Recovery: V Plague Book 8

by Dirk Patton

  Turning the wheel I hit the gas and the cruiser shot out of the driveway with a snarl of exhaust. Accelerating, we blasted through the small town at 80 miles an hour. It was really a tiny place, not much more than a wide spot in the road, and when we cleared the far edge I tromped on the gas pedal and couldn’t stop myself from grinning as the speedometer swept past 100 and kept going.

  I settled in on 120 and had to glance at the knobs and buttons several times to figure out how to set the cruise control. Speed locked in, I glanced over at Katie who was studiously avoiding looking at the speedometer. She’s never been a calm passenger and I knew this was going to be a rough trip for her, but we needed speed.

  The car handled like a dream, settling down on its suspension and hugging the two-lane ribbon of asphalt. It was no less than I expected from a vehicle purposely modified for police use and was why I had chosen the law enforcement complex to find a car rather than stopping off at a dealership and taking something new off the lot.

  Katie began to relax and looked around the interior, opening the glove compartment then the small storage area in the armrest between the two front seats.

  “Need a pair of shades?” She asked, holding up a nice pair of Oakley wrap-around sunglasses.

  Smiling, I took them from her and slipped them on.

  “How do I look?” I asked, trying to see myself in the rearview mirror.

  “Just devastating, honey.” She said, reaching across and rubbing my smooth head.

  We drove for half an hour, covering sixty miles. The road was flat and smooth and I decided to push our speed higher, then remembered I was supposed to call my eye in the sky.

  “Is there Bluetooth in that sat phone?”

  Katie plucked it out of a cup holder, the charging cord stretching out from the power port on the dash. She turned the screen on and started looking through menus.

  “Yes, there is.” She said after a few moments. “Want me to set it up with the car so it’s hands free?”

  I nodded and she set to work.

  “Who are we calling?” She asked once the pairing was complete.

  “Speed dial 2,” I said. “A Navy Petty Officer in Hawaii that has access into a functioning satellite.”

  Katie pushed and held the button, a moment later the sound of a phone ringing blaring out of the car’s speakers.

  “Hello, sir.” Petty Officer Simmons answered before the second ring ended.

  “Hello, Petty Officer.” I said. “I’m on the road in a black and white state police interceptor. West bound on…” I paused, not sure what highway number I was on.

  “I’ve got you, sir. You’re the only thing moving for two hundred miles other than a Bradley. Stand by a moment.”

  There was close to a minute of typing and mouse clicking then she came back on the line.

  “I have eyes on you, sir, and I’m scanning ahead. You’re really moving. I’m tracking you at one twenty-three.”

  I glanced down at the speedometer, which was solidly on 120. I’d trust the multi-billion dollar NSA satellite over the instrument built into the Dodge.

  “How’s the road ahead?” I asked.

  “You’re clear all the way to US 183,” she said. “There’s a couple of cars crashed as you get to the intersection, blocking most of the road, but other than that it looks to be clear sailing.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “What are things like on the ground in Idaho?”

  “It just started snowing and there’s heavy overcast, so I don’t have them on visual any longer. I’m able to track them on thermal.” I didn’t like the tone in her voice.

  “What are you not telling me?” I asked.

  She was quiet for a long moment before continuing. “I’m getting other signatures on thermal. Stalking them, I think.”

  “Russians?” I asked, exchanging glances with Katie.

  “No. They’re smaller. I don’t think they’re human,” she said.

  “You mean infected? Spit it out, Petty Officer.”

  “I think there’s a pack of wolves on their trail, sir,” she said in a rush. “But, I can’t get a look. All I have is thermal and it’s not giving me a great image.”

  I was stunned into silence. Wolves? I didn’t think there were any left in North America. But then I’ve been wrong before.

  “One more thing, sir. That car you’re in will get you there in a hurry but they’re a long way back in the wilderness. You’re going to have to switch to a Jeep or something like that when you get there. And I’m guessing you don’t have cold weather gear.”

  “You would be correct on the gear,” I said.

  “OK. The last city of any size you go through will be Twin Falls, Idaho. I’m going to start looking there for a suitable vehicle and an outfitter that will have the gear you’re going to need. If I can’t find anything I’ll work my way back along your route until I find something.”

  “You’re a Godsend, Petty Officer,” I said. “Do you mind if I call you be your given name?”

  “Not at all, sir. It’s Jessica,” she said, sounding surprised and pleased at my request.

  “Thank you, Jessica. I’m John. Save all the “sirs” for a more official setting.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean John,” she said and I could hear the smile in her voice.

  “You’ve got the number. Call me if anything changes.” I broke the connection with a small button on the car’s steering wheel and pressed on the accelerator.

  The engine responded and the speedometer needle climbed steadily until it stopped on 140. There was more room in the throttle but the car wouldn’t go any faster. The tachometer was stalled a few hundred RPM below the red line and I suspected the computer was pre-programed to limit the engine before it could be revved high enough to cause damage.

  I had driven this fast before but it had been a long time. The world outside whipped by, making it seem as if we were flying very low. Someone who really knew what they were doing had performed whatever modifications had been made to the suspension. The car was stable and despite the break-neck speed I felt I had good control. Then I reminded myself that at this extreme speed even a tiny error on my part could end not only our rescue attempt but also our lives.

