Payload (3 page)

“What is your situation?”

“I have the payload. Wilcox is dead, the Coast Guard pilots tried to divert to…,” Marv focused on what he recalled overhearing. “Jacksonville? They wanted to pick up family members. Private First Class Bardwell Johnson over-reacted, and ultimately the crew chief and the left-seat pilot were killed. I was knocked unconscious in the forced landing, and when I came to both the right-seat pilot and PFC Johnson had deserted. Wilcox had been murdered execution-style, sir.”

The line was silent for a moment. “What is your situation, Sergeant?”

“I’m a bit concussed and bruised, but otherwise mission-ready. My weapon and most of my gear was stolen by the deserters, but I’ve secured a sidearm, sir.”

“Do you have a charger system for this phone?”

“No, sir.”

“How much battery strength does it have?”

Marv checked the glowing screen. “Three indicators, sir.”

“All right, it is now zero five forty hours, Eastern time. Expect a call in four hours. Hang on to that payload, son.”

“Yes, sir. Fastbox Two, out.” Setting the phone to vibrate only, Marvin stashed it. Sunrise was at zero seven hundred hours-it was probably best to get a little rest and move after daybreak. Wishing his camelback hadn’t been in his pack, he checked the pistol, a double-action-only SiG P229, and got as comfortable as the truck bed would allow.

Marv came awake, making the transition from asleep to full consciousness with the abruptness he had picked up in his first tour in Afghanistan. The sun was fully clear of the horizon; easing up, he checked his surroundings: open pastureland in all directions, bordered by a swampy-looking tree line to the north and a road a mile to the south.  The Blackhawk was a blackened shell surrounded by burnt grass to the east, and there were a few cows to the west, and that was it. He was surprised he had slept through the fire, but attributed it to having a concussion.

Muttering, he crawled out of the truck and stretched repeatedly, trying to loosen up some of the soreness. He was banged up but unhurt, he decided, saved by his helmet and the harness. Methodically he stripped off his gear and emptied his pockets, taking stock.

Besides his ACU cammies and boots, he had his armored vest, his MOLLE vest, empty magazine pouches, tactical gloves, pocket Bible in a waterproof case, a first aid kit with two bandages, Band-Aids, and aspirin, compass and case, a Gerber dagger with a six-inch blade, a lock-blade tactical knife, a Leatherman multi-tool, a tactical flashlight with four spare lithium batteries, soft cover, notebook, pen, sat phone, wristwatch, digital notebook, solar charger with an adaptor for the notebook, three USP magazines, thirty-six hollow point .45 ACP cartridges, one Sig Saur P229 pistol with a spare magazine and twenty-four hardball .40 cartridges, and a roll of Lifesavers. And the payload.

Popping four aspirin followed by a Lifesaver to get his saliva going, he donned his soft cover and repacked his gear, leaving his armor in the truck. Heading south, he crossed a barbed wire fence and strode onto the road, a graveled county road running east-west. North was the direction he needed, but more important was resupply and provisions. Deciding west looked more promising, he set out.

As he walked he pondered his situation. “This is stupid. I’ve got a freaking lunchbox full of bioweapons, the world is turning to shit, and I’m busy jumping through hoops. If I had half a brain I would chuck the whole business.”

Saying it out loud made him feel better. He imagined trying to explain it to Deb. “Babe, it’s just me. I always gotta go too far. I couldn’t be bothered to try for student loans, I hadda go for the GI Bill. I couldn’t just go for Infantry for the extra enlistment bonus, I had to be an Airborne Ranger. I really can’t explain it. Besides, with you gone what difference does it make? I’m single again, I got no family left, so if somebody’s got to do this, better its me and not some guy with kids.”

“You know I have to carry my load, babe. I can’t be one of those slack-jawed welfare losers, or a dirtbag who only looks out for number one. I’m who I am, and that’s all there is to it.”

Pondering what his late wife would say in response, Marv stepped off the pace, heading west.

