Lethal Savage

by Dave Edlund

  Peter watched and listened for several seconds—but there was no indication any technician had reached the generators. At least, not yet. He knew from the overheard conversations that they needed to activate the transfer switch and restore power to the computer and other electronic equipment inside the control room.

  “Diesel,” Peter said. The two amber eyes looked up at him with anticipation. Extending his arm to the side, he said, “Go. Hide.” The pit bull cocked his head, maybe expressing confusion, or was it reluctance? The dog remained at Peter’s side. “Go! Hide!” This time, the canine jogged away into the trees and bushes beyond the generators, looking back over his shoulder just before he disappeared into the thick vegetation.

  Even from a distance the rumble of a diesel engine obscured all other background sounds. Peter dashed forward to the nearest of the two machines. He laid a hand on the sheet metal and felt the vibration of moving machinery and warmth radiating from the running engine. Diesel exhaust was ejected from a pipe on the top of the metal enclosure. A thick, black cable extended from the generator to a metal box on the wall of the barn. He concluded it was the transfer switch. For a moment, he considered using the tomahawk to sever the cable as he’d done to the main power supply along the back wall of the barn. Quickly, he discarded the idea reasoning that a cable splice could be applied with relative ease by an industrious technician. No, better to disable the generator itself, he thought.

  He grasped a latch on an access panel when a voice boomed from behind him and commanded, “Stop whatever you’re doing! Raise your hands!”

  Slowly, Peter turned, hands above his head. Another guard or technician dressed in the same sky-blue coveralls stood before him. He was tantalizingly close, but out of reach nonetheless. His pistol was aimed squarely at Peter. “Before you shoot me,” Peter said, “you might want to think about that bullet passing through me and doing some serious damage to this machine. I don’t imagine Dr. Ming and Mr. Corbett will be pleased if that happens.”

  The man’s eyes looked Peter over and then he moved his head just barely to the side, trying to see what might be in the line of fire. After another couple seconds of deliberation he said, “Move to the side.”

  Peter shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I said move!”

  Just then a blur of red fur launched from the tree line behind the guard. He never saw the charge and didn’t have time to prepare for the seventy-pound pit bull slamming into his legs.

  As soon as contact was made, Diesel clamped down on the man’s thigh. He was trying to recover his balance following the collision, extending his left leg forward to stay upright. Burning pain fired through his leg as four canines pierced a full inch into the muscle. Through some ancient instinct, a knowledge coded into human DNA, he knew he had to remain on his feet—if he fell, the dog would be at his neck and face.

  Diesel began shaking his head furiously, and the guard struggled to stay afoot while also trying to get his weapon aimed at the creature shredding his leg. He didn’t have time to work out the problem. Peter was in motion as soon as Diesel connected, covering the distance to the guard in two seconds. He lowered his shoulder and extended his arms, driving him over backwards.

  They tumbled to the ground, Peter on top and slamming his fist into the man’s face. He started to maneuver his pistol toward Peter, but Diesel released his grip on the leg and bit down hard on the gunman’s wrist. Peter was certain he heard bone snapping, and the man cried out in pain. The SIG Sauer pistol fell harmlessly from his hand, but Diesel wouldn’t release. The guard’s agonized wail continued as the canine tossed his muscular head from side to side causing the broken bones to separate and lacerate the surrounding tissue inside his wrist.

  Peter rammed his fist forward once more, mercifully knocking him out. “Diesel. Release,” Peter commanded.

  Quickly, Peter stuffed the guard’s pistol between the small of his back and his belt. Then he grabbed an extra magazine before hastily stripping off his ballistic vest.

  Knowing he had little time, Peter fitted the vest around Diesel by slipping a front leg through one of the arm holes and then pulling the garment around the animal’s deep chest. Although large for a dog, Diesel’s chest was not as big as a man’s and so a couple hasty field modifications were in order.

  Peter marked the location where the second leg hole should be. Then he removed the vest and used the pointed end of the tomahawk to pierce a hole in the fabric. He widened the hole with the razor-sharp cutting blade. Diesel stood obediently while Peter fit the ballistic vest around him. Not exactly tailor-quality, but it would do. Lastly, Peter pulled the belt from the guard’s trousers and cinched it snug to hold the vest in place.

  Diesel gazed into his master’s eyes. Peter didn’t know what to read in them. His best friend was panting but not excessively. The vest would certainly make it more difficult to shed heat, but that was a trade-off Peter would accept any day if it meant stopping a bullet.

  He rubbed Diesel’s head. “It’s okay, boy. Time to get back to work.”

  Chapter 44

  South of Eugene, Oregon

  March 29

  Without warning, the computer monitors throughout the control room flickered, and then went black. Upstairs in the flight control center, the lead pilot said, “Oh crap. That’s it. Power’s gone.”

  “Can you recover the flight?” Corbett asked, already knowing the answer.

  “It’s possible, but only if power is restored quickly. As in minutes. The drone is programmed to return to the launch point in the event of a failed communication link. If power can be restored, we’ll have to reboot the entire system and upload new programming to the drone. No guarantee it will work.”

