Dead Water

by Russ Snyder

  From his office, Martin Loren called Clay Burrows, assistant director of the NSA.

  "Yeah, Martin, what'd you see?" Burrows and Loren went way back together, with Burrows the reason that Loren was in his position.

  "Clay, we've got a major---and I mean major---fish kill in Alaska. I've never seen anything like it. Hell, you could walk across the damned lake on top of them. There are birds, too, some on top of the floating mass, some on the shore. Don't know what it is, but it sure isn't right. I thought you'd better know."

  "Damn straight, Martin. In today's world, you never know what might mean what. I'll be in touch." He hung up.

  Instantly, Clay Burrows was on the phone to his boss, Elliott Ragar. "Elliott, you might want to get down to my office. Martin Loren is sending some satellite imagery over that I think you need to see."

  "I'll be there in twenty minutes. Don't start the show without me."

  Elliott Ragar had requested a meeting with the president. When asked what it concerned, Ragar had only replied, "Sir, it could be something major or nothing at all. However, as the old adage goes, a picture is worth a thousand words. This is a hundred times past that."

  "All right, Elliott. One this afternoon would be good. How long do you anticipate this conference will last?"

  "Impossible to say, sir. Probably would be a good idea to bring some of the others in." This suggestion surprised the president a bit. Ragar wasn't known for his sharing attitude. "All right. See you at one sharp." He hung up. He called his secretary, Alice Pritchard. The two went back almost twenty years and enjoyed a genuine friendship. The president appreciated her sharp, dry wit. "Get Sanderson, Rockford, Backersley, and Merritt here at one this afternoon. Sharp." He didn't wait for a reply.

  "Wonder what this is about," he said aloud. He went back to what he'd been doing, preparing for a showdown with the Democrat leaders of the House and Senate over tax cuts in the impossible task of balancing the country's budget. What a damned mess those clowns left me with. Two entire administrations' worth of screwups. He looked out his window. "If I had my way, I'd have your bankers' heads on a pole in front of the Washington Monument," he said to himself, shaking his head in disgust. I'd like to make greed an offense punishable by horrific death, he thought. Thinking back to the bureaucrats, he wondered, How can you not get it?

  His phone rang, interrupting his thought. "Yes, Alice."

  "Sir, the meeting for this afternoon has been arranged. I'd appreciate it if you could ask Director Rockford not to be so damned rude. The man's an ass."

  President Williams laughed out loud. "I'll take care of it, Alice. Thank you."

  "Yes, sir."

  Both hung up.

  The president thought for a second and then called his secretary back. "Alice, ask Coverley Merritt to be here fifteen minutes early."

  "Will do, sir."

  Less than a minute later, Alice called President Williams back to inform him that Merritt would be there at 12:45 prompt.

  "Thank you, Alice." He returned to his budget problems.

  T-Minus 76 Hours

  Rijah Ellhad heard the chopper approaching. He turned on his GPS tracker. This would bring the craft straight to him.

  The wind had picked up considerably, and the area where he was to be picked up was precariously small and littered with large boulders. When the aircraft was twenty feet above the ground, a rope ladder was thrown out the now open side door.

  Great! The lightweight ladder was swinging wildly about, the downward windblast from the helicopter's rotor blades only making the wind much worse. Swearing under his breath, Ellhad grabbed a rung, stepped onto the bottom one, and started a harrowing climb upward. To make matters worse, as soon as he was able to climb two rungs up, the pilot started moving the copter away.

  "You stupid ass!" he yelled into the wind, but he was either not heard or ignored. The craft was picking up speed as it climbed upward. Ellhad was hanging on for his life. Agonizingly slow, he climbed toward the open door and safety. The chopper changed direction, which now made the rope ladder swing outward badly. Ellhad was nearly out of his mind with rage, and being loaded down with his rifle and gear only made the climb worse. He didn't dare let go to try to drop the extra weight for fear of falling.

