by Joe Nobody
The military team spread out, a variety of instruments, cameras, and tools in their hands. There was no way Zach was going to begin processing the homicides while wearing the heavy get-up. His nerves were too frayed, his mind overwhelmed by the events of the last few days.
The first hour passed quickly, the ranger watching as the specialists swabbed, scanned, and noted every nook, cranny, and surface in the lab.
It was another 15 minutes before the captain was in front of Zach saying, “There has been a small breach, but we’ve taken samples and sterilized the area. I want to run one more check, and then I’ll declare the lab clean, and we can get out of these suits.”
“Can you tell what, if anything, is missing?” Zach asked, wanting to know what deadly substance was in the cartel’s hands and probably on its way to Mexico.
“Not yet. That will take a while. It looks like the researchers here did an excellent job of cataloging their work and inventories, so we’ll figure it out soon enough.”
“Is the public in any danger?” came the ranger’s most important question.
“Yes,” replied the officer without hesitation. “This place is full of some Class-A biotoxins … a virtual beauty pageant of the world’s deadliest nasties. It’s also evident that their work here involved some non-traditional manufacturing methods. Follow me. I want to show you something.”
The captain led Zach to a far corner where the ranger hadn’t yet ventured. The lawman was surprised to see what appeared to be a common meth lab used by criminals to manufacture crystal methamphetamine.
“Were they making crystal meth here?” Zach asked, having seen similar setups at more than one drug den.
“No. Worse. From the notes I’ve found, the team here was researching methods to manufacture large quantities of vaccines using primitive equipment commonly found in poor, developing nations. My guess is that the scientists knew crystal meth labs were a common fixture in those locales, and they were trying to turn a negative into a positive. According to the records, they succeeded.”
Zach was confused. “So that’s a good thing? Right?”
Despite the oversized helmet and Plexiglas mask, the captain’s worried expression was clear. “Most vaccines are derived from the original bug. That means you have to be able to breed huge quantities of say, Small Pox, in order to extract the cure. What you’re looking at is the poor man’s version of a bio-weapons factory.”
The ranger now understood another piece of the mystery. The cartels were probably the world’s foremost experts on producing crystal methamphetamine on a large scale. Somewhere, the ranger had read an estimate that there were over 20,000 illegal “kitchens” operating in Central America, almost the same number in the United States. If even a tiny portion of those facilities could be converted to produce some deadly bug, the world was in for a very rough rodeo.
“We both know whoever did this wasn’t just some jealous husband or petty thief. What did they take?” Zach asked, knowing he wouldn’t like the answer.
“We can’t be for sure,” replied the military expert. “As I said, it looks like the lab was keeping excellent records. We’ll have to compare what is still here versus what should be in stock. That will take someone above my pay grade to figure out.”
Zach started to rub his chin but instead bumped his hand against the helmet. “Sounds like that is a time-consuming venture, sir. So let me ask you another question. If you were one of the terrorists who managed to get in here, what would you have taken, Captain? What do you think they were after?”
“Oh, that’s easy. I would choose the pneumonic plague.It would be the easiest to manufacture and distribute. Just rent pressurized tanks and start spraying.”
Zach wanted to be sure that he’d heard the expert correctly. “Pneumonic plague? I thought it was Bubonic plague?”
“They’re cousins. From what I understand, the modified pneumonic version can infect animals and people. If I wanted to incite widespread terror and inflict as much damage as possible, I’d go for two birds with one stone of mass destruction, sir.”
A soldier appeared just then, wanting Zach’s attention. “Ranger Bass, there are two men outside requesting a report as soon as possible. One is a … Colonel Bowmark. The other is Major Putnam.”
Zach acknowledged the young trooper’s message with a nod and then returned to the captain. “I’ve got to go earn my pay. Can one of your team help me get out of this monkey suit?”
Zach’s spacesuit received a shower, chemical wash-down, and finally another shower. Then the ranger’s ears were popped and unpopped as he progressed through the two airlocks.
He exited the building and found the entire area had undergone an amazing transition in the 90 minutes he’d been inside.
There were rifle-toting soldiers rushing around, blue and red emergency lights in every direction. At least six helicopters now rested in the neighboring pasture. Two more CBRN teams were suiting up, using a massive tent that had been erected at the edge of the parking lot. An additional canvas structure was under construction. Right next to the circus tents was the Department of Public Safety mobile command center, essentially a Class-A motorhome that had been equipped with military-grade communications, video monitoring, and a gargantuan amount of computing power.
Zach found his boss talking with the colonel in front of the converted camper. There was also an Army general, as well as Dean Womack in the huddle. The ranger could tell his boss was stressed, an unlit cigar being crushed and ground by Putnam’s working jaw.
“Ranger Bass,” the major greeted as Zach approached. “Your report, please.”
Thank you for asking about my exposure to every fucking killer virus and germ on the planet, Major, Zach wanted to say. It’s always a morale booster to know your superiors are concerned for their officers’ wellbeing.
Instead, Zach reigned in his exhaustion, fear, and dread, providing a levelheaded, factual report to an attentive gathering.
