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Authors: S. D. Perry
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to help her, but she leapt nimbly to the ground next to him with hardly a stumble. She drew her weapon, an H&K VP70, and turned to cover the darkness as David looked back to the fence.
Leon almost tripped off the top, but David managed to steady him, grabbing the younger man’s hand; once he was down, he nodded his thanks at David and turned to help Claire over.
So far, so good…
David scanned the shadows around them as John scaled the outside, his heart pounding, all of his senses on high alert. There was no sound but the gentle clank of the fence, no movement in the blackness.
He glanced back as John thumped to the cold and dusty ground, then nodded toward the front structure, the smaller one. If he were to design a false cover, he’d hide the real entrance somewhere no one would look—in a broom closet at the back of the last building, through a trap door in the dirt—but Umbrella was cocky, too smug to worry about such simple precautions.
It will be in the first building, because they’ll believe they’ve hidden it so cleverly that no one will find it. Because if there’s one thing we can count on, it’s that Umbrella thinks they’re too smart to be caught out…
He hoped. Staying down, David started for the building, praying that if there were cameras watching them, there was no one watching the cameras.
* * *
It was late, but Reston wasn’t tired. He sat in the control room, sipping brandy from a ceramic mug and idly thinking about the next day’s agenda.
He’d make his report, of course; Cole still hadn’t managed to fix the intercom system, although the video cameras all seemed to be in working order; the Ca6 handler, Les Duvall, wanted one of the mechanics to see about a sticking lock on the release cage—and there was still the city. The Ma3Ks couldn’t exactly shine if the only colors were tan and brick…
…have to get the construction people into Four tomorrow. And see how the Avis do with the perches—
A red light flashed on the panel in front of him, accompanied by a soft mechanical bleat. It was the sixth or seventh time in the last week; he’d have to get Cole to fix that, too. The winds sweeping off the plain could be vicious; on a bad day, they rattled the doors to the surface structures hard enough to set off all of the sensors.
Still, good thing I was here… once the Planet was fully staffed, there’d always be someone in control to reset the sensors, but for the time being, he was the only one with access to the control room. If he’d been in bed, the soft but insistent alarm currently going off in his private room would have forced him to get up.
Reston reached for the switch, glancing at the row of monitors to his left more for form’s sake than because he expected to see anything—
—and froze, staring at a screen that showed him the entry room nearly a quarter mile above where he sat, in a view from the ceiling cam in the southeast corner. Four, five people, turning on flashlights, all of them dressed in black. The thin beams of light roamed over the dusty consoles, the walls of meteorological equipment—and illuminated the weapons they were holding in flashes of metal. Guns and rifles.
Oh, no.
Reston felt almost a full second of fear and despair before he remembered who he was. Jay Reston had not become one of the most powerful men in the country, perhaps in the world, by panicking.
He reached beneath the console, reached for the slender handset tucked into the slot next to the chair that would connect him directly to White Umbrella’s private offices. As soon as he picked it up, the line went through.
“This is Reston,” he said, and could hear the steel in his voice, hear it and feel it. “We have a problem. I want a call put in to Trent, I want Jackson to call me immediately—and send out a team, now, I want them here twenty minutes ago.”
He stared at the screen as he spoke, at the intruders, and clenched his jaw, his initial fear turning to
Leon almost tripped off the top, but David managed to steady him, grabbing the younger man’s hand; once he was down, he nodded his thanks at David and turned to help Claire over.
So far, so good…
David scanned the shadows around them as John scaled the outside, his heart pounding, all of his senses on high alert. There was no sound but the gentle clank of the fence, no movement in the blackness.
He glanced back as John thumped to the cold and dusty ground, then nodded toward the front structure, the smaller one. If he were to design a false cover, he’d hide the real entrance somewhere no one would look—in a broom closet at the back of the last building, through a trap door in the dirt—but Umbrella was cocky, too smug to worry about such simple precautions.
It will be in the first building, because they’ll believe they’ve hidden it so cleverly that no one will find it. Because if there’s one thing we can count on, it’s that Umbrella thinks they’re too smart to be caught out…
He hoped. Staying down, David started for the building, praying that if there were cameras watching them, there was no one watching the cameras.
* * *
It was late, but Reston wasn’t tired. He sat in the control room, sipping brandy from a ceramic mug and idly thinking about the next day’s agenda.
He’d make his report, of course; Cole still hadn’t managed to fix the intercom system, although the video cameras all seemed to be in working order; the Ca6 handler, Les Duvall, wanted one of the mechanics to see about a sticking lock on the release cage—and there was still the city. The Ma3Ks couldn’t exactly shine if the only colors were tan and brick…
…have to get the construction people into Four tomorrow. And see how the Avis do with the perches—
A red light flashed on the panel in front of him, accompanied by a soft mechanical bleat. It was the sixth or seventh time in the last week; he’d have to get Cole to fix that, too. The winds sweeping off the plain could be vicious; on a bad day, they rattled the doors to the surface structures hard enough to set off all of the sensors.
Still, good thing I was here… once the Planet was fully staffed, there’d always be someone in control to reset the sensors, but for the time being, he was the only one with access to the control room. If he’d been in bed, the soft but insistent alarm currently going off in his private room would have forced him to get up.
Reston reached for the switch, glancing at the row of monitors to his left more for form’s sake than because he expected to see anything—
—and froze, staring at a screen that showed him the entry room nearly a quarter mile above where he sat, in a view from the ceiling cam in the southeast corner. Four, five people, turning on flashlights, all of them dressed in black. The thin beams of light roamed over the dusty consoles, the walls of meteorological equipment—and illuminated the weapons they were holding in flashes of metal. Guns and rifles.
Oh, no.
Reston felt almost a full second of fear and despair before he remembered who he was. Jay Reston had not become one of the most powerful men in the country, perhaps in the world, by panicking.
He reached beneath the console, reached for the slender handset tucked into the slot next to the chair that would connect him directly to White Umbrella’s private offices. As soon as he picked it up, the line went through.
“This is Reston,” he said, and could hear the steel in his voice, hear it and feel it. “We have a problem. I want a call put in to Trent, I want Jackson to call me immediately—and send out a team, now, I want them here twenty minutes ago.”
He stared at the screen as he spoke, at the intruders, and clenched his jaw, his initial fear turning to
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