Desert Assassin

by Don Drewniak

  Stanton turned over the requested diagram. Williams studied it for a few seconds and then asked Stanton if he would accompany him to the interrogation room. After checking Baldarelli’s measurements, he found the spot where the projectile must have hit the wall. It was less than a foot above the floor. After staring at a tiny indentation on the wall for nearly a minute, Williams quietly said, “Sixteen to eighteen feet.”

  “What?” asked Stanton.

  “Assuming Morales used maximum force, eighteen feet is the farthest the projectile could have traveled and broken human skin.”

  Williams and Stanton were standing in a small conference room when an MP escorted Henderson into it. She looked directly at Williams and said, “Stan is dead, isn’t he?”

  Unprepared for so direct a question, Williams could do no more than say, “Yes.”

  Stanton suggested they sit at an eight chair table in the center of what was otherwise an empty room.

  Williams struggled, but he managed to describe what had happened. When finished, he handed her a copy of the letter. It wasn’t until the end of the reading that she began to cry.

  The two men said nothing until she spoke some five to six minutes later. “Our relationship went from bad to worse during the past weeks. Stan wasn’t the same person I fell in love with. I suspected what the reasons were as he couldn’t conceal his feelings about you and he refused to talk about it. Every time I attempted to bring up the subject, he walked away.”

  “Alice, I’m so sorry for asking Stan to take over the questioning of Morales. I never saw this coming.”

  “How could you? I understand why you put him in charge and you did it for all the right reasons.”

  “One of the first things Marco said was that he doubted he could have done what Stan did. Very few could have. In defeating Assassin, he showed the courage of a combat soldier and the intelligence of an astrophysicist.”

  Henderson openly wept. The two men remained quiet until she was able to speak. “Where is Stan now?”

  “In the lab,” answered Stanton.

  “Have you started a postmortem?”

  “No.”

  “I would like to see him before you do.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Williams let several seconds pass before switching subjects. “How much scotch was Morales being allotted per day?” asked Williams.

  “Two three-ounce glasses,” said Stanton, “though he was always asking Marco for more. Are you suggesting that the scotch was responsible for damaging the virus?”

  “Is it beyond the realm of possibility?”

  “Certainly not, though it might be any type of alcohol, not just scotch. We can run tests on some of the lab animals.”

  “Thank you. The Assassins found at the Covington’s were drinking large quantities of it. I think it is safe to assume that the Marine Assassin who escaped has a desire to drink it. Would it be reasonable to assume that any replicates which are produced would also share that desire?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about those they may infect?”

  “Most likely, as the Assassin virus would be in control of the host. This certainly appears to be the case with the Marine Assassins.”

  “Edward, before I see Stan, would you mind if I had a few moments alone with Bill?”

  “Of course not.” Stanton stood up, shook hands with Williams and left the room.

  After a protracted period of time during which not a word was spoken, Williams said, “I’m so sorry for having brought you into this nightmare.”

  “Don’t be. I could have walked away at the very beginning and again when Morgan invaded your property. Also, you had nothing to do with my becoming involved with Stan. I intend to see this research to its conclusion.”

  Before Williams could respond, she showed a trace of a smile as she wiped away tears. “And then with a couple of promotions from the General, I’m going to see what else the Army has to offer.”

  Rather than say anything, Williams returned the smile, gave her a brief hug and stepped back. As he did so, she saluted. He returned the salute, turned and exited the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  WHEN WILLIAMS RETURNED TO HIS PROPERTY, the General and his team were at White Sands. Led by Morgan, Williams’ entire team, including Baldarelli, met him at the helicopter.

  “There’s a Merlot waiting for you in the house along with a steak dinner from Killer Two’s. Needs to be nuked a little.”

  “Thanks, Jesse.”

  “Don’t thank me. Art ordered it, picked it up and is adding it to what the General owes.”

  They all filed into the house.

  Once Williams began to eat, Fowler said, “Cyclo thinks scotch may be what caused Morales’ virus to crap out.”

  Turning to Cyclo, Williams said, “I suspect you are right.” He then proceeded to detail his conversation with Stanton regarding the possible effect of scotch on Morales. When he finished, he asked Cyclo to share his thoughts.

  “If we are right about scotch, or alcohol in general, being the cause of the breakdown of the virus that was Morales Assassin, then I suspect there is a direct correlation between the amount of scotch consumed and the rate of degeneration of the virus.”

  “Dr. Stanton and I agreed that any replicates would share any damage and that it is possible that anyone infected would as well.”

  “Those are my thoughts. Get them to drink heavily for a few days and we might be able to watch them wipe themselves out.”

  Williams finished his meal and put down an empty glass of the Merlot on the floor. “One is enough,” he said to himself.

  “Gentlemen, I need some sleep. Let’s meet at eight hundred hours. Everyone makes their own breakfast and presents a plan of attack.”

  “Where’s Cyclo?” asked Williams as he sipped black coffee from a twelve ounce mug.

  Morgan responded. “In the van putting together a list of liquor stores located in Silver City and within a hundred miles of it.”

  “Your idea or his?”