  Screaming at the top of his lungs was doing him no good. Gritting his teeth, he managed to make it up two more rungs before he had to stop to rest. Now the helicopter was flying along at close to one hundred miles an hour, and Ellhad found himself nearly horizontal as opposed to vertical. Looking up, he found himself three more rungs to the door. Every muscle in his body was on fire. He knew he had no chance to hang on for the entire ride. He had to make those final three rungs. With every ounce of his remaining strength, he started upward. At this point, he didn't really care if he fell or not. One rung, two rungs, and finally his hands were on the rung two inches below the floor of the aircraft. Two arms reached out and helped haul him the rest of the way and into the safety of the chopper.

  He just lay there, breathing harder than he had ever before, glaring fire at the man who had helped him aboard. When he could finally speak, he snarled, "Why the fuck did he take off before I could climb up?"

  "He was afraid of being seen."

  "Seen? Seen by fucking who? What did you say?"

  "I told him I thought you were going to fall."

  Ellhad remained silent for the rest of the reasonably short journey. He changed out of his camo clothing and into jeans and hooded pullover sweatshirt.

  Except for the pilot and copilot, he was alone. He noticed the copilot was armed with an AK-47, a Russian manufactured rifle. No words were spoken. Rijah Ellhad was ferried over to a small lake just outside of Bethel.

  As the chopper touched down and the pilot shut it down, Ellhad grabbed the AK-47 from where the copilot had placed it and rammed the butt of the rifle twice into the pilot's mouth, knocking out several teeth. "Next time, keep the damn copter in place!"

  He departed the helicopter and walked two hundred feet to a small dock where a floatplane was tied up. A man was waiting for him. He merely nodded at Ellhad. The door was open, and Ellhad climbed in. He took one of the six seats and strapped himself in. The pilot finished untying the dock lines and jumped aboard. He quickly made his way up to the cockpit, strapped himself into his own seat, and fired the big radial engine up. It coughed, sputtered, belched smoke, and finally set itself into a loud and shaking idle. After about a minute, it smoothed out nicely. This brought a small sense of relief to Ellhad. He was not afraid of flying but had never liked seaplanes. Water. That's why they built boats. Two minutes later, it was skimming quickly across the lake's surface, and then grudgingly, it let go of its grip on the pontoons of the plane. Looking out the window, he had to admit to himself that Alaska was indeed beautiful, as different from his homeland as night was from day. He already knew the plane's destination was just outside of Portland, Oregon. He rummaged through his pouch and found his earplugs. The plane was extremely loud. Time for a nap.

  3

  At precisely 1:00 p.m., the meeting that President Robert Williams had called convened in the Roosevelt Room. Joining him were Elliott Ragar, Matt Sanderson, Bernard Backersley, Charles Rockford, and Coverley Merritt, who had arrived early. This did not go unnoticed by the other four as they entered the room. Everyone nodded at each other while taking their seats.

  President Williams spoke. "Elliott, you requested this meeting---why don't you start?"

  "Yes, sir. Gentleman, please take a look at the screen. These pictures were taken yesterday. They show a fish kill of unbelievable proportions. The lake is located in an extremely remote area of Alaska. We've obviously had fish kills before, all over the world. However, by all appearances, this was a complete devastation of the aquatic population. Birds are also seen, both on top of the floating mass as well as along the shoreline. I strongly believe this should b
e investigated."

  Bernard Backersley, director of the CIA, asked him, "Wouldn't this normally be handled by the CDC?"

  "Yes. However, these are not normal times."

  President Williams stood. "Elliott, we have not had the chance to discuss this. Are you suggesting the possibility that this is not a natural occurrence? It's my understanding that fish kills are usually the result of something causing a lack of oxygen in the water---red tide, for example."

  "That is correct, sir. However, in this circumstance, there wasn't any sign whatsoever of any dead fish on the previous orbit. Granted, that was at last light the previous day. Then the next morning, the entire lake was completely covered with dead fish. Whatever caused that fish kill did it overnight. In my opinion, that is not natural."

