“Just a little storm, Dr. Breda,” a lilting female voice laughed from the corner of the lab. Lisha glanced over to where Assa, her young, redheaded lab assistant, worked away on the spectrograph, one ear sporting a compact Bluetooth set that no doubt pumped non-stop techno music.
“Little storm to you maybe,” Lisha grumbled and popped another anti-nausea pill before turning back to her computer. “Crazy Scottish bitch.”
“Crazy Irish bitch!” Assa reminded her. Of course, Lisha knew where she was from; it was part of their banter. “The sequencer finished its run.”
“Thanks,” she replied and checked the computer. Once she’d returned from New Mexico, she’d turned over the samples of the unusual fox to another team and had gone back to work on The Project. The first results from the fox’s bio-genetic workups had just come onto her large plasma display, and they made her lean in closer. “What the hell?” she mumbled as she looked at the genetic sequencing.
“Problem, Boss?”
“The protein sequences are all messed up.” Assa was there in a moment, looking over her shoulder. The small girl pushed her mop of red hair back over one shoulder as she read the data and nodded. “Polluted is all I can think.”
“Look at this,” Assa said and pointed over Lisha’s shoulder, “and this.”
“I know; it’s very unusual.” Lisha sighed and leaned back, scratching her chin unconsciously. It would take days to order another sample prepared and run. And budget constraints were already tight enough on The Project. After the exposé last month, a lot of their Euro funding had dried up. A new super race, indeed. Idiots. She was about to order the sample when her phone rang. Assa went back to her work, and Lisha picked up the receiver. As her luck (or lack thereof) would have it, it was one of the directors calling from San Diego.
An hour later, she hung up, her ear sore from holding the handset while he complained about her leaving the site and how far behind schedule they were.
“There is no such thing as a schedule for what we are doing,” she tried to remind the annoyed idealist, who proceeded to soldier on with his complaints, regardless of what she said. In the end, Lisha sat and endured the verbal assault assuring the director they would continue to make progress as quickly as possible. She also tossed in that the trip to New Mexico would garner some positive press from the university department she’d visited. She didn’t think he was convinced, but he was eventually placated, and she was allowed to get back to work.
It was two hours past dinner when one of the scientists came in and asked her what she wanted to do with the fox samples. “Do you have the samples I saw earlier? Sorry, I forget your name?”
“Grant Porter,” he said with a shrug. “Here are those samples. I was going to toss them in the burner before cutting out for the day.”
“Can I see them?” She followed him back to the prep area of the lab, and he removed three glass slides from a container marked with red tape and the word “contaminated.” She put on a pair of nitrile gloves and examined them. The microscopically-thin slice of animal flesh was visible. Worse…it was green. “You using a new dye?”
Grant glanced at the supply shelf then shook his head. “Nope, same stuff for years.”
“Then why is the sample green?”
The man opened his mouth to comment, then shut it and cocked his head, “You know, I really don’t know!” He picked up one of the other two samples; it had a similar ghastly green hue. “All I can guess is there was some sort of a reaction to the reagents.”
“But why not those samples?” Lisha asked and gestured to another rack of slides on a nearby counter. They all had the normal bluish tint.
“I’ll run some tests and see what I can figure out.”
Lisha nodded and returned to her work. Grant picked up one of the green sample slides and eyed it suspiciously. He reached for another sample without looking and suddenly jerked back his hand with a hiss. He’d caught the corner of the slide and wasn’t wearing his nitrile gloves outside of the lab. “Damn it,” he said, squeezing a drop of blood from the nick. He grabbed a bottle of hand sanitizer off the shelf and spread a liberal amount of it on the wound, ignoring the flash of burning pain from the alcohol-based goo. Wiping it clean on a paper towel, he tossed it in the flash burner and headed back to his lab, the incident forgotten.
* * *
Lisha didn’t know why she got up in the middle of the night. She’d worked 14 hours in the lab crunching genome numbers and running simulations. The last thing she needed was to be up at three a.m., staring at her dimly-lit compartment roof, wondering why she was awake.
