Recovery: V Plague Book 8 (11 page)

“Got it,
sir!”  Martinez called out across the dark room, holding a file folder in the
air and waving it over her head.

Colonel
Crawford dropped the stack of files he was thumbing through and stood, meeting
her half way across the booking area of the jail section.  She handed him the
file and he looked at it then turned for the open side door.

“Let’s go
outside where there’s enough light to read,” he said and led the way.

Checking the
tab on the folder he verified it was the name the prisoner had given him. 
Walker, Johnnie Ray.  Opening the file he flipped through the first several
pages as Martinez looked over his shoulder.

The first
page was the booking sheet with basic information about the man and a mug shot paper-clipped
to the top of the paper.  The face in the photo matched the man he’d met.  The
form listed details about the person being incarcerated, including the date,
time and location of the arrest, the arresting officer’s name and the reason
for the arrest. 

The listed
charge was possession of stolen property.  Crawford kept turning pages until he
found the report filed by the officer who had brought Walker in.

An Oklahoma
State Trooper had pulled him over for failing to signal a lane change at 0341,
or 3:41 AM.  The subject had been cooperative at first, providing his drivers
license and proof of insurance, but had become agitated when asked what he was
doing out so late at night.

The Trooper
had called in Walker’s name and when he learned the man was on probation for
burglary he hadn’t needed permission to search the vehicle.  Pulling Walker out
and cuffing him, he’d placed him in the back seat of the patrol car.  He had
conducted a quick visual scan of the interior of the vehicle then popped the
trunk.

When he’d
gotten a look at the stash of rifles, pistols and shotguns hidden beneath a
thick blanket he’d called for backup and read the suspect his rights.  They
were in the middle of nowhere and it took close to half an hour for another
Trooper to arrive. 

With two
officers at the scene they began pulling the weapons out and recording serial
numbers.  A quick check over the radio of the first number he had written down
and the Trooper was advised the rifle was reported as stolen in a burglary
three weeks prior.   

Several
hours later Johnnie Ray was booked into the jail.  It turned out all of the
firearms had been stolen and when the information was entered into the State
Police computers a flag from the ATFE (Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and
Explosives) on the suspect’s name popped up.  The flag meant the Feds wanted
him, and he was placed on a federal hold.

But the
Federal Agents that were scheduled to come get him never showed up.  That
night, several American cities were devastated by nuclear weapons and a deadly
nerve gas was released in many others.  Johnnie Ray Walker was forgotten,
except by the local officers who kept the prisoners fed as the outside world
crumbled.

Colonel
Crawford scanned several other documents, pausing to read one titled “Suspect’s
Criminal History”.  Walker had been in and out of jail and prison since he’d
turned 18 and the Colonel suspected there was also a long juvenile record that
wasn’t included in the history search.  Burglary, armed robbery, possession of
stolen property, assault, assault with intent, aggravated assault, possession
of a prohibited explosive, possession of a prohibited firearm and a long list
of misdemeanor charges.

“He’s a real
sweetheart,” Martinez commented. 

“I’m sure
he’s just misunderstood,” Crawford grunted and closed the file.

“Scott’s
here, sir.” She said a moment later when they heard a machine gun fire a short
burst at the front of the building.

They walked
to the corner in time to see Igor wheeling the gate open.  Scott had the
commander’s hatch up, his head sticking out of it.  Martinez waved until he
spotted them and waved back.  The Bradley rolled through the opening and
stopped, waiting for Igor to close the gate.

“Always have
to make an entrance, don’t you?”  Martinez joked when the big vehicle pulled to
a stop next to them.

“Not me,”
Scott answered.  “It was our trigger happy Russian friend.”

Igor had
climbed onto the hull of the Bradley for the short drive inside the gate and
jumped to the ground with a big grin.  Martinez wondered if his English was
getting better.

“Is the
Major on the road?”  Scott asked.

“About
forty-five minutes ago,” Crawford answered, tapping his leg with the file
folder he still held.  “Get on the FSOC and see if you can find someone that
can put you through to Dr. Kanger in Seattle.  You’ll probably need to call
Admiral Packard’s aide.  Commander Jensen.”

“Yes, sir. 
I’ll let you know when I have someone,” Scott said, disappearing back into the
Bradley a moment later.

“May I ask
what you’re thinking, sir?”  Martinez asked as Irina emerged from the rear
hatch and stretched her back.

“I’m
thinking that man in there is a real dirt-bag and not someone we want with us. 
But it’s really bothering me that he hasn’t turned.  I want to have a
conversation with the Doctor and see if it’s even remotely possible that we’ve
found someone who’s immune.”

