That poisonous sea must be rising, starting to swamp the summit.
Her finger trembled on the rifle’s trigger, recognizing the futility of her foolish attempt to make a last stand here. No matter how many of the soldiers she killed, in the end they were all doomed.
She thought of Nikko, hiding under the tractor. She knew he would still be there, obeying her last command, ever loyal. She had hoped her sacrifice would at least protect him, allow him to be found by any rescuers dispatched by Bill Howard.
Nikko . . . I’m sorry.
A figure appeared through the window to her right. With a burning knot of anger in her gut, she fired a savage fusillade, aiming center mass, and watched with satisfaction as the man’s body was blown out of sight. A renewed barrage of return fire tore through the store. It sounded like a thousand chain saws taking down a forest. Blasted fragments of dry wood rained down all around her.
She ducked lower but kept her rifle in position on the counter. Whenever she spotted a shadow move, she fired at it. At some point she had begun to cry. She only knew it when her vision blurred, requiring her to wipe her eyes.
She sank to her knees for a second, dropping out of view, struggling to comprehend her tears. Was it fear, desperation, anger, grief?
Likely all of the above.
You’ve done all you could, she thought, trying to reassure herself, but the thought brought no comfort.
8:52 P.M.
Kendall sat dully in his seat, strapped again in place. He studied the landscape below, trying to discern where he was being taken. They had finally crossed beyond the pall of nerve gas, leaving the mountains behind. They now appeared to be heading east over the Nevada desert. But the dark terrain below was featureless, offering no landmarks.
The large man seated across from him had been in a gruff conversation with the pilot for most of the flight. Kendall tried to eavesdrop as well as he could while feigning disinterest, but much of their communication had been in some obscure Spanish patois. Some phrases he could glean; others were gibberish.
If he had to guess the team’s origin, he would plant a flag somewhere in South America. Colombia, maybe Paraguay. This conclusion was perhaps biased because of the assault team’s appearance. They were clearly paramilitary, all of the same nationality. To a man, they were small of stature, with rounded faces and pinched eyes, their pocked skin the color of dark mocha with some freckling. The exception to this was their leader. He stood close to seven feet, a giant for any nationality.
From the conversation, Kendall was fairly certain the man’s name was Mateo, while the pilot was Jorge.
As if drawn by his thoughts, the scarred man turned to him. He brandished a knife. Kendall quailed back, fearing his intent, but the man grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and turned him enough to slice free the plastic ties from his wrists.
Once his hands were freed, Kendall gladly rubbed the raw skin, wincing at the tenderness. He considered going for the rifle resting on the far seat, but he knew how fast the other could move. Any such attempt would likely only earn him another blow to his skull, and his head still ached from being butted by that rifle earlier, a lesson well learned.
The pilot reached back and handed Mateo a cell phone, which he in turn passed to Kendall. “You listen. Do as told.”
Kendall saw a call had already been placed. The caller ID simply read UNKNOWN.
He lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he asked, hating how sheepish he sounded.
“Ah, Dr. Hess, it’s high time we talked again.”
Kendall felt his blood sink.
It cannot be . . .
Still, he recognized the voice. The rich tenor and the British accent were unmistakable. Kendall had no doubt the man on the other end of the line was the one who had orchestrated the attack.
He swallowed hard, knowing that matters were a thousandfold worse than he had ever suspected. Despite the impossibility of it, he could not dismiss the truth.
I’ve been kidnapped by a dead man.
8:55 P.M.
At the center of a growing firestorm, Jenna crouched behind the counter of the general store. Holes riddled the walls. Wood dust filled the deafening space. The escalating blasts threatened to deafen her. All that kept her safe was the thick-planked bulk of the counter. But even that refuge could not last much longer under such a barrage.
Then a new noise intruded.
A heavy thump-thumping.
She pictured the assault team’s helicopter returning, intending to extract the men here. But a moment later, a loud explosion burst from the location of the heaviest gunfire. She felt the concussion like a fist to the chest.
Then another blast to her right.
Dazed, she rose back up. The hail of rounds through the storefront had suddenly stopped, but not the gunfire. In fact the firefight grew more intense out there—but it was no longer aimed at her position.
Confused, she stood, keeping her rifle raised.
What was—
A dark shape leaped up directly in front of her. A hand grabbed the barrel of the rifle and yanked the weapon out of her surprised grip. It was the man whom she had Tasered earlier. Plainly he had been only unconscious, not dead. In her desperation, she had failed to check his status.
He lunged at her with a dagger.
She twisted away at the last second, but the sharp blade cut a line of fire across her collarbone. The momentum of the thrust carried the man’s torso halfway over the counter. She snatched the X3 from its holster, jammed it against his eye, and pulled the trigger. The explosion of the weapon’s last cartridge blew the man’s head back.
He collapsed limply, sprawled across the counter.
Fueled by adrenaline, she rolled across the top and retrieved the rifle. Gasping, she stumbled toward the doorway. Already the gunplay outside had died down to sporadic bursts, and by the time she reached the doorway, even that had ended.
All that remained was the bell-beat of a helicopter’s rotors.
