“Why?” Her lips parted and her smile faded. “Can’t we—”
He put his finger to his lips. “You made my life a living hell and I wish I could do the same for your lover, Carl.”
“I promise I’ll stop seeing Carl,” she pleaded.
“Too late.”
“Please—God—I’ll stop nagging.”
“Sure you will.”
“But?”
Dean pulled the trigger and felt the gun buck in his hand. The bullet hit Cindy between the eyes, drove her head back, and ripped away a section of her skull.
“Well, at least you didn’t have to suffer. You know,” he said, addressing her lifeless body. “I wish I could have made your death more painful.”
Careful not to get blood on himself, Dean dragged Cindy’s body to the sinkhole. Sidestepping around a small birch tree at the edge, he leaned down and removed her pendant, wedding rings and brooch. The hole was six feet across—large enough to swallow the body. He looked over the edge and into the darkness. On an earlier trip, he had used a project sonic estimator to measure the depth—close to one hundred feet.
“Rest in hell!” He spat on the ground and kicked her into the hole. His gaze followed the drop and he heard a faint thud and crack. A great weight had been lifted from him. He returned the pistol to the small of his back.
As he leaned out over the hole, the ground gave way, taking the tree and Dean into the sinkhole. Dean grabbed the tree for purchase, but slid down the trunk, taking branches with him. Streams of dirt closed in on him, driving him deeper into the darkness, but he hung on. As he dangled, swinging back and forth, tears ran from his eyes and he spat out debris. He waited for death to snatch him but the tree held.
Slowly, hand-over-hand, Dean pulled himself up. At the top of the rim, he drove his hand into soft soil and searched for a hold, dirt cutting into his fingernails and hands. The pain was excruciating. He slipped over the edge and laid on the ground, panting from exertion. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt and used it to brush the dirt from his eyes. Then without looking back, he dusted himself off, climbed into the hovercraft, and headed to the project.
Chapter 8
Sable pulled up to a small, no-name brand service station, fifty miles out of Kanashig. As he stopped the cruiser at the pumps, he recognized Bill Kincaid’s Blazer and nodded slightly to his friend, letting him know they shouldn’t make contact. Next to Bill was his friend, Red Nelson. Sable, remembering the antics he and the pair had gotten into at school, tried to keep his demeanor sober when he stepped from the vehicle.
Les Ward shuffled up and surveyed the load in the back of Bill’s SUV. “Looks like you’re heading out of state.” The old man’s gravelly voice cracked as he talked to Bill. “What can we do fer yuh, sonny?”
“We’re going backpacking for a few days.” Sable could detect the lie without even looking in Bill’s direction. He looked over at the station owner, Les Ward, a man his father and uncle had known for years.
“Where be dat?” The old man looked over his shoulder at the trooper and said, “Be with you in a minute, Sable.”
Sable thought back to his childhood and couldn’t remember when Les had ever been young. Sable’s father, uncle, and he had stopped many times over the years on their way to see Jon at Kanashig.
“In the mountains near Tetlin,” Bill responded.
“It could be dangerous this time of the year.”
“How so?”
“It can snow without warn’n.”
“Thanks for the info,” Bill said. “Top off the tank.”
“Say, don’t I know you? You’re the spitting image of Dave Kincaid from Eagle River.”
“No, you must be mistaken. I’m from Valdez.”
“Well, he could be your father.” The old man tipped his hat. “Name’s Les, Les Ward.”
“Lester, James.” Bill appeared dizzy and disoriented. “And this is—”
“George Lemon.” Red nodded, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.
“Lemon—my foot,” Les mumbled, walked off, and started pumping gas.
“Say, sonny. Sonny, didn’t you hear me?” Les thumped on the hood of the Blazer to emphasize his point.
Red punched Bill in the arm. “Stop daydreaming and answer the man.”
“Yuh want your oil checked or not?”
“Sure. Go ahead,” Bill said, his voice slightly cracking.