  “Be ready to reload the flight program, Mr. Corbett,” a new voice said. It was Dr. Ming, watching from the back of the flight control center. His body was straight and rigid, like a statue. When he spoke, only his lips moved.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have the second drone prepared. As soon as it’s ready and we have power again, I want you to launch it. Same target. Understood?”

  Corbett nodded and descended an elevator on dedicated backup power, along with three technicians. The doors opened onto an assembly bay that housed the store of virus and a second helicopter drone. A wide sliding door opened onto the expansive lawn. “Fill the tanks with hydrogen,” Corbett ordered one of the techs.

  As the man busied himself with connecting a steel-braided, high-pressure line to the composite tanks on the drone, Corbett and the remaining techs went to work loading the virus into the cargo bay.

  s

  Peter turned his attention back to the generator, trying to quickly decide the best way to sabotage the machine. He had the access panel open. There were several circuit breakers and gauges indicating oil pressure, engine temperature, current, and voltage. Although he was very comfortable with machines and technology, he also recognized the complexity they represented. And in this case, it was a matter of deciding how and where to deliver a crippling blow, and quickly. If only the internal working components were visible instead of being shielded behind metal panels, he thought. Oh, what the hell. He gripped the SIG Sauer pistol, aiming into the control panel.

  “Stop! Freeze right there!”

  Several guards aimed their guns at Peter from behind. Then three more rounded the corner of the barn, weapons drawn. Peter was caught in a crossfire, with no cover.

  “Diesel, ready?” he said in a low but firm voice. The dog stared at Peter’s eyes, eager for the next command.

  “Drop the gun, or we drop you.”

  “Just take it easy.”

  “Last warning. Drop the gun!”

  “Okay, okay!” Peter turned slowly to attract the attention of the guards. He extended his arm, holding the pistol away from his body in a non-threatening fashion. He tossed the gun a few feet away. It landed on the grass with a thump. The guards seemed to relax, if only a bit. But that was what
Peter had expected. He looked at Diesel again. His plan was risky, but it was all he had. “Go. Hide!”

  Diesel took off at a run. The sudden motion surprised the guards who all turned their guns toward the fleeing dog, many firing.

  With their attention on Diesel, Peter yanked the tomahawk from his belt. He readied to strike when he heard a sickening sound—a yelp of pain and then a crashing sound, as if a heavy mass had tumbled through the brush at the tree line. And then… silence. Diesel wasn’t running into the vegetation any longer. He was motionless.

  “I think we got him,” one of the guards said.

  All their eyes were back on Peter. Anger welled inside him, like a geyser ready to blow. The lines on his face were deep and his eyes narrowed, filled with rage. Fueled by adrenaline, Peter swung down with the tomahawk, driving his torso forward in concert with the motion of the blade. With strength born of desperation and amplified several fold by fury, he propelled the steel downward.

  It all happened in a heartbeat, too fast for anyone to react.

  Peter closed his eyes the instant before the hardened-steel blade severed the power cable running along the ground from the generator to the transfer switch. The electrically energized cable shorted against the blade in a brilliant arc that momentarily blinded the onlookers. Peter heaved on the handle, extracting the blade which had buried deep into the earth. He turned in the direction Diesel had gone and sprinted for the trees before the guards recovered their vision.

  s

  It took several seconds for their sight to return. There was little point in searching for Peter. Where exactly he had fled was unclear, only that he’d dashed away from the barn for the surrounding forest. Once he disappeared into the thick brush, finding him would take hours of searching, maybe longer. And their only priority was to restore power.

  The electrical short when Peter severed the power cable caused all the circuit breakers to open. The techs merely shut down the first generator and started up the second one. In less than two minutes it was running at full power. Then they manually activated the transfer switch, sending power into the control center.

  s

  It required only a couple minutes to fully charge the high-pressure composite gas cylinders on the drone with hydrogen, and then check the setting on the pressure regulator. The advanced fuel-cell power system provided the helicopter drone with unprecedented range and payload capability.

  “We have power again!” one of the technicians said as preparations of the second drone neared completion. The overhead lights came on and simultaneously the emergency illumination turned off.

  A temporary electrical cord was connected to the drone to power up the onboard microprocessor and navigational computer, rather than waste hydrogen to run the fuel cell while the flight program was uploaded and diagnostics completed. Next, a technician plugged a communication cable from his laptop into a port on the drone and typed a series of commands on the keyboard. Code scrolled by on the monitor, too fast to read.

  “How long?” Corbett asked.

  “Five minutes,” came the reply. “Have to complete the internal checks, purge the fuel cell, and ensure the program uploaded correctly.”

  “Stay on it. I want this drone ready to fly.”

  “Program upload progressing,” one of the techs said. “At 30 percent. All indicators read normal.”

  Corbett rode the elevator up to the flight control room. He strode directly to Dr. Ming who was still standing at the rear of the room. “The second drone is being prepped. It will be ready in a few minutes.”

  “Good,” Ming said. He appeared to be in a trance. His hands were clasped behind his back, his eyes staring forward at the lead flight team.

  Corbett moved to the lead pilot. “What’s the status of the first drone?” he said.

