Contagion Option

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan intended to lend credence to Zing’s fabrication. He entered the slaughterhouse.

  A pen held a tangled mass of corpses that threatened to overwhelm even the Executioner’s sensibility. Young Thai men and women lay sprawled amid the remains of gassed cattle. Bolan fought off a wave of nausea, and his jaw clenched tightly as he saw workers loading bodies onto a conveyer belt leading to a grinding machine.

  Human bodies, killed by biological weaponry, were added to the cattle feed made from slaughtered animals.

  The logical part of Bolan realized the purpose of this. Bovine prions would combine with ground human proteins. Their mutated nature would alter the human proteins in a deadly mix that would affect both cattle and men equally. Mad cow disease was feared not because of what it did to animals, but for the fact that the altered protein structures present in the animals could transfer to humans and render them vulnerable to Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. Normally, humans only suffered it through inherited or random mutation, but it could be induced by exposure to bovine spongiform disease prions.

  However, mixing human and bovine proteins…

  Bolan looked at one of the corpses, sublimating the rage tearing through him. He couldn’t determine if the girl he studied was suffering from CJD, but the Thais were transported for a purpose. What he suspected churned his stomach. He stepped around the mound of corpses and confronted the men loading them onto the conveyor belt.

  The Koreans froze, confused by the tall, powerful man in black. One charged, intending to use his meat hooks as weapons, but Bolan drew his Beretta and drilled the ghoul through the gut. The worker collapsed, his weapons forgotten. The others broke and ran.

  The Executioner, however, wasn’t in the mood for mercy. These men, despite being unarmed, were actively producing a horrifying mixture that would spread brain-destroying diseases across the globe, and they casually handled the corpses of young, helpless murder victims to add to the horrific feed. He fired on semiauto, a single bullet for each thug.

  He spared only one, shooting the Korean through the kneecap.

  “Do you speak English?” Bolan asked.

  The ghoul looked at him in horror. “Little…”

  Bolan nodded, wrapping his long fingers around the man’s throat. “Where are the rest of them? The living ones?”

  The Korean swallowed hard. “In the basement. Entrance is far side of the building.”

  Bolan nodded. “Stay here.”

  He crossed, passing pens filled with jerking, spastic cattle. One animal’s head hung over a rail, drooling, big eyes twitching. It lifted its head at his passing, giving a weakened mewl. He paused and touched the animal’s head, and knew it was already dying, its nervous system ravaged by Mad Cow disease. Bolan shook his head and moved on. He already knew what he would find in the basement, but he had to see if he could help, if there was any hope.

  As he walked down the stairs, he saw trembling, drooling humans behind a chain-link fence. Their heads wobbled to the beat of some insane, unheard drummer, and those few who had the strength to walk did so with inhuman, almost zombielike lurching.

  A Korean guard looked up, then tried to reach for his pistol, but Bolan burned him down without a second thought.

  A young Thai leaned against the fence, eyeing Bolan with the same pitiful gaze as the suffering animal on the floor above.

  “Kill me,” the boy said in halting English. “Please…”

  He vomited bile that poured down his naked chest, but he didn’t even try to wipe it off. Or maybe he didn’t have the control over his limbs necessary to perform even such a simple task. “Please…”

  Bolan rested his head against the fence, trying to control his rage and sorrow. He took a deep breath, fighting down conflicting emotions.

  The boy blinked sadly. Bolan noticed the only reason that he still stood was that a series of cable ties fastened him to the fence. Others had been restrained. They were held up only to make room for more bodies strewed across the floor, slumped in various stages of consciousness. “Dead…anyway…hurt so bad…”

  Bolan closed his eyes, feeling them sting. Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease had no known cure, and everyone in this pen would be dead. Once contracted and activated, they’d only have a year to live. This boy had mental functioning, but his motor control was reduced to speech and eye movement. His free arm rippled and wriggled like a snake stapled to a wall.

  Bolan turned away. He saw a panel in the wall. His eyes narrowed, pictograms displaying a translation of the Korean symbols scrawled beneath.

