the massive Abrams tank sitting proudly in the middle of it—saw the whipping wind scooping up anything that wasn’t nailed down—saw the flashing red warning lights and heard the hysterical wail of the alarm klaxons that were no doubt alerting whoever was on board the plane that its loading ramp was now illegally open. Earl Bittiker already knew. No sooner had the loading ramp opened a foot than he had heard the whoosh of the wind rushing into the cargo bay. It was followed a split second later by the highpitched wailing of the klaxons. Bittiker spun where he stood in the belly of the Abrams tank, his cellular phone still pressed against his ear

‘What the luck is this?’ he said as he stormed up the ladder of the tank, heading outside. On his feet now, Race unshouldered his MP5 and side stepped his way down the narrow passageway between the enormous tank and the wall of the cargo hold. Abruptly, a man’s head popped out from the hatch on top of the tank to his left.

Race whirled around, levelled his gun at the man. “Freeze!’ he yelled. The man froze. Race’s eyes went wide as he realised who it was. It was the man who had taken the idol from Frank Nash back at Vilcafor, it was the leader of the terrorists. Holy shit. Strangely, the man was holding a telephone in his hand, a cellular phone.

‘Get down from there!’ Race yelled. At first, Bittiker didn’t move, he just stared at Race in a kind of slackjawed wonder— stared at this bespectacled man dressed in blue jeans and a filthy Tshirt, a battered New York Yankees cap and a black kevlar breastplate, ordering him around with an MP5. Bittiker glanced at the open loading ramp behind Race, saw the little Goose seaplane hovering in the air about twenty yards behind the Antonov, trying vainly—but unsuccessfully—to keep up with the giant cargo plane as it rose higher into the sky. Slowly, Bittiker stepped down from the turret of the tank, until he stood in front of Race.

‘Give me that damn phone,’ Race said, snatching the cellular phone from the terrorist. ‘Who the hell are you talking to anyway?’

Race held the phone to his ear as he kept his eyes and gun trained on Bittiker.

‘Who is this?’ he said into the phone.

‘Who am I?’ a nasty little voice snapped back at him.

‘Who the fuck are you is the more appropriate question.’

‘My name is William Race. I’m an American citizen who was brought to Peru to help an Army team get a sample of thyrium to put inside a Supernova.’

There came a loud shuffling from the other end of the line.

‘Mister Race,’ a new voice said suddenly. “My name is Special Agent Demonaco of the FBI. I am investigating the theft of a Supernova from the offices of the Defence—’

‘You can’t stop it,’ Bittiker said to Race, his voice laced with a slow Texan drawl—‘you cain’t stop it.’

‘Why not?’ Race said.

‘Because not even I know how to disarm it,” Bittiker said. ‘I made sure that my people only knew how to arm it. That once it was set to go off, no one could stop it.’

“No one knows the disarm code?’

‘No one,’ Bittiker said. ‘Except, I imagine, some Princeton luck scientist up at DARPA, but that ain’t gonna help us now, is it?’

Race bit his lip in frustration. The alarm klaxons were still ringing. Any second now, more Texans would come out to see what was going on— Gunfire. Loud and sudden. It slammed into the deck all around him, kicking up sparks. Race dived out of the way, rolled across the deck, jammed the cellular phone into his back pocket and looked up— and saw Troy Copeland standing on the catwalk overlooking the cargo bay with two other Texans beside him, all three of them firing their Calico pistols down at Race. Bittiker saw the chance and ducked behind the forward corner of the tank, out of Race’s sight. Race pressed his back against the massive tracked wheels of the tank, out of the line of fire, at least for the moment. He was breathing hard, his heart pounding loudly inside his head. What the hell are you going to do now, Will?

And then suddenly, he heard someone shouting his name. ‘Is that you, Professor Race?’

It was Copeland. ‘God, you’re a persistent little son of a bitch.’

