by Calvin Wolf
Chapter Seven
1
Evening settled across east Texas as the Harris County Sheriff’s Department responded to the single-vehicle accident reported by passers-by. “We’ve got four deceased,” a deputy said through his radio, “and it ain’t pretty.” The accident investigator quickly announced that the van must have been doing at least sixty when it impacted. “Nobody could have survived,” the mustachioed man surmised. “But I don’t know why they went off the road. Nothing wrong with the tires, axles, or brakes.”
“Must’ve been an animal in the road,” a young deputy guessed. She pointed at a deer down at the bottom of the ravine, indicating that there was an abundance of crash-causing fauna around.
“Boss, we got a problem,” a crime tech reported, joining the scrum of uniformed officers. “We just checked the bodies and the van and found zero ID. Zip, nothing, nada. No paperwork in the van, either.”
“Must be drug runners,” the accident investigator sighed. “Tag ‘em and bag ‘em. I’ll do the write-up.”
“And there’s something else,” the tech said nervously. “We found a wallet that wasn’t on the bodies, and doesn’t match any of the victims.” With a gloved hand, he held out a Texas driver’s license. The investigator flipped open the billfold and began looking at cards.
“Carl Hummel, organ donor. CPA, CFP, works for a big firm. Holy shit, this guy has been in the news.” A deputy ran the name on her tablet and announced that there was an APB for Carl Hummel, with a request for the man to be immediately placed in contact with the White House if located. “And it’s not just him, but his brother also. And a third man, a police lieutenant from Midland. I’ve never seen an alert of this type, asking them to be placed in phone or video contact immediately. It’s bizarre.”
“Well, we better call the White House and tell them that we found Carl Hummel’s wallet in a crashed van. Since his body’s not here, he must have been thrown clear. Send some unis to check the ravine.”
“We got a lot of guns in ankle holsters over here,” a tech called out, and the investigator hurried over. One of the bodies, which had been maneuvered onto a gurney, had a pant leg hiked up. Gingerly, a young man pulled a slim pistol from the corpse’s boot. “I’ve never seen this model before.”
“I’ve seen it before,” an older deputy growled. He slipped his hands into gloves and took the gun from his colleague. “This is a Barker .38, a rare piece used in black ops. CIA, Delta, that sort. I learned about them when I was in Army intel. It’s built for easy concealment and use in sub-optimal conditions.”
“So this isn’t the type of gun some run-of-the-mill drug pushers would have?” the accident investigator asked. He had pulled out his pad of paper and begun writing.
“Certainly not. I’ve never heard of one being owned by a civilian. Combine that gun with this serious tactical clothing, and I’d say that these four bodies were all professionals. These guys are wearing body armor, they’ve all got buzz cuts, and they’re military fit. I bet dollars to donuts that we’ll see some of the usual tats when we cut off their clothes.”
A call came over the radio network that a disheveled blond man had hijacked a pickup truck near mile marker 113 and left the driver unharmed by the side of the road. “Suspect reportedly said that he needed the vehicle, but made no threats. Victim’s wallet was in the center console. Vehicle is a late-model Nissan Titan, dark blue, with New Mexico plates. Suspect is Caucasian, approximately five-nine to five-eleven, muscular, two hundred pounds, early thirties to early forties.” Looking at the driver’s license from the found leather billfold, all deputies on scene agreed that the suspect was indeed Carl Hummel.
2
Nobody spoke as the man staggered up the street, his eyes wild and his hands flexing. “What happened?!” he yelled at the uniformed men and women standing around him. “Someone tell me!” Nobody dared move, and Hector Rodriguez knew that they feared him. They can see that I’m no longer mortal. I’m their worst nightmare, something uncontrollable.
He ran to his house and saw that the garage door had been knocked outward from the wall. His wife’s Tahoe had been driven completely through the door, which lay shattered on his driveway and front lawn. Bits of red taillight sprinkled the concrete. He got away. “Why did nobody stop them?!” he yelled. Everyone looked away, ashamed.
Hector ran into his home, and darted from room to room, searching. His wife lay at the base of the kitchen bar, her eyes dull and breathing ragged. “The kids?” he asked, unable to breathe.
“They’re okay,” his wife rasped, her voice shaky. “They were hiding.” He ran to her and held her. He wanted his emotions to work, but they would not. A digital filter blocked them, and he hated it.
“He had Whitney and Ava,” she said. “He was holding Ava, so Whitney had no choice but to follow him. He pushed me aside and I fell.”
“I’ll stop him,” Hector promised. “I will get them back.”
“You came back for us,” she said. She was crying. “Don’t go. If you go, you won’t come back. I know it. I know it!”
Emotion broke through the filter, and Hector started crying as well. “If I don’t go, he will be the one who returns. He must be stopped.”
“Let Hank do it.”
“He can’t do it alone.”
