by Darcy Fray
The Ynot Lounge quickly became the town’s social hub. The dirt parking lot was full of news vans from ten a.m. to two a.m., and the lone beer on tap, Budweiser, flowed like the Mississippi. Americans love a good homegrown bio-terror story, and the Crimm anthrax coverage certainly fit the bill.
The bar was abuzz with gossip surrounding the morning’s briefing on the cell phone video. The Army had cleverly explained it away by suggesting it was a combination of a blown power transformer and the lens distortion of the teen’s cell phone camera.
One bar patron, Fletcher Crisp, didn’t buy the story...at all.
Fletcher, ex-British Army Special Air Service (SAS) and current member of the underground investigative truth movement, Veritas Bellum, had been one of the first people to arrive on the scene. He had keenly observed the establishment of the Dust perimeter by the U.S. Army, and he’d noticed an odd timeline discrepancy. Why would the Army come in and set up base camp a good eight hours before they created the much wider anthrax quarantine zone? Common sense dictated the entire base camp population would have risked exposure long before the hazmat suits and decon tents arrived. The story was full of holes, but he had come to the realization long ago that people believe whatever they’re fed.
Fletcher sat belly-to-bar, working his way through a pint of Budweiser. He’d grown accustomed to drinking American beer, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. He pulled a bag of jumbo sunflower seeds from his cargo pants pocket. He kept a bag with him at all times. In-shell and salted. He relished the process of separating each seed from its salty shell and then expelling the shell as if it were tobacco spittle. This evening’s target was a coffee mug emblazoned with the “West Virginia is For Lovers” logo that sat right next to his pint of beer.
“I keep seeing you in here,” a perky blonde South Carolinian Fox News correspondent offered as she slid into the empty seat beside Fletcher.
“Not many other options in town, love, are there?” Women of all ages swooned over his gravelly British accent, permeative masculinity and rugged good looks, which turned grown women into nervous little girls.
“Ohhh,” the blonde giggled coquettishly, “You have an accent. Whereabouts you from?”
“Old Blighty, my dear.” Having had this conversation before, Fletcher knew how it most often ended -- a less than satisfying midnight liaise and a bad case of regret in the morning.
She watched him spit the sunflower seeds into the mug. “Is that chewing tobacco?”
“Gave that filthy habit up many years ago, dear. Sunflower seeds.”
“Oh, I didn’t know they had shells.” She giggled.
“Amazing, the things you can learn, belly to the bar,” Fletcher smiled. “I’m sorry to say this is my final pint of the evening,” he said as he emptied his glass. He waved over the bartender, Bobby Boone. “Bobby, bring this pretty lady -- what’s your name, love?”
“Suzy.” Still giggling.
“Please bring Suzy a pint of your finest ale.”
Bobby obediently pulled a tall glass of Budweiser and set it down before her.
Fletcher pulled a twenty dollar bill from his wallet and slapped it down on the bar top. With an unstinting tip of $5.25, he singlehandedly hoped to disprove the myth that all Englishmen were bad tippers.
“Hope I see you again,” Suzy said batting her mascara-laden false eyelashes.
“I shall look forward to the moment. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” Fletcher could feel her eyes on the back of his head as he made his way to the exit. He knew the type all too well.
He walked back to the Dewdrop Inn, a mere five-minute jaunt from the Ynot Lounge. He entered his room, number thirteen, changed into black fatigues and checked the contents of his unmarked waterproof backpack: AN/PVS7-3A night vision goggles, Bell and Howell S7-R night vision digital camera, portable handheld radiation detector, black wool ski mask, first aid kit, water, emergency rations and lead-lined storage bag. All there.
He exited his room, walked briskly across the pothole-ridden parking lot, and unlocked a black mountain bike that he’d acquired from an enterprising local teen for the ridiculous sum of $500. He swung his leg over the cross-bar and pedaled off.
