Fight Fire With Fire.

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Sonsoral Islands Philippine Sea

  The marine archaeology research ship The Traveler cut through the seas with ease despite the storm pounding the decks. They’d sailed around the worst of it, yet the season brought afternoon squalls almost like clockwork. Bridget sipped hot tea and watched the rain pebble the windows. It soothed her. She’d loved storms since she was a child in Ireland, though she preferred to remain a spectator. She got wet enough with her job.

  At a desk in the corner, Travis charted the weather patterns and would compare them to ocean currents. Silt dunes and shifting sand, especially under the power of a tsunami, had already revealed several shipwrecks. The Asia seas were filled with them, pirates, East India Company, Dutch traders. Her wreck diving passion was getting a workout on this expedition. Lightning cracked, brightening the sky and striking the water. She smiled. Jim flinched. In the window’s reflection, she could see him sitting at the waist high desk behind her. The table’s surface was a scratch resistant white Plexiglas, about two inches thick, and beneath it glowed with soft lights. It enabled scientists to see the finds clearly and separate dirt from fossil. Jim was bent over, micro glasses giving him a bug eyed look when he had basset hound eyes to start. He sorted the bones, trying to make a skeleton. They hadn’t had the time or the facilities to construct a formal land dig site, and neither of them wanted to go back without more answers. They’d discussed the excursion and evidence with the team. Travis wasn’t enthusiastic about the return trip, but agreed to send the photographs to some colleagues. He agreed with her that Jim had not found monkey footprints. Even meerkats would explain the footed claws, but she was accustomed to dealing with facts. Even archaeological speculation had to have evidence to back it up.

  Jim made a familiar sound, a sort of closed mouth aww, and she smiled, went to the table. Bones weren’t the usual finds for a Marine archaeologist but she had knowledge of skeletons. Jim had assembled pieces of a spine, pelvis, and two ribs, none of them complete. At the top was the small skull they’d found first by the tree. Testing would determine the species family and related bones, but this reconstruction was simply a place to start.

  Bridget reviewed the outing in her mind and other than Jim and his penchant for running off, the metal crate made the least sense. She turned back to the window and the counter, switching on the lamp and spreading out the photos. A crate not a cage. Whatever was in it was long gone, and while they couldn’t take the time to tear down the vines and see how much was there, she believed the crate was never opened. The latch she’d photographed had been sealed. Again, she could speculate that the growth of vegetation could have done it, but it wasn’t a concern. The bones would tell them more. She glanced past the spread photos to the work yet to complete for the expedition, but she was still within her deadline. If anything, the National Geographic Society was accommodating. It showed in the equipment surrounding them, some of it unnecessary for her expedition and brought up from storage when they’d found the bones. She lowered the light and drew her magnifying glass, studying the photo. After fifteen minutes, she straightened and stretched. Her theory was the same; solid metal surface, galvanized and riveted. She wished now that she had a sample of the metal, yet still felt it was smashed to the boulder so hard it flattened it, and that brought up Derek’s idea that it was dropped from an aircraft.

  She’d made a reverse mold of the radio, then digitally scanned and uploaded it to make it three-dimensional. There were specialists from NGS looking at it right now via satellite transmission. She turned back to the table, noticing that Jim had formed a wrist and one finger.

  “You’re certain?” she said peering and noting the angle of the joints.

  “I’m going by a primate but yes.” He glanced up. “This is my field. Putting the pieces back together.”

  Did he think she didn’t notice after all this time on a ship? The waterproof cases stacked behind him, filed and cross-referenced was proof of his obsession. He’d matched bone fragments smaller than a pea.

  “Analysis?”

  “Feline.”

  Her eyes flew wide. “Cats are hunters and there isn’t anything to eat on that island.”

  “Except each other.”

  “Cannibalized? Few animals eat their dead.”

  He pointed to a bone. “Those cuts are teeth marks.” She drew the magnifier over the fragment, then measured the width and gouge. “It looks like the marks in the radio,” she said. “But the jaw with the teeth from the boulder doesn’t match it. The tooth length isn’t long enough.”

