Pestilence (Jack Randall #2) (9 page)

Eric watched as one tired dog sat panting in the sun while his handler changed the leather booties the dog wore. The dog lifted his paws obediently to help and when all four were changed the handler removed the dog’s mask, allowing him to drink from a collapsible bowl of water before they returned to the pile.

He detached himself from Larry and Sydney to join Jack, Greg and Bradford at the side of the crater. He was surprised to see that it was half full of water.

“I’m estimating that truck was maybe three-quarters full, maybe more. Definitely had some diesel included. Crude, but it gets the desired effect. We’ll have to pump out that water soon as we can,” Bradford commented.

“Okay, I’ll get someone on that. What are you looking for?” Jack asked.

“Anything. Trucks are full of parts with serial numbers. We just need one and we can track it. Probably stolen, but we have to start somewhere,” he answered. “Best thing would be part of the detonator. Most bombers don’t realize that their fingerprints will survive the explosion. We’ll get a few, try to track ’em down.”

“That’s Sydney’s department. Just give her what you find and she’ll do the rest,” Jack stated. He looked up from the crater and noticed Eric had joined them. “Eric, I need you to do a repeat of what you did in Vegas. I know it’s a bigger scale so keep it simple this time. Can you do it quickly?”

“Actually, I already finished the software over the last few weeks. I just need a zero point and a grid. The rest is just cataloging the pieces and the location they were found. It should be close to what you got in Vegas, sir.”

“You finished the software already?” Jack asked.

Eric shrugged. “Thought we might need it.”

“Good thinking.” Jack caught Greg’s eye and they left Eric and Bradford to meet with Sydney to get organized.

“Any luck with your toy?” Jack asked when they were alone.

“Not on the first pass,” Greg answered. “But we plan on a sweep twice a day in the area with random trips around town in between.” Greg and Bradford had broken away from the group at the hospital and driven around the city in a borrowed van, using the device they had brought along that triggered remote devices. Other than setting off a lot of car alarms and opening a few garage doors, they had not managed to trigger any explosions.

“Okay, keep your ninjas ready. I’ll feel better when we have more security here,” Jack commented as he looked out over the city facing them.

“You thinking they might try again?” Greg asked.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“. . . Yeah.”

•      •      •

The three delivery men that Djimon had feared were observing Jack from a building several blocks away.

“You sure it’s him?”

“Yes, I’m sure. The guy’s famous. Pick up a newspaper sometime,” the man retorted.

The driver frowned, but held his tongue. The three of them had driven all night from Nairobi and were tired. Getting back into the city had been difficult due to the bombing. Luckily, they had become familiar with the border guards and had talked their way through. The guards assumed they were on official business, despite the fact that their truck was empty. The detour they had taken to rearm themselves had made the trip even longer. They had arrived in the city and located a place to observe from a safe distance, and were now taking notes on what they saw through the binoculars.

“So we have Jack Randall from the FBI. Who’s the other guy?”

“He moves like a shooter, too. I’m guessing Hostage Rescue, or maybe a SEAL. The perimeter includes the warehouse. We need to find a way in there, and soon.”

“They may want us to destroy it in place,” the third man spoke.

The first two men pulled their attention from the scene below and faced the third man.

“What? Kill more Marines?”

“You know what they’ll say to that. We need to be ready for either contingency. The agent can’t be compromised.”

Melting of Antarctic ice becoming unstoppable.
March 19, 2009—The Independent
 

—SIX—

P
eople stood in line with objects in their hands waiting to get them checked in at the van. The canopy that had been set up wasn’t large enough to accommodate them all, and they subconsciously bunched up in an effort to reach the shade quicker. They stood with floppy hats and sunglasses shading their eyes and faces from the merciless sun. The dust caked their skin and found every sweaty patch, creating a sandpaper effect. Race had ceased to exist as they were all now a shade of gray that blended into their current surroundings.

When one finally reached the van, the object they held was examined by both Bradford and Eric. If determined to be a piece of the truck or the device that triggered the explosion it was then digitally photographed, its location was cataloged and entered into the computer, and it was assigned a number and barcode tag. All pieces were then transported to the airport where a hangar had been donated by the government. There, laid out on the floor, they slowly began to resemble a truck.

Eric looked out the door of the van as the pump started up again. He could see Sydney standing on the rim of the crater, supervising the crew pumping the water out. She was wet from the waist down and shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. He felt a moment of guilt as he had the relative comfort of the air-conditioned van to work in, even though the van was more to protect the computers from the dusty environment than it was to provide them comfort. Working at night under the glare of the lights was far better than under the hot sun, and Sydney was going on her eleventh hour.

“Come on, kid, she’s got her job and we got ours,” Bradford prompted him. He nudged Eric back to work with his elbow.

Eric turned his attention to the piece in Bradford’s hand. It looked like some kind of valve.

“What you got?”

“I think we have a valve from the bottom of the truck, the one that’s used for filling the underground tanks.” He carefully wiped the mud off the twisted metal object until he had a better view of it. Leaning close to several pictures of an intact truck on the wall of the van, he compared the object in his hand to what he saw.

“Yup, right there on the back end near the bumper. Looks like a match. Location?” he asked the person who brought it.

“In the crater on the south side, maybe about a foot from the bottom,” the tired Marine replied.

“Okay, thanks,” Eric acknowledged, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Bradford took photos of the object against a white backdrop, one of each side, top and bottom. The pictures were automatically fed into the computer where the software slowly rebuilt the truck piece by piece.

