Kill Switch (9780062135285)

by Rollins, James; Blackwood, Grant

The pair stood staring at each other, neither speaking.

  Tucker considered his options. First of all, he had no idea whether Bukolov had succeeded in decontaminating the ship’s hold. He smelled the ripe sludge covering his body. The monster could already be out of the bag, set loose upon the shores of Lake Michigan.

  If so, the tank in Kharzin’s arms was irrelevant.

  Still, Tucker waited, wanting extra insurance for his next move.

  Then he heard it: thump, thump, thump—multiple helicopters echoed over the water behind him.

  Good enough.

  He shot Kharzin in the right kneecap, breaking the stalemate. The man’s leg buckled, and he pitched forward. As he hit the ground, the canister knocked from his arms and rolled free. Yellow liquid spilled out its open spigot, blazing a toxic trail, mapping its trajectory. As the tank came to a rest, it continued to leak weaponized LUCA.

  Tucker moved forward, taking care not to step on any of the yellow lines.

  Kharzin rolled onto his back, his face twisted with rage and pain.

  Behind him, a helicopter swept over the bulk of the Macoma, then hovered for a landing at a neighboring open stretch of beach. Others buzzed higher, circling wider, stirring through the storm.

  “The cavalry has arrived,” he said to Kharzin.

  As the skids of the first helicopter touched the rocky beach, the side door popped open, and a pair of men jumped out, both wearing anorak parkas and shouldering backpack sprayers. They should be able to quickly clean up and decontaminate the brief spill. Behind them followed another trio of men armed with assault rifles.

  The group began jogging toward Tucker’s position.

  He returned his attention to Kharzin. “Do you see the men with the rifles?”

  The general remained silent, his gaze burning with hatred.

  “They’re going to take you into custody, whisk you off somewhere for a long talk. But I’m not officially with them, you see. So before they take you away, I want you to know something.”

  Kharzin’s eyes narrowed, showing a glint of curiosity past the pain.

  “You’re going to need new shoes.”

  He shot Kharzin in the left foot, then right—then turned away from the screaming and the blood. He’d had enough of both.

  Time to go home.

  He headed back to where he had left Kane.

  That was home enough for him.

  48

  April 7, 10:43 A.M.

  Spitskop Game Park, South Africa

  Footsteps entered the barn.

  Now what?

  Lying on his back, Tucker scooted his roller board out from beneath the Range Rover. He wiped the oil from his hands onto his coverall, but there was nothing to do about the splatters on his face. No doubt about it, the Rover needed a new oil pan and gasket.

  As he rolled free of the bumper, he found himself staring up at the worried face of Christopher Nkomo.

  “My friend,” he said, “I am not comfortable accepting such a large gift.”

  Tucker sat up and climbed to his feet.

  Kane stirred from where he had been curled on a pile of straw, patiently waiting for his partner to realize he was not an auto mechanic.

  Tucker scratched at the bandage over his ear. The sutures had returned his ear to its proper place on his head and were due to come out now.

  It had been ten days since the crash of the Macoma. It seemed Bukolov’s kill switch had proved successful, the site declared LUCA free, although monitoring continued around the clock. The entire event was reported to the media as a mishap due to a fault in the ship’s navigation systems during a severe winter storm. Additionally, the cordoning of the site was blamed on a hazardous spill. Under such a cover, it was easy for teams to move in with electric-powered dispersion sprayers and swamp the entire area with the kill switch as an extra precaution. It also explained the continued environmental monitoring.

  The rest of the crew, along with Bukolov, were discovered safe, except for a few broken bones and lacerations. Even Nick Pasternak, the pilot, was found with only an egg-sized knot behind his ear, where Kharzin had clubbed him and made his attempted escape.

  In the end, with no one reported killed, the media interest in the crash quickly faded away into lottery numbers and celebrity weddings.

  Life moved on.

  And so did Tucker.

  Two days after the events, he and Kane landed in Cape Town. Bruised, battered, and stitched up, they both needed some rest—and Tucker knew just where he would find it.

