The Permit

by William B. Scott

  A trickle of blood oozed from the tiny hole in Krupa's chest, initially pooling, then inching along a crease of flesh. The red dribble touched water and rapidly dissipated.

  * *

  Well after dark, Amy Krupa found her husband floating in the pool, silent and immobile. Eyes dilated, as if startled, and mouth agape. Any sound he might have uttered was lost to the desert night.

  Standing at the pool's edge, Amy knew her husband was dead. A minuscule, blue-tinged hole was visible in his naked chest, linked to the pool's water by a trail of dried blood.

  She was shocked, but not anguished. Despite a wish to the contrary, she felt only profound relief. And a bizarre, almost obscene sense of satisfaction.

  She had survived. That pudgy little piece-of-shit would never hit her again. Never shoot another innocent person. Never hide behind a badge and gun to justify the small-minded brute's inherent evil.

  Finally, she was free.

  Amy left her husband's lifeless body untouched. It appeared weightless, suspended in the night, illuminated from below by a soft glow of underwater lights.

  I'm glad you're dead, Oly.

  She returned to the kitchen and calmly dialed 911.

  CHAPTER 28

  DEATH STRIKE NO. 2

  "The wise look ahead

  to see what is coming,

  but fools deceive themselves."

  Proverbs 14:8

  LAS VEGAS

  Kale Akaka checked the radium dial of his wristwatch, its dim glow the only illumination in a Ford F250 pickup truck's darkened cab: Two thirty-seven a.m.

  His Metro-lieutenant partner was late. Akaka hated waiting, but tonight's payoff warranted patience. The LT was bringing a boatload of cash, Akaka's take from another 200,000-plus oxycodone tablets sold to their primary Southern California customer.

  The cop surveyed his surroundings: Darkened strip malls, populated by paint stores, tattoo parlors and second-hand furniture warehouses lined the street. All were closed and quiet.

  His tricked-out red pickup truck, parked on the left side of a one-way street near Jones and Sahara, was incongruous, out of place in the seedy neighborhood. Although off duty, Akaka was still in his Metro uniform, which contributed to a sense of being exposed and vulnerable.

  The bristle-haired Hawaiian was confident the lieutenant would show up and pay up. No worries there. Each man depended on the other to ensure their extremely lucrative sideline of stealing and selling opiate-based prescription drugs continued to operate smoothly. Akaka's Metro paycheck was a pittance, compared to double-digit thousands he was banking every week from "the business."

  Akaka rolled the pickup's window down and draped an arm over the sill. The odor of heated asphalt and car-exhaust fumes lingered in still, cool air. The only sounds were those of traffic on the nearby Las Vegas arteries.

  "Hey! You! Officer Akaka!"

  Startled, the Metro cop's head snapped to his left, searching. His right hand dropped to a nine-millimeter Glock.

  "Down here!"

  Akaka craned his neck over the door sill.

  "What the hell?" he muttered.

  Lit by the faint glow from a distant street lamp, a dog-like creature stood on the sidewalk, looking up. It was a machine, a four-legged robot. Its body was a see-through, composite-and-metal structure laced with wire bundles.

  The mechanical creature shifted closer, accompanied by the whine of small motors.

  "You shot Erik Steele, right?"

  The robo-dog was talking to him! Akaka stared, open-mouthed, nodding involuntarily.

  The "dog's" eyes brightened and a muted, high-pitched tone emanated from the mechanical creature. Instantly, Akaka's entire head felt as it were engulfed in searing flames. Excruciating pain attacked his eyes, face and neck.

  The officer screamed and recoiled. His skin felt like it was on fire. A hissing sound and the revolting odor of burning flesh engulfed the vehicle. Wisps of pale smoke drifted from its window.

  Radiating invisible beams, the robo-dog's eyes tracked Akaka's every movement. A mechanical neck telescoped, keeping those red orbs locked onto Akaka's cranium. In agony, the cop vainly fought to retreat, but was trapped by a shoulder harness and seat belt.

  Bloody sludge oozed between thick fingers clamped to his scorched eyes and face. A prolonged scream of indescribable torment and horror echoed from shadowed, deserted buildings.

  Twenty yards up the street, a nondescript white van's rear door was ripped open.

  "Shut it down!" a technician shouted. He jumped inside, snatching night-vision goggles off and slamming the door behind him.

