Dead Water

by Russ Snyder

  "Yeah, that's her. Best thing we can do is just leave her alone. She's not real big on cheering up," offered Styles.

  "One thing for sure, I'm not sure what she's working on right now, but I'll bet she's kicking its ass, whatever it is," stated Christman emphatically.

  "No doubt," agreed Starr. "So what's the schedule for tomorrow?"

  "I want to check out that helicopter service in person. If she hasn't already done so, which would surprise the hell out of me, we'll have Phillips do a search on them," said Styles. "Might not be a bad idea to try to keep her busy with her computers. That's the one thing that might get her back on her game."

  Both Starr and Christman nodded in agreement.

  After the three had enjoyed their steak dinners, they retired to their rooms. Though it was a little after ten in the evening, Styles called Phillips. "Hey, mind if I pay you a quick visit?"

  "No, I'm just doing my thing. I'm in 416."

  "I remember. Be right there."

  Arriving two minutes later, he knocked softly on the door. It opened, and she invited him in.

  "What's this about?" she asked.

  "No big deal. I just want to make something clear. Darlene, you are unbelievable at what you do. This team would not have accomplished what it has without you. Not even close. We all have our roles, we all do them well, but not one of us can do everything. I know you are kicking yourself about being made. It wasn't anything other than a bad coincidence. It happens. Don't get me wrong; this isn't some damned pep talk. I know better than that. I just want to be sure you stay focused. I've said before, you don't have one fucking thing to prove to anybody. Catch the drift?"

  Phillips was quiet for a few moments before she spoke, choosing her words carefully. "Normally, Styles, I'd probably get pissed at you for saying that, but I know it's not any kind of a 'feel better' speech or whatever. It's about looking out for the team, not about me. I get it. I also respect you for coming out and saying so. No problem on my end. I've found out some good info that we'll go over in the morning. I'm putting it all together now. I'm good, so how about letting me get back to work?"

  "You got it. Good night." He stopped as he was leaving because Phillips spoke up.

  "Thank you. Your confidence in me means more than you can imagine. I know that is something that, especially with you, has to be earned. I'm not afraid to tell you that does make me feel good and, most importantly, that I've earned my right to be here."

  Styles walked up to her, placed his hand on her shoulder, and said firmly, "That you have done." With a simple nod, he turned and walked out. Heading back to his own room, he walked slower than usual, his mind going off in several directions at once. Back in his room, Styles was a little miffed he'd eaten so late. He did not like working out after just eating, so he did the next best thing. He cleaned his .40-caliber Beretta.

  Sirhan al-Razar was so excited he could not sleep. The previous evening, when it was very late and activity had virtually ceased around the Quality Suites motel, he had sneaked out to the van, retrieved the key, and entered. He was pleased that the interior lights had been shut off. A crate was in the back. It was marked "Fragile---Handle with Extreme Care---Antique Glass." There was a DeWalt cordless driver in its black plastic carrying case behind the driver's seat. He grabbed the screw gun, which already had a star bit in place, and proceeded to unscrew the top and remove it. He was working by the light of his cell phone along with the lighting of the parking area. Inside were three smaller crates that had padlocks installed. He removed a key ring from his pocket and proceeded to unlock the top crate. He carefully removed the lid. He stared at what was inside, a Russian SA-18 third-generation infrared shoulder-fire missile. This was a highly sought system. Its passive guidance system emitted no signals, which made countermeasures difficult. It also had the ability to recognize and reject flares. It was great for bringing down airplanes up to ten thousand feet. It was perfect for bringing down a helicopter. He had memorized the firing sequence for this unit. He stared at it for over thirty seconds before replacing the padlock and screwing the crate top back into place. Then he very carefully scanned the entire area before slipping out of the van and coming face-to-face with a young man who was obviously quite drunk.

  "Hey, man. You got a few bucks you could loan me?" he asked.

  Sirhan al-Razar was instantly guarded. He knew what he had to do. "Yes, I could give you twenty dollars if that would help."

