Free Sorrow Space by James Axler Page B

to her computer from transponder units worn by each member of Kane’s team. The transponder featured global positioning technology that could be tracked via satellite, providing information concerning an operative’s current health status. Subcutaneously embedded, the transponders made tracking personnel across the globe an easy and painless task.
    “I imagine they’re back in the helicopter,” Lakesh mused. “Have they been in touch?”
    “Not yet,” Delaney told him. “Do you want me to raise them?”
    After a moment’s consideration, Lakesh nodded. “There may well be good reason they’ve not contacted us, but in this instance I feel it is prudent to break protocol. We need to warn them about the mat-trans glitch before they access the one in Panamint.”
    Turning back to her desk, Delaney began hailing Kane and his team. While she did so, Lakesh’s eyes flicked over DeFore’s report again, checking through the figures she had provided. Besides the nylon and Nomex content in the sample, DeFore had found traces of polytetrafluoroethylene, spandex, Mylar and Kevlar, as well as the expected biological remains. The presence of Nomex and Kevlar worried at Lakesh’s sharp mind; it suggested that the mystery woman had been wearing a protective suit of some sort, one designed to survive a harsh environment.
    As Lakesh continued to ponder the report, Delaney turned to him and he saw that her brow was furrowed. “No answer,” she elaborated, indicating the Commtact.
    Stroking his chin in concern, Lakesh placed the report back on his desk. With the Commtact’s capacity to pick up subvocalized commands, there was no reason that one of Kane’s team could not send a response of some form, even if it was the most basic, veiled acknowledgment.
    “Keep trying,” Lakesh instructed, but he wasn’t looking at the comms op anymore. Instead, his gaze had been drawn back to the mat-trans chamber in the corner of the busy room—the chamber from which the mysterious oil-spill woman had emerged.
    * * *
    “S TRANGE ,” B RIGID MUTTERED as the Chinook dipped low over the Panamint range.
    Grant sat at the controls, working the chopper across the snow-dappled mountains toward the hidden military redoubt they had accessed before to reach Pellerito’s people.
    Strapped in the copilot seat, Kane was peering out the cockpit windows through the cool mist emanating from those mountain peaks when he heard Brigid speak, the word cutting through the regular drumming of the rotor blades. “What’s that, Baptiste?” he asked.
    Brigid was tilting her head slightly, one hand pressed against her left ear. “I can’t seem to raise Cerberus,” she elaborated. “Commtact’s not responding.”
    Without further ado, Kane tried his own Commtact, engaging the unit embedded in his skull and calling on the Cerberus monitoring team. The frequency was dead. In fact, all the frequencies were dead.
    “Pellerito had that signal scrambler in his office,” Kane reminded Brigid. “It took a hit during the firefight, sent a jolt through my head when it went off.”
    “Mine, too,” Brigid said, and Grant added his own agreement with a grunt.
    “But I switched the jammer off,” Kane said, mystified.
    “Could be it shorted our comms,” Brigid reasoned. “As soon as we’re back at Cerberus we’ll run a subroutine to check for a bug. No big deal.”
    “Yeah,” Kane agreed as the chopper skipped over a pocket of turbulence, snow crystals fluttering past its reinforced windows.
    A moment later, the hidden military redoubt came into view in a gorge between mountains, its rusting metal door still beautifully camouflaged against the rock-and-soil background.
    “Bringing her down in five,” Grant advised, raising his voice a moment over the thrumming rotor blades. Then, with marked efficiency, Grant brought the vehicle straight down to the ground in a rapid drop, touching down in a smooth landing.
    “Nice touch,” Kane complimented him as Grant