by Bob Mayer
As he rode, Hapscomb weighed going directly to the Wrangler Camp, which held the closest phone, but he decided against it. He might be able to make a phone call, but he was afraid that the demons would trail him there and attack.
In another mile he’d hit Lick Creek Road. He’d turn right on that, then in another eight miles or so he’d hit the Golden Pond Visitor Center. He wondered if the attendant there had a gun.
Hapscomb slowed Angel just a bit. Nice and steady, girl, he thought. Just get me there. I sure don’t want to have you come up lame on me now.
The horse settled into a steady canter and a quarter mile of road flew by. Soon Lick Creek Road. Hell, there might even be a late night car on the road, although that was extremely doubtful, Hapscomb knew.
Suddenly Angel halted and whinnied. She shook her head from side to side and skittered sideways, almost into the drainage ditch at the side of the dirt road.
What the fuck? Hapscomb wondered, and then he knew. He couldn’t see or hear or smell anything, but he just knew, they were coming.
God Lord Jesus! Hapscomb wanted to cry. Didn’t they have enough back there at the camp? Why’d they have to come after him? In answer, the side of the brain that Hapscomb had overridden in making all his decisions so far this evening whispered its indictment: Because you left the girl to die, asshole, that’s why.
Aw, fuck. It ain’t fair! Hapscomb gouged his boots into Angel’s sides. The horse unexpectedly bucked and, without a saddle, Hapscomb slid off and slammed into the dirt. The horse wasn’t stupid. Without the extra weight it took off, sprinting into the darkness away from the bad spirits.
Hapscomb shook his head groggily and rolled to his knees. His right leg throbbed with pain. Must have busted something, he thought idly. He peered back down the road. Where were they? He could see little in the dark. He started crawling down the road, his bad leg dragging in the dirt, eyes peering backward, waiting for those two forms to appear.
They leapt out of the trees above his head. Hapscomb’s last thought as his throat was crushed was to pray to God that he be forgiven for leaving the girl to die. But his conscience told him to expect the gates of hell.
BIOTECH ENGINEERING
9:45 P.M.
Riley yawned as the Huey settled down into the parking lot. In the glare of the building’s arc lights he could see Colonel Lewis standing there, waiting for the blades to stop turning. Riley was in no rush to face Lewis. He sat back on the web seat as the pilots slowly decreased throttle until the transmission disengaged. For the next two minutes the massive blades whooped by overhead, slowing slightly on each revolution. Finally they halted.
Riley stepped off, followed by Seay, as Lewis strode up. “Well?”
Riley rubbed his aching eyes. “We spotted quite a few deer, lots of smaller creatures, and one campsite where two people were screwing each other out in the woods — but no monkeys.”
Lewis shook his head. “Not good enough. You all need to go back up.”
Captain Barret overheard and interjected from where he was tying down the blades. “Sir, with all due respect, we’ve just put in two hours of goggle time. We also flew for four hours today on and off. That puts us over our limit for crew rest. The — “
“I don’t give a shit about your crew rest, Captain. I want you back up in the air now.”
Barret faced the irate DIA colonel. “Sir, you’re not authorized to make us break flight regulations. We don’t need crew rest just because we feel a little tired. We need it because we’re not too far away from putting this bird into a tree. My eyeballs feel like someone’s turned them inside out. I’m not safe to be flying now. Besides that, there’s a front coming in and I don’t think we’re going to be able to do much more flying for a while. At least not at night.”
Lewis stabbed a finger at the other helicopter. “What about them? That crew has been sitting on their ass inside the building all evening. They’ve had plenty of rest. I want them up in the air now.”
Barret shook his head. “Sorry, sir. Neither of those pilots are current in NVGs. They’re not authorized to do that kind of mission.”
Lewis shook his head. “Jesus fucking Christ. What a bunch of wimps.” He turned and stalked off toward the lab building.
Riley grinned at the captain. “You sure know how to piss off the colonel, sir.”