  He waved Christopher toward the shaded veranda of a colonial-era mansion. The three-story, sprawling home was located in a remote corner of the Spitskop Game Preserve, far from the tourist area of the park where he and the others had originally stayed with its bell captains and its servers dressed all in house whites. This mansion had been abandoned a decade ago, boarded up and forgotten, except by the snakes and other vermin, who had to be evicted once the restoration process began.

  A crew worked busily nearly around the clock. Ladders and scaffolding hid most of the slowly returning glory of the main house. New boards stood out against old. Wide swaths of lawn—composed of indigenous buffalo grass—had already been rolled out and hemmed around the home, stretching a good half acre and heavily irrigated. Cans of paint were stacked on the porch, waiting to brighten the faded beauty of the old mansion.

  Farther out, the twenty-acre parcel was dotted with barns and outbuildings, marking future renovation projects.

  But one pristine sign was already up at the gravel road leading here, its letters carved into the native ironwood and painted in brilliant shades of orange, white, and black. They spelled out the hopes and dreams for the Nkomo brothers:

  LUXURY SAFARI TOURS

  Tucker crossed the damp lawn and climbed the newly whitewashed porch steps. Overhead, wired outlet boxes marked the future site of porch fans. Kane trotted up alongside him, seeking shade and his water bowl.

  “Truly, Mr. Tucker, sir,” Christopher pressed, mounting the steps as if he were climbing the gallows. “This is too large a gift.”

  “I had the funds and quit calling it a gift. It’s an investment, nothing more.”

  Upon completing the affair with Sigma, Tucker had noticed a sudden large uptick in his savings account held at a Cayman Island bank. The sudden largesse was not from Sigma—though that pay had been fair enough—but from Bogdan Fedoseev, the Russian industrialist whose life Tucker had saved back in Vladivostok. It seemed Fedoseev placed great stake in his own personal well-being and reflected that in the bonus he wired.

  Tucker took that same message to heart and extended a similar generosity to the Nkomo brothers, who, like Tucker with Fedoseev, had helped keep him alive. From talking to Christopher during the long stretches of the journey to the Groot Karas Mountains, he knew of the brothers’ desire to purchase the mansion and the tract of land, to turn it into their own home and business.

  But they were short on funds—so he corrected that problem.

  “We will pay you back when we can,” Christopher promised. Tucker knew it was an oath the young man would never break. “But we must talk interest perhaps.”

  “You are right. We should negotiate. I say zero percent.”

  Christopher sighed, recognizing the futility of all this. “Then we will always leave the presidential suite open for you and Kane.”

  Tucker craned his neck up toward the cracked joists, the apple-peel curls of old paint, the broken dormer windows. He cast Christopher a jaundiced eye.

  The young man smiled in the face of his doubt. “A man must hope, must he not? One day, yes?”

  “When the presidential suite is ready, you call me.”

  “I will certainly do that. But, my friend, when will you be leaving us? We will miss you.”

  “Considering the state of the Rover, you may not be missing me anytime soon. Otherwise, I don’t know.”

  And he liked it that way.

  He stared again at thi
s old beauty rising out of the neglect. It gave him hope. He also liked the idea of having a place to lay his head among friends when needed. If not a home, then at least a way station.

  Kane finished drinking, water rolling from his jowls. His gaze turned, looking toward the horizon, a wistful look in his dark eyes.

  You and me both, buddy.

  That was their true home.

  Together.

  Tucker’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and answered, guessing who was calling. “Harper, I hope this is a social call.”

  “You left in a hurry. Just wanted to check on you and Kane.”

  “We’re doing fine.”

  “Glad to hear it. That means you might be up for some company.”

  Before Tucker could respond, a black Lincoln town car pulled into the dirt driveway, coasted forward, and came to a stop in front of the house. The engine shut off.

  “I assume it’s too late to object,” Tucker said.