‘It’s better than being a complete asshole,’

Race muttered under his breath as he popped up from behind the tank and fired a short burst at Copeland and the other two terrorists, missing them by miles. Damn it, he thought. What did he do now? He hadn’t really thought that far ahead. The Supernova, a voice said inside his head. Disarm it! That’s what you have to do. After all, he thought, he’d already managed to disarm one Supernova on this trip. And with that, Race leapt to his feet, and jammed down on the trigger of his MP5, firing wildly up at the catwalk as he clambered onto the skirt of the Abrams tank. Then he climbed up onto the tank’s turret and jumped down through the hatch and into the belly of the massive steel beast. He was met by the stunned faces of the two Freedom Fighter technicians in charge of the Supernova.

‘Out! Now!’ he yelled, pointing his MP5 at their noses. The two techs hurried up the ladder and out through the hatch in the turret, banging it shut behind them. Race bolted it behind them, locking it, and suddenly he found himself alone in the command centre of the tank. Alone with the Supernova. He was beginning to get a terrible sense of deja vu. He felt the bulge of the cellular phone in his back pocket, grabbed it.

‘FBI man, are you still out there?’ he said.

John Paul Demonaco leapt for his microphone.

‘I’m here, Mister Race,’ he said quickly.

‘What did you say your name was?’ Race’s voice said.

One of the other agents said, ‘Trace is coming through. What the hell? It says they’re somewhere in Peru … and that they’re 20,000 feet off the ground.’

‘My name is Demonaco,’ Demonaco said. ‘Special Agent John Paul Demonaco. Now, listen to me very carefully, Mister Race. Wherever you are, you have to get out of there. The people with you are very dangerous individuals.”

No shit, Sherlock.

‘Uh—’ Race’s voice said.

‘—I’m afraid that getting out of here isn’t an option,’ Race said into the phone. As he spoke, however, he saw the Supernova’s timer counting down.

00:02:01 00:02:00 00:01:59

‘Oh, you gotta be kidding me,’ he said. ‘This just isn’t fair.’

‘PROFESSOR RACE, GET OUT OF THE TANK!’ a hideously loud voice boomed from a loudspeaker outside the Abrams. It was Copeland’s voice. Race looked out through the gunner’s sights of the massive vehicle and saw Copeland standing up on the catwalk at the forward end of the cargo bay holding onto a microphone. Wind whipped wildly around the hold. The loading ramp behind the tank was still open. Race looked about the interior of the enormous tank. The Supernova took up the entire central section of the command centre. Above him, he saw the entry hatch in the turret. Forward were the firing controls for the tank’s 105mm cannon and beyond those— beneath them, half buried in the floor in the very centre of the forward section of the tank—he saw a padded seat and a steering vane, the tank’s drive controls. There was something very odd about the drive controls, though. The top of the driver’s seat practically touched the low section of roof above it. And then it hit Race. In a tank like this, the driver drove with his head sticking out from a small hatch above his seat. Race felt a sliver of ice shoot up his spine. There was another hatch up front! He dived forward—sliding into the driver’s seat—and looked up instantly to see that it was true. There was another hatch up here. And at the moment it was open. And standing astride it at that very instant, pointing his Calico pistol directly down at Race’s head, was Earl Bittiker.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Bittiker asked slowly.

‘My name is William Race,’ Race said, looking up through the hatch at Bittiker. His mind was racing now, searching for an escape route. Wait a second, there was one possibility… ‘I’m a professor of languages at New York University,’ he added quickly, trying to keep Bittiker talking.

“A professor?’ Bittiker spat. ‘Jesus fucking Christ.”

Race figured that from where he was standing, Bittiker couldn’t see his hands— concealed as they were beneath the hatch—couldn’t see that right now Race was feeling around underneath the steering controls of the tank.

‘Tell me, Poindexter, what did you think you could achieve by coming here?’

