by Bob Mayer
“Any idea how many live baby Synbats we have?” Riley asked, his voice slightly muffled by the cloth.
Merrit held up a softball-sized skull. ‘This is a Synbat skull.” She held up another. “This is a cat.” She pointed to an obviously human skull. “You know what that is.” She tapped the Synbat one. “Look for these.”
Riley got down on his hands and knees and went to work. Lewis watched for a few minutes and then joined in. After half an hour they had searched the entire floor. Fifteen baby Synbat skulls lay on the poncho.
“Thirteen survived,” Lewis noted.
“Unless they hid some of the remains,” Riley commented. He wasn’t going to take anything for granted concerning the Synbats.
Lewis stood and looked at Merrit. “Where do you think they’ve gone?”
Merrit shrugged. “I have no idea, but I think they’ll stay down in the tunnels. They’ve served their purpose well so far.”
“We’re no closer now than we were before,” Riley said. “All we’ve done is—”
“I know what we’ve done!” Lewis’s voice betrayed the pressure of the past week. “I know it all right, Mister Riley. That was my man we had to drag out of that tunnel just now. But I don’t make the rules — I follow them. All I can do is suggest, and I’ve suggested several times to General Trollers that we bring in more troops. He isn’t buying it. I’ll recommend it again; that’s all I can do.” With that comment, Lewis stalked out of the chamber to follow the route that Riley had marked back to their entry point.
Riley and Merrit stood in the silence of the Synbat-made crypt, each lost in thought. Merrit was the first to break the silence. “We have to do something.”
“I know,” Riley said. “The question is, do what? I agree — the Synbats are still down here. No reason for them not to be. But if we keep wandering around like we have been, they have all the advantages and time is on their side. They’re like rats down here, able to breed rapidly and hide and—”
“Let me go after them,” Merrit interrupted. “They’ll come to me.”
“What do you mean?” Riley asked.
“They’ll come to me,” she repeated. “They come to me in my dreams — they’re trying to communicate with us. All we have to do is listen. I can bring them to you.”
Riley stared at her speechless as she continued.
“I know it will work. The Synbats were the closest — “ she paused, searching for words — “the best minds I ever worked with. In Texas we could only work with cats, but even then I could sense the processes, the functioning.” She reached forward and grabbed Riley’s arm. “They got in my head in the lab — you saw it on the video. They’ll do it again here.” She gestured about. “You’ll never find them in these tunnels. They can move about at will — coming up to the surface at night for food — even crossing under the river to other parts of the city. They’re already multiplying. Mine is the only way to get them and finish them.”
Riley’s brain latched onto something in Merrit’s ramblings — besides the fact that he now knew what was missing from her psych profile. He gently removed her hand from his arm. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s find Giannini.”
7:23 P.M.
Giannini had listened without comment to Riley’s recounting of the day’s events. It was as bad as she had feared. As he wrapped up with Lewis’s orders to deploy men around the lair on the off chance the Synbats might come back, she finally spoke. “If they’re half as smart as you say they are,” she said, pointing at Merrit, “they won’t go back there.”
“I know,” Riley agreed. “That’s why I think it’s time to do something drastic.”
Giannini frowned. “Like what?”
As Riley outlined his idea, her frown deepened. When he was done she sat in silence for a long minute, then shook her head. “You have no idea what effect your plan will have on the city. You also can’t be certain you’ll kill the Synbats.”
“I think there’s a good chance we’ll get them. And even if we don’t, it will drive them out of the tunnels into the open.”
“Can your men do it?” Giannini asked.
“I can do it,” Riley replied.
“You’re forgetting something,” Merrit said. “Even if you get all the Synbats here, that doesn’t necessarily end the threat.”
“What do you mean?” Riley asked.
“There’s enough information in the computer at Biotech for someone else to come in and restart the whole project,” Merrit explained.
“Let’s take one problem at a time,” Riley said. “Right now, all I’m concerned about is getting rid of the Synbats that are alive. The theoretical ones in the computer in Tennessee can wait.”
“No,” Giannini said firmly, surprising Riley. “They can’t wait. You told me you’ve been doing this stuff for years, and that kind of attitude is why you have to keep on doing it. I saw what these things can do to people and I can’t find any justification for such a project. If someone can get into that computer down there and do this all over again, then it’s our responsibility to make sure it doesn’t happen.”
“Our responsibility?” Riley repeated. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll do whatever I have to,” Giannini retorted.
Riley suddenly smiled. “All right. Good. You don’t mind doing some breaking and entering on a Sunday evening, do you?”
“Not if it helps to stop these things,” Giannini replied, standing up.
FORT CAMPBELL
7:45 P.M.
Colonel Hossey read the radio message from Riley one last time and then slowly put it down on the desktop. He looked up at Sergeant Major Powers. “Are you prepared to do this, Dan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you get caught, it will cost you your career.”
Powers shrugged. “Fuck it, sir. Can’t always hide behind that pension.”
Hossey nodded. “Looks like Dave is getting ready to step in some deep shit up in Chicago too. I’d hate to lose my two best soldiers.”