Barret shrugged. “I’m not going to corkscrew one of these birds into the ground looking for a couple of monkeys in the dark. If it was something important I’d do it, but this is bullshit.”
Amen to that, Riley thought. He respected the captain for being safety conscious. He’d seen too many men overextend themselves needlessly and get themselves and others killed because of it. You pushed yourself to the extent that the circumstances justified. If this was a combat mission, he’d have been the first to get on the pilot’s ass.
The night sky was rent by a mournful howl echoing from the west. Riley turned and looked out in that direction. Next to him, Doc Seay muttered, “What was that, Dave?”
Riley shook his head. “I don’t know.” It was something Riley couldn’t recall ever hearing, and it sent a chill down his back. He was glad that whatever had made that noise was on the far side of the lake. His next thought was to wonder if that noise had anything to do with their mission. Could monkeys howl like that?
After entering the building, his first act was to grab Sgt. John Carter, the team’s lone commo man. “Did you get the message off?”
Carter grinned. “Roger that, chief. Went into the woods, out of range of the cameras on the roof, to send. I imagine that old Sergeant Major Powers was back there copying my manual code to check on it.”
Riley smiled back. “Yeah, I’m sure he was. Makes him feel useful. All right. Make sure you get our receive tomorrow morning, and don’t let these people know.”
“No problem.”
Riley tapped him on the shoulder as he passed by. “Good job, John.”
10:35 P.M.
Riley rolled off his camping pad and slipped on his boots. The noise of his team members sleeping on the floor of the large office produced a low rumble of mingled snores. Riley carefully stepped over bodies and made his way out the door into the main floor hallway.
He glanced to his left. The elevator leading to the basement was unguarded, but Riley also knew that a DIA man was on duty at the front security console, which monitored this hallway. He was tempted to flip the bird to the camera perched above the far door, but refrained. Riley didn’t trust any of the DIA men, and Lewis probably wouldn’t see the humor in it.
Riley turned right to make his way to the men’s room. As he did so, a door opened almost directly across from him and Doctor Merrit stepped out. She looked surprised at his presence in the hallway.
“Excuse me, I hope I didn’t startle you,” Riley told her softly.
She shook her head and then, with a quick look down the hallway, gestured for Riley to follow her back into her office. Curious, Riley obliged, shutting the door behind him. He wasn’t sure if the guard had seen the brief encounter on the monitor, whether he’d been looking at that particular screen at that particular time. Riley had a feeling that Colonel Lewis wouldn’t approve of him talking to either Ward or Merrit without his presence.
As soon as he stepped into Merrit’s office, Riley realized that it really didn’t matter if they had been seen on the hallway monitor; there was also a camera in this room.
“What’s up, ma’am?” Riley inquired. He estimated that it would take the DIA man at the console about half a minute, maybe less, to get someone down here.
Merrit grabbed his arm and looked up into his eyes. For the first time Riley noticed she had dark green eyes behind those thick glasses. Those eyes were open wide now and had a wild look. Her voice shook and the skin under one eye jerked with a tic. “There’s some things that Ward and Lewis didn’t tell you about this lab and about what you’re doing.”
No shit, Riley was tempted to say. Let’s go, l
et’s go, Riley thought, watching the doorway out of the corner of his eye. “Like what?”
“You need to be very careful when you’re going after the so-called monkeys. They’re much, much more than that. They’re — “
The door swung open and Freeman, the black DIA agent, stood there. “I’m sorry. You two are not to be talking without supervision. Doctor Merrit, you should know better. You were instructed not to interact with any personnel here without permission. Mister Riley, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Riley nodded good-naturedly, although inside he was seething. Fucking spooks and their goddamn games. People got killed because of their little secrets. He wondered who the real enemy was here.
Riley headed toward the door. As he brushed by Freeman, he turned and looked back over his shoulder at Merrit. “Good night, Doctor. Hope you sleep well.”
As Freeman pulled the door shut, Riley turned and faced him. “With all due respect, sir — and to be quite honest the only respect I hold for you or your partners right now is based purely on rank — what is going on?”
Freeman looked uncomfortable. “What do you mean?”
