Turbulent Wake (Jason Wake Book 4)

by Matthew Rief

  Dr. Huxley nodded to Anna for the introduction, then cleared his throat. “I have been awake for longer than I can remember, and as you all know, I have had little time to prepare an eloquent summation, so I will get straight to it.” He gave the same potent speech he’d given at the seaside restaurant earlier that day, ending with the uncomfortable “deadliest outbreak in human history” and a “dire threat to our species.”

  The speech had the similar effect it’d had on Jason and the team: slack jaws and stares and a moment of silence from the heavy weight of the proclamation.

  Dr. Huxley remained stoic, no stranger to the potential threat of biological weaponry in the wrong hands. He knew things that would keep the average Joe up at night: That there are dangers lurking in the shadows that are beyond normal comprehension; that the deadliest weapons of all time, pound for pound, aren’t nuclear, they’re biological; that a single gallon of anthrax contains enough lethal doses to end all human life on Earth.

  “Dispersal is generally the greatest conundrum when it comes to biological weaponry,” Dr. Huxley said once he knew his words had been adequately digested. “That’s where a propensity for effective human-to-human transmission proves invaluable to the efficacy of offensive biological weapons programs. Instead of needing some form of mass dispersal system, bioterrorists can let things ride out—let nature, both human and environmental, run their prospective courses.”

  America’s UN representative leaned forward and slammed a fist on the table. “We all know that handfuls of defected scientists from the former Soviet Union spoke of secret weapons programs using various viruses and organisms that have been going on since the nineteen seventies.”

  He shot a glare at the Russian representative, but before the two could duke it out, Dr. Huxley regained control of the room. “America’s hands aren’t clean of such behavior, either. I think most of us here are familiar with the United States’ own biological weapons programs. And though the particles were mostly harmless, tons of zinc cadmium sulfide were airdropped all over cities in the Midwestern United States in the name of the American biological weapons program. It wasn’t until nineteen sixty-nine, when Richard Nixon shut down the program, that the truth of the tests finally came to light.”

  The American relaxed back into his chair, and Huxley continued. “Either way, this is a global problem, and few countries are blameless with regards to the use—or planned use—of biological weaponry.” Dr. Huxley took a sip of water. “None of that matters now, however. This is a global crisis that will affect every member of the human race. This long-dormant virus is a complete unknown. We have no vaccine. No recent historical human exposure to garner any form of immunity. And we know very little about it. We cannot talk of the alternative to recovering those stolen samples. From where I stand, there is no alternative.”

  SIXTEEN

  The following morning, Jason rose before the sun, kissed Charlotte on the cheek, and zipped up the elevator to the Grand Hotel Reykjavík’s 12th-floor swimming pool. When the doors opened, he stepped out to an impressive lap pool set up against floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.

  He cut into an adjacent gym and did a session on the rowing machine before hopping onto a treadmill. Five miles later, his breathing heavy, he stepped off, rinsed down, and headed for the pool. He set a hardcase on the deck, performed a series of ballistic warmup stretches, then went into his laps.

  Jason’s morning workouts were a habit hardwired into his brain. Regardless of where he was in the world or what he was doing, he made it a priority to get a long, strenuous workout in every day. Having competed as a collegiate swimmer at Columbia for four years, he was fast, gradually increasing his intensity until he was clocking in sub-thirty-second fifty-meter laps.

  After traversing two thousand meters, he popped out of the water for the first time and caught his breath. With his workout complete, he sat cross-legged near the window and meditated, the early morning rays beaming over the horizon and warming his face. He used the time to let his mind wander, thinking over the previous days’ events and what they were going to do next. Other than the Icelandic police locating two SUVs used by the hostiles in an abandoned farm east of Skaftafell, there’d been no new update. Whoever their enemies were, they were still on the loose, hiding out somewhere on the island.

  Jason cracked open the hardcase. The previous evening, after the meal in Stokkseyri, Jason had stopped by their private jet at Keflavik International Airport to pick up his stuff before heading to the hotel. In addition to his go bag, he grabbed the hardcase, which contained two new gadgets conjured up by members of his advanced engineering team.

  One of the items was a brand-new take on a personal underwater propulsion system. Unlike Seascooters, the device was roughly the size of bicycle handlebars. The other gadget was the world’s smallest rebreather, a sophisticated device that could’ve been mistaken for an ordinary full-face snorkel mask.

  He grabbed the propulsion device and dropped back into the pool. Strapping on his mask and submerging with the gadget, Jason gripped tight to the handles and flicked the power button. Propellers clicked out on both ends and spun to life as Jason throttled forward by depressing a button. Water churned up from the blades, rocketing Jason forward. He nearly let go as the machine swiftly accelerated to seven miles per hour, and he managed to dial it back just before reaching the opposite end of the pool.

  Incredible, he thought, splashing out of the water and running his hands over the device.