  There was a slight murmuring among the group. "I'm inclined to agree, Elliott," replied the president. "After the Madison Square Garden incident, anything suspicious must be identified. I want you to put together a team to go up there and research the cause. Your call on who goes. Charles, I want you to send someone from your group; Coverley, you too." Charles Rockford was the director of Homeland Security, while Coverley Merritt headed up the president's newly formed Department of the Presidential Office, tasked to work with all other agencies on terrorism to keep the president informed in real time. This new approach had been resisted by the others until President Williams set them straight. "Get on board or get out!" Compliance had been achieved, but reluctantly. "I want this to be a priority. Get on it now." That statement signaled the end of the meeting. The president left via a private door, while the others started to rise to head for the main entrance.

  "Charles, Coverley, how long will it take for you to put people in place?" asked Elliott Ragar.

  "Forty-five minutes for me," replied Charles Rockford.

  "Same," agreed Coverley Merritt.

  "Good. I'll have your people picked up. I'm going personally. We'll take the NSA jet. I'll keep both of you informed personally every step of the way. I'm also going to bring some CDC personnel and let them take the first steps. We need to know what we're dealing with before we just go hiking in there."

  "Sounds like a solid plan, Elliott," responded Merritt.

  President Williams sat at his desk in the Oval Office, thinking. He was trying to decide if he should apprise former captain Richard Starr on the event unfolding in Alaska. Better safe than sorry, he thought. He grabbed a secure line and hit the speed dial.

  "Yes, sir," Starr answered on the third ring.

  "Richard, something odd is happening in Alaska. There's been a massive fish kill in a very small lake in a remote region. It was picked up by one of our surveillance satellites. It's not like anything we've seen before. The speed in which it happened is what has us concerned. I'm going to give you the GPS coordinates. Pull it up and study the entire area. I honestly don't know if it will involve your group; however, I'd like you to be prepared just in case. Something is very odd, and I don't like odd."

  "Yes, sir," Starr replied. "Anything particular I should be looking for?"

  "Just look it over. Talk it over among yourselves. I've got a team, including CDC, on their way. It might be nice to get an outside perspective."

  "I'll send Christman to pick up Phillips. I'll be in touch."

  "Thank you, Richard."

  "Anything to try to help, sir."

  Starr heard the president hang up. He went outside to the gym that was set up in a barn. Former marine sergeant Marvin Styles was in the middle of his exercise routine. "When you take a break, come find me!" he yelled over at Styles, receiving a grunt in return. Then he went to find J. C. Christman, the former TOPGUN instructor assigned to the group. He heard one of the ATVs fire up and went scurrying over to stop him. "J. C., hold up."

  Christman turned and looked at him and then shut the machine down. "Yeah, what's up, Starr?"

  "The Man just called and wants us to take a look at something weird in Alaska, some kind of fish kill."

  "Fish kill? How would that involve us?"

  "Don't know that it does. He just wants us to take a look at it."

  "Hell, Starr, about all I know of fish is all you can eat on a Friday night somewhere."

  "J. C., just go get Phillips. If the president asks where to go eat, I'll defer to you, okay?"

  Christman just grinned and said, "On my way. Does she know I'm coming?"

  "Not yet. She will." Right then, Starr spotted Styles coming out of the barn and walked over to meet him.

  "What's up?" Styles asked.

  "Guess there's some kind of fish kill up in Alaska. President wants us to take a look at it."

  "Fish? What the hell we got to do with fish?"

  "Christ, I just went through that with Christman."

  "So what'd you tell him?"

  "Same thing I just told you. He's going after Phillips," he said, referring to the computer guru of the group. "I gotta go call her."

  "You do that. I'm going back to the gym."

  Starr turned and walked back to the house to make the call.