“Might as well go to the bathroom,” she mumbled to the darkness. A minute later, she had her robe wrapped around her and was stumbling out into the corridor, trying to remember if the head was to the left or the right.
A muffled cry rang out from her left. Lisha rubbed her eyes and looked that way. “What the hell?” She heard another cry, but this one was quieter and followed by a thump, like someone had punched the wall. Was someone having late sex with a coworker? The married quarters were one deck down, but it wasn’t unheard of for the younger staff to “hook up” as they called it. Such fraternization was against the official policy, but it happened nonetheless. She remembered the bathroom was the other way.
Lisha turned toward the bathroom just as a door opened in the direction of the sound. She glanced over her shoulder. The hallway was dimly lit as the rig went to power-saving mode each night at eleven o’clock. The figure that stood there seemed familiar. She tried to remember his name.
“Up late?” she asked. He seemed to sway slightly, his eyes glowing as they locked onto her. “You okay, Grant?” She finally recalled his name.
“Gnaaaah,” came the guttural reply. The man took a halting step, and Lisha was horrified. It was Grant Porter all right, only he wasn’t the same man. Bright red blood covered the front of his T-shirt and his lips were pulled back in a rictus of animalistic rage. She had no doubt she was the target of that rage.
“Oh God,” she cried out, and the man began to shamble toward her. Lisha ran and instantly tripped over her robe, sprawling painfully on the floor. The door to her right opened, and one of the German scientists stepped out.
“Dr. Breda?” he asked, rubbing his eyes, “are you okay?” Grant Porter launched himself at the man with a primal scream that made Lisha cover her ears and moan.
“Gott im himmel!” the man screamed as Grant bore him to the ground with his weight. “Was machst du, ahhrgh!” His complaint was cut off as teeth tore into his throat, fountaining blood in a crimson arc along the walls, almost to the ceiling.
“Noooo,” Lisha moaned, “this isn’t happening!”
Grant stood up unsteadily, leaving his victim on the floor. The hapless man lay on his back, hands grasping at his ravaged throat, gurgling as blood spurted between his fingers in ever slower pulses, his thrashing slowing. Lisha crawled backward on her hands and feet like a crab and began to scream. All along the hall, doors opened. The technician chewed a bloody mouthful of flesh and swallowed as he surveyed the stunned faces. With a snap of his jaws and a snarl, he attacked.
* * * * *
Chapter 5
Friday, April 13
Jeremiah Osborne read the email one more time, then sighed and sat back in his chair. He ran a hand through his fading dark hair and sighed again. What could he do? His options had become increasingly limited as months went by without a launch. He looked out the window of his San Diego office and cursed at the sight. The 220-foot converted freighter rested near a small flotilla of other vessels and equipment, a self-contained orbital launch complex only needing to be towed into place and properly anchored before beginning operations. The problem was he couldn’t get a permit.
For his launch system to work, he had to be within service range of the coast—no more than 100 miles away. The American environmentalists—afraid his rockets would kill fish or something—had gotten an injunction against him
, so he’d moved from the sweet spot of 10 miles away to 50, outside of U.S. control. Then they’d gone to the UN committee in charge of maritime regulation and succeeded there as well. In short, he was fucked.
One computer file listed a considerable number of clients, all ready to pay, and pay well, for him to launch their satellites. For 20 years he’d sunk every dollar of his considerable inheritance, all the venture capital he could lay hands on, loans, and even Internet money into his innovative launch system.
His system was a revolutionary and largely reusable Single Stage to Orbit, or SSTO. He’d even developed a design that used drop tanks to allow for a higher orbit, that could perhaps reach Earth’s escape velocity and go to the Moon or Mars.
He reached down into the right-side drawer of his desk, a grey behemoth he’d gotten from military surplus, pulled out a bottle of Sailor Jerry’s, and poured himself two fingers, adding a splash of Coca-Cola. Most evenings it was half a glass of Coke with a few drops of rum. “Why bother?” he growled and held the glass up. “To Oceanic Orbital Enterprises,” he said, downing the concoction. “Gah,” he coughed and put the glass back on the desk. “May it rest in peace.” He was about to pour another when the phone chirped.