“Don’t worry about us, sir. We can handle it.”
Hossey stood up and shook the sergeant major’s hand. “Good luck. And Dan — for both our sakes — we never had this conversation.”
“Roger that, sir. I was going to say the same thing.” Powers spun on his heel and was out the door.
Hossey picked up his phone and dialed the number for the 2d Ranger Battalion headquarters at Hunter Army Airfield outside Savannah.
Chapter Twenty-Three
CHICAGO
7:45 P.M.
Giannini watched in fascination as Riley poured the gooey mixture into the PVC pipe he held between his knees and waited until it settled a foot short of the end.
“Will that stuff explode?” she asked.
Riley nodded as he took a large wok and pressed it down into the center of the mixture, creating a concave depression. “Fifteen pounds of fertilizer to a half gallon of gas. Guaranteed to ruin your day. Before I became an officer and a gentleman, my specialty in Special Forces was engineering — or demolitions, depending on whether we were building something or tearing it down. You’d be amazed how relatively easy it is to make expedient demolitions if you know what you’re doing and are willing to scavenge.” He held the pan in place for a few minutes until the mixture kept its form. “The caps we stole from the construction site will set it off.” He pulled out the pan and placed the pipe next to the seven others he’d already made. “They’ll be hardened by the time we get to the target.”
He glanced over at Merrit, who was standing at the window to the front of the abandoned warehouse, staring aimlessly out into the street. Riley met Giannini’s gaze, and she lifted her eyebrows and shrugged. He’d told her about Merrit’s actions in the lair and Giannini had agreed that the woman had crossed the line away from sanity. But she’d also had to agree with his realization that they could use Merrit’s help since she was the only Synbat expert.
“Let’s get moving,” Giannini said. “We
can put them in my car.”
The two of them loaded the charges and then hustled Merrit into the backseat. Giannini started the engine and they headed out.
FORT CAMPBELL
7:50 P.M.
On the southern end of the main post of Fort Campbell is an area known as Old Clarksville Base. Surrounded by a one-lane tar road and a rusting fence, it presently contained the headquarters for the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment and, nestled in one corner, the post’s ammunition storage facility.
Decades ago, though, Old Clarksville Base had served another purpose; it was a nuclear weapons storage facility. Massive bunkers were built into the sides of ridges throughout the area, along with numerous concrete pillboxes that had once held marine guards. Plant life now camouflaged the structures.
Sergeant Major Powers had the lights of his pickup truck pointed at the front of one of the abandoned bunkers. He worked swiftly, unlocking the massive padlock that secured the iron bar on the front of the bunker doors. The rusted metal protested as he slid back the bar. The large door swung open with a groan.
Powers pulled a mag light from his fatigue pocket and shone it around the interior. If Colonel Hossey found out about the existence of this cache, Powers knew that the old man wouldn’t hesitate a moment before busting his ass to Leavenworth. Upon first arriving at Fort Campbell a year and a half ago, Powers had inherited the cache from a retiring sergeant major with whom he had served in Vietnam. It was knowledge he would have preferred to have been without, but now it was paying dividends.
Powers spotted what he needed. He tore open the crate of C-4 plastic explosive and took out the white packets. He rapidly retraced his steps and relocked the bunker, then hopped into his truck and drove away.
CHICAGO
8:50 P.M.
“How are we going to get all this to where it needs to go?” Giannini wanted to know as she peered through the windshield.
“Same way the Synbats moved what they wanted to move,” Riley replied.
Giannini pointed to the police barriers blocking off the street and the large, darkened van sitting near the small tent that covered the entrance to the manhole. “How are we going to get it in there?”
“We’re going to carry it,” Riley replied with a smile.
“Aren’t they going to see us?” Giannini asked.
“Who? Lewis’s men? They got their asses so far up their computer screens, they aren’t bothering to look outside. That would be like real work. No problem — we can do it.”
“Why don’t you just go to Lewis with this plan?” Giannini asked. “Seems like it’s something they’d like — get rid of their problem in one fell swoop.”
“I could,” Riley admitted. “And they most likely would like it. But they also might dick around with it too long. We have to go tonight. Tomorrow’s Monday and this place will be crawling with people, even at night. I can’t take the chance of Lewis calling Trailers and having one of their damn conferences to discuss it. We have to end this now.”
“What about the men watching the lair?” Merrit asked suddenly, surprising both of them.
“No problem. Doc Seay and the other six members of my team, and the three DIA men — they’ll clear the tunnel by 0200 tomorrow morning.” Riley looked at his watch in the glow of the streetlights. “That means we’ve got five hours to move all this stuff, get it set, and clear out before the shit hits the fan.” Riley stepped out of the car. The two women opened their doors and got out.
“I’ll help,” Merrit said. “I’ll go with you.”
Riley pulled out the first charge. “Why don’t you just stay up here and keep watch?”
“No,” Merrit insisted. “I can help.”
Riley shook his head. “I don’t think you should—”
“Hey,” Giannini growled, a charge on her shoulder. “Lets stop jawing and do it.”
Riley grabbed a second charge and handed it to Merrit. “Follow me.”
