“You need to alert Fiedler as to what’s going down,” Ellenshaw continued. “This will be a very public display of the Containment Team, and we all know how hard it will be to cover things up with the local authorities. And this is Los Angeles—you can’t throw a rock without hitting a news helicopter or remote unit. Washington needs to give you the final go-ahead.”
“We have the green light, Robert. At this point, we just report back to them when we’re done.”
Ellenshaw persisted. “Osric is playing a much more complex game than we’re used to. He’s hiding amongst our own population and using our fear of publicity against us—”
“Who’s this ‘us’ you’re talking about?” Acheson demanded. “The last time I checked, you weren’t with ‘us,’ you were on your own.”
Ellenshaw’s lips compressed into a tight line. He glared at Acheson. For a moment Acheson thought the older man was going to try and make something out of it, but it didn’t happen. Typical Ellenshaw; his blood never ran hot, always cold.
“The way I see it, Fiedler and the rest of the Beltway crowd wouldn’t want us to diddle around worrying about things like public relations when there’s a full-on infestation happening right next to a hospital,” Acheson continued. “I think they’d probably have a bigger problem with vamps running around loose, tearing up a bunch of people during their first feeding frenzy, don’t you?”
“I realize I’m only here as a consultant, Mark, but the team might need additional support in the field this time. Only Fiedler can line that up for us—”
Acheson pointed up at the sky over Ellenshaw’s shoulder, where the anti-collision lights of the MH-60 winked. Rotorbeats thrummed in the near distance above the whine of jet engines.
“He already has,” Acheson said. “And here it is. But I’ll tell you what, Robert—you want to call him, be my guest. You want to stay here at the Plant, that’s fine by me, too.” Acheson walked past him, heading toward the rest of the team as they gathered up their duffel bags.
“Y’see, the rest of us didn’t quit,” Acheson finished as the helicopter descended toward the parking lot. The rotorwash hit them all with near-hurricane force winds, and Ellenshaw couldn’t respond to the jibe if he’d wanted to.
***
“Man, I’m lovin’ all this overtime,” Patrick Johnson crowed to himself as he pushed the gurney down the hallway. “Money, money, money.” He looked down at body bag. “Sorry it comes at your expense though, miss.”
At twenty-five years of age, Patrick was a happy camper. He worked as a forensic services assistant, which meant he spent a lot of time in the basement of the L.A. County Coroner’s office, working on the service floor. His actual job involved transporting bodies to and from the refrigerated crypt where they were stored, both before and after an autopsy or other processing. Technically he was part of the Decedent Services Unit, but that hadn’t stopped him from assisting—or at least observing—the occasional autopsy as well. It was interesting work, and while it didn’t pay well and the place smelled pretty awful, a guy could get used to all sorts of things.
And the OT was a good thing, too. Patrick had just landed a date with LaWanda Brackett, who lived in the same apartment building he did. Patrick was hoping to make an impression, and making an impression in L.A. meant dishing out some serious coin. Patrick’s hope was that he would spend enough to get him in a boot-knocking position come Friday. It was all in God’s hands, as his mother had ceaselessly reminded him during his carefree childhood years, but a little extra flash cash didn’t hurt. And if he was lucky, Patrick might have some left over to tide him through the week after.
With visions of LaWanda’s mouth-watering posterior dancing through his head, Patrick whistled a happy tune as he pushed the gurney down the hall and into the big walk-in refrigerator. Inside the crypt was a wall rack consisting of dozens of cold, stainless steel cubbies, much like one might expect to find in a nursery school. But there were no toys or other joyous artifacts to be found here, only bodies, wrapped in plastic shrouds. Sometimes parts of bodies. When Patrick first started working there several months ago, he found the crypt a creepy place. Not as gross and overpowering as the actual autopsy room, but creepy in that here the dead slept in a way that most people never thought about. When someone died—no matter what the cause—there was more to it than being alive one moment and being tossed into a coffin the next. One of the layovers on the journey to the grave was the crypt. Because otherwise they’d rot, and then they’d really stink like hell. And no one wanted that.
