Temple (50 page)

Fuck-fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-fuck.
He wondered how long the reptile could stay under—
The attack came from the left, just as Race was looking to the
right.
With a loud roar, the caiman exploded up out of the water next to
him, its jaws bared wide, its enormous two- ton body rolling
through the air.
Race saw the reptile instantly and on a reflex dived
sideways, splashing into the water as the caiman shot past
him and slammed down into the slime again.
Race clambered to his feet, spun around, then dived
again as the caiman made another lightning-quick pass at him,
snapping its jaws in front of his face with a loud fleshy
smack[
Race was covered in mud now, but he didn't care. He
rose out of the water again—right next to the earthen wall of the
pit—and turned just in time to see the caiman come rushing at his
face.
He ducked—let his body drop straight down, under the surfaceand the
caiman went thundering over the top of him, slamming nose-first
into the muddy wall of the pit.
Race surfaced to the cheers of the Indians standing up on
the rim of the pit. He waded right and found himself stand ing in
deeper water. He began to unloop the rope attached to the grappling
hook.
He looked up at the rim of the pit.
Fifteen feet, not far.
He was standing waist-deep in the water now, unlooping
the rope. As he did so, he quickly glanced about himself, to
see where the caiman was.
And he didn't see it.
The caiman was nowhere to be seen.
The pit was completely bare.
It must have gone under again…
Race looked fearfully at the water all around himself.
Oh, shit . . . he thought.
And then abruptly he felt something slam into his leg at tremendous
speed, felt a searing pain shoot through his ankle. Then he was
yanked beneath the surface.
Race went under, opened his eyes, and through the inky water all
around him, saw that the caiman had his left foot inside its
mouth!
But it didn't have a good grip on him and it opened its
mouth for a split second to get a better one.
That was all Race needed. No sooner had the big reptile released
his foot than Race yanked it clear and the caiman's jaws came
chomping down on nothing.
Race surfaced, with the grappling hook's rope trailing through the
water behind him, desperately gasping for air.
The caiman came up too, surging out of the water after him,
snapping wildly, catching the grappling hook's rope in its jaws,
slicing through it in an instant. As the rope was cut, Race lost
his balance and fell clumsily away from the reptile into shallower
water.
He turned quickly, at exactly the same moment as he saw the caiman
come rushing in at him from the side, its jaws wide, its
tooth-filled mouth filling his field of vision, and with nothing
else left to call on, Race just jammed the grap pling hook—together
with his entire right arm—into the caiman's wide-open mouth!
The big reptile's jaws came crashing down on his arm—
—just as Race hit the release button on the grappling hook's
handle.
At that moment, a nanosecond before the caiman's razor- sharp teeth
clamped down on his right bicep, the grappling hook's pointed steel
claws sprang outwards with monumen tal force.
The caiman's head just exploded.
Two of the pointed steel claws burst out from its eye sockets, and
in that Single disgusting instant, both of the caiman's eyes were
blasted out of its head—from the inside— replaced by the
razor-sharp tips of the two steel claws.
The grappling hook's other two claws exploded out from the
underside of the caiman's head, ripping through the softer skin
there, puncturing it with ease.
The two claws that had shot through the big reptile's eye sockets
must have penetrated its brain on their journey through the
caiman's skull. As such, they'd killed the massive animal in an
instant—freezing its jaws in mid- chomp—and now Race sat on the
floor of the pit, with an enormous eighteen-foot caiman attached to
his right arm, its long triangular mouth poised over his exposed
arm—its
teeth millimetres away from his skinnits immense black body
stretching out into the pit, motionless.
The crowd of natives standing on the rim of the pit just stood
there aghast, stunned.
And then, slowly, they started clapping.
Race emerged from the pit to the adulation of the Indians.
They slapped him on the back, smiled at him through crooked yellow
teeth.
The cage holding Nash and the others was opened immediately and a
few moments later they joined Race in the centre of the
village.
Van Lewen shook his head as he came up to Race. 'What the hell did
you just do? We couldn't see a thing from that cage.'
'I just killed a great lizard,' Race said simply.
The anthropologist, Marquez, came over and smiled at Race. 'Well
done, sir! Well done! What did you say your name was?'
'William Race.'
'Rejoice, Mister Race. You just made yourself a god.'
John-Paul Demonaco's cellular rang.
