Cyclone's Core: A Sci Fi Military Adventure

By G.H. Holmes

Cyclone's Core – A Sci Fi Military Adventure, 2nd Edition

Introducing Navy Seal Ben "Cyclone" Harrow.

Dr. Joshua Davidson, his generation's most brilliant scientist, gets abducted.
Months later his signal is picked up in a forsaken desert in Central Asia and U.S. President Carl Carlson orders a raid to get the top-value asset out.
But as soon as legendary Navy Seal "Cyclone" Ben Harrow's boots hit the ground in Asia, the Cyclone faces a horrific enemy...

This exciting story has it all:
It's a thriller.
Watch Ben as he faces his worst nightmares come to life.
It's a war story.
It features Navy Seals, hulking helicopters, propeller gunships, fighter jets, and superbombs.
It's a sci-fi story.
Some nano-tech machines just beg to be turned loose.
And it's a love story.
Witness the commitment of a husband to his dying wife.
It's full of action and adventure.

Be there!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sharaya Lee
• Release date: Dec 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310390524

Book preview

Cyclone's Core

by

G.H. Holmes

A Sci Fi Military Adventure

2nd Edition

Copyright 2013 by Garrett Holmes

All rights reserved!

No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This story is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

*

From the Author

Power tends to corrupt, Lord Acton once said, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

People dressed up in a little brief authority can indeed be a sorry sight. We all know politicians and superiors who think that the rules apply to everybody but them. The more unassailable they are, the more insufferable they become. It's difficult enough to deal with people like that.

But they are still just people.

Time will take care of them.

Now imagine a person of extraordinary abilities who is physically indestructible.

You cannot get rid of him.

You cannot flee him.

If he involves himself into anything, he's involved. He's to be reckoned with—always.

What kind of character would that person have to have in order not to become a global plague? He'd have to be ideal man. But is there even such a creature?

Just rambling.

What you're about to read is not a philosophical treatise, but an action-adventure military mystery thriller with lots of suspense and some good old heart-warming romance in it.

I hope that you'll enjoy reading about Ben Harrow and Sharon, and brilliant Dr. Davidson, as much as I enjoyed writing about them. This tells about how it all began.

The story happens to start at -2. You'll know why when you arrive at 1.

Here we go:

-2

Below the star-spangled sky of western Iraq, an MH-6 Little Bird helicopter tore through the night, hugging the ground. Once it had passed into Syria, not too far from Al Bukamal, it suddenly flared. The silver disk of its rotor tipped back and it descended on the cold desert floor, where it hovered. Its landing rails never touched the ground as the rotor wash kicked up a dust cloud big enough to pass for a small sandstorm.

Godspeed, the pilot said to the lone operator sitting next to him.

Spade in hand, Ben Harrow nodded. He put his feet against his dropsack and pushed it out the door. The sack tumbled and smacked the ground.

Ben adjusted his goggles. Holding his breath, he burst from the cockpit into the grit and dust and the high-pitched hiss of the engine. Stabbing the sand with his spade, he started to dig as soon as his feet hit the ground. Not once did he glance back as the drop-shaped Little Bird ascended and sped away.

Soon the crunch of the blade against the ground was the only sound to be heard across the flat terrain.

It was a windless night. When the dust finally settled and the stars came back out, there was not a trace of the operator to be found anywhere.

An hour later, a thick layer of clouds moved in, as predicted by the weather report. It blotted out all light and the night became as dark as the guts of the earth.

The Syrian torture prison out in the desert, many miles west of Al Bukamal's circular fields, lay still. Only the occasional groans of sleeping inmates reliving their torments in anguished dreams could be heard. Remarkably, all lights in the installation were off. Probably because fuel for its generators was hard to come by these days. The darkness made child's play of stalking the place and its perimeter undetected.

Ben, donning night-vision binoculars, checked the four guard towers that rose like minarets of steel at the corners of the foursquare complex. They seemed to be unoccupied.

A lone sentry sat in a cubby hole by the gate. The man scratched himself languidly and yawned. Blinded by the night, the guard was unaware of the operator sneaking by on cats' feet barely twenty yards in front of him.

When the sentry heard a click of metal on metal by the gate, he wiped his drowsy eyes and fished for the flashlight. But when its yellow beam finally sliced through the darkness, there was nobody. Relieved, the guard switched the light off and went back to dozing.

