Collective Retribution

by Edwards, D. S.

  “He talks about you often. He says you’re a fair man, and that you really know the cattle business.”

  Nirsch felt flattered, and smiled as he thought about Clyde and Penny Palmer. “How’s your Grandma Penny doing?”

  “She’s hanging in there. They finished up the chemo and radiation in April, and as far as they can tell, they got all the cancer. She’s in complete remission.”

  “That grandma of yours is one tough old bird!”

  “Yup, she’s back to her old self, riding Grandpa hard and once again rulin’ the roost.”

  They both had a good laugh.

  Becky returned to Nirsch’s table with a grin on her face and the fattest, juiciest, most marbled rib-eye he’d ever laid eyes on. His stomach rumbled.

  “I’ve got to go, Sheriff. Becky’s standing at my table with one amazing-looking steak. I’m pretty sure I just heard it moo. If it gets cold, she may just kick me right square in the butt!”

  The sheriff laughed so loud Nirsch had to hold the phone away from his ear or risk deafness.

  “You must be at the Stockyard.”

  “Yup. Is there anywhere else a guy can get a steak this good or be greeted with a smile as pretty as Becky’s? I’ll see you at 6.”

  “All right, Nirsch, you enjoy that steak, and take it easy on poor Becky. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Please, Sheriff, my friends call me Nirsch.”

  “All right then, you can call me Luke.”

  Nirsch held the phone a little tighter to his ear and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece.

  “Luke, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about why I’m here. No one in Lake County knows about my, uh, other job, as it were.”

  “You got it, Nirsch. My lips are sealed. You have a good night, and dress warm in the morning. It’s supposed to drop into the teens tonight.”

  Nirsch hung up the phone and tore into his steak like a half-starved coyote.

  Nirsch’s motel was five blocks from the Stockyard. On the way there, he had to turn up his collar to avoid the stinging snow that blew sideways in typical Lake County fashion. By the time he entered the lobby, his cheeks were red, his lips had started to crack, and his nose hairs had frozen into a tangled, solid block. And I thought D.C. winters were cold.

  Nirsch entered his room, locked the deadbolt behind him, and started the shower. Before getting in, he studied his reflection in the mirror. With a leathery finger, he traced the few wrinkles that had appeared around his eyes. He sighed and ran his hands through salt and pepper hair. “Maybe,” he said to the mirror, “I’m getting too old for this crap.”

  He took a step back. Scars on his six-foot, three-inch, 230-pound frame brought back memories of battles past. He flexed his arm muscles and his elbows squeaked like rusty hinges. He was fifty years old, but still trained hard and was in excellent shape. He’d need that training in the days ahead.

  When this is over, he thought, it’s time to retire.

  After a shower hot enough to raise blisters on his back, he laid out the clothes he’d need in the morning and surveyed Amanda’s packing job. She’d included all of his hygiene items, plenty of clothes, and a satellite phone. As usual, Amanda my friend, you thought of everything.

  Now it was time to check his go bag. It had his favorite M-24 with a Z6 2-12x50 Swarovski rifle scope; Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun with a 3.5-inch chamber; SCAR-H battle rifle with 7.62 millimeter cartridges, EOTech 552 night vision sight, and ten extra clips; Sig .45-ACP pistol with eight extra clips; tactical vest; and 10x50 Swarovski binoculars.

  “I am ready to invade a small third world country,” Nirsch said with a chuckle. He checked the deadbolt again and switched on the TV. On the Fox Report, Shepard Smith was talking about Herman King. It seemed Mr. King had died that afternoon.

  Nirsch grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

  “At 4:30 this afternoon, Washington Post reporter Herman King’s Toyota Prius was pulled from the Potomac River near Chrystal City. Apparently Mr. King had lunch in George Washington Park. As he drove out of the park, police say, he had a heart attack. King’s car rolled across the grass and down the hill, ending up in the river across from Reagan International Airport. His car floated down the Potomac, coming to rest against the bridge on Jefferson Davis Highway. King has been a reporter for the Post since 2004. You’ll remember he was the reporter who broke the story at the beginning of President Hartley’s first term about then–National Security Director Parker Cole and the scandal that led to his resignation. White House spokesman Neil Stanton released a statement mourning the loss of King and the void it would leave within the White House Press Corps. ”

  Nirsch shook his head and switched off the television.

