The Chameleon Factor

With a strong whine of hydraulics, the rear of the C-130 Hercules transport disengaged, and cycled down to the ground to form a ramp. Deep inside the mammoth plane, headlights flashed on, and soon a civilian SUV rolled into view and bumped down the ramp to reach the tarmac.

Driving a few yards away from the aircraft, Carl “Ironman” Lyons parked the SUV and waited for the rest of the team to drive out. The vehicle was a dark green in color, so dark it appeared to be black. The windows were tinted, and the license plates carried government numbers.

What couldn’t be seen was the composite armor lining the SUV, and its hidden arsenal of weaponry in the ceiling, walls and seats.

Suddenly the massive engines of the Hercules coughed into life, the four great propellers rotating in spurts and then accelerating into a steady blur. Then the rear hatch began to cycle upward as the airplane prepared for takeoff.

Setting the parking brake, Lyons scowled. What the hell was going on now?

The side door near the tail swung open and a pair of duffel bags was tossed onto the tarmac, closely followed by Blancanales and Schwarz. Even as the two men grabbed their bags, the C-130 released its brakes and started to taxi forward, heading for an empty runway. The two men walked toward the SUV, and by the time they arrived, the Hercules was airborne and disappearing into the clouds.

“Trouble?” Lyons asked from behind the wheel.

Blancanales opened the rear hatch and tossed in his bag. “Yes and no,” he replied. “We caught the squawk from the Farm that a China Air 747 has crashed in the Koryak Mountains of Russia only an hour ago.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Lyons said with a grunt. “What has that got to do with us?”

“Its destination was New Delhi,” Schwarz said, adding his duffel to the pile of equipment and packs in the rear of the SUV. “And it left Ted Stevens Airport in Anchorage two hours after the attack on Quiller Labs, about six hours ago.”

As the men climbed into the vehicle, Lyons did some fast mental math. “So it’s hundreds of miles off course. And how did it penetrate that deep into Russian airspace without being challenged or shot down?”

“Only one way that Barb can guess,” Blancanales said, snapping on his seat belt.

“The Chameleon,” Lyons growled. “Our ape must have hijacked the plane, then killed the crew, jumped out and let it crash to hide that he was ever there.”

“Or it could be a diversion,” Schwarz offered, pulling the 9 mm Beretta from his shoulder holster and dropping the clip to check the load before reinserting the clip. “But I don’t read our ape that way.”

Adjusting his DOD identification badge on his suit jacket, Blancanales nodded. “Agree. Our boy is fast and furious. Not really into fancy tricks. He’s more the lead-pipe type.”

“Anything from the pilot, or civilian cell phones?” Lyons asked, starting the engine again. The big V8 purred into life, and he slipped the shift to start driving for an access road.

“Not a peep,” Schwarz replied. “And the emergency beacon didn’t activate until the plane was already tumbling out of the sky.”

“You mean once it was out of range of the jamming field of the Chameleon,” Lyons said grimly.

“That’s the idea, yes.”

“Gadgets, could the ape have used the Chameleon to mask itself and smuggle it on board past airport security?” Blancanales asked frowning.

“He could have smuggled an Abrams tank past security with that thing,” he answered. “But it would have to be operating at very low power. Full force it would interfere with the operation of the controls regulating the jet engines, and the plane would—”

“Crash,” Blancanales interrupted. “Goddamn it, maybe the passengers rushed the bastard and that’s exactly what happened!”

Pennsylvania all over again. Conversation stopped as only a few hundred yards away, a 707 roared into the sky. Even as it ascended, a small two-seater Cessna daintily arrived to touch the ground on another landing strip. In spite of the fact that it was so close to the Arctic Circle, the Nome airport was always busy with the combined civilian and military traffic, but its safety record was equaled by few other airports.

“So unless we can find the backup files here, this is going to be a race between McCarter and the Russian air rescue service,” Lyons stated as the SUV bumped over a small crack in the road. There had been an earthquake in November 2002 that rocked all of Alaska, and the damage was still being repaired on a priority basis.

“Which is why they took off with us still on the field,” Blancanales agreed.

“Jack isn’t going to try to fly Phoenix Force there, is he?” Lyons demanded. “He’d never get past the Russian radar.”

“Damn right he couldn’t. Their EM umbrella is tight,” Schwarz stated with conviction. “Without the Chameleon, there’s no way to fly into Russian national airspace without getting a SAM up your ass. Maybe two.

“Unless you do it at a height of six inches,” he added.

Slowing down at a locked gate, Lyons waited for the armed TSA guards to leave the kiosk. He showed the woman his ID. She gave no reaction, but spoke into her radio, and then waved them past.

Taking a turn onto an access road, Lyons raised an eyebrow at that. “They’re going to try a deadman’s run?”

“Only way to get there fast enough,” Blancanales said, pulling an M-16/M-203 combo from his duffel. “Our ape might not have jumped, and the damaged Chameleon could still be on the plane. They have to get there first, at any cost.”

Damn. Then Grimaldi would be taking McCarter to Ketchikan Island. The Coast Guard should have what the team needed. If not…

“Check your equipment,” Lyons directed. “We’ll be going to the testing area first. That’s the last place where anybody would hide their backup files.”

“Then why are we going?” Blancanales asked, puzzled, slapping in a clip. Then his face brightened. “Because it’s the best place for them to ambush us.”

“This crazy son of a bitch is trying to take the pressure off Phoenix Force,” Schwarz snorted, thumbing a fat 40 mm round into the breech of his M-203 grenade launcher. He closed the breech with a solid metallic snap. “Fair enough. Let’s rattle the trees, Carl, we got your six.”

Merging with the outgoing traffic, Lyons said nothing as he checked the .357 Colt Python under his jacket and sent the SUV heading for the coastal highway outside of Nome.

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