“Jeremiah,” he said into the speaker.
“I didn’t think you’d be there,” said a voice with a distinctive Southern accent. Theodore Alphonse Bennitti III was one of the most unusual people Jeremiah knew. He looked like Steve Buscemi, sounded like Slim Pickens, and had an IQ approaching 170. He went by Al.
“Figured I’d be out drowning myself, Al?”
“Don’t be an ass, Jeremiah. We’ve been through setbacks a lot worse than this when you were still with NASA.”
“I left, and they made you Director of Colonization. I’m not sure which one of us is wasting our time more.”
“You crack me up, son.” Al laughed from Houston, Texas.
“What do you want, Al? I’m trying to get drunk.”
“Before you climb into that bottle, I want to let you in on something.” Jeremiah put the glass down, leaned closer to the speaker, and said he was listening. “That meteor storm back on March 31st may have been more than meteors.”
Al explained that, of the 70 meteors tracked over 12 hours, three displayed non-ballistic characteristics. They had observed this in the past, and often attributed it to outgassing, but they had never seen that many in the same storm. NASA had had scientists out looking for the meteors ever since the incident. “We found three attributed to the incident—all normal rocks—but we lost one scientist.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Geologist named Taylor…Ken Taylor. Been with the agency for about 20 years. He was searching the hill country of Texas around Big Bend.”
“Went camping there a few times back when I was at Houston. Is he lost?”
“According to a ranger, they were attacked by a pig.”
“Sorry, did you say pig?”
“You heard me right. Some big pig attacked their Jeep, and bit Taylor on the nose. It apparently got infected real fast, so the ranger left to get help. When she returned he was gone. They’re still searching, but one witness swears they saw him swimming across the Rio Grande the evening he disappeared.”
“Holy shit!”
“Weird, right?” Jeremiah heard the sound of keys tapping in Houston for a moment. “We could use your help.”
“I wouldn’t know how to find a lost geologist if my life depended on it.”
“I’ve seen your desk, son. I’d have to agree.” Jeremiah snorted. Blueprints, letters, books, and empty food containers currently covered his desk. “That said, I also know you have a recovery team in place in case a launch goes wrong.”
“Little chance of that since we can’t launch.”
“Quit feelin’ sorry for yerself and listen. That team uses drones and magnetometers, right?” Jeremiah agreed. “We’d like you to pick up the meteor search for us in the hill country. At least we can hire your team out as subcontractors.”
Jeremiah thought it over for a second and shrugged. “Okay, sure. Send me the details.”
* * * * *
Chapter 6
Saturday, April 14
Lieutenant Andrew Tobin squinted against the harsh afternoon light of Riyadh Air Base, Saudi Arabia. The temperature was hovering around 100, a harsh blast after the cool interior of the C-17 transport for the last 17 hours. He’d been lucky enough to catch a nonstop out of Fort Hood, which had refueled over the Atlantic Ocean. It made for a quicker transit time, but also a grueling trip in the notoriously uncomfortable seats of the C-17 Globemaster.
The military had configured the plane for troops and cargo, and the interior was so noisy at 35,000 feet that most of the passengers stuck in earbuds and tried to zone out. As soon as they hit the runway and began taxiing toward the huge military hangars, the soldiers were on their feet and gathering their gear, despite regulations to the contrary. Andrew went right along with them, if a bit slower. After sitting for so long, his stump felt like ground beef.
As the ramp of the plane lowered, hot air flooded through the fuselage like a blast furnace. Many of the soldiers wore BDUs, combat armor, and were shouldering huge packs complete with M-4 rifles. Even in his Air Force BDUs, he felt sweat burst out under his arms and start to drip down his back. How the hell the Army boys tolerated it, he had no idea.
Andrew shouldered his duffel after most of the others had filed down the ramp to the lower deck, and he followed them out. Below, loadmasters were swarming over the six Humvees on the cargo deck. He nodded to the airman in charge and headed outside into the full heat.
