by Rounds, Mark
“It’s been two, maybe three days?” said Antonopoulos blinking the sleep out of his eyes.
“Sir, we need you on top of your game,” said Lassiter. “You’ve been burning the midnight oil for weeks now. It’s is bound to catch up with you.”
“You sound like my wife, Captain,” said Antonopoulos with a smile. “But you didn’t come to remind me about my hygiene. What do you have for me?”
“Hanson was in contact with his girlfriend a few minutes ago,” said Lassiter. “He was able to stretch the conversation out some, so we can trace the conversation to an area of about fifty square meters.”
“Do we have any optics on the area?” asked Antonopoulos who was now suddenly awake.
“We have several hobby drones available,” said Williams, “to take the load off the remaining Navy drone for close in work. We have several medium resolution images of the area. Unfortunately, while they show some people moving around, they don’t appear to be heavily armed and none fit the description of Maria Chavez, Hanson’s fiancée.”
“Is the Special Forces patrol ready?” asked Antonopoulos.
“Yes sir,” said Williams. “You asked to be awakened before we sent them in. Major Eveleth ready and fully briefed. He is to just scout and report. No action to be contemplated without orders from higher; in this case you, unless there is imminent danger to either the principle or Miss Chavez.”
‘Do we even know who the principle is?” asked Antonopoulos.
“All we have is what was briefed,” said Williams, “the voice that responded to Hanson was young, male, and likely of Hispanic origin. They used a distorter on the audio so we couldn’t get much more out of it.”
“Send them,” said Antonopoulos, “and keep me posted.”
“Yes sir,” said Williams, “perhaps you should go home, sir.”
“My wife put you up to this?” asked Antonopoulos.
“Yes sir,” said Williams not batting an eye, “but I agree.”
“So noted,” said Antonopoulos.
Williams left the office and Antonopoulos got up but did not go home. Instead, he worked desultorily at some paper work for almost a half an hour, but he really couldn’t focus,
“In a few minutes,” thought Antonopoulos with some frustration, “the troops I ordered into harm’s way will be poking around a hostile area looking for some sort of clues and I am trying to make sense of fuel production!”
With that, he got up and walked to the comm center down the hall where General Bossell was monitoring the radios.
“Have you heard anything, General?” asked Antonopoulos when he caught Bossell’s eye.
“No sir,” said Bossell. “They have been observing radio silence. You don’t need to wait here though. I can handle it.”
“I wouldn’t sleep well anyway,” said Antonopoulos.
Bossell nodded and passed Antonopoulos a cup. He sipped at it and made a face.
“Damned if I’ll ever get used to tea instead of coffee,” said Antonopoulos as he took another sip and grimaced.
Three hours and four more cups of tea passed until they got a single transmission.
“Haven Control this is Foxtrot four,” said the voice over the radio. “The code word is Olive Oil, I say again Olive Oil. We’re headed for the barn.”
“Well,” said Antonopoulos impatiently, “what does that mean?”
“It’s the success code,” said Bossell smiling. “They got in and planted the sensors in all the preplanned locations and got out without being seen. Other than a straight up rescue, this is damned good. I’ll have a team monitoring these sensors 24/7. If a bird farts anywhere on that block, I’ll know.”
“Good work,” said Antonopoulos breathing a little more easily. “Give a ‘job well done’ message to the troops when appropriate.”
“I wonder if my wife would think I flipped if I drove home and slept in my own bed for a few hours,” thought Antonopoulos as he exited the briefing room.
July 15th, Wednesday, 01:52 am PDT
One block south of the Providence Medical Research Center, Spokane WA
“You sure about this?” asked Johnny Comes at Night.
“They’re white city boys,” said Little Bear. “Look at them! They have those big lights and the look up into them every once in a while. They have no night vision. They are alert enough, but they can’t see anything. I could walk up and untie their boots and they wouldn’t know it.”