  He lay under the cool sheets and punched in the number to the ranch. Michelle answered.

  “Hey, how you guys doing?” he said.

  “We got in about a half an hour ago.”

  “How were the roads?”

  “Pretty snowy over the Ochocos and on Waterman Flat, but clear the rest of the way.”

  Nirsch pictured Kathy Kennedy behind the wheel in a snowstorm and shuddered. “Did Kathy make you nervous at all?”

  “A little.”

  Bill’s wife wasn’t the greatest driver. She had a reputation around Grant County as something of a lead foot, and not overly observant behind the wheel. The guys down at J and B Body Works swore they’d be out of business if it weren’t for Kathy.

  “Well, I’m glad you made it safe,” he said. “What kind of shape is the house in?”

  “Not too bad, just dusty. Jillian’s going to help me clean tomorrow and Kathy said she’d come over and lend a hand. I’m too tired tonight. I just want to fix dinner and go to bed.”

  “How are the kids? They ask you any questions?”

  “Kids? What kids? Jillian put on warm clothes, went to the barn, saddled Trixi, and rode over to the Hansons’ fifteen minutes after we got here. It seems Brett filled his mom’s cow tag this evening and thought it would be great if Jillian came over and helped him skin it. She was texting him most of the drive.”

  Nirsch hadn’t had a serious discussion with Jillian about Brett yet, but he realized it was probably a good time. Nirsch smiled. It had been a long time since he was a teenager, but he hadn’t forgotten the hormones that had raged through his body, or Sheila Carter. When he closed his eyes, the memories flooded back: Sheila sitting in his backyard, laughing, the sun shining on her jet-black hair, the two of them playing hide and go seek on cool summer evenings, his first kiss on the back of the school bus.

  “I think we’re going to have to watch those two closely,” Nirsch said. “And I think it’s about time I had the ‘talk’ with Brett.”

  “Now don’t go embarrassing your daughter!”

  “Me? I wouldn’t dream of it. I just want to make sure that boy remembers who Jillian’s father is.”

  Michelle snorted.

  “How about my other offspring?” Nirsch said. “What’s he off doing?”

  “It seems that the young Mr. Nirschell thought there was no way Bill could check water and break ice without his expert advice and assistance.”

  Nirsch laughed as he pictured Adam standing up straight, telling Bill the proper way to do things, with Bill rolling his eyes and using every ounce of self-control to keep from locking Adam in the truck.

  “That boy is getting to be quite the little man,” Nirsch said. “Just make sure he doesn’t get too pesky. I don’t want Bill all grumpy the next time I come to the ranch.”

  Michelle giggled. “Too late. If you haven’t noticed, Bill’s always grumpy.”

  Nirsch laughed again as he pictured Bill’s sour face and narrow eyes. Then he sighed. “I’m going to have to cut it short, I’ve got an early day tomorrow. And Michelle, expect some company. Your cousin Collie said he might stop by with his wife. I told him I was sure you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Cousin Collie” was their code phrase for
Amanda and Larry Collins. Michelle and Nirsch had worked out some codes shortly after he started at the Pentagon. Certain things did not need to be discussed over the telephone.

  “Okay,” Michelle said, “I guess we’ll clean the guest house as well.”

  “Great. I’m sure Bill won’t mind an extra hand. He’s got a lot to do.”

  “Have you heard a weather report? Is it supposed to snow this weekend?”

  This, Nirsch knew, was code for, “When will you be here?”

  “The local channel said there is a slight chance of snow on Thursday, increasing chance Friday, and definitely dumping down by Saturday.”

  “Great. I’ll have to get the sleds out of the barn. Adam will be excited.”

  “All right, I’m going to have to get off here. I’ll try to call tomorrow, if I get the chance. Love you. Sleep well.”

