by Bob Mayer
7:32 P.M.
Bill Hapscomb checked out Mrs. Werner’s figure in the glow of the firelight. Man, what I wouldn’t give to have a piece of that, he thought. Not that it was likely, the way her old man hung around her, like a moth around white light. That Werner fellow was one pussy-whipped dude, Hapscomb figured. Rich, though. Shit, you didn’t get women like that if you weren’t.
Bill Hapscomb sure hadn’t gotten anything resembling the blond- haired woman who was patiently braiding her daughter’s hair. Despite her years, at least forty Hapscomb estimated, Mrs. Werner still had what it took to register on his old pecker meter. Hell, give the daughter a few more years and she’d be the spitting image of her mom except younger and better.
Hapscomb glanced over toward the dome tent that the head of the Werner household was trying to set up. The man was having trouble with the telescoping poles, which had to be bent and slid and tucked. Hapscomb was damned if he’d help that pompous son of a bitch. His boss, McClanahan, the chief wrangler for the Land Between the Lakes Wrangler Camp, had told him that Mister Werner was some big shot down in Nashville. Something to do with country music recording and all that. Hapscomb couldn’t give a rat’s ass. The guy was lucky he could find the ground when he was on a horse. The critical thing was that the man was willing to pay.
At that moment, Mrs. Werner happened to look across the fire and catch Hapscomb in his mental perusal of her body. Hapscomb could have sworn that she gave him a half smile. Damn, he thought. That bitch had been teasing him all day long, brushing her body up against his every time he was close. Give him half a chance tonight and he had a feeling he might be getting some drawers off that woman. Hell, he knew he looked a hell of a lot better with a hundred and ninety pounds of muscle filling out his six-foot frame than her short, balding, potbellied old man.
Usually Hapscomb’s job was to chaperon a group of twenty to thirty screaming prepubescent kids out of the Wrangler Camp in the LBL Campground. But for a weekday in the early spring, he took any traffic that came along. Werner sure was willing to put out the bucks to have a personal guide along — not that a guide was needed in this area. Surrounded on three sides by water, you’d have to be a damned fool to get lost in the LBL. The Trace, the only two-lane tarred road in the area, ran up the center of the peninsula, neatly splitting the park in half.
Hapscomb knew that he wasn’t along as guide but as joe-shit-the-ragman to handle the horses when the Werners got bored. Although Mrs. Werner obviously knew her way around horses — and what he wouldn’t give to have those legs wrapped around him — the old man and his daughter were lucky they hadn’t gotten their asses busted riding around today.
Hapscomb slipped a leather bota filled with throat-burning, high-grade Tennessee whiskey out of his saddlebag, figuring that he was done for the day. The horses were picketed along the wood line, about twenty feet away. The campsite that Hapscomb had picked for the Werners was a good one. Hell, he had almost the whole damn park to choose from. As far as he knew there was no one within ten miles. The site was a level clearing about thirty by forty meters on top of a knoll. The ground sloped off on all sides. To the east the dark line that represented Lake Barkley could barely be discerned through a few breaks in the trees.
The only problem was the weather. It had been misting all day; although stars were poking through here and there, the sky still hadn’t cleared. This morning’s long-range forecast had hinted at the possibility of a nasty storm moving in behind this front of rain. If it did, Hapscomb was sure that the Werners would call it quits tomorrow morning. Then he’d get paid for the next two days and not have to work. That would be a good deal.
Damn, there she was giving him the once-over again. Hapscomb gave her the long slow smile he used on the local girls in Waverly when he went down there on his Friday night snatch hunts. Hot damn! Tonight could turn out to be all right, Hapscomb thought.
BIOTECH ENGINEERING
7:45 P.M.
Riley felt the skids leave the ground as he pulled his Goretex rain jacket tight around his body. The wind swirling in the open doors of the helicopter dropped the night’s chill a notch into the cold category. Riley could feel Doc Seay’s legs bumping against his. They were both lying on the floor of the helicopter, facing out opposing cargo doors. Restraining harnesses were cinched about their bodies and the nylon strap that ran out of the back of the rig was firmly snap linked into an eyebolt on the floor of the helicopter’s cargo bay.
