BRAINRUSH, a Thriller (30 page)

“Jury’s out,
vato
,” Papa said. He nodded at Tony, who gave him a hard look. “But Sarge says he’s chill.”

Juice sized up Jake. “I don’t know, man. There’s something off about him.”

Becker, a demolition and specialized weapons expert from Down Under, overheard the comment. He had a short, sinewy frame with wavy blond hair and blue eyes that glimmered in stark contrast to his chocolate skin, darkened as much from the sun as his partial aboriginal heritage. He chimed in with a deep Australian accent. “Mind your bizzo, mate. That bloke’s got skills all right. Sarge says he’s as cunning as a dunny rat ’n’ faster than a ’roo on a rampage.”

Tony stepped into the middle of the group with Jake beside him. Tony’s growl brooked no debate. “He’s also runnin’ this op and the man signing your fat paychecks.”

“Listen up,” Jake said, knowing he needed to make a point with these guys. “You’re all getting paid five times the going rate for a reason. What we gotta do isn’t gonna be easy. In fact, it’s damn near impossible.”  

Impossible is just a state of mind, Jake thought. He had finally figured out how to duplicate the amazing speed he’d exhibited at Sammy’s bar.

Back then, he didn’t have time to think about the mug that was flying toward his face. He just reacted. The organism that is the human body took over. His conscious mind played no role. His brain, his senses, and his muscles all worked together on their own to get the job done. His hand snapped up and grabbed the mug, protecting the organism. The brain is a muscle, and like every other muscle in the body, it retains the memories of past actions. 

How else could Kobe Bryant make those fading jump shots so regularly?
 

Jake needed to figure out how to tap into the memory of that blazing reaction in the bar. 

He’d practiced and practiced over the past couple of nights while everyone else slept. Slowly but surely he made progress, using plastic
glasses to test his speed. Dropping a suspended glass, spinning around and catching it before it hit the floor, was no longer a problem. The bad headaches that he got after doing it, however, were getting worse.

Mental checklist: Speed issue solved. Living long enough to enjoy it? No. 

Jake glanced at the hard men standing around him, doubt etched on some of their faces. Without warning, he lunged forward, pulled one of Ripper’s combat knives out of its shin holster, stood back up, and displayed the big knife flat on his palm. His uncanny speed brought a collective gasp from the men.

Jake continued, “Just because something’s impossible, doesn’t mean it can’t be done.” Jake focused his thoughts on the knife, willing it to remain hovering in space as he slowly lowered his hand to his side.

“Madre de Dios,” Snake said, crossing himself. 

“I’ll be buggered,” Becker said.

Jake felt a sharp pain at the back of his skull, but he refused to show it. He released his mental hold on the weapon and snatched it out of the air as it fell toward the floor. A stunned Ripper took it from Jake’s offered hand. 

No one moved. Jake had their full attention. He fought back a wave of nausea before continuing. “While you guys secure the perimeter and set the stage for our escape, the sarge and I are going into the depths of hell to collect the hostages, one of whom is a six-year-old girl. Don’t worry your asses about whether or not I can hold up my end. Just do your fucking jobs and one way or another, I’ll do mine. Got it?”

A strong “Hoo-rah!” echoed back from the ex-marines in the group.  

“You heard the man,” Tony said. “Keep your heads in the game and get your shit ready.” 

The men went back to work checking their kits.

Becker steered Jake and Tony over to an eight-foot-long table scattered with equipment.

“Are you set?” Tony asked.

“Yeah, everything I asked for is here,” Becker said. “You already saw my two remote-control fifty-cals.” He waved his hand over the collection on the table. “We’ve also got claymores, tripwire, satchel charges, frag and fuel-air grenades, detonators, and enough C4 to take down a mountain.”

“Good, because that’s just what we’re gonna do,” Tony said, exchanging a glance with Jake.

Becker clucked his tongue and hiked one of his thick blond eyebrows. He walked over to a crate about the size of a washing machine and pulled the lid up. “Lend a hand, Sarge. Let’s get ’er out.”

