Arcadian Genesis Read Free Page B

modified rotor design that suppressed the distinctive percussive noise. To anyone below, it would have been indistinguishable from a breeze in the Chechen treetops. They came in fast, low and lethally silent – a ghost ship with deadly cargo.
    Alex pulled on his gloves – night black and woven through with enough armor plating and Kevlar thread to allow a man to punch a hole through a door. The gloves were made from the same fabric as his suit, which changed from black to gunmetal gray before his eyes. They now matched the helicopter’s cabin. He flexed his hand – it was termed active camouflage , the latest adaptive technology that allowed objects to blend into their surroundings by use of micro-panels capable of altering their appearance, color and reflective properties. The suit didn’t provide great thermal concealment, but if they were in snow, they’d appear white, in trees, green . . . and in amongst the freezing Chechen countryside or urban zones, it would move, change and dapple to provide as much camouflage as necessary.
    He sat back, his fist starting a slow beat on his knee. He loved this part: everything was locked and loaded, and you were committed – everything out of your hands now – buckled up and waiting for the fun to start.
    Like the suit he wore, his team’s profile was also invisible. They were HAWCs – the real best of the best – Hotzone All-Forces Warfare Commandos. Above average physically and mentally, each one had years of field experience. There were no pictures of them, no glowing articles in the press, no medals pinned on their chests by a corpulent senator. Their group existed more as a break-glass strategy, buried somewhere in a secure military database.
    HAWCs didn’t volunteer or apply for the job; they were chosen. Each man and woman had a unique psychology that totally disregarded the physical self or even acknowledged a sense of mortality. In another field they may have been sent for psychoanalysis or discharged, but in the HAWCs they were prepped and then launched.
    Each HAWC with him in the chopper was multiskilled, and usually with certain specializations – explosives, electronics, sniper skills, knife-work. When an imperative mission was deemed politically, militarily or plain humanly impossible, they went in.
    Like Alex Hunter, everyone who sat with him in the chopper had been drawn from the Rangers, Green Berets, SEALs or DELTA Force. Alex had been a HAWC now for three years, and he was a damned good one.
    This mission team, called Valkeryn, had a thirst for adrenalin only extreme combat could satisfy. Their missions were top secret, and no friend, family member – not even his girl, Angie – could ever know about them.
    Former girl . The dark and brutal world he inhabited had never touched her, and never would. But he missed her – when he closed his eyes, he could still feel the strands of her long brown hair, carrying the scent of green apples.
    Focus, Romeo! He could hear the old warhorse’s voice in his head: Hammerson. Alex could imagine the Major now – crew cut and jutting jaw – staring into his face with an expression hard enough to crack granite. The man seemed to have a knack of zeroing in on him personally. Always checking he was fully briefed, had the latest kit or training. He’d probably resent it, if he thought the Hammer was ever wrong.
    On this mission, Bronson was at point. Alex knew he would be given his own team soon . . . probably next mission. He knew his stuff; he’d done his time. He guessed that was why the Hammer was staying on his case: simple preparation – stress-testing the machine.
    He could deal with it. He could deal with anything. In the HAWCs they had one clear rule – we are right, and they are wrong . It simplified a lot of things up front.
    A single red light went on in the darkened cabin – seven minutes out. There were three lights. The next one would tell them they were two minutes out. The third meant it was