Free The IX by Andrew P Weston Page B

refreshments have been served? Depressing his headset, he asked, “Sam? Can you adjust the resolution so we can zoom in on the hostages themselves? Incorporate bio-filters. I want a chemical and thermal analysis of their condition.”
    “Will do, Boss.”
    Mark Stevens cut back in. “Alpha-one, this is Bravo-one. New developments?”
    Mac trusted his instincts. He always had. His ability to notice obscure details and make connections had saved his life, and the lives of those he worked with, on many occasions in the years he had worked within Special Forces. And his something’s not quite right bump was irritating him right now. Mac signaled with his hand for Sam to hurry up with his assessment, and replied, “Mark, I’ve got a feeling we’re going to have problems. Tell me, what conditions are you facing topside?”
    “Crazy, Boss. In the time we’ve been speaking, wind speed and wave height have increased again. Hailstones the size of golf balls are coming in horizontally, putting a few holes through windows and many of the lighter structures. If it wasn’t for our armor, I’m sure we’d have been drilled by now. The storm itself appears concentrated solely about the rig, and the eye is almost over us. We can’t see more than a hundred yards past the outer gantry. More serious structural damage is now taking place along the vent manifold and drill mod–
    “Watch out! Take cover.”
    Mac caught his breath. “Report!”
    “Sorry, Sir,” Mark replied after a short delay, “we’re gonna have to get out of this shit-storm. Part of the support boom stabilizing the vent just tore loose and narrowly missed taking Sean’s ugly head clean off. While I’m sure we’d all agree it would be a vast improvement, I don’t want to be the one explaining to his wife why we let a bit of weather get her man killed.”
    “Agreed,” Mac replied. “Get your asses inside. Make your approach via the control center. I want to know what’s going on with the managers, and final confirmation regarding the ordnance our friends have planted in the battery cabin. Understood?”
    “Roger that, Alpha-one. Bravo is on the move.”
    No sooner had the conversation ended than Mac’s presence was demanded at the rear of the switch room. “Boss, come and see this!” Sam muttered.
    The optic web’s principal display held much more detail than could be presented on their HUDs, and Sam was clearly worried by what the sensitive instruments were now recording.
    Mac shuffled back. “What is it?”
    “These colors represent different chemicals,” Sam replied, indicating a bar chart on one side of the screen. “What we’ve got here are excessive amounts of nitrogen, sodium, potassium, various sulfides, bitirubin, and a whole host of other bacteria.”
    Mac looked confused, so Sam got straight to the point. “Basically, those guys are sitting in their own shit and piss. And from the analysis, many have been like that for hours.”
    “Seriously?”
    “Seriously. It looks like the hostages aren’t being allowed to move. Not even to go to the bathroom. That’s a little strange, especially when you then take the temperature into consideration.” Sam tapped a set of figures along the bottom of the display.
    Mac was surprised. “What? Fifty-four degrees! Is that in Celsius or Fahrenheit?”
    “That’sthe current reading in Celsius. This is what it is in Fahrenheit. And just so you know, yes, the air conditioning unit is working fine. Whatever that device in there is, it’s radiating a lot of heat.”
    The entire structure groaned about him, and Mac sat back on his heels to think things through. No cooking. No refreshments. Herded like cattle into one location where they’re literally forced to stew in their own juices.
    Another piece of the jigsaw fell into place. Hey! This is no hostage situation. It’s an execution . . .
    . . . But why go to all this trouble? I must be missing something.
    As if agreeing with his assessment, a