  It was a containment emergency shutdown system for the slaughterhouse. It was set up to deal with a biological or chemical escape. Gelled fuel mixtures would be sprayed into the air, and a spark would induce a bath of superheated napalm to scorch any released diseases in the atmosphere, destroying every ounce of infected flesh. It had been set up in a time when the North Koreans assumed that they would be testing lethal mixtures or deadly microbes, not dealing with the microscopic aberrations formed from infected meat.

  The bodies piled up hadn’t been subjected to anthrax or other diseases. Humans and bovines had been fed with cattle feed, infecting them with more prions. The mutant proteins had developed far enough to affect both species, perhaps even more species. And as they died, they were put on the conveyor belts, turned into more tainted protein, to feed the next generation of victims and to carry on the evolution of a man-made nightmare.

  Bolan opened the panel and understood the control systems. He set the timer to release its lethal payload and burn this abattoir to powder. The fuel would soak everyone, and in a manner similar to the thermobaric bomb that had destroyed the submarine base in Wonsan, a simple flash of fire would incinerate every living and dead creature in the building instantly.

  Bolan looked back at the dying boy, the gun in his hand. “I don’t know how fast…or painful…”

  The boy’s brown eyes glistened. “I’ll die with the others. Get out.”

  Bolan sighed, then left the slaughterhouse. He walked past the Korean he’d shot in the knee.

  “Please, help me! Mercy!” the worker cried out.

  Bolan looked at the man, then turned and kept on walking. As he left the building, he heard the hiss of gelled fuel release from the emergency containment system.

  The Executioner had used the last vestiges of his mercy to give the dying humans and animals as swift a release as possible.

  The slaughterhouse imploded as flames licked from windows and open doors. It was as if Hell’s fires had erupted on Earth, but Bolan knew the truth.

  The cleansing flames had only ended a different kind of hell.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Park City, Utah

  Rachel Marrick didn’t know what she expected when Stan Reader suggested they use his lodge as a base, but she was officially impressed at the sight of the inside of the building. One corner of the lodge was a computer center with technology that was a sprawling mess of electronic growth. Bare wires, shiny boards and laser lights crisscrossed in a wild maze that seemed more like the explosion of life in a jungle made of silicone and black plastic.

  “Wow,” she said. There were half a dozen monitors inlaid into the mess. One of them looked like a radar screen for the immediate area. She studied it for a moment.

  “That’s an aerial thermal imaging representation of the resort, in real time,” Reader explained. “There’s a satellite in geosynchronous orbit over Northern California using infrared photography to track underground lava flows and steam pressure in an effort to observe possible seismic activity.”

  “How did you tap into it?” Marrick asked.

  “I didn’t. I helped to design the thermal imagers for a friend of mine. NASA put it in orbit to monitor the West Coast. We can see as far as Hawaii to the east and the Mississippi to the west,” Reader replied. “I also set up a more sensitive minimonitor on the satellite that gives me an aerial view of my current surroundings, as long as I’m under its umbrella of influ
ence.”

  Marrick raised an eyebrow. “You always like to have an eye in the sky watching you?”

  Reader frowned. “My investigations have garnered me enmity from very dangerous people. There is a fatwah called against me for my assistance to the FBI and other government agencies.”

  Marrick’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you’re great at keeping your friends alive. Ever since you turned up, there have been people out to kill me and my partner. Kirby was nearly killed when that bank collapsed, because you brought him in there. And then, he risked his life throwing you out the window of another burning building while being shot at by the same men trying to kill you. I’ve got a cop’s death on my conscience, and jangled nerves from being nearly murdered myself. But Kirby, he’s nearly dead twice, because he won’t let you down.”

  Reader took a deep breath. “I would never allow Kirby to come to harm.”

  Marrick glared at the scientist for a long moment. “If he does, you better pray that I’m dead, too.”

  She turned from the computer center and walked over to Graham who had returned from looking at the perimeter of the lodge.

  KIRBY GRAHAM SHOOK some snow off his boots and noticed Marrick approaching him. Reader, who looked like he’d been hit by a steamroller, turned toward a keyboard to type feverishly away.

  “What was that about?” Graham asked.

  “Setting some ground rules,” Marrick answered. “Are you okay?”

  Graham frowned. “You’re threatening him?”

