Hell Island - Matthew Reilly [6]
DARPA was the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, the genius-level scientists who made high-tech weaponry for the US military. After inventing the Internet and stealth technology, rumour had it that DARPA had recently been at work on ultra-high-tensile, low-weight body armour and, notoriously, a fourth-generation thermonuclear weapon called a Supernova, the most powerful nuke ever devised.
‘Scarecrow,’ Mother said from her console. ‘I got a power drain in grid 14.2, the starboard-side router, going to an external destination, location unknown. Something on the island is draining power from the Nimitz’s reactor. Beyond that, all other electrical systems on the boat have been shut down: lights, air-conditioning, everything.’
Schofield thought about that.
‘And another thing,’ Mother said. ‘I fired up the ship’s internal spectrum analyser. I’m picking up a weird radio signal being transmitted inside the Nimitz.’
‘Why’s it weird?’
‘Because it’s not a voice signal. It sounds, well, like a digital signal, a binary beep sequence. Fact, sounds like my old dial-up modem.’
Schofield frowned. A power drain going off the ship. Digital radio signals inside the ship. A secret DARPA presence. And a gruesome stack of severed hands down in the hangar deck.
This didn’t make sense at all.
‘Mother,’ he said, ‘you got a portable AXS on you?’ An AXS was an AXS-9 radio spectrum analyser, a portable unit that picked up radio transmissions, a bug detector.
‘Sure have.’
‘Jamming capabilities?’
‘Multi-channel or single channel,’ she said.
‘Good,’ Schofield said. ‘Tune it in to those beeps. Stay on them. And just be ready to jam them.’
Gator’s voice continued to come over his earpiece. The SEAL leader was describing the scene in the hangar bay:
‘. . . looks like the entire hangar has been configured for an exercise of some sort. It’s like an indoor battlefield. I got artificial trenches, some low terrain, even a field tower set up inside the hangar. Moving toward the nearest trench now—hey, what was that . . . ? Holy—’
Gunfire rang out. Sustained automatic gunfire.
Both from the SEALs and from an unknown enemy force. The SEALs’ silenced MP-5SNs made a chilling slit-slit-slit-slit-slit-slit when they fired. Their enemies’ guns made a different noise altogether, the distinct puncture-like clatter of M-4 Colt Commando assault rifles.
The SEALs starting shouting to each other:
‘—they’re coming out of the nearest trench—’
‘—what the fuck is that . . .’
‘—it looks like a Goddamn go—’
Sprack! The speaker never finished his sentence. The sound of a bullet slamming into his skull echoed through his radio-mike.
Then Gator’s voice: ‘Fire! Open fire! Mow ’em down!’
In response to the order, the level of SEAL gunfire intensified. But the SEALs’ voices became more desperate.
‘—Jesus, they just keep coming! There are too many of them!’
‘—Get back to the stairs! Get back to the—’
‘—Shit! There are more back there! They’re cutting us off! They’ve got us surrounded!’
A pained scream.
‘—Gator’s down! Oh, fuck, ah—’
The speaker’s voice was abruptly cut off by a guttural grunting sound that all but ate his radiomike. The man screamed, a terrified shriek that was muffled by rough scuffling noises over his mike. He panted desperately as if struggling with some great beast. Indeed it sounded as if some kind of frenzied creature had barrelled into him full-tilt and started eating his face.
Then blam! a gunshot boomed and there were no more screams. Schofield couldn’t tell if it was the man who had fired or the thing that had attacked him.
And suddenly it was over.
Silence on the airwaves.
In the bridge of the supercarrier, the members of Schofield’s team swapped glances.
Sanchez reached for the radio—only for Schofield to swat his hand away.
‘I said no signals.’
Sanchez scowled, but obeyed.
One of the other teams, however, came over the line: ‘SEAL team, this is Condor. What’s going on? Come in!’
Schofield waited for a reply.
None came.
But then after thirty seconds or so, another rough