For a moment, his eyes lingered on the picture she had painted for him on their last anniversary. The landscape swirled in rich blues and greens, precisely capturing a storm on the lake. A small boat, tossing in the turbulent water, always made him ache. It spoke loneliness, heroism, and futility – much like his job. Sighing, McGrath turned to the window, observing the evacuation procedures.
The personnel were trained for emergencies. Since the base had been established, it had been likely this day would come. The stalemate couldn’t last forever. Eventually, even without George Kovalic’s assistance, an antidote would have been found. Nevertheless, the scene outside his window was chaotic. Humvees, transport trucks, and other large vehicles were being readied to ferry people, food, and equipment to the outpost. Soldiers ran back and forth, carrying boxes and crates. Satisfied with the progress, McGrath mentally ran through a check list.
The planes would drop FAEs, or Fuel Air Explosives. They would level everything on the island and burn it to ash. The ensuing blast wave would travel at the astonishing speed of two miles per second. Less than four seconds after detonation, the wave would hit the base. It would topple trees, collapse buildings, and wreak total destruction for miles.
Suddenly he panicked. The blast could accelerate the spread of the virus if it escaped into the air stream. McGrath needed to ensure Priscilla remained localized until the bombers arrived. He hurried back to the control room. On a large video display, satellite images of the island flashed. He asked his subordinate to generate a thermal picture of the plant. When the image was in focus, he swore. The exhaust from the ventilation system was clearly visible on the screen.
“Get me Commander Collins,” he ordered. The coms officer complied. When CoCo acknowledged the transmission, McGrath grabbed the transmitter.
“Commander, is your team still mobile?” he asked.
“Barely.”
“Commander, you need to get to the roof. Everything depends on it. If the virus gets into the air stream before the bombs drop, the blast wave will shove it onto the mainland. Commander, I need you to blow the roof. Every airshaft needs to be destroyed. There’s no time for precision. Use every explosive at your disposal. Do you understand what I’m saying? This is critical. It needs to be done now.”
The radio receiver was silent as CoCo digested the request. When finally his voice came through the speakers again, it was clear and calm. “Yes, Sir. We’ll do our best.”
McGrath closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. He had just ordered three men to actively participate in their own death. He swallowed hard and pressed the talk button.
“Commander, I salute you and your men. We are in your debt. Is there anyone you want me to call, anything you want to say?”
“No, Sir. Just make it count,” CoCo replied. McGrath squeezed the receiver so hard the rigid plastic dug into his skin. After several seconds, he pressed the talk button again.
“Thank you, Commander. God speed and good luck.”
CHAPTER 54
Ramirez was sleeping when the alarm sounded. The perpetual scream of the siren intruded into his dreams, forcing him awake just as an explosion rocked the building. He rolled off the cheap mattress and onto the carpeted floor of the small office to which he had been assigned. Crawling to the door, he opened it a crack. Smoke filled the dimly lit hallway and emergency lighting cast a strange light on the white walls. Gunfire volleyed in the distance, but no one was in sight.
His room was on the first floor of the main building, not far from where Mac resided. Creeping to the office where he had bid Mac goodnight, he tapped on the door and whispered, “Mac. Hey, Mac, are you in there?” There was no reply. Instead, a burst of gunfire crackled and men shouted nearby.
Training kicked in as Ramirez pushed himself flat against the wall. He wasn’t safe where he was. In a low crouch, he dashed to the end of the hallway and turned right, away from the noise. Wisps of smoke trailed above him and the siren continued to blare.
His brief tour had only included his residence, the conference room that served as a cafeteria for the drug techs, and the drug manufacturing plant. He headed in that direction. Regardless of what was happening in the main building, the mercs would avoid a firefight near the volatile drug lab. In addition, the shipping room fronted the lake. If the fire got out of control, or the fighting escalated, the water would protect him.