She searched the smoky skies.
Shapes fell out of the night.
Parachutists.
They dropped toward the fires below. Night-vision gear obscured their faces; assault rifles were held in their hands. She watched a paratrooper fire into the ghost town, followed by a cry from below. Farther out, a military helicopter hovered into view and lowered toward the meadow.
Jenna could guess the origin of this rescue force. The U.S Marine Corps maintained their Mountain Warfare Training Center only thirty miles from Mono Lake. They must have been mobilized as soon as the mayday had been sent out from the base. Those last chilling words would have drawn a swift response.
Kill us . . . kill us all.
But how had the Marines found her so quickly? Was it the fires?
Then she guessed the more likely reason. She pictured her abandoned truck, the deflated airbag. The crash would have triggered an automatic GPS alert. Bill Howard must have picked it up after her last attempt to communicate with him was cut off. Knowing him, he would have sent out an immediate SOS with her last known location.
Relief swept through her, but she also remembered the convulsing figure of one of the assailants. The paratroopers were dropping right toward that rising tide of toxin. She had to warn them of the danger.
Regardless if there were any remaining enemy on the ground, she abandoned her shelter and ran out into the open. She waved an arm toward the closest parachutist. She cringed as his weapon swung toward her.
“I’m with the park rangers!” she shouted up at him.
The weapon remained fixed on her until the paratrooper landed. With one hand, he unhooked his chute and let it billow away. Others struck the ground all around the hilltop and out in the ghost town, preparing to mop up.
“Jenna Beck?” the Marine called to her, reaching her side. With his night-vision gear still in place, he cast a menacing figure.
She shivered, but not from fear of him. “It’s not safe here.”
&nb
sp; “We know.” He grabbed her forearm. “We’re to escort you to the helicopter, get you to safety. But we need to move fast. The wash of the blades will only keep the gas at bay a little longer.”
“But—”
Another Marine joined them and grabbed her other arm, squeezing painfully the bullet graze on that side. They manhandled her swiftly toward the waiting helicopter. The other paratroopers swept to either side.
“Wait,” she said, struggling to free her arms.
She was ignored.
A shout rose to her left. One of the enemy rose out of hiding, a pistol in hand. She recognized him as the man whose leg she had shattered earlier. Rifles pointed, but they refrained from immediately shooting. One of the Marines rushed toward the man’s blind side, clearly intending to take him as prisoner.
But the man put the pistol to his own head and pulled the trigger.
Jenna glanced away, sickened.
Clearly the assault team was under orders not to be captured or interrogated. Again she was struck by their unwavering sense of duty. Whoever they were, they were deadly earnest in their purpose.
Reaching the open meadow, the two Marines hauled her between them. Her toes barely touched the dirt. They reached the large transport helicopter, the powerful rotor wash half blinding her with blown dust and dirt.
No.
She tried to dig in her heels. Failing that, she kicked the paratrooper on her left. She struck him a glancing blow to his knee. Caught by surprise, he stumbled to the side, releasing her.
She swung around to the ghost town, raised her freed arm, and planted two fingers in her mouth. She whistled loudly and sharply, a piercing summons.
“We don’t have any more time,” the Marine clutching her said.
His companion returned and together they herded her toward the open passenger cabin. The other eight Marines came pounding up to join them. She struggled at the doorway.
“No! Wait! Just a few seconds more.”
“We don’t have those seconds.”
She was lifted and shoved inside. The rest of the rescue team piled in after her. Amid the chaos, she kept a firm hold on a handgrip near the open doorway, searching the smoky meadow, the edges of the ghost town.
C’mon, Nikko.
She didn’t have a clear view of the tractor where she had left her partner. Was he still alive? She remembered the thunderous blasts that had heralded the arrival of the Marines. They must have fired rocket-propelled grenades to soften the enemy. One of the curling ribbons of smoke was near where the rusted tractor was located.
In her attempt to save Nikko, had she gotten him killed instead?
With everyone on board, the helicopter’s engines roared louder. The wheels lifted free of the grass.
Then she spotted movement, a shape racing through the scrub brush from the edge of the ghost town.
Nikko.
She whistled again for him. He sprinted even faster toward the rising helicopter, but the craft was already yards above the ground. Refusing to abandon him, she leaped out the open cabin door and landed in a hard crouch in the sandy dirt.
Angry shouts rose above her.
Then Nikko was there, leaping into her arms, knocking her down on her backside. He panted in her face, wriggling his relief. She hugged him tightly, ready to face whatever was to come—as long as they did it together.
Then hands grabbed her from behind, hauling her up. Without the wheels ever touching the ground, the helicopter had lowered enough to retrieve them.
She clung to Nikko, carrying him with her into the cabin. She landed on her back, Nikko on top of her.
The door slammed at her heels.
The Marine who had first grabbed her leaned over her. He had ripped away his night-vision gear, revealing a young, rugged face with a scrub of dark stubble. She expected to be admonished, to be dressed down for her foolhardy action.
