Go to that location and be prepared to land and refuel two helicopters, the orders read. When Rakes had radioed his commander to ask for more information, he was informed there wasn’t any more. When he’d protested about sitting still, surrounded on almost all sides by Chinese territorial waters, his commander had informed him that nobody had told him, either, what was going on but that these orders had come from very high.
“Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full,” Rakes muttered to himself as he scanned the dark horizon through his binoculars.
“Excuse me, sir?” the officer of the watch asked.
“Nothing,” Rakes said. “I didn’t say anything.”
Major O’Callaghan pulled in collective with his left hand and felt the Black Hawk’s wheels leave the ground. He climbed to four hundred feet and then waited until the other Black Hawk, with Captain Putnam at the controls, slid into place to his left rear.
While his copilot updated the Black Hawk’s Doppler navigating device with their present location, O’Callaghan pushed his cyclic control forward and turned on an azimuth of due west out of Camp Casey Airfield, just north of Seoul, South Korea.
O’Callaghan estimated a 3.7-hour flight to the O’Bannion, arriving at midmorning. That would give them some rest on board ship before having to take off to fly the rest of the mission. Just as importantly, it allowed them to fly this leg in the daylight; saving their goggle time for the actual penetration of the hostile airspace. Not that flying through the narrow gap into the Gulf of Chihli wouldn’t be flirting with Chinese airspace. O’Callaghan planned on keeping the chopper as low as possible to avoid radar and thus avoid flybys by the Chinese air force checking on them.
Once he was sure everything was working fine, O’Callaghan let his copilot take the controls. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, saving his energy for when he would need it.
CHAPTER 23
The time was right. The Airlia had scanned the data banks, quickly getting up to speed on the present situation. A long finger reached out and lightly touched various points on the master control console. The program for first-echelon resuscitation was continued.
Checking the sensors, there was one other minor detail that needed to be taken care of. The alien instructed the computer to send a message to Earth.
Larry Kincaid didn’t break anything when he got the order to abort the attempt to stabilize and reorient Surveyor, which was a case of considerable restraint on his part. The message had come in the clear from Mars just moments ago and UNAOC had relayed the “request” from the Airlia not to have the region overflown again.
UNAOC didn’t consider the probe important anymore, and there was no desire in New York or anywhere else on the planet to go against the wishes of the Airlia.
"What the hell do you want me to do with Surveyor?" Kincaid asked his manager.
“I don’t give a shit, Larry,” his boss answered. “Just keep it away from the Airlia base.”
“You ever wonder why they don’t want us to get a closer look?” Kincaid asked.
“No.” Seeing Kincaid’s look of disgust, the manager amplified his answer. “Don’t you get it? We’re dinosaurs here, Larry. When the Airlia get here in those ships our space program is going to look like a bunch of hand-pulled carts next to an Indy 500 car. Things are changing and this entire program is going to be out of date in another day.”
“It’s our program,” Kincaid said. “What makes you think the Airlia are going to share their technology with us?”
“Just do what you’re told. Surveyor’s been a disaster anyway. Let it go.”
Kincaid rubbed a hand across his forehead and bit back his sarcastic reply. He walked back to the control room and sat down. He started calculating to see if he could put Surveyor on a stable orbit that didn’t overfly Cydonia, when he sensed someone behind him. He turned in his seat. The pale, white-haired man was standing there, sunglasses looking in Kincaid’s general direction. Kincaid stared at him, but it was hard to win a stare-down when the other person wore shades.
“What?” Kincaid finally snapped.
“Stabilize Surveyor as you planned,” the man said.
“Say what?” Kincaid looked at the man’s clearance tag. There was only one name written there: Coridan. The clearance level said ST-8. The tag’s scarlet, almost black, clearance indicator color showed that ST-8 was higher than anything Kincaid had ever dealt with before.
Coridan held out a piece of paper. “I’ve calculated what you need to do to stabilize the craft’s orbit immediately. Once the burn is done, shut everything down and put the on-board computer to sleep and shut down the IMS.”
“And then?” Kincaid asked.
“And then wait.”
“I just got ordered to stand down,” Kincaid said. “Why should I do this?”
“Because I have authorization higher than your boss’s.” Coridan tapped his badge. “And because you don’t trust the Airlia and I don’t either.”
Turcotte had witnessed death many times in his time in the army. He’d once been part of an elite counterterrorist force in Europe where he had done his own share of killing. But what he was about to witness bothered him because it all seemed so pointless, man against man, when there was so much more at stake.
Harker had deployed his team on the hillside above the entrance of the tomb. The snipers had bolted together their rifles and zeroed their night vision scopes on the Chinese soldiers manning the machine gun at the entrance to the small courtyard. The rest of the team was waiting, ready to slide down the mountain.
Harker turned to Turcotte, who was lying next to him. “I don’t like this,” he whispered. “What’s so fucking important in that tomb?”
“I don’t know,” Turcotte answered. He didn’t have the heart, time, or energy to make Harker feel better.
“It’s your call,” Harker said.
“Do it.” Turcotte said the words flatly.
“Fire,” Harker said in a slightly louder voice.
The two sniper rifles fired at the same time, a jet of flame coming out of the end of the barrel, the only sound the working of the bolt sliding back in the breech. Each round was a hit, knocking back the two soldiers manning the machine gun.
The sniper rifles continued firing as the rest of the team slid down the mountainside, weapons at the ready. By the time they got to the entrance level, all twelve Chinese soldiers were dead.
“Let’s go,” Turcotte said to Nabinger. He grabbed the other man’s arm and helped him down the steep hillside.
Howes, the demo man, was already at the doors, looking them over. Turcotte walked over to the vehicle. A radio set was inside, the screen lit. He knew that meant that the dead operator had probably been doing regular checks in with higher headquarters and when he failed to make the next scheduled contact, they could expect PLA troops in force.
“Stand back,” Howes called out.
There was a sharp crack and the door split open.
“Let’s move it,” Turcotte ordered.
Che Lu stood up as the rest of the group stirred at the sound of the explosion reverberating up the tunnel.
“We have company,” Kostanov said. He snapped out some commands in Russian and his men prepared their weapons.
“I suggest you keep your people here,” Kostanov said. “We’ll see who’s come knocking.”
Turcotte took the lead, putting Nabinger near the rear. They left Howes and DeCamp to guard the doorway. Through the night-vision goggles Turcotte could see the tunnel clearly. He recognized the smooth stonework as being similar to what he had seen in the complex in the Great Rift Valley and at Area 51.