The Mothership (5 page)

The army truck carried the contact team to
the tip of the Gove Peninsula, past one of the largest aluminum smelters in the
world, a pinprick of industrial civilization clinging to the edge of a vast
wilderness. It delivered them to a small commercial wharf where a sleek gray
RAN patrol boat waited. Once aboard the fifty-six meter vessel, they headed out
into Melville Bay, swung around the cape to the northeast, and began a long,
high-speed run into the Gulf. With the satellites out of action, there was no
satnav to steer by, so the crew navigated the old fashioned way, with charts,
compass, and dead reckoning. As with the C-17, a complete signals blackout was
enforced, testing the crew’s ability to navigate blind at high speed at night.

While the patrol boat raced down the coast
towards Blue Mud Bay, the team ate breakfast, then assembled on the stern to
complete their final checks of packs and weapons. Beckman stood with his back
to the wind, absently studying the two civilian additions to his ten-man team.

The first was Roland Markus. He was CIA,
tasked with providing his own assessment to the Director of National
Intelligence, who would in turn advise the President and the National Security
Council. Beckman wondered what would happen if Markus’ assessment was different
to his own. The President might be faced with contradictory advice from the
Secretary of Defense and the DNI. The confusion that would create could
paralyze decision making at a critical moment. Judging by the way Markus
carried his MP5 submachine gun, he could look after himself, but Beckman
wondered if he’d follow orders.

The other civilian was Dr Ian McInness, a
relatively young scientist from Groom Lake. Beckman guessed he was part of the
massive reverse engineering effort under way there, but he didn’t carry a gun
and was probably incapable of using one if he did. He’d jammed his pack so full
of scientific equipment, he could barely lift it. Beckman suspected he wasn’t
carrying near enough food and water to survive an extended patrol in tropical
heat. The scientist sat on one of the two inflatable boats lashed to the stern,
meticulously painting sunscreen across his nose. When he finished, he carefully
placed the tube in his pack, then pulled on his wide-brimmed sun hat. The
moment he took his hand off the hat, it blew off into the sea. Dr McInness watched
helplessly as his hat was left rapidly behind amidst the boat’s frothing wake.

Beckman groaned silently to himself, making
a mental note to tell Hooper to keep an eye on the scientist. No one would miss
Markus, he was one of those ruthless expendable types most countries had
lurking in the shadows, but if the scientist died, there’d be hell to pay.

Sitting a short distance away, Frank Tucker
and Steamer Massey watched Dr McInness doubtfully. Steamer, the giant African
American who carried the predator missile launcher, leaned close to Tucker and
whispered, “Bet you fifty, he dies first.”

Tucker sat with his back to his pack
sharpening his knife on a whetstone. Even though he carried both the deadly
LSAT light machine gun and Conan, one of the two largest specials, he’d never
lost his fascination with the fat-bladed bowie knife. The former SEAL looked
up, thought about it a moment, then shook his head slowly. “Sucker bet.”

“I’ll give you odds,” Steamer said
shrewdly, daring Tucker to take him on. Steamer could have played pro-ball for
Detroit if he hadn’t joined the Navy to see the world. He first met Tucker at
Coronado, during phase one training. At first, they competed, trying to find
out who was tougher. In the end, they called it a draw and had been a team ever
since, with a near telepathic understanding of each other’s moves.

Tucker stopped sharpening his knife. “What
odds?”

“Two to one.”

“Four.”

“Four? I’m not your mamma. I’ll give you
three.”

“Deal.” They knocked clenched fists
together to seal the deal. “Now I’ll have to keep his wimpy ass alive until
someone else goes down.”

Steamer chuckled, “Baby sitter!”

A navy lieutenant appeared through the
bridge deck hatchway above, came down the ladder with practiced ease, and
saluted Beckman. “We’re entering the Walker River estuary, sir,” he said,
indicating the river mouth ahead. “It’s close to high tide, so we’ll be able to
get in over the mud flats, then we’ll head upriver as far as we can. The
skipper requests you prepare for disembarkation now, as he may have to put you
ashore at short notice.”