Instead, he clapped her on the shoulder and pulled her to a seated position. “Name’s Drake. Wasn’t alerted about the dog,” he said in an apologetic tone. “Marines never leave a soldier behind. Even a four-legged one.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He shrugged and helped her up into a seat, then gave Nikko a good scratching around his neck. “Handsome fella.”
She smiled, already liking the guy. Besides, the same could be said for the Marine.
Handsome fella.
Nikko danced a bit on his paws, trying to look everywhere at once, but he kept one haunch firmly against her shin, refusing to be separated from her.
I feel the same way, buddy.
She stared out the window as the helicopter tilted to the side. She caught the distant silvery glint of Mono Lake, still free of the spreading cloud of toxin. If the Marines knew about the nerve gas, then likely word had reached Bill Howard and he was already instituting an evacuation of the immediate area.
The helicopter swung and headed away from the lake.
Frowning, she faced Drake. “Where are we going?”
“Back to MWTC.”
She turned to the window. So they were flying back to the Mountain Warfare Training Center. Not a surprise considering the research base had been a military operation in the first place. Still, suspicions rang through her.
Drake stoked that worry with one final detail. “Apparently there’s a man from D.C. who really wants to talk to you. He should be getting to the center about the same time as us.”
Jenna didn’t like the sound of that. She bent down and gave Nikko a good rub, while covertly freeing her cell phone from his collar. With her back turned to the group, she slipped it into her pocket. Until she understood more, she intended to play her cards close to her chest. Especially after all she had gone through, all she had risked.
“Once he debriefs you,” Drake finished, “you should be able to go home.”
She didn’t respond, but she tightened her grip on her hidden phone, thinking of that Washington bureaucrat.
Whoever you are, mister, you’re not getting rid of me that easily.
6
April 27, 9:45 P.M. PDT
Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest, California
“We’re on final approach,” the pilot announced over the radio. “We’ll be wheels down in ten.”
Painter stared below the wings of the military aircraft as a meadow came into view, nestled high within the Sierra Nevada Mountains. A few lights shone from a cluster of buildings and homes down there, marking one of the most remote U.S. bases. The Mountain Warfare Training Center occupied forty-six thousand acres of the Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest. It was literally in the middle of nowhere and at an elevation of seven thousand feet, the perfect place to train soldiers for combat operations in mountainous terrain and in cold-weather environments. Classes here were said to be the most rigorous and daunting anywhere.
“Have you heard anything new?” Lisa asked him, stirring from the jump seat next to him, a pile of research notes stacked on her lap. She looked at him over a pair of reading glasses, something she had taken to wearing of late. He liked the look.
“Gray and the others are still working with Dr. Raffee back at Sigma command. They’re gathering intelligence about what was really going on at that station. It seems only a handful of people had intimate knowledge of Dr. Hess’s secret research.”
“Project Neogenesis,” Lisa said.
He nodded with a sigh. “As project leader, Hess kept any details limited to a small circle of colleagues. And most of them were on-site when whatever containment was breached. The status of those at the base remains unknown. Until that toxic cloud dissipates or neutralizes, no one can get near the site.”
“What about my request for a shipment of biohazard suits? Properly equipped, we should be able to survey the area on foot.”
He knew she wanted to lead that expedition. It chilled him to picture her venturing into that toxic miasma wearing a self-contained isolation suit, like a deep-sea diver in hellish waters. “For now, until we kno
w more, no one goes near there. Evacuations are still continuing with the help of local authorities and the military. We’re cordoning off a fifty-mile hot zone around the site.”
She sighed and glanced toward the small window next to her seat. “It still seems amazing that something like this could’ve happened. Especially with no one knowing what was going on at the deepest levels of that base.”
“You’d be surprised at how common that is. Since 9/11, there’s been a huge spike in biodefense spending, resulting in a slew of new Level 4 labs popping up across the country. Corporate-funded, government-backed, university-run. These labs are dealing with the worst of the worst, agents that have no vaccine or cure.”
“Like Ebola, Marburg, Lassa fever.”
“Exactly, but also bugs that are being engineered—weaponized—all in the name of preparing for the inevitable, to be a jump ahead of the enemy.”
“What sort of oversight is there?”
“Very little, mostly independent and piecemeal. Right now there are some fifteen thousand scientists authorized to work with deadly pathogens, but there are zero federal agencies charged with assessing the risks of all of these labs, let alone even keeping track of their number. As a consequence, there’ve been countless reports of mishandling of contagious pathogens, of vials gone missing, of poor records. So when it comes to an accident like this one, it was not a matter of if but of when it would happen.”
He stared out the window, toward the south, toward that pall of toxic smoke. He had already been informed about the countermeasures released by the base: an engineered blend of a paralytic agent and a nerve gas, all to thwart what might have escaped, to kill any living vector that might transmit it or allow it to spread.
“The genie’s out of the bottle,” he mumbled, referring not only to events here but also to the rapid escalation of bioengineering projects going on across the country.
He turned back to Lisa. “And it’s not only these sanctioned facilities we must worry about. In garages, attics, and local community centers, homegrown genetics labs are sprouting up everywhere. For a small price, you can learn to do your own genetic experiments, even patent your creations.”
The 6th Extinction Page 6
