“Yo, Boston, help me with the bikes,” said Bison from inside. The sergeant went back and manhandled the small dirt bike out of the rear cabin, barely clearing past the seats. They had taken along several cans of gas as well as guns and radios. Everyone on the team wore civilian dress, authorized by the colonel because of the nature of the mission.
Colonel Bastian and Stoner met the two Whiplash ops on the hard-packed dirt.
“I want someone to stay here with me and watch the plane,” said the colonel. “And let me emphasize, we show no military gear.”
“I think we have to wear vests,” said Stoner.
“All right,” said Bastian. “Be as discreet as possible.”
“Who’s better at riding a motorbike?” said Stoner.
Boston looked at Bison, who looked at him. Both men shrugged. While riding a motorcycle was not part of the Whiplash job requirements, everyone on the squad had done so at one time.
“Flip a coin,” said Dog.
Boston won the toss.
The wind whipped hard against Stoner’s face as he drove up the winding trail toward the fabrication plant. The sat photos he’d seen of it, part of a routine series covering the area, along with some background research provided by analysts back at the CIA, indicated that it had been abandoned about six months before. Already the jungle had begun closing in. Nature’s relentless march had broken up the edges of the road leading to the site; what two years ago had been a row of small, hastily built houses was now a collection of scavenged foundations.
Stoner would have preferred that the plant was still in operation. Getting information then would have been considerably easier — go in as a prospective client and look around, set up a tap into their computers, maybe even do a little B&E routine. Now all he could do was nose around and see what he could come up with. He had a digital camera and a chemical “sniffer” in his backpack, as well as a collection of programs on computer disks that would allow him to examine any computer he found. But as the building came into view, he realized he wasn’t going to be finding much of anything.
The parking lot and helipad had been overgrown by vegetation, and the weeds were so thick that Stoner had to stop his bike about twenty yards from the front of the building. He got off and took the IR viewer from his backpack, using it to check around.
“We should cover the road,” said Boston, who’d taken his MP-5 from his ruck.
“Anyone who’s interested in us isn’t going to use the road,” said Stoner.
Built of cinderblocks, the one-story building had a row of windows at the front and side. Most of the windows were broken; the interior of the building had been stripped, not just of the valuable tools and machinery, but also of most of the sheetrock, ceiling tiles, and electrical wire. Stoner used his elbow to break enough of one of the windows so he could slip in easily.
A thick coat of reddish jungle clay covered the floor, swept in from the lot by the wind. There were tracks from another window at the side, but in the dim light Stoner couldn’t tell how recent they might be. He took out his sniffer and started walking toward the back of the large open room, holding the long sensor wand ahead of him as he went.
The metal skeleton of a wall stood about twenty feet from the front. A jungle of twisted metal studs and beams lay beyond it, marking the actual fabrication areas. Much of the ductwork remained, though parts of it had been pulled out. Stoner followed the long runs as they snaked back into the bowels of the large plant. He nearly tripped over a row of pipes that jutted out of the cement floor, the last remains of a restroom. Pushing past a twisted wall brace, he entered a section of the plant that had been used as a clean room.
The sniffer picked up silicone and traces of gallium arsenide, along with a long menu of materials. There was no question the plant had been used to manufacture chips, and that its products were more advanced than the sort of circuitry needed to power a television or VCR.
When Boston was a kid, he’d lived in a bad section of town, and he and his friends would sometimes wander through abandoned buildings about two blocks from where he lived. One building in particular held endless fascination for the nine- and ten-year-olds. Once a sewing factory, it was filled with ancient machines and all manner of pulleys and gears, many still hanging from the high ceiling. A mannequin sat in a shadowy corner; they liked to scare unsuspecting friends with it.
The afternoon visits ended abruptly when the building was taken over by crack smokers. Boston remembered them now as he worked through the skeletons of stripped walls, unsure exactly what they were looking for. He had his night-vision gear on, a special viewer designed by Dreamland that was much lighter than the normal-issue AN- PVS-7 and strapped on like a pair of swimming goggles. A light enhancer rather than an IR viewer, the device wasn’t as powerful and versatile as the viewer integrated into the Whiplash Smart Helmet. But it provided more than enough light here.
Boston got a touch of the willies as a shadow passed along the metal struts where the wallboard had been removed. He knew it was just Stoner, but he couldn’t rid himself of the tingle of fear bouncing in his chest. Then he heard something, or thought he heard something, outside.
Quickly, the Whiplash trooper retraced his steps out of the bowels of the building, pausing by a side window. He eased himself out of the opening and moved quietly toward the front the factory. Sliding toward the bottom to peer around the corner at the overgrown parking area, he told himself he was being ridiculous; there was no one there.
Then he heard the bike engines kick to life.
Stoner was just scooping up some small bits of discarded chip material from one of the fab rooms when he heard the bike engine. Cursing, he stowed the sample and the sniffer in his ruck.
Boston had already gone outside.
He pulled out his pistol and ran to cover him.
There were three of them, two on one bike and one on the other. Boston leaped to his feet, running toward them like a madman. He managed to grab one of the thieves by the back of the shirt and tossed him to the side, upending the other rider and the bike at the same time. A slap of MP-5 against the man’s skull knocked him senseless. The would-be driver, meanwhile, scrambled in the dirt and managed to escape into the jungle.
Boston scooped up the motorbike, and reacting rather than thinking, he hopped on it and started to chase down the other thief.
Colonel Bastian had emphasized that they were not in enemy territory, and that their weapons were to be used only if their lives were threatened, and then only as a last resort. Did this situation qualify for deadly force?
Probably not.
Definitely not.
But Boston swore to himself that he’d upend the bastard and give him a good kick in the head when he caught him.
Just as he started to gain on the thief, the bike turned off a trail to his right. Boston skidded on the uneven surface, nearly losing the vehicle out from under him as he took the turn. He revved up the trail, came to a rise and found himself airborne; when he landed, the bike went one way and he went the other. By the time he got back to his feet, the thief was so far away Boston could barely hear the engine of the bike he’d taken.
By the time Stoner got outside, the only one in the lot was a scrawny ninety-pounder, shaking like he was a puppy caught peeing on a rug. The kid looked to be about fourteen; whether he was Thai or Cambodian, Stoner couldn’t tell.
“What’s your story?” demanded Stoner. He repeated the question in Mandarin and then Cantonese Chinese, finally switching to standard Thai, a language he knew so little of that he could only ask what the man’s name was and whether he could speak English.
The man said nothing in response to any of his questions, clearly frightened and probably believing he was going to die.