“Only about 60% of it left,” Eric informed Bradford.

“Don’t tell me that, kid, it’s depressing. Let’s just keep at it. A lot of people want to know who did this, me included.”

“Yeah, me, too. What’s next?”

“Looks like a speedometer, maybe?”

•      •      •

Jack climbed through the debris of the warehouse with Larry behind him doing his best to keep up. From the looks of it, the wall facing the explosion had been blown into the building, crushing most of the supplies stored there. They had found two bodies, one a young native boy, and the other a civilian drug representative handling the vaccines and other treatments coming through the embassy. He noticed Heather crawling through some boxes next to an overturned forklift. As Jack got closer, he noticed a large pool of dried blood on the floor. Evidently one of the victims had died here.

As he picked his way closer, he noticed that Heather seemed upset about something and was pointing around at several vials on the floor as she addressed the cleanup workers. She did not notice Jack’s approach, and he strained to hear what she was saying over the sounds of the equipment running all over the site. The workers turned to leave or do whatever she had asked, and Jack was puzzled as he watched her scoop up a few vials of medications and slip them in her pocket.

Larry finally caught up to him. “What a mess. Can we salvage any of this stuff?”

Heather turned to the sound of Larry’s voice and saw them. “Hello. I didn’t see you there.”

Jack decided not to mention the medications in her pocket. He asked Larry’s question again. “Can we save anything?”

“It looks like we can get some of these supplies out of here and over to the hangar or the Canadian Embassy. Some are damaged or just compromised, others are date sensitive. Some will require repackaging, but I’m actually encouraged. I thought it would be much worse,” she answered.

Jack carefully looked over what was left of the warehouse before speaking to Larry. “Larry, I’m gonna have you handle this. It looks to me like the wall gave way due to the blast wave, so I doubt we’ll find too many truck parts here. Once Sydney and Bradford have gone through here and we’re sure there are no bomb fragments, let’s get these supplies out of here and on their way to wherever they were going. Heather, you help him, but he’s the man in charge, okay?”

“No problem,” she replied.

“I’d start by seeing if we have enough hangar space and what the Canadians can do to assist,” he added.

“I’ll stop there on my way to the hangar.” She turned and picked her way out of the building.

“Take one of Greg’s guys with you!” Jack called after her.

“Okay.”

Jack watched her go and when he was sure she was out of view, stooped down to see what it was she put in her pocket. He picked up two vials of medication from the mess on the ground. The labels didn’t give a name, just a number. The fluid was clear and one was topped with a red cap, the other a yellow cap. He shook them. The contents had the consistently of water. Why was she so worried about it, and why had she pocketed some? He decided to do the same. He would ask Sydney about it later.

“What ya got there, Jack?” Larry asked.

“I’m not sure. But do me a favor and keep an eye on Heather while she’s in here. I want to know what she’s doing.”

Larry opened his mouth to ask more, but then thought better of it. Sometimes Jack had reasons that couldn’t be explained.

“You got it.”

“Quite a mess we have here!”

Jack and Larry turned to see Dennis Murphy picking his way carefully though the rubble toward them. They watched as he stumbled and almost fell into a crate of mosquito nets. He saved himself from falling and scrambled the last few yards to join them.

“So, what’s the plan for all of this?” he asked.

“We’ll try to determine where it was headed and get it shipped out of here. Is there anything the CIA can do to assist in that?” Jack asked.

“We sometimes used the charities to move our people around, without their knowledge, of course. We may have someone who can help. I’ll make some calls,” he replied. “Is there anything else I can do?”

Jack traded a look with Larry. “I don’t know. What can you do?”

Murphy smiled at that. “Fair enough question, I guess. Well, I can help trace any numbers your technicians may find. If the truck came from out of the country I can help get around the red tape. If it proves to be local, I have some contacts that we can question.”

“If it’s something that’s say . . . out of our jurisdiction?” Jack probed.

“I don’t think that will be a problem, unless you need it all neat and admissible in court?”

“Just as long as the information is good,” Jack answered.

“Ahh, a results man. Or so I’ve been told. I like that. Then you know how it works. Quality information requires time and patience. Information obtained in a hurry tends to be acquired under . . . stress, shall we say? Its accuracy is always questionable. All I can say is tell me what you need, and I’ll do the best I can to get it.”

“Fair enough. I’ll let you know about the other thing.”

“Right. So who inherits all this?” He spread his arms to indicate the entire building. Jack just pointed to Larry.

“My job now,” Larry answered. “Soon as Syd and Brad clear the place, we’ll get an inventory and then try to get it all shipped out. We have some hangar space at the airport to store some of it, and the Canadians have offered to help, too. We have security at the airport, Marines and locals, plus the usual airport security. Stuff should be safe there till we can get it out of here.”

“So you need trucks,” Murphy stated.

“Yeah, I guess I do,” Larry answered.

“Trucks I can do.”

•      •      •

“They seem to be getting ready to move the warehouse items somewhere.” The driver spoke on the satellite phone while the others listened.

John Kimball was sitting alone in a small restaurant just off of Yadkin road and was listening to his subordinate from half a world away. He appeared to be just another military bachelor that didn’t feel like cooking for himself that night. Not an uncommon sight in Fayetteville. The waitress would have been shocked to know the topic of the conversation.

“Yes, my source called and says they’re moving the agent to the airport tonight. It’s damaged, but still intact. The Reds were mixed with the Yellows. Can the agent be recovered?”

The driver shared a look with his partners before answering.

“Maybe.”