Riley let out a low incredulous laugh. “Come on, sir! What’s the big secret? Why don’t you want us talking to Ward and Merrit? A blind man could tell that you all aren’t leveling with us. Why don’t you trust us? I’ve been on more classified missions than you’ve read about.”
Freeman shook his head. “There’s nothing more that you have a need to know.”
Riley leaned toward Freeman, his short, lean body causing even the hulking ex-football player to back up slightly. Riley’s amiable appearance was gone, replaced by the intense fury of a man poised on the edge of violence. “Just between you and me, Major, I want you to understand something. If one of my men gets hurt because you all didn’t fill us in on what’s going on here, I’m going to have your ass. I don’t give a shit about your fucking rank or the fucking DIA. That isn’t a threat. That’s a promise written in blood.”
Riley stared hard at Freeman until the bigger man dropped his gaze.
“There’s nothing more you need to know,” Freeman muttered.
Riley nodded. “Just as long as you know where we stand.”
Chapter Eight
Tuesday, 7 April
LAND BETWEEN THE LAKES
6:24 A.M.
Pete McClanahan threw the rusty Ford Bronco into neutral, turned off the ignition, and rolled to a halt as the engine sputtered into silence. The eastern sky was just beginning to acquire a dull gray tinge, heralding the coming of dawn. To the west, the horizon was an ominous pitch-black wall, threatening nasty weather. McClanahan eased himself out the door of the truck. After stretching his old aching back, the head wrangler slowly made his way over to the stables, gingerly sipping on a plastic cupful of hot coffee.
Halfway to the one-story wood barn, he stopped and looked around, sensing that something wasn’t quite normal. McClanahan slowly scanned the entire Wrangler compound, looking for anything strange.
The horses that had been left out in pasture overnight were all gathered together in the center of the fenced-in field. McClanahan couldn’t remember ever seeing them standing that tightly bunched. His forty-three years of horse experience told him that something had spooked them bad.
Better not be those damn kids coming out with their pellet guns again, McClanahan thought angrily. Some teenagers had driven out here a couple of months ago and fired shots into the pasture, hitting two of the horses. McClanahan had seen them from the Wrangler Camp shack and chased them, but their hopped-up road car had outrun his old four-wheel-drive truck.
McClanahan was still shaking his head over the memory when he saw Angel. The mare was standing in the shadows next to the stable doors. McGanahan hurried over. The horse was covered with dried sweat, indicating that she’d made a hard run sometime during the night. But there was no saddle or bridle. McClanahan peered about. No lights were on in the two-room shack that served as headquarters for the Wrangler Camp. Hapscomb’s Dodge truck and the Werners’ Volvo were still sitting in the parking lot, the only other vehicles there except his truck.
McClanahan’s first thought was that Angel had broken the picket line last night and returned home. But that didn’t explain why the horse had been in one hell of a hurry. Shit, he hoped nothing had happened to Hapscomb. The young son of a bitch drank too much, but he was one of only two men whom McClanahan could count on to work weekdays during the off season, and he needed Hapscomb to guide a private school group coming in next week. The damn fool better not have gotten drunk and had an accident.
“Guess I better return you to your man, girl,” McClanahan whispered as he scratched Angel’s neck.
It took him ten minutes to get his own horse saddled and ready to go, and a few more minutes to let Angel finish some hay and water. Then he put a halter on her and tied her off on the horn of his saddle. McClanahan knew that Hapscomb liked taking campers up to a clearing on a knoll above Lick Creek, about three miles away. McClanahan glanced at his watch and estimated. He set off at a gentle amble to meet them there for breakfast, or at least before the storm broke.
BIOTECH ENGINEERING
7:02 A.M.
“What’s on the agenda for today?” Doc Seay inquired as he sipped instant coffee out of a canteen cup.
Riley gestured at one of the government vans. The dogs were tied to a door handle and the two sheriffs were feeding them. “We take the dogs across the lake and pick up the trail on the other side. Ought to be able to run them down today if the weather holds. If they’re over there.” Riley glanced at his watch. “We move out in twenty minutes.”
