9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  * * *

  Shortly after midnight, the Korean agent’s car pulled off the gravel road, parking in a small cluster of poplars and scrubs less than a kilometer from Rodney Holton’s farm.

  The first order of business was identifying the exact location of the capsule. Pyongyang had provided the agent with the frequency on which a tiny radio inside the capsule would transmit its GPS coordinates. In order to conserve battery power, and to minimize the risk of detection and triangulation by the Americans, the transmitter would issue a single “burst” transmission every thirty minutes.

  The agent tuned a shortwave radio receiver to the specified frequency and waited.

  If both the long range GPS beacon and the short range radio transmitter had malfunctioned, it would be necessary to take a more aggressive approach to finding the capsule. The agent knew that the farm owner, and sole occupant, would have knowledge of the capsule’s whereabouts. The agent also knew that, contrary to media reports, torture was, in fact, an effective means of extracting information in certain circumstances. It was likely to work here. But locating the capsule via radio would be much less messy.

  Twenty minutes later, the agent’s radio receiver beeped and a set of GPS coordinates appeared on the unit’s display. There would be no torture tonight after all.

  Dressed in black from head to foot, the agent exited the car, and tuning a GPS locator to the proper coordinates, jogged off toward Rodney Holton’s farm to retrieve the missing capsule.

  CHAPTER 14

  Ottawa County, Minnesota.

  On the ride back to Red Wing from Rodney’s farm, I was again relegated to the back seat. Insulted but undeterred, I leaned forward with my forearms in the center of the front seat and my head resting on my wrists.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Wow, what?” It was Gunner. He seemed startled by my proximity to his left ear.

  “Wow. Bad day for Rodney, huh? First his steer goes lame, then the FBI shows up to give him a grilling, and to top it off, somebody steals his meteor. Just . . . wow.”

  “Why don’t you sit back in your seat, Beck,” Gunner said. “You’re breathin’ down my neck.”

  “Right,” I said, but didn’t move.

  “It’s definitely been a bad day for Rodney . . . but I’m wondering about Agent Costa’s morning. How are things going for the FBI? I mean, you came all the way to Ottawa County just to see the meteor, and now it’s gone. Poof!”

  “Is there a question in there somewhere?” Costa asked, a hint of acerbity in his voice.

  “Yeah. There is. What, exactly, were you hoping to get out of our visit with Rodney this morning? And don’t tell me ‘a meteor.’”

  “I am not at liberty to discuss this matter further. You will just have to use your imagination,” Costa replied.

  “What?” I said. Sometimes the short questions get you the longest answers.

  “It’s ‘need to know,’ Becker. Now can we drop it?” Costa eyed me in the mirror.

  “Call me ‘Beck,’ please.” I knew I was pushing it, but what the hell. “I feel like we’ve really gotten to know each other this morning, what with me slopping around in cow crap and you with chicken poop on your wingtips. It’s like we’ve got a bond or something.”

  Costa kept his cool . . . and continued driving.

  “Beck,” Gunner said, “you can be a real pain in the ass. Now sit back and shut up for two minutes, would ya.”

  I was being a pain. I had to give him that. But it was irritating to be left in the dark. I sat back, pretending to pout. Not another word was said until we had re-entered the LEC reception area. Then it was Costa who spoke.

  “I’d like a word, please,” he said as we all entered the reception area.

  “Let’s go back in here,” Gunner said, opening the conference room door.

  “No. Not you. Becker.”

  Gunner was nonplussed. “What?”

  “Thank you, Chief Deputy,” Costa said.

  Gunner huffed then let the conference room door close.

  “Right. I got it. He’s all yours, Agent. Good luck.” Gunner turned toward the inner offices and disappeared through the doorway.

  Agent Costa waved me inside the conference room and closed the door behind us. I had no idea why I deserved the special attention. In fact, it felt like I’d been sent to the Principal’s Office for shooting spitballs down Mary Lou’s blouse.

