lawn toward the formal gardens at the very bottom. Lia folded the stock on the Mac 11 and held it tight to her body so that it looked almost — almost — like a purse. She could hear police sirens in the distance.
“What’s going on, Rockman?” she asked the runner.
“Just your typical city riot.”
“You getting us out of here or what?”
“Oh,
“You going to give me the history of the place next?”
“I may.”
Dean continued beside her, walking slower and slower but still moving at least.
“What’d they do to you, Charlie?” she asked.
“Nothin’,” he said. “We stopped in some sort of tunnel. They had somebody waiting to grab the car. Hercules is dead.”
“They didn’t drug you or anything?”
“No. I feel like death, though. All that food I ate yesterday.”
“Then how come I’m not sick?”
“You eat like a bird.”
Lia curled her arm tighter around his. They crossed a roadway to the back border of the garden, walking down a tree-lined path. She flinched as something ran out at them from the right.
Two brothers, maybe seven and eight, chasing each other in a game of spy versus spy.
“Rockman,” she hissed.
“Listen for it.”
All she could hear was police sirens.
“Have you told the Austrians we’re on their side?”
“We’re in the process of doing that. Listen for it.”
The air had started to vibrate with the loud rap of rotors. Six Blackhawk helicopters circled out of the northeast. The choppers were dark green American birds.
“Finally,” said Lia when she spotted them.
“I told you we had it under control,” said Rockman. “You have to learn to trust us.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me these guys have been here all along.”
“They’ve been nearby,” said the runner.
“I’ll bet.” Lia stopped at the edge of one of the large garden squares, which was laid out with colored flowers to form a pattern. “We’re almost home, Charlie,” she said.
“Yeah, roger that,” he said, sitting down.
Lia expected the helicopters to land on the grass beyond the tree line they’d come through. But as she took a few steps in that direction, she realized that the two lead Blackhawks were coming toward the gardens. They had their wheels down, ready to land.
“Tell them they’re going to ruin the flowers,” said Lia as grit began to whip around.
“Just stay where you are,” said Rockman.
Dean and Lia turned their backs and huddled together as the sandstorm increased. Finally Lia turned back toward the helicopter to look for her rescuers.
There were a dozen SF troopers, guns ready, fanning out around them. A few were carrying shotguns; the rest had M4s.
But that wasn’t the weird thing.
All of the men had full hazard suits on — they looked like spacemen, bundled up against any contingency.
“What is going on?” asked Lia.
“Put down your weapons and come with us,” said a voice from the helicopter over a loudspeaker.
“Rockman, what’s going on?”
“Do what they say, Lia. It’s for your own good.”
“No way.”
“We will use our weapons if necessary.”
“What the hell?” said Dean.
Before Lia could react, a slug of nonlethal but very painful ammo from one of the troopers with the shotgun took her down at the knees. It was followed by a rain of small plastic pellets and, for good measure, a dose of tear gas.
49
Malachi Reese steadied the Puff/1 as it came over the ridge, fighting a wave of turbulence. After steering satellite-launched “vessel” space planes and Mach 2-capable robot fighters, flying the prop-driven robot was like stepping into a Model T. The two-engined unmanned aerial vehicle looked like a three-quarter-sized OV-10 Bronco, with a fattened central fuselage. In place of a crew cabin, the body contained two GAU-12/U Equalizers, 25mm Gatling guns mounted in turrets that could swing approximately thirty degrees in any direction. Adapted from their original incarnation as podded weapons in AV-8B Harrier II jump-jet attack planes, the cannons could put a hundred or so armor-piercing rounds through the skin of a medium tank or armored personnel carrier in a little over ten seconds. Sitting between them was a double-bank of nineteen-inch rockets, unguided missiles that had high- explosive warheads.
While the weaponry was relatively low-tech, the aircraft itself was not. Its wings and surface area were covered with LED panels that could project real-time background images across the aircraft, so that in the middle of the day it might look like a collection of clouds passing overhead. The engines were powered by fuel cell technology; they were about 15 percent as loud as normal turboprops. The power plants could drive the aircraft 1,200 miles and back without stopping for a refuel.
But Malachi couldn’t get used to the slow speed. He had Feckboy jammin’ on the Mp3 player, but 300 knots was still 300 knots. The big screen in front of him plotted his position on a detailed topographical map; he could see the squad members who were carrying radios as well as Tommy Karr, the Desk Three op on the scene. A timer drained off in the right corner, showing how long it would be before Malachi was within weapons range. His console displays toggled between four video feeds; two were infrared capable.
“Stand by for site feed,” said Telach, over in the Art Room.
Malachi punched the function key and brought up the video, which was being supplied from a man-portable unmanned aerial vehicle known as a Kite. The small UAV was three miles from the guerrilla camp; the camp was a blurry gray-red image, jittering at top of the screen. The battle-analysis computer looked at the image and interpreted it, IDING the guard units.
“Hey, Malachi, what are we listening to today?” asked Karr over the sat com system.
“Feckboy,” he told the op.
“That thrash rock or metal rap?”
“In that direction.”
“You seein’ what I’m seeing?”
“Two guards on that perimeter,” said Malachi. “I’m on target in zero-five.”
“I have only one request: Don’t hit us.”
Malachi snorted. He nudged his joystick controller left slightly, positioning Puff for a swing that would take it to the northwest of the site. Firing from that direction would have the advantage of confusing the guerrillas about where the ground attack would come from. It also put a little more distance between Puff and the ground forces.
Malachi began his prebattle checklist: instruments in the green, fuel steady, guns armed and ready, Mp3 cranked at 8, two full bottles of Nestle’s strawberry drink on standby, straws inserted and ready to go.
“Ready when you are,” said Karr.
