Dale Brown - Act of War

“I’d say they’d found it, wouldn’t you, Sergeant Major?” Chamberlain asked incredulously. “What is it? Is there a man in there?”

“Yes, sir. CID is a hydraulically powered exoskeleton surrounding a fully enclosed composite protective shell. The system is fully self-contained. A soldier doesn’t wear it like a suit of armor, but rides in it—a computer interface translates his body movements into electronic signals that operate the robotic limbs. As you saw, sir, it gives the wearer incredible strength and speed and protects him from hazardous environments.”

Chamberlain’s eyes were darting around the room as his mind raced again. Finally, he looked at Jefferson as an idea formed in his head, and he pointed at his aide, his voice shaking with excitement. “I want a briefing on this CID thing before close of business today,” he said, swallowing hard, “and I want that…that suit of armor, whatever it is, its wearer, and the men and women leading that research program here to meet with me as soon as possible for a demonstration. That thing is going to be our new weapon against terrorists.”

“Yes, sir,” Jefferson said. He picked up a phone and gave instructions. When he hung up, he said, “I believe the program is still experimental, sir—I don’t think it’s ready for full operational deployment.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Chamberlain said. “Heck, just one or two of those things can do everything a damned truck loaded with troops can do! I want to know everything about it, Sergeant Major—and I want to know how fast we can build more of them.”

The crowd of onlookers and police applauded wildly as Kristen pulled off her radiation suit’s helmet—but the applause and cheering was deafening when the robot assumed a weird stance, a hatch popped open on its back, and Jason Richter climbed out of the machine. Paramedics started to reach for Kristen to help her into a waiting ambulance, but she pushed them away, stepped quickly over to Jason, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him, long and deeply. Jason could do nothing else but enjoy the moment—after all, he thought, these things didn’t normally happen every day at the Army Research Lab. The crowd cheered even louder.

“Thank you, Major Jason Richter, United States Army,” she said between kisses. “You saved my life.” She kissed him again, then took his face in her hands. “And you’re cute, even. I will never forget you, Major Jason Richter. Call me. Please.” Finally, she allowed herself to be pulled away by the paramedics and taken to the ambulance.

“Man oh man, you got the prize of a lifetime—a lip-lock from Kristen Skyy herself!” Ariadna Vega shouted after she pushed her way through the crowd. She was wearing a nuclear-biological-chemical protective suit of her own and was sweating profusely, but she was close enough to ground zero that she decided not to completely take the suit off, even though no one else nearby had one on. “Jason, my man, you were awesome! CID worked great!”

Moments later, their celebration was cut short by two columns of troops, each with infantry rifles, who stepped quickly up and surrounded them. Jason issued a command, and the robot folded itself up into an irregular rectangular box large enough to be carried by him and Ari. They were led to the back of a troop-carrying truck, which was covered with a tarp once they and the folded robot were on board.

Ari’s cell phone was beeping with numerous messages waiting, and while she was listening to them, another call came in. She hardly had a chance to say “Hello” before she handed the phone to Jason. “The boss sounds pissed.”

“Duh.” Jason put the phone up to his lips but not to his ear, expecting the tirade to come. “Major Richter here, sir.”

“What in hell was all that?” screamed Lieutenant Colonel Wayne Farrwood, loud enough to be heard by Ari without the speakerphone. Farrwood was the director of the U.S. Army Research Laboratory Infantry Transformation BattleLab, or ITB, at Fort Polk, Louisiana, near Alexandria. Part of the Joint Readiness Training Center, the ITB was tasked with developing next-generation technology for army ground combat forces. “Who gave you permission to take a classified weapon system all the way to Houston in the middle of a nuclear terrorist attack?”

“Sir, I…”

“Never mind, never mind,” Farrwood interrupted. “If you didn’t get us both shit-canned or thrown into prison, you’ll probably become a national hero. The truck you’re in will take you to the airport and put you and Vega on a military flight. The National Security Adviser wants to talk to us in Washington. Bring the CID unit with you. We’re sending one of the support crew Humvees out on a separate flight.”

“What’s this about, sir?”

“I don’t know, Richter,” Farrwood admitted. “I just hope we’re ready for whatever the hell they have in mind for us.”

CHAPTER TWO

The Pacific Ocean, thirty kilometers west of the Golden Gate Bridge,

San Francisco, California

The next morning

The Gibraltar-flagged cargo ship King Zoser rode at five knots, barely enough to maintain steerageway, in choppy three-to four-meter seas, with waves and wind combining to keep the decks perpetually damp and the men angry. Most of them were manning the starboard rail, either puking or trying to, when the Coast Guard Barracuda-class patrol boat Stingray finally approached.

The King Zoser was a six-thousand-ton cargo ship, heavily laden and lying very low in the heaving water. It had two thirty-meter-tall cranes that could each sling as much as a hundred tons out to fifty meters over the side, making it one of the few older ships on the high seas able to load and offload itself without extensive shore equipment. Its twin nine thousand horsepower diesels propelled it as fast as twenty knots, although it rarely did more than fifteen. It had a ship’s complement of about fifty men and could stay at sea for as long as three weeks.

The Stingray launched a large fast intercept craft from its stern ramp, with three two-person inspection teams, four security officers, the detail commander, and a records officer, plus three K-9s that would accompany the inspection teams. The intercept boat had a .50 caliber machine gun mounted in front, and another Coast Guardsman with an M-16 rifle beside the helmsman. Once alongside the steel-runged ladder on the starboard side of the cargo ship, the boarding party tied off and began climbing the ladder up the vessel’s gray slab hull. The K-9s hopped into large canvas backpacks and were carried up the ladder to the deck.

A Coast Guard lieutenant was the first up the ladder. He nodded formally to the man who approached. The captain of the King Zoser saluted brusquely with two fingers of his right hand. “You are either very brave or very foolhardy,” the man said loudly to make himself heard over the swirling winds, “to board a vessel like this in such rough seas. You would have been better advised to wait until we reached the harbor.”

“Lieutenant Matthew Wilson, executive officer of the Coast Guard patrol vessel Stingray,” the officer responded, returning the captain’s salute. “Operating in such sea conditions is routine for us, sir.”

“Is that so?” The captain sniffed. “I am Yusuf Gemici, master of this vessel. I trust this will not take long. I have a schedule to keep, and I have been at sea for over two weeks.”

“I have checked your manifest filed with the U.S. government,” Wilson said. “All is in order, so this is just a routine prescreening. My headquarters has notified the harbormaster at Richmond that you will be delayed for a routine inspection. Your berth will be waiting for you whenever you arrive. We’ll try not to detain you too long, sir.”