Dead Water

by Russ Snyder

  DEAD

  WATER

  Russ Snyder

  DEAD WATER

  Copyright © 2016 Russ Snyder.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  iUniverse

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  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

  ISBN: 978-1-4917-9560-6 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4917-9561-3 (hc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4917-9562-0 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016906750

  iUniverse rev. date: 6/10/2016

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I'd like to thank Alan Bower and Kevin Bezy from Author Solutions for all their help on this particular journey. Wherever it is that I am; I would not be here without Alan's help.

  Also a tremendous shout-out to Traci Anderson of iUniverse. She showed patience, understanding, encouragement, and perhaps most of all, humor, in guiding me through the editing process. I would not have gotten through it without her.

  I also must thank Margot Curtis Kinsman, Cheryl Lycans, Barbi Olson Coutts, and Bill Hawkins for all their encouragement and support while traveling this road of writing.

  A huge shout-out, and thank-you, to Tracy Birdwell Sandlin for doing the photoshoot that produced my author's photograph for this book cover.

  Lastly, but most important, I dedicate this work to 'Cattledog', the best friend I've ever had who I lost last November. Daff, you are always with me, in my heart and in spirit.

  PROLOGUE

  T-Minus 96 Hours

  Rijah Ellhad strode confidently through the deep Alaskan woods. He was literally in the middle of nowhere, having parachuted into a small clearing earlier that morning, and now hiking toward his destination, a small unnamed lake chosen carefully for its remoteness. Dressed completely in hunter's camouflage, he traveled light, carrying a backpack with rations and water, a pair of high-quality binoculars, a small pouch attached to his belt, a hunting knife, and a Bushmaster AR-15 assault rifle, which featured a red-dot optical sight, a sound suppressor, and a high-intensity light mounted underneath. A foregrip accompanied the rear pistol grip. The sound suppressor was screwed onto the end of the barrel. He carried two forty-round magazines loaded alternately with fragmentation bullets and armor piercing. The gun was capable of firing either the .223- or NATO 5.56-caliber round.

  He also carried a second waterproof pack affixed to the bottom of his backpack. This pack contained numerous specialty items that would be required for the completion of his mission. He paused for a quick drink of water. It was early summer, and the temperature was in the midsixties, with surprisingly few bugs. He continued his journey. It was nearing sundown when he arrived at the lake. He stopped and surveyed the area. He took out his binoculars and carefully scanned the entire shoreline. Not a sign of another person anywhere. He smiled. Smaller than I thought. He worked quickly. He removed his backpack and donned some of the gear from the smaller pack: a special hazmat pair of gloves and full head mask. He removed one more item from the pack, a small metal case. With some difficulty, he was able to unlatch the twin catches and open it. Very carefully, he removed a very small item that resembled a medical pill vial. He walked down to the lake. Carefully, he tossed it about fifteen feet out from the water's edge. He quickly turned and walked back to where he'd left the remainder of his gear. He rapidly gathered it up, strapped everything back into place, slung his AR-15 rifle back over his shoulder, and proceeded to walk back the way he had come. He'd been instructed to stay back a quarter mile from the lake. He doubled that distance to be safe. It was just getting dark when he found a spot to camp for the night, although his only camping gear consisted of a small heat-retention blanket.

  He was used to sparse gear. In another life, he was a captain in the Iraqi Republican Guard, one of eight officers who made it out of Iraq before the fall of Saddam Hussein. It was a group that had sworn vengeance on America.

  He'd been told to wait twelve hours before returning to the lake. He waited fourteen. Once again donning the hazmat gear, he walked down to observe. He took out a small digital camera and took half a dozen photos. He stared at the scene before him, barely believing his eyes. The fish floating on the lake were so thick he felt he could have walked across to the other side upon them. A chill went up his spine. He was prepared to see dead fish, but nothing like the scene before him. He took two more pictures and then left. He had a healthy hike ahead of him to where he would be picked up by helicopter. When he left, his chill went with him.

  1

  Sitting behind his desk in the Oval Office, which was brightened by the natural light coming through the three large, perfectly clear, and bullet-resistant windows at his back, newly elected president Robert Williams had secretly changed one rule in the manner America was to fight terrorism. He had added a new element, one that only a handful of people knew about. This new tactic was highly illegal but one that the president felt was necessary. He put his country's safety above all else, including the law as currently written.