“You really
think that’s even possible, sir?”  Martinez asked.

“That’s why
I want to talk to the expert,” Crawford said.

“Could he be
a Russian agent that was vaccinated before they sent him in?”

“The Major
asked the same thing, but I don’t think so.  Not with this criminal record.  I
think he’s exactly what he appears to be.” 

“Maybe we
should ask?”  Martinez tilted her head in Irina’s direction, a moment later
Crawford nodding and walking over to the Russian woman.

“Captain
Vostov,” he greeted her.

“Colonel,”
she met his eyes.

“I have a
question for you and I need you to be completely truthful with me.”

“Of course,
sir.  There’s no reason not to be any longer.”  She replied.

“I know your
KGB, now the SVR, as well as the GRU placed sleeper agents among the American
population.  We did the same to you.  I’ve got a man inside the jail that
hasn’t turned, and I can’t understand why, unless he was vaccinated.  But he’s
been in jail since before the attacks so there’s no chance he received any of
the vaccine you brought us.  Do you understand where I’m going with this?” 
Crawford asked.

“I
understand, Colonel.  But I don’t know how I can help.”

“Was vaccine
sent to Russian agents in place ahead of the attacks?”  He stood watching her
intently, looking for any sign of deceit.

“I don’t
know, sir.  It could have happened, but if it did I have no knowledge of it.”

“I believe
you,” he said after a few moments of looking intently into her eyes.  “Is there
any way for you to determine if someone is an agent?”

“Without
prior knowledge, no sir, there isn’t.  If there was your FBI wouldn’t have had
to work so hard to find them.” 

“I accept
that,” he said.  “Final question.  Are you aware of any instances during the
development of the virus where a test subject was found to be immune?”

Irina stood
for a moment, thinking, then shook her head.  “Nothing that specific.  All I
can tell you is that I remember reading a document my Uncle gave me that
discussed the project.  It said the infection rate in a given population was
predicted to be ninety-nine point nine-nine percent. 

“I don’t
recall anywhere that the term immune, or immunity, was used, but it would seem
to me that by extension point zero one percent of the population would not
become infected.  The US population at the time of the attacks was slightly
over three hundred million.  Estimating thirty million killed in the initial
nuclear attacks and subsequent radiation and another one hundred million killed
by the infected or each other that leaves one hundred and seventy million. 
Point zero one percent of that is seventeen thousand.”

Crawford and
Martinez stood staring at her, stunned at her cold calculation of the death
toll of millions of Americans.

“I’m sorry,”
Irina said softly, looking down at the ground.

“You simply
answered my question, Captain.”  Crawford said after a long pause.

“Colonel,
they’re connecting me to the SEAL team leader with Dr. Kanger in Seattle. 
Should have him on the line in a moment,” Scott shouted from the Bradley.

“Ladies,”
Crawford excused himself and headed for the vehicle.

“You OK?” 
Martinez asked Irina when she saw a tear run down the Russian woman’s cheek.

“So much
death,” Irina answered.  “All that blood.  I feel like it’s on my hands just
because I’m Russian.”

Navy SEAL
Lieutenant David Sam tapped on the glass separating him from the biohazard lab.
 On the other side, wearing isolation suits, Dr. Rick Kanger and Joe Revard looked
up from their work.  They were deep inside the building that housed the Allen
Institute for Cell Science on the shore of South Lake Union in Seattle,
Washington. 

Kanger’s journey
to get there from Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma City had been both
exhilarating and terrifying.  Within an hour of being pulled into a meeting
with Colonel Crawford, he had been stuffed into a too tight G-suit then into
the back seat of an F-15 that had rocketed off the runway like a screaming
banshee.

Once they
had completed their mid-air refueling the pilot had gained altitude and pushed
their speed to well above Mach 1, or the sound barrier.  They had flown level
and straight and in only ninety minutes the pilot had announced they were over
Seattle.

“Where are
we landing?”  Kanger asked.  He was somewhat familiar with the area, having
travelled there several times for conferences.

“Whidbey
Island Naval Air Station,” had been the reply.

Kanger didn’t
know where that was, or why they weren’t landing at the airport.  Leaning his
helmeted head to the side he looked down but there was nothing other than an
impenetrable layer of clouds beneath the aircraft.  Moments later the pilot
pushed the nose of the aircraft over and they streaked down directly into the
overcast.

They came
out of the clouds not far above the ground, rain sounding like the impacts of
shotgun pellets when it spattered against the canopy.  Whidbey Island was large
and long, surrounded by a storm tossed, steel grey ocean.  Turbulence buffeted
the jet as they roared along over emerald green forests so dense the ground
wasn’t visible.