Silently, Hector Rodriguez held his wife and rocked back and forth. He hummed the song from their wedding, years ago. His children did not come out from their rooms, but he did not blame them. He had left, had intended never to come back. When he had heard on his police scanner what was going on, he had rushed back home.
They know I will not stay. Cannot stay. Can I not, or will I not?
He rocked his wife and told her how much he loved her, and how he would love her forever and for always. Eventually, she curled up and put her arms around him, resting her head in his lap. He wiped away the tears as he talked, knowing that he could not let his tears touch her. Then she would be like him, forever different.
“Remember me as I was, angel. Not like this, okay? Not while I was changing.”
“You are still the man I love, Hec. This is not your fault. This is nobody’s fault. I know that. You didn’t want this to happen.”
“I’ll stay,” he said. “I’ll go to the lab. We can be together, the whole family.”
“I know you don’t want us to be together like that, not really together at all,” his wife murmured. “I love you, Hector. I love you so, so much. Promise me you’ll come back to us somehow, in some way.”
She knows I will die. She knows.
“I promise.” His voice cracked. “I’ll always be watching over you.”
“He said he was going to Balmorhea. Before he pushed me. He said he knew you would come.” Her voice was weak, and he knew she needed a doctor. She closed her eyes, and he grew scared.
“Tell them I love them,” he said, and gently carried her to the couch. With the MIST in his muscles, delivering amplified impulses and deleting fatigue, she seemed to weigh hardly anything. She knew he meant their children, and she nodded. Concussion. She has a concussion.
“I love you,” were the last words he whispered to her. He walked out the front door of his house and yelled that a doctor was needed inside. Dozens of eyes stared at him as he bounded down the sidewalk, leaving the front door open behind him. He climbed into a Dodge Charger cruiser that had been left with its driver’s door open. Nobody spoke. A medical team from one of the many ambulances silently rushed into the house through the open front door.
Hector Rodriguez closed the door and put the car into gear. He did not turn on the lights or the siren. Smoothly, he motored out into the open street and headed for the highway. Behind him, nobody spoke.
3
The goons arrived just as the sun dipped below the mountaintops, making the shadows long and ominous. As expected, most of them were recent ex-Home Gua
rdsmen, toughs who had been working at the secret prison four miles to the west until it had burned down. “He’s in the bedroom,” Roger Garfield wheezed. “I got him cuffed.” As the men congratulated him for his bravery and promised to get him all squared away, Garfield steeled himself for the violence he was about to commit.
On the remains of a formerly impressive king-sized bed sat the big criminal justice professor, a black eye forming on his sweaty and bruised face. The man’s arms were behind his back.
“You fellas don’t need your guns,” Garfield assured them. On the decrepit mattress, the guy looked defeated and harmless. Several of the former Home Guardsmen slid their pistols back into their hip holsters while a pair of young guys went to grab their prisoner’s upper arms.
Just as the men reached him, the professor utilized the moves he had been practicing for hours, striking the young hotheads in the groin and lower stomach with hard, rapid punches. Surprised, the other former Guardsmen did not know how to react, and audibly wondered what the hell was going on. Sliding a piece of rebar into his hand from the forearm of his button-down, Roger Garfield swung the metal into the skull of the largest goon present.
With the criminal justice professor tapping into his gang unit days in the bedroom and the grey-haired FBI agent using a metal bar like a Louisville Slugger in the living room, the mass of poorly-trained Home Guardsmen milled about in angry, terrified confusion. As soon as guns were drawn, both Garfield and the prof dropped to their knees and withdrew Garfield’s pistols from their socks. “Drop your weapons!” Garfield yelled, hearkening back to his days at Quantico. “Do it now!” roared the professor, his days in the LAPD giving him tremendous volume.
Despite outnumbering the two fiftysomething men by a factor of five, the hired guns dropped their weapons. Of the ten who had arrived at the abandoned house, five had been rendered ineffective by the time guns were drawn - three had been floored by the six-foot-five academic and two had fallen under Garfield’s rebar. The remaining five had determined, in a split second, that they were not being paid enough to risk life and limb.
Garfield kicked three guns into distant corners and grabbed a fourth for himself, keeping a wary eye on the stunned Guardsmen the entire time. “Anybody move and I blow your balls off,” the professor growled. He stuck Garfield’s throwdown .32 revolver into a young man’s temple as he searched for phones and other electronics. Moving from man to man, the prof quickly accumulated a handful of cell phones and tablets.
“My guess is that the people who sent you will be looking to inflict some punishment since the ten of you failed to bring in two old guys. Talk, and we can make a deal to protect those who speak up. Play tough guys, and we blow this Popsicle stand and leave you to take the heat. Someone has fifteen seconds to speak up.”
4
As day turned to dusk, the Diplomat snuggled in his cabin and watched his bank of computer monitors as the mercenaries attacked the armored train. The mercenaries, gathered using the vast conspiracy’s entire reserve of funds, consisted primarily of cartel hitters and former members of Mexico’s Fuerzas Especiales. The cartel bosses knew that the attack was a suicide mission, and thus sent only the men they wished to be rid of.