  He gestured with his tweezers, poking the air. “Long scrapes mean long teeth, and they lose their strength.” She brought the mold from the counter and he showed her. “Not curved either, but almost buckteeth.”

  She frowned, and he added, “Like a saber tooth, though not that long since these aren’t large.” He nodded to the table of bones, then picked up her radio mold, lifting his micro glasses to look. “I’d say three maybe four teeth tightly grouped.” That meant the animal gnawed like a dog on a bone, rather then chomping as if biting into an apple.

  “A cat with buckteeth?” Was it bred that way or adapting?

  The more they learned, the more her curiosity grew. They had no conclusion and they’d accept it. It was part of their trade. She was about to turn in for the night when Derek entered, looking a bit green. He went to the small icebox for a bottle of water. He’d drunk half of it before he waved, a paper caught between two fingers. “This is so rad,” he said. “Bones P-three through P-eight are male, human.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Not hobbits, either. A child,” he added. “And the best part, they have animal DNA.”

  “What?” That brought Travis from his charts. “Animal mixed with human?”

  “And yes, Andrew checked the calibration of the machine,” he said when she opened her mouth to ask. “He’d trained on it and when he saw that spectrograph he about wet his pants.”

  “Don’t be getting so knackered about this,” Bridget said. “It wasn’t a proper dig. The finds are contaminated and inconclusive.” She was curious, but not willing to stake her career on it. Especially with the strange test results. Improperly grading a site went against her education, and ethics. She’d agreed for Jim’s sake, but didn’t debate taking it further academically. She simply couldn’t turn back now.

  “Repeat the tests.”

  “Andrew is, but says it’s in the marrow, matured like that.”

  The evidence was stacking, she thought and tried not to get too excited and re-read the printout, then picked up the small skull missing its mandible. “This is not feline,” she said, turning it. “So we have human and animal bones, with animal DNA.” She shook her head. “Impossible. Human and animal can’t mix. Even if it could, it would take a couple generations of breeding for it to masticize in marrow.” A shiver passed up the back of her neck, the thought and the images that followed were revolting. It was simply not possible. “I want to carbon date it all,” she said. “Let’s prepare samples for the NGS labs.” She grabbed her notebook, and with Derek went below deck to join the lab rats.

  Manassas, Virginia

  In the rear of the staff car, Hank Jansen watched the scenery pass without much notice. Noble Richards Incorporated stretched across twelve acres and four separate buildings with testing hangars, and a security system that rivaled the Pentagon. Even his Joint Chiefs of Staff credentials kept them held at the north gate for longer than it should have. The Department of Defense paid most of the bills, dammit.

  The concept that NRI had sent the transmission when they’d lost their contract for failing to control the R&D and maintaining the DOD testing standards did not bode well for the home team. The trial that followed had been lengthy and closed, resulting in the chief designer’s imprisonment. However, then the weapon had been a laser rifle, not the thermobaric explosive RZ10. Nor were an estimated thirty thousand lives already lost because of it. Hank was still receiving i
nformation, but little came from the Singapore government beyond a possible gas leak. The experts told him otherwise.

  His driver slowed the vehicle and braked to a stop outside the entrance. Hank left the staff car, not waiting for the JAG attorney or Major Beckham as he walked through the wide glass doors and into the foyer of Noble Richards. He stood on the mosaic of the company logo and saw NRI’s president walking toward him. Bruce Cannel was one of those guys who wanted everyone to know he was really an aging hippy by keeping his red hair long and in a ponytail, but coupled with Cannel’s barrel chest and jowly cheeks, he looked like a man who refused to grow up.

  “Welcome, Colonel. I was surprised when security apprised me of your arrival.”

  Not enough to delay them for a half hour, he thought. “It’s urgent. Can we speak in private?”