“All the same,” said Johnny, “I’ll keep my rifle on them.”
“Not an offer I would pass up,” said Little Bear with a smile. “Don’t start shooting unless it looks really bad. These Slash heads couldn’t punch their way out of a paper bag.”
“You’re the boss,” said Johnny as he chambered a round into his Ruger No. 1 in 30-06. “If I do much shooting though, I’m counting on you to get me some more ammo.”
“I’ll put it on the Christmas list,” said Little Bear who then vanished into the night.
It took him forty-five minutes to get to the edge of the lighted perimeter. He could see four guards, which meant there were at least two he couldn’t see. He worked his way along a short gray retaining wall which got him to within fifty feet of one of the windows that had been broken out the previous evening by a couple of his warriors playing addicts. Then he settled down to wait. Experience told him that even the most vigilant of watchman got bored and that sooner or later, he would get an opening.
As it worked out, he didn’t have long to wait. One of the guards began to fidget.
“Can one of you guys spell me?” said the obviously uncomfortable guard. “I gotta take a dump. You know what this fukin’ Slash does to your guts.”
“No way man,” said his partner. “Ngengi said no breaks, no sleeping. If he caught you, you’d be lucky if he just killed you.”
“Have a heart man,” said the other guard. “He’s not here, he’s in bed like anyone who has a choice and if I don’t hit the head, I’ll shit my pants.”
“Who said I was sleeping?” said Ngengi from out of the darkness.
“No man,” said the now terrified guard. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You said you would shit your pants if you don’t get relief, right?” said Ngengi.
The guard nodded slightly.
“OK, do it,” said Ngengi.
“Do what?” said the guard in confusion.
“Shit your pants,” said Ngengi smiling, “only not here. Out there, in the lights. And don’t fake it. I’ll have your friend here check and if his hand doesn’t come out covered with shit, I’ll beat it out of you.”
The guard, clearly in pain, hobbled out to the courtyard and began grunting. Unfortunately, the fear of Ngengi had bound his guts up so tightly that nothing was moving. The harder he tried, the worse it got. His compatriots, happy they weren’t the focus of Ngengi’s ire, began catcalling and laughing, which only made it worse.
While the object lesson was ongoing, Little Bear covered the distance to the window and was in before anyone saw him.
A few minutes later, the guard was, to his immense relief, able to relieve himself noisily. The stains on his trousers showed that the result was mainly liquid and voluminous.
“No one has to check that,” said Ngengi ridiculing the guard mercilessly as the result was clearly visible running down his pant leg. “Now walk around in it for the rest of the guard shift. Try to clean up, and your Slash is cut off. The rest of you, remember this. I’m being nice tonight.”
Little Bear meanwhile moved as silent as death through the halls until he found the room that Macklin had converted into sleeping quarters. He found Macklin there, sound asleep. Silently he crept up and removed the gun from under his pillow and field stripped it, scattering the parts carefully around the room. Then he put the deactivated frame carefully back in place. Then he crept up on Macklin and in one swift motion, had his knife at his throat and his hand over Macklin’s mouth.
“Remember me, Re
dneck?” asked Little Bear almost conversationally.
Macklin recoiled and then became very still as he felt the razor sharp knife just below his Adam’s apple.
“That’s better,” said Little Bear. “It’s time for another of our talks. Same rules apply, I’ll cut your throat if you call out. I’ll punch you in the nuts if you lie to me the first time, then remove parts as it suits me. So tell me about your boss.”
“Nergüi’s not here,” said Macklin as soon as the hand was removed from his face.
“I know that, you idiot,” said Little Bear. “He’s on ice in some place you can’t reach. Your support is tenuous and I bet you are sweating bullets. You want to come in? I can promise you that as long as you keep talking, we’ll keep you in Slash.”
“What if I said I had a better offer,” said Macklin, regaining some of his composure.
“That’s what I figured,” said Little Bear contemptuously. “So tell me about the new guy.”