Jake watched as they pulled out what looked like a miniature ATV. It supported three dark-gray pressure tanks connected to a black funnel angled upward on the rear chassis.

“Lil’ Smokey here is my special surprise. Once we’re done pissin’ on the hornet’s nest up there, we’re gonna need to get out fast and under cover.” He crouched down, his hand on one of the ATV’s tanks. “She’s a modified, self-propelled, radio-controlled version of the M56E1 smoke-generating system. She spits fog oil embedded with graphite fiber.”

“Duration?” Jake asked.

“Twenty to thirty minutes, depending on wind conditions. The smoke will obscure both visual and infrared better than a sandstorm in the outback.”

Tony continued to make rounds with the men, checking and rechecking kits and attitudes.

Jake watched the team from just outside the wide-open hangar door, his attention on the quiet Cossack woman sitting by herself in the far corner of the space. Her name was Maria.  She was inspecting and cleaning her Dragunov 7.62 SVD sniper rifle with the same care as a mother would give her newborn child. She was a small woman—barely taller than her rifle—with short dark hair, a hooked nose, coal black eyes, and skin burnished from a life outdoors. Her sharp features were broken with a faint patchwork of premature wrinkles—not a single one of which would be confused for a laugh line—earned from several lifetimes of stress that had been crammed into her twenty-something years, first as a Chechen rebel, and later as a freelancer. 

He appreciated the care she took as she examined each of the specially made rounds of ammunition before pressing them into the clip. As if sensing Jake’s stare, she paused, turning her eyes toward him from across the hangar. She locked her gaze on him like an eagle spotting a rabbit in the snow. 

A slight nod of her head affirmed the unspoken acknowledgment between them. She was responsible for covering Jake’s back during the first critical minutes of the operation. For the next twenty-four hours their lives were linked.

The approaching drone of twin turbo-prop blades drew Jake’s attention outside. An airplane shaped like a large pelican with upraised wings was descending on a very fast final approach. As it loomed larger and larger, it appeared as if it would crash into their hangar. A ground crew eating lunch in the shade of a nearby fuel truck came to the same conclusion. They dropped their food and fled across the tarmac in panic. 

Jake grinned and stood his ground, hands on his hips. Tony and Papa walked over and stood on either side of him.

At the last possible moment, like a large African crane landing on the shallow waters of the Serengeti, the plane’s nose lifted and its horizontal speed slowed dramatically. The sound of its blades biting the air shifted from a steady drone to heavy staccato thuds that reverberated across the airfield. The nacelles holding its thirty-eight-foot-wide blades rotated on their axes from horizontal to vertical. The plane’s forward movement stopped abruptly. It hovered thirty feet in the air, its downwash blasting a thin veil of dust in a wide circle across the tarmac.

The three men squinted and turned their faces away from the rush of warm air and dust as the bird settled to the ground in front of the hangar.

“That’s our ride, boys,” Jake said. “The V-22 Osprey. Flies like an airplane but can land and take off like a helicopter. And the jock on the stick is one of the best pilots I know.” Jake smiled when he added, “And one of the craziest, too.”

Jake met Cal Springman twelve years ago during USAF fixed-wing pilot training at Reese Air Force Base in Lubbock, Texas. Jake graduated number two in his class behind Cal, who edged him out because of his previous flight experience as a helicopter pilot in the US Coast Guard. From Long Beach, California, he was the classic surfer dude, with curly blond hair, blue eyes, skin permanently tanned from years at the beach, and an exuberant smile that infected everyone around him. 

They became fast friends and creative troublemakers through their thirteen months of training. More than a few times they had found themselves braced in front of the squadron commander after bending the rules in the unfriendly skies during a training exercise, or when they’d instigated drunken competitions with rival classes at the stag bar on a “
cucaracha
day” when one of the frequent panhandle sandstorms grounded the flight line. Cal’s motto: Grab that wave; it could be your last
.

After the props wound to a stop, the rear cargo ramp of the V-22 opened and a garrulous Cal bounded out with his young whip-thin copilot—swimming in his flight suit—not far behind.