  “Certainly.” Cannel’s expression remained impassive, and he kept his silence as he escorted them up two floors and into his office. The JAG attorney and Major Beckham behind him, Hank entered. Cannel moved behind his impressive desk, gesturing to the chairs positioned in front. Hank remained standing, aware of the intimidation tactic. The chairs were lower than the desk, therefore behind it was a superior position of negotiation. Hank had no intention of bargaining. He wasn’t leaving without Black and the encryption primer to the file.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “We need to have any and all information on the research and development of RZ10.”

  Now Cannel looked confused. “I don’t understand. You already have it, as per the court orders and the contract. Your people took the hard drive, the files. All of it.”

  Hank set his brief case on the man’s teakwood desk and opened it, then handed Cannel photographs taken of the explosion site at dawn this morning. “This says otherwise.”

  Bruce gave it a cursory glance, then handed it back. “It’s impossible. We didn’t manufacture it. DOD did.” Cannel’s gaze flicked to Beckham standing at parade rest behind him. Hank didn’t have to turn around to know the man was dishing out his finest “I will eat you alive” look. He’d seen it make grown men piss themselves.

  “A satellite transmission, encrypted, was sent from this company,” Jansen said. “With Doctor Kenneth Black’s authorization. Black was the director of the thermobaric project.”

  Cannel frowned slightly. “We have other contracts besides those with the government, Colonel. Dr. Black isn’t involved in anything with the Department of Defense that I know of.”

  That I know of. Covering his back and already giving the “I have no recollection of that, Senator,” answer he’d unfortunately heard before. “He sent a transmission and he is the creator of RZ10. A blast occurred that has its characteristics.” The man did not need to know it was stolen. But Cannel’s watchdogs had failed to monitor his own people. We should have destroyed the damn chemical.

  “Those combined tell me Dr. Kenneth Black was still in contact with co-creator Jason Vaghn.”

  He shook his head. “No reason and Jason is in prison.”

  “He’s been out for nearly a year, and he escaped the country a month ago,” Beckham said.

  Cannel didn’t look happy about that. “Regardless, you have no solid evidence that RZ10 did this,” Cannel said, gesturing to the photos. “Transmissions are sent from here all day long, and giving that information to you breaks contracts with other clients.”

  “I understand, of course. But we are certain of the origins.” Hank paused, his gaze direct. “If someone misused it or falsified authorization, then that’s your concern. But I need to speak with Dr. Black for clarification.” When Cannel hesitated, Hank said, “Now please.”

  Cannel eyed him, then let his gaze slide past him to Beck-ham. Finally, he turned to his phone, grasped the receiver.

  “We’d rather you didn’t alert anyone.”

  Cannel practically tossed the phone onto the cradle, then walked around the desk to the door. Hank glanced at Beck-ham. The major smirked and mumbled, “Ass bag,” under his breath as Hank followed Cannel.

  Without a word, the company president led them through the floor to the east side. Sunlight flooded through the long stretch of plate glass windows, but there was no one there to enjoy it, the space taken up with a receptionist’s desks and hallways. Both were empty. They passed through a room filled with cubicles and Hank caught the graphic design of hiking gear or spelunking as he followed.

  Cannel slowed, turning slightly to say, “His office is in the corner.” He stopped before it and knocked.

  The reply was a gunshot.

  Hank pulled Cannel from the door as Beckham approached from the side, his weapon drawn.

  “Clear the floor, sir,” he said softly. Hank ordered Cannel and everyone out.

  The JAG attorney dropped his briefcase and moved behind the major. Both were armed. Beckham grasped the doorknob and opened it, pushing it as he inched inside, aiming to the corners, then moving further inside and out of sight. He returned a moment later, and said, “It’s clear.”

  Hank walked briskly inside and stopped short. Doctor Kenneth Black was in his chair, his head thrown back, half his skull and brains sliding down the window. “Christ almighty.”

  “That puts a damper on things.”

  He glanced at Beckham. “Where did you hide a sidearm?” The man’s uniform fit like a glove.

  “Sock,” he said, throwing the safety. “I’ll secure the floor and make the calls.”

  Hank stopped him. “We need analysts in here, and NCIS. We have to keep a lid on it.”