  Jason’s team of engineers had explained that the device was designed for short bursts, that though it could drag its user at impressive underwater speeds, the battery only lasted for five minutes. But it was perfect for quick escapes and small enough to collapse and carry on his person like an umbrella.

  Jason rocketed back to the other side of the pool and leaned over the deck to exchange the item for the rebreather. Taking a peek at his cellphone, he saw a message from Scott.

  Murph has an update. Meet at the room ASAP.

  This one will have to wait, Jason thought, eyeing the rebreather as he set the propulsion device back in place and shut the hardcase. After a quick shower and change, he arrived in Scott’s room, then sat beside Alejandra and their leader as a laptop displayed a dark image of the hacker.

  “Go ahead, Murph,” Scott said.

  “Bear with me,” Murph started off. “It’s been a long night. The first thing that caught me about this whole situation in Iceland was the absurdly short window of organization.”

  “Care to elaborate?” Scott said.

  “Let’s look at the timeline. Three days ago, the ship is discovered. First serious symptoms show within hours, then the first death at roughly twelve hours, and the UN takes action. Then, less than twenty-four hours after the initial contact, assassins infiltrate and attack at ground zero. That means, in all likelihood, the bulk of the men who were involved in the attacks flew into Iceland during that twenty-four-hour period.”

  He cleared his throat. “All international commercial flights land in Keflavik, so I started there with my search. Thanks to Scott, I was given access to the TSA mainframe, along with all security footage from the customs and boarding areas, which, fortunately, they don’t erase and record over until the end of the week. With that footage and the window of entry into the country solidified, it was just a matter of facial-recognition marathons all night. It’s not perfect, as I don’t have access to camera feeds from the private terminals, but I still got a nice hit.”

  The image of a man came up on the screen. He was pale and bald, and though the photograph was taken from far off, it was clear enough to see that he wore an angry expression and had a trimmed beard.

  “His name’s Yuri Novikov,” Murph said. “He’s a known global smuggler. One of the most successful I’ve heard of, in fact. A real black-market scoundrel type. He came into Iceland with a fake ID, but facial recognition c
aught him. Would’ve caught him sooner, but he’s evidently had some plastic surgery done. The photo you see is the snapshot taken in the Keflavik customs area four hours before the initial attacks in the cave.”

  Scott rubbed his chin. “You think he could be behind all this?”

  “Novikov? He’s an expert in his field, but hell no. He could never orchestrate something this big, low-key, and with so many moving parts. But there’s no doubt in my mind he’s involved somehow.”

  “An expert smuggler called in to help sneak out the virus samples?” Alejandra said.

  Jason paced the room a moment before turning back to face the monitor. “The men I encountered referred to their leader as ‘the General.’ Ring any bells with known scumbags, Murph?”

  “Not at the top of my head, but Novikov wasn’t a general, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Any idea where this smuggler is now?” Scott said.

  “He used his falsified ID to book a place. A villa just south of the airport, at the Blue Lagoon.”

  Jason shook his head. “Seems like a dumb move. Even with a fake ID.”

  “Must’ve been confident enough in his work and plastic surgery job,” Scott concluded. “You got any intel from the hotel?”

  “No snapshots of Novikov, but I was able to waltz right into their system. Sending over his reservation info now.” The moment the words left his lips, a link to an attachment appeared on the screen. Scott clicked on it, and a document popped up with guests and stay details, along with Novikov’s room number.

  Scott scanned over the text. “This is great stuff, Murph. You able to pick anyone else out at the airports?”

  “Just Novikov, for now. But I’ll run it through again, just in case. And like I said, this won’t catch people who don’t have records or those who used private terminals or perhaps entered via one of the ports, though that’s unlikely due to the nation’s isolation.”

  “I’ll try to get you access to the private terminal footage soon,” Scott said. “That way, you won’t have to hack into it.”

  Murph chuckled, and they ended the call. The group concluded with no other leads to go on for the time being, Novikov was their best bet.

  “I’m with Murph,” Alejandra said. “There’s no chance that his being here is a coincidence. I can’t imagine that Iceland, five hundred miles from the European mainland, is a hot spot for smuggling. It’s far from anyone or anything.”

  Scott nodded. “I agree, though, that it does seem somewhat careless for him to use his own fake ID to book a villa.”

  “It was Murph who discovered him, not some amateur,” Jason said. “The smuggler slipped past normal security measures. It took an expert and access to the airport’s security to sniff him out.”

  Scott glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting set up with the prime minister and members of the UNSC before their plane takes off today.”

  “They’re leaving?” Alejandra said.

  “Flying back to New York to assemble at UN Headquarters and present an update on what’s going on. Meanwhile, more foreign personnel are being brought in to ramp up the search. If the samples aren’t recovered by midday tomorrow, the Icelandic government will be in a tough position.”

  “What are you thinking?” Alejandra said, eyeing Jason, who’d been silent for a few minutes.