  Costa motioned me to a chair and we both sat. He dug through his pockets producing a cell phone, his trusty notepad and pen, and a pair of handcuffs, all of which went on the table top. Finally, he pulled a .45 caliber American Eagle pistol from his shoulder holster and laid it carefully on its side. Its silvery barrel and body gleamed under the intense fluorescents.

  Then . . . he stretched, raising both arms above his head and letting out an uncovered yawn.

  I have to admit. He had me stumped. I had no idea whether he was going to ask my advice, or tear me a new one.

  “You’re good,” I said at last.

  “You noticed,” Costa replied, picking up the ballpoint and twiddling it between his fingers. “You are probably wondering why I asked you in here just now.”

  “Did Dan Trew say you had to be nice to me?” I smiled.

  Agent Costa laughed out loud.

  “I like your sense of humor, Beck. But I wanted to speak with you alone because Gunderson doesn’t have the necessary clearance. What I’ve got to say is Top Secret and strictly ‘need-to-know.’ Got it?”

  So Rodney’s meteor really was Classified.

  “Scout’s honor.” I raised a three-finger salute. “You have my undivided attention, Agent. What have you got?”

  “I am here under the auspices of the Department of Homeland Security. DHS has reason to believe that Mr. Holton’s missing meteor may, in fact, contain a biologic agent sent to us courtesy of the North Korean regime.”

  I had to admit, I hadn’t seen that one coming.

  “Really? Ottawa County? You’re not serious.”

  “I am serious indeed,” Costa said with a straight face. “We believe the North Koreans’ targeting may have been somewhat . . . haphazard. They probably weren’t aiming for Ottawa County specifically. This is just where their package landed.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Supposing I buy that, how exactly does DHS figure the Koreans threw a rock all the way to our side of the world without us detecting a missile launch or at least intercepting the missile en route?”

  I just had to ask, you know.

  “We detected the North Korean launch all right. It was the afternoon of December 12th, 2012.”

  “That’s one slow rocket,” I said.

  Costa ignored my commentary.

  “Our current intelligence suggests that the suspect payload has been orbiting the globe for almost eight months. Supposedly, the DPRK stowed a capsule of some type inside the defunct weather satellite they shot into space last December.”

  “That would be the satellite our government described as a ‘dishwasher wrapped in tinfoil’? The same one our intelligence folks said was ‘dead on arrival’ in space? The one that was supposed to be tumbling randomly and without power? That’s the satellite you say launched this attack?”

  I folded my arms across my chest and leaned back in the swiveling conference chair. It was pretty comfy for government-issue furniture.

  “Yes,” Costa said. “That would be the one. Last Sunday, one week ago, a physics student at The Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff had booked time on their optical telescope. She decided, just for the heck of it, to try to locate the North Korean satellite. At first, she thought she’d spotted something else. It wasn’t tumbling when she saw it. Its attitude appeared stable. But upon rechecking her data, she concluded that this was, indeed, the North Korean bird. She told her professor and he reported the change in the satellite’s attitude to STRATCOM at Cheyenne Mountain.”

  “The fact that, after eight months, Pyongyang has finally got its sa
tellite’s gyros working doesn’t mean a lot,” I said. “You must have something more.” I wasn’t an engineer, but I understood the concept of stabilizing a satellite using onboard gyroscopes, and a stabilized satellite didn’t seem like much of a threat to me.

  “Indeed. After the grad student gave them the heads up, STRATCOM tuned one of its assets on the Korean satellite and whattya know, it has an open hatch and an empty compartment.”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “So they tracked the satellite’s path backward and eventually spotted a new piece of space junk that hadn’t gone through SSN’s fence yet. You know about that, right?”

  “A little,” I said. “They can’t track all the orbiting objects in real time so they catch them in a stationary beam once every orbit.” I wasn’t sure when I had come by that piece of information. Probably a long time ago. “So did they track it to Ottawa County? And how come it took you a week to get here?”