But crypt no longer creeped him out any more than repeated viewings of a movie like Halloween. For him, there was no longer anything unexpected about the crypt. It was merely cold and relatively well lit, and it smelled a little funny. Sometimes it smelled worse than others, but that was the only real variation, and he had come to expect it. Patrick stopped the gurney beside the cubby that had been allocated for one deegan, ursula d. and unceremoniously tossed the plastic bag containing the body into the space. The corpse’s head banged into the side of the crypt, but Patrick paid it no mind. There was no need for finesse. The woman was dead and gone, and a post-mortem headache wasn’t likely to be a big event for her.
Still whistling, Patrick grabbed the gurney and towed it along behind him. He was convinced LaWanda’s big booty was the kind that would shake like Jell-O beneath his tender ministrations, and all Patrick could think about now was riding that first wave in. He stepped out of the giant refrigerator and slammed the heavy door shut behind him, his thoughts centered on the carnal pleasures he would deliver unto LaWanda. Without a doubt it would be a night of a thousand and one screams.
He never once noticed that one of the plastic-wrapped forms next to deegan, ursula d. was beginning to shudder, and that the plastic shroud covering it was slowly being clawed open.
8
Even with foam hearing protectors and headsets, it was loud as hell inside the MH-60. Strapped to the long, hard bench seat that ran the width of the aircraft, Acheson noticed the Night Stalkers had forgone wearing their night vision goggles. It made sense. The lights of Los Angeles provided more than enough illumination to fly by.
“Mr. Acheson, we’ll be at the DZ in about eight minutes,” the pilot-in-command said. He’d introduced himself as Zaslow, the man Acheson had spoken with earlier to arrange the flight.
Acheson pressed the push-to-talk button on his headset’s cable. “Roger that, chief. There’s a full landing pad at the hospital, but there’s a parking lot closer to our target. Can you land there?”
“So long as there aren’t any obstructions,” Zaslow replied. The pilot spoke without looking back, and Acheson realized he had no idea what the man looked like. Maybe that was for the best. As he and his copilot flew, they turned their heads from left to right, scanning the horizon for other aircraft and any obstructions. Even though they were over a large American metropolis, the Night Stalkers flew like they were transporting Special Forces grunts through hostile airspace. Thundering along at 200 feet, the MH-60 ran lower than any other aircraft in the sky, even the police helicopters. Aside from a lack of night vision goggles, the only other difference between this and a “real world” combat insertion was the fact that the aircraft’s two M134 miniguns had been stowed. The crew chief and door gunner sat on either side of the helicopter right behind the pilots, and each man leaned out his respective gunnery door, exposing his torso to the rotor wash as he kept “eyes out”, as it was called. Acheson had worked with the troops of the 160th SOAR before. He was pleased to see they still retained the professionalism they were renowned for, even on a relative milk run such as this.
There was movement to his left. Acheson looked over as Claudia released her restraints and leaned out the open troop door. She removed her headset and spasmed. Chiho, seated beside her, reached out and held onto her. Cecil nudged Acheson.
“Looks like Claud’s a bit airsick,” he said over the intercom. The crewman on the left side of the heli
copter ducked back inside. He wore a long tether connected to his harness that allowed for more mobility, and he leaned toward Claudia and Chiho.
“She can puke all she wants to, but she can’t remove her harness,” the man said to no one in particular, pushing Claudia upright in her seat. “Lean out, but keep the harness on, ma’am!”
Claudia rewarded him for his meticulous concern by vomiting all over his boots. The soldier swore and retreated to his position. Acheson’s nose wrinkled when he caught the scent of bile, but so much turbulent air passed through the troop area that it lingered only for an instant. Claudia clutched her knees to her chest. She shuddered again, but held it back.
“I don’t believe she just upchucked all over me,” the disgusted soldier said as he pushed his head and shoulders through the open gunnery door.
“Hey, Mr. Zaslow, this bird got a name? If it don’t, I’d like to recommend Vomit Comet,” Cecil said with a chuckle.
