Pestilence (Jack Randall #2) (3 page)

He had already skimmed through the library his father had gathered and gone through four novels. He had made $17.00 in the process as his father had a habit of using whatever bill he had in his wallet at the time as a bookmark, only to be left behind for the next reader. Jack had actually counted the books, and using an average based on his earnings so far, estimated a profit of a couple grand if he read them all.

The wind had a bite and was picking up, so Jack retreated into the beach house to refill his cup. He was searching for the remote when the phone rang. He eyed the caller ID suspiciously, but it showed his wife’s cell number. He thumbed the button for the speaker phone.

“Hi, honey.”

“Are you out of bed yet?” she asked.

Jack smiled. “Aren’t you funny today?”

“Well, you were up late last night, thought you may have slept in a little.” He could hear her smile as she poked at him.

“You know there’s no coffee maker in the bedroom,” he shot back.

“Sorry, I forgot. Should I pick one up for you?”

“No, I’ll manage somehow.”

“I plan on leaving early today so I should be out there by four or so. How about dinner?” she asked.

“Out or in?”

“You feel like cooking?”

“Out it is. How about The Half King? I feel like a steak.”

“Okay. Any word from the office?”

Jack could hear her tone. She asked the question because she knew it mattered to him, but her tone said she hoped the answer was no.

“Not yet,” was all he replied.

“It’s not fair, Jack. They can’t just leave you hanging like this forever. I don’t like you being there and me being in town. If they won’t call you back in then I think we should talk about some options.”

“Not yet, Deb, let’s give it some time.”

“Then when, Jack? You can’t keep putting it off forever. Sooner or later you may have to accept that your time with those people is over.”

Jack didn’t like the “those people” comment, but he didn’t feel like fighting about it now, especially on the phone.

“Let’s talk about it tonight.”

“Don’t brush me off, Jack. I have to call you just to get you to talk about it. It’s the only way I have your attention. It’s not right and it’s not good for you or us. Promise me we’ll talk tonight,” she pushed.

“Okay, I promise.”

“Good, I’ll see you about four then. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Jack frowned at the phone as it emitted a dial tone over the speaker. He was forced to admit that she was right as he pushed the button ending the call. He knew what her options would be. Return to the board of directors, make more money, come home every night, play golf, schmooze with her rich friends, and repeat. Everything he had worked hard to avoid. The children conversation hadn’t come up in awhile, but he was sure that as soon as one of her socialite friends got pregnant it would be on her tongue the next day. Jack didn’t hate the idea of kids, he just wanted to do some other things first. Dinner was not going to be fun.

Jack refilled his mug and wandered into the living room. He found the remote under the book he had left on the end table next to his favorite chair. A “man-chair” his wife called it. Large, leather, and very comfortable, Jack had spent several hours a day in it over the last month. He thumbed on the big screen and hit the favorite button. Robin Meade of CNN appeared.

“. . . possible new evidence in the Leslie Evans case. The five-year-old went missing from her Virginia home three months ago and investigators are no closer to naming a suspect . . .”

Click.

“. . . the Dow is expected to open lower today as the housing market continues to struggle. New home sales are at an all time low, a full 58% down from this month last year . . .”

Click.

“. . . local city Councilman Warren Dickerson has been charged by a grand jury today with five counts of embezzling city funds and three counts of falsifying records. Two other councilmen are also expected to face similar charges involving the use of city funds for personal reasons . . .”

Click.

“. . . Hello America! Billy Mays here . . .”

Click.

“. . . just in from our state department desk. The United States Embassy in Tanzania, Africa was bombed by terrorists early this morning. It is reported that a fuel truck carrying explosives broke through the perimeter barrier and exploded against the south wall of the building. As you can see from the footage on your screen, at least half the building is in ruins. I’m told that the sections destroyed housed the main offices and work areas of the embassy. The staff quarters and housing are located in the back and appear to be still intact. The warehouse structure adjacent to the building was also partially destroyed. The warehouse held mostly relief supplies for a country plagued by food shortages and disease. There are twenty-two confirmed dead and as many wounded at this time. That number is expected to rise. An hour after the bombing, a group calling itself Al Qaeda in Africa has claimed responsibility. A video, showing a young man believed to be the driver of the truck, delivering a speech denouncing the presence of American influence in the small country, aired on the
Al Jazeerah
network and was picked up by the wire services. No other information is available at this time. Stay tuned to the BBC for further updates as this story develops.”