The hallway turned left, toward a burst of gunfire, but he did not turn around. Easing his way forward, and staying close to the wall, he prayed with each step. The conflict was straight ahead. He got lucky when another corridor opened to his right. Pressing himself flat, he peeked around the corner. No one was there. Thanking god for his good fortune, he headed toward the fire exit at the far end. Two spotlights on either side of the plastic sign illuminated the area in front of the metal door. He quickened his pace. The stairwell would take him to the lower level and, hopefully, to the processing plant. He sprinted for it and ducked inside.
Ramirez hurled himself down the concrete steps, taking them two at a time. At the bottom, he paused to listen. Two low voices echoed from somewhere above. “We’re outnumbered. Derek’s wounded. Took one in the leg. It’s pretty bad,” a breathless voice said. Then he heard a soft pop and the stairwell went dark, lit only by another exit sign on the door in front of him. Son of a bitch, he thought. Someone has a silencer. But who? The mercs didn’t use them. A gunshot was followed by another soft pop and a body tumbled down the stairs. Using the noise as cover, Ramirez spun around, opened the fire exit, and dashed through.
He recognized the room from his earlier visit. Artworks and packing materials cast hulking shadows on the cement floor. A noise in the stairwell made him start. He ducked behind a large, wooden crate just as the door opened. Two men, dressed in black and fully outfitted with military gear, came through. They had their arms around each other. One of them was injured and groaning in pain. The other braced an M4 Carbine against his hip.
Unlike the mercs, these men had knives strapped against their chests and wore their sidearms on their legs. Ramirez was sure they were US Special Forces, but he didn’t reveal his presence. They had no reason to believe he wasn’t a hostile and he had no desire to get shot. Instead, he fingered his cross, watching and listening.
“Can you make it?”
“Six flights? Not a chance. I’ll be in the way. You go.”
“Derek, I’m not leaving you here.”
“Don’t make much difference either way. We’re fucked. Go. You’re the demo guy. We need you, man. The whole world needs you right now. You’re it.”
Derek hobbled away from the door, sat down, and rested his back against a shelf piled high with packing material. Easing his rifle off his shoulder, he laid it across his lap.
“Go on, Jim. Do what you need to do. I’m counting on you,” he said, extending his hand. Jim hesitated and then shook it. Casting a rueful glance behind him, he opened the door to the stairwell and was gone.
Derek pulled a radio receiver from his ear and unhooked the transmitter from his lapel. He laid them on the floor next to him and smashed them with the butt of his rifle. The small, plastic mechanisms cracked open. Placing the rifle back across his lap, he picked up the broken pieces and inspected them. Satisfied, he dropped them and released the tourniquet on his leg. At once, blood pooled on the concrete floor.
From training, Ramirez knew how bad a gunshot wound to the leg could be. A bullet could shatter the femur, causing hemorrhage. Because the man had used a tourniquet, his wound was critical. It didn’t take long before his head dropped to his chest and his breathing slowed. As his bowels released, a foul odor filled the room. Ramirez didn’t hesitate. He eased out of his hiding place, bent over, and lifted the rifle from the man’s lap.
The silenced M4 carbine was a beautiful weapon. Ramirez had never used one, but he had read about its unique properties. The sleek, black machine was gas operated and had a telescoping stock. Unlike many assault weapons, th
is one had a 14. 5 inch barrel that made it excellent in close quarters. He checked the magazine and slung the strap over his shoulder, glad to be armed again.
Scanning the room, he oriented himself. A large rollup door was just visible past sundry art objects, packing crates, tables, and shelves. He maneuvered around them, heading for an outside exit. When another door opened on the opposite side of the room, he dropped to a crouch and pulled the weapon off his shoulder. Men approached, engaged in a loud conversation. Ramirez gasped when he recognized the voice of his commanding officer.
“That’s not good enough. Listen, Lewis. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. When we get clear, I want to be done. Get it? Done. I want to sit on a beach somewhere and drink margaritas, ” Bowen said.
“One thing at a time, Chief,” Lewis replied.
“God damn it! I want your promise. I’ve done enough.” The footsteps stopped and Lewis’ voice grew louder.
“Now you listen to me, Bowen. I’ll tell you when you’re finished and you’ll do what I say until then. I think I’ve been clear. I’m not going to repeat myself. You want out of here? You shut your mouth.”