Fifteen seconds after go time, a rocket-propelled grenade struck the sixth car of the unmarked train, turning the western sunset into a shooting range on steroids. Hidden cameras, placed by highly-ranked conspirators, zoomed in on the action and captured, in high definition, Delta operators picking off targets. Emergency calls through the 9-1-1 system and law enforcement radio network were rerouted by a highly-paid conspirator, going directly to the Diplomat’s encrypted server. Listening through headphones and using voice-disguising software, the Diplomat assured all callers that the situation was being handled immediately. Within minutes, he had fielded radio and telephone calls from Alpine city cops, Brewster County sheriff’s deputies, Texas state troopers, and dozens of concerned highway motorists.
“We are bringing up the main body to attack,” an electronic voice said, cutting through the main headphone chatter. On one of his monitors, the Diplomat saw a tremendous swarm of dots heading toward the train, most of the dots of the size and color to indicate off-road vehicles. Jesus, they must have spent all their money on this. This is it, the entire budget, right here in this goddamn Pickett’s Charge.
“This is Border Patrol station Alpha Kilo, and we’ve discovered agents down at point-”
Quickly, the Diplomat pressed a button to change his voice to a new version and soothed the angry Border Patrol agent. “Who is this? Where’s Frank?” the agent demanded. “We’ve got a situation here!”
“I’m Jules Rosenberg, new transfer to the El Paso office,” the Diplomat replied, looking at his handwritten cheat sheet. “I’m already sending your information to Austin and D.C.”
“Four dead, execution style, and there’s a shitload of tire tracks! Fuck!” The agent at the Alpine office was freaking out. Take charge, the Diplomat thought, and instructed the man to contact the Brewster County Sheriff’s Office. “They will assist with the investigation until the El Paso office can send investigators,” he said. “Would you like me to send the deputies to your location?”
“Yes, please,” the flustered Border Patrol agent responded, and the Diplomat ended the call. He texted a message to conspirators who would help cover things up, posing as hardworking deputies of Brewster Country. As soon as he hit send, he returned his focus to the battle unfolding on his many monitors. The off-road vehicles were starting to reach the highway, where they were meeting stiff resistance from what appeared to be automatic defense systems on the train. A hidden camera revealed a flash and then an exploding Hummer H2.
Train has missiles, the Diplomat texted to his employers. This attack will fail quickly.
Explosions lit up the sky as the main line of vehicles tried crossing the pavement. In the maelstrom, a few made it through. Now it’s man-to-man, the Diplomat thought, pulling his sweater tighter around his arms. Although it was not yet autumn, the altitude of Ruidoso meant the impending night was chilly.
Zooming his hidden cameras, the Diplomat watched as some ex-Fuerzas Especiales approached the train on foot and were picked off by a pistol-wielding Delta operator. More attackers followed, having survived the missile barrages against their vehicle armada. Quickly, the president’s men upgraded from pistols to submachine guns. Moments later, a small scrum of attackers actually made it to the train itself, and a man reached out and touched the side of the train. The Diplomat watched as an arc of electricity flung the man off the metal.
Train is electrified, he texted. Only Deltas know where to climb on and off w/o getting zapped.
Minutes later, the attack was over. On the map, all the dots were immobile, indicating dead or dying men. From the Diplomat’s estimation, the Delta defenders of the armored train had not lost a single person. One monitor revealed that a scanner had picked up approximately four hundred messages between the train and the Pentagon during the minutes-long assault, and the Diplomat felt his chest tighten. It was now or never time. President Sanders would be coming hard, and all members of the MIST conspiracy were now unquestionably guilty of treason.
5
Fueled by donuts and coffee, detective William Watterson and his informant, experienced internist Dr. Bob Boarin, rolled through Midland’s dark streets. The young detective had talked eagerly and given up everything with little persuasion. Of course, it’s hard to play strong and silent when you’ve got a 9mm set to shoot off your kneecap, Watterson thought. “We might need to make this an all-nighter, doc. Starbucks sound good?”
“What do you mean, all-nighter?” the internist asked nervously. “I thought I was going to see my wife and kids!”
“Well, they’re safe for now. I know who’s watching ‘em, and he’s five-by. But our wannabe assassin just revealed that there are a whole bunch of cops who aren’t quite kosher.
If we don’t help shut down this madness, the bad guys will still be out there to come after you and your family in the future. The way I figger, we’re in it ‘til the fat lady sings.” The doctor sunk lower in his seat, scowling at that explanation. “Hey, cheer up, sawbones! The more time you spend helping me, the less likely you are to spend time in prison.”
The mention of avoiding prison suddenly made the Stanford-trained internist more agreeable. Boarin made a pumpkin spice joke, and he and Watterson debated when Starbucks would be rolling out the iconic fall flavor for the year. By the time they reached the coffee shop next to the supermarket, they had both agreed that September first was the likeliest date.
