Temple (57 page)

Wind whipped wildly around the hold. The loading ramp behind the
tank was still open.
Race looked about the interior of the enormous tank.
The Supernova took up the entire central section of the com mand
centre. AbOve him, he saw the entry hatch in the turret.
Forward were the firing controls for the tank's 105mm cannon and
beyond those—beneath them, half-buried in the floor in the very
centre of the forward section of the tank—he saw a padded seat and
a steering vane, the tank's drive controls.
There was something very odd about the drive controls, th.ough. The
top of the driver's seat practically touched the
low section of roof above it.
And then it hit Race.
In a tank like this, the driver drove with his head sticking out
from a small hatch above his seat.
Race felt a sliver of ice shoot up his spine.
There was another hatch up front!
He dived forward—sliding into the driver's seat—and looked up
instantly to see that it was true. There was another hatch up here.
And at the moment it was open.
And standing astride it at that very instant, pointing his Calico
pistol directly down at Race's head, was Earl Bittiker.
'Who the hell are you?' Bittiker asked slowly.
'My name is William Race,' Race said, looking up
through the hatch at Bittiker. His mind was racing now, searching
for an escape route.
Wait a second, there was one possibility…
'I'm a professor of languages at New York University,' he
added quickly, trying to keep Bittiker talking.
“A professor?' Bittiker spat. 'Jesus fucking Christ.”
Race figured that from where he was standing, Bittiker
couldn't see his hands—concealed as they were beneath the
hatch—couldn't see that right now Race was feeling around
underneath the steering controls of the tank.
'Tell me, poindexter, what did you think you could
achieve by coming here?'
'I thought I could disarm the Supernova. You know, save
the world.'
Still feeling.
Damn it, it had to be down here somewhere…
'You seriously thought you could disarm that bomb?'
Found it.
Race looked up at Bittiker with hard eyes. 'While I've still
got one second left, I'm going to try to disarm that bomb.'
'Is that right?'
'Yea-h, that's right,' Race said. 'Because I've done it
before.'
At that moment, unseen by Bittiker, Race jammed his thumb down hard
on the rubber-sealed button that he'd found on the underside of the
steering controls of the Abrams. The same rubber-sealed button that
was fitted on
every American-made field vehicle.
VROOOOM!
Immediately, the tank's monstrous AvcoLycoming
engine roared to life, the throb of its powerful engine
reverberating throughout the eormous cargo bay.
Bittiker was jolted off balance by the sudden roar of the
tank's engine. Up on the catwalk in front of the tank, Troy
Copeland also looked up in surprise.
Inside the driver's hatch, Race looked around for anything he
could—
Oh yeah. That's nice.
He found a control stick, complete with trigger, on which was
written the words: MA GUN.
Race grabbed the stick and squeezed the trigger and hoped to God
that there was a round inside the Abrams'
main cannon.
There was.
The boom of the tank's 105mm cannon going off inside the cargo bay
of the Antonov was perhaps the loudest thing Race had ever heard in
his life.
The entire cargo plane shuddered violently as the Abrams' mighty
cannon went off in all its glory.
The 105mm shell blasted through the plane like a run away asteroid.
First, it sheared Troy Copeland's head off—cleanly,
quickly—removing it in an instant, like a bullet taking off the
head of a Barbie doll, decapitating Copeland in a nanosecond,
leaving his body standing for
a full second after his head had been removed.
But the shell just kept on going.
It shot like a missile through the steel wall behind Copeland's
body, rocketing up into the passenger deck of the Antonov,
ploughing at colossal speed into the cockpit walls, exploding right
through the pilot's chest before it blasted out through the plane's
windshield in a spectacular shower of glass.
With its pilot now well-and-truly dead, the Antonov banked wildly,
entering the first stages of a nosedive.
In the cargo bay, the world tilted crazily. Race saw the damage
that he'd done, saw where this plane was going.
While I've still got one second left, I'm going to try to disarm
that bomb.
Bittiker was still standing on the skirt of the tank, still holding
his Calico pistol, but he'd been thrown wildly off balance by the
discharge of the cannon.
Race crunched the tank's gears, found the one he wanted.
Then he jammed his foot down on the accelerator, slamming it
against the floor.