  A white nondescript van coming out of Mexico, through Texas, had set off radiation-detection devices at the border. These had been installed at all major border crossings between the United States and both Canada and Mexico, the result of a botched attempt to set off a dirty nuclear device in Madison Square Garden that, through no more than sheer dumb luck, had failed.

  The FBI had been shadowing the van by automobile and helicopter. It was being carefully watched, with no chance of it slipping away. Several high-resolution photographs had been taken of the driver. The result indicated the driver did not fit any profile thought to resemble a potential terrorist. The van's plates had been run. Surprisingly, it turned out to be not a rental but one belonging to an established business that had been operating for more than thirty years, a used medical equipment supply house.


  President Williams met with his director of the FBI, Matt Sanderson, director of the NSA, Elliott Ragar, and Charles Rockford, director of Homeland Security.

  Sanderson spoke first. "Mr. President, by all accounts, this van does not appear to be a threat. I think we should have the van stopped and checked out to be sure, but I'm not particularly concerned."

  "Matt, what is your take on this?" asked the president.

  "I think it's hauling used x-ray equipment. Bought cheap in Mexico and brought here to be sold. We've checked this company out thoroughly, and this seems to be routine for them."

  "Anyone else have any thoughts?" the president asked.

  The other two men in attendance merely shook their heads.

  "Keep on it," directed the president. The three men got up from their chairs and left. The president pondered a moment and then decided to make a phone call. Using a secure line, he called Captain Richard Starr, retired, the unofficial leader of his "group." Under the umbrella of the new president's Department of the Presidential Office, or DPO, this unit was assigned the task of locating, identifying, and eliminating terrorist targets the president designated. This quartet had free rein on how that was accomplished. It consisted of four members: Starr, the nuts-and-bolts leader; Sergeant Marvin Styles, USMC "Force Recon Sniper," retired; Darlene Phillips, arguably the world's best computer hacker; and J. C. Christman, a TOPGUN flight instructor. President Williams had given this party everything they might require to carry out their missions. Starr and the president had been friends most of their lives. There was an unbreakable bond of trust between the two men. It was Starr, a former marine commander, whom the president had approached when the beginning of the idea to change strategy against the terrorists had emerged in his mind. Starr had commanded Styles for a long stint while both were in the marines. Those two, over the years, had developed a trusting friendship. Styles, though never admitting it, considered Starr his best friend. The phone call connected.

  "Sir," Starr answered.

  "Richard, I wanted to give you a heads-up. That van we've been tracking appears to be a nonthreat at this time. It's believed to be carrying used medical equipment, probably x-ray machines of some type, so your group can stand down for the moment. If anything changes, I'll get right back with you."

  "Understood, sir." The call ended.

  Starr came out of the communications room at the property he and Styles considered home and then sat down at the kitchen table across from Styles, who was just finishing a cup of coffee.

  "Want some coffee?" Styles asked.

  "No, thanks. Are you going exploring or something?" he asked, noting Styles's appearance; Styles was fully dressed in camo.

  "No, I want to check on a few things over by the bluff," he replied, referring to the rearward side of the property. "Anything up?"

  "The Man just called. That van they had under surveillance appears to be okay. It seems to be hauling medical equipment, so we can relax for a bit."

  "Good to hear. Not the relaxation but the lack of threat," Styles replied.

  "Yeah."

  They were back at the Ranch, which consisted of three hundred acres located in eastern Tennessee. It featured the main house, two guest cabins for Christman and Phillips when they were required to be on-site, two barns, and an extensive training course for Styles, including two firing ranges. Styles also had a gym set up in one of the barns. He had a training routine that would make a world-class athlete hurt just to watch. They had been back for less than twelve hours since ending their mission in Saudi Arabia. Darlene Phillips had been dropped off outside of DC so she could return to her apartment, and Christman was in his cabin, probably sleeping. It had been a long and stressful flight, especially getting out of Saudi Arabia.

  Starr went into the kitchen, coming back with a pizza that he had thrown into the oven twenty minutes earlier. He tossed it into the middle of the table, along with two plates.

  "I swear, Starr, if I eat any more pizza, I don't know if I'll shoot you or me."

  "Quit your bitching. It was fast, and I didn't feel like cooking. If you don't want it, don't eat it."

  "Bite me," he said as he reached over and grabbed a slice. "Probably oughta call Phillips and tell her we're off the hook for now. We can wait till J. C. wakes up."

  "Yeah," Starr agreed. He dialed Phillips, who answered immediately.

  "What's going on?" she asked.

  "We're standing down. The van doesn't appear to be a threat. Anything changes, I'll be in touch."