Sable sensed something, a subtle image of men wearing black, off the rack, government suits in a black SUV. The image disappeared as quickly as it had formed. Was it a daydream, hallucination, or was his ESP coming back?
When Les finished, Bill shakily counted out cash, placing the money in the old man’s hands.
“Yuh all come again,” Les said with a smile.
“Sure—again. Thanks,” Bill mumbled and drove off.
After they’d gone a mile or so, Red asked, “What the heck happened to you back there?”
* * * *
Les filled Sable’s cruiser, and Sable headed back to the detachment, knowing his friends would soon be safe.
* * * *
“Will this road take us where we need to go?” Red’s gaze followed the line of the road.
“Just a sec while I get my bearings.” Bill reached over for a map lying on the seat.
“Hey, I can do it for you. You drive.” Red snatched the map and studied it by tracing the road with his finger on the map. “Five miles from here, we need to take the road north to Kanashig. It’ll run northeast for a while then bends to the west for three miles. Then we’ll be home free.”
Bill slumped against Red, almost losing control of the Blazer. As Red pushed him away, he said, “God, you’re burning up.”
“Damn flu.”
Chapter 9
The dark, varnished logs lining the walls absorbed the sun’s midday rays. Sable shifted in his recliner, turned on the lamp, and went back to reading his James Patterson novel. The doorbell rang and he slipped from his easy chair and stretched. Sable opened the front door to find a somber-faced Darin Conner.
“Close the damn door. I can’t afford to be seen.” Agent Conner’s brown eyes peered through horn-rimmed glasses. Disheveled, mousy, dishwater hair framed his face.
“You’re kidding,” Sable said. “This is the middle of the wilderness.”
“Are we alone?” Conner pushed past him and Sable closed the door.
“Yes. Amy and Bobby have gone shopping.”
“I’m still jet-lagged.”
“I appreciate this but you could have sent this Fed-X.”
“I didn’t want to leave a paper trail.” Conner seated himself across from the easy chair. “Besides, I could lose my job over this—”
“Files are safe with me.” Sable extended his hand. “How’d you get them?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Thanks.” Sable ripped open the manila envelope and withdrew a folder with a cover sheet marked “TOP SECRET.” He whistled.
“Thanks. Got a beer?”
“Sorry, coffee, water or soda.”
“No thanks. Still don’t touch the hard stuff.”
“Anything not covered in the files I should know?”
“Yeah, Dean’s first wife died in an accident.”
“So?”
“My friends at the Chicago PD say it wasn’t. The brake lines had been tampered with but they couldn’t prove anything.”
“Cut?”
“Nope, small charge of C4,” Conner said.
“Ah, access to explosives.” Sable opened the folder, scanned the page, and sat down in the easy chair. “Did they question him?”
“Yes, but his alibi was iron-clad. He’d been in Bosnia for a month.”
“He could’ve used some type of sophisticated timer,” Sable said.
“Nope. Parts of a timing mechanism would have imbedded themselves into the metal.”
“Is there a contract—any withdrawals of large amounts of cash?” The file co
ntained nothing helpful. Dean’s record was unblemished: a list of medals, combat assignments, best schools, and promotions ahead of schedule. The man was on the fast track.
“That’s what they thought,” Conner said. “And there were none.”
“So that’s where it ended?” Sable asked. The last entry to the file was Dean’s assignment to a project called “Arctic Warrior” with the words “Alpha Blue” in parentheses.
“He wound up five million richer from his wife’s insurance.”
“It doesn’t seem he needed it. From his record, it seems he had a silver spoon.”
“Nothing’s farther from the truth.” Conner pulled out a cigarette.
“Don’t.” Sable frowned.
“I forgot. You don’t drink or smoke.” Conner slid the cigarette behind his ear and put away the lighter.
“Continue.”
“Dean came from the wrong side of the tracks. His mother died—”
“Mysteriously?”
“Not so as you could prove. The insurance left a couple hundred thousand, which he invested wisely and parleyed into a couple million.” Conner hunched forward, placing his hands on his knees. “I’ll take the coffee you offered. Make it black and sweet.”