  As answer, the driver’s door popped open, and a woman in a dark blue skirt and white blouse exited. She was tall, with long legs, made longer as she stretched a bit on her toes, revealing the firm curve of her calves. She pushed a fall of blond hair from her eyes, sweeping it back to reveal a tanned face with high cheekbones.

  Though he had never met the woman face-to-face, he knew her.

  Ruth Harper.

  He stood straighter, trying to balance the figure before him with the image formed in his mind from their many phone conversations.

  This certainly was no librarian.

  The only feature he got right was the pair of thick-rimmed rectangular eyeglasses perched on her nose. They gave her a studious, even sexier look.

  Definitely no librarian he had ever met.

  Tucker called down to her from the porch. “In some lines of work, Harper, this would be considered an ambush.”

  She shrugged, looking not the least bit chagrined as she climbed the steps, carrying a small box in her palms. “I called first. In the South, a lady does not show up on a gentleman’s doorstep unannounced. It just isn’t done.”

  “Why are you here?” he asked—though he could guess why, sensing the manipulation of her boss, Painter Crowe.

  “First,” she said, “to tell you that Bukolov sends his regards—along with his thanks.”

  “He said the last part? Doctor Bukolov?”

  She laughed, a rare sound from her. “He’s a new man now that he has his own lab at Fort Detrick. I even saw him smile the other day.”

  “A minor miracle. How’s he getting along?”

  “His studies are still in the rudimentary stages right now. Like with human stem cell research, it might take years if not decades to learn how to properly manipulate that unique genetic code to the benefit of mankind.”

  “What about to the damage to mankind? What’s the word out of Russia?”

  “Through back channels, Kharzin’s superiors at the GRU have insisted they knew nothing about his actions. Whether it’s true or not, we don’t know. But word is that the Russian Defense Ministry is turning the GRU upside down, purging anyone associated with Kharzin.”

  “How about Kharzin? Is he cooperating?”

  She turned and balanced the small box she had been carrying onto the porch rail. “I don’t know if you heard before you left, but he lost one of his feet. He must have rolled after you shot him, contaminated the wound with some of the spilled LUCA organism. By the time anyone realized it, the only option was amputation.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” he lied.

  “As to cooperation, he knows the fate that would befall him if he ever did return to Russia, so he’s grudgingly beginning to bend, revealing small details to fill in some of the blanks. Like revealing the name of a port authority agent who was paid to look the other way when and if the Macoma reached port in Chicago. The man’s in custody now.”

  Good riddance.

  “And it seems Kharzin’s paranoia has finally proven of benefit. Prior to leaving for the States, he set up a fail-safe at his lab outside of Kazan. Without an abort code from him personally every twenty-four hours, his lab’s remaining samples of LUCA would be automatically incinerated. He didn’t want anyone else gaining access to them.”

  “So they’re all gone then?”

  “That’s the consensus. His lab did indeed burn down. And if we’re wrong, we’re still the only ones who have the kill switch.”

  “So it’s over.”

  “Until next time,” she warned, arching an eyebrow. “And speaking of next time—”

  “No.”

  “But you don’t know—”

  “No,” he said more firmly, as if scolding a dog.

  She sighed. “It’s true, then. You and the Nkomo brothers are going into some investment together? Luxury safari adventures?”

  “As always, Harper, you’re disturbingly well informed.”

  “Then I guess the only other reason I made this long trip was to deliver this.” She pointed to the box on the porch rail. “A small token of my appreciation.”

  Curiosity drew him forward. He fingered the top open, reached inside, and pulled out a coffee mug. He frowned at the strange gift—until he turned the cup and spotted the gnarled face of a bulldog on the front. The dog was wearing a red-and-white-striped cap with a prominent G on it.

  He grinned as he recognized the mascot for the University of Georgia, remembering all of his past attempts at placing Harper’s accent.

  “Never would’ve taken you for a fan of the Georgia Bulldogs,” he said.

  She reached down and scratched Kane behind an ear. “I’ve always had a special place in my heart for dogs.”

  From the arch of her eyebrow, he suspected she wasn’t only referring to the four-legged kind.