  “Mine.”

  Williams briefly laughed and said, “You must have been one of those kids in high school who never missed a homework assignment.”

  “You’re right. Always had some girls who would do it for me.”

  “Next he’s going to tell us they were all cheerleaders,” said Fowler.

  “Only some of them. The rest were majorettes.”

  Not giving Fowler a chance to respond, Williams asked, “Jesse, what have you got for us?”

  “I’m borrowing from the earlier success we had exposing the Assassin presence at the Covington’s. Not counting the two primary team members, between the General’s men and ours, we have one hundred twenty men standing by. I don’t have the exact number yet, but there are relatively few places which sell scotch or any hard liquor. We can easily cover these with my men alone, plus the drones. Two men per store, one inside and one outside. All of them would have photos of Morales and they would have credentials which should be enough to get them posted in backrooms of the stores.”

  “Anyone have anything better?” asked Williams.

  Silence.

  “Nothing, Art?” asked Morgan.

  “Well, I did have a plan, but I have to admit yours is slightly better.”

  “Care to share it?”

  “No, but you’ll be able to read about it when you buy my book.”

  “I’ll wait until it’s selling for a quarter in a used book store bargain bin. Now, back to what I have in mind. I can get a vehicle to each of the two man teams. They’ll be in civilian clothes. Whoever is inside would take down the Marine Assassin only if he threatens anyone in the store. Whether he is on foot or has a vehicle, they follow after notifying us.

  “You forgot one thing,” said Williams. “The General’s kill on sight order. I’ll call him. Shouldn’t be a problem. Also, I’ll suggest he use some of his troops to canvas the bars.”

  “Good
. Now, what do you think about our moving back to Reserve?”

  “Why don’t you go with Marco and Cyclo? Art and I will stay here until we might be needed elsewhere. I’ll have the General send in a chopper for Art and me to use. Also, three or four troops to guard the van.”

  “Still figuring an Assassin will head this way?”

  “Can’t shake the feeling.”

  The General agreed the theory that the virus in Morales Assassin had been compromised by the daily intake of scotch was quite possibly correct. However, as he said to Williams, he wasn’t “willing to the bet the family farm” on it. Therefore, he decided that if and when an Assassin materialized, if he was armed or threatening in way, he was to be immediately killed. If he was making a purchase, then he could be tracked. But this was only in play for those assigned to Williams’ team.

  Concentrating on the bars, the General ordered twenty-four hour outside surveillance in place. This was accomplished by adding another sixty-four troops to his force. All were in civilian clothes and worked eight hours of duty. Their orders were to immediately contact Rappaport who would send in uniformed troops. Once captured and taken away, the Assassin would “disappear.”

  Three days passed. Everything was in place, but nothing even slightly out of the norm happened.

  “More and more, it’s looking like the Marine Assassin either managed to get out of the area or took over a house somewhere. Could be replicating, could be infecting, could be stuff we can’t imagine,” said Fowler.

  Before Williams could respond, one the new troops came running up to back porch where Williams and Fowler were sitting. Saluting he said, “Sir, Kevin wants to see you immediately if possible.”

  Williams thanked him while in the process running to the van. Fowler followed him.

  “What have you got, Kevin?”

  “This came in from Colonel Rappaport. The General’s men intercepted a radio transmission between a state police dispatcher and two state police on patrol. The dispatcher told them he received an anonymous phone call asking the police to check a house on the outskirts of Mule Creek. When the police arrived at the house, the front door was open. They walked in and hit a stench which they claimed almost made them vomit. They found a couple tied up, but otherwise unharmed. The Colonel said to tell you that he and the General and the rest of his team, along with six troops, are flying out to the house. Also, the General asked Morgan to go in as FBI.”

  Williams and Fowler were in the van just short of two hours later when the General called.

  “Well?” asked Williams.

  “The state police are trying to find a naked male somewhere out in the desert which surrounds the house. Morgan arrived before I did. He talked to the couple, older folks living on what used to be a ranch. They told him what they told the police. By the description, it was the Marine Assassin. Said he came in dirty as hell, wearing an old shirt and pants no better than rags and too small for him. He tied them up in their bedroom and came in buck naked a couple of times to give them food and water. Told them they wouldn’t be hurt and would be set free in a day or two. They figure he stayed naked because the husband is a tiny guy. No way the Marine Assassin could fit in his clothes.”

  “It’s good to hear he didn’t harm them.”

  “He ate quite a bit of food and drank most of their liquor. They didn’t have any scotch, but he cleaned out some cheap whiskey. Morgan could still smell what he said was the same stink let out by the first Assassin replicate. He told the police the house was an FBI crime scene, but that the police were free to search for whoever it was who broke into the house.”

  “Any chance that he could have replicated himself and then do to it what the first Assassin did to its replicate?”

  “No, according to Morgan. He had Cyclo and Baldarelli check for footprints around the house. Sand was hard packed. There were faint traces of barefoot prints, about size twelve, going in the back door, but nothing going out.”

  “Anything left, a ring maybe?”