Sable returned with the coffee and then scanned the file. “This is trash. It gives the impression Dean’s as pure as driven—”
Conner took a large swallow of the coffee. “This is good.”
“What’s the general up to lately?”
“Well, he’s got a piece on the side—name’s Rose Lawson. And his wife, Cindy, is playing around with a Superior Court judge—you might know him—Blackston.”
“No shit.” Sable laughed. “Nasty fellow.”
“You know what I’m thinking?”
“What?”
“Sounds like Cindy’s going to have an accident. Another five million worth.”
“If he leaves a body to find.” Conner flashed a broad smile of perfect caps. “And that’s your jurisdiction.”
“I don’t need this.” Sable handed the file back.
“I’d like to be there when you bring the bastard down.”
Sable chuckled.
“What happened at the meeting with the post commander?”
“They denied everything. The wives even threatened to write their congressmen, picket, or sue. It didn’t faze the bastards.”
“The wives won’t have a chance in hell. Arctic Warrior doesn’t even exist as far as DOD and Congress know.”
“What do you have on Arctic Warrior?”
“They’re trying to build superhuman soldiers.” Conner’s brow furrowed. “And they’re using and killing a lot of lab animals.”
“A friend of mine told me much more,” Sable said. “Much more—than I wanted to know.”
After Conner left, Sable put on his holster and jacket and took his motorcycle helmet from the closet shelf. He drove his Harley to within a quarter mile of Dean’s house, but before he could pull off the road, Dean’s car pulled from the driveway. At a safe distance, Sable followed.
Sable shadowed Dean through the back roads of Fort Greely, stopping his motorcycle when the general stopped. When the Cutlass pulled into a warehouse, he parked the cycle in a grove near the back of the building. Sable frowned. This wasn’t the project, so where was it? Underground? He slipped on a pair of rubber gloves, extracted a set of lock picks from the breast pocket of his jacket and looked for surveillance cameras, but there weren’t any. He shook his head. But who needed security this far in the wilderness, especially on an Army installation? Sable crept to the rear door and placed his ear to it. He heard muffled voices. Cindy was still alive, but for how long?
He inserted the picks in the lock, and in seconds, he had it open. Bright, fluorescent lights blinded him as he opened the door. After his eyes had accustomed themselves, Sable saw large stacks of boxes blocking his view. He heard the roar of an engine and cursed. He ducked behind a set of pallets, only to see a hovercraft pulling away.
Sable raced to a remaining craft and leapt up on the deck, but the door was locked. He used a pick set to open it. Removing a heavy-gauged wire from his pocket, he almost felt like MacIver. Sable slid under the dash to hot-wire the system and stopped. Dean had too much of a lead. He couldn’t catch or find him.
Sable clenched his fists. Cindy wouldn’t be returning. “Damn, damn, damn.”
Chapter 10
Dean parked next to an old log cabin. The structure hid the entrance to the project. On many visits, he’d checked the security, but he’d never caught them off guard. Surrounding the cabin were infrared detectors, motion sensors, and radar. No one could come within a mile without being detected. He turned off the ignition and the blades whirled to a stop. He surveyed the area and his gaze rested on a charred tree and burned out control panel for the entrance to the project.
“What’s this going to cost me?” Dean turned on his hand-held radio and selected a secure frequency setting. “Golden Eagle, this is Golden Eagle WUN, OVER.”
No response came.
“Golden Eagle, this is Golden Eagle WUN, OVER.” Now his concern took on an edge of panic. The ground seemed to be slipping out from under him. Dean braced himself on the dash. Why couldn’t he get a response? The communications center was manned twenty-four hours a day. Maybe the alarm at his house hadn’t been a false alarm after all.
“Golden Eagle this is Golden Eagle WUN. Answer me, dammit!”