‘I thought I could disarm the Supernova. You know, save the world.’ Still feeling. Damn it, it had to be down here somewhere…

‘You seriously thought you could disarm that bomb?’

Found it. Race looked up at Bittiker with hard eyes. ‘While I’ve still got one second left, I’m going to try to disarm that bomb.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Race said. ‘Because I’ve done it before.’

At that moment, unseen by Bittiker, Race jammed his thumb down hard on the rubber sealed button that he’d found on the underside of the steering controls of the Abrams. The same rubbersealed button that was fitted on every American made field vehicle. VROOOOM! Immediately, the tank’s monstrous Avco Lycoming engine roared to life, the throb of its powerful engine reverberating throughout the enormous cargo bay. Bittiker was jolted off balance by the sudden roar of the tank’s engine. Up on the catwalk in front of the tank, Troy Copeland also looked up in surprise. Inside the driver’s hatch, Race looked around for anything he could— Oh yeah. That’s nice. He found a control stick, complete with trigger, on which was written the words: MA GUN. Race grabbed the stick and squeezed the trigger and hoped to God that there was a round inside the Abrams’ main cannon. There was. The boom of the tank’s 105mm cannon going off inside the cargo bay of the Antonov was perhaps the loudest thing Race had ever heard in his life. The entire cargo plane shuddered violently as the Abrams’ mighty cannon went off in all its glory. The 105mm shell blasted through the plane like a run away asteroid. First, it sheared Troy Copeland’s head off—cleanly, quickly—removing it in an instant, like a bullet taking off the head of a Barbie doll, decapitating Copeland in a nanosecond, leaving his body standing for a full second after his head had been removed. But the shell just kept on going. It shot like a missile through the steel wall behind Copeland’s body, rocketing up into the passenger deck of the Antonov, ploughing at colossal speed into the cockpit walls, exploding right through the pilot’s chest before it blasted out through the plane’s windshield in a spectacular shower of glass. With its pilot now well and truly dead, the Antonov banked wildly, entering the first stages of a nosedive. In the cargo bay, the world tilted crazily. Race saw the damage that he’d done, saw where this plane was going. While I’ve still got one second left, I’m going to tryto disarm that bomb. Bittiker was still standing on the skirt of the tank, still holding his Calico pistol, but he’d been thrown wildly off balance by the discharge of the cannon. Race crunched the tank’s gears, found the one he wanted. Then he jammed his foot down on the accelerator, slamming it against the floor. The tank responded immediately—its tracked wheels leaping into motion and the massive steel beast shot off the mark like a racing car. The only thing was, it shot backwards out along the loading ramp, shooting off its edge, tipping over it and falling out into the clear open sky. The Abrams tank fell. Fast. Really, really fast. Indeed, no sooner had it dropped off the loading ramp of the Antonov than the cargo plane—gutted by the blast of the tank’s cannon—just banked away into a nosedive and exploded in a gigantic, billowing ball of flames. The Abrams fell through the sky—rear end first—at phenomenal speed. It was so big, so heavy, it just cut through the air like an anvil, a screaming 67ton anvil. Inside the tank, Race was in a world of trouble. Everything was tilted on its side and the whole tank shook violently as it was buffeted by the friction it created with the air outside. For his part, Race lay awkwardly in the middle of the command centre, having been thrown there when he had reversed the tank off the loading ramp. Next to him was the Supernova. It now sat horizontally, wedged firmly in between the ceiling and floor. Race saw the timer on its display screen counting down: 00:00:21 00:00:20 00:00:19 Nineteen seconds. About the same time he had before the tank smashed into the ground from a height of about 20,000 feet. Aw, luck it. Either the Supernova went off and he died along with the rest of the world—or he disarmed it and died alone when the tank slammed into the earth in about seventeen seconds’ time. In other words, he could sacrifice his own life to save the world’s. Again. Goddamn it! Race thought. How could the same thing happen to him twice in two days? He looked at the computer screen: YOU NOW HAVE

00:00:16 MINUTES TO ENTER DISARM CODE. ENTER DISARM CODE HERE Sixteen seconds… The tank screamed through the sky. Race looked forlornly at the timer as it counted inexorably downwards. And then suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. He snapped to look up—and saw Earl Bittiker crawling in through the driver’s hatch up at the top of the falling tank, his Calico pistol in his hand! Oh fuck!

