Lethal Savage

by Dave Edlund

  Still tied to the post, Peter was powerless to intervene. Looking at the body only feet in front of him, he shouted, “You didn’t have to do that!” He locked eyes with Corbett. “He was just a kid.”

  “Shut up. You’ve caused me enough problems. If it were up to me, I’d put a bullet in your head, too.”

  Peter closed his eyes and dropped his chin, wishing that would make the horror go away. But he knew otherwise. He was no stranger to senseless killing. He raised his head, his lips drawn in a hard line, his jaw set like stone. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  Corbett met his stare. “You’re in no position to tell me what to do.”

  “That fire’s going to attract attention. Pretty stupid move on your part.”

  Corbett scoffed. “This is private land for as far as you can see, and no one within five miles in any direction. So tell me, who’s going to see the smoke? And who’s going to care?”

  “You can’t destroy all the evidence,” Peter said. “When the state police arrive to investigate, they’ll figure it out, and they’ll find you.”

  “Here’s what they’ll figure out. This was a meth lab, and bad things happen to drug dealers all the time. These men,” he motioned with his hand, “all have records for prior arrests and convictions. This case will be opened and closed within twenty-four hours.”

  “What about your car, the weapons?”

  Corbett glanced at his watch. “My car is at the bottom of a hole thirty feet deep formed ages ago when the roof of a lava tube collapsed. It’ll be years before anyone finds it, and so what if they do? There’s nothing to connect the car to this crime scene. And the guns were all purchased on the black market. You see, that’s what drug dealers do.”

  Holding the pistol against Peter’s head, Corbett unlocked one side of the handcuffs. “Now, we’re going to take a ride.” He prodded Peter forward with the barrel of the gun pressed against his spine.

  They stopped at the SUV and Corbett ran a hand over Peter’s pockets and sides. He confiscated the extra SIG Sauer magazine. “Won’t be needing that anymore,” Corbett said. “Where’s your phone?”

  Peter shrugged. “Somewhere inside my car probably, unless it fell out the door when your men were shooting at me.”

  Corbett pressed the pistol barrel into Peter’s back. “Open the door. Nice and easy.”

  Peter complied and started to get in, but was stopped by a firm grip on his shoulder. “Not so fast. First we have to put that handcuff back on.”

  Peter extended his arms, expecting Corbett to fasten the cuff in place. “That’s not the way we’re going to do this. Bend over.”

  Uncertain what was coming, Peter hesitated, receiving another poke from the gun barrel. “Bend over! Put one hand between your legs and clasp your hands together.”

  He did as instructed, and the handcuffs were clamped onto both wrists, leaving Peter in a very uncomfortable position. “Now you can get in.”

  Corbett got behind the wheel with Peter in the passenger seat, his hands locked together underneath his right thigh. “This is rather uncomfortable. I hope we don’t have to travel far?”

  “Your comfort is not at all my concern.”

  Corbett depressed the accelerator, leaving behind a cloud of dust. After a short drive, he found the last guard standing beside the gravel road, having disposed of the white sedan. Corbett got out and took the back seat, behind Peter, while the guard took the wheel.

  “I rolled your car into that sink hole just as you said. A shame to waste a nice car like that.”

  “Never mind. Did you see anyone along the way?”

  “Hell, no. There ain’t nobody out here. Hey, where’s Louie?”

  “He couldn’t make it.”

  The guard seemed to understand. He also came to the conclusion that asking questions may result in a significantly shortened life expectancy. He gripped the steering wheel, staring ahead. “Where to, Mr. Corbett?”

  “Eugene. The ranch.”

  Chapter 35

  South of Eugene, Oregon

  March 29

  The ranch was expansive, just shy of a thousand acres. Bordered by forested land, the property of a large timber company, this additional buffer added to the privacy. The nearest neighbor was three miles away. Seclusion was the highest priority and the reason why Simon Ming had purchased this property.