  "The bastard's frying!"

  A system operator, hunched over a dimly lit portable console, was frantically jamming a computer key.

  "It's locked up! The beam won't shut off!"

  "Kill the power!"

  The shaken operator clicked another icon and confirmed the "dog" and its microwave directed-energy weapon were disabled.

  "Aw shit… ," he breathed.

  "What the hell happened?"

  "Dunno. Everything was Code-One, when I fired. It was programmed for a one-second burst, just enough to blind the target. But… the damned beam kept blasting away, after the auto-shut-down signal was transmitted!

  "Something failed. Shit!"

  A brief silence ensued, before the second technician ordered, "Reboot 'Dog' and send an auto-recall. I'll get the ramp ready."

  He scanned the area through one-way windows and opened the van's rear door. The mechanical robo-dog was jogging toward him, its unnatural gait reminiscent of an arthritic, stiff-legged canine.

  Amid whines and groans of motors and hydraulic actuators driving mechanical limbs, "Dog" clambered up a makeshift ramp and shuffled sideways to its tie-down dock inside the van.

  The operator expertly guided the robot, using a joystick plugged into a ruggedized laptop computer's USB port, then powered the system down.

  A voice appeared in the technicians' miniature boom-mike headsets.

  "Bishop here. What the hell happened, guys?" asked Gray Manor, Checkmate director and mission commander. He had remained silent, while the frantic on-scene agents were dealing with a weapon-system failure.

  Manor was monitoring the strike from a windowless control room at the Groom Lake air base. Melded infrared and visible-light images from electro-optical sensors embedded in Robo-Dog had captured the gruesome microwave-beam attack and its unexpected, deadly effects. Video data and encrypted radio signals transmitted from the van to a sophisticated intel satellite were downlinked in real time to the mission-control facility, where they were processed and displayed.

  "A beam-weapon switch may have stuck, preventing auto-shutdown, sir," the primary operator explained.

  "Dammit!" Manor growled. "The objective was to blind Akaka, not fry the son of a bitch!"

  Manor was beset with raw, aw-shit remorse. It was unintentional, but the cop who had fired four rounds into Erik Steele's back was dead.

  Hearing Akaka's hair-raising scream and watching the man's skin blister and burst, then peel off in twisted, paper-thin strips, had paralyzed everybody in the control room.

  The combat-seasoned Checkmate chief quickly reverted to command-think-act mode: restore order, calm the troops and complete the mission.

  "Alright, listen up. Focus on extraction. Secure the weapon system and beat-feet out of there. Somebody may have heard the target's screams.

  "Move it!"

  The second operator-technician, who had monitored the robo-dog visually, ready to intervene manually, if required, slammed the van's rear doors and jumped into the driver's seat. A veteran of Checkmate covert operations, he was acutely aware that seconds counted, after taking out a domestic terrorist.

  * *

  Akaka's partner doused his car's headlights and coasted to a stop about thirty yards from the Hawaiian's flashy pickup truck, but on the opposite side of a one-way street. Ensuring the overhead dome light was off, the Metro lieutenant gra
bbed an athletic bag and opened the door. He surveyed the quiet, deserted street, then angled across to the pickup.

  As he'd done countless times in recent months, the drug-dealing Metro lieutenant opened the truck's passenger door to slip inside. He froze, one leg in the air. An overpowering stench of burnt flesh threatened to gag him. In the weak light, he could barely make out a stiff figure, back arched, tangled in a shoulder harness.

  The alarmed, hyperalert officer aimed the bright LED of a key-chain flashlight at the motionless shape and recoiled. Kale Akaka was dead. His eyes had exploded, leaving bloody, gaping holes in a grotesque death's-head. Facial skin hung in charred, distorted shreds, as if it had melted and peeled away as overcooked films. Exposed bone was splotched with dark, leathery patches—baked-on blood and what looked like strips of bacon. Seared lips were stretched into a monster's oversized grin. Exposed teeth anchored in a gaping jaw were apart, frozen in a silent scream.

  The lieutenant clamped a hand over his nose and mouth and suppressed an urge to heave, sweeping the pickup's interior with the minuscule flashlight.

