by Bob Mayer
0:19 TO BACK UP BATTERY DEPLETION AND CONTAINMENT LIFE SUPPORT SYSTEM FAILURE.
CUBE OPENING SEQUENCE ACCESSED.
OPEN CUBE ONE? (YES OR NO)
Stan's forefinger hunted over the keyboard and slowly answered the glowing question with three letters: YES.
0:19 TO BACK UP BATTERY DEPLETION AND CONTAINMENT LIFE SUPPORT SYSTEM FAILURE. CUBE OPENING SEQUENCE ACCESSED.
CUBE ONE OPENED.
OPEN CUBE TWO? (YES OR NO)
Stan answered again: YES.
The screen briefly cleared and a new message appeared.
CUBES ACCESSED.
1:19 TO BACK UP BATTERY DEPLETION.
CUBE CONTAINMENT SYSTEM BREACHED.
INNER CONTAINMENT DOOR SECURE.
OUTER CONTAINMENT DOOR SECURE.
ACCESS CONTAINMENT OPENING SEQUENCE BY PRESSING F5.
Stan looked at the screen in concern. He didn't like the sound of "cube containment system breached." Made it sound as though he had screwed up somehow. Still, whatever he had done had extended the time to battery depletion and system failure. That had to be good. Curious to see if there was anything else he was supposed to do, Stan pressed F5 again.
1:18 TO BACK UP BATTERY DEPLETION.
CONTAINMENT OPENING SEQUENCE ACCESSED.
OPEN INNER CONTAINMENT DOOR? (YES OR NO)
(LEVEL FOUR SECURITY CLEARANCE REQUIRED TO CONTINUE FURTHER)
ENTER LEVEL FOUR SECURITY CODE WORD
Stan looked at the prompt and shook his head. It didn't say anything about opening the inner containment door to extend the life support system. Plus, even though he didn't know what a level four security clearance was, he was damn sure of one thing: Since no one had told him he had one, he assumed he didn't. He certainly didn't have a level four code word, which obviously meant that he wasn't supposed to open the inner containment door. Satisfied that he had done what he was supposed to do, Stan picked up his thermos to pour himself another cup of coffee and wait for the power company to get its act together.
Route 139, South of Cadiz, Kentucky
3:47 A.M.
Parson pointed over his shoulder. "There's got to be a place open in Cadiz. We need to go back."
Chico shook his head, pivoting in his seat to look at the other two men crouched in the back. "Yeah, right. Use your fucking brains, asshole. We go to some Minit Mart there at four in the morning and you can be damn sure the state troopers are going to be there right after us asking if anyone seen anything. And then them guys are going to be right on our ass. We got some people we got to see down in Dover before we can head for Mexico. We got to get that money, and we can't have the law thinking we're still in the area."
Hill slammed a fist into the back of Chico's seat, his eyes glaring in the dim light of the dashboard. "Then your fucking sister should have put some goddamn gas in the motherfucking gas tank."
Chico glared back as the van rolled down Route 139 at a steady forty-five miles an hour. "We steal us a car."
Hill snorted. "Oh, yeah. That's fucking great, man. We'd be better off going back to Cadiz."
"Naw, man," Chico argued. "They won't be able to make the connection with the van and a stolen car. We'll be all right."
Hill pointed out the window at the dark countryside. "Where the hell we gonna steal a car out in this place?"
"There!" Leslie spoke for the first time, anxious to try to contribute something positive. If they stole a car then they could get out of her life and she could go back to Nashville. She'd been silent ever since Hill had noted the gas needle flirting with empty, less than five minutes after they'd passed through the deserted streets of Cadiz.
The three convicts leaned forward as she braked the truck. The headlights came to a halt, illuminating the sign and the driveway that turned off beyond it.
Biotech Engineering
3:53 A.M.
Stan's attention was diverted from the glowing computer screen as a set of headlights carved into the darkness at the far end of the parking lot. About time the electric company got here, he thought as he hitched up his gun belt and strolled over to the front doors.
He frowned as the van pulled up next to his pickup truck and a man jumped out into the rain and started messing with his truck.
