Rogue Forces

Macomber electronically scanned the radio frequencies detected by his sensors built into the CID unit and compared them with a list downloaded from the Scion Aviation International team at Nahla, selected one, then spoke: “Colonel Wilhelm, this is Wayne Macomber. Do you read me?”

“Who is this?” Wilhelm replied a moment later.

“Are you deaf or just stupid?” Macomber asked. “Just listen. My men and I are off-loading our equipment on the ramp and getting ready to fly. I don’t want to see any of your men anywhere in sight, or we’re going to tear you a new one. Do you copy me?”

“What in hell did you say?” Wilhelm thundered. “Who is this? How did you get on this frequency?”

“Colonel, this is Charlie Turlock,” Charlie interjected on the same frequency. “Pardon Mr. Macomber’s language, but he’s had a long day. What he meant to say is we’re out here on the ramp beginning our new contract operations, and we’d appreciate it if your men wouldn’t come around here. Would that be okay?” There was no response. “Good going, Whack,” Charlie radioed. “Now he’s pissed, and he’s going to bring the entire regiment.”

“Not if he’s smart,” Wayne said. But he knew that’s exactly what he’d do. “You and José, get backpacks on and stand by. Terry, let’s put the rail guns together and get ready to rumble.”

Charlie hurried off to the hangar where the weapon backpacks had been segregated, followed shortly by the other CID unit, and they selected and attached large backpacklike units on each other’s back. The backpacks contained forty-millimeter grenade launchers, each with twin movable barrels that could fire rounds in almost any direction no matter which way they were turned and could fire a variety of munitions, including high explosive, antiarmor, and antipersonnel. Whack and another Tin Man located and assembled their weapons—massive electromagnetic rail runs, each of which electrically fired a thirty-millimeter depleted uranium shell thousands of feet per second faster than a bullet.

It didn’t take long for Wilhelm to arrive in a Humvee. He screeched to a halt just inside the parking ramp area far enough in to get a good look at the scene. As he studied the area in stunned disbelief, three soldiers with M-16s raced out of the Humvee, one hiding behind the Humvee and the other two fanning out and taking cover behind nearby buildings.

“Warhammer, this is Alpha, those Scion guys are not in custody,” Wilhelm radioed from the Humvee. “They are off-loading their aircraft. Security is not in sight. They’ve deployed unidentified robot-looking units with weapons visible. Get First Battalion out here on the double. I want—”

“Hold on, Colonel, hold on,” Macomber cut in on the command frequency. “We don’t want a fight with you. Calling out the troops and starting a gunfight will just get the Turks outside riled up.”

“Warhammer switching to Delta.”

But on the secondary channel, Macomber went on: “You can flip channels all day long, Colonel, but we’ll still find it. Listen, Colonel, we won’t bother you, so don’t bother us, okay?”

“Sir, vehicle approaching, five o’clock!” one of the soldiers yelled. A Humvee was driving up to Macomber’s position.

“Don’t shoot, Colonel, that’s probably McLanahan,” Macomber radioed.

“Shut the hell up, whoever you are,” Wilhelm radioed, drawing a .45 caliber pistol from his holster.

The newcomer came to a stop, and Patrick McLanahan stepped out, with his hands raised. “Easy, Colonel, we’re all on the same side here,” he said.

“Like hell,” Wilhelm shouted. “Sergeant, take McLanahan into custody and put him in the Triple-C under guard.”

“Look out!” one of the soldiers shouted. Wilhelm just caught a blur of motion out of the corner of an eye—and as if by magic, the gray-suited figure who had been near the hangar appeared out of the sky right beside the soldier closest to McLanahan. In an instant he snatched the M-16 rifle out of the soldier’s startled hands, bent it in half, and handed it back to him.

“Now cut the shit, all of you,” Macomber shouted, “or I break the next M-16 over someone’s head.”

The other armed soldiers raised their weapons and aimed them at Macomber, but Wilhelm raised his hands and shouted, “Weapons tight, weapons tight, put ’em down.” It wasn’t until then that he noticed that one of the large robots had appeared right beside him, covering the twenty or thirty yards between them with incredible speed and stealth. “Jeez…!” he breathed, startled.

“Hi, Colonel,” Charlie said in her electronically synthesized voice. “Good call. Let’s have a chat, okay?”

“McLanahan!” Wilhelm cried. “What in hell is going on here?”

“Change in mission, Colonel,” Patrick replied.

“What mission? Whose mission? Your mission is over. Your contract’s been canceled. You’re under my jurisdiction until someone takes your ass back to Washington.”

“I’ve got a new contract, Colonel, and we’re going to get it set up and running right now.”