After passing by the Ynot Lounge, the last sign of civilization for miles, the untouched night sky quickly enveloped him in darkness. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the ambient light of the star-crowded canopy. He couldn’t recall the last time he had seen so many stars. It was oddly humbling.
His destination, the Tug River, lay at the end of a ten-mile-long old unmarked hunting trail, which passed through heavily forested rolling terrain. The river bisected the Army’s quarantine zone on the outskirts of Dust and would serve as his point of entry. Fletcher’s rigorous fitness regime allowed him to easily maintain an accelerated pace, and he reached his checkpoint on the south side of the river at approximately 0100 hours.
Fletcher dismounted the bike, laying it down quietly in the soft underbrush. He pulled the black ski mask over his head and equipped his night vision goggles, before going prone.
Two Army sentries were posted half a klick apart on either side of the Tug River, about two klicks east from his position. Neither guard wore a biochem suit or M40 field protective mask. His instincts had been correct: the hazmat and decon tents setup in direct view of the media, on the southern tip of Dust, were a ruse.
He waited patiently.
CHAPTER FOUR
Discoveries
Dust, WV - Base Camp
GORDON AWOKE FROM a deep dreamless slumber. The digital clock resting on the trunk next to his cot read 1:17 a.m. He had slept straight through the entire day. Not exactly the initial impression he had hoped to make.
He walked over to the desk parked in the far back corner of the tent, grabbed his notebook and reviewed the list he had made earlier that morning. Ideas number one and number two could be ruled out, which left six legitimate concerns.
Possibilities for dematerialization:
1) Family left town - kid is lying - hoax a la balloon boy.
2) Kid is a mass murderer. Buried all the bodies.
3) Focused biological extinction event - where are the ashes, bodies, etc.?
4) Dimensional fold/wormhole - powered by what?
5) Experimental Particle Beam Weapon
6) Aliens? Why would they choose atypical specimens? Why leave the boy?
7) Biologically focused antimatter weapon. China?
8) Dr. Dmitry Zolkin - Dusha studies. Energy experiments. Find him.
Dr. Dmitry Zolkin. Gordon picked up a highlighter and ran it over the name. He took his cell phone from his blazer pocket, navigated to his contacts and paged through them until he came to rest upon the name Dr. Pyotr Sidorov.
Dr. Sidorov was the Department Chair of Molecular and Biological Physics at the prestigious Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology, or more colloquially, “the Russian MIT.” He and Gordon enjoyed an unspoken academic rivalry that had begun when they were both child prodigies representing their respective countries at international science and engineering fairs. They traded off first and second place awards yearly, but Gordon was up one, with the Nobel under his belt.
Gordon initiated the call. At four hundred twenty-five Hz, the Russian ringback tone was pitched fifteen Hz lower than the U.S.tone. It rang for eight-tenths of a second and then paused for three and two-tenths seconds, as opposed to the U.S. tone which rang for two seconds and paused for four. It was just one of many trivial facts stored in the depths of Gordon’s capacious brain.
Pyotr recognized the number instantly. “Hello, Gordon, how are you?” Pyotr’s command of the English language was impeccable, and leaps and bounds beyond Gordon’s elementary grasp of Russian.
“I’m well, Pyotr. How was the Emergent Quantum Mechanics Convention in Vienna?”
“Fine, just fine, but it would have been far better with you present, my friend. To what do I owe this great pleasure?”
“Dr. Dmitry Zolkin,” G
ordon stated succinctly.
“Zolkin?” Pyotr’s voice cracked as he posed the question. “Why?”
“I have a student who is incorporating some of Zolkin’s early, more experimental particle physics work into his thesis, and I was hoping to track him down. Maybe fly him over for a lecture or two.” Try as he might, Gordon was a lousy liar. His throat tightened, voice cracked and he tended to over-explain. Fortunately, Pyotr was buried just far enough inside his own mega-brain that he didn’t notice such things.
“Zolkin disappeared seven months ago.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes, I’m surprised you hadn’t heard. He was teaching at Saint Petersburg State University. Apparently, he was drinking heavily and arriving late to lectures. One day he just never showed up. Nobody has heard anything from him since.”