  A smile came across the young man's face. "That would be great."

  "It is in my front pocket. Let me get it for you." He reached out with a bill that was concealing a switchblade knife. As he was handing the twenty over, he thumbed the button upward, releasing the blade. As the drunk reached to take the bill, al-Razar dropped the bill and sank the blade up to the hilt just below the breastbone, upward into the man's heart. The man slumped to the ground, twitching twice, and died. Al-Razar looked around, checked all the windows of the motel, and was satisfied no one had seen him. He quickly dragged the body to the end of the motel to a large commercial Dumpster. Opening the half lid as quietly as possible, it appeared the Dumpster was about three-quarters full. He hoisted the body up and into it. He then reached around and covered the body with large black plastic garbage bags. He then lowered the lid back into place and retreated back to his room. He sat in a chair, staring at a noiseless television. He was literally quivering with nervous excitement.

  14

  T-Minus 48 Hours

  The next morning, President Williams convened a meeting with his top directors. All the major agencies were represented.

  The president spoke. "I wanted to have a discussion with all of you about this latest terrorist threat before I leave for Maryland later today. First, I'd like Director Lang to read you in on what he has been able to ascertain about this danger. Michael ..."

  Director Lang, of the CDC, rose and gave a recap of everything that was known about the threat.

  The director of the National Security Agency, Elliott Ragar, asked, "What exactly do you mean by 'works with blinding speed'? Are you referring to how fast it kills?"

  "I apologize, no. I mean how fast it can contaminate a body of water. I'm sure you have all seen the video. The only thing that appears to stop it is when it runs out of water. Otherwise, all indications are it will just keep multiplying and spreading, killing everything in its path that has blood in its system. It is possible that once this toxin has run its shelf life, it may just die out on its own; however, that is only an educated guess at best."

  "Explain that exactly," directed the president.

  "Conceivably, you're standing on a dock in Key West and you initiate this synthetic toxin. If it works in salt water, and we have no idea if it does as in fresh, within days all the world's oceans would be contaminated with every living creature in them dead. That, gentlemen, is how fast it can spread---and kill---and as of this moment, we don't have a single idea on how to stop it," described Lang. "If, however," he continued, "it were to die out on its own, there is no way of knowing exactly how far it might reach before it expired. Either way would be devastating."

  "Mr. President, out of curiosity, why is the vice president not here?" inquired John Clayton, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  "He's on his way back from Japan as we speak. He has been brought up to speed." It was not a classified secret that the president did not care for Vice President Herbert Lamar.

  Matt Sanderson, director of the FBI, asked harshly, "Do we know if we have a definite threat or target for this damned thing?"

  "No, Matt, we don't. However, it doesn't take a triple-digit IQ to figure out that has to be its purpose," the president responded with more than a hint of sarcasm. "Bernard," he continued, referring to the director of the CIA, "has anything turned up in your world?"

  "No, sir, not yet. I'm pressing every button I have trying to gain information, b
ut so far to no avail. I will also say it's scaring the hell out of my fellow contacts. None of them have ever heard of anything quite like this."

  "Gentlemen," the president continued, "we should be scared. Very scared. I believe that this is an attack on America; however, if this agent gets launched in the right manner, we cannot rule out that it could very well turn into a global event. We need to get a handle on this now! Leave no stone unturned, tap every resource, make up some, I don't care. But get me answers, fast!"

  "Yes, sir," they replied in unison.

  "Mr. President, how long do you plan on being in Maryland?" Coverley Merritt, director of the president's Department of the Presidential Office, inquired.

  "As short a time as possible. If the governor wasn't such a huge supporter, I'd cancel, but Laura Green is being a pain in my ass," he said, referring to his chief of staff. This remark eased the tension in the room, but only slightly. "I will not be staying overnight. If anyone has any news, call me direct. Understood?"

  The president stood and paused, looking down at the black walnut conference table so highly polished he could see the grim reflection of his own face in the surface. He then looked each director squarely in the eyes.

