Never Look Back

by Ridley Pearson

  “Energy from biomass?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But is it cost-effective?”

  “We hope so. We’re much closer than anyone else. Our hydrolysis rate and yield are outstanding, tenfold over any other fermentation process.”

  “But that would mean it’s toxic: it would react on any organic matter, would it not?”

  “Yes, extremely toxic in its present form. That is another problem. But of course a good dose of salt water kills it instantly.”

  “But if it were to escape?”

  Stuhlberg cocked his head. “Impossible. Each internal section of the lab is individually sealed off, in the event of contamination. There are seven independently controlled sections, each with its own sensor and enviro-sealed doors.” He added, “No chance of escape.”

  Borikowski thought, That’s what you think. He knew of the microbiological sensors placed throughout the complex. He also knew that if anything went wrong now, he would be sealed inside without means of escape.

  Only suicide.

  And it was for this reason he hoped there would be no problems.

  The two removed their winter overcoats, placing them in electronically accessed lockers.

  Borikowski left his sport coat on, unnoticed by the excited Stuhlberg, covering it with a medical-green scrub jacket. He sat on a small aluminum mesh bench and slipped into the surgical scrub pants.

  Both men obtained disposable shoe covers, hair covers, and facial masks from labeled blue-and-white cardboard boxes, which were lined up on a glass wall shelf. They donned the protective gear, checking in mirrors for loose hairs, and carefully molding the thin metal strips of the masks over the bridges of their noses. They looked exactly like surgeons.

  Stuhlberg said, “Today, I wanted to get you acquainted with the procedures, introduced to my two colleagues, and caught up on some of the technicals. One hour lunch at one, on site. Antigen demonstration following lunch and then an informal discussion, question-and-answer period for you. We’ll have you back by cocktails.” He smiled.

  “Busy,” replied Borikowski.

  They left the locker room, doors closing behind them. Passing through each sealed doorway, Borikowski felt more and more isolated.

  Then, the sliding door to the decontamination booth opened, and Borikowski entered alone, at Stuhlberg’s request. He closed his eyes—as another electronic voice insisted—and felt a quick pulse of heat surround him. A strange smell filled the tiny area, followed by the same recorded voice okaying entrance to the Vaughnsville Project’s “clean room.”

  The thick glass door slid quietly aside. Two voices came alive, the words welcoming a man who was not here, a man lying unconscious, deeply drugged, in a motel room.

  Borikowski shook their hands, acknowledging and returning introductions: Dr. Alan Nostravich and Dr. Mellissa Sherman. The two he had expected. Stuhlberg followed him into the lab. It happened so quickly, no one even heard Stuhlberg’s greeting.

  Borikowski unbuttoned the lab jacket and withdrew the silenced weapon. Then he began firing. Nostravich took a drug dart in the thigh, but fell across the countertop, breaking beakers and test tubes and causing a tremendous roar. Mellissa Sherman screamed and Borikowski quickly shot her in the chest. She fell to the tile floor, bleeding slightly from her right breast and thinking she was dying. But she was not.

  Nostravich was. Although Borikowski’s DS superiors had insisted there was to be no killing, they did not know of Nostravich’s bad heart. For him, there was indeed no hope—his horror was quickly hooded by the darkness of death.

  Stuhlberg rushed the intruder, his head low, arms out straight. He careened into Borikowski and pushed him to one side. Then he lost his balance and fell to the tile. Borikowski was more shocked than anything. This was the last thing he might have expected. He bumped into some equipment and spilled it onto the floor. Stuhlberg was up again and charged straight ahead. This time Borikowski fended him off effortlessly. He took hold of Stuhlberg’s left arm, twisted it behind the man’s back, and shoved him to the floor. But Stuhlberg continued. He spun quickly and was ready to try again when Borikowski kicked him violently in the stomach.

  The doctor vomited and sat down on the tile, defeated.

  Borikowski looked at the old man with a peculiar expression. He waited, but the fight in Stuhlberg was used up. Borikowski headed for the stainless steel refrigerator across the room. Next to the refrigerator was a computer console.