Beckman acknowledged the salute, “Thanks,
Lieutenant.”

“We’ll take you in as close as possible,
but you may get your feet wet. We’ll have sharpshooters on the bridge and along
the railings, just in case.”

“Let’s hope there’s no attack,” Beckman
said, wondering how much the lieutenant knew.

“Don’t worry, we’ve had plenty of
practice.”

“You have?”

“They’re sneaky bastards, but we’re pretty
good at spotting them.”

“Spotting what?” Beckman asked, certain he
was missing something.

“The crocs. The rivers are lousy with
them.”

“Really?” Beckman glanced uncertainly at
the approaching shoreline.

“Oh yeah. They’re a protected species, so
they breed like bloody rabbits. But don’t worry, we’re authorized to shoot them
if they go after you.” The lieutenant grinned. “Can’t let you blokes get eaten.
It wouldn’t look good for the navy.”

Beckman looked bemused. “Wouldn’t want to
make the navy look bad.”

 “Just get ashore as fast as you can, and
head away from the river. Watch the banks. They hide in the mud, under the
mangroves. Can’t see the bastards until they move, or you step on one.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

Beckman walked over to Sergeant Hooper as
the lieutenant returned to the bridge. “Get ready to go ashore.” Hooper opened
his mouth to bark an order when Beckman leaned close and said in a low voice.
“And make sure they keep an eye open for crocodiles.”

Hooper gave him a strange look,
“Crocodiles?”

Beckman shrugged.

“Right,” Hooper said, then paced between
the troops. “Listen up! I hope you ladies have all enjoyed this luxurious
pleasure cruise, because now we’re going ashore for a little stroll in the
park. There’ll be plenty of trees where we’re going, so you’ll have lots of
shade.” He smiled, then sniffed deeply and slapped his chest delightedly. “Ah!
And more fresh air than you’ve ever breathed before. So let’s show these pretty
little navy boys what a real military unit looks like! When we get off this
ocean liner, get off fast. Keep your eyes open, your weapons ready, and only
fire if fired upon. You got that?”

Hooper stopped and looked down at the
youngest member of the team. Lieutenant Jonny Nuke Nolan, the payload
specialist, lay on his back with his helmet half covering his face to block out
the sun. The rumble of snoring echoed inside his helmet. Beckman had recruited
Nuke straight out of MIT. He was a physics major with a IQ that looked like a
zip code, and while he had attitude, Hooper knew he’d never make a soldier out
of him. One day, if the kid survived, he might become the world’s top alien
weapons expert, but until then he was just another mission specialist Hooper
had to keep alive somehow. The sergeant lifted Nuke’s helmet just enough to
look under it, then in a sweet voice, asked “Am I disturbing you, Lieutenant?
Would you like a pillow?”

Nuke yawned and removed speakers squawking
rap music from his ears. “Hey, thanks Sarge. And could you get them to slow
this tub down? The engines are giving me a headache.”

“On your feet, sir!” Hooper yelled.

Nuke sat up, dropping his helmet, which
rolled across the deck. Nuke’s officer rank, like the other mission
specialists, was due entirely to his education, not his military standing.
Beckman had made it clear from the start, when in the field, Hooper was second
in command, and in combat, the force protection squad members called the shots.
It was not the traditional chain of command, but it was designed to keep
everyone alive.

Kim Vamp Gerrity, a member of Hooper’s
force protection squad, caught Nuke’s helmet before it tumbled over the side.
She tossed it back to the sergeant, who slapped it firmly on Nuke’s head as he
clambered to his feet. “You lose it, Lieutenant, you go over the side after it.
Got it?”

“Sure, Sarge,” Nuke said, miffed.

Vamp, the team’s tracking specialist,
pulled her pack on and adjusted the straps. She was tall and muscular, with
black hair and flashing blue eyes, and a tongue sharper than a bayonet. She’d
started off as a radar specialist, had found a way to tweak her sensors to pick
up stealth aircraft, and had been seconded by Beckman to tweak the team’s only
tracking special. She glanced at Dr McInness, who was trying unsuccessfully to
tie off a bulging pocket on his pack, then said to Xeno in a low voice, “Do you
think he’s as helpless as he looks?”