Demonaco and the Navy investigator, Mitchell, were still at DARPA
headquarters in Virginia. Mitchell was taking another call
himself.
'You say it came from Bittiker…' Demonaco said into the phone.
Suddenly his face went ashen white. 'Call the Baltimore PD and get
them to send the bomb squad over there right now. I'll be there as
soon as I can.'
Mitchell came over as Demonaco hung up.
'That was Aaronson,' the Navy man said. 'They just raided the
Freedom Fighter locations. Nothing in any of them. Empty.'
'Never mind,' Demonaco said, heading for the door.
'What is it?' Mitchell said as he hurried after him.
'I just got a call from one of my guys in Baltimore. He's at the
apartment of one of our Texan informants. Says he's got something
big.'
Ninety minutes later, Demonaco and Mitchell arrived at a decrepit
old warehouse in the industrial sector of Baltimore.
Three police cruisers, a couple of nondescript beige Buicks—FBI
cars—and a large navy blue van with 'BOMB
SQUAD“ painted on its side were already parked out in front
of the building.
Demonaco and Mitchell entered the warehouse, ascended some
stairs.
“This place belongs to a guy named Wilbur Francis James, better
known as “Bluey'.' Demonaco said. “He used to be a radio operator
in the Army, but he got discharged for stealing equipment from the
office frequency scanners, M-16s. Now he's a small-time crook who
acts as a liaison between the Tex ans and certain criminal elements
who supply them with guns and intelligence. A couple of months ago,
we caught him with three stolen canisters of VX nerve gas, but we
decided to withhold pressing charges if he helped us with our own
intel ligence gathering. He's been very reliable so far.'
They arrived at a cramped little apartment on the top floor of the
warehouse, guarded by a pair of Baltimore beat cops. They went
inside. It was a crappy; disgusting apart ment, with damp
floorboards and peeling wallpaper.
Demonaco was met by a young black agent named Han son and the
leader of the Baltimore Police Department's Bomb Squad, a small
squat man named Barker.
Bluey James himself sat in the corner of the room with his arms
crossed. He chugged on a cigarette defiantly. He was a small
unshaven runt of a man, with dreadlocked brown hair and a filthy
Hawaiian shirt. On his feet he wore sandals— with socks.
'What have you got?” Demonaco asked Hanson.
'When we arrived, we found nothing,“ the young agent said, eyeing
Bluey James scornfully. 'But upon further examination we found
this.'
Hanson handed Demonaco a package about the size of a small book. It
was wrapped in brown paper and was unopened. With it was an
ordinary-looking white envelope which had been opened.
'It was hidden behind a false panel in the wall,' Hanson
said.
Demonaco turned to Bluey. 'Inventive,” he said. 'You're
getting smarter in your old age, Bluey.'
'Blow me.'
'X-ray?' Demonaco said to the man named Barker
'It's clean,' the bomb squad man said. 'Judging by the scan, it
looks like a CD or something.'
BITTIKER
Bluey James snorted. 'I didn't know it was a fucking
crime in this country for a man to buy himself a CD.
Although it probably should be for the shit you'd listen to,
Demonaco.“
'What, you don't like “Achy Breaky Heart”?' Demonaco
said. He looked at the white envelope, pulled a slip of paper
from it. It read:
WHEN WE HAVE THE THYRIUM, I WILL CONTACT YOU DIRECTLY. AFTER YOU
RECEIVE MY CALL, E-MAIL THE CONTENTS OF THIS DISC TO EACH OF THE
FOLLOWING ORGANISATIONS.
After that there was a list of about a dozen names and addresses,
all of them relating to television networks or channels—CNN, ABC,
NBC, CBS, FOX.
Demonaco turned the brown-paper package over in his hands. What
could Earl Bittiker want to e-mail to every
major television network in the country?
He ripped open the package.
And saw a gleaming silver compact disc.
The first thing he noticed about it, however, was that it wasn't an
ordinary CD.
It was a V-CD—a video compact disc.
He turned. “Bluey, what the hell is this?'
“The Best of Billy Ray Cyrus. Just for you, asshole.'
“Hey, Demonaco,' Mitchell said, nodding at a V-CD player over by
Bluey's trinitron television. Next to the TV stood a black IBM
computer. All three objects looked com pletely out of place in the
otherwise dilapidated apartment.
Demonaco slid the compact disc into the V-CD player and hit
'PLAY'.