Cal greeted Jake with an unabashed hug that lifted Jake’s hundred and ninety pounds clear off the pavement. “Dude, it’s good to see you. What’s it been, three years? How the hell are you?”

“I’m good, Cal. Thanks for coming, man.”

“Wouldn’t miss it!” He pointed to his copilot with a huge grin. “And Kenny brought toys.”

Kenny was a freckled and pimply-faced redhead who looked to Jake like he was all of sixteen years old. But Cal had assured Jake he was twenty-five and fully qualified. There was an eagerness about him that seemed ready to burst. Jake got a firm handshake from the young lieutenant and made quick introductions to Tony and Papa.

“What’s your flying background?” Jake asked.

With an accent that hinted of Midwestern cornfields, Kenny said, “I’ve been flying since I was thirteen years old. My pop owned a crop-dusting business. We’d dust during the week and fly air shows on the weekend.”

“Air shows?” Jake asked.

Kenny’s eyes lit up and he made a quick survey of the area outside the hangar. “Give me thirty minutes to set up and I’ll show you.” He trotted off toward the V-22.

Jake cocked an eyebrow at Cal.

“Dude, you’re gonna love this,” Cal said. 

They headed back into the hangar, where Marshall and Lacey had hooked a laptop to a small projector and screen for the mission briefing. Marshall’s left arm was still in a sling, and his right palm still bandaged. He grumbled as he tapped the laptop’s touchpad with his right index finger. In an aggravated tone that was born more out of his discomfort than real anger, he said, “Are you sure you haven’t been messing with this?”

Hands on her hips, Lacey scowled back. “I haven’t touched your precious computer!”

Marshall stiffened, “Well, somebody—”

“Hey, Marsh, you remember Cal?” Jake said.

Marshall’s eyes widened in instant recognition. “Dude, how could I forget? We tore it up at Sharkey’s on the Hermosa Pier and met that girls’ volleyball team and—” He paused, glancing at Lacey. “Anyway, it’s good to see you, man.”

Cal’s eyes lingered on Lacey.

Marshall noticed. He stood up a bit too quickly and his chair toppled over. He ignored it and put his good arm around Lacey’s waist and made polite introductions.

Lacey leaned into Marshall.

Cal got the message and gave Marshall an understanding nod.

Jake made introductions to the rest of the team, including Ahmed, who was sitting at a small table nearby reading a book.

Cal pulled a USB flash drive from a shin pocket on his flight suit. He handed it to Marshall. “I brought a little something for the show. Check this out.”

 Marshall inserted it into the computer and flipped on the projector. He flipped through the onscreen menu and brought up a series of high-definition satellite images.

The rest of the team gathered around the screen.

Cal explained. “It turns out that Battista’s village is one of several dozens on our watch list because of its isolated location. It cost me a bottle of tequila and a box of frozen McDonald’s hamburgers to get hold of these.”

The first high-altitude view displayed a treeless, mountainous region that stretched across the screen. To the north of the rugged peak in the center, an ancient geographic upheaval created a broken pattern that scarred the landscape like a huge fault line. It looked as though a giant cleaver had dropped from the sky and the northern third of the mountain was wiped away, leaving a sunken boulder-strewn plateau in its wake. Terrain markers superimposed on the image showed an elevation differential of nearly fifteen hundred feet at its sheer cliff.

Above the cliff, on the southern side of the mountain, there was a natural ravine with immense rock formations on either side that cast long shadows over a narrow road that snaked up its center to a cluster of tiny structures.

Cal walked up to the screen, his shadow covering part of the image. He used his index finger as a pointer. “This is the village. The only way in or out is up this road.” He motioned to Marshall. “Next image.”

The high-res photo zoomed in to the top of the ravine at the end of the dirt road. It revealed a serpentine cluster of earthen structures, some of which seemed to grow right out of the mountain. The only sense of order came from a series of short rock walls that connected some of the homes together, creating what looked like corrals for animals. There was a scattering of people outside the small huts.