“He’s Nergüi’s boss,” said Macklin as he surreptitiously felt beneath his pillow for his pistol.
“This masked man got a name?” asked Little Bear watching the show.
Macklin drew his pistol, aimed it at Little Bear’s face and snapped the trigger, only then realizing that the slide was gone. Little Bear’s knife stopped a fraction of an inch from Macklin’s eye, freezing him in his tracks.
“That ruse only works once, Redneck,” said Little Bear menacingly. “Your boss is on ice. You may or may not have enough traction with your boss’s boss to get any help. Likely, they will dump you, like they dump most of the useless trash. So what’s your angle? Why are you living in a lab on a cot when you have a guarded house in town with much better beds?”
“He doesn’t know!” thought Macklin.
“Look, I’m just a foot soldier,” said Macklin talking fast. He wanted to portray someone who was too scared to lie. In truth, he was very nearly that scared. “I got some orders from the phone number I used to call Nergüi on. They sent more Slash and want me to raise more troops. You can check that if you want. I know you have watchers on the airport, but that’s all I know! I swear!”
“And why here, Redneck?” said Little Bear indicating the lab. “You have a nice house on the hill.”
“I have to start making my own Slash,” said Macklin. “Without Nergüi to run interference for me, I am concerned about my sources. This lab is pretty well equipped and …”
Whatever else he was about to say was drowned out by a commotion in the hall made by a bunch of guards coming in off shift, harassing the poor guard who had been Ngengi’s object lesson. Little Bear slapped a length of duct tape across Macklin’s mouth and another across his eyes. While he was reaching for the tape, Little Bear buried his fist hard into Macklin’s solar plexus. By the time the tape was off, and Macklin could breathe somewhat normally, all he could see was Ngengi peering over his bed.
“It was Little Bear,” said Ngengi as a statement rather than a question.
“Yes,” said Macklin confirming it from the fetal position.
“What does he know?” asked Ngengi menacingly.
“He knows about Nergüi,” said Macklin, “but not what we are doing here.”
“Does he know we have been cut off?” asked Ngengi.
“No,” said Macklin. “I told him we are here to make Slash and raise an army. I think he believed me.”
“He must have,” said Ngengi, helping Macklin up, “or you’d be dead.”
Forty-five minutes later, back at the hide in the house to the north, Johnny put down his rifle and regarded Little Bear.
“How did it go?” asked Johnny conversationally.
“Better than I hoped,” said Little Bear accepting the offered water. “Macklin thinks I am in the dark about how the Demons run things. He is more worried about protecting himself than guarding Strickland. I think it went just fine.”
July 15th, Wednesday, 08:27 am PDT
Headquarters Building, Fairchild AFB, Spokane WA
“Captain Stutesman, we have a mission for you,” said Colonel Phillips. “How are the replacements shaping up?”
“They are fitting in well, sir,” said Stutesman was in a conference room holding a cup of tea. The end of coffee exports had affected her less than most because she had always been a tea drinker. She had quite a selection of teas in her room and she was experimenting with local herbs from off base.
“We want you to take your flight into downtown Spokane,” said Phillips rolling out a map.
“What’s the objective?” asked Stutesman worriedly. “Will my troops be on foot?”
“No, not hardly,” said Phillips. “We will mount you on half a dozen Humvees. The rest of your flight will be following in a bus. You will have special jamming asset attached to your unit that will hopefully scramble enemy communications. As to the objective, your primary mission will be to make a lot of noise and be a distraction. Your secondary will be a backup hostage extraction should the primary mission fail.”
“Air cover?” asked Stutesman.
“All of our serviceable helicopters will be on the extraction attempt,” said Phillips. “They have towed the crop duster back to base and hopefully it will be available for whoever needs it.”
“Sir, let me ask the hard question,” said Stutesman. “Do we have the fuel for this?”