Ben knew the compound's layout by heart, having studied derivative blueprints and sat shots for hours during the last few days. He knew near which doors heat signatures piled up, indicating increased guard activity. He also knew which prisoners' cells saw traffic. Most didn't see a lot. Only one cell's door saw a more-than-usual heat-signature pile-up according to the HD thermal imaging pictures. It was located in the middle of the eastern block and housed a recent arrival.

An American navy nurse.

The lady was blonde and probably meant to go up for sale in Beirut. Gulf sheiks loved blondes. Particularly when they had the extra benefit of blue eyes, as this one did.

That she was a member of the United States armed forces was of no concern to the Iraqis who passed her on to the Syrians, who in turn would pass her on to the Lebanese. She would disappear, never again to leave the harem in which she'd wind up to pat some big daddy's big belly. She'd garner a pretty penny for her captors, that was all that mattered.

But right now she was still right here.

Guided by his NV-gear, Ben arrived outside the eastern wall. He felt the cool wind on his face as he slipped the long-handled bolt cutter from his harness. He stretched and snipped off a yard-wide strip of the razor wire that topped the wall.

The thin metal fell away.

Ben put the bolt cropper back, jumped, and grabbed the top of the wall with both gloved hands. A second later he hoisted himself over the wall and entered the compound proper. There were no guard dogs. He blessed God under his breath for Arabs' disdain for dogs.

A quick look around revealed three T-55 tanks that stood in a row on the square by the gate. Ben Harrow already knew that they'd be there. Too bad he couldn't blow them up. But that would have constituted an act of war and he wasn't interested in starting a war with Syria—neither was the U.S. military that sent him here tonight.

Anyway.

Of greater interest to him were a couple of UAZ jeeps and Ural trucks parked along the wall nearby. Ben went over and glanced in through the passenger windows. Their glass was almost blind from windblown dust and dirt. Their tires were semi-flat.

In a corner he found a banged-up Peugeot with the key in the ignition.

Cautiously, he opened the door, reached in, and snatched the key.

Ben then walked over to the eastern block of cells and studied its back wall. He took his rubberized gloves off and ran his fingers over the cool concrete, feeling for nooks and crannies in the material.

One of Ben's more vaunted talents was his ability to climb up seemingly unclimbable surfaces. Once, he'd monkeyed up one of the two-hundred-yard concrete pillars that held up the Autobahn bridge near Braunsbach in Germany. When he arrived on the top, he ran a stretch and then jumped off again, sailing down into the valley hanging on a parachute that opened pretty much at the last moment. A concerned motorist called the Polizei, which arrived within ten minutes in a green-and-white Porsche, its one blue light flashing. But try as they might, they couldn't find the body of the apparent suicide diver anywhere.

This wall here tonight was no two-hundred-yard pillar. It belonged to a mere one-story building. Its concrete wasn't very smooth, either. Ben felt around on it. Soon his fingers found what they needed, his feet, too, and he began to climb. He inched up the wall like an oversized spider. Ten seconds later he stood on the flat roof of the cell block and looked out over the installation through his night-vision goggles.

Nobody saw him. The night was still pitch-dark.

He'd been waiting three days for this weather.

Ben rushed to the roof's southern edge, turned around and began to walk in measured steps. After forty-eight paces he stopped and gently sat his rucksack down. The roof was made of sandy plaster, fortified with nothing more than reeds from the nearby Euphrates. It served more to muffle the noises of the anguished inmates than to keep out the rain that never fell.

Ben put a ring of det-cord down, stuck a detonator on it, and, with his rucksack on his back, went to the far end of the roof. He fished a remote out of one his pockets and crouched down. His thumb felt the row of tiny buttons.

Ben depressed the first button.

The det-cord exploded with the briefest flash. Its super-heat cut a deep circle into the roof's plaster and sent some of its material into the cell below. Ben heard a woman groan inside. He rushed up to the circle and kicked it with his heel. Pieces fell away and a black hole opened in the roof. Ben knelt down.

Sharon? he whispered into the hole.

He heard another groan.

At that Ben jumped down into the cell, where he landed on his feet.

He saw her sitting in a corner, her hands chained to the wall, her mouth taped shut with silver duct tape. She stared into the darkness, unable to see a thing.

What have they done to you?

Ben crouched by her side and gently peeled the duct tape away. Once it was gone, he took her face in both of his hands and kissed her lips.

I've come to get you, babe, he said.

She shivered and said nothing.

He got up, took his bolt cropper, and cut off her shackles. Suddenly free, she slumped and slid to the ground, where she lay, panting. This didn't look good.

Can you walk? he whispered.