  “As technologically advanced as our space defenses are,” Costa said, “there are still some . . . shall we say . . . dark spots. When the object entered the atmosphere, it was between viewpoints, and the best STRATCOM and NORAD could give us was a five hundred square mile landing zone.”

  “That’ll slow you up,” I said. “So how’d you finally pin it down to Holton’s place?”

  “I am informed that one of the fellows that flies drones over Afghanistan was kicking back for a relaxing evening in the barracks at Edwards Air Force Base when he came across a meteor for sale on Ebay. One thing led to another, and eventually the information reached us . . . yesterday evening. So here I am.” He spread his arms demonstratively.

  “Okay,” I said, righting myself in the chair. “That sounds plausible enough to me. But why do we think there might be a biologic agent involved?”

  “That piece of intel comes to us via a CIA informant in Pyongyang. The United States may not have an embassy there, but that doesn’t mean we are without ground assets. Our agent’s information is pretty general . . . just that the DPRK has a biologic attack in progress against the U.S. The brain trust in Washington tied the biologic threat to the satellite.”

  “I’m glad to hear we’re all still communicating,” I said, a touch of irony in my voice. “So I’m guessing, at this point, everyone knows there’s space junk in Ottawa County, and not too many folks who truly believe it’s a threat to life and limb.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Costa acknowledged. “But it is my job, nevertheless, to track this Korean capsule down and make damn sure there is no danger. Now . . . you have knowledge of the local area and personnel. I was hoping you and I could work together on this project.”

  Rodney’s meteor had suddenly become more intriguing than I could have imagined.

  “I’m in,” I said. “So what’s our next move?”

  CHAPTER 15

  Ames, Iowa.

  Jeannie Evans was worried about her husband, Kent. He’d been working a lot lately, much more than at any other time during their twelve year marriage. She knew Kent’s drug sales had foundered since the economic downturn. And she trusted that he was doing everything possible to keep their family’s finances in order. But a few weeks ago there was the three day trip to Texas, where Kent had employed what Jeannie considered to be implausible excuses for not staying in touch with her. Then there were the seemingly endless hours spent at the University Lab, including one overnighter.

  Kent was under a lot of pressure. And when married men were feeling unfulfilled by their labors, Jeannie knew, they were prone to seeking fulfillment elsewhere, most commonly, in the arms of another woman. It was this thought that was echoing through her brain the night Kent returned late from the lab to find her sobbing in bed.

  “Jeannie. What’s wrong? Are the kids okay?” He moved to the bedside to comfort her, but she pushed him away.

  Kent stood there, dumfounded, as Jeannie gathered her composure to speak.

  “Are you having an affair?” she asked, her voice quavering. “Tell me the truth, Kent. Is there another woman?” Jeannie’s teary, bloodshot eyes begged for more than an answer – more than a confession or denial.

  “Oh, Jeannie. No. Of course not.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded.

  “I told you before . . . at the lab. They’re paying me now for cleaning up. It’s not a lot, but everything helps.”

  “What about that Texas trip, and the all-nighter? How much were you paid for those times?”

  Kent’s heart sank as he struggled for words that would comfort his distraught wife – that would make everything okay. He knew the truth would be little better than Jeannie’s fears of an affair. Even if he had wanted to tell her, he couldn’t make her an accomplice to his crime.

  He kneeled beside the bed, longing to touch her, to take her pain and make it his.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Love,” he said, at last. “Texas was a marketing venture. I didn’t get paid for the trip, but sales there should benefit over time. And the all-nighter . . . was just that. One of the professors had three grad assistants working around the clock on a series of experiments. I volunteered to take the night shift to pick up a few dollars . . . you know . . . to try to help make ends meet.”

  “I don’t know how I can believe you, Kent. You’ve been so . . . distant . . . lately. You barely touch me, and it seems like we’re never intimate anymore.” Renewed sobs convulsed through her limp body, her chest heaving with each gasping breath.

  It was true, Kent knew. He’d neglected her, but it wasn’t for the arms of another woman.