A tall, well built mercenary accompanied them. The merc held a pistol in his hand. Ramirez ducked back down. Bowen and Lewis were trying to get away. He would not let that happen. Carefully aiming the M4 at the merc’s head, he squeezed the trigger. The rifle let loose with a savage kick. Set on full automatic fire, the power of the discharge threw Ramirez off balance and bullets sprayed the room. He let go and the weapon stilled. Smoke drifted in the air. A sculpture fell off a shelf and crashed to the floor. Then there was silence.
It shattered when a pistol round went wide. Ramirez sprinted to a heavy bench on his right and ducked behind it as another shot rang out. When nothing happened, he raised his head. The merc lay sprawled on the floor in the middle of the room, but Bowen and Lewis had vanished. Ramirez dropped to his belly, searching for a glimpse of their feet. Near the rollup door, two pairs of shoes stood still, but he didn’t have a clear shot. He swore beneath his breath and crept toward them.
An enormous crate blocked his view for a few seconds. When his line of sight was clear, the shoes were gone. Grimacing, he jumped to his feet and ran. Bowen and Lewis had disappeared through a side door. As he pulled it open, someone released a spray of bullets. He ducked back inside, pressed himself against the wall, and waited. Then, poking the muzzle of the M4 through the opening, he returned fire. This time, he was ready for the kick.
A large, warehouse-like room lay beyond the open door and he risked a look. In its center, a small, black submarine floated in greenish water. A wooden walkway led to a rough dock. An armed merc stood on the submarine’s deck, aiming a gun in his direction. Ramirez dived as the man fired. The bullets shattered the doorframe above him. Ramirez reciprocated, letting the full power of his weapon loose. The noise was deafening. Pulling himself upright, he charged, casting bullets in a wide arc. The merc went down. While Ramirez searched the dusky bay for signs of Bowen and Lewis, another merc popped out of the hatch.
Ramirez aimed and fired. Then a sharp pain in his lower leg caused him to stagger. He had been hit. Stumbling backward, he pressed himself against an iron girder that supported the metal roof. Ignoring the wound, he pointed the M4 in the direction the bullet had come from, pulled the trigger, and waited. When he looked again, Lewis was handing objects to someone inside the hatch. Bowen was on the dock behind him. The craft was submerging. The merc fired again and Ramirez darted behind the girder, wincing as the rounds dinged against the metal.
Lewis and the chief were getting away. Ramirez stepped out in full view. Lewis was inside the sub. The merc extended a hand to Bowen. Ramirez fired. The merc fell backward and disappeared into the murky water. Bowen discharged his pistol, but the bullets missed. Ramirez didn’t hesitate. He released his weapon on his former commander. As the bullets riddled Bowen’s body, Ramirez made a dash for the sub. The hatch was still open and Lewis had to be stopped.
As he lunged forward, a huge explosion shook the dock. Ramirez caught a glimpse of flaming debris falling through the air before the blast sent him flying onto the deck of the rapidly sinking submarine. He screamed on impact and a wave of pain washed through him. His leg was impaled on an antenna. As he struggled to get free, the sub fully submerged, pulling him into the icy water.
CHAPTER 55
As fast as they had started, they came to an abrupt halt. “What’s going on?” Ashley asked. Bill shushed her. In his ear, the radio buzzed.
“Trouble, big trouble,” he replied, seconds later. Malone pulled a map from his pack and spread it open against the wall of the pipe. Don held a light on it while Malone traced a series of lines with his finger.
“Here,” Don said, pointing.
“Speed’s more important than discretion,” Malone agreed.
Heavily laden packs splashed into the slimy liquid at the bottom of the sewer pipe. The team reorganized their gear, clipping various items to their belts.
“What are you doing?” Ashley asked.
“Dropping everything we don’t need and getting ready to run,” Bill explained.
“What do you mean? Run where?”
“We’ve been ordered to evacuate. They’re going to blow the island. We’ve got to get off before the bombers get here.”
