The Chameleon Factor. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ and generals in the review stand cheered at the sight. Unable to tear himself away for a moment, Johnson stayed to watch as the missiles rose sharply, then rotated about their long axis to sharply angle downward toward the ruined field. Flashing forward at nearly Mach speed, the Harpoons raced for the bunker and then incredibly went on by, their wake churning up clouds of dust and scorched earth.

      The crowd roared its approval as the deadly missiles continued onward to slam into the pitted side of a hill a mile away.

      “Son of a bitch, the bloody thing works!” a colonel shouted while applauding. “It really works! The missiles couldn’t see the bunker!”

      “So that’s what this is, a radar jammer?” a senator grumbled with a scowl. “Big deal. We’ve had those for decades.”

      “Not like this!” a general stated proudly. “There’s never been anything like this thing!”

      “Well, we certainly spent enough on the damn program!” a senator yelled over the crowd noises.

      Turning away from the jubilation, Johnson started for the gravel walk that led to the parking lot when he noticed a Marine guard looking in the bushes.

      “Lose something, Corporal?” the professor asked in a friendly manner.

      The Marine looked hard in return, and Johnson felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise. This man wasn’t like the rest, he realized. Everything looked fine, but he felt that something was wrong. That combat-sense thing soldiers were always talking about. Part instinct, part training.

      “Just routine,” the corporal said, straightening the strap of the M-16 assault rifle slung over his shoulder.

      But Johnson could see that the bolt had been worked on the weapon, making it ready for firing. No! There was no time for this! Seconds counted. He had to move fast or die with the rest!

      “I know what you’re looking for,” Johnson whispered. “Come on, he’s over here.”

      Leading the soldier to the open doorway below the grandstand, Johnson stopped at the entrance. “It’s darker than shit in there. Got a flashlight?”

      The soldier shook his head, and Johnson pulled out his cigarette lighter.

      “This’ll do,” he said, and pressed the hidden stud.

      There was a soft hiss. The soldier grabbed his throat as the tiny dart went deep into his flesh. Suddenly, his eyes began to roll about in panic as he stiffened, unable to move a finger.

      Taking the Marine guard by the collar, Johnson half dragged the dying man back into the shadows under the grandstand and flicked his left wrist. A blade dropped out his sleeve, and he pulled back the Marine’s throat to finish the job with a single clean stroke. The neurotoxin was fast, but not instantaneous like a blade. However, there was no time to enjoy the kill; the numbers were falling. He had to move fast.

      Moving quickly away from the grandstand, Johnson proceeded along the gravel path until reaching a wooden kiosk. An armed guard raised a hand, but Johnson simply pointed at the photo ID on his lapel. The guard nodded and waved him by.

      Past a wire fence woven with plastic strips to block the sight of the curious, Johnson moved onto the parking lot, forcing himself to not walk too fast. That would raise suspicion, and he might be detained for questioning, which would mean death in about ninety seconds from now. However, there were more armed guards lining the edge of the parking lot, U.S. Marines, Army and even some Navy intelligence. Incredibly expensive, Chameleon was a multiservice project. At opposite ends of the lot sat two Apache gunships, their blades at rest, but with a full crew inside, the wing pods bristling with weaponry, 35 mm minirocket pods and Sidewinder missiles in case of an aerial attack. The Alaskan test zone was a military hardsite, armed and armored to withstand any imaginable attack. Chameleon was all-important. The theoretical-danger team at the Pentagon had thought of everything, except him.

      Reaching his car, Johnson pressed the fob on his key ring to unlock the door. The EM signal unlocked the door and also silently activated the packages hidden in the trunks of two other cars. Now the die was cast, and there was no turning back.

      Starting the engine, Johnson pulled away slowly, keeping a careful eye on his watch. Exactly at the proper moment, he pulled the cigarette lighter halfway out of the dashboard and then plunged it back in hard. There was a click as it locked into position.

      Trying to hide a smile, Johnson wheeled for the exit, waving goodbye at the Marine guards standing alongside the entrance to the isolated valley.

      DOWN IN THE TARGET range, inside the concrete bunker, the real Professor Torge Johnson lowered a pair of binoculars and turned. “Cut the field,” he ordered briskly.

      “Yes, sir,” the technician said, and pivoting in a chair, he flipped several switches on a complex control board. On a stout wooden table in the middle of the bunker, a small gray box stopped humming and went still.

      Squinting out the slit in the thick concrete wall, Johnson patiently watched as two more stars rose into the sky over the horizon and started coming his way.

      Trying to control his excitement, the professor inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. This was it, the last test. These were two of the new breed of Delta Four missiles, equipped with the very cutting edge of radar guidance, satellite-assisted navigational system, and proximity warheads, all supported by an onboard computer more powerful than anything else in the world. Three waves of Delta Four missiles. If the Chameleon could stop those titans, there would be no question that his project was a complete and total success.

      “Power up,” Johnson instructed.

      “Power is good for go, sir,” the technician replied crisply, checking some dials on the board. “We are online and ready.”

      “Good. Engage the field,” the professor said calmly, raising the binoculars and adjusting the focus. Although a man of science, he did enjoy watching the missiles fly by stone blind, their wonderful radar eyes dead from the jamming field of his Chameleon.

      “Ah, sir, I did, but nothing happened,” the technician said, flipping the switches again. The man pressed buttons and twirled knobs with frantic speed, but the dials stayed inert. “And I’m getting no response from the override!”

      Spinning, the professor clutched the binoculars to his chest as if for protection. “But the missiles are on the way!” he gasped, felling his belly tighten with fear. “Wait, use the backup unit!”

      Lurching from his chair, the technician flipped open the top of a second gray box and reached inside, then froze.

      “What in hell are you waiting for?” Johnson yelled, almost beside himself. “Turn on the Chameleon!”

      “I can’t,” the pale technician said softly, turning to look at the professor. “The second unit isn’t here. The box is empty.”

      Empty? The world seemed to reel at the word. The elderly professor went pale and clawed for the emergency radio clipped to his belt. “USS Fairfax, this is Johnson!” he yelled into the transponder. “Abort the missiles! Repeat, abort the missiles!”

      But there was only the crackle of static in reply. Johnson checked the frequencies and tried again twice more before the answer punched his soul. Jammed. The radio broadcast was being blocked from outside. But how…who…?

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