Recruited was a relative term. What happened was Tamara and Bobby had run afoul of the Project while they were reporting for PCN from the front lines of the Sage Flu outbreak in April. Some of the Hamiltons’ people had helped them escape before they became casualties, too.
They spent several months at the Ranch, learning about Project Eden. Bobby had believed right away, but it had taken Tamara some time to accept the horrifying reality. It was at that point they’d been asked to put their skills to use, and act as the public voice of the resistance.
They’d been set up in San Antonio, Texas, with false identities. Tamara was now Deirdre Murray, and ran a secondhand shop called Deirdre’s Treasures. Bobby was Ralph Barber, a freelance handyman who never seemed to be freelancing anywhere. Instead, he and Tamara spent much of their time in the small studio built in the basement of Deirdre’s Treasures, where he edited the pieces, and Tamara wrote the scripts and recorded the narrations, albeit with her voice altered to avoid identification.
They had tried to get their early video reports into the hands of the established media, hoping they would be aired on networks everywhere. They had met with zero success. They had tried blogs next, but quickly pulled the plug on that when one of the bloggers who posted their video turned up dead within twenty-four hours. They decided, in consultation with Matt and Rachel, that the only thing they could do was post the videos on public sites and hope for the best. Unfortunately, the best had yet to happen.
“How the hell are we supposed to get around this?” she said. It wasn’t the first time she’d asked this. Not by a long shot.
“We have to hope that at some point, they’re going to miss one long enough that people will copy it to their computers and repost so it goes viral. If it starts popping up all over the place, they won’t be able to pull it all down.”
She sighed. “Well, let’s re-upload—”
Her cell phone rang. She answered it. “…this one now. And see if it sticks this time.” The name on the phone’s display read: UNKNOWN.
“Hello?”
“Tamara, it’s Matt.”
She switched to speakerphone. “Hey, Matt. You calling about the latest video? A whole nine minutes this time.”
“Nine and a half,” Bobby said.
“Sorry,” Matt said. “I didn’t know you were putting something up.”
Tamara couldn’t help but frown. They had sent Matt and Rachel an email like they always did before they posted. Matt had even responded with a simple “Thanks.”
Bobby leaned toward the phone. “Fifty-one views before it got pulled down, though I don’t know how many were able to watch it all. Did you get a chance to look at the script for the one we’d like to start this afternoon?”
“Whatever you were planning, you need to table it,” Matt said.
Tamara and Bobby exchanged a concerned look.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“I need you to finish WC.”
For several seconds, neither of them could speak. WC did not stand for water closet. It meant Worst Case, as in the video that would be placed if the worst-case scenario occurred. In other words, the video that would describe to humanity what was happening to them. They had started it months earlier, but had not finished it in hopes it would never be needed.
His voice dry and tentative, Bobby asked, “It’s happened?”
“No. But if it does, it will be soon.”
“How soon?” Tamara asked.
A pause. “Days. Maybe a week. Not much more than that.”
“Are you sure?”
“About as sure as we can be. How soon can you have it ready?”
“We’ll get right on it,” she said, glancing at Bobby.
“A day or two, no more than that,” Bobby added.
“When it’s finished, I want you to close everything up and go to your backup safe house,” Matt ordered. The safe house was a location not even Matt knew, just Tamara and Bobby. “If it looks like things are going to shit and you can’t reach me, upload it. Don’t wait for me to give you the go-ahead.”
“Do you think…do you think we’ll have to upload it?” Tamara said.
The silence stretched out for what seemed like minutes. “Yes.”
The line went dead.
Tamara put her hand on Bobby’s, wrapping it around the side and squeezing tight. He looked at her, the reality of what appeared to be coming reflected on his face.
Then he nodded. “We’d better get to work.”
Twenty-One
I.D. MINUS 87 HOURS
ASH HAD BEEN sure they would have crossed the Arctic Circle and been homing in on Bluebird’s location by now, but the imaginary line was still several hundred miles to the north.
Their intent had been to fly from San Diego to Baker Lake in the middle of the Canadian territory of Nunavut, with a quick fueling stop in Winnipeg, just north of the US-Canada border in Manitoba. The weather, though, had a different idea.
Instead of lifting off from Winnipeg within an hour of landing, they ended up staying in the provincial capital for four nights, waiting out first a storm that passed through Manitoba, then one further north, cutting off their ability to get to Baker Lake.
Finally, the weather cleared enough for them to attempt the next leg of the journey. The flight was rough, but they were able to get into Baker Lake with only a few minor bumps and bruises. Waiting at the house that had been arranged for them to stay in were Gagnon and Wright, the two last members of their team.
Ash called everyone together for a meeting in the dining room, where he spread a map of northern Nunavut out on the table.
“The plan is for us to—”
“Excuse me, Captain,” Pax said. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but before we get started, I’ve been in contact with the Ranch and have some news I should share.”
“Of course. Go ahead.”
They all looked expectantly at the oldest member of the team.