  Akaka's tan Metro uniform shirt and slacks were splattered with slime and blood. No signs of struggle. No holes or cracks in the vehicle's blood-streaked windshield. The driver-side window was open.

  An icy chill coursed through the lieutenant, as he stared at the unrecognizable corpse. The cop's entire skull had burst, as if detonations inside had fractured the bone and blown out the eyes and ears.

  Something well outside the senior officer's experience had killed his partner in crime.

  The lieutenant closed the truck's door and used his shirttail to wipe its recessed handle clean of fingerprints. Traumatized, he failed to retrieve the nylon athletic bag he'd dropped and unintentionally kicked under Akaka's vehicle.

  He hesitated a long moment, wrestling with flashes of random should-do thoughts, then staggered to his car, fearing his knees would collapse.

  Later, the Metro officer wheeled into a vacant parking lot to get a handle on out-of-control terror. Breathing rapidly and shaking uncontrollably, he labored to calm a pounding heart.

  He had never been so damned panic-stricken and scared. Blood-freezing fear and wild imagination were attacking, endangering what remained of sanity.

  Whatever evil had killed the big Hawaiian exceeded human comprehension—and was still at large.

  The lieutenant pulled a throw-away, prepaid cell phone from the center console and dialed nine-one-one. In a shaking voice, he reported the location of a dead police officer and hung up, before the call taker could launch a barrage of questions.

  He wiped the device's plastic surfaces, and wedged the cheap phone under the car's front-left tire. As he drove away, the instrument was reduced to a patch of crushed shards and electronic components.

  * *

  LAS VEGAS/CORONER'S OFFICE

  Sheriff Alex Uriah and his Homicide chief gawked at the naked, blue-tinged body. Olek Krupa's chest had been sliced from throat to groin, held open by a stainless-steel, spring-loaded apparatus.

  "Holy shit," Mikey Greel breathed. "What in the… ?"

  "No idea," Doctor Jamey Cooper clipped. "Thirty-two years as a coroner, and I've never seen anything like it."

  He searched the officers' faces. Both were baffled and unnerved.

  "His insides were totally liquified?" Uriah asked in awe. He'd seen dozens of lifeless bodies throughout his career as a law enforcement officer. Blood and guts had never fazed him.

  This did.

  "What in God's name could do that?" the sheriff asked weakly.

  "Did ya find any slugs or other… stuff?" Greel interjected.

  In a chronically fatigued state, his legendary investigative skills were evaporating. He was incredibly tired, and merely thinking was a bother.

  Greel, too, was disoriented by organs being reduced to brick-red fluid laced with gray streaks. Krupa's open torso was a puddle of nauseating swill.

  "Not much. A few bits that might be a composite material," the Clark County coroner replied. "We're running toxicology and chemical analyses."

  Choosing his words cautiously, Greel said, "Chief, we're up against enemies with unprecedented capabilities, and they have somebody inside Metro. Whoever killed Krupa and Akaka knew where they were going to be."

  The sheriff nodded absently. His skin was chalky and pale, as if he were in physical shock. He looked as bad as Greel felt.

  Scared shitless, Vader concluded.

  Uriah turned to the coroner. "Doc, until we can figure out how this officer died—what killed him—I want every detail treated as classified, understand? No leaks! If this gets out, I'll have a mutiny on my hands. Every damned cop in the valley will call in sick and be hiding under his bed."

  "No problem, Alex. But… What in the hell could dissolve a man's innards?"

  Uriah shook his head slowly. "Got me. Unreal… ."

  He stared into Krupa's yawning chest cavity. Its revolting contents had begun to congeal, a layer of film forming on the slop.

  "Better have a look at your other officer, too," Cooper said. He walked to a nearby stainless-steel gurney and tossed a blue-green sheet aside.

  "Good God almighty!" Uriah whispered. Wide-eyed, he stared at a dead man's skull draped with twisted, melted strips.

  "That's Akaka?"

  "What's left of him." Cooper pointed to a dark lump in a steel basin. "Take a gander at this."

  "What is it?" Uriah asked.

  "What's it look like?" Dr. Jamey Cooper barked. He was tired and thoroughly exasperated. The bodies of two Metro police officers had landed in his morgue within a matter of hours. Both men had been killed by means he couldn't determine.

  "How should I know?" Uriah fired back. "Roadkill? A spoiled grapefruit?"