The tank responded immediately—its tracked wheels
leaping into motionwand the massive steel beast shot off the mark
like a racing car. The only thing was, it shot backwards-out along
the loading ramp, shooting off its edge, tipping over it and
falling out into the clear open sky.
The Abrams tank fell.
Fast. Really, really fast.
Indeed, no sooner had it dropped off the loading ramp of the
Antonov than the cargo plane—gutted by the blast of the tank's
cannon—just banked away into a nosedive and exploded in a gigantic,
billowing ball of flames.
The Abrams fell through the sky—rear-end first—at phe nomenal
speed. It was so big, so heavy, it just cut through the air like an
anvil, a screaming 67-ton anvil.
Inside the tank, Race was in a world of trouble.
Everything was tilted on its side and the whole tank shook
violently as it was buffeted by the friction it created with the
air outside.
.For his part, Race lay awkwardly in the middle of the command
centre, having been thrown there when he had reversed the tank off
the loading ramp. Next to him was the Supernova. It now sat
horizontally, wedged firmly in between the ceiling and floor.
Race saw the timer on its display screen counting down: 00:00:21
00:00:20 00:00:19
Nineteen seconds.
About the same time he had before the tank smashed into
the ground from a height of about 20,000 feet.
Aw, luck it.
Either the Supernova went off and he died along with the
rest of the world—-or he disarmed it and died alone when the tank
slammed into the earth in about seventeen seconds' time.
In other words, he could sacrifice his own life to save the
world's.
Again.
Goddamn it! Race thought. How could the same thing happen to him
twice in two days?
He looked at the computer screen:
YOU NOW HAVE
00:00:16
MINUTES TO ENTER DISARM CODE.
ENTER DISARM CODE HERE
Sixteen seconds…
The tank screamed through the sky.
Race looked forlornly at the timer as it counted inexorably
downwards.
And then suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement.
He snapped to look up—and saw Earl Bittiker crawling in through the
driver's hatch up at the top of the
falling tank, his Calico pistol in his hand!
Oh fuck!
00:00:15
Forget about him[
Just think!
Think? Christ, how the hell is a guy supposed to think inside an
Abrams tank that's plummeting to earth at about a hundred miles an
hour, with a guy climbing in through the driver's hatch
carrying a gun?
00:00:14
Race tried to clear his mind.
All right, last time he had known that Weber had set the disarm
code. But this time, he didn't have the first clue who had set the
code, principally because he didn't know who had designed the
device's ignition system.
00:00:13
Ignition system…
Those were Marty's last words, the words he had spoken
as he lay dying in Race's arms.
00:00:12
The Abrams hit terminal velocity, began to emit a shrill screaming
sound like that of a falling bomb.
Bittiker was halfway through the driver's hatch now. He saw Race,
fired his pistol at him.
Race dived out of the way, ducked behind the Supernova, grabbed the
cellular phone from his pocket as more bullets slammed into the
steel wall of the tank beside him.
'Demonaco!' he yelled over the din of the falling tank.
“What is it, Professor?'
'Tell me quickly! Who designed the ignition system on the Navy's
Supernova?'
Three thousand miles away, John-Paul Demonaco snatched up a nearby
sheet of paper. It was the list of the members of the Navy-DARPA
Supernova team.
His eyes zeroed in on one line.
RACE, Martin E.
Ignition system DARPA D/327997A
design engineer
'A guy named Race. Martin Race!' Demonaco shouted into the
phone.
Marry, Race thought.
00:00:11
Marty had designed the ignition system. That's what
he'd been trying to tell him before he died.
Therefore Marry had set the disarm code.
00:00:10
Eight-digit numerical code.
Bittiker was fully inside the tank now.
What code would Marry use?
00:00:09
The tank was still falling, screaming through the air at a thousand
feet per second.
Bittiker saw him, raised his Calico again.
What code did Marry always use?
00:00:08
Birthday? Significant date?
No. Not for Marty.
If he had something that required a numerical code, an
ATM card or a PIN number, he always used the same number.
Elvis Presley's Army serial number.
00:00:07
Bittiker levelled the Calico at Race.
Christ, what was it!
It was on the tip of his brain…
00:00:06
Race ducked behind the Supernova—Bittiker wouldn't
dare shoot him through/t—found himself standing in front
of the device's arming computer.
God, what was the number?
533…
Think, Will! Think!
