have Water and Power shut down the pipes and the sewers to isolate it completely.”
Fleming waved his arms at the line of police. “Back! Everybody back!”
That was when the van crumpled in on itself, disappearing into the ever-widening lake of reflective, mercurial fluid.
Chapter Four
Lunch at Mach 3
“Where’s Cap?” the old man in greasy overalls shouted. He dressed like any other aircraft mechanic except for the stainless-steel autopistol tied to his leg in a fancifully tooled and equally greasy holster.
“Flash tryin’ to find him!” Rock rushed past him to the jet, followed by Leila. Both wore black flight suits made of a thick material possessing such a matte finish that no light reflected from any surface. The outfit made Leila look sleek and pantherish. It made Rock look like a great Russian bear. A bear toting an immense aluminum equipment case, which he stashed in a compartment on the left wing.
Both Rock and Leila wore black holsters made of the same fabric as their flight suits. Both carried pistols similar to the one toted by the mechanic. The ones they carried, though, were black and nearly as unreflective as the rest of their accouterments. Below the holsters, thigh pockets bulged in two strips, outlining the replacement cartridge magazines they carried.
“Is she ready, Jack?” Leila shouted as she followed Rock across the tarmac.
“Full tanks and preheated,” Jack replied. He gazed past them at the jet, once more admiring its sleek, unrefulgent ebon beauty.
It was small, as small as it could be and still have an adequate range. Conforming to the latest stealth technology developed at the Anger Institute, its fuselage, wings, and low-profile V-shaped stabilators consisted of a series of gentle curves none of which reflected enough radar to be visible even on phased-array or lookdown radar systems. And the radar-absorbing coating took care of the rest.
Its bantamweight but powerful engines, constructed of lithium-titanium alloy, gave off little enough waste heat when operating— the air ducts mixed and cooled the remainder before the exhaust escaped from the low- profile vents. Except for the engines, the airframe, and a few enhancements available in no other plane, everything else was state-of-the-art but off-the-shelf, too, which kept the airplane affordable. And that enabled an old aircraft and powerplant mechanic such as Jack to maintain Captain Anger’s fleet without needing the farrago of doctorates everyone else around the Institute possessed.
Jack watched with pleasure as Leila ignited the engines. They whined, but much less loudly than those of a military or corporate jet. She turned it, taxied it toward the runway.
“I still say it turns out to be big nothin’,” Rock muttered, tapping their flight plan into the Global Positioning Satellite computer.
“What?” Leila said over her shoulder.
Rock plugged the combination earphone/microphone into his right ear and donned the obsidian-colored helmet, leaving the oxygen mask dangling. “I said that this is probably some acid spill out of which idiot cop exaggerated all hell.”
“How about it, Flash?” Leila said.
“Doubtful,” Flash’s calm voice said clearly over the headset. “ While you two were heading for the airfield, I picked up a TV remote off satellite that shows a paramedic van melting into nothing. Find me an acid that can do that.”
The dark jet rolled off the runway at one hundred knots and rose swiftly into the afternoon sky, a black arrowhead rapidly vanishing into the hazy air.
Crossing the shoreline just southeast of Point Mugu, Weir eased power upward and put the nimble plane into an accelerating climb that slammed them both against their seats. As they passed through 10,000 feet, she stopped glancing at the airspeed indicator and shifted her attention to the
Mach meter. At 15,000 feet, they had achieved Mach .8. Rock, in the rear seat, had achieved a nearly fluorescent green shade of skin.
“You fly like I drive,” he said, slipping on his oxygen mask.
“And you,” Leila muttered, “have no adventure in your soul.” Passing the 35,000 foot mark, she threw more power to the engines and executed a climbing barrel roll. The view outside the cockpit whirled crazily around; the brown haze that covered the entire Los Angeles basin made a 360° loop around them and stopped where it had begun—to their left. To their right and ahead below them spread the deep blue of the Pacific Ocean; ahead and above, the darkening azure sky.
“Flight Level Four-Twenty,” she announced as she leveled off at 42,000 feet. She glanced down to make certain that they were past the Channel Islands, her last checkpoint before breaking the sound barrier. “Hang on for Mach One.”
The aircraft trembled for an instant, then stabilized. “Mach One,” she said, easing the throttles forward.
Rock, his gaze never leaving the collision avoidance radar, said, “TCAS shows us clear.”
“Mach Two coming up.”
“Take it up to Mach two point nine,” Flash’s digital-crisp voice said in their ears.
“Hey”—Leila’s voice was sharp—“keep your opinions to yourself. I’m going up to Mach Three.”
“I’ll barely have time to eat lunch,” Rock protested as he flipped up his helmet visor and reached into a cargo pocket for a sandwich from the AI cafeteria.
“Live off your stored fat,” she snapped back happily. “Flash— have you found the good Captain yet?”
“His transponder is still off, and he isn’t acknowledging messages on his wristcomm.”
“Fork it over, geek!”
The old man looked confused. He stopped in the middle of the alley and looked up at his younger companion. “A donation?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” The young man in the tan slacks grabbed the bum by his worn tweed lapels. “I’ve been listening to you rant about the world for
half an hour and I’m sick of your voice and your stinking breath.”
His victim faltered. “I thought we was friends. I bought yer pamphlet. I paid fer coffee. I want to help you people.”
“We don’t need trash like you. But we can use this!” The man’s hand slipped into the gritty depths of the tweed jacket pocket. It came out with a roll of singles. “Thanks for your generosity.”
The old man’s voice hardened, deepened, grew strangely forceful. “That’s no way to treat a poor old man.”
“Poor old men don’t carry wads like this.”
The thief stared at the old man. Something had changed about him. Something that made a tremor of fear begin to grow.
“I’m looking for your leader. For Morrison,” the twisted, filthy old man said in a cold, even tone.
“He doesn’t talk to decrepit—”
Faster than the young man could follow, a gnarled hand gripped his. The tramp seemed to tower over him now, as if he had gained several inches in height. His eyes blazed with a fire that had not been there before. His gaze pierced the other man with an intensity that glared into his soul.
“Tell your exalted leader Erik Morrison that I know what he stole from the Seal Beach weapons bunker. Tell him he’ll never have a chance to use it.” The derelict’s grip tightened.
“Who—who are you?” The young man dropped the wad of crumpled dollars and slid backward, catching