Stan unlocked the doors and stepped out under the front awning. "Hey! What are you doing?"
The voice startled Chico. The building had looked dark when they'd pulled in and he'd assumed that it was empty.
"Pull over to the building," he hissed at Leslie.
"Let's get out of here," she replied. Hill shoved her out of the driver's seat as Chico climbed in and picked up a tire iron.
"What'd you think you were doing?" Stan asked as they pulled up.
"Hey, man, I'm real sorry," Chico explained as he stepped out. "We're just about out of gas and, well, hey, there ain't no all-night stores on this road and I didn't want to run out before we got home."
Stan frowned, his eyes taking in the three disheveled men and the frightened woman. "You OK, miss?"
Leslie swallowed. "Yes, sir. I'm fine."
Stan stepped forward. "I got a can in the bed of my truck that I use for my boat. You can — "
The tire iron crushed the right side of Stan's skull and he sank to his knees, his hand reflexively trying to go for his gun. Chico swung again and again, the iron splattering bone and blood onto the wet pavement. After fifteen blows, Chico stopped, his arms covered with gore and his face beaming with a smile below two blazing eyes.
"What the fuck you do that for?" Parson was blubbering as Hill got out and unbuckled the holster and gun from the inert body.
"Help me put him in the van," Hill ordered. Parson reluctantly grabbed the guard's arms and helped Hill hoist the body into the van, dumping it on the floor.
"Let's see what we got in here," Hill said as he ripped the key ring off Stan's belt. He hopped out of the van and headed for the door of the building. As he stepped inside, the bright white overhead lights flashed back on. Startled, he almost dropped the gun, then realized what had happened. Chico, tire iron still gripped tightly in his hand, and Parson joined him. Leslie stayed in the van, scrunched up in the passenger seat, staring behind her at the body.
"You stay there, woman!" Chico yelled as the glass doors swung shut.
The flash of the red warning light on top of the console, compounded by the strident beep of an alarm, drew their attention to the desk where Stan's last cup of coffee sat, half-finished. A new message scrolled up on the screen as they gathered around.
POWER RESTORED.
SYSTEM MALFUNCTION INTERNAL ALERT/ INNER CONTAINMENT BREACHED.
SECURE IMMEDIA
With the message still appearing, Chico swung the tire iron, smashing it into the screen. He pounded until the noise of the alarm stopped and the computer terminal was in shambles.
"See if there's anything we can use," Hill ordered, hitching the gun belt up to his belly, the weight of the pistol as comforting to him as the steel of the tire iron was to Chico. They went through the double doors into the main corridor. The sign on the door didn't indicate what was beyond, but did strongly suggest that whatever was in there was significant: WARNING: RESTRICTED ACCESS AREA. LEVEL FOUR CLEARANCE REQUIRED.
"What you think they got down there?" Hill asked out loud.
Chico's eyes still had a glazed look. "Let's check it out, man. Must be important. Maybe something we can sell."
Hill flipped through the keys until he came to the one labeled seventeen, matching the number above the lock on the side of the doors. He slipped in the key and turned it. The doors slid open, revealing a large freight elevator. Entering the elevator with Chico, he looked at the control panel. There were only two buttons: 1 and B.
"You coming?" Hill looked at Parson, who was still standing in the hallway.
"No, man. I'll check out these offices."
Hill looked the fat man in the eye. "Listen, motherfucker. You got any ideas of splitting with Chico'
s sister, you just better forget it. We'll track your ass down and blow your fucking brains out. You're in with us now. You killed that guard just as much as Chico did. Murder one, motherfucker. You got me?"
Parson nodded weakly. "Yeah, man, I understand."
Hill pushed B and the doors glided shut in front of him. The men felt their body weight lighten briefly, then settle as the elevator came to a halt. The doors parted open and they were facing a short corridor, ending in another set of sliding doors. Going up to the door, Hill read the number off the keyhole to the right: 18.
Hill slid in the appropriate key and turned it. The powered doors slid open and he stepped in, Chico right behind him. The room was dark. Hill's hand fumbled along the wall on the left before hitting the light switches.