  “We’re about nine and a half hours to Twin Falls,” Katie said after scribbling some numbers on a traffic ticket pad and doing some math. “At this speed. Can you keep it up?”

  “Do we have a choice?” I asked without taking my eyes off the road.

  20

  “Got it, sir!” Martinez called out across the dark room, holding a file folder in the air and waving it over her head.

  Colonel Crawford dropped the stack of files he was thumbing through and stood, meeting her half way across the booking area of the jail section. She handed him the file and he looked at it then turned for the open side door.

  “Let’s go outside where there’s enough light to read,” he said and led the way.

  Checking the tab on the folder he verified it was the name the prisoner had given him. Walker, Johnnie Ray. Opening the file he flipped through the first several pages as Martinez looked over his shoulder.

  The first page was the booking sheet with basic information about the man and a mug shot paper-clipped to the top of the paper. The face in the photo matched the man he’d met. The form listed details about the person being incarcerated, including the date, time and location of the arrest, the arresting officer’s name and the reason for the arrest.

  The listed charge was possession of stolen property. Crawford kept turning pages until he found the report filed by the officer who had brought Walker in.

  An Oklahoma State Trooper had pulled him over for failing to signal a lane change at 0341, or 3:41 AM. The subject had been cooperative at first, providing his drivers license and proof of insurance, but had become agitated when asked what he was doing out so late at night.

  The Trooper had called in Walker’s name and when he learned the man was on probation for burglary he hadn�
��t needed permission to search the vehicle. Pulling Walker out and cuffing him, he’d placed him in the back seat of the patrol car. He had conducted a quick visual scan of the interior of the vehicle then popped the trunk.

  When he’d gotten a look at the stash of rifles, pistols and shotguns hidden beneath a thick blanket he’d called for backup and read the suspect his rights. They were in the middle of nowhere and it took close to half an hour for another Trooper to arrive.

  With two officers at the scene they began pulling the weapons out and recording serial numbers. A quick check over the radio of the first number he had written down and the Trooper was advised the rifle was reported as stolen in a burglary three weeks prior.

  Several hours later Johnnie Ray was booked into the jail. It turned out all of the firearms had been stolen and when the information was entered into the State Police computers a flag from the ATFE (Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives) on the suspect’s name popped up. The flag meant the Feds wanted him, and he was placed on a federal hold.

  But the Federal Agents that were scheduled to come get him never showed up. That night, several American cities were devastated by nuclear weapons and a deadly nerve gas was released in many others. Johnnie Ray Walker was forgotten, except by the local officers who kept the prisoners fed as the outside world crumbled.

  Colonel Crawford scanned several other documents, pausing to read one titled “Suspect’s Criminal History”. Walker had been in and out of jail and prison since he’d turned 18 and the Colonel suspected there was also a long juvenile record that wasn’t included in the history search. Burglary, armed robbery, possession of stolen property, assault, assault with intent, aggravated assault, possession of a prohibited explosive, possession of a prohibited firearm and a long list of misdemeanor charges.

  “He’s a real sweetheart,” Martinez commented.

  “I’m sure he’s just misunderstood,” Crawford grunted and closed the file.

  “Scott’s here, sir.” She said a moment later when they heard a machine gun fire a short burst at the front of the building.

  They walked to the corner in time to see Igor wheeling the gate open. Scott had the commander’s hatch up, his head sticking out of it. Martinez waved until he spotted them and waved back. The Bradley rolled through the opening and stopped, waiting for Igor to close the gate.

  “Always have to make an entrance, don’t you?” Martinez joked when the big vehicle pulled to a stop next to them.

  “Not me,” Scott answered. “It was our trigger happy Russian friend.”

  Igor had climbed onto the hull of the Bradley for the short drive inside the gate and jumped to the ground with a big grin. Martinez wondered if his English was getting better.

  “Is the Major on the road?” Scott asked.

  “About forty-five minutes ago,” Crawford answered, tapping his leg with the file folder he still held. “Get on the FSOC and see if you can find someone that can put you through to Dr. Kanger in Seattle. You’ll probably need to call Admiral Packard’s aide. Commander Jensen.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll let you know when I have someone,” Scott said, disappearing back into the Bradley a moment later.

  “May I ask what you’re thinking, sir?” Martinez asked as Irina emerged from the rear hatch and stretched her back.

  “I’m thinking that man in there is a real dirt-bag and not someone we want with us. But it’s really bothering me that he hasn’t turned. I want to have a conversation with the Doctor and see if it’s even remotely possible that we’ve found someone who’s immune.”

  “You really think that’s even possible, sir?” Martinez asked.

  “That’s why I want to talk to the expert,” Crawford said.

  “Could he be a Russian agent that was vaccinated before they sent him in?”

  “The Major asked the same thing, but I don’t think so. Not with this criminal record. I think he’s exactly what he appears to be.”

  “Maybe we should ask?” Martinez tilted her head in Irina’s direction, a moment later Crawford nodding and walking over to the Russian woman.

  “Captain Vostov,” he greeted her.