  Jason looked away from the computer screen, surveying the city and distant landscape through the living room window. “I’m thinking that I’ve heard the Blue Lagoon is a can’t-miss attraction in Iceland. It would be nice to check it out.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll make a new friend there.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Novena, Singapore

  Elliot “Murph” Murphy huddled over his laptop in a dimly lit, thirty-first-floor hotel room. His eyes were locked on the screen, scanning back and forth as he punched in a series of keystrokes and took intermittent pulls from an energy drink.

  With the shades drawn and his mind locked on a mentally challenging task, Murph was regardless of time. It could’ve been three in the afternoon or three in the morning, and it wouldn’t have mattered. He’d push until the job was done.

  Just an hour prior, he’d gained access to the mainframes for the private terminals at Keflavik International. It was back to the marathon grind—the arduous task of going through the footage and searching for hits using advanced facial-recognition software.

  Not a marathon this time, he thought, thinking about the hours of footage from various angles he’d had to scan when muddling through the commercial flights. More like a generously hilled 5k.

  An alert flashed on the screen. A mugshot appeared, indicating he’d received his first hit. It was from a private flight out of Berlin that had landed in Iceland four hours before the scientific team was attacked in Vatnajökull. The rap sheet was for a former soldier from Somalia, a known rebel who’d fought on multiple sides of conflicts all over the African continent.

  A cold-hearted mercenary without a conscience.

  Two more hits popped up from the same flight, both with similar backgrounds, though they were from different parts of the world. None of the three had served more than two years in prison, but all were dangerous, hard men who could be bought. The kind a powerful, black-hearted mastermind would round up and hire if they needed a small army.

  Murph was certain that the software and databases would miss many of them. Not all contract killers had rap sheets, and not all criminals were in their system. He made a list of the names identified and put all of their information into a single folder that he could send over to Scott and the team. Another hour passed without a hit. He debated sending Scott what he had but decided to finish up the search first. After all, he still hadn’t identified the leader. Yuri Novikov wasn’t the head honcho; he was sure of that. And all of the other men he’d discovered were pawns, not kings, on the chessboard.

  While nearing the end of the search window, poring through flights that had landed between the attack on the expedition and before Jason and Alejandra parachuted into Iceland, an alert flashed once again. Another hit. Another face. Another name.

  Murph blinked and took a swig of caffeine while looking over the headshot and reading the background. “Interesting.” He felt like he was getting closer to the head of the snake. “Very interesting.”

  He read the file of a man named Haan Sung-Jun. He was a former soldier in the army of the Peoples Republic of North Korea. Unlike the other men he’d identified, Haan wasn’t a known mercenary. Little was available, as the North Korean government wasn’t exactly open with the rest of the world. But the CIA database showed that he was a valuable asset to the regime—a secret agent of sorts. He’d been spotted working clandestine operations in Taiwan and the Philippines, but he’d never been caught or questioned. Only by capturing other members of the DPRK had his face and information being verified.

  Why would a North Korean government agent travel to Iceland?

  Then there was the manner of his arrival. Instead of landing aboard a private jet like the others, Haan had arrived on a cargo plane and wore an orange reflective vest, matching the rest of the plane’s handling team.

  Pinpointing Haan caused Murph to give more attention to the rest of the cargo plane’s crew. He ran through the rest of the handlers as they went about their work, as well as the pilots as they strolled through immigration. It was common for airline employees to spend the night wherever they landed while the aircrafts were loaded and unloaded. While running the pilots through the software, another alert appeared.

  Murph’s jaw nearly hit the floor. He wiped the dreariness from his eyes, unable to believe what he was seeing. “I found the head of the snake, all right.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Jason pushed through the glass doors, cool air greeting him as he strode barefoot out onto the wooden deck. Wearing nothing but a pair
of swim trunks, and with a waterproof bag in hand, he stepped into the steaming lagoon. A long exhalation puffed from his lips as the hundred-degree water rose up over his waist and soon covered his shoulders.

  “Entering the lagoon,” Jason said into an earpiece radio. “I’ll contact you again once I’m ready to dive.”

  “Copy that, Jase,” Alejandra said. “Drone’s airborne.”

  He pocketed the waterproof radio and waded out into the spring. Tinted milky blue due to its high silica content, Jason splashed through the four-foot-deep lagoon, making a casual beeline across the main section. Weaving through the scattered patrons, he passed between a minibar serving Icelandic beer and smoothies, and a mud hut where natural facemasks were applied to later be rinsed off right in the lagoon.

  It didn’t take Jason long to understand the appeal of the wonder. It was magical—the kind of place he didn’t want to leave, but he had a mission to attend to.

  Weaving through the throngs of foreigners and Icelanders alike, he passed under a footbridge, wading into the southern section of the hot spring that covered an area of just over two acres. Far from the entrance, the waters cleared, with only a few quiet-seeking tourists relaxing on their backs or taking a break from the heat up on the rocky shoreline.