As the fluorescent lights flickered on, the two men could see that they were in some sort of medical room. Two large tables covered with white sheets, with high-powered lamps looming over them, dominated the center of the room. Carts of sophisticated-looking machines ringed the walls.
Several doors led off to the side. Directly across from them, another set of double doors loomed. Unlike the other doors, these were solidly built of stainless steel. Squinting, Hill read the message painted on them: DANGER: OUTER CONTAINMENT DOOR. ENSURE INNER CONTAINMENT SECURE BEFORE OPENING.
Hill was checking out the medical equipment and cabinets of pharmaceuticals, judging their marketability, when he heard a noise from behind the far doors. It sounded as if someone had dropped some equipment.
Hill froze and pulled out the gun. "Anybody here?"
His words faded into the walls. Hill rubbed his forehead and considered the situation. Both men jumped as someone pounded on the doors. Hill edged up, signaling for Chico to move to the other side.
"Who's there?" he yelled.
He was answered with silence. The number above the keyhole on the control box to the right of the doors read 26. Hill found the corresponding key and slipped it in. He paused before turning it. For the first time, he felt fear. Some primeval sixth sense sent small tendrils of uneasiness through his stomach and tickled the hair on the back of his neck.
Fuck, ain't nothing to be afraid of, Hill decided. Not with Mister .38 in my hand. And there's no way I'm gonna show fear in front of Chico. He's one loco dude. Might as well turn the key and check it out.
"What the hell!" he muttered as the doors slid smoothly open. A short corridor, five feet long, appeared before him. The room beyond was strewn with equipment and papers. He stepped over the threshold between the open doors, Chico behind him.
Hill noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned left, but much too slowly. Hill was still futilely trying to bring his gun to bear when he felt something ice-cold rip into his gut. As the tear spread up to his chest, the coldness was followed by searing hot pain.
Hill still couldn't make out what tore into him as he was propelled onto his back, gun forgotten. His hands clasped his belly, fingers encountering something soft and wet. His unbelieving eyes saw intestines bulging against his hands.
That tableau stayed frozen for the long heartbeat of a second. A shadow loomed over Hill's right side and he could hear Chico screaming, as if from a very long distance away. Hill's own scream died in his throat as his trachea and carotid arteries were severed. Lying in a pool of his own blood, his last breath wheezed out of his slashed flesh.
Upstairs, Parson heard nothing. He was sitting at the security console, his hands trembling as he tried to figure out what to do. He was in for it now, he knew. Murder one. The big chair. Those dumb motherfuckers, he wanted to scream. The two had been idiots from the start — Chico's sister not having enough gas and Chico wasting the old man even though he said he'd give them some fuel.
Parson heard the doors to the elevator open behind him and spun around. He blinked and stared for a fatally long second, not believing what he was seeing. Then he screamed and leapt to his feet. He raced for the front door, but the figure jumped onto him from behind, the impact slamming Parson against the thick glass.
At the sound of Parson's scream, Leslie looked up from the guard's body. She watched the chase across the lobby with detachment, as if it were being played out on a movie screen.
The blood pulsing from Parson's cut throat splattered against the inside of the glass door, marking it with a cascade of bright crimson. Leslie finally reacted, jumping into the driver's seat and cranking the engine. The doors to the building were being opened and they were coming out. She pressed down on the gas pedal and tore out of the parking lot, the wheels almost losing traction on the wet pavement.
One of them almost caught up with her as the van roared onto Route 139, but she lost it as she turned left and desperately stomped on the accelerator. Low gas and the body on the floor behind her were forgotten as her eyes locked on the road ahead.
Chapter 1
Fort Campbell Military Reservation, Kentucky
5:37 A.M.
The BMW sprinted through the storm-lashed darkness, its headlights glinting off the wet pavement and the rows of trees blurring by on either side. Enjoying the sensation of speed, Doctor Glen Ward caressed the steering wheel. Military police cars were rarely out on this stretch of road so early in the morning, which is why he chose this route across the sprawling training areas of the Fort Campbell Military Reservation to get from his home in Clarksville to the lab. At this time of day, the only other traffic on the two-lane road was the few soldiers who lived on the western side of the reservation driving to their jobs in the opposite direction.