“We’ve got a job to do, so if you don’t mind, don’t bother us unless it’s important,” Zaslow said. “And by ‘important’ I mean if a fire breaks out.”
Cecil laughed again, making sure he’d depressed his push-to-talk button so the aircrew could hear him. Acheson motioned for him to knock it off.
Ahead loomed Interstate 5, a glowing python filled with slow-moving headlights and brake lights. Beyond that rose downtown L.A.. Acheson saw their office tower, its regal crown fully illuminated. Traffic helicopters and other small aircraft flitted about. They did not appear to notice the bigger helicopter hurtling through the deepening night at over 160 miles an hour. The Black Hawk drifted into a left turn.
“We’ll orbit above the medical center campus, Mr. Acheson,” Zaslow said. “It’ll be a hard right bank. You call out when you see the parking lot.”
“Roger that,” Acheson said.
The Black Hawk recovered from its left turn and flew straight and level for a moment before banking hard to the right. As the buildings of the USC Medical Center slid into view, Acheson leaned over Cecil to see as much as he could. The helicopter orbited over the I-5, giving him a clear view of the coroner building.
“Parking lot’s at thirty degrees,” Acheson reported.
“Roger. We’ve got some cars and light posts there, and we’d damage property if we try to squeeze in. What about that parking garage right next door? We can hover over one corner while you guys bail out.”
Acheson considered it. The parking garage Zaslow spoke of was much closer to the coroner’s office than the hospital landing pad, which was a city block away. It would be easier, especially when lugging their gear along.
“Sounds good to me, chief, as long as you think it’s safe.”
“Roger. We’ll make one more orbit, then I’ll drop us in. The tail of the aircraft will be hanging off the edge, and I’ll have to keep us between lampposts. I want your people to exit through both doors and run away from the aircraft. We’ll have to pull out at max power, so watch out for debris.”
“Understood.” Acheson looked around the darkened troop compartment. “Everyone got that? When we get the word, unstrap your harnesses and hit the door. Run straight out from the helicopter and crouch down. Keep running until the helicopter pulls away.”
Everyone acknowledged the instructions. The MH-60 went through another orbit, slowing as it approached the parking garage. The helicopter descended and shuddered as it passed through its own rotorwash.
“Clear left,” said the crewman on the left side of the aircraft.
“Clear right, watch the poles,” advised his counterpart on the right.
“Everyone out,” Zaslow said as he transitioned the helicopter into a stable hover and kept an eye on the long refueling boom that protruded from its nose. “Remember to remove your headsets!”
The two crewmen pulled back inside the aircraft and assisted the team with removing their harnesses and headsets. Acheson followed Cecil as he scrambled for the exit and leaped out, pulling his heavy black duffel bag with him. Acheson joined him, then turned and assisted Sharon as she followed him, with Rick right behind. Crouching against the violent rotorwash that tore at their clothes and bags, deafened by the booming rotors and the wailing engines, they distanced themselves as quickly as possible from the hovering Black Hawk.
“Hoo boy!” Cecil shouted when they were clear. “Ain’t done nuthin’ like that in a long time!”
Rotors thundering, the helicopter lifted straight up. Once above the lampposts that illuminated the parking lot, it nosed down and accelerated away.
Acheson pulled his radio headset from his pocket and inserted the earpiece in his right ear. He flipped over to the frequency reserved for the Night Stalkers.
“SHADOW, this is Two-Six.”
“Two-Six, this is SHADOW, over,” Zaslow replied immediately.
“SHADOW, Two-Six. How long can you loiter? Over.”
“Two-Six, this is SHADOW. We’re good for about two hours plus. Uh, Two-Six, looks like you’ve got some sort of security team approaching your position in a small white pickup truck with flashing amber lights, over.”
“Roger that, SHADOW. Two-Six, out.” Acheson looked across the parking lot as he switched frequencies and watched Chiho and Ellenshaw help Claudia get squared away. Julia was straightening out their gear. All wore sidearms hidden beneath their clothes, but their tactical weapons—MP-5s and shotguns—remained in the black duffel bags.