“How long will it be before we are certain what substances, if any, were taken from the lab?” Colonel Bowmark asked.
“Unknown, sir.”
“Do we have any idea exactly what we’re looking for?” Major Putnam inquired. “Would it be a liquid? Crystal? Large container? Small? What can we alert law enforcement to start searching for?”
“Unknown, sir.”
The interrogation was interrupted by the appearance of a trooper who obviously had something important to report. “Sir, we have the lab’s external video surveillance system back online. The intruders destroyed the equipment used for internal monitoring, but the parking lot’s camera is an independent unit. One of the techs has routed the feed into the command center.”
The gaggle of law enforcement, military, and the sole academic shuffled inside the motorhome, gathering around a large video monitor.
The first episode of the drama showed grainy footage of two black-clad men working their way to the lab’s entrance. Zach could make out battle rifles, masks, and load vests bulging with magazines. In a flash, the two assaulters were inside the reception area.
“I’m going to fast forward three minutes,” announced the tech running the computer.
The next chapter displayed a white panel van rolling into the parking lot. Three more men exited, Vincent’s face as clear as a wanted poster. “That appears to be the same van used in the San Antonio incident,” Zach noted. “I’m certain that’s the same man who was in charge at the steakhouse.”
Again, the tech informed the gathering that he was fast-forwarding the video. “Nothing happens for two hours.”
As the recording raced forward, Zach could see the shadows change position as the sun moved across the sky. When the operator resumed normal speed, the two masked gunmen exited the door first, their weapons sweeping the parking lot. A moment later, Vincent emerged, carrying what appeared to be a laptop computer under his arm.
Bringing up the rear were the final two henchmen lugging what looked to be stain
less steel canisters, each about the size of a small fire extinguisher. After securing the containers in the back of the van, Vincent pointed toward the Jag and threw one of his henchmen what appeared to be a key fob.
No one said a word but Zach, who managed only two. “Holy shit.”
Chapter 8
The gentle motion of the houseboat’s deck was relaxing. The northern breeze was barely enough to disturb the lake’s surface, let alone motivate the 22,000-pound hull of the 40-foot vessel.
Standing at the aft rail, Vincent welcomed the brief respite as he studied the twinkling lights in the distance. Since sundown, the air was cooling quickly. The weather was perfect for their task.
At just over 66,000 acres, Amistad Reservoir was the fourth largest manmade body of water in Texas. Of the 850 miles of shoreline, well over half was on the republic’s side of the border.
The lake was the result of a joint water management treaty between Mexico and the United States, and quickly became a popular hub for fishing, water sports, and naturalists from both nations.
The double-decker houseboat was one of the dozens available for rent from the marinas that dotted the northern banks. With a full galley, the ability to comfortably sleep 12, and massive tanks storing fuel and fresh water, “Queen Ami” was a luxurious, floating condo.
Vincent’s gaze was pointed south, toward home. He could clearly see Mexico, less than four miles away across the glass-like surface of the lake. “So close, and yet so far,” he mumbled to the still night. “Soon, I will return. And I promise things will never be the same again.”
It would seem a simple chore to ignite the big gasoline powered engines below and steer the large vessel south. After all, the border here was nothing more than an imaginary line across the water.
The experienced smuggler knew better, especially since his men had mangled the Marines 40 miles to the west of the spot where Queen Ami was now anchored. The border was now closed tight. No one crossed north or south – at least not legally. Lake Amistad was no exception.
There were at least four patrol boats in the area, two of which were equipped with radar and all of them commanding massive horsepower. Long ago, after being outrun by drug runners from the south, the Texas authorities had learned to buy the fastest vessels available. Vincent was sure a minimum of one helicopter was available as a backup to the surface patrols – just in case. Tonight, however, none of that mattered.
Austin’s reaction to the massacre had been an unexpected bonus for the operation. For the first time since the secession, the cartel’s coyotes were back in business. Thousands of people, stranded at the border and growing desperate, were lining up to pay his men for an illegal crossing. If the closure continued for a few more days, the resulting revenue stream would be extremely lucrative.
The whine of a speedboat gliding across the lake drew the drug lord’s attention. Watching the vessel skim the dark water’s surface, Vincent wondered if the authorities were reinforcing their already significant waterborne presence.
The go-fast boat raced past the cove were Queen Ami was anchored, the outline low and sleek in the dim light. Blaring rock and roll music drifted across the water, competing with the roar of powerful engines as the captain headed south. A few moments later Vincent felt the deck roll gently under his feet as the passing craft’s wake spread across the surface. He reached for the rail to steady himself, unsure how long the disturbance would last – uncertain of its intensity.
The inlet, however, soon returned to a calm, placid state. It was as if the passing boat had never existed.
He wondered if the current state of affairs was similar. Was Texas the fancy, sleek speedboat that had just passed, making a lot of noise and disturbing the cartel’s safe harbor? Was the impact of secession like the wake, rocking his boat, causing a reaction, but then lasting only for a few moments? Was unleashing the contents of the two stainless steel canisters really necessary?