  Beckham arched a brow at the suicide.

  “Before the news media. Lieutenant,” he said to the attorney making copious notes and the young man looked up. “I want JAG to seize his papers now. Get any court order you need.” Hank glanced around the office that belonged in a Bogart movie. “He had the answers to that transmission and where it went.” Time wasn’t their friend and he felt the clock ticking away till the next explosion.

  Beckham nodded and left. The JAG followed, needing crates to get started. He’d find a reason not to be here too, he thought. He looked back at the body and sighed. His suspicion of treason was true. Kenneth Black had sent the transmission, but the reason was still locked inside its contents. Hank moved to the desk, looking at the blotter and the weapon Black still held. From his position, he could see the serial numbers were sanded off.

  So he buys a gun off the street and offs himself just before he has to talk, Hank thought, inspecting his left hand for a note, then checking the floor. He ignored the framed photo of Black’s family, his kids about the same age as Hank’s own as he leaned over the desk. A green file lay a few inches from Black’s gun. Hank used his pen to open it. It was empty except for a fresh piece of paper printed with three words.

  Icarus is rising

  Sixteen

  Jason felt better than he had in years, prison included, after a few hours on the island. Bathed, his wound properly dressed, he wore fresh clothes that made him feel like he was on vacation. He wasn’t and the pain in his leg reminded him of it as he left the master suite. He investigated the bungalow, finding a stocked kitchen and a spa pool in the shaded backyard. He was alone in the suite, the bedroom larger than his last apartment, and decorated in blue and white that soothed him, reminded him of home. The island breezes kicked at sheer white drapes, and he crossed the living room to French doors thrown wide. On the deck, a linen-draped table was shaded by a giant umbrella.

  “For your dining pleasure,” he murmured. The table was set for lunch with his favorite; a turkey club sandwich with extra bacon. He didn’t wonder how she knew, it just felt good that she cared to learn it. Taking a seat, he picked up half a sandwich and ate. A hundred yards away lay the jungle, and beyond that, the China blue seas. He didn’t know where he was, and he’d bet Barasa had his doubts too. He’d heard him give the coordinates to the pilot. Let them power struggle. Odette had made good her promises and that was aces to him. He proppe
d his sore leg on the padded footstool and sipped a light Riesling from a chilled goblet. Irish crystal, he decided, holding it to the light. He thought briefly of Donovan, then dismissed it. The man was a constant reminder of all Jason had lost.

  Since the trial, Jason hadn’t relished pleasures like this. His family had disowned him, his inheritance held in courts. Convicted felons didn’t hang around Nantucket and certainly not with his family. Yet he’d grown up with everything and he missed it, longed for the moments when he didn’t have to worry about his next meal. It sucked.

  He set the crystal glass aside, picked up the last half of his sandwich, and bit into it. He’d enjoy it while he could, and not for the first time, he mulled over the identity of his bene-factor—a man far more educated than him. Jason had his skills, but they paled to the ingenuity of this plan. It would come to a head soon, he thought, eager to finish and disappear with his millions.

  Cryptology Division

  NSA

  Nolan brought up the graphic sent from Dragon One. Damn clever to find it, he thought, then studied the stream again. D-1 had the program on the download from Vaghn’s laptop. Nolan had the stream. He loaded the captured hard drive into his dummy computer, no link to the outside to keep any nasty bugs or snoops from getting in. Prior to D1’s sequence, he’d tried his own decode program, but the system rebelled. He’d tried so many sequences of the scrambled numbers and letters, he felt he was on his last couple of tries. Another complicated fail-safe Vaghn had created. A couple more and it wouldn’t let him back in. Permanently.

  Last time, he thought and wondered if he’d be fired for this.

  He worked backwards, dropping the graphic into the password window, then entered the sequence. It failed and he could almost feel the system tightening its guard. He tried it again, leaving out the Greek Iota.

  He blinked as the graphic expanded to three dimensional and on the screen, it turned, rolled on its side, then came upright. The program opened. Data streamed and configured.