She nodded and got up on all fours. She wore BDU-pants and a white T-shirt. Her arms were thin. She shivered from the cold, not from fear. He had no jacket for her. She'd have to bear the cold for now. Ben saw, they'd chopped off her blonde hair and made a mess of it.

Sure? He counted on her being able to walk.

She nodded again.

Okay, Ben said. He swung his rucksack off his back and took a second NV-headset out, which he placed into her groping fingers. Put that on.

Sitting on the floor, Sharon did as told and he flicked the set on for her. A moment later she became aware of him. She got up and looked at him with insect eyes. A wan smile played on her lips.

Outside in the yard, voices became audible.

Ben looked up and pointed at the hole in the ceiling. He stood under it broad-legged, folded his hands and formed a stirrup with them, which he held out for her.

Sharon grabbed his shoulders and put her bare foot into the stirrup of his hands.

Ben catapulted her through the opening. She crawled onto the roof with ease, where she lay waiting. He then put his backpack on, scooted the lone chair in her cell to the spot under the hole, and climbed out himself.

They lay on the roof next to one another and peered into the yard below. A group of four or five somnolent soldiers with flashlights was milling about, hatless, their shirts hanging out. They had heard something, but couldn't make out what it had been.

Somewhere a generator sprung to life.

Suddenly the camp's flood lights came on, dousing the dismal place with yellow light, and a klaxon began to wail—only to die down after a few bleats. Likewise, the big lights on the watchtowers dimmed and faded away like dying suns.

The generator sputtered and died, and darkness returned.

Downstairs, the chatter got louder. Remote in hand, Ben watched the confused soldiers bump into one another. When the group had grown to around fifteen restless men that showed no sign of wanting to go back to bed, he pushed another button.

A second later, an impressive barrage of fireworks lit up the air to the north of the installation. The ground shook as charges went off nearby.

Wow!

The Americans were coming!

A major artillery attack appeared to be on its way. Their prison was about to be pounded into the ground.

Sure of their impending doom, the guards talked frantically among themselves. In the light from the flares they made mad dashes for the cars. While motors were revved, somebody opened the steel gate, and soon every vehicle but one rolled out of the compound. Last to leave was a Ural troop truck chased by several barefooted troops who'd barely slipped into their clothes a minute ago. They were pulled aboard by their friends. Then the truck got swallowed by the massive dust cloud the others had whipped up in their flight.

Who'd a thunk… Ben said.

Ben and Sharon went to the back edge of the roof, where he took her hand and lowered her to the ground. Once she was safely down, he jumped off, too.

This way, he said, pointing at the lone Peugeot the Syrians had left behind.

Sharon didn't question him. She walked to the passenger's side, found the door open, and got in. Ben scooted in behind the wheel, rammed the key into the ignition and turned it.

The engine sprang to life.

With lights off, he motored around the tanks and headed away from the open gate in the opposite direction: straight toward the southern wall, which was made of steel plates and therefore relatively thin. Ben floored the pedal while he raced toward the wall.

Sharon pulled the night-vision harness off her head. She dropped it in her lap and buried her face in her hands.

As the car accelerated, Ben's thumb came down on the remote in his hand once more. Two shaped charges attached to the wall on the outside went off. Lightnings flashed—and a five-yard portion of the prison's steel wall fell flat. Ben simply drove through the opening and raced out into the desert on wobbly tires.

It was a bumpy ride. Sharon steadied herself on the dash to keep from getting thrown around. But after no more than five minutes Ben slowed down and drove toward a group of rocks. Once there, they abandoned the car. By now the NV-gear was on Sharon's eyes again.

Let's go, babe, Ben said.

The cold gravel dug in to Sharon's bare feet. Ben, she said, I can't run on this.

No problem, Ben said. He slipped off his rucksack and body harness and set them down by her feet. Here, you put these on and I take you piggy-back.

A few moments later, Navy Seal Ben Harrow jogged across the expanse of the Iraqi-Syrian border desert with his rescued wife on his back.

Sharon!

Running was no problem. She was light as a feather. The fact that he held her legs under his arms made him giddy and he laughed out loud.

Sharon on the other hand wasn't given to boisterousness. She remained quiet. He felt her tears on his neck as he ran.

The GPS-screen in his NV-gear guided him toward a position he'd fixed earlier. Ben ran until he arrived by the shallow foxhole he'd scraped out of the ground a few hours ago.

Panting, he set Sharon down. He got on his knees and pulled on the camouflage netting that covered the furrow, creating an opening.