  Stuhlberg uttered faintly, “No!”

  Borikowski ignored him, taking a moment to inspect his victims quickly. Mellissa Sherman was fine except for her neck, which was twisted awkwardly to her left; he moved her head so that she might breathe more easily. When he touched Nostravich’s neck and found no pulse, he shrugged. Everything else has gone wrong with this assignment, he thought. No reason this should have gone smoothly. Fuck your mother, Nostravich! Now I’ve murdered an American scientist!

  He located a box of latex surgical gloves amid the beakers and test tubes scattered by Nostravich’s fall. He snapped on a pair.

  Eric Stuhlberg quivered against the white wall, where he now sat with his knees tucked up under his chin. He said, “I should have guessed a Sunday. Frank knew,” referring to Halleran’s earlier questioning in the truck.

  Borikowski glanced at him coldly. “They’re only drugged, Doctor,” he said, lying, but trying to stabilize Stuhlberg, who appeared to be working himself into a stroke or heart failure.

  Stuhlberg’s face reddened. His jaw trembled, and then he roared, “This is scientific research! You have no business here! You… bastard!” He continued to stare at the wall in front of him, rather than at Borikowski. “This is non-military! Who are you? Who are you?”

  “You’re an old man, Doctor. Old men do stupid things sometimes. Your niece is young. Keep that in mind. Before you attempt being a hero, look at these.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the Polaroids. He dropped them onto the floor and kicked them toward Stuhlberg, who picked them up.

  Ellen Bauer was tied to a kitchen chair. She was naked and her lip was bleeding.

  Stuhlberg looked away, but he had already seen her face. “Ellen? You took Ellen? You involve my family!? Who are you?!”

  Borikowski tugged at the rubber of each glove, pulling them on even more tightly. They snapped in place. “She is our hostage. You will remember this, Doctor. You will cooperate with me fully; if you do not…” He paused. “I’m certain you have a fertile enough imagination.”

  “Corbett, you’re a traitorous monster.”

  “If the operation goes correctly, she will be freed unharmed. Clear?”

  Stuhlberg glared.

  Borikowski bent over and jerked Stuhlberg’s chin to afford them eye contact. He repeated, “Clear?”

  Stuhlberg yelled, “You must not proceed with this! This is my project! You don’t know what you’re—”

  “Quiet! You must think of Ellen.”

  Stuhlberg looked as if he might attempt a fight. He struggled to his feet. “Are you insane? Do you know me? Do you know Eric Stuhlberg? Obviously not!” The hunched, white-haired man approached the agent, step by heavy step. “You assume I will obey you in order to protect my Ellen.” Stuhlberg was breathing heavily and staring at the intruder.

  “Doctor!” Borikowski barked. He entered a cipher into the computer’s keyboard. The green screen cleared and then displayed a menu of possible commands.

  Stuhlberg hesitated and stopped his approach.

  A cursor blinked on the first choice.

  Borikowksi selected the third choice on the menu, and when prompted, entered a second alpha-numeric code, which resulted in a short, high-pitched beep. The stainless steel storage compartment could be opened now.

  “This is impossible,” proclaimed the stunned Stuhlberg.

  Borikowski took hold of the handle. If either code was incorrect, then by turning this handle he would seal himself inside his own tomb.

  “Don�
��t do that!” demanded the old scientist. “You must not—”

  But then Borikowski lifted the handle, and the refrigerator opened.

  He stared in at six shelves, each holding eight aluminum containers stacked in pairs. The containers were the size of a college dictionary and each was held shut by a series of clip latches. There were twenty-four numbered series, two boxes to a series; an alpha-numeric, five-digit filing code facing out, and written by hand.

  Borikowski selected two of the boxes, and withdrew them gently, placing them onto the counter. He then shut the door and entered another command into the keyboard.

  A single ping rang out. Like a doorbell.

  Borikowski, one small container in each hand, faced Stuhlberg. “Let’s go.” He motioned his chin toward the exit.

  “You have underestimated your opponent, Corbett,” announced Stuhlberg. “Yes. You have underestimated Eric Stuhlberg.”