  “Just making sure whatever karma he’s bringing us doesn’t stay around,” Marrick told him. “After all, before he showed up…”

  “Before he showed up, the Dugway UFOs were just considered a bullshit job for two FBI agents in the doghouse because they looked too hard at a politician’s ties to al Qaeda,” Graham growled. “Now, it’s a serious investigation.”

  “Serious? How?”

  “The bank robbery is related,” Graham said.

  Marrick frowned. “A bank robbery by a Korean street gang.”

  “It was a smokescreen. They did everything they could to kill that bank’s records. Hard copy, soft copy and digital,” Graham explained. “Stan recognized a powerful electromagnet that put out a field strong enough to wipe everything on tape.”

  Marrick pursed her lips. “The bank was involved in money laundering?”

  “Nothing that would attract the attention of the FBI or DEA. If it’s not drug or terrorism related, we’d spend our resources somewhere else,” Graham said.

  “So why crash an entire building?” Marrick asked.

  “To cover up something big. Bigger than anything that’s ever happened to the U.S.,” Graham replied. “Think on an apocalyptic level.”

  “Dugway,” Marrick said. “The last breach killed hundreds of sheep. If the wind had been going the other way…”

  “A million people. Dead,” Reader replied, finally joining them. “I’ve been observing weather patterns, and in a couple of days, there will be a window of opportunity for a major containment failure to unleash a lethal plague across Salt Lake City.”

  Marrick shrugged. “Right into the frying pan.”

  “Rachel, I know you’re mad at me for getting you involved in all of this. I’m sorry,” Reader continued.

  Marrick glared. “Maybe you’d be a lot more upset if it were people you know being killed. The cops in that police station are my co-workers.”

  “No, this isn’t personal for him,” Graham said. “That’s why he can keep thinking about the solution.”

  “We have people trying to kill us, Kirby. Don’t you think that’s more important than some half-realized conspiracy?” Marrick asked.

  Graham frowned.

  “Stan?” Graham asked.

  “She is correct. Survival should be our priority,” Reader replied. “Unfortunately, it does not obviate her negativity. I hoped disclosure would allow us to lessen the air of hostility…”

  “Maybe if you stuffed a sock in it, you pompous walking thesaurus…” Marrick shouted.

  “Would the two of you just cool down?” Graham asked, stepping between them. “Stan, go do computer shit. Rachel, I’ll check you out on Stan’s guns. And we’re going to talk. Actually, I’m gonna talk, you nod and agree with me.”

  Marrick twisted away. “Sure, caveman. Whatever you say.”

  THEY WALKED DOWN to the basement.

  Graham clicked on a light, bathing the room in an incandescent glow. One wall was lined with a pegboard loaded with various tools. Instead of a pool table or a train set, the center of the room was dominated by a smooth-sided square.

  “What’s that?” Marrick asked.

  “A server,” Graham said. “And the wires are leading under the tile to the dish on the roof for satellite uplink.”

  “A server?” Marrick asked. She ran her hand across the device, feeling its subdued, humming power.

  “I remember when he drew up the designs for the prototype. This computer has more than enough brainpower to run NASA or NORAD,” Graham explained.

  Marrick pulled her hand away from it. “He’s just getting on my nerves.”

  “I said, he was offering to take us both out of the doghouse. We’ll head out to the real world, and not have to worry about paperwork,” Graham told her. “Or restrictions against fraternization.”

  Marrick’s mouth turned into a tight line. “Kirby…”

  The big man put his hands on her shoulders. “We get to be people, not badges. And we get to choose who we want to spend our lives with.”

  Marrick looked away. “I’m flattered.”

  “If you’re threatening Stan, you’re a lot more than flattered,” Graham said, letting her go. He walked over to a section of paneling, then gave it two sharp raps. A board came loose, and he set it aside, pushing back a rolling section of paneling to reveal another pegboard.

  Instead of tools, however, this one was laden with various weapons.

  Marrick swallowed. “Does—”

  “Stan’s got a Class III license for all of this,” Graham replied, pulling down a Heckler & Koch MP-5. He looked through its scope and checked its balance. “He likes to be prepared.”