  Without taking her eyes off her monitor, the pilot replied, “We just re-established the communication link. Looks like our bird is…” she glanced at the co-pilot and information displayed on his monitor. The co-pilot pointed at the screen. “There,” the pilot said. “Over Eugene and on course back to base.”

  “I want you to turn it around. I want that payload dropped on the Hayden Bridge water intake.”

  The pilot rolled her shoulders. “I hear you boss. As I said before, we have to first reconnect the communication link and then upload the flight profile. Step one is done. Working on step two.”

  “Fuel status?” Ming asked.

  The co-pilot was monitoring fuel and other flight data. “Forty-three percent.”

  “Is that sufficient to turn it around and reach the target?”

  A quick calculation yielded the answer. “Yes,” the co-pilot said. “Provided we get the drone back on course soon. It’ll be close.”

  Corbett’s frustration was mounting. There was nothing he could do to help the flight team, but he also didn’t take well to just standing around and watching as events unfolded. He decided to descend again to the assembly bay, where at least he could participate in getting the second machine ready to fly. Then his attention was captured by a voice in the control center below the catwalk.

  “Hello? Anybody home?” It sounded like a female voice. “Come out. I’m just trying to be friendly.”

  “Mr. Corbett,” Ming said without shifting his gaze from the pilots furiously at work at the flight control station. “I want him… alive.”

  He left Dr. Ming and the pilots and looked out the window of the security room. Below he saw that the room was fully illuminated again and the computer terminals were rebooting. The monitors flashed new images as the boot routines were completed.

  “Hello? You’re not being very nice.” Danya aimed her pistol at the nearest computer console and fired twice. The monitor blacked out.

  “What? No one’s home?” She fired two more shots into the next computer.

  Corbett burst out of the security room onto the catwalk. He aimed his SIG Sauer and fired.

  Danya heard the door slam open and heavy footsteps from above. She looked up just as the head of security fired his weapon. She dove to the side, but not fast enough. The bullet pierced the front of her thigh, fortunately missing bone and major blood vessels, but it still hurt like hell.

  She raised the pistol, the shotgun still slung on her shoulder. Firing three rapid shots, she rolled to the side using the computer console as cover.

  Corbett dropped to the deck when she fired, narrowly avoiding the brief volley of bullets. He raised his head over the edge just in time to see Danya glancing over the console. He pointed his pistol and fired two shots in her direction, not expecting to hit but intending to keep her in place until his men arrived.

  She dropped to the floor as pieces of the computer monitor were shot off above her head. Slowly she crawled forward, aiming to relocate without being observed from above. She knew the electronic circuit boards and cabinet would offer little resistance to bullets; she needed more substantial cover.

  Random gunshots continued to rain down from above. It was clear the gunman had not pinpointed her location. But it was also a stalemate. She couldn’t flee, and the gunman couldn’t pursue her, without each exposing themselves to hostile fire. Danya knew that stalemates seldom last for very long. Unfortunately, she was about to be proven correct.

  Chapter 45

  South of Eugene, Oregon

  March 29

  Satisfied they’d successfully restored power, the team of technicians and guards re-entered the barn only to find a new gun battle underway. They drew their weapons and began searching for threats. From the overhead catwalk, Corbett was firing his pistol at an unseen adversary who seemed to be in the middle of the control room.

  “Spread out and encircle the work stations!” Corbett ordered upon seeing the men enter. Quickly the guards spread in both directions, the five men drawing a tight circle around the computer consoles while methodically shooting at any perceived hiding point.

  “There!” one of the men shouted, pointing his gun at
Danya, lying prone against an electronics cabinet. He fired a single shot that pierced the sheet metal right above Danya’s head. “Stop! Hands up!” he ordered.

  Danya knew her situation was untenable. Her training had taught her that as long as she was alive, there was a chance to escape and survive.

  “Okay! Okay!” she said, pushing the FN shotgun and pistol out onto the floor. The weapons slid forward well away from her reach. She rose to her feet, grimacing when she put pressure on her wounded leg.

  “Hands above your head!” one of the guards ordered.

  Beaten, she had no other option than to comply.

  “Bring her up to me,” Corbett said. With pistols aimed at her back, two of the technicians escorted her up the stairs. She stopped and faced Roger Corbett.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Danya remained silent.

  “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused me?”

  She smirked despite the pain. “Oh, I think I do.”

  He lashed out, viciously striking the back of his hand across her mouth. Blood oozed from a split in her lower lip.

  Shaking off the blow, she refocused her eyes on Corbett. “It was fun,” she said. “You know the way sensitive electronic equipment sparks when you shoot it up? I really like that.”

  Corbett rammed a meaty fist into her stomach and she doubled over, coughing and gasping for breath.

  “Why are you here?” he demanded.

  She slowly straightened, still struggling to fill her lungs with air. Her eyes were defiant, her lips pressed tightly together.

  “This is all we found on her, sir,” one of the technicians said, offering Danya’s cell phone.

  “Remove the SIM card. Have someone extract the data. I want to know who her contacts are and what information she’s shared.”

  “Good luck with that,” Danya said, breaking her silence. “It’s a burner. I prefer going low profile.”