  Over the preceding two years, he’d paid handsomely to renovate the run-down ranch house, where the security detail was based, adding a large barn that included a well-equipped machine shop plus plenty of refrigerated storage. The ground floor of the barn was the high-tech nerve center of the operation, fitted with multiple computer terminals, several high-capacity servers, communications equipment, and a break room. But there was also a second floor that housed the security center and the pilot control rooms. To ensure an uninterrupted supply of electricity to power the equipment, two back-up generators had been installed beside the barn.

  Spreading the work among many contractors, and never using the same contractor twice, Ming managed to maintain a low profile and not attract unwanted attention from his rural neighbors or the nearby city of Eugene. The unimproved gravel road leading up to the ranch helped. Intruders were discouraged by the barbed-wire fence surrounding the perimeter which was backed up by state-of-the-art wireless security cameras which numbered more than a hundred.

  The flat, open space between the barn and the house was covered by a large lawn about the size of two soccer fields placed side by side. Evergreen trees stretched skyward beyond the manicured grass. The undergrowth—a wide range of shrubs including native rhododendron and azalea, blackberry vines, raspberry, salmonberry, plus young evergreen trees—was meticulously cut to the ground at Roger Corbett’s insistence, leaving only mature trees over the twenty-acre buffer surrounding the house and barn. Ever cautious, he wanted a defensible perimeter with limited cover for any intruders. A small tribe of goats maintained the area free of shrubs and vines.

  The overnight fog had lifted early, a rarity during spring in the southern Willamette Valley. Simon Ming was enjoying a latte from the comfort of a bent-willow rocking chair on the wide veranda surrounding the house. With a scattering of white, puffy clouds, the temperature was near perfect, and he preferred the crisp and clean air to the mildew aromas still locked within the house from the winter season. Scattered rays of sunlight glistened off dewdrops clinging to every surface like so many gem stones. His phone was pressed to his ear as his eyes surveyed the natural beauty of the forest.

  “Seventy bags. That’s all our chemist was able to manufacture?” Ming said.

  Corbett had phoned from the back seat of the Suburban. He spoke in a low voice—preferring not to broadcast his conversation to the other occupants of the vehicle. “That’s all there is. I checked personally.”

  “Most likely he overestimated the quantity he could produce based on his experience synthesizing meth. My product is a different beast.”

  “It’s something to keep in mind with the other manufacturers. Simple enough to reduce their projections by ten to fifteen percent.”

  “Very true,” Ming replied. “And the lab?”

  “Just as you said. Cooking meth is a dangerous pastime. Sadly, the lab burned to the ground. I’m sure it’s a total loss, the fire was very intense.” The corners of his mouth turned up in a cruel grin.

  “Hmm. Bad luck. And the workers?”

  “Let’s just say they won’t be filing any claims for worker’s comp.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “About an hour from your ranch. Everything is proceeding on schedule. We can prep the drone with the inventory I have with me.”

  “Excellent. I want to strike immediately.”

  “Sir, you’re suggesting we accelerate the schedule by several days. Are you certain that’s wise?”

  “Do not worry, Mr. Corbett. My pilots and technicians have successfully completed every training mission. And with this unnecessary distract
ion that we are dealing with, I think to wait introduces even greater risk.”

  “Of course,” Corbett replied. He did not agree with his boss, and thought it foolish, maybe borderline reckless, to accelerate the schedule this late in the plan. But he knew the consequences of further argument would not be favorable. “And the target?”

  “The Hayden Bridge water intake, just as my men have trained.” Ming ended the call and thought through the plan for the hundredth time. He ran all the detailed steps through his mind as if rehearsing for a Broadway performance. Very soon, he would disperse his genetically engineered product into the water supply for the cities of Eugene and Springfield. Within a day, the combined population of a quarter million people would begin to be exposed to his virus.

  And that is only the beginning. His lips formed a thin smile.

