The Chameleon Factor. Don Pendleton
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…?
“It’s a trap!” Johnson threw the radio aside and charged for the armored door. “We have to get out of here!”
A sudden light filled the slits of the bunker with hellish intensity.
“Too late!” the technician screamed, throwing an arm before his face.
“MOTHER OF GOD,” a general whispered, recoiling slightly as the two Delta Four missiles slammed directly into the fortified bunker and violently detonated. Broken slabs of concrete and steel beams blew into the sky as the twin fireballs washed over the target range in searing fury.
As a mushroom cloud of dark smoke rose into the blue sky, it exposed a gaping hole in the ground. Muttering curses and prayers at the terrible sight, the crowd of dignitaries remained in their seats, unable to move from the horror unfolding below.
“We’ve got to help them!” a lieutenant cried out, standing. Pushing his way through the stupefied throng, the lieutenant tried to reach the stairs leading to the ground. Then somebody grabbed his arm.
“Don’t be a fool, man! They’re beyond help,” a general snapped. “The professor is already dead. Nobody could have survived that first salvo.”
Scowling darkly, the lieutenant yanked his arm free and stared at the decimated target range once more. The fortified bunker was reduced to a mere handful of cracked pieces and rubble, ringing a blackened crater.
“Sorry, sir,” the lieutenant muttered, clenching his fist in frustration. Then a motion in the sky caught his attention, and the Army officer turned to see the next set of Delta Four missiles lift over the horizon and angle over to start for the destroyed bunker.
Then they abruptly changed course and swung directly for the grandstand.
“Hello, give me the White House,” a congresswoman said into a cell phone. “There’s been a disaster at—”
“Incoming!” the lieutenant bellowed.
At the incredible sight, men and women both began to scream in terror, and the crowd became a mob fighting to reach the stairs. A handful of military personnel pulled out their dress side arms to empty the weapons at the approaching Delta Fours. If the subsonic lead had any effect on the ultrasonic missiles, it wasn’t noticed as the Deltas smashed directly into the grandstand. Hundreds of bodies blew apart from the triphammer blasts, the rolling waves of chemical fire obliterating the grandstand, and the homing beacons glued to the underside of the wooden seats.
A death wave of splinters and boards blew across the parking lot, killing everybody in their path. A heartbeat later, the hidden charges in the car trunks went off, adding their thermite charges to the assorted destruction. Melting cars flipped into the air, gas tanks exploding like firecrackers. The startled pilots of the two Apaches had no time to react before the shock wave and shrapnel arrived, throwing the gunships sideways. Their blades snapped off as the helicopters tumbled over and over along the ground until they erupted into flames. Shrieking insanely, the pilots burned alive in the wreckage until their cargo of rockets and missiles ignited.
WATCHING FROM the side of a road on a hilltop, the man disguised as Professor Johnson looked up from the destruction of the target range just as the last two