“Venti black coffee, as hot as you can make it,” Watterson demanded from the driver’s seat of the 4-Runner. “What’ll it be, doc?” The doc wanted a quad espresso, light splash of heavy whipping cream, five pumps of sugar free caramel syrup, and sugar free whip. “Don’t make fun,” the man said. “I won’t make fun, but that’s because you’re bankrolling this expedition,” Watterson explained. He held out a weathered hand, and the doctor put a MasterCard in it.
Coffees in hand, they rumbled out of the drive-thru. Boarin had told Watterson the name of his boss in the conspiracy, and the police lieutenant was unsurprised to learn that it was a prominent HumCap broker in town. Driving through residential streets, he watched the houses grow larger and more ornate in the headlights. After several minutes of driving, they pulled to a stop by a veritable mansion.
“And now you know why I told you to keep texting him and telling him things were copacetic. See? Our friendly broker hasn’t skipped town yet.” Watterson popped the top off his coffee and quickly dipped a finger into the liquid. It was piping hot, too hot for normal folks...but that was exactly what he had ordered. “Follow me, and no funny business.” Both men exited the SUV and walked up the pristine stone walkway to the front door.
Watterson rang the doorbell and sniffed the delicious aroma of his overpriced brew. He smiled when he saw a man approaching from behind the frosted glass. When the door opened and the handsome stockbroker smiled politely at him, he threw the steaming coffee in the man’s face. As the wealthy man clasped his hands to his face and wailed, Watterson grabbed him by his long-sleeved polo and pulled him out of the doorway. Sticking out a foot, he tripped the man and sent him sprawling onto the porch.
“Where is the conspiracy headquartered?! Tell me or you die!” Watterson screamed. As Dr. Boarin watched in shock, the policeman pulled his gun from his shoulder holster and jammed it into the stockbroker’s hair. The cocked the hammer and the broker whimpered.
“And then I’ll go inside and finish off your pretty little family,” Watterson snarled. Sniveling, the broker broke. Eyes screwed shut, face dripping coffee, the man insisted that he knew nothing. He tried to get to his knees, but the detective kicked him in his ribs and drove him back to the hardwood. Watterson noticed a cell phone in the man’s khakis and deftly swiped it, plucking it free from its fabric cave. It was an older model, not the sort you would expect a multimillionaire HumCap broker to be carrying.
“You don’t know nothin’, eh? Well, let’s see if that checks out. This is a burner phone, right? I’ll bet you were on this thing to communicate with your conspiracy buddies. It’s how they get in touch with you. If I check this thing and find out you were lying to me…” Watterson put a round through the porch, and Boarin wet his pants.
Blubbering, the broker changed his story. As the hammer cocked again, he announced that the MIST was scheduled to be collected in Balmorhea, with the brain trust behind the whole operation located in Fort Davis. Satisfied, Watterson closed the recording app on his phone and stuck his revolver back in its shoulder holster. He pulled a business card from inside his blazer and set it on the porch next to the distraught stockbroker. “Get in touch with this guy. He’s a good cop. Do it quick, because the conspiracy’s already unraveling and you’re bound to catch a bullet if you don’t turn yourself in.”
Sobbing, the man collapsed on the porch and clutched at the card. “Let’s go, doc,” Watterson said. “We’ve got a long drive to Fort Davis.”
6
The scientists had been examining the human remains pulled from the Silver Six satellite when the attack on the train had begun, disrupting their concentration. “All personal proceed to lockdown position,” came the booming announcement as all train cars sealed shut. Immediately, the computer guys began transmitting all collected data to Washington, unsure of whether or not they would be able to do so later. Minutes later, after the attack had been successfully repulsed, the intercom announced an all clear. Without a word, the Ph.Ds. returned to their work.
“Remains are too degraded for much analysis,” a medical doctor said into the recording mic. He held in his triple-gloved hands the unrecognizable head of the former president of the United States. “We’ve run all craniums through the scanners, but the intense heating and cooling experienced by each skull has essentially ruined the soft tissue.” He used a boring tool to collect a sample of brain tissue, whatever was left of it, and handed the sealed glass capsule off to an underling. Within seconds, the capsule was inside a scanning microscope.
“Only three builder cells in this sample, inactive, probably because of the cold temperature,” a doctor announced. The team’s specialized suits were heated to compensate for the liquid nitrogen temperatures, and the scientists had been assured that there was zero chance of being “infected” by any lingering MIST particles. Still, the men and women in the lab cars felt chilled, and tensions were high.
“That implies that the mass of nanites did indeed leave the host en masse, as was indicated by witnesses,” someone in the control car replied. “Does what you have seen so far corroborate that?” Several scientists replied through their helmet mics that the evidence did concur. “Any idea on the range of these nanites, once they have evacuated a host?” the disembodied voice queried.