At zero eight hundred the phone vibrated. “Staff Sergeant Burleson.”

“Sergeant, this is Lieutenant Colonel Nelson. I’m going to be your tactical control for the remainder of this operation. What is your situation?”

“Sir, I am about one mile south and one mile west of the crash site. I abandoned my body armor for better speed, and am headed west on a gravel county road, unknown designation.”

“You have the payload?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, Sergeant. That package is top priority. Prepare to copy.”

Marv knelt on the road and dug out his notepad. “Ready, sir.”

“This phone number is an unsecure line for emergency use, this e-mail address goes straight to me, and the third item are recognition codes. Your destination is the following coordinates, in Texas.”

Marv repeated the digits as he copied them down. “Texas, sir?”

“I know, Sergeant. I’m going to keep this short because of the limited battery life. Your first object is to identify your location; contact me when you have done so, or at eighteen hundred hours, whichever comes first. You are authorized to employ deadly force to retain control of the payload, and to requisition any resources you need to secure, support, or move the payload. The current plan is to vector you to government assets, but first we need to know where you are. What you are carrying is absolutely critical, Sergeant. I cannot emphasize that enough.”

“Yes, sir. Are the other Fastbox units safe?”

Nelson hesitated. “Fastbox Three has reported hard going, and has taken some causalities. Fastbox One is still on track. Avoid major population centers, and keep moving Sergeant.”

“Yes, Sir. Fastbox Two out.”

Jefferson ‘JD’ Davis

The Caddy was finished-he was amazed it had gotten him this far. The radiator had been holed by the last collision, punctured low, and the engine had seized. Not that the latter mattered much: both tires on the left side had been ground down to a paper-thin layers of rubber from contact with bits of the devastated left body panels. Neither had more than a couple miles of driving left.

Muttering, he slammed the trunk and trudged back to the driver’s door. He had changed from his suit into hiking boots and jeans, and had dug the tire iron out for defense, only to discover it was plastic and pot metal.

A shout startled him; to his surprise a tall man in military camouflage was trotting up the road towards him. “Yes! About time,” JD grinned and waved back, his smile faltering when he noticed the soldier was alone and unarmed. “Yeah, that’s about par for today.”

The soldier slowed to a walk when he got close. “Well, hell, I expect that won’t go,” he observed grimly as he offered JD his hand. “Staff Sergeant Marvin Burelson, Alpha, First of the Seventy-Fifth, Airborne Rangers.”

“Jefferson Davis, call me Jay-Dee. Yeah, the engine seized. Where’s the rest of your unit, Sergeant?”

“I’m it,” the big soldier admitted. The guy was at best an inch shorter than JD, but younger and more solidly built. He looked tough, with a buzz cut that was nothing but dark brown stubble, and a lot of hard living stamped on his face. “I was in a bird that went down a couple miles from here. Do you know where we are?”

“Around two miles east of Starke, with an ‘e’. This is two-thirty; I’m not sure if it’s a state or county road. Do you have a phone or radio?”

“Sort of. What are the conditions in Starke?”

“It looks like downtown Bagdad the day the US Army showed up. That flu has gotten loose and people are…well, have you seen one?”

“No, but I’m told they look dead and get violent.”

“They don’t just
get
, they extremely
are
.” JD rubbed his face tiredly. “I’m trying to get home to Tallahassee, came up from Miami. I ran into some at a gas station, and then up I-75 there was a big snarl, and they were attacking cars with their bare hands. I got across to the access road,” he gestured to the mud coating the sides of the Cadillac, “And headed out on secondary roads. Starke was like a war zone-people were shooting and there were barricades…it was a mess. I ripped up my Caddy getting around a barricade with a dozen of those things pounding on the windows, and headed out of town. This is as far as I got.”

“Damn,” Marvin shook his head. “I lost my weapon, ammo, and pack in the crash. How about you?”

“I’ve got one energy bar, which you can have if you’re hungry. Other than that, I’m in the same boat. A guy, he saved me at the gas station, he said to shoot them in the head. I think he’s right.”