  “Colonel,” she met his eyes.

  “I have a question for you and I need you to be completely truthful with me.”

  “Of course, sir. There’s no reason not to be any longer.” She replied.

  “I know your KGB, now the SVR, as well as the GRU placed sleeper agents among the American population. We did the same to you. I’ve got a man inside the jail that hasn’t turned, and I can’t understand why, unless he was vaccinated. But he’s been in jail since before the attacks so there’s no chance he received any of the vaccine you brought us. Do you understand where I’m going with this?” Crawford asked.

  “I understand, Colonel. But I don’t know how I can help.”

  “Was vaccine sent to Russian agents in place ahead of the attacks?” He stood watching her intently, looking for any sign of deceit.

  “I don’t know, sir. It could have happened, but if it did I have no knowledge of it.”

  “I believe you,” he said after a few moments of looking intently into her eyes. “Is there any way for you to determine if someone is an agent?”

  “Without prior knowledge, no sir, there isn’t. If there was your FBI wouldn’t have had to work so hard to find them.”

  “I accept that,” he said. “Final question. Are you aware of any instances during the development of the virus where a test subject was found to be immune?”

  Irina stood for a moment, thinking, then shook her head. “Nothing that specific. All I can tell you is that I remember reading a document my Uncle gave me that discussed the project. It said the infection rate in a given population was predicted to be ninety-nine point nine-nine percent.

  “I don’t recall anywhere that the term immune, or immunity, was used, but it would seem to me that by extension point zero one percent of the population would not become infected. The US population at the time of the attacks was slightly over three hundred million. Estimating thirty million killed in the initial nuclear attacks and subsequent radiation and another one hundred million killed by the infected or each other that leaves one hundred and seventy million. Point zero one percent of that is seventeen thousand.”

  Crawford and Martinez stood staring at her, stunned at her cold calculation of the death toll of millions of Americans.

  “I’m sorry,” Irina said softly, looking down at the ground.

  “You simply answered my question, Captain.” Crawford said after a long pause.

  “Colonel, they’re connecting me to the SEAL team leader with Dr. Kanger in Seattle. Should have him on the line in a moment,” Scott shouted from the Bradley.

  “Ladies,” Crawford excused himself and headed for the vehicle.

  “You OK?” Martinez asked Irina when she saw a tear run down the Russian woman’s cheek.

  “So much death,” Irina answered. “All that blood. I feel like it’s on my hands just because I’m Russian.”

  21

  Navy SEAL Lieutenant David Sam tapped on the glass separating him from the biohazard lab. On the other side, wearing isolation suits, Dr. Rick Kanger and Joe Revard looked up from their work. They were deep inside the building that housed the Allen Institute for Cell Science on the shore of South Lake Union in Seattle, Washington.

  Kanger’s journey to get there from Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma City had been both exhilarating and terrifying. Within an hour of being pulled into a meeting with Colonel Crawford, he had been stuffed into a too tight G-suit then into the back seat of an F-15 that had rocketed off the runway like a screaming banshee.

  Once they had completed their mid-air refueling the pilot had gained altitude and pushed their speed to well above Mach 1, or the sound barrier. They had flown level and straight and in only ninety minutes the pilot had announced they were over Seattle.

  “Where are we landing?” Kanger asked. He was somewhat familiar with t
he area, having travelled there several times for conferences.

  “Whidbey Island Naval Air Station,” had been the reply.

  Kanger didn’t know where that was, or why they weren’t landing at the airport. Leaning his helmeted head to the side he looked down but there was nothing other than an impenetrable layer of clouds beneath the aircraft. Moments later the pilot pushed the nose of the aircraft over and they streaked down directly into the overcast.

  They came out of the clouds not far above the ground, rain sounding like the impacts of shotgun pellets when it spattered against the canopy. Whidbey Island was large and long, surrounded by a storm tossed, steel grey ocean. Turbulence buffeted the jet as they roared along over emerald green forests so dense the ground wasn’t visible.

  Soon they flashed over a small town, a fence passed under them and the F-15’s tires slammed onto a runway. They slowed to taxi speed quickly, the pilot falling in behind a Hummer outfitted with flashing orange lights and an illuminated “Follow Me” sign on the back.

  Pulling through into a large hangar, the pilot raised the canopy and shut down the engines. Cool, damp air mixed with the smell of jet exhaust and swirled into the cockpit. There were a couple of thumps as a portable staircase was wheeled against the side of the plane, then a young black man poked his head up. He was dressed in militaryish clothing, which lacked any name or rank insignia, and was well armed.

  “Dr. Kanger, I’m Lieutenant Sam, US Navy. Come with me, please.” He disappeared back down the stairs as quickly as he’d appeared.

  Kanger unstrapped himself and took the helmet and oxygen mask off, dropping them on the seat. He thanked the Air Force pilot for a safe ride and wished him good luck before stepping out onto the ladder and slowly climbing down. Lieutenant Sam and three other similarly dressed men stood waiting for him.

  “This way, please.” The Lieutenant said and turned, but Kanger held up his hand for him to stop.

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve been needing to pee for two hours. Where’s the restroom?” He asked.