“Judging by the speeds we’re seeing at the current temperature, coupled with Van der Waals forces and electromagnetism, I think less than ten feet,” the lead scientist in the car said, glancing at a computer monitor for reference. “We can double check in an isolation chamber that’s warmer.”
The final series of questions asked about destroying or deactivating the MIST particles. “We’re going to test out an EMP device,” the lead scientist answered. He directed a team of doctors to use the wheeled examination tables to move two of the bodies to the next car. Silently, the burnt and twisted bodies of Adam Pastorius and Boris Elkanovitch were wheeled down a metal corridor. A sliding door noisily unlocked and hissed open, revealing another frozen train car beyond. This new car was empty and had dim, recessed lighting.
Seconds later, both wheeled tables were next to each other and the doctors were retreating back to the laboratory car in their bulky suits. One of the doctors opened a locked cabinet and withdrew a device that looked like a bazooka attached to an extension cord. “The weapon gives a four hundred kV directional pulse,” the doctor said. “This morning, we converted if from a modernized Wimshurst machine. It has been strong enough to destroy builder nanites under the controlled conditions in car 4C.”
“Affirmative. See what it does to the remaining nanites in the bodies,” ordered control.
Leaving the sliding door cracked behind him, the doctor went into the second car and placed the butt of the high-tech bazooka to his shoulder. As a colleague held the thick extension cord, the doctor lined up his shot. With a loud crack, the device discharged, and Adam Pastorius’ corpse shook, jittered, and smoked. After a second, it lay still, smoldering.
“Damn, even with only a fraction of its former nanites, it’s still one hell of a show!” crowed the Army biomedical expert. “Scanners report ninety-nine percent deactivation,” reported control. “Good, but not good enough. And these nanites were near dead. How will this device work in the field?�
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The scientists argued over their radios, but figured that multiple shots from their Wimshurst devices could effectively disable any human who had reached MIST symbiosis. “Well, hit it again. One more shot on Pastorius, then deliver two to Elkanovitch,” control decided. “Okay, but it will take time for this thing to recharge,” the doctor replied.
“How much time?” Control sounded unhappy, apparently not expecting such a delay.
“Three minutes. And that’s with this cord hooking us into the train’s power supply.” Cursing could be heard over the radio, and the scientists suddenly felt nervous. In the background of the radio chatter, someone could be heard ordering the design team at the Pentagon back to the drawing board.
7
“We’ve got an inbound bogey at nine thousand feet!” the adviser screamed as he ran into the Oval Office with his holographic tablet. Bolting to his feet, eyes wide, the president demanded to know who was attacking the White House. “Not here, the train! A fighter is headed toward Alpine, totally unapproved!” Swearing, the president picked up his red phone and demanded Air Force Central Command.
“Of course it’s not approved, the pilot has gone rogue!” someone from CentCom said. NORAD came on the line and reported that the jet was an F-22 out of Colorado. “Radar signature indicates that the plane is fully armed.” The president only breathed a partial sigh of relief when he was assured that the fighter could carry no WMD payload.
The commanding officer of the air base in Colorado entered the conversation in a panic, reporting that he had no knowledge of anything. “Son of a bitch just up and took off on his own!” the lieutenant general swore. “Guy’s always been a good pilot, no red flags whatsoever.” On the president’s wall-mounted monitor, a holographic display of USAF Captain James Whitmire appeared. The man was classically handsome, thirty-two years old, and a graduate of the U.S. Air Force Academy.
“Why the hell is he headed toward that train?!” the president roared in frustration. The Air Force general cut in and announced a possible motive: Whitmire had a young child with a rare neurodegenerative disorder. “Jesus, they must have promised to cure the child with MIST,” the adviser gasped, and the president ordered the young man from the room.
“The conspirators can recruit any scientist or soldier with a sick or dying family member,” the president moaned. “We’re fucked!”
“What do we do, sir? Shoot him down? He’ll be in range of the train in twenty minutes.” Taking a deep breath, the president confirmed that course of action. Still on the line, CentCom ordered fighters scrambled from Holloman Air Force Base. After listening to military chatter for a few minutes, the president finally convinced himself that his team was doing all it could. Reluctantly, he disconnected himself from the call.
The adviser knocked on the office door and told the president to turn on the nightly news. Sighing, the commander-in-chief fished his cell phone from his suit jacket and used its full-room sync feature to turn on the television. A seventy-inch holographic screen silently descended from the ceiling along the far wall, showing CNN, ABC, Fox News, and BBC in a quad. Toggling from one another, the president discovered that the recent incident near Alpine, Texas had become news.
“Border Patrol agents dead, a cartel gun battle near Sul Ross State University, and no explanation for the recent carnage at the University of Wyoming,” declared a somber Fox anchor. “Has the White House lost control of running the country?” The liberal media was only slightly less accusatory, with CNN questioning the president’s uncharacteristic silence over the past thirty-six hours. ABC news was running a report on how STITCH travel from east to west had been significantly reduced, and questioned why additional security procedures had suddenly been implemented.