“There’s no easy way to put this,” Pax began, “so I’ll just say it straight. There’s been a new outbreak.”
Voices over voices:
“It’s started?”
“Already?”
“Where?”
“When?”
“Should we go back?
Pax gave everyone a few seconds, then held up a hand, silencing them. “The outbreak’s in St. Louis. The good news is, it looks like it’s both isolated and contained.”
“So no cases anywhere else?” Chloe said.
“Not that anyone knows of. What Matt thinks happened is that there was accidental exposure, and that the so-called Implementation Day hasn’t taken place yet.”
“So we’re still on mission here?” Browne asked.
“As far as I’m concerned.” Pax looked at Ash. “Captain?”
“Absolutely. We keep going.”
“If the snow ever lets up,” someone threw in.
Ash pointed at a spot near the southern edge of the map. “This is where we are right now. Tomorrow, weather permitting, we fly to Grise Fiord.” He touched the spot on the map where the small village was. “After that, Mr. Gagnon will fly us out to our first location in a specially modified plane he has there.”
“What is the first location?” Chloe asked.
Ash looked down at the map. “Technically, we have three choices. Here, here, and here.” He pointed first at Ellef Ringnes Island, then Yanok Island, then Amund Ringnes Island.
“That’s a lot of ground to cover. We don’t have a lot of time. Any way to rule out any of them?”
Ash studied the map for a second. “The wreckage of the boat was found right about here, correct?” He pointed at a spot south of Ellef Ringes, and looked at Gagnon.
The pilot nodded. “Yeah. Close enough.”
“All right. If it was a setup and they were just trying to fool you, then I’d be inclined to rule out Ellef Ringnes. They wouldn’t set up the crash that close to Bluebird.”
“Unless
they were trying to outthink us,” Pax said.
“I’m not going down that road. Rachel was also sure it wasn’t Ellef Ringnes.” Ash moved his finger along the map. “Which would mean it’s either Amund Ringnes or Yanok Island. That cuts away a third of where we need to check. Happy to hear anyone else’s thoughts.”
“Sounds right to me,” Pax said.
“Me, too,” Chloe added.
The others chimed in their agreement.
“So which one do you want to check first?” Gagnon asked.
Ash frowned. “I don’t know. If I guess wrong, we might not have time to adjust.”
Pax put a hand on Ash’s back. “No matter what we do, it’s going to be a coin toss.”
Pax was right, but it didn’t make Ash’s choice any easier.
“It’s still a lot of ground to cover,” Chloe said. “What if we split up? One group to Amund Ringnes, one to Yanok. Once one of us decides our location either is or is not Bluebird, we can regroup.”
“We’re already too small as it is,” Pax pointed out.
“That may be,” she said, “but do we have the time to check them one after the other?”
They went back and forth, neither fully able to convince the other they were right.
Finally, Ash said, “I’m reluctant to split up a group this size, but Chloe’s idea has merit. I’d like to think about it for a bit so let’s table it for now, and I’ll make a decision when we get closer.” He checked the time. “I want to head out as early as the weather will let us tomorrow. Let’s eat up and get some sleep. We’ve got long days ahead.”
Twenty-Two
I.D. MINUS 80 HOURS
MUMBAI, INDIA
SANJAY HAD BEEN working from daybreak until nearly ten p.m. every day for the last three days. According to the Pishon Chem managers, the schedule for everyone was likely to stay that way until they finished dispensing the anti-malaria spray. Thankfully, Pishon had thought ahead, and set up a dormitory complex on the grounds of the old factory they were renting so that the workers could stay there instead of going home each night.
The main reason things had become busy was due to the dozens and dozens of shipping containers that had begun arriving daily at the factory. Each was packed full with barrels of the chemical that was to be sprayed throughout the city. Sanjay and several dozen other temporary employees had been given the responsibility of unpacking the containers, and loading pre-determined numbers of barrels onto trucks that would take them south to Goa, north to Ahmedabad, and several locations right there in Mumbai.
The managers had assured everyone that working with the barrels was completely safe, but had also gone ahead and issued special gloves and paper surgical masks so that Sanjay and the others would feel even more at ease. While the gloves came in handy, most chose not to wear the masks, as they were more a hindrance in the humidity than a help.
Sanjay was supervising two teams of ten men each. Their job was to load the trucks with however many containers were assigned to each, so he was nowhere near the container drop-off zone when the accident occurred.
By all accounts, it was just a minor mishap, a truck hauling away an empty container scraping against another truck whose container was still full. Similar kinds of accidents happened in the city countless times a day. It was so minor, in fact, that Ayush, who was in charge of the delivery area, didn’t even report the incident to the Pishon Chem managers. Not at first, anyway.In a process that had become routine, the slightly dented but still-full container was removed from the truck and placed in the delivery area, waiting to be unloaded. When its turn finally came an hour and a half later, the door was unsealed, and a crew started moving the barrels out.
Because the contents of the barrels had been carefully designed to omit no odor, the men didn’t discover the barrel with the broken seal until they neared it toward the back of the container. When they saw that some of its contents had been sloshed onto the walls and floor, they rushed out of the box, worried that they had been poisoned.