Jack thumbed the mute button as he scrambled out of his chair and raced down the hall to the bedroom. He fumbled through his clothes on the floor, searching the pockets. Where the hell had he left it? Was it even on? Did the battery die? He fell to the floor and searched under the bed. There, that pair of jeans. He dragged them out and riffled the pockets. There it is. He looked at the screen and saw nothing.

“Damn it!” He palmed the dead device and raced back down the hall to the kitchen junk drawer so full he could barely open it. He rummaged through the mess, but didn’t see what he needed. Now what?

The remote?

He returned to the man-chair and pulled the back panel off the remote. He stole an AA battery, swapped it for the dead one in his department pager, and turned it on.

“Come on, baby, work for me,” Jack pep talked the device and the tiny screen lit up, and after blinking for a few seconds, delivered a message.

“888”

“Yes!” Jack pumped a fist in the air.

Now where the hell was his cell phone?

•      •      •

John Kimball ignored the looks he got from the passing platoon of paratroopers as he ran down the packed orange clay of the firebreak. The North Carolina winters were mild, and while the temperature was good for a run, the damp clay stuck to his running shoes and made for a slippery surface. He noted a couple of paratroopers sporting orange coatings on their otherwise gray PT uniforms, the victims of their own carelessness. He caught up to another platoon running in his direction and matched speeds to the cadence of the sergeant leading them. He enjoyed the off-color song, knowing it would have to change to something more traditional as they neared the post again. He turned north after a mile and headed back to his own duties.

While he wore military clothing similar to theirs for his morning run, his longer hair and non-regulation mustache marked him as one of “Them.” The fact that they were in area J of the Fort Bragg training zones, just south of the Delta Force compound, gave credit to their assumptions. While the compound appeared on the maps as an impact area—clearly marked off-limits due to live gunfire and possible unexploded munitions—everyone knew what it was and who it supported. The triple-fence perimeter and snake-like concrete entrance just added to the mystery. Rumor had it that the majority of the space was underground, and they were right, especially all the latest editions. One of which John Kimball was in charge of.

As he neared the gate, the guard waved him down from a distance. He complied by slowing to a jog, placing his hands on his head, and jogging backward for a few yards. Picking up a walk for the last thirty meters, he pulled his ID out from inside his shirt and held it up.

The guard held out a laptop-size item similar to a computer. John swiped his card before wiping his hand on his shorts and placing it on the screen. The computer announced with a beep and a green light that he was allowed and the guard let him pass. Passing through the airlock-like double gate, he then stretched out his stride till he was past the Delta buildings and into his own. Like theirs, his had no label of any kind, not even a number to distinguish it from the others. All the buildings were simple red brick with windowless metal doors. Some of his people used the last two numbers of its grid location to identify it, but that was as far as it went toward getting a name. His building only differed in the amount of climate control equipment on the roof. Obviously much more than was needed for a building of its size, it was not unusual in this neighborhood. But only the people working there knew the real reasons for the equipment.

The sound of the door chime was drowned out by the C-5 Galaxy aircraft passing overhead as it took off from Pope Air Force base, probably carrying a load of gear, or troops, or both, heading over to Afghanistan. The flights were regular now, or so he was told. He couldn’t hear the planes from his office.