  "Crap. I just packed two bags."

  "Well, now you're ready for the next trip. See? Your time wasn't wasted."

  "Thanks, Starr."

  "Anytime. Later." He hung up.

  Styles just chuckled. "It sounds like she was pretty set to go."

  "Yeah, almost disappointed, I think. We got lucky when the president assigned her to us."

  "You're right about that. Can't tell her, though." They grinned at each other.

  Styles got up, went into the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee, and returned to see Starr toss two strips of pizza crust onto his paper towel that was being used as a napkin. "Didn't take you long to wolf those down," he remarked, receiving a burp in reply.

  Starr commented, "That was a hell of a trip we just took."

  Styles paused and then responded, "That's straight. I've been going over it in my head, and overall, I think we did a damned good job. We took out some primary targets, and, except for that incident with Phillips, didn't run into any real problems. J. C. did a good job getting our asses outta there."

  "Yeah, he did," Starr concurred.

  After a few moments of silence, Starr spoke again. "Did you notice that after the president's phone call on the plane, Phillips went to the bathroom?"

  "Yeah, I did."

  "Think she made a phone call?"

  "I'd bet my ass on it. I've got a real strong feeling that somewhere back there, one might find a corpse with no head."

  2

  Somewhere in a secret location, Karyn Mason was enjoying a cup of hot chocolate. It was a homemade beverage that she brought in with her, as opposed to the packaged instant mix that she detested. It was exactly one thirty in the afternoon. A light on one of her screens lit up. She immediately put down her cup and focused all her attention on that screen. It was not a typical computer screen but a large, sixty-inch LED state-of-the-art monitor with crystal-clear resolution that allowed her sharp eyes to take in all the details sent back from the Keyhole satellite she was monitoring. She never ceased to be amazed at how clear of a picture she would be looking at, considering it was taken over ninety miles above the planet.

  Karyn knew that any given point in time, there were an extraordinary number of satellites orbiting the earth for countless reasons, such as communications, weather tracking, and perhaps the most important, surveillance. The number of spy satellites is completely unknown. Multiple units are programmed for specific purposes. One might make numerous passes far above the earth and file what it sees. When any obvious difference is observed, it immediately turns its attention to whatever is different or out of the ordinary from what its previously filed programs have observed and recorded.

  Within seconds, her fingers were moving quickly around one of her many keyboards. She brought up the area that had set off the alarm. No loud ringing bells or buzzers, just a simple red light. She found herself looking at a small lake, but it didn't look like a lake at all. She brought up the image on file to a similar monitor beside the one she was observing. That screen showed a pristine Alaskan lake, water that was a bright blue in color, the result from the reflection of a cloudless sky. She turned her attention back to the original screen. She zoomed in even closer. Finally, it dawned on her exactly what she was looking at, and she audibly gasped. Dead fish were floating on the surface. From shore to shore, it was
nothing but a solid mass of dead fish. She could not see a single patch of water---just dead fish everywhere. She noticed birds also. Some were seen on top of the floating mass, others along the shore. She knew the computer program was recording the scene. There was a limited amount of time before the satellite would be out of range, and she would have to wait until the next orbit to continue her observations. She programmed the satellite to hold its position over the area on the next pass. She watched the screen until finally the image was no longer available.

  She immediately called her supervisor. "Sir, this is Karyn. I've recorded something you need to see."

  Martin Loren replied, "Be right down."

  Thirty seconds later, Martin Loren, daytime supervisor at this facility, was approaching Karyn.

  "Whatcha got for me, K?" he asked. He always referred to his personnel by the first letter of their first names.

  "Major fish kill, sir. Worst I've ever seen or even heard about."

  "Roll it."

  Quickly she started the recorded image, leaving the original on the second screen. She offered no communication with her boss. She knew he wouldn't want any. She watched as he intently studied the picture.

  "Again," he directed after the depiction was lost. He took control of the keyboard. Several times he paused the delineation and looked intently. After three complete viewings, he directed, "Send everything to my desk, now." Four strides later, he was out of sight.

  Within thirty seconds, everything had been shipped over to her boss. Her phone rang. Picking it up, she heard, "I've arranged another satellite to cover the same general area, but it won't be available for about six hours. I want you to start keeping an eye out on other lakes in the area for any similar signs. Be sure to brief your relief."

  "Yes, sir." She began to set a program for the second satellite as soon as it was available. She would have it scan above and then below on alternating orbits while keeping the original satellite watching the lake in question.