Ayush rushed over. “Why have you stopped? There are still barrels inside.”
“One of them is open,” someone said.
“The poison is everywhere,” another added.
“What if we breathed it in? Are we going to die?”
The others began shouting variations on the same question.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Ayush told them, patting his hands against the air to calm them down. “Show me.”
“It’s there,” one of the men said, pointing at the open container. “Go see for yourself.”
Annoyed, Ayush approached the container and looked in. It took him only a second to spot the mess.
The managers had briefed him and the other leaders about the spray. While it was apparently deadly to mosquitoes, it was harmless to human beings in all but extremely large doses. Did this qualify as that? He didn’t think so, but it was probably better to check.
“Start on the next container,” he ordered.
“But what about us? Should we see the doctor?”
“No. You are fine. The spray cannot hurt you. It is meant for mosquitoes, not humans.”
“It still might be dangerous for us.”
“It’s not. But to be sure, you keep working and I will go check with the managers. They will tell us if everything is okay or not.”
“You promise?”
“Of course, I promise.”
The manager in the office at the time Ayush entered was a man named Dettling.
“Yes?” he asked as Ayush stood in the doorway waiting to be noticed.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but one of the barrels had opened.”
Dettling looked surprised. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. The seal has broken on one, and much of what was inside has spilled into the container. The men who were doing the unloading are concerned and want to know if they should see a doctor. I told them everything would be fine, but I had them move on to a new container so I could ask you what we should do with the open barrel first.”
“Did they breathe it in?”
The tone in Dettling’s voice worried Ayush. “I think probably, yes. They were in the container for some time before they found the bad barrel. Is that a problem? I’ve been told the spray is harmless against us.”
“No, no. It is harmless. It’s just…supply is so tight…uh…losing even one barrel could be a…problem.” He paused. “Go back out and tell them everything is fine. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
AS SOON AS Ayush left the office, Dettling rushed over to the door and shut it. He didn’t use the phone on his desk, but instead retrieved the sat-phone from his briefcase to make the call.
He was greeted with a recorded message, then a prompt. He said, “This is Dettling. Mumbai. I-7.”
Dead air for a few seconds, then a click. “Go ahead,” a live voice said.
Unconsciously, Dettling touched the spot on his upper arm where he’d received his KV-27a vaccination. “We have an accidental breach.”
“Explain.”
SANJAY WAS BONE-tired when he dragged himself back to the dormitory at a quarter after ten that night. The only thing that kept him from heading straight up to bed was the growl in his stomach.
In the cafeteria, he piled the food onto his plate and carried it over to one of the common tables. Often, he had dinner with his cousin, but Ayush wasn’t around.
Though the room was packed, few were talking. It seemed as if the only energy anyone could muster was used to move food from plate to mouth.
Once Sanjay was done, he made his way up to the dorm. He was assigned to a room that held ten people total. He shared it with others who had been given supervisory roles, including Ayush. Only Ayush wasn’t there, either.
That was unusual, but not enough for Sanjay to think anything was wrong. Within five minutes, he was deeply asleep, unaware that Ayush and all the others who had been in contact with the contaminated container had been moved to the ba
sement of a building three miles away, out of sight of anyone who might raise an alarm.
Twenty-Three
I.D. MINUS 72 HOURS
GILSTRAP HALL
HAWKINS UNIVERSITY
ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI
COREY FELT FINE when they arrived back in St. Louis just before dawn, but by the time he and Jeannie went out for breakfast at the Perch Café, he’d developed a case of the sniffles.
A cold, he thought, probably brought on by his lack of sleep and exposure to the freezing night air in Chicago. A couple cold tablets plus a few hours in bed and he should be fine.
At eleven a.m. he woke with a jolt, overcome by a coughing fit. He tried to get out of bed to get some water, but the room began spinning the moment he rose to his feet, causing him to drop back to the mattress. He closed his eyes, willing the dizziness to go away. It didn’t work.
Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe this wasn’t a common cold after all. After three tries, he was able to grab his phone off the nightstand. He stared at it for a moment, not remembering who he’d wanted to call.
Jeannie. Right.
He spent longer than usual looking for her name at the top of his favorites list before calling.
“Hey,” she said. “Thought you were sleeping.”
“I…I…”
“Corey?”
“Not…I think…doctor…”
“Corey, are you all right?”
Her words faded away as the phone slipped from his ear, and he fell back on the bed.
JEANNIE POUNDED ON the door. “Corey?”
She gave it five seconds, then tried again. When there was still no response from inside, she went in search of Corey’s resident advisor, Barry Kellerman. Barry wasn’t in his room, so she ran downstairs to the lounge.
The RA was on the couch with two other guys, watching SportsCenter on TV.
“Corey’s sick,” she said, running up to him. “He’s not answering his door.”
The Project Eden Thrillers Box Set 1: Books 1 - 3 (Sick, Exit 9, & Pale Horse) Page 44