  “As to the other matter,” she pressed, straightening up, “you’re sure?”

  “Very sure.”

  “As in forever?”

  Tucker considered this.

  Kane picked up his rubber Kong ball and dropped it at Tucker’s feet. The shepherd lowered his front end, hindquarters high, and glanced with great urgency toward the endless stretch of cool grass.

  Tucker smiled, picked up the ball, and answered Harper’s question.

  “For now, I have better things to do.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE TO READERS:

  TRUTH OR FICTION

  As with my Sigma books, I thought I’d attempt here at the end of this story to draw that fine line between fact and fiction. I like to do this, if for no other reason than to offer a few bread crumbs to those who might be interested in learning more about the science, history, or various locations tread by Tucker and Kane.

  But first let’s start with that illustrious duo.

  Military War Dogs and Their Handlers

  The first recorded use of war dogs goes back to 4000 BC, to the Egyptians who used them in battle. But the modern use of dogs in the U.S. military really started in World War I. Since then dogs have become an integral part of the U.S. military, including the dog Cairo who was involved with the takedown of Osama bin Laden.

  During a USO tour of authors to Iraq and Kuwait, I got a chance to observe a few of these fighting teams in action. While in Baghdad, I also met a fellow veterinary classmate who was with the U.S. Veterinary Corp. He was able to give me great insight into the technology, the psychology, and even the aftermath of such a unique fighting team.

  All the MWD (military working dog) technology found in this book is real: from the Kevlar-reinforced K9 Storm tactical vest worn by Kane to his amazing communication gear. I also tried to capture that unique and intimate psychological connection between dog and handler, described as “it runs down the lead,” where over time the two learn to read each other’s emotions and understand each other beyond gesture and spoken command. I also learned about how PTSD afflicts not only the soldier but also the dog, and how efforts are being undertaken to combat and treat both sufferers.

  As to Kane’s amazi
ng talent, that’s also based on real stories. Even Kane’s vocabulary, while stellar, has been demonstrated by a dog named Chaser, a border collie who has been shown to understand over a thousand words, including grammatical structure.

  Last, after three decades of working with dogs as a veterinarian, I knew I wanted to portray these stalwart war heroes as they really are—not just as soldiers with four legs, but as real dogs. In this book, there are scenes written from Kane’s perspective. Here, I wanted readers to experience what it’s like to be a war dog—to be in their paws—to paint an accurate portrayal of how a dog perceives the world, how he functions in combat with his unique talents and senses. I hope I did them justice.

  On to the central scientific concept and threat of the novel . . .

  LUCA and Cyanobacteria

  LUCA (Last Universal Common Ancestor) is a scientific concept concerning the origin of life, the proverbial seed from which all life sprang. There are many different theories about how that ancient life-form might have presented itself, whether its origin is rooted in DNA or RNA, whether it needs extreme heat to survive or moderate temperatures. It remains a great unknown. In regard to the concepts of cyanobacteria as a progenitor for modern plants, all the science and details regarding this ubiquitous form of life are true, including that you can find cyanobacteria in every environmental niche on the planet, including the fur of sloths.

  The Threat of Invasive Species

  This is a real and ongoing threat across the globe, where foreign species invade an established ecosystem and wreak great harm: from the introduction of pythons in the Everglades, where those snakes are creating untold damage, to Asian carp in the Mississippi, which are wiping out native fish populations and sweeping toward the Great Lakes. Such threats have not escaped the notice of federal counterterrorism officials. Alarm bells are being raised that terrorists could very well use invasive species as biological weapons, where the introduction of a single virulent organism into an environment could cause great economic and physical harm, possibly irreversibly so.

  Let’s move on to the main history topics.

  The Boer Wars

  All the details of this bloody conflict are true, including the military tactics related in the prologue and the weapons used (like the “krag”). The character General Manie Roosa was very loosely based on the real-life Boer leader Manie Maritz. And you can still find such “pocket camps” of the Boers hidden throughout South Africa, and the archaeological ruins of their forts still dot the countryside.