“We are concerned as to why travel by road, rail, air, and STITCH has suddenly been subject to even more security than we saw after September 11,” a female anchor intoned, her face appearing genuinely sad. “Yet no federal agency has provided any reason for the heightened security. Passengers report having their trips to states in the West and upper Midwest scrutinized by TSA officers, with authorities appearing suspicious of any travelers headed to rural areas in west Texas, New Mexico, eastern Arizona, Colorado, Wyoming, western Nebraska, Montana, North Dakota, South Dakota, Idaho, Nevada, Utah, eastern Oregon, and eastern Washington. Authorities in Canada and Mexico have confirmed that the U.S. State Department has almost entirely stopped issuing travel visas to those respective nations over the past twenty-four hours.”
ABC, now full screen, replaced the big-haired anchor with a map of the United States. The areas that had been previously referenced were highlighted in yellow. The anchor’s voice explained: “These remote areas, long known for being popular with avid outdoorsmen, small-government libertarians, ultraconservatives, and various fringe groups, have prompted rumors that the president’s administration is concerned about domestic terrorism originating from these regions.”
As a male journalist appeared on screen and began discussing an unexpected shortage of for-sale and rental properties in many of these rural locales, the president turned off the TV. Well, the story is finally breaking. We’re locked in now.
8
The man in black swam through the dark water, pulling the Styrofoam cooler behind him. As expected, the conspiracy had the state park surrounded, awaiting his arrival. He wondered if their mercenaries were ordered to shoot on sight, or try to talk him down. His vision, more acute than mere mortals could understand, picked out the details of their elaborate traps: Motion sensors, spike strips, sniper rifles, and even attempts to electrify the metal fence around the giant pool.
But they never figured I would enter underwater.
Checking to make sure the cooler was fully waterproofed, the assassin took a deep breath and sank under the surface of the cienega. As he expected, he did not feel the usual yearning for air. He expelled the air from his lungs and sank to the bottom of the pond. His lungs and organs tingled, and he theorized that the nanites were somehow extracting the necessary oxygen from the water itself. How the MIST was making him a real-life Aquaman mattered little - all that mattered was that it allowed him to enter Balmorhea State Park undetected.
Slowly, he crawled along the bottom of the canal that ran from the cienega to the record-sized natural pool. Despite the darkness of the wee hour, his eyes were enjoying MIST-generated night vision. Feeling no fatigue whatsoever, he crawled against the current while tucking the cooler underneath his torso. His black clothing helped camouflage him against any gun-toting mercenaries who might happen to look down at the canal.
Within a half hour, the man in black reached the pipes and grates that linked the canal to the pool. Although a normal man could never have generated the strength to remove the grate from the inside, he was no longer a normal man. In seconds, the grate popped out of its rock-and-mortar frame with hardly a sound. The mercenaries, on the outside of the fence, were too far away to hear the noise of the grate over the constant babbling of the water and the drone of cars on nearby I-10. Letting the grate drop to the bottom of the natural pool, some twenty-five feet below the surface, the former spy slithered into his final destination.
Surfacing for an instant, he took a deep breath and dove to the bottom of the pool to retrieve the metal grate. With the apparatus in hand, he resurfaced and slipped it back into place. Although the device was now loose, any casual observers would be unable to tell that it had been tampered with. Quick as an eel, the man in black set the Styrofoam cooler on the walkway bordering the enormous pool and hoisted himself out of the water. Grabbing the cooler, he ran silently from hiding spot to hiding spot, surveilling the landscape.
As expected, the firepower was entirely on the outside of the park. Nobody was inside the fence. The man in black hunkered low and ran in a zigzag pattern across a wide-open stretch of ground. Despite a half moon, he was neither spotted nor heard by the roving gu
ards. In seconds, he made it to the park’s offices. He tried a doorknob, but it was locked. He was about to force the door, perhaps break a window pane and unlock the knob from inside, but sensed an alarm.
Go in through the roof.
Quietly, he stashed the cooler under a secluded bench and scaled an adobe wall to get to the rooftop. Lying on his stomach, he crawled to the top of the state park office and forced open an air vent. After creating a loud metallic shriek, he lay still for ages as mercenaries searched the building beneath him. Someone has given them the keys to this place. After many minutes of searching with flashlights, the guards declared a false alarm and returned to their slow circuits of the property.
Sliding on his stomach, the man in black entered the offices and crept along the carpeted floor. A computer was on, and he grabbed the monitor, keyboard, and mouse and lowered them to the floor. Fortunately, the fact that the office was locked and alarmed meant that some Balmorhea State Park employees rarely logged off of their TPWD profiles. In seconds, the former government spy was on the Balmorhea State Park employee page and accessing the files he wanted.
