again in impotent frustration until the magazine was empty.
Then he stopped and looked around, breathing hard. Blaine’s Jeep was parked in the rear lot, but if he ran back to get it the game would certainly be lost: Dart and Blaine would be so far ahead by that time he’d never catch them.
The base’s main motor pool stood on the opposite side of the road, gate closed. He ran across the street, flung himself onto the fence, scrambled up it and dropped down the far side. A row of Humvees and another row of Jeeps were parked to his right; he ran to the first Humvee, glanced inside. No key. No key in the second or third Humvee, either. Running wildly now, he dashed over to the Jeeps. None of them had keys in the ignition.
He turned left and right in desperation. On the other side of the motor pool were the larger military vehicles: a couple of M1 tanks, MRAPs, and several Stryker armored fighting vehicles, looking like huge, bristling tank turrets mounted on eight massive wheels. One of the Strykers had been moved into an open area and had apparently just been washed down with a hose. Gideon vaguely recalled seeing a mechanic working on the vehicle when he and Fordyce had arrived. Even as the thought occurred to him, the mechanic appeared, wrench in hand, leather holster flapping, running from a distant shed, staring at the burning helicopter. “What’s the hell’s going on?” he cried to Gideon.
Gideon knocked the wrench from his hand, grabbed him by the collar, pushed the empty 9mm pistol into his face, and aimed him at the nearest Stryker. “What’s going on,” he said, “is we’re going to get into this vehicle and you’re going to drive it.”
74
THE MECHANIC OPENED the door. They climbed in the cave-like interior, the mechanic first, Gideon following with the gun. With the mechanic in the gunner’s seat, Gideon slid into the driver’s seat.
“Give me your gun,” Gideon demanded.
The mechanic opened his holster, passed over his sidearm.
“Now give me the key.”
The mechanic fumbled in his pocket and handed over the key. Gideon shoved it in the ignition, turned it. The Stryker immediately rumbled to life, the big diesel purring. Weapon trained on the mechanic, he quickly glanced over the instrumentation. It looked straightforward enough: before him was a steering wheel, shift, gas and brake pedals, no different from a truck. But these controls were surrounded by electronics and numerous flat-panel screens of unknown function.
“You know how to operate this thing?” Gideon asked.
“Fuck you,” said the soldier. He had evidently collected his wits and Gideon could see a combination of fear, anger, and growing defiance in his expression. He was young, skinny, with a whiffle-cut; no older than twenty. His name was JACKMAN and he carried the insignia of a specialist. But the most important information was written on his face: this was a loyal soldier who was not going to cave at the muzzle of a gun if it was against his country.
With an effort Gideon forced himself to slow down, take a deep breath, push aside the fact that every minute that passed put Blaine and the smallpox farther away. He needed this man’s help—and he had one shot at getting it.
“Specialist Jackman, I’m sorry about pulling a gun on you,” he said. “But we’re in an emergency situation. Those people who tried to take off in the chopper stole a deadly virus from USAMRIID. They’re terrorists. And they’re going to release it.”
“They were soldiers,” said Jackman, defiantly.
“Dressed as soldiers.”
“So you say.”
“Look,” said Gideon, “I’m with NEST.” He went to reach for his old ID but realized it was gone, lost at some point during the desperate chase. God, he had to do this fast. “Did you see that body on the tarmac over there?”
Jackman nodded.
“He was my partner. Special Agent Stone Fordyce. The bastards murdered him. They’ve stolen a vial of smallpox and are going to use it to start a war.”
“I’m not buying your bullshit,” the specialist said.
“You’ve got to believe me.”
“No way. Take your best shot. I won’t help you.”
Gideon felt close to despair. He tried to pull himself together. He told himself that this was a social engineering situation, no different from any other he’d encountered. It was just that the risks were infinitely greater this time around. It was a question of finding a way in, discovering how to reach this man. And doing it in seconds. He looked into the frightened