“I won’t lie,” said Phillips, “this will expend most of our remaining POL. But there is a flight coming in from McChord this afternoon with more. Unfortunately, you will have jumped off by the time they arrive. You’re going with what we have.”
“OK, assuming I have to take over the primary mission,” said Stutesman, “who is the target?”
“Need to know, Captain,” said Phillips, “But we will have someone attached to your unit who knows him and who will brief you on the location.”
“Can I know who that is?” asked Stutesman.
“Sure, you do already,” said Phillips who gestured at the door of the conference room. “You know Captain Twitchell, I presume.”
“Wesley, I thought they got you!” said Stutesman rising to shake Wesley’s hand.
“They did and they didn’t,” said Wesley stroking the bandage on his nose. “It’s quite a story but we have other work to do. I know the target, or rather I saw him once, but I can’t share the why with you. I can tell you that we are to take the jamming asset down I -90 to the Sprague exit and then, if we get the right code word, we go off the highway and get the target.”
“I have about a thousand questions,” said Stutesman.
“You have ninety minutes,” said Phillips looking at his watch, “to get up to speed before we brief the whole plan and you meet the rest of the team.”
July 15th, Wednesday, 09:45 am PDT
The Providence Medical Research Center, Spokane WA
“This place looks like a wreck!” said Macklin as he entered Robert Strickland’s lab flanked by his two followers, Ngengi and Carlos.
“It could be because we have worked all night,” said Robert Strickland irritably. “Or it could be that we are shredding shrubs with makeshift equipment. But your concern about the appearance of my lab is touching. Is that why you are here?”
“Your sense of humor does not endear you,” said Macklin menacingly. “You know damned well why we are here.”
“Here are the two doses as promised,” said Robert indicating two small vials.
“Well, get on with it,” said Macklin. “We need to ensure the efficacy of your work.”
Robert nodded to one of his techs, who expertly loaded two syringes.
“This will definitely hurt you, more than it will hurt me,” said Macklin with a sneer as the technician deftly injected the viscous mixture into Robert’s forearm. Then he did the same for the other hapless lab tech.
“Now what?” asked Macklin after the injections were complete.
“Well,” said Bob checking his watch, “if the tests with the rabbits are any guide, any side
effects will begin to show soon. In most cases, any subject who will begin to show side effects will do so in forty-five minutes or so. We are eager to do blood tests on our one infected subject to see how fast the infection subsides.”
“You mean you don’t know?” said Macklin incredulously. “Do you even know if it will work?”
“As the Plague is tailored to infect only humans,” said Robert with the air of someone lecturing a recalcitrant two-year-old, “testing it on animals was not possible. As I have mentioned before, rhesus monkeys are viable hosts, but your goons couldn’t find any. The serum has worked on cultures of the pathogen, but until we get it into the human blood stream, there is no way to be sure what kind of effect it will have.”
“It better do its job!” warned Macklin ominously, “or there will be hell to pay.”
Any further rant Macklin had planned was interrupted by the test technician becoming violently and noisily sick.
“I’m warning you …” began Macklin pointing a finger at Bob who was now pale and beginning to sweat.
“What you’re seeing is a normal reaction,” said Bob weakly. “About half the test rabbits were quite ill for a couple of hours before they recovered.”
Macklin was about to respond when Bob grabbed a nearby waste basket and began vomiting noisily.
“I’ll be back around noon, Strickland,” said Macklin as he backed away from the vomiting scientist. “You better be right about this side effect thing!”
After a half an hour of vomiting, Bob Strickland’s side effects had subsided to the occasional heave. His technician wasn’t so lucky.
“God, I hope that’s over,” said Strickland almost pathetically as he motioned for a pad where he wrote:
_____________________________________________
“Our little play has bought us a few hours and some believability. The plan is now to string out the blood tests until this evening. I do not have to remind you of the penalty of not acting convincingly.”
_______________________________________________
After everyone had read it, Bob carefully burned the note to ashes.
