by Dave Edlund
“Really? You sound like a professional.”
She shrugged. “You could say so.”
“Is that so? And who do you work for?”
“What difference does it make?”
His eyes narrowed. “Military? Maybe intelligence?”
“Intelligence, if it makes you feel better to know.”
“And why are you involved in my business? The CIA and NSA have no jurisdiction in domestic affairs.”
“I never claimed to work for those agencies.”
“Who, then?”
Despite her split lip, she drew the corners of her mouth into a mocking grin. Corbet backhanded her again. Her head jerked to the side, but she remained fast in place, held firmly by the guards on both sides.
“Which agency do you work for?”
Danya held Corbett’s gaze. “You should be thinking internationally.”
Corbett considered her statement. “What is your mission? Why are you here?”
With exaggerated eye movements, Danya made a show of looking around the complex. “I’m just passing through. Thought it would be fun to drop in and shoot up your small-time operation.”
He struck her cheek again, turning it an angry red as swelling started to set in. “Whatever your mission, you failed. Your employer should have trained you better.”
Danya snorted. “If you ask me, I did pretty well against your team of amateurs.”
“And yet, you are my prisoner. Seems you didn’t do as well as you’d like to think.” Corbett’s eyes found the nearest guard. “Cuff her hands and bring her.” He turned and strode toward the flight operations room and Dr. Ming.
Roger Corbett spoke in private with his boss for several long minutes. They had a growing list of problems: the property surrounding the barn was littered with dead bodies; several more were wounded and would require medical attention; and there were the two outsiders who had caused these problems. But the priority remained completing the mission and dispersing the virus aerosol over the municipal water supply for Eugene and Springfield—twin cities with a combined population of more than 250,000.
And that was only the beginning. Ming had planned meticulously over the preceding several years, buying rural property within drone-flight range of twenty-six major U.S. cities, all with exposed potable water supplies. Although for years experts had warned of this vast and widespread vulnerability in America’s infrastructure, none of the local, state, or federal politicians wanted to address the problem in a time of over-taxed budgets and mounting deficits.
Infrastructure was the soft underbelly of America, and Dr. Ming was going to strike hard and fast. Stockpiles of the virus were already being manufactured near each and every remote launch center. Within a few days, drones would disperse the pathogen and contaminate the drinking water for more than fifteen million people.
By the end of the week, hospitals and clinics would be overrun with patients. Local governments would quickly be overwhelmed with the mammoth challenge of cleanup and decontamination. Efforts to provide alternative supplies of water would swamp the logistics networks, adding to the frustration and anger while bringing about more chaos. The cost would be astronomical. Voters would blame their elected officials, and the courts would be mired in lawsuits for years as victims sought to blame someone.
But mostly, America would be demoralized, brought to the brink of anarchy. There would be political turmoil for years, perhaps decades. The government of President Taylor, the man who had sent a military force to destroy his father’s work, and take his life, would be brought down.
Ming would have his revenge, and it would be sweet. The thought brought a smile to his face.
“You don’t know who she is?” Ming asked.
Corbett shook his head. “She claims she works for an un-named intelligence agency. But I don’t believe her.”
“She is skilled at her craft. She bested your team.”
Corbett bristled. “It makes sense that she’s working in concert with Peter Savage. But how and why? I don’t know.”
Ming considered the implications. “If that’s true, then she is not with the authorities. If that was the case, a paramilitary team would have already stormed my complex.”
Ming started to pace, tracing a tight circle around Corbett. “No, I think we are dealing with two people who just happened to have the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“That would be quite a coincidence,” Corbett replied.
“Yes, it would. So we need to be certain. Put her in a chair and have your men keep an eye on her. Then make sure the second drone is prepped for flight.”
Corbett turned to descend in the elevator, but was stopped by Ming’s booming voice. “And find Peter Savage!”
Chapter 46
South of Eugene, Oregon
March 29
As Peter entered the dense evergreen forest, he searched in vain for Diesel. The thick understory obscured whatever tracks may have been left, and all he could do was wander aimlessly. The barn was no longer visible, hidden behind a green curtain, and the generator, although running, was barely audible.
Peter stood still in the waste-high brush, listening. There it was, a rustling sound—faint, but definitely real. He cocked his head trying to locate the source. “Diesel,” he said, his voice low so as not to carry far. “Diesel.”
Again, he heard the dim sound of leaves brushing against nylon cloth. He moved forward into a small clearing only about eight feet in diameter. The sound grew louder, but only barely. Suddenly, Diesel popped into the clearing, emerging from behind a pitch-covered tree trunk.
Tail wagging side to side, his canine companion trotted up to him. Diesel wasn’t limping, and there was no obvious sign of blood. Peter’s heart beat with joy. He squatted and made to undo the belt holding the ballistic vest in place. At the tugging on the strap, Diesel yipped once, then silenced.
Peter stopped and examined the vest. Soon he spotted a blemish in the fabric where a bullet had impacted. If not for the protective material, the bullet would have entered the dog’s chest and passed through both lungs. Thankfully, the bullet-proof vest had done its job and saved Diesel’s life. Now Peter understood the source of the pain his friend felt.