00:00:15 Forget about him! Just think! Think? Christ, how the hell is a guy supposed to think inside an Abrams tank that’s plummeting to earth at about a hundred miles an hour, with a guy climbing in through the driver’s hatch carrying a gun?

00:00:14 Race tried to clear his mind. All right, last time he had known that Weber had set the disarm code. But this time, he didn’t have the first clue who had set the code, principally because he didn’t know who had designed the device’s ignition system.

00:00:13 Ignition system… Those were Marty’s last words, the words he had spoken as he lay dying in Race’s arms.

00:00:12 The Abrams hit terminal velocity, began to emit a shrill screaming sound like that of a falling bomb. Bittiker was halfway through the driver’s hatch now. He saw Race, fired his pistol at him. Race dived out of the way, ducked behind the Supernova, grabbed the cellular phone from his pocket as more bullets slammed into the steel wall of the tank beside him.

‘Demonaco!’ he yelled over the din of the falling tank.

“What is it, Professor?’

‘Tell me quickly! Who designed the ignition system on the Navy’s Supernova?’

Three thousand miles away, John Paul Demonaco snatched up a nearby sheet of paper. It was the list of the members of the Navy DARPA Supernova team. His eyes zeroed in on one line. RACE, Martin E. Ignition system DARPA D’327997A design engineer ‘A guy named Race. Martin Race!’ Demonaco shouted into the phone.

Marty, Race thought.

00:00:11 Marty had designed the ignition system. That’s what he’d been trying to tell him before he died. Therefore Marty had set the disarm code.

00:00:10 Eightdigit numerical code. Bittiker was fully inside the tank now. What code would Marty use?

00:00:09 The tank was still falling, screaming through the air at a thousand feet per second. Bittiker saw him, raised his Calico again. What code did Marry always use?

00:00:08 Birthday? Significant date? No. Not for Marty. If he had something that required a numerical code, an ATM card or a PIN number, he always used the same number. Elvis Presley’s Army serial number.

00:00:07 Bittiker levelled the Calico at Race. Christ, what was it! It was on the tip of his brain…

00:00:06 Race ducked behind the Supernova—Bittiker wouldn’t dare shoot him through it—found himself standing in front of the device’s arming computer. God, what was the number? 533… Think, Will! Think!

00:00:05 5331… ..0 07… … 61… 53310761! That was it! Race started punching the keys on the arming computer, typed: 53310761 and then he slammed his finger down on the ‘ENTER’ key. The screen beeped.

DISARM CODE ENTERED. DETONATION COUNTDOWN TERMINATED AT:

00:00:04 MINUTES.

But Race didn’t bother to stay and look at the screen. Rather, he just clambered quickly away from Bittiker— shielded by the now disarmed Supernova—and headed along the short ladder that led to the tank’s turret hatch. He didn’t know why he headed that way. It was just a completely illogical notion that if he was on the outside of the tank when it hit the ground, he might have a better chance of surviving the impact. They must be close to impact now. On his way across the horizontal ladder, he came across the idol—now with a hole in its base—and scooped it up as he crawled. He came to the hatch, pushed it open. Speeding wind assaulted his face instantly—wind that moved so fast it blinded him.

Clutching onto the now vertical roof of the Abrams, he quickly kicked the hatch shut behind him, shutting Bittiker inside, just as the steel hatch itself was assailed by a barrage of automatic fire from inside. Race looked down, into the face of the onrushing wind, as it pounded against his glasses—and saw the green rainforest rushing up at him at about a million miles per hour! The tank screamed towards the earth. Two seconds to impact. This was it. One second. The earth rushed up toward him. And in that last second before the Abrams tank slammed into the earth at incredible speed, William Race shut his eyes and offered up a single, final prayer. And then it happened. Impact.

