Ken Goddard - Chimera

In effect, the software program on the laptop controlled the three-dimensional aim-point of the heavy-barreled rifle; or, at least, that was the theory.

“Got it working yet?” Wallis asked.

“Not bloody likely,” Gavin muttered. “We need to get Quince back on the job. He built the bugger; he should know how to fix it.”

“What’s the problem?”

“He thinks it’s one of the connecting cables; a real pisser, seeing as how all the complicated bits seem to be working spot-on.”

“Show me what’s working,” Wallis said.

“I’ll start with the signal-tracking mode.” Gavin hit an Alt-F key and the laptop screen instantly shifted to a graphic overhead image of the Maze with a pulsing point in the lower left corner. Gavin then zoomed-in on the lower left corner, and they both watched the pulsing point separated out into eight distinct points; six of them clumped together at a section of the graphic marked helipad.

“Those were the positions of all eight walkie-talkies ten minutes ago,” Gavin said, pointing at the screen. “That’s Quince and our five clients coming off the chopper, me right here, and you out in the woods.”

As Wallis watched, six of the pulsing points — labeled on the screen in bright gold letters as ‘G2’, ‘CA’, ‘HA’, ‘KI’, ‘FO’ and ‘BU’ — moved as a group to a section of the graphic labeled ‘TEST CAVE ENTRANCE’ and then disappeared, one by one. The point labeled ‘G1’ slowly approached the point labeled ‘G3’ which remained motionless.

“That’s us, now, in real time,” Gavin said as he hit another Alt-F key. “As you can see, the signal-tracking part of the program is dead-on. We’ll lose a signal for a moment, every now and then, when a big rock gets in the way. But we’ve got a lot of relay sensors out there, and the computer always maintains the ‘last-known’ position. Given all that, we’re not going to have any trouble keeping track of the players in this little game.”

“So where’s the problem?” Wallis asked.

“In the auto-targeting mode, probably the feed-back system,” Gavin said. “Or, at least, that’s what Quince thinks. The system will track a signal just fine. When you were other there near Cave Three, an hour ago, I clicked on your radio icon, and the scope locked onto your signal like a bloody SAM; held your last-known-position every time you disappeared behind a rock, locked right back on you the instant you re-appeared, and then disengaged — for manual tracking by the computer and joystick — when I gave it the signal without a hitch. It was only when I actually tried to manually aim and dry-fire the bugger at a nearby target that I got the hiccup.”

“Meaning?”

“When I hit the fire button, the bloody computer re-engaged into the auto-tracking mode all by itself, moved the cross-hairs back onto the G1 icon, and then fired the round.”

“What?!”

“Damn near crapped me drawers, I did,” Gavin said. “Good thing the chamber on that one-oh-seven was empty, or we’d have been out a perfectly good walkie-talkie.”

“Not to mention the jacket I had it in,” Wallis said. “Tell Quince he’d bloody well better fix that glitch, or he’s going to be walking post out there by himself.” Wallis was silent for a few moments. “Do you think he can re-program the computer so that it never fires directly at the radio signal, no matter what instructions we give it; basically, create a fail-safe system?”

“Beats me, but I’ll ask,” Gavin said. “We’re probably pushing things a bit, trying to jury-rig a complicated system like this at the last minute; but you know Quince — man’s a bloody genius with his electronic toys. I’ll wager he’ll come up with something that works.”

“He’d better,” Wallis said. “The idea is to track and cover our clients if one of those mother elephant’s starts giving them a bad time; not blow them into shreds with a bloody fifty.”

“He mentioned he was going to pick up a set of replacement cables in town,” Gavin said. “If the wiring really is the problem, we should be good-to-go well before dark. If not, I can always disconnect the weapon and go manual. I’m not going to be able to lead the target, look out ahead for rocks, and calculate all those distance, windage and drop numbers out to a thousand yards in my head as fast as this computer can — especially in this bloody weather — but I’m not going to start popping off rounds at our clients either.”

“In clear weather, I’d trust your eye over a bloody computer anytime, lad,” Wallis said, clapping Gavin on the shoulder as he stared out into the swirling snow storm. “But, seeing as how Quince and I are going to be wandering around out in that muck, trying to keep everything in order, I’d just as soon not have the odd stray round whistling over our heads. Tell Quince to get this bugger fixed if he can. We’re not likely to need it; but eight-million-dollar payoffs don’t come around every day, and I don’t want to have a paying customer get stomped flat before we see the green.”

“Will do.”

“So what do we know about Fogarty’s last-minute substitution?”

“Not much; only what Quince relayed to me from the airport,” Gavin said. “The Asian lass basically confirmed what Fogarty told Hateley: that she’s his adopted daughter; that she likes to hunt with a bow and arrows she makes herself; and that she insisted on taking over for her father when he got hurt. The tough-looking bloke’s her U.S. Marine boyfriend; claims to be a Master Gunny. Quince says he fits the part — quiet, confident, no bragging, no bullshit — and showed up with all the proper gear. Odd thing is, though: he says he’s not interested in hunting; just going along for the ride, and to watch out for his Sheila.”

“Really?” Wallis cocked his head curiously. “What about confirmations?”

“Quince was getting on that when this bloody robot started getting the shakes,” Gavin said. “I could try to do a little digging myself, but — ”

“That’s all right, lad,” Wallis said, patting Gavin on the shoulder again. “We’ll leave that sort of thing to Quince when he’s got a spare moment. Long as we get paid, I don’t care who does the hunting. And besides,” he added, looking up at the sky, “I don’t think the weather’s going to get any better in the next few hours, so I’d better get back out there and get those last flashers in place while I can still find the bloody rocks.”

Hovering over the Maze, Cascade Mountain Range, Washington.

At four o’clock that afternoon, looking out from the cargo bay windows of the hovering Blackhawk helicopter, the huge granite bowl sprawled out below looked very much as its name implied: a large and complicated maze of tall rocks and trees interspersed with small natural clearings, all of which were covered with a layer of white snow that was now falling from the darkening sky in large clumps.

From their aerial position five hundred feet over the base camp, Bulatt, Achara, Hateley, Kingman and Caldreaux could see four sets of flashing blue lights and four sets of greens, all of which was surrounded by an irregular array of flashing red lights.

“The blue flashers show the position of the caves, the green ones mark the bait piles, and the reds give the pilots positions of high-rising rocks near the landing zones,” Lanyard said, speaking into his helmet mike. “Marcus and Jack have spent the last couple of days setting them in place, and it looks like they’ve just about finished the job. The batteries should be good for at least forty hours of continuous operation in this weather, and we can turn them on or off — or switch them from visible to IR light — remotely from the chopper, so they should last us for the duration. Just another safety system we set in place to make sure we can get to you in a hurry if the need arises. Wouldn’t want you lads — and the lass, of course — to think we’re skimping on the life rings.”