  “Stop there,” Borikowski demanded, seeing the rage in Stuhlberg’s eyes.

  “Two lives are nothing when compared to this project.” He looked around the laboratory. “This… this is my project!! And you will not take it.”

  Stuhlberg again charged Borikowski like a speared bull and slammed into him with enough force to knock him to the ground. The containers crashed to the floor and this stole both men’s attention, for the latch on one of them had popped open and the seal was cracked. While Borikowski’s attention was fixed on the container, Stuhlberg took hold of a beaker and attempted to smash it into Borikowski’s face, but the agent moved his head, and the beaker broke in Stuhlberg’s hand, slicing two of his fingers. A glass fragment cut Borikowski’s neck. Borikowski rolled out from underneath the man and crushed the sole of his shoe onto Stuhlberg’s throat. The doctor’s eyes widened, and his face turned fire engine red. Borikowski held his foot there, pushing even harder. Stulhberg was attempting to hold the foot back, but was losing. He was being choked to death.

  “You stupid old man.” Borikowski reached for his weapon and fired a dart into the man’s chest. Stuhlberg’s right arm lurched up, then fell slack to the tile.

  Borikowski touched his neck and felt the blood. He bent down quickly and latched the lid to the container closed, sealing it.

  He pushed a button on the wall and the decontamination booth opened. He set the containers on the floor inside and dragged Stuhlberg into the small booth with him, before shutting the door with another push of a button and awaiting the completion of the fast decontamination process. Then the recorded voice thanked him and the door opened.

  It required two trips to move both Stuhlberg and the boxes of bacteria safely into the locker room. He dragged Stuhlberg over the slick tile floor, through the air-sealed doorway, and leaned him against the lockers, as he continued his work.

  Borikowski opened the briefcase Liz Johnson had given him at the motel. He then placed the numbered containers next to the briefcase, taking care to inspect and to adjust the graduated dials that fronted two electronic boxes, both of which were held snugly inside the briefcase’s custom-cut foam rubber lining. One of these—the transmitter—monitored atmospheric pressure, and if triggered, would radio an alarm to both of the wristwatch devices he wore. The other piece of equipment, a receiver, awaited a signal from these same two wristwatches—modified Japanese jogging watches that measured Borikowski’s heart rate and blood pressure—and was wired to a small amount of plastic explosive. Borikowski gently placed the boxes containing the recombinant bacteria into their respective holes in the foam rubber, and after checking the dials once more, closed the briefcase, locking it.

  Then the alarm went off.

  Borikowski looked around and saw nothing unusual. Then, from the door to the locker room, he saw a red light flashing above the entrance to the laboratory. A second alarm and light began flashing above the decontamination booth.

  He worked quickly, fearing he might be sealed underground at any moment. He faced the far wall, where an unseen camera recorded his every movement. He held up his wrists, displaying the devices to the camera. To the blank wall he said, “My pulse is being monitored electronically. If you kill me, or sedate me, an explosion will open the briefcase and release its contents into the atmosphere. Dr. Stuhlberg is my hostage. No harm will come to him if you cooperate.”

  Hurriedly, he checked the clip to the gun and then slapped it into the butt of the automatic: four darts remained. He removed his scrubs, shedding them onto the tile, and then, briefcase in hand, dragged Stuhlberg to the elevator.

  A third alarm sounded, and the doors to the laboratory swished shut behind him.

  He hit the button. The elevator’s doors opened.

  Borikowski was but two steps into the barn when he realized the alarms were not ringing up here yet. He reasoned that this was, after all, supposed to be a dairy barn, and perhaps for reasons of security, the alarms would not ring here. He did not know.

  He caught one of the older agents by surprise, and silently shot at him. The tiny darts had an accurate range of fifty-three feet. Still, this shot missed the man’s chest and embedded in the fat around the stomach. The drug took an extra few seconds to take effect, and in this time the sixty-year-old agent/farmer completed two full strides toward Borikowski. An arm’s reach away, he tumbled to the dirty cement floor and slept.