  “Nothing. Police were gone when I got there. Morgan said they seemed satisfied to be left to do the search. One more thing, as the police were leaving, one of them said to Morgan, ‘At least you didn’t give us any crap about whoever it was came in a flying saucer.’”

  “One down, no more than four to go,” said Cyclo.

  “Assassin’s?” asked Baldarelli.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “We start with the one who escaped from Covington’s house. There is no way he would have had enough time to replicate himself more than twice. Those two could have replicated only once. If we can account for them in the next three days, it’s all over.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Yes. Not only that, but I suspect those who are left realize, or will shortly realize, they are failing.”

  “Suppose they have infected others?” asked Morgan.

  “The victims will be in the same boat and should self-destruct quickly, especially since they will most likely be downgrades both intellectually and physically from Captain Souza.”

  Four hours later, another Marine Assassin walked in to a saloon in Silver City. He was dressed in new clothing with boots – local cowboy attire. He had obviously fared better than the one who self-destructed earlier. Where the clothing and money came from was to remain a mystery. The soldier on duty, SFC Tony Maldonado, radioed for backup and walked in three minutes later. It was mid-afternoon. The latest manifestation of Assassin was sitting by himself at the far end of the bar, having already ordered what was most likely scotch. Two cowboys, undoubtedly locals, were in the middle of the bar. There was a middle-aged couple sitting in a booth, probably tourists. That was it other than the bartender and a waitress.

  Maldonado sat at the opposite end of the bar and ordered a beer. During the next fifteen minutes, Assassin ordered two more drinks. Maldonado was able to see it was scotch that was poured into a glass each time.

  Weapons drawn, seven soldiers, an Army captain and six enlisted, entered the saloon. With weapons pointed at Assassin, the captain shouted, “Captain Souza, you are under arrest. Place your hands on top of your head and do not move. Everyone else get up slowly and walk out the front door.”

  The two cowboys were very slow to leave. Two of the soldiers walked toward them. One of them quietly said, “Now.” The cowboys left.

  Assassin continued to slowly sip the scotch. The captain had been briefed about the possibility that Assassin would self destruct. Therefore, he let him continue to drink.

  Local police arrived, but were barred from entering by two of the remaining three squad members who were posted at the front entrance. The third soldier was guarding the rear entrance. The police were told it was a military matter as a deserter was being placed under arrest.

  The third glass emptied, Assassin placed his hands over the top of his head and slowly turned to face the soldiers. Minutes later, the disintegration began. When it was complete, handcuffs were placed on Maldonado in order to give the appearance that the deserter was in custody. Wearing thick gloves brought in from one of the waiting vehicles, one of the soldiers reluctantly picked up Assassin’s clothing, including the boots, after all traces of the body were gone. Two bags used to pack saloon souvenirs were “borrowed.” The boots were put into one of them; the clothing stuffed in the other.

  The soldiers drove away in two M1152s. The police were left to wonder about the foul odor which made entering the saloon all but impossible. “Must be some new type of gas,” said one of them.

  Within eighteen hours, two more Assassins disintegrated. One walked into an area liquor store, purchased a bottle of scotch and left. Apparently in a hurry to consume it, he cut through an alley, turned to the back of the store, opened the bottle, sat down and began taking sips at one to two minute intervals. Both of Morgan’s men followed this iteration of Assassin and alerted Morgan. They watched Assassin from a distance. He was aware of them, but seemed unconce
rned. When the bottle was close to half empty, Assassin screwed the top back on, took a small pile of bills out of a pocket, placed them under the bottle and leaned back against the wall of the building.

  “Morg, he is beginning to ooze or whatever it is they do. We are about a hundred feet away and can smell it from here.”

  Morgan, who along with Baldarelli and Cyclo, was about twelve minutes away, said, “Wait until he’s totally vanished and then leave.”

  “What about the clothes, money and bottle?”

  “Is there a dumpster anywhere around?”

  “Yes.”

  “Make certain you have gloves on. Throw the clothes in the dumpster. Wipe down the bottle and leave the money under it.”

  When informed of the latest demise of a Marine Assassin, the General and Rappaport each lit their third celebratory Cuban cigars.

  With three Assassins having self destructed, the consensus was that those remaining, two at most according to Cyclo, were resigned to their fate and posed little threat.

  Several hours later, police received a call from a night clerk at what should have been rated a one-star motel in Silver City. A couple staying in a second floor room came into the office and complained they couldn’t stay in the room because of a disgusting stink coming from an adjoining room. The clerk went to check the room which had been rented for the night. Within ten feet of the closed door, he was hit with the smell. There was no answer when he knocked on the door and there was no way he was going to try to enter the room. He returned and placed the call.

  Two police arrived a few minutes later. After listening to what the couple and the clerk described, they asked for the room key and climbed up the stairs to investigate.

  “Take a whiff. What the hell is that?” asked one of the two as they approached the door to the room.

  “I don’t know, but you’re going in to find out,” said the ranking cop.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. That might be poison.”

  “No poison smells like that. At worst it’s a rotting corpse.”

  “If it is, it would have had to been in there for days and the clerk said the guy checked in today.”