“Has there been any sort of formal investigation?”
“Of course. When a man with a mind like Dmitry’s goes missing, there are national security implications.”
“What was he working on? Do you know?” Gordon inquired, doing his best to bury his excitement.
“Oh, you know Dmitry -- less than forthcoming when it comes to his experimental indulgences.”
“What about his Dusha research? Was he still pursuing it?”
“I should hope not, it was complete nonsense and highly unethical. Soul energy,” Pyotr dismissed scornfully. “What forces are holding this alleged soul together and how does it interact with common matter? I fear that what started as an interesting dinner conversation turned into a destructive obsession.”
“I’m sure you’re right. Well, I’m afraid I have a stack of exams I must return to.”
“Will I be seeing you a few days from now? Are you attending the QuantumCon in Saint Petersburg?” Pyotr asked.
“I hope to. Don’t you still owe me a kvass?”
“You’ll get your kvass, my friend. Goodbye, Gordon.”
Gordon set his phone down on the side table and smiled. His hunch was correct. He had to stop himself from running to tell John the news, as he was fairly certain that waking a Lieutenant General at two a.m. for anything short of a declaration of war was verboten. Instead, he settled back into his cot for a few more hours of sleep. A little voice in the back of his mind told him he wouldn’t be getting much pillow time in the near future.
•••
Dust, WV - Tug River
Fletcher had been observing the two Army sentries for more than thirty minutes. The soldier stationed on the south bank, his side of the Tug River, was clearly new to the job; he had an unfocused, meandering gaze and a proclivity for fidgeting. However, the sentry on the north bank appeared rigid and alert, without any lapses in focus.
A railroad trestle spanned the river halfway between Fletcher’s position and the sentries, about one klick due east. Fletcher removed his night vision goggles and carefully placed them in his watertight backpack, double-checking the seal was without compromise. His footfalls barely disturbed the silence as he deftly maneuvered down the steep dirt embankment and slipped into the river. The depth dropped off drastically just three feet from the shore. Submerged to eye level, he allowed the brisk river current to carry him along.
The water was seasonably cold. He hated cold water. It immediately brought him back to the Falklands. On May nineteenth, 1982, Fletcher and thirty other SAS D and G squadron members departed in a Royal Air Force Sea King Helicopter from the deck of the HMS Hermes en route to the nearby HMS Intrepid. On approach to the Intrepid, a booming thump was felt and heard, and the Sea King dipped and plummeted into the sea. Fletcher and eight other survivors managed to jump from the helicopter before impact. The other twenty-two were not so lucky. Fletcher awaited rescue, treading water with a shattered femur in the thirty-five-degree water for nearly twenty-five minutes. When they finally pulled him from the grasp of the frigid sea, he was semiconscious and suffering from hypothermia.
He hated cold water.
Fletcher drifted under the railroad trestle as he approached the two sentries. At half a klick out, he fully submerged and didn’t resurface until three minutes and thirteen seconds later, well within the Army’s Dust perimeter. His toned arms seamlessly cut through the advancing current as he swam to the north bank, where he emerged from the river and scrambled nimbly up the hillside. According to his calculations, he was less than two klicks south of the Crimm trailer.
Fletcher unzipped his backpack, equipped his night vision goggles and surveyed his surroundings. Nothing. Not a soul. He calculated a concealed route and moved forward stealthily through the forested terrain.
A glowing sky blossomed above a nearing hilltop. The trailer. He flipped up his goggles, dropped to his knees and fell prone into a low crawl. The Crimm trailer slowly came into view below him as he inched forward atop the crest. High-powered utility lights flooded the immediate area. Even at this early hour, there was activity around the residence. Soldiers walked in and out of the trailer carrying boxes full of the Crimms’ belongings to a covered M35A2 Army truck. No one wore any biochem or protective breathing apparatuses. Fletcher removed the camera from his backpack and photographed the scene, followed by a quick check of radiation levels with his portable detector. Well within the norms.