Fortunately, the daily logs of park visitors were kept on a Google Sheet, which was shared with several key TPWD personnel. Smiling, the man in black added himself to the share list by using one of his generic-sounding Gmail addresses. He then went into the employee’s email account, thanks to the joy of browser-stored passwords, and deleted the alert that a new account had been added to the Google Sheet. Covering his tracks further, he even emptied the Trash folder.
Searching further, he found the Google Sheet prepared for the next day, already loaded with pre-registered guests. While guests some might not show, he knew that most would. He checked his burner phone, which had been triple-bagged for protection during his underwater journey, to make sure that he could access the desired Sheet. Once he discovered that his phone still had full functionality and could access the Sheet, he returned it to its clear plastic armor.
Quietly, he turned off the screen and set the computer monitor, keyboard, and mouse back on the desktop. He went to the adjacent office, dragged a metal desk below the air vent, and pulled himself up into the ceiling. After he had a handhold on the roof, he used his other arm to affix the vent cover underneath his feet, disguising his trespass. On the rooftop, he put the outer cover back in place and smiled at his success. Although he had run clandestine operations in several nations, none had gone as smoothly as the one tonight.
He slipped back down the adobe wall and retrieved his Styrofoam cooler. He checked the dwindling supply of dry ice and knew that the dozen armored glass cylinders would not remain secure for long. The MIST was swirling faster, practically alive and angry. Time to lighten the load.
Utilizing his long-ago military training, he slunk and darted his way back to the location where the canal met the pool. He set the cooler down on the concrete and withdrew six of the twelve cylinders, the dry ice not bothering his fingers in the slightest. Packing the remaining six cylinders deep in the lingering ice, he secured the lid back onto the cooler and removed the top of the Balmorhea State Park’s new water monitoring system. The large device, which descended into the water flowing from the canal, monitored various parts-per-million during the park’s operating days.
At eight o’clock each morning, the device turned on and opened six sluice gates to channel flowing water over and around its sensors. The water then emerged into the pool. With online research, the man in black had discovered that the opening and closing sluice gates of that particular model of industrial water monitor would easily shattered the glass cylinders. In seconds, MIST would be in the pool.
Within minutes, MIST would have spread throughout the popular deep end of the pool. Within a half hour, the natural currents would have spread MIST to the shallow end. Within a few hours, MIST would have spread upstream to the cienega. By the afternoon, agriculture near the towns of Toyahvale and Balmorhea would be affected.
9
Roger Garfield knew that the impromptu communications center set up at the famous 1920s mansion had been untouched by the fires and explosions that had demolished the rest of the secret prison. Though both he and the professor had been held prisoner there, and were likely headed to the gallows had the revolution not set things right, only Garfield had been allowed to read the investigative reports. Restored to his position in the FBI, he had obsessively pored over what had gone wrong to allow him, and scores of other decorated agents, to be railroaded as supposed enemies of the state.
In the many reports he had read, several at home by lamplight while his family slept, he had gleaned that a state-of-the-art communications center had been installed in the basement of the Roaring Twenties villa0. Like that Nazi command center in that castle in the third Indiana Jones movie, he had thought. Although Hank Hummel had torn through the Villa while coming to rescue his brother from the prison, the man had not encountered the comm center.
Unless the feds dismantled everything, some of that equipment may prove useful. Given the remoteness of Cimarron, both Garfield and the professor considered it unlikely that, in only eleven weeks, the disorganized FBI would have even begun dismantling that communications center. Rather, any analysis would have been done on-site and the equipment left unplugged for later disposal.
With a shriek of metal, the old F-150 ripped open the wrought-iron gate blocking the circular driveway heading to the stately manor. In the headlights, both men could see that the main house and its plethora of outbuildings were boarded up and lined with police tape. “Evidently, nobody is camping out on-site anymore,” the professor groused. “With everything that happened here, I would expect a score of investigators to be on the grounds.” Sadly, their pickup was the only thing moving that night.
Garfield headed directly to the mansion and hopped the curb, driving right over the manicured lawn. Perhaps by next summer, the Boy Scouts of America would have reclaimed the property and begun setting it right, but for now a few tire tracks weren’t hurting anyone. The FBI agent parked in front of the main doors and climbed out of the vehicle. Looking around, he and the professor could only see the dark outlines of the mountains and the night stars above. The stars were breathtaking.
“We almost died here,” the professor said, his voice thick with emotion. “Fuck, man.”
“Yeah. Dutch. Dutch.” Roger Garfield had tried to not think about his former partner, who had died perhaps a mile away from where they now stood. The young FBI agent had died a hero, part of the prison break that had rescued countless political prisoners from certain execution. In the J. Edgar Hoover Building, a plaque was now dedicated to the lanky native of Odessa, Texas. “Dutch, if you’re watching, help us out, okay?”
Without another word, the men bounded up onto the wooden porch and checked the front doors. As expected, the villa was locked tight.