The face of Earl Bittiker appeared on the television screen
instantly.
It was an ugly face—an evil face—pitted with scars and hate.
Bittiker had sanguine, hollow features, with stringy blond hair and
cold grey eyes that showed nothing but the
world of rage that existed behind them. In the background behind
the terrorist, Demonaco and Mitchell saw the Supernova.
Bittiker spoke directly into the lens.
“People of the world. My name is Earl Bittiker and I am the
AntiChrist.
'If you are watching this message, then you are about to die. At
exactly 12 noon today, Eastern Standard Time, you will all be
killed at the hands of a weapon that was created by your own taxes.
A weapon that in a few hours' time is going to send this whole vile
world to the place where it belongs.
'To the people of the world—I have no quarrel with you.
It is the world you inhabit that I hate, a world that no longer
deserves to exist. It is a diseased dog and it must be put
down.
'To the governments of the world—you are to blame for this state of
affairs. Communists, capitalists and fascists alike, you all grew
fat while the people you governed starved. You all grew rich while
they grew poor, you lived in mansions while they lived in
ghettos.
'Human nature is the desire of one man to rule over another. It
comes in many guises, many forms—from office politics to ethnic
cleansing—and it is performed by all of us, from the lowest foreman
to the Chief Executive of the United States. But its character
remains the same. It is about power and ruling. But it is a cancer
on this world and that cancer must now be terminated.
'To the television networks who receive this message, contact the
Navy or the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency and ask them
what has happened to their Supernova.
Ask them about its existence and its purpose. Ask them about the
seventeen security staff who died two days ago when my men raided
DARPA headquarters in Virginia. I'm sure that no-one has informed
you of this incident, because that's the way governments work
today. After you've done all that, ask your government if this'—he
pointed at the device behind him—'is what they're looking
for.'
Bittiker stared hard into the lens.
'People of the world, I make no demands of you. I do not ask for a
ransom. I do not want political prisoners released from their
cells. There is no way you can stop me detonating this device. Not
now. Not even There is nothing you can do to stop this from
happening. At twelve noon today, we'll all be going to Hell
together.'
The screen cut to hash.
A long silence followed as everyone digested what Bit-
tiker had just said. Even Bluey James was aghast.
'Fuck me…' he breathed.
'Very clever,' Demonaco said. 'He only stated the time it'll go
off. Twelve noon. Now all he has to do is find the thyrium and get
in touch with Bluey and his plan is all set.'
He turned to face Mitchell. 'I think we just found your Supernova,
Commander.' Then to Bluey: “Am I to assume
that you haven't got that call yet?'
'What do you think, fucknut?'
'What do you know about all this, Bluey?' Demonaco said, changing
his tone.
'What I always know, man. Jack shit.'
'If you don't tell me something right now, I've going to have you
charged with aiding and abetting in the murder of seventeen
security staff at a federal—'
'Hey, man, weren't you fucking listening? The world is about to
end. What does aiding and abetting matter now?'
'I guess that all depends on who you think is gonna win
this little contest, us or Bittiker.'
'Bittiker,' Bluey said flatly.
'Then it looks like you'll be spending your last few hours on this
Earth in jail,' Demonaco said, nodding to the two
cops at the door. 'Take this little weasel away.'
The two cops grabbed Bluey by the arms.
'Oh, now wait just a fucking minute…' Bluey said.
'Sorry, Bluey.'
'All right listen, man, listen! I had nothing to do with no
murders, okay. I'm just the go-between, all right. I deal on
Bittiker's behalf. Like a lawyer. Which I might say hasn't been so
easy lately since he's been going off the fucking deep end.'
'He's been going off the deep end?' Demonaco waved the two
policemen away.
'Like yeah. Where you been, man? First he lets a whole group of
fucking chinks join the Texans. Japs, man. Fuckin'
Japs. You should see these little fuckers. Fucking kamikazes, man.
They're from some messed-up cult in Japan. Wanna destroy the world
and all that shit. But Earl, he decides he likes what they got to
say and he lets 'em in the movement.
But then—fuck—then he goes and does the strangest thing of
all. He goes and merges with the fucking Freedom Fighters.'
'What?'
'To get their technical know-how, like. You ask me, man, those
Freedom Fighters are a bunch of cocksuckers, but they do know their
technology. I mean, shit, messages to the world on V-CD. You think
I went out and bought this player?'