in one day.”
“You sound like you’re not coming back to the Farm,” Price mused.
“No. I know the van builders who might have crafted the fake delivery truck,” Lyons said.
“We haven’t even run the plates off of Gadgets’s video footage,” Price replied.
“I know the D.C. area chop shops and kinky garages like the back of my hand, Barb,” Lyons countered. “We beat cops don’t like waiting for slow shit like Web searches.”
Price laughed. “All right. Khan’s team is on the way to the blast site. D.C. Metropolitan Police has been advised to control the area and allow you egress from the crime scene.”
Lyons looked up at the police helicopter that was already watching the area. “Good. Just to be safe, tell Alicia we may have a third corpse pickup for her.”
“I’ll convey your apologies,” Price said. “Flowers and candy, too?”
“And reservations for dinner,” Lyons added. He turned to Schwarz and Blancanales. “Mount up, soldiers. It’s time to kill people and break things.”
“Enough investigation?” Blancanales asked.
Lyons nodded. “Now it’s time for prosecution.”
Schwarz grinned. “Prosecution to the max, baby.”
Able Team drove off, ready for war in the streets.
C ALVIN J AMES, RIDING IN the backseat of the Peugeot station wagon with “Atalanta” Kristopoulos, answered his satellite phone’s chirp on the first ring.
“Farrow here,” James said, using his cover name.
“We have news from across the pond.” Barbara Price opened the conversation. “Ironman and his boys encountered some delivery men just like yours. Their special present was a two-fold surprise.”
“Whatever it is, it had a self-destruct mechanism,” James deduced. That brought sharp stares from the others in the station wagon.
“All right. Only one surprise,” Price corrected herself.
“It was a robot?” James inquired.
“Here’s the surprise. It’s been rigged with antipersonnel defenses, and was utilized for the assassination of an investigator that Ironman was liaising with,” Price explained. “It gave Ironman a pounding with Tasers, a wire saw and its tail boom.”
“Tail?” James asked.
“It’s a worm- or snake-shaped robot, which probably allows for greater flexibility through vents and drainage pipes,” Price said.
“Okay. That makes sense. I was imagining one of those modified radio-controlled cars or a rebuilt lawn mower device like the battle bots that show up on British television,” James said. “So the delivery men don’t control the robots themselves?”
“No, but they do sit on a remote signal relay,” Price told him. “Gadgets and Bear agree that the command frequency is beamed through a tight focus point, which allows the signal to penetrate concrete and steel over short distances.”
“The usual structures of a nuclear power plant would interfere with the robot’s reception,” James agreed, following Price’s logic.
“Precisely,” she said. “A narrow-band, high-energy transmission allows for real time control in a power-plant campus or even your average office building.”
“And these things are rigged for fighting?” James continued.
“Ironman was tased, and when the saw got snarled on a wastebasket he used for a shield, it nearly shattered his arm with its shield,” Price recounted. “But that was the extent of its offensive weaponry.”
“So it’s agile and tough to escape our favorite caveman,” James said.
“Carl put a .357 SIG round into it and was only able to take out the robot’s Taser battery,” Price described. “I’d hate to see what would happen if the Taser were replaced with a Glock.”
“Chances are, that’s what we’ll have to deal with,” James muttered. “Thanks for the heads-up on the destruct mechanism, as well.”
“It’s enough to kill everyone inside of a Grumman Kurbmaster,” Price added. “But Carl was only fifteen feet from the van when it exploded, and came through unharmed. That’s not to say the destruct mechanism can’t produce its own shrapnel.”
“Add in constant monitoring, presumably through built-in cameras,” James said.
“Just built-in cameras?” Encizo asked from the Peugeot’s shotgun seat. “Ask mother hen if she happens to have an eye in the sky over our position.”
“Just satellites.” James relayed her answer. “And they don’t see anything in the air.”
Farkas spoke up. “That’s the point of remote observation drones. If they showed up on radar and aerial cameras.”
“Figures,” Kristopoulos grumbled. “Robots belly-crawling on the ground and flying in the air over our heads.”
“It’s only observing us so far,” Encizo said. “But if they warn the Brotherhood members in the van or if it has weapons of its own, we’re screwed.”
“We are hanging back far enough that the drone operator may not think we’re following their people,” Farkas offered.
“If they are paranoid enough to put a set of eyes in the air, then they’re too smart to leave our continued trailing of their deliverymen to chance,” Encizo countered. “We were made long before I ever noticed their bird.”
“Well, that’s the end of a perfectly good surveillance operation,” Kristopoulos said. “What would be their response?”
“Anything from scorched earth to the Brotherhood engaging in evasive maneuvers,” James said. “But the deliverymen don’t seem to have deviated from their normal course.”
“Maybe they want us to know,” Farkas said. “After all, how do you defend against armed, murderous robots?”
Encizo brought his field glasses to bear on the back of the Muslim Brotherhood van. “The back door just moved.”
The Cuban drew his Glock 34 from its spot in a cross-draw holster under his photographer’s vest. He heard Kristopoulos and James do likewise in the backseat.
“We might not know how to prevent robots from infiltrating a nuclear power plant, but a pissed-off terrorist with an assault rifle is practically a Friday-night get-together for us,” James said.
A hundred yards ahead, the muzzle-flash of an AK-47 burned. Even as the windshield cracked and deformed under the first impact, Farkas swerved hard to avoid the rain of shattered glass and steel-cored bullets tearing into their vehicle.
CHAPTER