He had what he needed.
Fletcher gathered his equipment and reoriented back in the direction of the river. Just as he was about to take his first step, he froze. Less than fifteen feet from where he stood were two young privates indulging in a smoke break. His heart skipped a beat. With the unobstructed full moon beaming down from above, there was no way he would go unnoticed if either soldier turned even slightly in his direction. He crouched low, breathing shallowly, acutely aware of the tinder-dry leaves and branches just itching to crackle underfoot.
The burlier of the two soldiers took a deep pull from his cigarette. “How does an entire town disappear, anyway?”
“Beats the hell outta me,” his partner replied. He flicked his spent cigarette butt to the ground and stomped it out.
“I just wanna finish packing this hillbilly shit up and get back home. This place gives me the creeps.”
“Hell yeah, did you see the monster dog chain tied to the trailer down there? Frickin’ ET even took Cujo.”
“Heard EOD is coming in to blow this thing tomorrow.” The thick-chested soldier pulled one last drag, before carelessly tossing his glowing cigarette butt to the ground. “Tick tick boom. Duty calls.”
The two soldiers walked back down the hillside toward the trailer, oblivious of the pair of eyes that followed their every move.
Fletcher inhaled deeply, allowing his rigid musculature to relax. The glowing tip of the cigarette butt caught his eye. One of the soldiers had failed to extinguish it and the dry forest bed was already beginning to smolder. Bad time for a fire. Fletcher stealthily maneuvered to the location and patted out the glowing embers with his bare hands. As he scooped up a handful of surface soil to sprinkle over the smoking debris, a sharp object slashed his palm. Damn. The pain was momentary, but the cut was deep and his hand was already slick with blood.
A cursory examination of the soil revealed a protruding dark pyramid-shaped object with a razor sharp point. Fletcher sunk his fingers into the rich soil and extracted the pyramid. It was matte black, about three inches high, and unusually heavy. A gut instinct told him the object was important to his mission, and his gut was rarely mistaken. He gingerly placed it inside the lead-lined bag from his backpack.
He couldn’t believe his luck.
CHAPTER FIVE
A Fresh Start
Dust, WV - Base Camp
THE TEMPERATURE HAD dropped significantly overnight and when Gordon first stepped outside his tent that morning, it almost felt like a slap in the face. The chilled air, combined with a strong cup of coffee and a hot breakfast, helped to clear his jet-lagged mind.
Gordon and Wilkinson walked side by side up the dirt road leading to the Crimm trailer. The last leaves of fall lin
gered, the forested rolling hills around them colored in fiery oranges and reds. Morning dew still saturated the air.
“You wanna get out of that monkey suit? I’m sure we’ve got something in your size,” Wilkinson remarked, appraising Gordon’s restrictive wardrobe -- white shirt, maroon tie, gray flannel trousers, tweed blazer.
“I’m good, thanks,” Gordon replied dryly.
“You’re a better man than me. I haven’t willingly worn a hangman’s rope around my neck in years,” Wilkinson said as he grabbed his neck reflexively. “The last time I had--“
“I have something,” Gordon interjected. He despised small talk. He had learned the script through the years, but had little patience for adhering to it.
“Go on.” Wilkinson paused, allowing Gordon his undivided attention.
“Yesterday I made a list of possible theories for the dematerialization of the Crimms and an inquiry regarding one of the theories early this morning.”
“Dematerialization? You make it sound like they evaporated into thin air.”
Gordon responded with a shoulder shrug as he pulled the crumpled notebook page from his pocket and handed it to the Lieutenant General, who eagerly absorbed every word.
“Well,” Wilkinson thought aloud, “we’ve already considered and ruled out one and two...combed the entire county and state, and the kid has been subjected to some heavy psychological analysis and profiling. His story checks out. I gotta be honest with you, the rest of the list is a little outside my wheelhouse. Start with the inquiry you made.” He handed Gordon back the list and they continued walking up the road.