  Marrick ran her fingers across an M-60 machine gun. “For World War III?”

  “He’s a hard core Boy Scout,” Graham said, replacing the submachine gun with a Colt M-4 carbine. “Take whatever you want. And load up.”

  Graham found fully loaded magazines for the carbine and slid them into a bandolier belt. He walked over to a dresser, pulled open one drawer, reached in and took out a load-bearing vest. He gave a section a rap with his knuckles. “Trauma plate. A lot better than our vests.”

  Marrick took another Colt carbine off the rack and took ammunition for it. “Think he’ll have one in my size?”

  Graham threw her a vest. “Adjustable straps and quick-attaching pockets.”

  Marrick blinked. “This is his cabin. He’s not renting it.”

  Graham smiled. “Bought it with prize money from his biathalon medal rewards and a few inventions here and there. This is his unofficial West Coast headquarters.”

  “He’s got a place like this on the East Coast?” Marrick asked.

  Graham shrugged. “Maybe a little better.” Marrick shook her head. “What have I gotten myself into?”

  Outside Wonsan, North Korea

  CUTTING ACROSS the North Korean countryside only a few moments after dawn wasn’t the smartest thing that Jack Grimaldi had ever done, even with Dragon Slayer’s considerable stealth capabilities. But Mack Bolan needed him, and Grimaldi had never let him down yet.

  The emergency signal cut across Dragon Slayer’s sensors, and the ace Stony Man pilot had powered up the high-tech helicopter to launch from its hiding place on the North Korean coast. Grimaldi had found the site while racing up the shoreline. Sparsely populated, and with few sensors, it could nestle the sleek airship easily, giving Grimaldi a shorter trip back to Bolan’s side.

  The h
oming beacon on the Executioner’s belt drew him close, and Grimaldi kept his eyes on the radar suite. No one had hit him with active radar yet, but that didn’t mean antiaircraft systems with passive sensors or infrared targeting scanners weren’t waiting for him. Despite the baffles on the engines, dispersing heat at a fraction of standard operating temperatures, the helicopter would still have enough of a signature to attract an enemy missile if it was of sufficient technology. North Korea’s arms market didn’t have such sensitive warheads, but according to Bolan, the bad guys had access to outside support.

  Grimaldi flew nap of the earth, hugging Dragon Slayer to tree lines so closely, if he wavered an inch, he’d chop limbs off. Tall grasses slapped at the underbelly of the aircraft, but he kept it steady. He wasn’t going to risk being spotted as he homed in on his friend.

  A row of hills loomed ahead and Grimaldi swept them with his forward-looking radar, momentarily exposing himself with broadcast energies. There was a gap ahead, and it was just wide enough to allow the helicopter to nose through, barely inches available for the width of the rotor. He pushed up the throttle and headed for the lowest gap between the hills ahead, killing the radar.

  It was no good. Dragon Slayer’s board lit up as an enemy air patrol swept him. Grimaldi killed the sideways sound transmitters and opened up the heat vents. He’d need all the power he could get so that he could make the gap to Bolan’s location before the air patrol found him.

  The IFF computer pegged the two enemy craft as MiG-21s, tired old warbirds from the middle of the cold war. Dragon Slayer hit 200 mph just as the fighters broke into power dives toward him. Their cannon opened up, 20 mm shells hammering the ground in Grimaldi’s wake. It would take a few moments for the pilots to adjust their aim, but as soon as they had their range, he yanked the high-tech helicopter into the gap. Explosive shells blasted into the entrance of the small gully between the hills, dirt and stone flying under their onslaught.

  Grimaldi fought to ignore the radar alerts blaring in his ears, concentrating on keeping control at full speed in the narrow channel he’d hit. Behind him, missile detonations thundered as the MiGs tried to catch him with heat-seeking missiles, but the warheads didn’t have the agility to thread the needle in pursuit of Dragon Slayer. It wouldn’t be long before the helicopter burst out onto flat land, but right now, his primary goal was to escape this gap. A pair of 20 mm shells detonated at the tops of hills, spitting dirt and sod into the rotors, but it was to no avail. They didn’t have an angle on the Stony Man pilot and his sleek craft.