  “Oh, Jeannie,” Kent whispered as he moved beside her on the sheet, wrapping a hug around her shoulders. At first she resisted, but finally yielded to his embrace.

  “Come here, Jeannie. Come to me. It’ll be all right. I promise. I promise. Shh. Shh.”

  She buried her tear-stained face in his chest, her sobs gradually subsiding. In the dim light of the bed stand lamp, he held her close for long minutes, kissing the top of her head and willing her sorrow to cease.

  She would be okay this time, Kent was fairly certain. But he couldn’t keep working long hours for little money. And he couldn’t maintain the charade that his family was financially secure forever. The dunning calls to his office had already begun. His home phone would certainly be next.

  And most of all, he couldn’t continue lying to his wife.

  Fortunately, there was a plan in motion in Ottawa County that had potential to solve all of Kent’s worries. The news should break any day now. He just had to hold on a little . . . bit . . . longer.

  CHAPTER 16

  Red Wing, Minnesota.

  “Hello,” I called into the kitchen as the back porch screen door slammed behind me. No answer.

  “Hello?” I tried once more, this time directing my voice up our central staircase. Still no response.

  Since I’d seen Beth’s Mitsubishi convertible in the garage, I deduced that she was either out for a walk, or relaxing on the front porch. The latter proved to be true. I found her reclining on the settee with a magazine and a tall glass of iced tea.

  “Oh hey, Babe,” Beth said, looking up from her reading and flashing me a smile.

  I smiled back.

  “That tea looks good,” I said, wiping the back of one hand across my forehead. “I’m gonna grab a glass for myself. Can I get you anything?”

  “No thanks.”

  Our front screen porch on Jefferson Avenue is one of Beth’s favorite spots to kick back, at least when temperatures accommodate. We both spend a lot of time there on summer evenings watching Minnesota Twins baseball on an aging square television. Property crime is practically nonexistent in our neighborhood. But if a passing thief happened to be enterprising enough to tote the massive 31-inch Samsung off our premises, he or she was welcome to it.

  I returned to the porch with my iced tea, garnished with lemon of course, and perched myself on a wicker
chair. Beth swung her feet to the floor and laid the magazine on her lap.

  “So tell me . . . what does the FBI want with Rodney Holton’s meteor?” she asked.

  “Technically,” I said, “it’s a meteor-ite. Not to be a nitpicker or anything. It officially became a meteorite when it landed.”

  “And that’s what you guys talked about? I’m sorry, Babe, but that’s sorta . . . what’s the word . . . sad.” She leaned back and opened the magazine. It was this month’s issue of In Style and it featured an attractive young woman on the cover.

  Beth turned a page and began humming. After a few measures I recognized the song. Baby, Baby, Don’t Get Hooked on Me.

  “It’s come to that, has it?” I said.

  Beth closed the magazine and returned it to her lap.

  “What’s your security clearance again?” I asked.

  Beth dipped a finger in her iced tea and flicked the liquid at me.

  “Same as yours, wise guy. Now . . . if you’ve got some tasty intel about meteor-ites, you’d better spill it, or face my wrath.” Beth displayed her wrath-filled wife look. It was intimidating . . . but in a really pretty way.

  “Okay,” I said. “Here’s the scoop. The FBI guy knows somebody in DC, who knows somebody at STRATCOM, who knows this really sharp graduate student at The Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, who thinks the North Korean weather satellite probably isn’t tumbling anymore. And . . . he also knows somebody at the CIA, who knows somebody on the street in Pyongyang, who believes he may have overheard some discussion of North Korea threatening the United States with a biological attack.”

  I paused to catch my breath. Beth remained politely attentive.

  “Anyway, based on the foregoing Top Secret intelligence, Agent Costa . . . that’s the FBI guy . . . has been tasked with investigating Rodney’s, allegedly anthrax-filled, meteor.”

  I waited for Beth’s assessment.

  “It sounds like intelligence gathering has become somewhat more . . . randomized . . . than when I worked at Langley. Still, it does keep folks like you off the street.” She smiled.