Xeno, an expert in alien symbology and physiology
who doubled as the team’s medic, followed Vamp’s gaze and smiled. “Oh yeah.
They shouldn’t have let him out of the lab.”

Vamp tilted her head sideways, studying
him. “I don’t know. He’s kind of cute, in a lost puppy, nerdy sort of way.”

“He’ll get eaten alive out here.”

“He might, if he’s lucky,” Vamp said
mischievously.

Xeno looked surprised at her friend’s
unexpected tastes. She nodded toward Markus, who sat by himself checking his
weapon. “I thought he’d be more your style.”

Vamp gave the intelligence officer a
dismissive look. “He’s too cold for me. I like them with a heartbeat, and a
brain.”

Roland Markus, sensing he was being
watched, aimed his weapon toward the coast as if checking the sights. He used
the movement as an excuse to turn his back to the others, then he lowered the
weapon and, ensuring his body shielded his hands, eased a slender rectangular
device out of his vest pocket. The top third of the device was filled by a
small, gray LCD screen. The remainder contained a black keypad, while a two
gigabyte encryption scrambler was built into the back plate and a telescoping
aerial was mounted on the right side. Keeping the device concealed, Markus
pressed the transmit button on the front panel, sending an encrypted high speed
burst signal.

The transmission lasted barely a tenth of a
second. To any casual listener, it would have sounded like a flicker of static.
To the Australian Defense Signals Directorate team waiting a hundred kilometers
to the south at Numbulwar, it was music to their ears. The tiny settlement had
the only road in the region accessible to the big DSD semitrailer, which had
come up from the south to listen for any signals emitted from the impact zone.
To the aboriginal inhabitants, the big eighteen-wheeler, bristling with aerials
and guarded by a dozen soldiers, was a curiosity the like of which they’d never
seen before.

The mobile listening post logged Markus’
signal, then passed it via land line to the ultra secret DSD listening station
at Shoal Bay, near Darwin. The DSD station was one of the western world’s most
secret signals intelligence gathering facilities, responsible for monitoring
electronic communications throughout southern Asia, although for the moment it
was tasked with a very different mission. Once DSD had the signal, they relayed
it via the transpacific cable to Fort Meade, Maryland, informing their sister
organization, the US National Security Agency, that contact had been
established with the CIA agent. Moments later, a remote transmitter located
forty kilometers from the DSD mobile listening post, transmitted a response.

Sitting on the patrol boat, Roland Markus
watched a line of text appear on the gray LCD screen:
Acknowledged. 0748. SS
93%.

Markus breathed a sigh of relief. The DSD
listening post had received his transmission at 7.48 AM with a signal strength
of ninety-three percent. He slid the burst transceiver back into his pocket,
then glanced at the troops, checking that they hadn’t noticed his call-in.
Because of the risk of detection, he would not use the device again unless he
had something to report.

The patrol boat motored over the submerged
mud flats at the mouth of the estuary and into the grip of choking heat and
humidity. Lush green mangroves closed in on either side as they cruised up river
and a thousand pungent odors bombarded their senses. Hundreds of birds called
in a cacophony of strange voices, from high pitched warbles to menacing
shrieks, while the monotonous thrum of insects hung as heavily in the air as
the humidity. Giant dragon flies, with wingspans larger than a man’s hand,
hovered above the murky green waters and darted through the dense shadows of
the mangroves where the black mud appeared slick and oily.

Why would they land here?
Beckman wondered as the beat of the
engines faded and the gray hulled boat nosed cautiously toward the bank.

The lieutenant hurried down the steps from
the bridge deck. “There’s a rock bar up ahead, blocking the river. This is as
far as we can go.”

“This’ll do fine,” Beckman said, studying
the approaching mangrove.

The patrol boat shuddered slightly as the
hull grounded on submerged mud, then sailors ran a gangplank out that splashed
into ankle-deep water, Beckman led his team past the bridge house toward the
bow. Half a dozen sailors with Steyr assault rifles took up positions along the
railings and on the bridge deck, watching the shore intently.