The tank’s impact with the earth was absolutely stunning in its force. The world seemed to shudder as the 67ton tank slammed into it at terminal velocity. The tank imploded on contact with the ground, flattening in a millisecond, sending whole sections of it shooting out in every direction. Earl Bittiker had been inside the Abrams when it hit the ground. As the giant steel tank slammed into the earth, its walls came rushing in toward him at shocking speed, sending a thousand jagged corners of metal shooting into his body—penetrating him from every side in the nanosecond before he was crushed into nothing. One thing was for sure, Earl Bittiker had been screaming when he died. William Race, on the other hand, hadn’t been anywhere near the tank when it hit the ground. In that second before the tank smashed into the earth when it was about eighty feet above it—Race had experienced the strangest sensation. He had heard a sound not unlike a sonic boom come from somewhere very close behind him and then suddenly, out of nowhere shoom!—he had felt himself get yanked up into the sky by some powerful unseen force. But the yank had not been rough or whiplike—rather it had been abrupt but smooth, as if he had been connected to the heavens by some invisible bungee cord. So as the tank and Bittiker—hit the ground in a smashing, blazing heap, Race had hovered thirty feet above the explosion, safe and sound. And then he looked over his shoulder and saw what had happened. He saw two plumes of white gas shooting out from the bottom of the A shaped unit that was attached to the back of his unusual kevlar breastplate. In fact, the twin puffs of propellant shot out from two small exhaust ports situated at the base of the ‘A’. Although Race didn’t know it, the black kevlar breast plate that Uli had given him at the refuse pit was in fact a J7 jet pack, the cutting edge aerial insertion unit created by DARPA in conjunction with the United States Army and the 82nd Airborne Division. Unlike the Army’s current MCIIB parachutes, which allowed their wearers to be suspended in full view of the enemy for at least several minutes before landing, jet packs allowed their wearers to freefall to within eighty feet of the ground before swooping to a sudden stop just above the landing zone, in much the same fashion as a bird landing. Like parachutes, however, all J7 jet packs were equipped with altimeter switches— altitude triggered safety mechanisms that engaged the pack’s propulsion systems in the event that the wearer failed to engage them himself before he fell below eighty feet. As Race had just failed to do. There was no way he could have known that on December 25, 1997, at the same time as forty eight chlorinebased isotopic charges had been stolen from a DARPA truck travelling along the Baltimore beltway by agents of the Stormtroopers, also stolen were sixteen J7 jet packs. Slowly, gently, the jet pack lowered Race down to earth. He sighed, breathless, and allowed his body to go limp as he descended into the canopy of lush rainforest trees. Seconds later, his feet touched the ground and he just fell to his knees, exhausted. He looked at the rainforest around him and in a distant corner of his mind wondered how the hell he was going to get out of here. Then he decided that he didn’t care anymore. He had just disarmed a Supernova while falling from a height of 19,000 feet inside a 67ton main battle tank. No, he didn’t care in the slightest. And then suddenly the solution to his problem revealed itself in the form of a small seaplane swooping in low over the trees above him. A man’s hand waved happily from the pilot’s window. It was Doogie and the Goose. Beautiful.

Thirty minutes later, thanks to a conveniently placed stretch of river nearby, Race was back on board the Goose with the others, soaring through the clear afternoon sky high above the rainforest. He rested his head against the cockpit window, stared vacantly through it as they flew. He was absolutely exhausted. Beside him, Doogie said, ‘You know what I think, Professor, I think it’s high time we got the hell out of this damned country. What do you think?’

“Race turned to face him. “No, Doogie. Not yet. There’s still one more thing we have to do before we go.’