  "Gentlemen, we absolutely must find the source of this contaminant. No compromises. No failures. Do whatever you must, but find this supply and supplier. Do your jobs!" He turned and walked through a door, determination in his step.

  Styles was up at five in the morning, dressed for a run. He went down the stairs from his third-floor room two at a time. He walked briskly through the lobby, noting one employee at the registration desk and a second beginning to set up the complimentary breakfast. He nodded at the woman making coffee and headed out the door. He turned right and started into a brisk jog. His intention was to encircle the airport. The sky was getting brighter and promised to be a clear day. Not wanting to deal with cars and traffic, he entered the airport grounds through an open gate and decided to just follow the ten-foot-high chain-link fence around the airport. Easy enough, or at least it should have been.

  He was approximately one-third of the way around, running on a paved access road for the airport, when he heard a vehicle coming up behind him. He moved over to his right, giving the vehicle ample room to pass. It didn't. He heard it slow up as it approached him and then matched his speed for perhaps fifty yards. Then blue lights came on with a blip of a siren. Styles slowed and stopped. A copper-colored Chevrolet Blazer, its white doors emblazoned with "Airport Security," pulled alongside with two guards inside. The one on the passenger side yelled for him to hold.

  Great! He remained still.

  "What are you doing out here?" demanded the officer in the passenger seat.

  "Running," was Styles's reply.

  "Why out here?"

  "Didn't want to bother with traffic. Running around the airport seemed like a good idea."

  "You know you are trespassing, don't you?" the guard responded testily.

  "No, I don't. I haven't seen a single sign. If I had, I wouldn't be here."

  Both the guards exited the vehicle. The one who had been talking was obviously the senior officer of the two. He appeared to be in his midthirties, exhibited an athletic build, and displayed an openly aggressive attitude. The second, the one who had been driving, looked to be ten years younger. Both were armed with Tasers and guns.

  Glocks. Probably nine millimeter, Styles thought.

  "I'm going to need to see some ID," the older one stated flatly.

  "Sorry. Left it in my room over at the Ramada. I didn't realize you now need an ID to run." Styles casually took a step closer to the pair.

  "You need to do anything I say," ordered the security guard belligerently.

  "There is no trouble here. You can clearly see I'm not carrying anything. Hell, I've got on a T-shirt, gym shorts, ankle socks, and shoes. What do you think I'm going to do with that?"

  "I think you're going to turn around while I cuff you. We'll take you back to headquarters and run a make on you to be safe."

  Styles took another step closer, holding his hands out to his side as in an attempt to plead his case. "I don't think so. It would be better for you two boys to continue your rounds, or if you want, you can follow me. I'm not doing anything wrong, and I don't feel like being the subject of your morning conversation. A word of advice. Don't go for the Tasers or Glocks. It won't end well."

  "On the ground," commanded the guard, reaching for his Taser.

  Styles took a quick step toward him and executed a perfect front jump kick, catching the man squarely under his chin, snapping his head and shoulders back and then falling into a heap onto the pavement. Without stopping, Styles turned to the second man.

  "Hey, I'm not part of this," he said with his arms straight out from his side. "Ed's an asshole. He hassles everybody. Thinks he's some king shit karate expert, but it looks like he's got quite a way to go. I've got no problem with you."

  Styles stopped short. "So what are you going to tell your boss?"

  "That he fucked with the wrong guy. Look, I leave in two weeks for the marines. They can fire my ass this morning, and I don't care. Day after tomorrow is my last day, anyway."

  "Marines, huh? I just got out a while back, retired."

  "Yeah, you look retired."

  "Okay. We'll call it square. You'd better get your buddy to the ER. I know I broke his jaw," Styles directed.

  "He's not my buddy. I can't stand him. I'd say he's lucky to have his head. I never saw anyone kick like that. Thanks for not taking my head off."

  "Like I told him, I wasn't looking for trouble."

  "No, you weren't. That's just what I'm going to write up. You got my word on that."

