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 whip-like—-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 J-7 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 MCI-IB 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 free-fall 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 J-7 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 chlorine-based isotopic charges had been stolen from a DARPA truck travelling along the Baltimore beltway by agents of the Stormtroopers, also stolen were sixteen J-7 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 67-ton 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.'
SEVENTH MACHINATION
Wednesday, January 6, 1730 hours
The Goose touched down on the river next to Vilcafor shortly before sunset on January 6, 1999.
After dousing themselves in monkey urine again, Race and Renee headed back to the upper village. They left Doogie and Gaby in the Goose, to allow Gaby to tend to the young Green Beret's many wounds.
As the two of them trudged through Vilcafor, tired and exhausted, Race saw that there were no bodies lying on the street.
Despite the fact that about a dozen Navy and DARPA scientists - plus Marty, Lauren, Nash and Van Lewen— had been killed here only a few hours previously, no bodies remained.
Race looked at the empty street sadly. He had an idea where the bodies had gone.
He and Renee entered the upper village just as dusk was beginning to settle over the Andean foothills.
The natives' chieftain, Roa, and the anthropologist, Miguel Moros Marquez, met them at the moat at the edge of the village.
'I think this belongs to you,' Race said, holding the idol out in his hands.
Roa smiled at him. 'You truly are the Chosen One,' he said. 'My people will sing songs about you one day.