Despite the open waters and the safety of Mexico being in such close proximity, Vincent had no intention of attempting to run the blockade. The risk was too high, their cargo too precious. Besides, it simply wasn’t needed.
Glancing toward the bridge, he exchanged nods with the lookout and then watched as his trusted aide scanned their surroundings with a pair of thermal binoculars. “It’s clear, sir.”
A second man appeared on the deck, quickly removing a blue, plastic tarp covering a small section of the aft cockpit.
Two multi-propeller drones rested on the fiberglass deck, each looking like an oversized metal insect.
The cartels had been using the sophisticated flying robots for nearly two years, investing and experimenting as the commonly available technology improved with each passing month.
Initially, they had purchased expensive, industrial models most commonly employed by Hollywood movie studios for aerial photography. It hadn’t taken the organization long to realize that carrying a three-pound camera wasn’t any different than transporting three pounds of cocaine north – or three pounds of cash south.
While those payloads were insignificant compared to the tons and tons of marijuana moving across the border each week, the flying mules were nearly impossible to intercept. In fact, it was only the occasional malfunction that resulted in a loss of cargo. As far as Vincent was aware, not a single drone had ever been intercepted by the U.S. Border Patrol. An impressive, unequaled method of distribution.
Over the last two years, the reliability and payload improved at a frantic pace as the massive American consumer market fell in love with drones. Control software improved, GPS guidance systems became commonplace, and the flying machine’s endurance was significantly extended.
Just a few years ago, a drone that could haul five pounds of cargo over a distance of 25 miles had cost more than $10,000. Now, the same weight could be carried for less than a tenth of the cost.
Not only had the prices come down, but the capabilities of the tiny flyers had also advanced by leaps and bounds.
No longer was their flight controlled by a human manipulating tiny joysticks on a battery-powered remote. Today’s machines allowed the download of a map-based set of GPS waypoints, after which they could take off, navigate the route, and land without any human in the loop.
While most were still incapable of carrying more than 10 pounds, the cartels had found the inexpensive devices the safest method for conveying high-value cargo. Packages of cocaine and heroin were commonly flown across the border at low altitudes during the night, only to be retrieved well outside the normal operational areas of law enforcement or customs officials.
After a quick reprogramming and swap to a fresh battery, ten-pound bundles of cash would make the return flight. It was a trickle, but as secure as any method attempted so far.
Vincent grunted as he watched his assistant pre-flight check the two flying robots. The U.S. Border Patrol had been patting themselves on the back the past year, bragging to all who would listen that their war on drugs was close to victory. “We’re not seeing nearly as many shipments of hard drugs coming across these days,” one federal agent had recently boasted to a major news network. “We see this as a sign that the cartels are being weakened by our interdiction efforts.”
In reality, the reason why shipments of cocaine and other high-value contraband weren't being seized at the ports of entry was because a fleet of unmanned aircraft now shuffled that expensive freight back and forth.
“I now control more aircraft than United Airlines,” Vincent joked with his expert. “My father would be so proud of me.”
After verifying the drones were ready for their trip south, one of the drug boss’s crew crossed to the swim platform and began pulling up a thin line using a hand-over-hand motion. The two stainless canisters appeared from the depths. After a quick check of the seals, they were cleaned and dried.
Each container of deadly bacteria was carefully mounted on the undercarriage of a drone while another man punched a series of buttons on a
laptop computer.
“The course is plotted and ready, sir. The diagnostics on both machines show all systems are operational.”
“Excellent,” Vincent replied. “Launch when ready.”
The drone’s programmer reached inside his pocket and produced a pair of tiny, button-like devices, each containing a single switch. After verifying both GPS tracking units were functioning, he attached one to each canister via a powerful, rare earth magnet. If the cargo was dropped or the drone malfunctioned, they would be able to locate the precious freight.
Vincent moved to stand behind the head technician, more out of curiosity than any concern. “Launching number one,” the operator stated.
The propellers of the closest drone began spinning, quickly building into an annoying buzz. Like a rocket, the quad-copter shot straight into the air, rising 20 feet above the deck and then pausing in a steady hover.
The drug lord knew his man was performing another systems check.
The tech pulled a thick-looking set of goggles from his computer bag, tugging the bug-eyes over his face and adjusting the elastic strap. This man could now see through the drone’s camera, what Vincent’s people called, “First Person Viewing.”
The reason was simple. If the drone was about to be intercepted, the tech could take over from the autopilot and attempt to divert to another course. He could also ditch the cargo to be retrieved via the GPS homing beacon at some later time.
Sensing the boss was peeking over his shoulder, the tech punched a few keys on the laptop. Vincent could now watch the same show on the computer’s screen.
Flight #1 tilted forward and was gone in a rush, the bothersome buzzing quickly fading into the distance. A few moments later, #2 was trailing its sibling.
Each of the propeller-driven robots could reach a top speed of nearly 50 mph, but the techs didn’t push the machine’s capabilities. They never knew when a few additional miles of flight time might come in handy.