Zero Option. Don Pendleton

willing heart. The thought of space travel and the machines that would take man there fascinated him. And this opportunity he had been presented with would allow him to be one of the first to taste this innovative technology. If it worked for him, it could later be adapted for deep-space exploration. A way of overcoming long-distance travel for future generations.

      If it worked.

      Buchanan had been given the downside of the project. It wasn’t guaranteed to be one hundred percent infallible. His participation was as a guinea pig. He would be monitored on a 24/7 basis. Every breath, every movement would be recorded, discussed, analyzed, until there was a definitive answer one way or the other. His private life would be near nonexistent, and even when he slept his vital signs would still be monitored. There would be nothing he would say or do that would go unrecorded in some way. There would also be discomfort during the initial stages. It would take time for him to become used to the implants as they slowly integrated with his own system, remaining dormant until the time he took up his position within the project itself and became as one with the machine that would assimilate him.

      The concept scared the hell out of Buchanan at first, and he had some sleepless nights. But he was man full of curiosity and he threw himself into the Zero program. As well as his innate need to know more, his being part of the project meant he had little time to dwell on his developing cancer. The mass of information he needed to absorb took over his waking hours. The project medical team also had him on a course of drugs designed to hold back the pain of his disease, so the weeks following his acceptance of the offer were extremely busy ones, allowing no time out for self-pity or periods of reflection on what might have been.

      The weeks passed in a blur, leaving Buchanan little time to think about anything else. Much of his waking time was spent with Dr. Saul Kaplan, the man who had both created and helped direct the entire project. Kaplan was a man of many talents, one of them being his ability to be able to both sympathize and to stimulate Buchanan when the strictures of his disease and the effects of the Zero treatment became overwhelming. The two men had become good friends. Buchanan had looked on Kaplan as his mentor, his adviser, and he was both shocked and dismayed when he was informed that Kaplan had withdrawn from the project. Something had made the creator of Zero step back and analyze what he was doing. For whatever personal reasons Kaplan had gone, leaving no indication of where he had gone, or why, or whether he would be back.

      Buchanan had felt betrayed. Lost. His only contact with reality had deserted him. He spent a few days in contemplation of his future before his natural optimism returned and he had, for want of no other avenue, thrown himself back into the project. Gradually things had returned to normal, or whatever passed for normal in Doug Buchanan’s new world. With his implant surgery behind him, Buchanan allowed himself to be immersed in the next stage of the project, spending hours connected to the computer database as it filled his head with information and instructions, the neural net inside his body drawing in the streams of data and filing them away for when they would be needed.

      And then the attack had come. One quiet night, when even Buchanan was relaxing.

      As with most surprise attacks it came suddenly, shockingly, the New Mexico night ripped apart by explosions and autofire. The crackle of guns and the blast of explosions. Now he hoped he could stay alive long enough to alert his superiors.

      The temperature had dropped considerably, the desert air chilling him. He tried to keep on the move, knowing that if he stopped too often, for too long, he might not be able to resume his walk. With his medication long overdue, Buchanan’s pain had become extreme. It was, he assumed, like drug withdrawal. His body cried out for relief and he was alternately hot, then cold, his joints aching where the implants were blending with his own living tissue, the neural network beginning its slow, agonizing transformation.

      When he checked his watch he saw he had been on the move for three hours. He wasn’t sure just where he was, but after a position check he knew he was walking in the right direction. The highway was dead ahead. It had to be. Doug Buchanan was no beginner when it came to search-and-locate procedures. It was something the Air Force drilled into its pilots from the start of their training. How to walk out of enemy territory with the minimum, or total lack, of any guidance equipment. They learned the location of stars in the night sky, the way to insure they were on course without the aid of a map or compass. So no matter how hurt he might be, as long as Buchanan could use his eyes and determine his position, he would locate the highway.

      If he had been in prime physical and mental condition, Buchanan would have heard and seen the old red Dodge truck coming. He had just come across a dusty, tire-marked dirt road, when his dulled senses warned him of danger.

      It was a shade too late.

      The instincts that had walked him across trackless miles of empty desert failed him at the last moment. Maybe he was tired. Weary from fighting off the effects of the change taking place inside his aching body, he didn’t see the pickup truck. It came barreling out of a dip in the trail, tires throwing up clouds of dust as it crested the rise only yards from him.

      The unexpected glare of the headlights engulfed Buchanan, pinning him against the desert backdrop like a butterfly to a collector’s board. He half turned, throwing up his hands to shield his eyes from the light. All he saw was the wall of light, then he picked up the roar of the engine as the driver stood on the brakes. The pickup dipped and rose like a bucking mustang. The rear slid from side to side, then it was on him. Buchanan put out his hands to ward it off, making a desperate lunge to get out of the way. He didn’t make it. The front of the truck caught him a glancing blow, not hard enough to kill him, but forceful enough to lift him off his feet and throw him in the air. He came down on the side of the track, hitting hard, coming to rest against a jutting outcrop.

      Stunned, his body in agony, Buchanan picked up the sound of the truck coming to a stop. Doors banged. It seemed a long way off, and then he heard voices. They were faint, and spoke in a language he couldn’t understand. The voices closed in on him. He felt hands touch him. He tried to resist.

      And that was all he remembered…

      CHAPTER ONE

      Nassau, Bahamas

      Jack Grimaldi pushed through the hangar door and made his way to the office on the far side. He could see Jess Buchanan through the glass partition. The young woman was bent over a high desk, working on a flight plan for an upcoming charter flight.

      The Stony Man pilot had known the young woman for some months, ever since she had been caught up in a mission involving Able Team. Grimaldi had stepped in when Jess had been threatened, dealing with the perpetrators. Since then he had visited her on Nassau whenever he could. The pair had a natural camaraderie that allowed them to enjoy each other’s company. This particular visit had added interest. Grimaldi had persuaded Mack Bolan to fly across to Nassau. The Executioner had taken one of his infrequent R&R breaks, and Grimaldi had gained a deal of satisfaction when Bolan had agreed to join him. The soldier had met Jess once before, so they were all anticipating a quiet few days. For Bolan and Grimaldi it would be a welcome break from the ongoing visits to the war zones and the ongoing struggles against the evil that ravaged the world.

      Jess glanced up as Grimaldi neared the office, waving a hand behind the glass. As usual when working, she wore coveralls and a long-peaked baseball cap over her blond hair.

      “Hey, Tex, how’s the Alamo?” she asked.

      Grimaldi smiled. The remark was a throwback to the first time they had met. Grimaldi had been using a cover ID that had him as a Texan. She sometimes teased him by recalling the cover name, just to catch him off guard.

      “Ha, ha, ha,” he said.

      As he drew near, he slipped an arm around her slim waist and kissed her on the cheek. Buchanan turned her head to eye him.

      “Is that the best you can do?”

      “During office hours. You never know when the boss might be around.”

      “I am the boss. Remember?”

      “Hell, so you are,” Grimaldi