  Back inside the main house of the property known as the Ranch, Starr grabbed the secure landline and hit the button for Phillips's cell. She didn't have a landline. She answered on the second ring.

  "Yeah, Starr."

  "J. C. is on his way to pick you up."

  "This about the fish kill they just picked up on in Alaska?"

  Starr was stunned. "How the hell do you know that?"

  "I like to keep up on what's going on."

  Starr just shook his head. "Well, you're right. The president wants us to take a look at it. He wants an outside opinion."

  "From what I've learned, it happened overnight, and looks like it's a total wipeout of everything living in that lake."

  "And you know that how?"

  "I've seen the photographs, how else?"

  Again, Starr just shook his head. "Of course you have. Don't know why I asked."

  "Actually, I don't either."

  "J. C. should be up there in about two hours, give or take."

  "I'll be waiting. Should I bring anything?"

  Starr couldn't help himself. "Just your usual bright and cheerful personality."

  Click.

  NSA Director Elliot Ragar had asserted himself right from the beginning that he was the man in charge. After assembling the entire research team with all personnel as directed by the president, they had boarded the NSA jet and flown to Alaska. They had flown directly to the airport in Bethel where three FBI helicopters were waiting. Aerial reconnaissance photographs had shown a small clearing approximately six miles from the small lake, their destination point.

  The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention had sent four specialists along with full hazardous material gear, including suits, specialty instruments, and a portable lab. The idea of flying over the lake had been discussed, but not knowing what lay ahead of them, that idea was tabled.

  "I really think it best that the four of us hike in to inspect the lake first. Not much sense in having the whole team die because we're in a rush. I understand it's imperative that we find out what's going on, but we have to maintain certain standards here, Director Ragar," Lawrence Larkin stated emphatically. He was the researcher in charge of the CDC team.

  Ragar didn't like it, but he couldn't find a plausible argument against him. "All right, but I want you in constant touch with me personally. As soon as you think it's safe, I want to see this for myself. I have to report to the president."

  "Understood, sir." The CDC team assembled their gear, donned their hazmat suits, and then started toward the lake. It was crystal clear, just after nine in the morning. Burdened down as they were, it was estimated it would take them at least six hours to reach the target, possibly longer. This chafed at Ragar worse than a bad case of jock itch. Patien
ce had never been his strongest virtue, something he'd been called down on several times during his career. He went back inside the copter, opened a briefcase, and grabbed a secure satellite phone.

  "Yes, Elliott. What do you have for me?" answered President Williams.

  "Not much of anything yet, sir; this is more of an update. The CDC team left ten minutes ago to check out the lake. They're going to let me know the second they can determine anything. It was agreed that no undue chances should be taken until we have some idea what we're dealing with."

  "That sounds wise, Elliott. How long before they reach it?"

  "At least six hours, sir. We set down in the chopper as close as we could, about six miles out. They're suited up, bringing a lot of equipment with them, so it'll be slow going."

  "Try not to chew the insides of your mouth out, Elliott. I know how impatient you can be. Don't take any unnecessary risks. Appreciate the update, and keep me posted." He hung up.

  Elliott Ragar decided to try to utilize the time beneficially. He got on his computer and Googled Fish Kills. He decided to learn as much about them as possible while the CDC crew made their way in.

  Charles Rockford, director of Homeland Security, had decided to make the trip himself. In his mind, he didn't want to take the chance of being upstaged by Elliott Ragar. He knocked on the chopper's door.

  "Come in."

  Rockford entered. "Elliott, any suggestions on what we might do while we're waiting?"

  "I'm on the web trying to find out everything I can about fish kills."

  "Care for a hand? I'm going to go nuts if I don't find something constructive to do."

  Ragar was a bit surprised. Charles Rockford had not been the easiest man to get along with. Might as well take advantage of free help. "Sure, Charles. Help yourself to that desk and type in moron when it asks for the pass code."

  "Moron?"

  Elliott Ragar grinned. "Yeah, who'd ever think of it?"