  "It's your cop's brain," Cooper said flatly.

  A long silence ensued. Uriah glanced at Greel, whose face had drained of color. They stared at each other a long moment.

  "It's black!" Greel observed.

  "Damn sure is. We removed it from Akaka's skull about thirty minutes ago.

  "I'd say the cerebral matter has been 'nuked,' as in 'microwaved.' Like Officer Akaka had stuck his head in a microwave oven. The cerebrum and exterior tissues were severely overheated, but not scorched, as they'd be, if exposed to flame or radiant heat."

  "But… wouldn't the skin… ?" Uriah asked lamely.

  "Not necessarily," Cooper explained. "Microwaves heat organic material by elevating the temperature of fluids in cells, literally cooking from the inside out. Excessive energy causes the fluid to boil, and cellular walls burst.

  "That's how Akaka's epidermis, fleshy tissues and brain matter were destroyed. In essence, your officer's cranium was cooked—but from the inside."

  "You absolutely sure, doc? I mean… microwaves… ?" Greel pressed. "Couldn't some exotic radiation have killed Akaka?"

  "I suppose so, but nuclear radiation, or infrared energy from, say, a powerful heat lamp, wouldn't have the same spectrum of effects," the coroner replied. "Until we run a complete battery of tests, I'll stick with my preliminary finding: Officer Akaka died from exposure to intense microwave radiation."

  A heavy silence pervaded the coroner's examination theater. Three career law enforcement professionals wrestled with a conspicuous conundrum: How could a man be exposed to high-energy microwaves, while sitting in a pickup truck on a Las Vegas side street at 2:30 a.m.?

  * *

  Outside, Uriah and Greel stood beside the sheriff's staff car, conversing in low tones. Three brawny, shaved headed cops, Uriah's bodyguards, were stationed in a protective triangular pattern, scanning the dimly lit parking lot.

  "Christ, Mikey. What the hell's going on?"

  "Don't know, chief. It's… something out of a horror movie. Doesn't make sense… ," Greel mumbled. His eyes darted side to side, as if an alien creature might attack from the dark.

  "You worked secret-squirrel shit for years. Weren't you privy to all the high-tech cr
ap, including military stuff? Who has weapons that kill like that?" Uriah demanded, attempting to appear "leaderly."

  "Dunno. I'll ask around, but… ," Greel's voice trailed off.

  He shook his head wearily. The captain was increasingly frail—chronically fatigued and emotionally spent. His eyes were sunken, accentuated by thumb-size smudges beneath them.

  Uriah wasn't much better, but Greel looked completely exhausted, a man on final approach to a landing in Hades.

  "Who has microwave weapons that could kill a man in seconds?" Uriah persisted.

  "Maybe the military. The Missile Defense Agency's been playing with high-energy beam weapons for twenty-some years, but they're mostly lab experiments. Other than low-power systems used for crowd control, I don't believe any full-blown weapons were ever deployed."

  "Could the spooks have high-energy microwave stuff?"

  "Possibly," Greel admitted. "If they did, we'd never know. They'd be black systems — classified way above Top Secret."

  The men stared into the dark for a long moment.

  "Two dead cops within eight, nine hours," the sheriff said. "Killed by sophisticated weapons we can't identify. Both involved in the Erik Steele shooting. And a satchel with seventeen thousand dollars and change under Akaka's truck.

  "Any theories, Mikey?"

  Shooting a sidelong glance at the sheriff, Greel blurted, "It's Win Steele. That son of a bitch has something to do with this. I feel it."

  "Hmmph!" Uriah snorted. "That'll stand up in court! 'Got this feeling, your honor! I just know that Steele SOB killed two cops!' Get a grip, Mikey! Win Steele's a has-been reporter with a wild imagination!"

  "Not… exactly. He worked in the 'black world.' Wrote batches of magazine articles about highly classified aircraft and systems, too. We've been monitoring his calls and e-mails for months, and… "

  "Did you intercept any contacts with active-duty military or intelligence agencies?" Uriah interrupted.

  "Uhhh… Not that we could positively ID. But he said things that were… well, sorta cryptic. And the message that hit all of our cell phones… ."

  "What message?" Uriah barked. He hadn't issued any blanket order. If a missive had gone out to all of his people, and nobody'd told him about it, heads would roll.