“TOC, this is Two-Six, over.”
There was a brief pause before Jerry Licht’s voice came back over the headset. “Two-Six, this is TOC, over.”
“TOC, Two-Six. What’s your pos?” Acheson picked up his duffel bag and trotted toward Chiho’s team. Cecil, Sharon, and Rick stayed close behind.
“Two-Six, we’re just past the 710 interchange. We’re at least twenty-five minutes out, over.” Licht was riding in a converted Ford van that served as the team’s urban Tactical Operations Center, probably inching down the freeway toward Los Angeles. There were four people in the van, and they’d left ten minutes before the Black Hawk picked up the team. They had a designated holding area at the corner of Marengo and Zonal, across the medical campus from the coroner’s building.
“Roger that. We’re going to have to move before you get into position, but we’ll do our best to keep you informed. Two-Six, out.” Acheson looked over his shoulder as a white Chevy S10 pickup truck with flashing amber lights crested the ramp that led to the garage’s lower levels.
Acheson and Cecil angled toward the truck. The vehicle stopped and two men stepped out. They wore white uniform shirts and dark slacks, and were armed with pistols. The legend on the truck’s driver-side door read USC MEDICAL CENTER SECURITY.
“What’s going on?” asked the driver, a paunchy man with a shaved head that was beaded with sweat despite the chill in the air. His nervous eyes darted from Acheson to Cecil and back again. His partner, a lanky Latino with razor stubble and a chronic sneer, didn’t seem as nervous as his white companion.
“Homeland Security,” Acheson said. “This is federal business. Get back in your vehicle.”
“What business is that?” the guard asked suspiciously. His hand danced toward the pistol on his belt. His partner kept the truck between him and the team.
Cecil flashed his ID. “Homeland Security,” he emphasized. “And if you don’t believe that, you might wanna ask yourself how many people arrive by military helicopter.” He nodded toward the sky, and the man turned. Shadow Flight was in the distance, orbiting at 150 feet. “Go back to your bidness, and leave us alone.”
“I gotta call this in,” the guard said.
“Call whoever you want,” Acheson snapped. He marched toward the stairway door, and the others followed.
“Wait!” the guard called after them.
“Get back in your vehicle,” Cecil said in his best Samuel L. Jackson voice. “Don’t interfere, man. This is way above your head. Call whoever you want to call, then sit in your truck and keep your pal
company.” He looked across the truck’s roof at the Latino. “You boys understand me?”
The Latino held his hands out from his sides, well away from his pistol. “No problem.”
The team hurried to ground level. Acheson was first out, shouldering open the steel door as he stepped into a smaller parking lot. Signs marked every parking space there as RESERVED. The coroner’s building was nearby. Most of its windows were dark. Acheson checked his watch. It was after 7:00 p.m.
A lanky black kid was on his way out when Acheson made it to the door. Acheson grabbed the handle before the door could close.
“Can I help you?” the kid asked with a frown. Acheson made him to be about twenty-three, maybe an intern or an assistant. As he spoke, the young man glanced back at the rest of the team as they charged toward the door. His frown deepened, and Acheson reckoned it wasn’t every day a group of folks packing assault weaponry closed in on his place of work.
“Homeland Security,” Acheson said while making no move to show his ID. “You’ve got some bodies in the cooler that were tapped in Hawthorne. We need to get to them.”
“Uh…look, man, you can’t just walk in there. You need a security card to get in through the inner door, and believe me, no matter who you’re with, they’re not just going to let you walk in and go down to the service floor. You need an escort and all of that…” As he spoke, the man tried to hide the photo ID card hanging around his neck. It read PATRICK JOHNSON.
Acheson propped the door open with his right foot and grabbed the man’s jacket, pulling him back inside. “You’ll do just fine, Patrick.”
“Hey!” Patrick shouted, struggling. “What’re you doing?”
Acheson shoved Patrick into the entrance foyer. “You’re going to take us to the bodies. We don’t have time to stand around out here holding our dicks in our hands.”
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