“They described it as like being on PCP,” Marvin drummed his fingers on the Caddy’s trunk. “Look, crazy or not, I’m heading into Starke-I’ve got no water or gear. I’m under orders, heading west out of state. If you want to work together we might do better than alone. Tallahassee is pretty much on the way.”

“Yeah, I’m definitely not the outdoors type-I’m a pro wrestling promoter.”

Marvin chuckled. “Well, JD, do you happen to have a map?”

Addison

The operation went well. That the night shift was working short-staffed was an added bonus: Addison freed both his comrades and raided the emergency closet for three Stingray rechargeable flashlights, an EMT medical bag, and a light-weight stretcher before the trio slipped out the number three side entrance.

“This is a great bag, but what’s with the stretcher?” Doc, as Matheson preferred to be called, inquired. He was a wiry little guy whose diffident personality made him look shorter than his five foot six.

“Three men in scrubs look suspicious. Three men with a stretcher and an EMT bag are emergency services.”

“OK.”

Addison wasn’t sure about Doc, but he had served in the Navy as a corpsman assigned to Marine units, so with the EMT bag he neatly covered the emergency medical treatment skill set, and that was useful to a man with assassins on his trail.

Skills were important to Addison: very early in life he had realized that he was different, and that he must be prepared for anything. He had learned how to defeat locks, alarms, and anti-theft devices, to improvise equipment from ordinary household items, to hack computer systems, forge documents, build new identities, pick pockets, and operate off the grid.

It was why he had gotten this far, despite a lifetime of his mother trying to kill him.

As they slipped through the darkened streets it was obvious to the trio that Jacksonville was in trouble: sirens wailed from every direction, occasional stutters of gunfire were heard, and the skyline glowed with at least two good-sized fires.

“The outbreak is approaching critical levels here,” Doc muttered as they paused behind a strip mall to rest and orient themselves. “Given that there is no overt signs of military force in use, collapse is just a matter of time.”

“One wouldn’t think the flu could move so quickly,” Captain Jack shook his head.

“It isn’t flu, it is a fluid-borne virus, most likely a genetically engineered bioweapon. The key is in the vector status and development.”

“Vectors?”

“A vector is the carrier of the virus, an agent of infection. The virus kills the weak, in this case the young, the old, the infirm. Those able-bodied adults who survive are completely controlled by the virus-think of it as a hostile software program seizing control of a computer. This infected subject is a vector, and will attack uninfected subjects. I hope to conduct tests to prove it, but my current theory is that the virus creates epicenters in the parotid and submandibular glands.”

“Which perform what service?”

“They produce saliva. Our modern medical precautions are heavily focused upon blood-borne diseases, but if my theory is correct vectors’ bites are the perfect method of passing on the virus. One bitten, or infected, the subject will either die or transition into a vector within a few hours. Unless drastic steps are taken to eliminate or quarantine vectors the virus will spread exponentially, overwhelming a population on a formula of ..”

“Let’s go,” Addison interrupted Doc. “You can fill in the blanks later. If you’re right we’re ahead of the event horizon.”

“By no more than seventy-two hours, I expect,” Doc shouldered the EMT bag.

Their goal was Addison’s exit stash, which he had hidden in a steel box mounted on a concrete pedestal at a nearby intersection. It had once housed the switching board for the traffic lights, but had been empty and unused since the city had transitioned to electronic traffic lights. He had buried the key (purchased on Ebay) nearby.

The stash contained a small pack which held a couple changes of clothes, toiletries, a full set of professional entry tools, a laptop, and money.

“What is our next move?” Captain Jack asked as Addison changed clothes.

“My mother’s close to being ready to take out the city,” Addison sat down to tie his boot laces. “I plan to make tracks. The rest of my stuff isn’t far. What are you guys’ plans?”

“I need to capture a vector and further my studies,” Doc said. “Research is our only hope.”