Dean mulled over the possibilities: a terrorist attack, explosion—no—the electrical storm the day before. He climbed down from the hovercraft and cautiously walked over to the panel. He stared at the charred remains of the box and circuit wires. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He had to remain calm. He went to the side of the cabin and pushed a knot in the log. Instantaneously, a door popped open revealing an emergency access panel. A red-lighted screen flashed the words, “DANGE- SY-TEMS FAIL-RE.”
Dean punched in the access code.
“ACC—S DENIED,” the red lights said.
He needed an override code. He pulled out his wallet, removed a slip of paper, and then meticulously punched it in.
“MASS-VE SHUT D-WN. VIRAL CONTAMIN-TION. ALL LIFE TERM-NATED.”
He erupted in a string of curses. The impossible had happened. They were dead—all dead, even Chug. To cut project costs, he had eliminated the emergency safe havens for his employees.
In the Hovercraft, he changed the frequency to Operations Central and turned up the power. He keyed the microphone. “Night Hawk—this is Golden Eagle.”
“Golden Eagle this is Night Hawk. Authenticate X-RAY TANGO, OVER.”
“Night Hawk, this is Golden Eagle, WAIT OUT.” He had only seconds to respond. God he hated procedure words—and authentications. If he didn’t do it correctly Operations would terminate the link and ignore any calls. Dean pulled a small book from his jacket, looked up the date and time, and scanned for the authentication. “Hawk, this is Eagle, I authenticate PAPA UNIFORM, OVER.”
“Eagle, this is Hawk. Authentication is correct. Please transmit your message traffic, OVER.”
“Hawk, this is Eagle, Go to secure on my count TREE, OVER.”
“ROGER.”
“WUN, TOO, TREE.” Dean hit the switch.
The operator’s voice relaxed. “What can we do for you?”
“I need a secure line to Major Edward Johnson at 476-8832, I SPELL FOWER SEVEN SIX ATE ATE TREE TOO.”
“Eagle, it will take me a few minutes, but each location must have scrambler.”
“AFFIRMATIVE.” Dean drummed his fingers on the dash and waited.
“Eagle, this is Hawk, I have your party on the other line. On my count of TREE initiate scramble. WUN, TOO, TREE!”
A pulsating, whooshing, sound covered the background static.
“Johnson, are you with me?” Dean asked.
“ROGER.” Johnson’s said. “All hell must be breaking loose.”
“We have a CODE RED.�
�
“What the hell happened?”
“Best I can figure, a series of lightning bolts hit the project.”
“But the project’s grounded.”
“So we thought,” Dean said.
“Do you want me to contact Redstone?”
“No. Call Dugway, Fort Lewis, and Gamma Force. Gamma has specialized training,” Dean said. “Tell them I want an advance party here by tomorrow afternoon.”
“The remaining scientists?”
“Tell them they’re in for a lot of extra work.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. Did you get the tape analyzed?”
“Yes.”
“Well, who was it?” Dean hunched forward listening to the speaker.
“I’ve been able to identify Dr. Kincaid.”
“Then the other is Nelson,” Dean said. “Have you killed them yet?”
“No.”
“Do it.”
“They were probably at the project when—”
“Don’t chance it. Check their homes.”
“But our security force—”
“If necessary, take care of it yourself.”
The radio crackled in silence for several seconds.
“Did you hear me? Dean asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Was I clear?”
“Crystal,” Johnson said. “Did you notify the Secretary?”
Chapter 11
“Bob? It’s Becky.” Sable immediately recognized the voice.
Sable pushed his chair away from the desk, trying to distance himself from the phone, but it was still locked in the crook of his neck. “Did your patient die?”
“No. It’s your friend Bill Kincaid. He’s cluttering up the clinic.” Becky’s voice was hard and abrasive. “I want him gone.”
“Why? What’s he done?”
“He and his woman-chasing friend stumbled in after their car broke down.”
“So, let’s not continue with twenty questions. What’s the situation?”
“He’s unconscious.”
Sable sat straight up. “What happened? What’s wrong with him?”
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