The aircraft swooped across Lake Barkley toward the Land Between the Lakes Park. Riley twisted the ON switch for the thermal sight. After a few seconds of warming up, the screen on the inside of the eyepiece glowed with an eerie representation of the outside environment. Instead of the normal human light spectrum, the screen showed the varying degrees of heat in the range of vision. Tiny blocks represented different temperatures and outlined the objects below. While Riley and Seay were using the thermals, the pilots up front were wearing ambient light-amplifying PVS-6 night vision goggles to fly at an altitude of two hundred feet.
After Colonel Lewis had insisted that they continue the search despite nightfall, Riley had worked out a grid search pattern for the helicopters over the Land Between the Lakes. In his opinion they didn’t have much chance of picking up the monkeys, but Lewis was a colonel and Riley was just a warrant officer. Riley had been around long enough to know when to say “yes, sir” and drive on.
The rest of the team was staying in the lab, rolling out their sleeping bags and pads on the floor of one of the rooms off the main corridor. There were now at least eight DIA men on the scene, with two vans. The DIA men were all staying on a lower level that Riley had not even known existed this morning. His men weren’t authorized access to that floor, and a DIA man stood guard at the security console to ensure that one of the Special Forces men didn’t wander down there or any other unauthorized place.
As the aircraft flew over the shoreline that marked the beginning of the peninsula of the Land Between the Lakes, Riley talked into the hot mike that linked him with the pilots and Doc Seay. “All right. Let’s hold it here till we get oriented, OK, sir?”
Captain Barret’s laconic voice crackled in Riley’s headset. “Sure thing, chief. What’s the big deal anyway? My orders are to stay out here as long as needed and do whatever Colonel Lewis says, but he sure hasn’t told me xvhy we’re doing all this. My battalion commander was all over my case when I flew back to Sabre Army Airfield this afternoon to refuel and pick up the thermals and our night vision goggles. Apparently no one’s told him what’s going on either.”
Riley sympathized with the pilot. “Got me, sir. I just do what I’m told.” Riley knew that the pilots were probably not thrilled about having to spend the night out here. Aviators tended to like living comfortable lives and were used to having a nice bed to curl up in at night. Sleeping away from home was not high on their list of desirable activities.
Riley had their position now. The dim light at the lake’s Bacon Creek boat access ramp was off his door. “OK, sir. We’re north of where the monkeys probably landed if they pushed that log all the way across.”
The unspoken question Riley had was whether the monkeys had even made it across, or had they headed up or down the lake and relanded on the same side, or slipped off the log, dropped into the water, and drowned? Or maybe they still were on the log, floating down toward the dam. In addition, Riley wondered, why were they hauling around those backpacks? For that matter, did they still have the backpacks, or had they abandoned them on the other side of the lake or even dropped them into the lake? There were too many unknowns in this whole operation.
Riley dismissed those thoughts for the moment. Time to handle the known before trying to tackle the unknown. “Let’s follow the shore for about five miles and then come back up. We’ll go in about four hundred meters on each sweep. Take it slow, sir, so we can do this right.”
“Roger that.” The helicopter nosed over to the left and Riley settled in for what he felt was goi
ng to be a wasted two hours of burning fuel.
The trees below were a dark mass in the thermal sight. What are we supposed to do if we spot the monkeys? Riley war-gamed. There were very few landing places for the helicopter in the area. When they’d returned to the lab after losing the trail at the edge of the lake, Doctor Ward had been uncertain about whether the monkeys would be moving at night. He’d said that baboons — the type of monkey they were after — normally were diurnal, which meant active in the daytime. But, Riley reminded himself, Ward had also said that the monkeys probably wouldn’t cross the lake.
Colonel Lewis’s orders had been simple and direct: Get a fix on them and land if you can; if you can’t, we’ll hunt them down from that spot in the morning.
FORT CAMPBELL
8:29 P.M.