VICINITY BUMPUS MILLS, TENNESSEE
9:00 P.M.
Sergeant Major Powers was whistling as the headlights of the pickup truck guided him through the Tennessee countryside. By the dim glow of the dashboard, he could see the miscellaneous pile of supplies on the passenger seat. He smiled. There were several large bags of incendiary mix that he had worked up prior to picking up the C-4. Three parts flour and one part aluminum shavings, the mixture sat next to the more lethal concoction of C-4 and blasting caps. It’d be an ugly scene if he had an accident right now.
It had been a long time since Powers had to work out a problem like this, and he was enjoying the challenge. The repercussions would come tomorrow. Tonight was action, and action was the fuel that Powers ran on.
As he turned up Route 139, Powers’s time sense slowed down and he mentally prepared himself for the night’s events. After thirty years in the army and Special Forces, it wasn’t hard. His smile grew wider.
CHICAGO 11:30 P.M.
“How much farther?” Giannini asked as she pulled at the front end of the battered shopping cart.
“Another four hundred meters,” Riley answered.
They’d turned the cart sideways and dropped it down from the sewer level to the freight tunnel level, then carefully lowered all eight pipes by rope before going down themselves. For more than an hour now they’d been moving due north. They had taped flashlights to the front of the cart, and the glow extended about twenty feet ahead. Giannini and Merrit were on either side of the lights, pulling, as Riley pushed from the rear. It was hard going, since the small wheels would get stuck in the mud or suddenly spin around, causing the cart to tip from side to side. Anxiety would rise as the cart threatened to tip over and spill its volatile contents.
Riley’s eyes flickered about, searching. The three were making enough noise to alert any Synbat within a half mile. The light was also a dead giveaway, but he had access to only one set of night vision goggles and they’d never make it in time with Merrit and Giannini stumbling around blindly in the dark. His M16 rested in front of the cart in the child’s seat and his pistol was snug in its shoulder holster. Giannini had discarded her jacket, and a rather large Colt Python was riding under her left arm.
“How we doing for time?” Giannini asked.
Riley glanced at his watch. “We’re just a little behind.”
BIOTECH ENGINEERING
11:45 P.M.
The DIA guard had been pulling the ten to six graveyard shift for the last three days; the novelty had worn thin within two hours of the first shift. The entire building had been stripped bare and all the equipment and supplies piled up in the main foyer. They were due to be picked up tomorrow morning and taken away.
The guard leaned back in his chair and flipped the page on the paperback he’d started the first night. As his eyes registered the first word something flickered across his line of sight. He started forward, but a cloth tightened around his mouth and he reflexively sucked in a large breath. He was unconscious within five seconds.
Like taking candy from a baby, Sergeant Major Powers thought as he grabbed the guard by his armpits and dragged him out of the building and across the parking lot. Powers tied him to one of the light poles and blindfolded him for good measure. He figured the guard would be out for at least six hours, but Powers didn’t believe in taking chances.
Powers recovered his pickup from its hiding spot a quarter mile down the road and drove it up to the lab, parked next to the front door, and began unloading his equipment.
CHICAGO
12:45 A.M.
The tunnel began descending slightly and the air grew increasingly damp. Small droplets of condensation plopped off the ceiling onto tine floor, forming a small rivulet of water. Riley kept them going until the tunnel began rising slightly. “This is it.”
Merrit looked around. “You’re sure we’re under the river?”
Riley nodded. “Pace count and direction add up. We just went down about five extra feet, and I’d say it’s pretty damn
damp in here.”
“Now what?” Giannini asked. “You know what to do?”
“You think I’d take you all the way down here and not know what to do?” Riley asked as he lifted the first pipe out of the cart.
“Hey, I’ve seen stupider things done,” Giannini replied as she pulled out her revolver and ripped the tape off one of the flashlights. “I’ll cover the way we came.”
Riley paused and handed Merrit his pistol. “Take the other light and cover in that direction.”
Riley pulled a mini-mag light off his vest and clenched it between his teeth as he worked on the first pipe. He carefully took a nonelectric fuse and wrapped a length of detonating cord eight times around it, then he placed it inside the small opening on the base of the pipe and pressed it into the ammonium nitrate-gasoline mixture. Using normal TNT as a blast factor of one, this mixture had an effectiveness of only .42 — thus Riley’s insistence on using a larger amount than his calculations told him would do the job.
Finished with the first pipe, Riley placed it back in the cart, fuse end facing down, concave end up. He carefully threaded the det cord through the blood-stained grate at the bottom of the cart and coiled it, keeping it out of the water on the floor. He did the same to all eight pipes. Then he tied all eight fuses along another length of det cord, and left the last piece dangling.
When he was done, he tied a large flat cake pan, layered with a half inch of explosive, about a foot below the bottom of the cart. He primed the charge with another fuse and det cord.
Giannini would occasionally glance over her shoulder and watch Riley work, his hands expertly twisting the explosive rope into knots and handling the fragile detonators. She searched for something humorous to lighten the mood a little and then gave up, focusing on the dark corridor that stretched up and out of sight.