After gently removing the belt and then unwrapping the vest, Peter placed his hands along the canine’s rib cage, feeling for injuries while Diesel stood still. All of the ribs felt normal, no indication that any were broken or dislocated. Pulling his hands away, he examined them for blood—none, a very good sign. Undoubtedly there was one nasty bruise hidden under the red fur, a result of the blunt-force trauma from the bullet impact. But otherwise, Diesel appeared to be okay. The dog was still panting from the exertion, but he’d soon cool. The morning air was a very comfortable temperature and it would not warm too much as the day progressed.
Peter turned his face toward the sky. It was pale blue and bright; the white puffy clouds were gone. Briefly resting there in the clearing with his best friend, Peter felt the peace and beauty Nature offered.
He sat down, and Diesel came in close, pressing against his outstretched legs. It was in forests like this one, not too far away in the Cascade Mountains, that Peter had formed some of his happiest memories. His mind filled with visions of past times hiking and camping with his children, Ethan and Joanna: sitting by Todd Lake with Maggie, as the toddlers splashed in the shallow water near the grass-covered shore.
Now, those memories seemed so distant, and with each recall, somehow less vivid and lacking in detail. It had been years since Maggie had passed; the acute pain of her loss now seemed to have softened to a dull ache, fading like his memories. It didn’t feel right, as if his failing memory was unfaithful.
He turned his eyes toward Diesel and rubbed both floppy ears with his fingers. It would be so easy to just sit where he was; for a while, anyway. Just enjoying the solitude, being one with Nature while trying to remember happier times.
Peter closed his eyes, r
ecalling hunting in the Cascades with both Ethan and Joanna. When was the last time he’d taken a trip into the mountains with either child? How long had it been—five years, or was it six? The images in his mind seemed more like a collage, a collection of snapshots rather than a complete memory. Would he eventually, with the passing of time, forget his history? He shuddered at the frightening thought.
He pushed the notion aside and tried to relax, but all he felt was fatigue. Not just physically, but mentally as well. He and Diesel could sneak away. It wouldn’t be difficult at all, especially with everyone at the barn absorbed by their work. And why not? He’d done all he could do. He stopped them from flying the drone to the city water supply by disrupting the main electrical power as well as the backup generator. He’d heard the technicians say they didn’t have sufficient battery backup to power the computers and other equipment long enough to complete the mission. Once he got away, he could call for help. Maybe call Detective Colson.
It was a tempting plan, and one that made sense. Only it wasn’t true. The distant mechanical hum of the diesel generator was ample proof that he’d failed to render both backup generators inoperable. He couldn’t allow the drone to disperse the virus over the city water supply. And then there was Danya. It had to have been Danya who brought Diesel and who had saved him from execution at the pit. He had her combat tomahawk as proof. And it had to be she who attacked the guards when he was trapped under Beckman near the door.
With a sigh, Peter rose to his feet. “Well Diesel, looks like we have a lady to rescue and a world to save. Well, not the whole world, but a tiny sliver of it just the same.”
s
An unmarked police sedan drove up the gravel driveway from the paved road at a reckless speed, leaving a billowing dust cloud in its wake. Jackson skidded to a stop where the driveway ended at the corner of the ranch house.
“Hey, Corbett? You here?” he called as he stepped out of the car, leaving the door open. He took the steps to the porch two at a time and knocked on the door. No answer. He peered in the windows but didn’t see a single person.
Looking around, he spotted four men in powder-blue jumpsuits working near an open bay door at the barn. He headed toward them at a trot, his black windbreaker flapping as he ran.
“Mr. Corbett,” he said, panting slightly from the brief exercise. “I have the file you requested.” He extended the folder and Corbett stepped forward and snatched it from his grasp.
“Does anyone know you’re here?” the head of security asked.
“No, sir.”
Corbett nodded approvingly while behind him work continued to prepare the drone for flight. He opened the file folder and scanned the contents. As he read, his eyebrows pinched together. “The FBI and Homeland Security are taking this information seriously?”
“That’s right, Mr. Corbett. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Apparently, a small group of egghead doctors at the CDC are making this into a big deal.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s in the report. Well, sort of. Most of it.”
“What are you not telling me?” Corbett said, his words clipped from mounting irritation.
“Yeah, sure. Okay. Detective Ruth Colson of the Bend Police Department referenced a conversation she had with Dr. Julia Zhong at the CDC. But the detective didn’t go into much detail over what the doctor said, and I knew better than to speak directly with Colson. So, I decided to call the CDC and speak to Dr. Zhong myself.”
“Oh? You did that?”
“That’s right. I told Dr. Zhong that I was following up, standard police procedure. I told her this report had come across my desk, and I asked her why she felt this was a serious matter and not simply another crackpot trying to get attention.”
“I see. And I assume you identified yourself as a police detective?”