  “Love you, too. Sleep tight.”

  Nirsch was about to hang up when Michelle’s voice stopped him.

  “Nirsch, I know I’m not supposed to worry, and I’ve learned over the years to not make an issue of the dangers you face every day.”

  Michelle paused, and Nirsch heard a sniffle. Her voice cracked as she started speaking again.

  “Watch yourself, Levi James Nirschell. Somehow this one feels different. I don’t know why, it’s just that…it’s just, I need…your children need…”

  Nirsch summoned his softest, most reassuring tone. “It is different Michelle, but I can promise you now, like every other time before, I will come home to you. Now go to sleep, and don’t worry about me. I may not be as young and virile as I was when we met”—he chuckled—“but I can still handle whatever is thrown at me. Love you.”

  He hung up, switched off the television, and lay in the dark, thinking about his family. He realized he’d spent at least 50 percent of his married life away from his family, based in some motel room. He’d given himself fully to his country and his family had suffered for it. Whatever happened these next few days, he decided, he would be going home to fulfill his role as a husband and father. Whether he stopped the terrorists or they managed to fulfill their plans, he would be home in no more than three days.

  7

  FIFTEEN MILES NORTH OF LAKEVIEW, OREGON

  6:40 A.M. PST, WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 26

  NIRSCH STOOD AT THE EDGE OF A WINDSWEPT CLEARING, looking over twisted metal frames of burned-up wall tents and the scattered remains of a once-thriving camp. The residents had left in a hurry and burned all evidence of their activities. He doubted he’d find anything useful, but had to try. He picked through the charred piles of debris and discovered leftover meals, unreadable ashes, melted disposable razors, and other large globs of melted plastic.

  “Anything, Nirsch?” Sheriff Palmer said.

  “Not yet. I have a couple more piles to go through. Then you can show me where the hunter was shot.”

  “Sure. Can I give you a hand?”

  “You could grab a shovel out of that ugly green beast I drove up here in. Start probing the snow, from the edge of the clearing toward the middle. If you hit anything solid, let me know. Maybe something was forgotten or overlooked in the deep snow. When you get that finished, there’s a makeshift latrine just inside the tree line behind the pickup. Dig up the snow and carefully sift through it around the edge of the hole.”

  “Okay. You looking for evidence of too much camp food or bad cooking?”

  Nirsch chuckled at Luke’s sarcasm. The more he hung out with Palmer, the more he liked him.

  “No,” Nirsch said. “Sometimes the best place to find things in a camp is at the latrine. Things tend to fall out of pockets when people loosen their clothing to do their business. Whenever we come across an old cabin during hunting season, we always poke around where the outhouse was. We’ve found old coins, pocket watches. My grandfather found a three-ounce gold nugget near a miner’s cabin once.”

  “Well, you just changed my hunting seasons from here on out. I may never get a deer or elk again. I’ll spend all my time digging up old outhouse holes.”

  Nirsch laughed as the sheriff walked toward the pickup. Nirsch sifted through several more piles, and was about to give up when he noticed a patch of white envelope under a half-melted water bottle. Gently, he pried the paper loose. Only part of a return address was visible: Ansari Mosque, Dayton, Ohio.

  He called Jerry Petterson at the CIA.

  “Jerry, Nirsch here. I’m in Lakeview, Oregon, going through that abandoned camp. I found an envelope with a return address of a mosque on it.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Ansari Mosque, Dayton, Ohio. That mean anything to you?”

  Silence. Nirsch checked his phone’s screen to make sure it was still connected.

  “Jerry, does that mean anything to you? Jerry? Hello?”

  “What was the name again? And where is it located?”

  “A…N…S…A…R…I. Dayton, Ohio.”

  “I have to call you back.” With those words, Jerry Petterson, CIA, was gone.

  Luke yelled from the trees at the edge of the clearing: “I’ve got something!”

  Nirsch jogged across the clearing and into the tree line.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “I dug up that little silver box. I didn’t think I should touch it before you had a chance to examine it.”