00:00:05 5331…
..o 07…
… 61…
53310761!
That was it!
Race started punching the keys on the arming computer,
typed: 53310761 and then he slammed his finger down on
the 'ENTER' key.
The screen beeped.
DISARM CODE ENTERED.
DETONATION COUNTDOWN TERMINATED AT:
00:00:04
MINUTES.
But Race didn't bother to stay and look at the screen.
Rather, he just clambered quickly away from Bittiker— shielded by
the now-disarmed Supernova—and headed along the short ladder that
led to the tank's turret hatch.
He didn't know why he headed that way. It was just a completely
illogical notion that if he was on the outside of the tank when it
hit the ground, he might have a better chance of surviving the
impact.
They must be close to impact now.
On his way across the horizontal ladder, he came across the
idol—now with a hole in its base—and scooped it up as he
crawled.
He came to the hatch, pushed it open. Speeding wind assaulted his
face instantly—wind that moved so fast it blinded him.
Clutching onto the now-vertical roof of the Abrams, he quickly
kicked the hatch shut behind him, shutting Bittiker inside, just as
the steel hatch itself was assailed by a barrage of automatic fire
from inside.
Race looked down, into the face of the onrushing wind, as it
pounded against his glasses—
—and saw the green rainforest rushing up at him at about a million
miles per hour!
The tank screamed towards the earth.
Two seconds to impact.
This was it.
One second.
The earth rushed up toward him.
And in that last second before the Abrams tank slammed
into the earth at incredible speed, William Race shut his
eyes
and offered up a single, final prayer.
And then it happened.
Impact.
The tank's impact with the earth was absolutely stunning in its
force.
The world seemed to shudder as the 67-ton tank slammed into it at
terminal velocity. The tank imploded on contact with the ground,
flattening in a millisecond, sending whole sections of it shooting
out in every direction.
Earl Bittiker had been inside the Abrams when it hit the ground. As
the giant steel tank slammed into the earth, its walls came rushing
in toward him at shocking speed, sending a thousand jagged corners
of metal shooting into his body—penetrating him from every side in
the nanosecond before he was crushed into nothing. One thing was
for sure, Earl Bittiker had been screaming when he died.
William Race, on the other hand, hadn't been anywhere n.ear the
tank when it hit the ground.
in that second before the tank smashed into the earthmwhen it was
about eighty feet above it—Race had experienced the strangest
sensation.
He had heard a sound not unlike a sonic boom come from somewhere
very close behind him and then suddenly, out of nowhereshoom!—he
had felt himself get yanked up into the sky by some powerful unseen
force.
But the yank had not been rough or whip-like—-rather it had been
abrupt but smooth, as if he had been connected to the heavens by
some invisible bungee cord.
So as the tankwand Bittiker—hit the ground in a smash ing, blazing
heap, Race had hovered thirty feet above the explosion, safe and
sound.
And then he looked over his shoulder and saw what had
happened.
He saw two plumes of white gas shooting out from the bottom of the
A-shaped unit that was attached to the back of his unusual kevlar
breastplate. In fact, the twin puffs of propellant shot out from
two small exhaust ports situated at the base of the 'A'.
Although Race didn't know it, the black kevlar breast plate that
Uli had given him at the refuse pit was in fact a J-7 jet pack, the
cutting-edge aerial insertion unit created by DARPA in conjunction
with the United States Army and the 82nd Airborne Division.
Unlike the Army's current MCI-IB parachutes, which allowed their
wearers to be suspended in full view of the enemy for at least
several minutes before landing, jet packs allowed their wearers to
free-fall to within eighty feet of the ground before swooping to a
sudden stop just above the landing zone, in much the same fashion
as a bird landing.
Like parachutes, however, all J-7 jet packs were equipped with
altimeter switches—altitude-triggered safety mecha nisms that
engaged the pack's propulsion systems in the event that the wearer
failed to engage them himself before he fell below eighty feet. As
Race had just failed to do.
There was no way he could have known that on Decem ber 25, 1997, at
the same time as forty-eight chlorine-based isotopic charges had
been stolen from a DARPA truck trav elling along the Baltimore
beltway by agents of the Stormtroopers, also stolen were sixteen
J-7 jet packs.
Slowly, gently, the jet pack lowered Race down to earth.