Jackson smiled proudly. “Let me tell you, when you’ve done this as long as I have, you learn pretty fast how to judge a suspect or potential witness. You know, how to approach them to get the results you want. Sometimes, you have to be a real hardass. Other times, the best way is to be very official. Most professionals, white-collar employees, respond to authority figures. Know what I mean? Yeah, I figured out right away to play this one by the book. Impress the doctor with my authority.” His smile broadened, and he forced out a short laugh. “Hey, let me tell you, it worked like a charm. I mean, she just started talking and I hardly had to ask any questions.”
“And what did she tell you?”
“Mostly that they’d figured out what the virus is. I mean, it’s structure, based on fluid samples they’d taken from infected patients on the Warm Springs Reservation. She said it was their opinion that this virus represented a severe risk. Shit, she was talking global pandemic. Really scary stuff. No wonder the FBI and Homeland Security are taking this seriously.”
Corbett nodded, listening carefully to every word spoken by Jackson, which served to further inflate his ego. “Are your notes in the file?” he asked.
Jackson shook his head. “That would be sloppy and careless. And I’m not careless. No notes, nothing for a colleague to accidentally find.” He placed his index finger on his temple. “It’s all here, Mr. Corbett.”
Faking a smile, Corbett said, “You did the right thing. Being cautious is very wise.”
“Thank you, sir. Say, you’re going to share this with Dr. Ming, right? I mean, I hope you do. I hope he is very appreciative about how hard I’m working for him.”
“Rest assured. Dr. Ming has instructed me to personally demonstrate his gratitude,” Corbett said with a generous smile.
s
Before Peter broke cover, he decided to place his call. “Detective Colson, it’s Peter Savage.”
She sighed. “I’ve been half expecting your call. Had an interesting conversation with a friend of yours. You haven’t been completely honest with me.”
“Look, detective, you can be angry with me later, if I live that long. Right now, I need your help. I’m trusting you, I hope that’s not a mistake.”
She paused for a moment, realizing that she had no understanding about what was going on, but that the situation was grave. “Okay, you have my attention.”
With an efficiency of words, Peter did his best to bring Colson up to speed. He concluded with the Eugene Police Detective named Jackson.
“I haven’t met him,” Colson said. “But I did phone Detective Lopez. I trust him, but he could have shared information within the department. If he did, Ming and Corbett could know everything.”
“That means the local police are out of the question.”
“Let me ask around, maybe I can refer this to the Lane County Sheriff.”
“Respectfully, Detective, this is a war zone here. I need help now if you want to prevent Ming from contaminating the Hayden Bridge water intake.”
“Understood. I’ll speak with the chief right away, and also bring DA Lynch up to speed. Between the two, they can pull strings with the FBI and get some agents from the Eugene office out to your location. Where are you?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere near Eugene, but it’s a large rural property surrounded by forest.”
“That’s rather general. I need something more specific.”
“Sorry, it’s all I’ve got. You know the bad guys usually don’t make a point of advertising the address of their hangout. You’ll have to trace the signal from my phone.”
“We can do that. It’ll take a little more time, though.”
“Just don’t take too long, okay?”
Peter ended the call and pocketed his phone, making certain the ringer was still silenced. He looked down at Diesel. “The cavalry is coming, buddy. We just have to hang in there a little longer.”
The sound of an engine gunning as a vehicle sped along the driveway caught Peter’s attention. Once he’d lost sight of the barn after entering the forest he didn’t really know where he was. He was paying too much attention to finding Diesel to notice the distance
or direction he’d travelled.
He took a dozen tentative steps toward the sound. Then he heard the sound of tires sliding on gravel and the engine was turned off. He reached a break in the foliage just in time to see Jackson jog across the lawn toward the barn.
The non-descript sedan was left unattended. It was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. “Stay,” he said to Diesel with the palm of his hand facing the dog. Diesel dropped his hind quarters and sat obediently.
Peter left the brush in a crouch and came up to the back of the car. Fortunately, it was angled such that his movement was screened from view of those working at the barn. He glanced inside the car, hoping to find a shotgun, but the interior looked like an ordinary car. He returned to the trunk and felt for the button to open the hatch. It took a few seconds, but he found it and popped the trunk, only allowing the lid to rise just enough to see inside. There it was, just as he’d hoped. He snaked an arm in, snapped open two latches holding the riot gun in place, and removed his prize.
Pressing his luck, he peeked inside again and spied two boxes of shot shells. He grabbed both. Each box held five rounds of 00 buckshot and he emptied both, stuffing the shells into his pockets.
Chapter 47
South of Eugene, Oregon
March 29
“This way, Detective,” Corbett said. “Dr. Ming wishes to express his appreciation for your efforts.” He motioned with his hand to a door at the rear of the assembly bay. The door was thick, and it sealed tightly to the frame.
Jackson had stepped through the doorway, when he seemed to realize something was amiss, but it was too late. Corbett shoved the door closed and locked the latch. Inside, Jackson banged his fist against the door, desperately trying to get out. But there was no latch, and the door was solid and unyielding. The walls were filled with sound-absorbing insulation, and outside his pounding and screams for help could not be heard. The detective turned around, taking in his surroundings. The space was small, and the walls were painted steel panels. There were no windows, and only one overhead light. A chair was next to the wall.
