Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 05 - Strike Zone(and Jim DeFelice)(2004) by Dale Brown

Author:Dale Brown [Brown, Dale]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

12 September 1997

1650

EVEN THOUGH HE hadn’t had much sleep last night, Boston found it impossible to nap on the plane.

While he had a special set of headphones to drown out the sound of the engines, the small plane shuffled up and down every so often, just enough to keep him awake. He spent his time leafing through a book he’d brought along and trading audio tapes with Bison, who unfortunately seemed to like the Grateful Dead considerably more than Boston would have thought possible.

Boston’s adrenaline shot up as soon as Colonel Bastian announced that they were within sight of the airfield. He strapped his seat belt on and waited as the plane banked and then circled over the small strip.

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While they undoubtedly cleared the nearby jungle by a good margin, to Boston it seemed like the wingtip came perilously close to the top of the nearby trees. He struggled not to close his eyes as the airplane turned hard and legged down onto what looked more like an unkempt driveway than an airfield. The strip didn’t have any lights or even a fence nearby; the only structures Boston saw as he stepped down the stairs were a telephone pole with a windsock and a two-story pillbox with a flat roof.

Boston put on his Smart Helmet and did a quick search of the area, using its composite view, which cobbled together IR, radar, and optical inputs to identify weapons and individuals. There was no one around.

“Yo, Boston, help me with the bikes,” said Bison from inside. The sergeant went back and manhandled the small dirt bike out of the rear cabin, barely clearing past the seats. They had taken along several cans of gas as well as guns and radios. Everyone on the team wore civilian dress, authorized by the colonel because of the nature of the mission.

Colonel Bastian and Stoner met the two Whiplash ops on the hard-packed dirt.

“I want someone to stay here with me and watch the plane,” said the colonel. “And let me emphasize, we show no military gear.”

“I think we have to wear vests,” said Stoner.

“All right,” said Bastian. “Be as discreet as possible.”

“Who’s better at riding a motorbike?” said Stoner.

Boston looked at Bison, who looked at him. Both men shrugged. While riding a motorcycle was not part of the Whiplash job requirements, everyone on the squad had done so at one time.

“Flip a coin,” said Dog.

Boston won the toss.

THE WIND WHIPPED hard against Stoner’s face as he drove up the winding trail toward the fabrication plant. The sat photos he’d seen of it, part of a routine series covering the area, along with some background research provided by analysts back at the CIA, indicated that it had been abandoned about six months before. Already the jungle had begun closing in. Nature’s relentless march had broken up the edges of the road leading to the site; what two years ago had been a row of small, hastily built houses was now a collection of scavenged foundations.

Stoner would have preferred that the plant was still in operation.

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