Page 89 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
“Yes! Immediately! I demand it!”
The Vendor turned toward the young Indian in the flight suit.
“Rahul, release Mr. Al-Mawas from his contract.”
The Indian nodded and gestured to the other guests. They parted evenly. He then gestured toward the back of the platform with his gloved fingers.
Juan heard the high whine of servos and hydraulics behind the guests and the padding of heavy rubber feet hitting hard concrete.
Seconds later, a spiderlike robot skittered on eight composite legs across the platform and halted briefly.
A few mercs gasped in shock. Others cursed. The guests stared impassively.
The spider-bot stood about six feet tall. Its carbon-fiber body was a single platform, not divided by head and abdomen like a regular spider. What functioned for its head and eyes was a small, circular dome that rotated three hundred sixty degrees on the forward edge of the platform.
Rahul pointed at the Syrian’s cage.
The spider-bot sped effortlessly down the steps and toward the target cage. Its rubberized feet thundered across a piece of steel plating in the center of the floor. It halted inches from the Syrian’s door.
“Wait—” Al-Mawas moaned.
Too late.
The spider’s back opened and a short-barreled weapon emerged. Asudden gout of flaming napalm sprayed into the cage, setting the Syrian on fire.
The mercs yelled and cursed as Al-Mawas screamed in flaming agony, hurtling himself against the walls in a vain attempt to put out the fire. Within moments his screams became whimpering cries as he fell to the floor, mercifully blacking out as the unquenchable flames stole his life.
The room stank of gasoline, burnt hair, and charred flesh. Oily black smoke curled in tendrils out of the cage. Instantly, the overhead ventilation system vacuumed up the pollution with powerful fans and vented it all away. The room cleared of smoke and smell in less than twenty seconds.
“Contract terminated,” Rahul said.
“Thank you,” the Vendor said. “You may take your position now.”
Rahul bowed slightly. He gestured with his fingers without looking. The spider-bot turned one hundred eighty degrees and scrambled up the stairs, following Rahul out the rear exit.
The guests gathered back together on the platform.
“Unfortunately, that contract termination puts you down a very capable man. The good news is that you are now collectively over one million dollars richer.”
The room was too shocked to react.
Finally, Dragu? spoke up.
“How are we richer?”
“Ah, yes, the terms of the contract. Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we?”
The Vendor came down to the lower floor. “As I said before, my honored guests are here to evaluate a live-fire demonstration of my latest high-tech infantry combat system. It gives a single soldier the equivalent combat power of an entire platoon. You have just experienced a small taste of what that power entails.
“To evaluate the capabilities of my system, I recruited each of you for your demonstrated combat skills and experience. Your commanders, Plata and Dragu?, expertly forged you into a combat team andestablished sufficient unit cohesion. Your success in the various training modules is proof of that. In fact, you were so successful that we cut the training short.”
The Vendor turned toward the observers, who all nodded in agreement.
“I also recruited you because you are mercenaries who are highly motivated by money. In order to make the contest fair between you and Rahul, I needed to motivate you properly.”
“To make it fair tous?” the Brit said. “Let us out of these cages, mate, and I’ll tear that wet noodle of yours apart with my bare hands.”
“Trust me, you’ll be let out soon enough,” the Vendor said. “Believe me when I say you’ll wish I had left you locked in those cages.”
