Matthew Reilly - Temple

‘He didn’t want to see a repeat of the Baltimore freeway incident.’

Ah, Demonaco thought. So that was it.

On Christmas Day 1997, an unmarked DARPA transport truck travelling from New York to Virginia was hijacked as it travelled along the Baltimore beltway. Stolen from the truck were sixteen J-7 jet packs and forty-eight prototype explosive charges—small chrome-and-plastic tubes that looked like glass laboratory vials.

But these were no ordinary explosive charges. Officially, they were called M-22 isotopic charges, but around DARPA they were known as ‘Pocket Dynamos’.

Put simply, the Pocket Dynamo was an evolutionary step forward in high-temperature liquid chemical technology. The result of thirteen years’ concerted labour by the United States Army and DARPA’s Advanced Ordnance Division, the M-22 utilised laboratory-created isotopes of the element chlorine to deliver a concentrated blast wave of such savage intensity that it literally vaporised anything within a two hundred-yard radius of the detonation point.

It was designed for use by small incursionary units on sabotage or search-and-destroy missions—where the mission objective was to leave absolutely nothing behind. The isotopic explosion of an M-22 charge was second only in intensity to a thermonuclear blast, but without the attendant radioactive aftereffects.

What Demonaco also knew about the Baltimore freeway incident, however, was that the Army had handled the investigation into the theft themselves.

Two days after the daring robbery, the Army investigators received a tip-off regarding the location of the stolen weapons and without so much as consulting with the FBI or the CIA, a squad of Green Berets was ordered to storm the headquarters of an underground militia group in northern Idaho. Ten people were killed, twelve were wounded. It turned out to be the wrong group. In fact, more than that, it turned out to be one of the more benign paramilitary groups around, more like a gun club than a terrorist cell. No isotopic explosives were found on their premises. The ACLU and the NRA had had a field day.

The jet packs and the M-22s were never recovered.

Quite obviously Demonaco thought, the President didn’t want another such embarrassment here. Which was why he had been called in.

‘So what is it you want me to look at?’ he said.

‘This,’ Mitchell said, pulling something from his pocket and handing it to Demonaco.

It was a clear plastic evidence bag.

In it was a bloodstained bullet.

Demonaco sat down at a nearby table to examine the bloodsmeared bullet.

‘Where was this taken from, one of the security personnel?’

‘No,’ Mitchell said. ‘The driver of the delivery van they used to get in. He was the only one they killed with a pistol.’

Captain Aaronson added, ‘After they used him to get past the garage guards, they popped him in the head at pointblank range.’

‘A calling card,’ Demonaco said.

“Uh-huh.’

‘Looks like a tungsten core…’ Demonaco said, perusing the spent projectile.

‘That’s what we thought, too,’ Aaronson said. ‘And as far as we know, only one terrorist organisation in the United States is known to use tungsten-based ammunition. The Oklahoma Freedom Fighters.’

Demonaco didn’t look up from the bullet in his hands.

‘That’s true, but the Freedom Fighters—’

‘—are known to operate like this,’ Aaronson cut in. ‘Special forces-type entry, double-taps to their victims’ heads, the theft of cutting-edge military technology.’

‘It would appear that you’ve been to one of my seminars, too, Captain Aaronson,’ Demonaco said.

‘Yes, I have,’ Aaronson said, ‘but I also consider myself to be a specialist in this field, too. I’ve studied these groups extensively as part of ongoing Naval security updates. We have to keep an eye on these people, too, you know.’

‘Then you’d know that the Freedom Fighters are in the middle of a turf war with the Texans,’ Demonaco said.

Aaronson bit his lip, frowned. He obviously hadn’t known that. He glared at Demonaco, stung by the veiled retort.

Demonaco looked up at the two Naval officers through his horn-rimmed glasses. There was something they weren’t telling him.

‘Gentlemen. What happened here?’

Aaronson and Mitchell exchanged a look.

‘What do you mean?’ Mitchell asked.

‘I can’t help you if I don’t know the full story of what happened here.

Like, for starters, what it was that was stolen.’

Aaronson grimaced. Then he said, ‘They were after a device called the Supernova. They knew where it was and how to get it. They knew all the codes and had all the cardkeys. They moved with precision and speed, like a well-oiled commando unit.’

Demonaco said, ‘The Freedom Fighters’ strike team is good but it isn’t big enough to take down a place this size.

It’s too small, maybe two or three men at the most. That’s why they only attack soft targets—-computer labs, low-level government offices—places from which they can steal technical data like electrical schematics or satellite overpass times. But most importantly, they only attack sites that are lightly guarded. Not fortresses like this. They’re first and foremost techno-nuts, not a full-frontal assault squad.’

‘But they are the only group known to use tungsten-based ammunition,’ Aaronson said.

‘That’s true.’

‘So maybe they’ve stepped up their operations,’ Aaronson said smugly. ‘Maybe they’re trying to make the leap into the big leagues.’

‘Possible.’

‘It’s possible,’ Aaronson snorted. ‘Special Agent Demonaco, perhaps I haven’t made something clean The device that was stolen from this facility is of the utmost importance to the future defence of the United States. In the wrong hands, its use could be catastrophic. Now, I have SEAL teams standing by right now to take out three suspected Freedom Fighter locations. But my bosses need to know that this is clean—they don’t want another Baltimore.

All we need from you is an acknowledgment that this robbery could only have been done by them.’

‘Well…’ Demonaco began.

It all depended on the tungsten bullets, really. But for some reason that Demonaco couldn’t quite put his finger on, their use here troubled him…

‘Agent Demonaco,’ Aaronson said, ‘let me make this simpler. To the best of your knowledge, is there any paramilitary group in the United States other than the Oklahoma Freedom Fighters that uses tungsten-cored ammunition?’

‘No,’ Demonaco said.

‘Good. Thank you.’

And with that, Aaronson gave Demonaco and Mitchell a withering glare and stalked away to a nearby telephone where he dialled a short number and said, ‘This is Aaronson. Assault operations are go.

Repeat. Assault operations are go. Take the bastards down.’

Daylight came to the rainforest.

Race awoke to find himself propped up against the wall of the ATV. His head ached and his clothes were still damp.

The sliding side door of the ATV lay open. He heard voices outside.

‘—what are you doing here?’

‘—my name is Marc Graf, and I am a lieutenant in the Fallschirmjger—’

Race got up and went outside.

It was morning and a low fog had descended upon the village. The ATV was now parked in the centre of the main street, and as he stepped out of the big armoured vehicle, it took him a moment to adjust his eyes to the wall of grey all around him. Slowly, however, the main street of Vilcafor began to take shape.

Race froze.

The street was completely deserted.

All the bodies from the previous night’s slaughter were gone. Indeed all that remained in their place were large pools of mud and water, peppered by the falling rain.