He lost a half hour finding a ride to the airbase headquarters, then sat outside his CO’s office for another hour waiting to meet his new boss. When the squadron’s commanding colonel waved him in, he was still on a conference call. Andrew did his best not to listen, and failed.
“…the over-flights are still pending authorization, Rick,” a voice from the phone said.
“I understand that contingency,” Andrew’s new CO replied as he nodded the pilot into a waiting chair. The desk was tidy and had a name plaque that read “Col. Richard ‘Tight End’ Sommers.” “We need additional details on the nature of the disturbance, and those flights can provide it, Ted.”
“I’ll see if we can push the SecDef on this, Rick, but the POTUS is reluctant.”
“He’s reluctant to do anything except play golf. Get back to me,” he said and pushed the button to end the call. “Lieutenant Tobin, good to have you aboard.”
“Thank you, Colonel Sommers,” Andrew said. “Sounds like something’s heating up over here. Iran?”
“No, actually, this is a lot closer to home.” Andrew raised an eyebrow. The colonel glanced over Andrew’s shoulder to be sure no one was in the hallway before continuing. “There may be an armed coup underway in Mexico as we speak.”
“No shit?! I mean, really? Sorry, sir.”
“No shit, indeed. Official communication channels with Washington fell silent 48 hours ago, and at the same time, Mexican air traffic control began refusing entrance to their country to all but a few of the western and eastern resort destinations—Puerto Vallarta, Mazatlán, and a few others.”
Andrew absorbed it all in stunned silence. Mexico had suffered from internal corruption and drug wars for years, but no one ever thought the country would succumb to internal conflict. It was widely considered one of the strongest democracies in the hemisphere, behind the USA and Canada.
“We’ve seen some reports from people coming out of Mexico via ground transportation,” the colonel continued, “and those reports talk about crazy gun battles in more than a few of the larger cities, and government compounds on lock down. An hour before you landed, they closed the Brownsville and El Paso border crossings.” Andrew’s eyes got even bigger. “And there are troops arriving in Tijuana.”
“Sounds like things are spiraling out of control.”
“That’s e
xactly what the boys in intel said to the President in a briefing this morning. Problem is, he doesn’t agree; he says it’s just a hiccup down there. We tried asking if he had some diplomatic contacts we’re not aware of, but the President’s staff are playing it close to the cuff. We requested permission to do reconnaissance over-flights. It’s being considered.”
Andrew nodded in understanding. It wasn’t by accident the colonel allowed him to listen in on the conference call after all. He knew what was coming next. “Have you flown with a Litening pod?” the colonel asked.
“Yes sir, I have, but it’s been a while.” He’d carried the pod—a high-resolution, forward-looking infrared (FLIR) sensor combined with a charge-coupled device (CCD) camera—on some of his F-15 missions. He’d used it fairly frequently…but that had been years ago.
“We are not being given the go-ahead for a flyover of Mexico from stateside.” He glanced at a file on his desk and shook his head. “It’s a shame to put you to work so soon after landing here, Andrew, but we have an F-15 with a Litening pod on it and…let’s just say we need to rotate it back to the States. For in-depth maintenance, you know? We need to run it through Sao Paulo so a specialist there can look at it, then up to Ft. Hood for final routing. You up for a long run after a little sleep?”
“No problem,” Andrew nodded and smiled. “Anything you want, sir.”
“Good, get some sleep. Your orders will be waiting. You’ve got pre-flight in six hours.”
* * *
Vance pecked away on his ancient computer, typing with his aging index fingers at a plodding but steady pace. He spent more than a few hours every day blogging and updating Facebook, his preferred combat venue in the patriot movement. With thousands of followers on his Facebook page and thousands more on the blog he ran on Wordsmith, whenever Vance posted, more than twenty thousand people read his words from reposts and shares. He had never gotten the hang of the Twitterverse as Ann called it. In truth, he really didn’t have the time to be a twit. Or whatever they called it.
Turning Point (Book 1): A Time To Die Page 4