  Inside the barn, a crew of four technicians clothed in sky-blue coveralls was readying the rotating-wing drone. The craft consisted of a central body surrounded by six ducted fans, each fifteen inches in diameter. The body of the aircraft had no need for windows. But it was fitted with a hatch on the bottom that could be opened to varying degrees. Using construction inspired by much larger aircraft that drop fire retardant powder on wildfires, the hatch was remotely controlled to dispense its load at a specific rate that was indexed to the forward speed of the drone, thus ensuring uniform dispersion once it was over the drop zone.

  Electric power for driving the six motors came from an advanced hydrogen fuel cell molded to the desired aerodynamic shape. To save weight, the fuel cell also functioned as the housing for the dry, powdered virus. High-pressure hydrogen was stored in three ultra-light-weight carbon-fiber canisters. Fueling was accomplished from a supply of twenty-four large cylinders of compressed hydrogen located in a bay next to the machine shop.

  Carrying a payload of twenty-five kilograms, the drone could complete a round trip flight distance of thirty-seven miles in calm winds—twice that, if it was a one-way trip. And given the mission plan, there was little reason to have the drone return.

  The avionics suite was rather simple to operate and based on a very sophisticated navigational system using GPS. Groundspeed was determined by a small radar system. Positional sensors in each of the ducted fans transmitted the angle of attack of each fan to the operator’s control computer. This information was combined with the ground speed and fed to the computers in the flight control center to calculate the wind direction and velocity, essential information to ensure accuracy when the payload was dispensed.

  Most of the ground floor of the barn was occupied by the control room—a complex collection of computers, large monitors, and servers. Twelve engineering work stations, arranged in three clusters of four, were located at the center of the floor. Every computational, navigational, and aircraft flight function was duplicated and staffed during a sortie, providing total redundancy. A walkway was suspended over the control room, accessible by a stairway at each end. Corbett’s security team was stationed in a room at the middle of the walkway, surrounded on all four sides by glass walls.

  The drone was a custom design, fabricated at the machine shop, also located within the barn. In order to prevent abrasive dust, metal chips, cutting oil, and other debris from damaging the delicate electronics, a wall of tempered glass panels separated the machine shop from the control room.

  A pilot and copilot comprised the flight team that flew the drone at all times. There were three such teams. Although the backup wasn’t essential, it allowed the flight teams to closely monitor all incoming data and provided greater assurance of mission success.

  Ming’s attention was drawn to the drone as it was rolled out the open barn doors. The aircraft was sleek and painted sky-blue with anti-reflective, matte-finish paint. Against the bright spring sky, it would be very difficult for ground observers to see its approach.

  Presently, cornmeal was being loaded into the payload cavity. Ming watched with fascination. Following extensive work that spanned nearly three years, he was in the final stretch. What he would witness today would be just a small piece of the machination, a prelude of what was to come.

  The hatch door was closed, securing twenty-five kilograms of cornmeal inside the drone. The lead ground-support technician spoke into a hand-held radio. “Payload is secured. All clear. Ready to start motors.”

  “Roger,” the pilot radioed back. “Energizing motors, 20 percent.”

  Immediately, the six fans started whirring. The craft buffeted lightly, but the skids remained fixed to the lawn.

  “Looking good,” the ground technician said. “You are clear to lift off.”

  “Roger. Increasing power. Stand clear.” The ducted fans steadily increased in speed at the same time the sound intensity climbed until it sounded like a dozen angry, swarming hives of hornets.

  With pride, Simon Ming watched the drone climb straight up—twenty feet, forty feet, seventy feet. It was just a small object now, nearly invisible in the morning sunlight. As he stared, the drone zipped forward and out of sight.

  The plan for this final test flight was very simple; validate that the aircraft and navigational electronics all worked flawlessly. The pilots were to pass through five coordinates at the specified elevation, all marked by GPS, before returning fifteen minutes later to the ranch and dropping the cornmeal in a controlled release that would blanket the entire grassy area between the barn and house. The pilot team had practiced this before, completing similar maneuvers dozens of times.