When he finished organizing his gear, he met her eyes. “You’re going to have to keep up. We won’t wait for you,” he said. Suddenly, Ashley understood. She blanched, casting a glance at Mac. He had also been paying attention and his ruddy face was pale. They were of no more use and the team would abandon them. Ashley ripped off her outerwear, stripping down to essentials as she readied herself for what lay ahead.
Unencumbered, it took less than a minute for the team to get back to the manhole cover and scramble up the ladder rungs. Under a bright moon, they dashed down the center of the street, unconcerned with detection. After a few blocks, they dropped into the concrete spillway that ran north to south across the length of the city. On its sandy bottom, the men settled into a fast jog, their long legs moving in well coordinated rhythm.
Ashley’s lungs burned and her legs screamed as she pushed herself to keep up with the team. In spite of her efforts, they pulled ahead, widening the gap between them. Mac trailed even further behind. Looking back, she saw him slowing. With an arm clutched to his side, he waved her forward. She tucked her chin and lengthened her stride, but would she be able to keep going? Visualizing the map in her head, she estimated a few miles to go before they reached the boat. She wiped her nose and concentrated on her footsteps, heaving as she mentally counted. One, two, three, FOUR. One, two, three, FOUR. Eventually, however, the counting lost its effectiveness.
Ignoring her dry mouth and the cramp in her side, she kept going. Mac had fallen so far behind she couldn’t hear his breathing anymore. The soft sand underneath her feet was slippery and the night air did nothing to cool her heavily perspiring body. The SEALs didn’t appear to be suffering at all and they hadn’t bothered to check on her. Their disregard added insult to injury.
The image of the dead watcher floated in front of her eyes. The SEALs hadn’t even tried to talk to him. They’d just shot him, dumped his body, and moved on without giving him a second thought. Ashley didn’t care for watchers, or anyone in the NSO, but they weren’t all bad. Like the cell, most of them only did what they needed to survive.
It had been foolish to run off and leave them. If she hadn’t gone back, she wouldn’t be here now. Her efforts had been for naught. Jeremy would have died anyway. Why did she think she could save him? She pictured his lean muscles and the deep black of his eyes.
Jeremy. The word stretched, becoming a new pattern for her feet. Jer em y. Jer em y. She held his face before her, ignoring the pain. She couldn’t let him down now. If his spirit was out there somewhere, it would never forgive her for quitting.
Ashley ran and ran. As she found her rhythm, she let every other thought drift
away. Mac didn’t matter. The SEALs didn’t matter. Her only thought was for the man she loved. Past the crumbling buildings, under the wires that crisscrossed and sagged over the spillway, and around the occasional obstacles in her path – a discarded tire, an old refrigerator, and an abandoned car tilted on its side – she saw only his face.
Focused on her mantra, she didn’t notice the SEALs had slowed to a stop. When she caught up, they were scrambling up the side of the spillway. She followed, bloodying her hands on the rough concrete when she stumbled, but she didn’t stop moving. She would not be left behind.
At street level, Malone paused to get his bearings. When he ran again, the SEALs fell in line and Ashley joined them. They jogged several blocks before turning south. At the end of a street, the men hopped an embankment and ran the last few steps to the lakeshore. Ashley followed them down and bent over, panting. Bill patted her back. “Pretty impressive,” he said, before moving to assist the rest of the team. They pulled camouflage netting off a bulky object near a crumbling dock. Underneath was a fully inflated Zodiac FC 470 boat.
The men grabbed the handles on each side of the craft, set it in the water, and climbed inside. Ignoring the bite of cold, Ashley followed them, struggling for purchase on the boat’s slick skin, but her hands kept slipping. Bill reached out and lifted her over the bow. Don fired the motor and pushed the 55 horsepower engine to full throttle.
As they sped across the smooth surface of the lake, Ashley’s breathing returned to normal, though her lungs still burned and her legs were jelly. She shivered in the wind. Bill wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I’m proud of you, kid. Didn’t think you’d make it,” he yelled above the roar of the engine. Ashley didn’t reply.
Pipe Dreams Page 28