  Nirsch bent down. It appeared to be made of sterling silver. It was about four inches long, two inches wide, and an inch-and-a-half thick, engraved with intricate designs. He put on a pair of thin latex gloves and picked up the box.

  “Do you have any plastic evidence bags in your truck?” Nirsch said.

  “Yeah. Be right back.”

  He waited until Luke was out of sight to examine the box. When he opened it, his heart leapt into his throat. Inside was a small and full syringe. He quickly closed the box as the sheriff returned with the evidence bag.

  “Here, this is the only one I had,” he said.

  “It should fit.”

  Nirsch placed the box in the evidence bag and removed his gloves, turning them inside out as he did. He set the gloves in the evidence bag and sealed it, making sure it was airtight. He then took a bottle of hand sanitizer out of his pocket and thoroughly rubbed it over every inch of his hands and forearms.

  Luke’s eyebrows pinched together. “Anything I should be worried about?”

  Nirsch shrugged and tried to act casual. He didn’t think Luke bought it.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Nirsch said. “The tech guys might get something off it. I think I’ve seen enough of the camp. Maybe you could show me where the hunter was killed now.”

  The sheriff turned. “It’s just over that hill, about a quarter mile.”

  At the kill site, they examined the terrorists’ boot prints, dug around in the bloody snow, and picked up a few shell casings. Nirsch’s phone rang.

  “What do you have, Jerry?”

  “I need to know if you found anything else.”

  Nirsch hesitated. “Hold on, Jerry.” He muted the phone and spoke to Luke.

  “I need you to follow these boot tracks backwards. I need to find the spot he was shot from. Follow each one back through the trees until you get to the farthest spot where you can still see me.”

  “No problem.”

  The sheriff headed through the trees, following the tracks. Nirsch took his phone off mute.

  “I found a silver box. It has a full syringe in it.”

  “Did you touch the box or the contents with your bare hands?”

  “No, I used latex gloves. What are you not telling me, Jerry? Am I in some sort of danger?”

  “We need that box, Nirsch. We need it today.”

  “What are you not telling me, Jerry?”

  Petterson cleared his throat and spoke slowly, in a hushed tone. “We have reason to believe that in addition to the nuclear threat, the terrorists are carrying out a plan to unleash an unknown virus on the population. It is urgent that you get
that needle to our lab for analysis. You may have the only thing we can use to fight this. Sit tight. I’m dispatching a chopper out of K-Falls to take you back. When you get there, a pilot will be standing by in an F-22 to take that box to Langley.”

  “Am I in any kind of danger here, Jerry?”

  “I don’t think so. From the intelligence we’ve gathered, we believe that it’s not an airborne contagion. It has to be transferred through physical contact and the exchange of bodily fluids. As long as you used gloves and didn’t make contact with your bare skin, you should have nothing to worry about. But just to be safe, when you get to K-Falls, you’ll need to be in isolation for at least twelve to twenty-four hours, along with the sheriff.”

  Nirsch felt his blood pressure rise. “This is crap, Jerry. Why wasn’t I informed of this before I came here?”

  “I’m sorry, Nirsch. There are only a handful of people who are aware of this. We’ve been holding our information until we’re sure what we’re dealing with.”

  Nirsch had to take a couple of deep breaths before he spoke again.

  “Who knew at the Pentagon, Jerry? We go back a long way, my friend. I want to know who knew about this before I was sent out, and I want to know now.”

  Petterson hesitated a moment then answered slowly.

  “Director Morgan is the only one who was briefed on this.”

  Nirsch immediately imagined punching Leo Morgan in the mouth, or perhaps placing a spinning back kick to the middle of his stomach. He could picture the director groveling on the floor, begging not to be hurt. Petterson brought Nirsch back to the present.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “he was told not to release this information to anyone. His hands were tied.”

  “No, it doesn’t make me feel any better. That’s the same garbage that caused me to leave the company in the first place. The left hand never knows what the right hand is doing. A lot of good men and women, patriots, have lost their lives due to that cloak and dagger crap.”

  “We can’t go back, Nirsch. I need you to forget about it and focus. There are a few things you need to do before the chopper gets there.”