Sergeant Major Dan Powers drained the beer, crushed the can, and deftly pitched the empty into the garbage. He checked the PRC-70 radio set one last time, ensuring that it was on and tuned to the proper frequency. He traced the cable running from the radio to the digital message data group device (DMDG). All set to go. The DMDG was designed to either send or receive Morse code messages at accelerated speed. To receive, the DMDG took the burst from the radio, slowed it down, and transformed the dots and dashes to readable alphanumeric form on a small screen.
At exactly 2030 local or, as commo men preferred, 0230 Zulu (Greenwich mean time), the radio’s speaker crackled briefly, followed by a two-second squealing hiss. Powers leaned over and checked the DMDG’s screen. It read: “Message Copied.” Despite that positive information, Powers leaned back in his chair with a notepad on his good knee and pencil at the ready.
After a moment of silence, the speaker issued forth a series of dots and dashes at the rapid speed of twenty-three words a minute. Powers’s pencil floated over the page, his mind automatically translating the Morse into letters. After a brief pause, the message started over again. Powers stopped writing and checked his first copy against the repeat. When the speaker finally went silent, Powers allowed himself a small smile. Despite not having served as a primary communications man on a team for more than fourteen years, he could still keep up to speed on manual Morse.
Powers tore off the top sheet and rewrote the message in six-letter blocks onto a new sheet. The result was unintelligible:
AORELD FJWMPR EKTPCS AQPZMC ALWOXM WJTNDW TIWNSK QSXPTK RHTIGM ACVZZS QPRJFN QWJRUA QOELSM QLEPNV RHTNDM TIHDFN PILVNF DFJRUE EHDBCN FNDHFJ UOTYKW SJWURH WKCMSK ZXCVBN WELKJH EDCVUJ UJNHYT EFVIKM EDCHYN VBNMKJ ASDFGH HJKLPO SDFGHY RTYUIO OIUYGB EDFVRT
Powers pulled out a copy of the pocket-sized battalion field SOP, which every team was required to carry when they departed post on a training mission. He turned to page one and matched the letters from the message with the corresponding letter from the first page. Powers didn’t need a trigraph; he had long ago memorized the standard three-letter groupings. Combining the original Morse letter with the letter from the page in the Bn SOP gave him the third letter on the trigraph, which made the message readable.
Swiftly his pencil ran down the page, making the message intelligible.
ZEROON EXXODA SIXEIG HTTWOX XSITRE PXXSPE NTDAYS EARCHI NGWOOD SFORES XXGOVE DRONES NESIXS NEXXDI EHOMES CAPEDM EGRIDO FOURNI REESIX RGEXXS XXXXXX
Used to dealing with the six-letter groups, Powers’s mind assimilated the message:
ONKEYS NESIXS NEXXXO FOURNI HOULDB RNMENT EVENTH DRONES AXXXDI OONXXA LABHER REESIX EVENTH AINCHA MIGOXX
ZERO ONE (indicated that it was the first message the team sent) ODA SIX EIGHT TWO (designated the team that sent the message) SITREP (situation report)
SPENT DAY SEARCHING WOODS FOR ESCAPED MONKEYS
GOVERNMENT LAB HERE GRID ONE SIX SDR ONE SEVEN
THREE SIX FOUR NINE
DIA (repeat) DIA IN CHARGE
SHOULD BE HOME SOON
AMIGO
Amigo was ODA 682’s code word to ensure that the message wasn’t being sent under distress. A message sent without the code word was assumed to be compromised. Powers wasn’t worried that Riley might be encrypting the message under duress on this mission, but it was good training to always do it properly.
Powers set the message down on his desk as he popped another beer. He focused in on three letters: DIA. That had worried him from the beginning. He didn’t trust anybody who ran around in a three-piece suit and called himself an agent instead of a soldier. Still, the message said they’d be home soon. That was good news. He took a deep chug and started working his bad knee. Pain was weakness leaving the body.
BIOTECH ENGINEERING
8:32 P.M.
Colonel Lewis accessed the secure satellite communications net that his men had brought with them to contact General Trollers in Washington. He wasn’t looking forward to the report he was going to have to make. He glared across the desk at Doctor Ward and Doctor Merrit. The two had been nothing but irritants since he’d gotten here. The local DIA representative, Freeman, was doing his best to appear inconspicuous. The transcript of the interrogation of the drugged woman found with the van and guard’s body was lying in front of him.