  Halleran calmly entered the area with a cup of steaming coffee in hand, but then saw the unconscious man and Dr. Alex Corbett holding a gun. His reactions immediate and professional, he dropped his cup of coffee, quickly withdrew his weapon, and fell to the manure-and-hay-covered floor. Halleran aimed. The puddle of spilled coffee snaked toward an elbow.

  Borikowski, shielded behind the wood of a stall, fired first, sighting ten inches above Halleran’s head to accommodate the dart’s poor trajectory.

  The dart embedded in the man’s cheek.

  Halleran fired wildly, hitting a truck headlight and spreading the glass.

  Borikowski fired again and hit him in the shoulder.

  The deafening report of Halleran’s gun brought another of the older men into the area. Borikowski thought, Only one dart remaining.

  He fired carefully, before the man saw him. The last dart lodged in the man’s thigh and he staggered drunkenly before falling forward, impaling his neck on a upturned hay fork. His throat gurgled and sucked for air. He twitched liked a fish out of water, and then became still.

  Leaving the briefcase on the floor, Borikowski hurried to open the barn’s door. It was operated by a switch to the right, which Borikowski threw. Then he ran back to the truck. Some rain and wind found its way into the widening crack of the rising door.

  He dragged Stuhlberg from the grain room to the truck, and placed him face down on the floor behind the front seat, covering him with a canvas tarpaulin that he found in the supply room to his left.

  Borikowski was not concerned with being some distance from the briefcase—the transmitters worked efficiently up to a quarter mile away, and even then, would beep for fifteen seconds prior to detonation.

  Stuhlberg’s body covered, Borikowski placed the pickup in reverse and his foot on the accelerator.

  And then they drove away.

  1:03 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  His green phone rang.

  Terry Stone pulled the receiver to his ear and said, “Go.”

  “ORANGE! The store has been sold. Repeat. The store has been sold.”

  Although the line remained open, whoever had spoken was no longer there.

  Stone tilted back in his black padded throne, the phone receiver still in hand, waiting for the trace to go through as Code Orange dictated. He loosened his tie, amazed at how light-headed he was. His heart hurt. He sucked for more air, suddenly feeling suffocated. Terry Stone called it indigestion.

  Janie finally said, “ORANGE back, sir: Vaughnsville, Ohio; rated Level Five.”

  “Thank you. I’m locking in,” he said, pushing a button beneath his desk’s center drawer, which thr
ew a bolt on his door, assuring privacy. He sipped his decaf and waited for his chest pain to subside, which it did.

  He knew little about the Pentagon’s Vaughnsville Project, only that a Level Five rating classified it as an important laboratory that few people would even know about. All detailed information would have been stored in two separate databases: one, a government computer center in Ohio; the other, a data center at the Pentagon.

  His call to Secretary of State William Daly was placed immediately. “Bill? Terry Stone here.”

  “Yes, Terry.”

  “We have an international violation here.”

  “In the form of?”

  “A scramble is not possible.”

  “Can you stop by?”

  “I think it had better be a room over here, if that’s all right.”

  “Two hours?”

  “I should have something by then.”

  “See you then.”

  4:09 P.M.

  Montreal, Canada

  The cab pulled to a stop in front of the phone booth, and Andy climbed into the back seat. He slammed the rear door, saying, “New Holland, please.”

  The knitted cap nodded and the cab began to move forward. The rearview mirror was aimed at the seat again. The meter was running.

  The cabbie began. “I insisted on speaking with you because I have confirmed that the Soviets have moles in both the NSA and the SIA, and this information is critical to your assignment, and I didn’t want to risk compromising the information because that would leave my own position tentative at best. Do you understand?”

  Andy admitted, “I had wondered. Yes. I understand.”

  “The woman you’re looking for checked in last night. She’s in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan. I don’t know which hotel, but I do know for a fact that she’s on orders not to leave the room.”

  “You’re certain? That’s very importa—”

  “Yes, absolutely. By the way, you—or whoever—did well in blowing his cover to the press. The Uppers raised hell! He’s forced to keep her nearby now, in case he needs another face change. And because the press reported him traveling alone, they will travel together, so you had better find her. And you better be quick about it. They’ll move fast now.”