  Styles stepped up and extended his hand. "Word from an ingoing marine is good enough for me. Good luck to you." Styles shook his hand.

  "I'll put it on the radio that you're running the fence. You won't have any more problems. Hell, Ed's the only asshole we've got working with us."

  "Appreciate that. Like I said, good luck." Then Styles was off and running.

  Styles, freshly showered, met with Starr, Christman, and Phillips in Phillips's hotel room. Starr had gone down to the in-house restaurant and brought up breakfast sandwiches and coffee for everyone.

  Phillips was visibly tired. She'd been up most of the night researching.

  "Okay, guys, this is what I've got. Inland Helicopter. They are definitely suspect. I traced two bank accounts to the Cayman Islands and had to go through a dozen shell companies to get to the owners. Saudi. Any questions? Good," she said, not giving anyone time to ask one. She tossed a stack of papers onto the table. "Here's what I found out. Go over it when you've got the time. If Northern Hunting Expeditions is involved, it has to be minor. My feeling is they are not. I could be wrong. Chopper guys are definitely involved. Cross-referencing cell phone calls, I came up with one name. Not sure exactly where he fits in, but he's in there somewhere. Ryyaki Ali. Billionaire Saudi. Has four mansions in this country alone, a total of nine worldwide. One is a retreat outside Portland, Oregon, on about thirty-five acres. He enjoys a luxurious lifestyle. I have three other cell numbers, but I can't match to any names yet. I'll keep digging." Again she stopped for coffee.

  Styles spoke up. "J. C., you go check on the plane, be sure it's fueled; whatever. Starr and I are going to pay Inland Choppers a visit. Phillips, get some sleep; you've earned it."

  15

  Ryyaki Ali had returned to the warehouse to meet the man known only as Smith. Ali had six guards with him, all armed with AK-47s and Glock nine-millimeter handguns. As agreed, he had his banking information ready to present as additional proof that his payment had been made. He wanted no disagreement with this man.

  Ali had waited ten minutes when a white Chevrolet Suburban appeared and parked. Smith got out, surrounded by three stern-faced bodyguards.
No weapons were visible, but Ali had no doubt they were in possession of such.

  "My bank has notified me that the transfer went as agreed," Smith stated.

  "Yes. I brought records of my own in case you had any questions," Ali replied.

  "No, all is well. I expect you to wire the final payment within ten days if you find that satisfactory."

  "That is acceptable."

  Smith turned and nodded at the Suburban. A rear door opened, and a fifth man got out, holding a wooden crate.

  With no words spoken, he walked straight to Ryyaki Ali and placed the crate at his feet. He returned to the Suburban and climbed back inside, shutting the door.

  Smith then approached Ali and handed him an envelope. "Inside are a few notes I made, along with a business card with only a phone number, and a cell phone. If you have further use of my services, call the number from that cell phone. I believe this concludes our present business."

  "Yes."

  The two men gave curt nods and parted ways.

  Upon returning to Ali's immense home, one that most would refer to as a mansion, the group retreated to the downstairs secure room, one that had been specifically built to block any manner in which the room could be spied upon. It consisted of a long mahogany table that could seat twelve, with matching chairs. Along the side of one wall was a full-length desk, upon which sat three different computers. At the far end of the room, there was a walk-in safe, shelving installed upon three walls. Cash, arms, along with jewels and stolen art were stored. Only Ali could access this, as it was protected by an electronic keypad that also required his thumbprint.

  "Stay here," he directed the four men who accompanied him as he walked to the safe. After punching in the code and pressing his thumb against the scanner, the large, heavy door swung open noiselessly. "Bring me that crate."

  None of the other four men moved.

  With obvious annoyance, he walked back to the table where he had placed the crate containing the toxin. "What are you afraid of? It is harmless until the agent is placed in water. Do you see any water here?" He impatiently grabbed the crate and took it into the safe, where he placed it upon one of the shelves. Without saying a word, he exited and closed the door.