Ward tapped on the brakes as the edge of the military reservation slipped by and he was back on county road. He slowed further as he passed through the sleepy town of Bumpus Mills. He cruised along Route 139 until the road hit the tiny hamlet of Linton (population seventy-eight), on the banks of Lake Barkley, and then followed the road's sharp right turn to the north. The route now shadowed the shoreline of the lake.
After following the shore for four kilometers, Route 139 turned back east and climbed up into the low forested hills. The lack of people in this area had been one of the key reasons for building the lab here. Ward would have preferred someplace closer to Washington, D.C., since he seemed to spend most of his time there begging for funds, or even Nashville, where he lectured occasionally at Vanderbilt University, but he'd reluctantly accepted what he was given. The isolated site allowed him and his assistants to concentrate on their work with few distractions. The nearby Fort Campbell military reservation also gave them convenient access to restricted training areas to field-test their project.
When Ward's headlights touched the small sign that indicated the private turnoff for the lab parking lot, Ward expertly spun the wheel and the BMW fishtailed onto the driveway. He rolled up the short incline toward the parking lot, satisfied with the trip. He wasn't as content with the thought of another day of writing up classified reports to justify the continued existence of his work.
It seemed to Ward that he spent more time on foolish paperwork than on his research. The few people in Washington who knew the true extent of the Synbat project — and the success it had already achieved — were behind Ward and his efforts. Unfortunately, the breakup of the Warsaw Pact and the Soviet Union, and subsequent head-hunting for peace dividends, put the Biotech Engineering project high on the list of classified projects heading for the chopping block.
General Trollers, head of the Pentagon's sixty-eight-billion-dollar-a-year secret Black Budget, which funded Biotech, was afraid to let even the congressmen on the intelligence oversight committee know what was really happening in the Biotech labs. Trollers felt that the project was much too sensitive and would never survive even classified scrutiny in Congress.
During the brief meeting the two had had in Washington three months ago, Trollers had indicated that it would be better for all if the project was simply dropped unless there were some immediate results, for both financial and political reasons. He had given Ward a final six-month
extension on the research grant. That time was more than half over and the pressure for results was increasing correspondingly.
Ward shook his head as the car glided across the parking lot, past the night security guard's pickup truck. The tremendous advances he had achieved here in the last two years could all go for naught if the project was dropped. Just when things finally seemed to be going right, too, Ward thought bitterly.
Ward grabbed his briefcase as he unfolded from the car. He ran a practiced hand through his blown-dry hair. Ward prided himself on his appearance. His tanned face, framed by silver hair, made him look distinguished, in his own not-so-humble opinion. Fitting, he felt, for one of the top genetic engineers in the country, if not the world. His six-foot frame didn't show the wear of time to be expected in a man of fifty-eight years. An hour every day working out with Nautilus equipment in the basement of his house helped ensure that.
As Ward turned toward the building he froze at the red-streaked glass facing him. His eyes traveled down, coming to a halt on the mangled body lying just inside. His heart rate picked up and a trickle of sweat ran down his back.
The doctor threw his briefcase on the hood of the BMW and opened it, pulling out a Smith and Wesson 9mm automatic pistol. He inexpertly worked the slide, loading a bullet into the chamber and cocking the hammer. Gun held with both hands in front, the doctor made his way to the front door, unaware that the gun's safety was still on.
The fact that the front doors were unlocked barely registered as Ward stepped inside and his eyes flickered over the carnage in the lobby. He couldn't recognize the ravaged body, but he was certain from the tattered remnants of clothing that it wasn't the night guard.
Ward headed directly for the security console and halted in dismay at the smashed computer. He looked over the video screens. No sign of the guard. He knew that the screens covered the entire first floor. That left two places for the guard to be — either outside the building, beyond range of the external cameras, or on the basement level. Who, then, was the dead man up here?