The whole situation was a mess and Lewis knew that Trollers wasn’t going to like it. Lewis was career army, West Point class of ‘73, and didn’t like the positions in which he occasionally found himself because of his job. The West Point honor code had definitely taken a beating from the requirements of life in military intelligence. He’d long ago learned to come on as a hard-ass when starting out a mission because that way people complied more quickly. Except that technique didn’t seem to be working well with the Special Forces men.
The speaker on the desk crackled. “Trailers here. Give me a situation report.”
Lewis allowed himself the indulgence of a small sigh and then jumped into it, good news first to soften the blow. “I’ve got the lab swept clean, sir. The guard’s body has been taken care of also. We’re blaming it on the escapees. In fact, the woman we’ve got says that the guard zoas killed by one of the cons. The local cops have bought off on it. We’ve kept the other bodies secure so there won’t be any inquiry into that. The locals think the convicts are still on the loose.”
“What’s the status on the Synbats?”
“We tracked them from where we found the collars to the shore of a lake. Apparently they used a log to float across the lake. I’ve got a helicopter with thermal imaging up right now searching for them.”
“You mean they’re still unsecure? How populated is this area they’re loose in?”
“It’s a park area called Land Between the Lakes, run by the Tennessee Valley Authority. The park is bounded on three sides by water and there are only four ways in by road. This time of year there’s hardly anyone there. We’re lucky in that regard. We couldn’t have picked a better place for them to run to. Unpopulated, and — “
“Goddamnit, Lewis! Stop trying to make it sound so great.”
Lewis took another deep breath. “Sir, I’d like to seal off the park. We can say we’ve discovered that some sensitive equipment was stolen by the escapees and we’re helping the locals track them down.”
The general’s reply was brief and to the point. “Negative. Even with the cover story, we’ll have the media up our ass to our eyeballs.”
Lewis wasn’t at all happy with that response. “Then, sir, I’m going to need more men for the search. I’d like to bring in some more troops from Fort Campbell. I’ve already got all the men from our Washington response team here.”
“Negative. Goddamnit, Lewis, don’t you understand? We’ve got to keep this under wraps. It’s bad enough you got those soldiers involved. You keep those Special Forces men and you use them.”
Lewis rubbed his forehead. He felt the beginnings of a massive headache forming like a thunderstorm in his forehead. “Sir, I really feel I need more men if I’m going to find them soon.”
General Trailers snorted. “Let’s not go overboard here, people. We’re talking about some animals, for chrissake. This is a major f
uck up, but we don’t want to make it a world-class one by letting word get out about what Ward’s doing in that lab. No one is going to miss those three escapees. The death of the security guard is unfortunate but had nothing to do with our project anyway. If this area is as unpopulated as you say it is, the odds are that the Synbats will never run into any people. You keep your search going and track them down. You’ve got a Special Forces A team and helicopters. That should be more than enough to get these things.”
Lewis shook his head. He thought that Trailers was seriously underestimating the situation. The general hadn’t even heard the worst of it yet. “Sir, there are two aspects to this I think you need to be aware of.”
“What?”
Lewis shot a dirty look at Ward and then started. “It wasn’t in any of the reports, but the last two generations of Synbats have been kept under control by the use of depressant drugs from infancy on up. The Synbats you saw on the videos for the demonstrations that Doctor Ward arranged were sedated. Apparently they were uncontrollable without the use of the drug. That drug will be out of their systems completely in four days. God knows what they’ll be capable of doing when they’re not sedated compared to what they’ve already done.”
“Then we goddamn make sure they don’t last four days,” was Trollers’s succinct reply.
Lewis sighed and moved on. “Sir, the Synbats also took the two backpacks that Doctor Ward had prepared for the fifth generation phase four test.”
“So what? Your initial report said that. It also said that the backpacks would go bad outside of the controlled environment of the lab.”
Lewis threw another withering look at Ward. If the son of a bitch had terminated immediately as the plan had directed, they wouldn’t be in this mess. And if he had filed accurate reports on the Synbats, then things might never have gotten to this point.