Seay swallowed the last of his MRE issue ration, a less than sumptuous breakfast. “This whole thing is pretty flaky. You know that, don’t you, chief?”
Riley agreed. “Yeah. The pieces don’t add up. There’s something going on that they aren’t telling us. I mean besides the obvious stuff that they aren’t telling us, like what’s in those backpacks.”
He watched the other members of the team eat their breakfasts out in the parking lot. The helicopter crews and two sheriffs had been upset the previous evening when they were told they had to spend the night out there. Riley had asked his men to share some food with them. The pilots and crew chiefs were currently pre-flighting their aircraft.
Seay gestured at the sign in front of the building. “Biotech Engineering. That could mean damn near anything. If they were experimenting with strains of the VX virus on those monkeys, I’d make it a better than even bet that there might be some form of the virus in those backpacks. That would explain why they’re so hyper to get those backpacks and monkeys back.”
Riley considered that. “Maybe. That would also explain why they haven’t notified the local and state police to lend a hand. I mean other than just these two sheriffs, who seem to have been told even less than we have.”
Seay leaned toward his team leader from his perch on top of a rucksack. “I’ll give you my theory, chief. I think they aren’t researching the VX virus here for an antidote. They’re researching it to use as a weapon. The Russians developed the original VX. So there’s a good chance that the Russians — or the Confederation of Independent States or whatever the hell is left over there — have a vaccine or antidote for it already. Now these people are working on a U.S. version that the original antidote won’t work against.”
A similar theory had crossed Riley’s mind. He disliked the thought that the U.S. government might consider such an operation, but he also was realistic enough to know that a lot of shady activity went on behind the veil of national security. Riley particularly didn’t like it because he had every soldier’s abhorrence of both chemical and biological weapons. No matter what training they’d received and how good their equipment was, the thought of the invisible threat of chemicals or viruses was much more terrifying than the more brutal and direct ones of the conventional battlefield.
Riley hadn’t told Doc
about the encounter with Merrit the previous evening. She was a strange woman. What had she meant by “so- called” monkeys? What had she wanted to let him know? And why were Lewis and Freeman determined not to let her communicate?
Riley considered her tone of voice and the tic under her eye. She was a person on the edge; people like that made him nervous, especially on live missions. If they didn’t get those monkeys tracked down this morning and finish this thing, Riley decided to try to somehow get hold of her and find out what she was so nervous about. In the meantime, he would repeat his warnings to his men to be extra cautious.
Riley raised his voice so that the entire team could hear. “Listen up. I want everyone to have a magazine in your weapon, round in the chamber, selector switch on safe. I don’t want you to take any chances if you run into the monkeys. Shoot first and let the scientists pick up the pieces. Don’t get any closer to the bodies than you have to in order to kill them.”
Riley pulled out the miniaturized battalion field SOP from his right breast pocket. Using a trigraph, he encoded a sitrep directly from his mind onto a piece of notepad paper. He wanted it sent this morning. The requirement for any deployed team to make contact with the battalion headquarters at least every twelve hours had been implemented by Powers when he was forced up into the S-3 sergeant major slot after his knee injury. It wasn’t very popular with most of the teams in the battalion. They felt that it was just another administrative requirement imposed upon them.
Riley thought it was a good idea, not just because the sergeant major was his friend. Riley firmly believed that a team could never have enough training in maintaining a long-range, high-frequency link with higher headquarters. Powers had made the requirement an even more valuable training experience by requiring radio operators to not only burst their messages, but also to send the messages in manual twice after the burst. This kept the operators up to speed on their Morse knee keys. Dating back to the beginning of the OSS (Office of Strategic Services) in World War II, the grandfather of modern-day Special Forces, the ability to send and receive Morse code manually had been an integral part of special operations. The 5th Group standard was 18/18 for communications men, which meant being able to send and receive Morse at eighteen words a minute. The standard for all other team members was 5/5. Unfortunately, even that low standard was difficult for some to attain.