Proceeding through another set of doors that automatically locked behind him, he didn’t bother glancing at the cameras that followed his progress to the elevator. Once on board, he slid his card again through a slot on the wall before punching his floor. The doors shut and then sealed with a hiss before descending. What the neighbors did not know was that while the building had four stories above ground, they were all utilized for air handling purposes. A variety of pumps, filtering units, electrostatic dust collectors and climate control equipment crowded the space. All functions were backed up and then backed up again. There were technicians stationed in the spaces twenty-four hours a day, and the facility had the ability of being sealed off entirely from the outside world for up to six months.

It was staffed much like a nuclear reactor, as it was even more dangerous. Thus it had been placed where everyone accepted secrecy, and no one dared to question.

The elevator arrived at S-12, or sub-floor twelve, and the doors broke their seal before opening. Kimball stepped out a few feet and turned to enter the men’s locker room. Here he disrobed completely and after a quick shower, moved to the large locker at the end of the room. Removing a jumpsuit in his size he peeled the sealed plastic from around it. The plastic went into a specially marked bin and he quickly donned the garment. Once dressed, he passed through another door into a glass airlock. Holding his arms up, he was blasted repeatedly by jets of air, similar to what one would be subject to passing through a security checkpoint at a major airport. He waited while the air was sucked up through the floor and the computer processed the sample. It took a few seconds for the advanced biosensors to do their job, but eventually the glass door opened with a buzz, allowing him to proceed.

“Good morning, Mr. Kimball,” a guard greeted him.

“Yes,” he simply replied. He had long since ceased caring what others thought of him. The man was just a guard, not worthy of his time.

He proceeded down a sealed concrete hallway devoid of any decorative additions other than the ominous biosensor every ten meters until he reached his office. Here he was greeted by the usual pile of paperwork stacked neatly in his IN basket. Everything else in the office was neat and orderly. John Kimball was a detail man in a detail business, one where the smallest mistake could mean death. It showed in every aspect of his life.

He had not even sat down when he heard a knock on the door behind him. He turned to see one of his operations people. Although he was dressed the same as John, the similarity ended there. The baggy jumpsuit did little to hide the man’s physique or body language. If that didn’t say “field operative,” the haircut certainly did.

“What is it?” John asked.

“We have a problem, sir. Terrorists have bombed P-13. Our storage there has been compromised. We are unable to locate the caretaker. He may be dead.”

Kimball absorbed this without emotion. They had little threat of exposure at this point. With the caretaker gone they would have to move fast to clean up the agents before they were mishandled, or worse, compromised and sold on the black market.

“You have people in the area?”

“No, sir. The team is currently at P-18 setting up a secure storage facility. If we pull them out it will raise some questions, and possibly leave the agents without a caretaker,” he replied. “We have a transport crew of three within twenty hours distance, but that’s all.”

Kimball thought this through. One of the big disadvantages of the project was the lack of personnel. While need-to-know was applied, some always
did
need-to-know, and one cover story did not work for all contingencies.

“Safeguard the agent in place at P-18 and move the crew to P-13. Assign a new caretaker and get those three men there as soon as possible. I want updates every half hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kimball rounded his desk and sat down. Picking up the remote, he thumbed on the TV and surfed till he found CNN. A helicopter view of the embassy rubble slowly moved across the screen. He waited patiently till he saw a view of the warehouse next door. One end was in rubble while the other was intact. He knew exactly where every vial ever made was and the picture gave him reason to suspect that the vials were not mixed. He debated taking more measures to secure the agents, but chose not to. Secrecy was still their best option. The program was almost at the point it could be deployed if the time came. He could not afford to attract attention at this time.

He considered calling some old contacts he maintained from his days with the CIA. But then he would owe favors, and they would be curious as to what he’d been doing since he had left. Hard to collect a favor if you didn’t know what someone was capable of. One of their best biological warfare hunters just disappearing in the middle of an armed conflict was not unusual, but for him to stay gone was. There were still plenty of people that needed watching. North Korea, Iran, China, Pakistan, our new/old friends the Russians, the new government of Iraq, and, of course, every terrorist group out there. He decided he would just stay quiet and off the radar. He would most likely get what he needed from the press anyway. It would just take a little longer.