  Today was different.

  This was the final trial flight, and if all went according to plan, the next mission would carry the viral agent.

  Chapter 36

  Tumalo State Park, North of Bend, Oregon

  March 29

  Danya was pacing back and forth inside the small travel trailer. The digital clock on the electric stove indicated the time, 8:05 a.m. From the outset, she’d never liked the plan Peter had proposed. Based on her training and experience, she knew the odds of success were extremely slim, close to zero.

  She studied the red icon on her phone again. Copying Peter’s idea for tracking Roger Corbett, once she returned to her trailer she’d set up the app to track Peter’s new phone. She frowned—the symbol indicated he was considerably west of Bend. Something was wrong.

  For his part, Darnell was slouched on the padded dinette, his back against the wall and head drooped so his chin nearly rested on his chest. His eyes were closed as he sat motionless. Danya let him sleep, one less concern to worry about, although he’d offered no resistance or made any attempt to escape.

  She called Peter’s number. It rang five times and then went to voice mail, not that she really expected he would answer. She turned her gaze to Darnell.

  “Okay, sleeping beauty,” she said to Darnell. “Rise and shine. You’ve got a job to do.” She held out a pair of chrome handcuffs. “Hands before you. Wrists together. Come on, we don’t have time to waste.”

  “You can’t turn me in,” Darnell said.

  “The hell I can’t. You have valuable information that you are going to share with the authorities. Most especially, Dr. Julia Zhong and her team at the CDC.”

  He rose and squared off, facing Danya.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” she said.

  “I’m not going to just walk into the hands of the police. I did what had to be done—for the greater good of all humanity. I’m not going to prison.”

  “You think you’ll fair better with Ming’s security force? They’ll find you within a week. And when they do, you’re dead.”

  He was shaking his head. “I’ve got money and resources. Without a family, I can run. They’ll never find me.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Darnell. You don’t know anything about running or going off the grid.”

  “Maybe, but I’m a fast learner. Now, let me pass. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Although Darnell was considerably bigger than Danya, he was approaching middle age with a burgeonin
g layer of belly fat. Plus, he had no training in martial arts. “I’m not letting you go,” she said. “If you really think you can make me move, go ahead. Give it your best shot. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He threw a punch at her face. It was sluggish, as she expected. She responded with lightning reflexes, easily blocking the strike, and immediately following through with a solid blow to his nose. Darnell was stunned. He took a half step backwards, then bellowed like a bull and lunged forward, arms out. He planned to wrap Danya in a bear hug and wrestle her down.

  She raised a knee sharply into his groin. He doubled over in agony and she clasped her hands together into one large fist and slammed down with the force of a sledgehammer onto the base of his neck.

  Finished, Darnell fell to his knees. Danya stepped behind him and pulled both hands behind his back. She ratcheted the cuffs snug around his wrists. She allowed him half a minute to catch his breath. “I could use you as a punching bag all day, but I’ve got work to do. Let’s go. Into the truck.”

  “What’s gonna happen?” he asked meekly.

  “In about thirty minutes the Bend PD is going to rescue you.”

  During the short five-minute drive to Sawyer Park at the north end of the city, she dialed the Bend Police Department.

  “Detective Colson, please.”

  “She’s not scheduled to be on duty until eight thirty a.m., the receptionist said. “I can put you through to her voicemail.”

  “That’s fine.”

  After the second ring, Danya was greeted by a voice she recognized from memory. “You’ve reached the desk of Detective Colson. I can’t take your call right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to as soon as I can.”

  “There’s a person you want to pick up. His name is Darnell Price and he’s handcuffed to a park bench at Sawyer Park. He has a very interesting story to share with you about bioterrorism.” She punched the red button, disconnecting the call just as she made the turn into the wooded park along the Deschutes River.