Beneath the pathologist's report were some more sheets of paper, all covered with various red stamps: TOP SECRET;
EYES ONLY; U.S. ARMY PERSONNEL EYES ONLY. Race flicked through them. Mostly, the sheets were filled with complex mathematical equations which meant nothing to him.
Next, he saw a handful of memos, nearly all of them addressed to people he'd never heard of. On one of the memos, however, he saw his own name. It read:
3 JAN 1999 22:01 US ARMY INTERNAL NET 617 5544 88211-05 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.
The motorcade arrived at Newark airport. The long line of cars raced through a gate in the cyclone fence and quickly made its way to a private airstrip.
An enormous camouflaged cargo plane stood on the tar “mac waiting for them. At the rear of the plane, a cargo ramp was lowered so that it touched the ground. As the motor cade pulled to a stop alongside the massive aircraft, Race saw a large Army truck being driven up the ramp into the rear of the plane.
Led by Sergeant Van Lewen, he stepped out of the Humvee, into the rain. No sooner had he emerged from the big black vehicle, however, than he heard a monstrous roar from some where high above him.
An old F-15C Eagle—painted in green and brown camouflage colours and with the word 'ARMY' emblazoned on its tail—came roaring in overhead and screeched to a landing on the wet tarmac in front of them.
As Race watched the fighter plane wheel around on the and taxi back in his direction, he felt Frank Nash grab him gently by the arm.
'Come on,' Nash said, leading him toward the big cargo plane.
'Everyone else is already on board.'
As they approached the cargo plane, Race saw a woman appear in a doorway on its side. He recognized her instantly.
'Hey, Will,' Lauren O'Connor said.
'Hello, Lauren.'
Lauren O'Connor was in her early thirties, but she didn't look a day older than twenty-five. She'd cut her hair, Race saw. Back at USE, it had been long, wavy and brown. Now it was short, straight and auburn. Very late nineties.
Her big brown eyes were still the same, though, as was her fresh clear skin. And standing there in the doorway to the big cargo plane—leaning casually against the frame with her arms folded and her hips cocked, dressed in heavy- duty khaki hiking gear—she looked the way she had always looked. Tall and sexy, lithe and athletic.
'It's been a long time,' she said, smiling.
'Yes, it has,' Race said.
'So. William Race. Expert linguist. Consultant to the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. You still play ball, Will?'
'Just socially,' Race said. Back in college, he'd lettered in football. He'd been the smallest guy on the team, but also the fastest. He'd lettered in track too.
'How about you?' he said, noticing for the first time the ring on her left hand. He wondered who she'd married.
'Well, for one thing,' she said, her eyes lighting up, 'I'm very excited about this mission. It's not every day you get to go on a treasure hunt.'
“Is that what this is?'
Before Lauren could answer, a loud whining sound made both of them turn.
The F-15 had pulled to a halt about fifty yards from the cargo plane and no sooner was its canopy open than the pilot was leaping down onto the wet tarmac beneath it and running toward them, hunched over in the drenching rain. He carried a briefcase in his hand.
The pilot came up to Nash, handed him the briefcase.
'Doctor Nash,' he said. 'The manuscript.'
Nash took the briefcase and strode over to where Lauren and Race were standing.
'All right,' he said, ushering them inside the cargo plane.
'Time to get this show on the road.'
The giant cargo plane thundered down the runway and off into the rainsoaked sky.
It was a Lockheed C-130E Hercules and the interior was divided into two sections—the downstairs cargo hold