“This place is gonna be alarmed to hell and back,” the professor warned. “And, given those goons we dealt with in town, a good chunk of local law enforcement is part of the conspiracy. We bust in here, and they’re the ones who will get that alarm. It ain’t going to FBI headquarters - it’s probably going to Raton.” Garfield knew all this, and insisted that they press on.
“We can hole up here and mount a defense while we spread the word. The goons are waiting for us on any of the roads out of here: East to Raton, northwest to Taos, south to Springer,” said Garfield. “Getting the drop on those Home Guard punks got us good info, but we can’t spread it with dead cell phones and no bars.” Inside the truck, the back seat was littered with a smorgasbord of phones with zero battery life remaining. It was as if Murphy’s law had focused entirely on their communication capacity.
“I knew I shouldn’t have been playing ‘Snake’ so much,” the professor joked, referring to his own out-of-battery iPhone.
Garfield grabbed a dead potted plant and hurled it through an antique window. As a silent al
arm triggered, he and the professor grabbed nearby flowerbed tools, left over from the mansion’s last occupant, and knocked out the remaining shards of glass. Within moments, Garfield was able to wriggle through the de-glassed window and unlock the front doors from inside. Ignoring the rolls of police tape wound throughout the mansion’s first floor, the FBI agent led his friend to the basement. From exhaustive reading of reports, he knew that the basement housed the comm center.
As soon as they descended the staircase, Garfield breathed a sigh of relief: The communications equipment had been left. Quickly, both men grabbed electrical cords and plugged them into wall outlets. In the darkness, red and green lights began to glow. “The goons are on their way, but we are back in business,” Garfield said with a smile.
10
The F-22’s air-to-ground missile struck the locomotive and obliterated the diesel-electric hybrid, sending chunks of burning metal flying into the night. Seconds later, an F-35 from Holloman Air Force base blew the rogue F-22 from the sky, encountering no evasive maneuvers. “He just let us paint him,” the lead F-35 pilot said over the radio. “He wanted to die.” I wonder what they promised him, the president thought. Can MIST really cure a dying child?
Moments later, he received an update on the progress made by Drs. King, Kreitin, and Cuentz. “The MIST is more impressive and versatile than we first thought,” King said over the holographic link. In high-definition, the president could see the exhaustion on the scientist’s face. With the fate of the nation hanging in the balance, nobody had had a break. “Assuming the conspiracy knew what we now know, which is probable, they could have promised the moon to anyone whose help they wanted. These nanocells can cure a plethora of chronic conditions, replace dead or severed nerves, and replace lost bone and muscle tissue. Dare we say it, MIST could replace most of the fields of genetics and bioengineering.”
“That’s one hell of a financial motive,” the president mused. “What do you think they want with it? Designer babies? Supersoldiers?”
“Designer babies, for one,” Dr. Keitin voted. “If they know how to program the MIST to develop a child’s phenotype, it would work better than any genetic engineering. You could literally program your children’s looks to a tee, plus have the added bonus of superhuman physical and mental capabilities.”
“Your kid would be Captain America. We’re talking a guaranteed pro contract in any sport,” Cuentz marveled.
“Does your team know how to program this stuff yet?” the president asked. “Can you control the MIST?”
“Negative. Not yet, anyway. We’re using samples gotten from Laramie, which is programmed with their code and cannot be overwritten until we know that specific code. Supercomputers are crunching, but it’s taking longer than expected. Anyone who knew the original code was killed in that lab.” Exasperated, the president ran his fingers through his hair. He urged the trio of leading scientists to continue working, and then shut off the holograph.
They could have promised the moon to anyone whose help they wanted. Anyone at all whose help they wanted. Alarmed, the president grabbed his encrypted tablet and ran a search through his entire staff, looking for personnel with known sick and dying family members. “No, no, no, no!” he wailed as names kept popping up. Employees who would be invaluable to any conspiracy against his administration had wives with breast cancer, husbands who were paraplegics, children with lymphoma. The president knew immediately that most of those families would be under intense financial strain, if not already dealing with medical bankruptcy.
I had no idea there were this many. Congratulations, privatized health care. The president considered calling his staff to have them do a workup on the list he had just compiled, but looked at the clock and decided to have mercy. It was midnight, and his people were strained almost to the breaking point. The president walked over to his ornate coffee bar and poured himself another customized brew, one he had ordered during his transition into office.
Fourteen minutes later, when his National Security Adviser burst into the office to tell him that an FBI agent had opened fire on several key scientists working on MIST research before turning his gun on himself, the president was not surprised. “What did his family have?” the chief executive asked from his desk. “Cancer? AIDS?”
“His wife was dying from leukemia. He didn’t leave a note, but we think they promised to cure her with MIST if he did what they asked. He had four kids, ages two to nine.” Nodding sadly, the president requested that the NSA leave him be. As soon as the office door closed and locked, the aging commander in chief leaned back in his comfortable chair, resting his eyes. When he opened them again, there were tears.