Soon they
flashed over a small town, a fence passed under them and the F-15’s tires
slammed onto a runway.  They slowed to taxi speed quickly, the pilot falling in
behind a Hummer outfitted with flashing orange lights and an illuminated
“Follow Me” sign on the back.

Pulling
through into a large hangar, the pilot raised the canopy and shut down the
engines.  Cool, damp air mixed with the smell of jet exhaust and swirled into
the cockpit.  There were a couple of thumps as a portable staircase was wheeled
against the side of the plane, then a young black man poked his head up.  He
was dressed in militaryish clothing, which lacked any name or rank insignia,
and was well armed.

“Dr. Kanger,
I’m Lieutenant Sam, US Navy.  Come with me, please.”  He disappeared back down
the stairs as quickly as he’d appeared.

Kanger
unstrapped himself and took the helmet and oxygen mask off, dropping them on
the seat.  He thanked the Air Force pilot for a safe ride and wished him good
luck before stepping out onto the ladder and slowly climbing down.  Lieutenant
Sam and three other similarly dressed men stood waiting for him.

“This way,
please.”  The Lieutenant said and turned, but Kanger held up his hand for him
to stop.

“I’m sorry,
but I’ve been needing to pee for two hours.  Where’s the restroom?”  He asked.

“There’s a
head on the way, sir.  Now, please.  We need to move.”  Sam turned and began
purposefully striding towards a door in the back wall of the hangar.  Kanger
fell in behind him, failing to notice that the other three men formed up in a
protective bubble around him.

After a
quick restroom break in an adjacent building they climbed into a waiting
Humvee.  One of the other men, who hadn’t been introduced, was behind the
wheel.  Sam and a man sporting a shaved head and an impressive beard sandwiched
Kanger between them in the backseat, the fourth riding shotgun.

The man
drove fast and sure, quickly leaving the aviation area of the installation
behind and driving down a gentle slope towards a large harbor.  A variety of small
Navy ships were tied up, but in Kanger’s opinion all of them looked too small
to be going out into the rough seas he’d seen just before landing.

The Hummer
wheeled into a spot at the entrance to a long, wooden dock.  On either side floated
a ship, grey hulls rising well above his head.  OK, maybe they weren’t so small
after all.

Climbing
out, Lieutenant Sam held the door for him then led the way through the rain. 
Kanger expected to be boarding one of the two ships that he now realized were
each over a hundred feet in length but Sam strode past their access ramps.  He
kept following the younger man, coming to a stop when the only vessel remaining
came into view. 

It was a
small boat, no more than thirty feet long, with a pedestal that held a steering
wheel and throttle about twenty feet from the stern.  There was a short
windshield for the driver but the entire boat was open.

“What the
hell is that?”  He asked. 

Sam stopped
and turned around, his face a mask of professionalism.

“It is a
RIB, sir.”

“A what?”

“A
Rigid-hull Inflatable Boat.  That’s how we’re getting to our destination,
sir.”  He said patiently.

“Seriously? 
Have you seen the waves out there?”  Kanger gestured at the mouth of the harbor
where white caps were clearly visible.  “Don’t you have a helicopter or
something?

“A helo
would just draw unwanted attention to our destination.  I’m fully aware of the
weather and we’re well within the operational parameters of this craft.  Now,
we need to move to catch the tide.”  Sam stood staring at him, not even
blinking as the wind driven rain pelted his face.

“There’s got
to be another way.  Maybe one of those,” Kanger said, starting to take a step
back and gesturing at the larger ships.

Sam moved
forward until he was standing very close to him.  “Doctor, there is no other
way.  I don’t have time to explain all of the requirements and limitations of
this operation to you.  You’re going to have to trust me and get in that boat.”

“I don’t
have to do anything!”  Kanger said, fear causing his voice to raise several
octaves. 

He loved to
fly and had thoroughly enjoyed the ride in the F-15 Falcon, but he couldn’t
swim and was terrified of water.  He got nervous standing at the edge of a lake
and just being on the wide dock was causing him to start hyperventilating.  The
thought of going out in that tiny boat onto the wind tossed ocean petrified
him.

The man who
had been standing at the wheel of the RIB stepped up onto the dock and began
walking towards the small group.  He was older than all of what Kanger
suspected were SEALs.  As he drew closer the Doctor could tell he was quite a
bit older, probably in his early sixties.  He had broad shoulders with a
powerful chest and arms despite his age and walked with the rolling gate of a
lifetime sailor.

“Sir, I’m
Coast Guard Boatswains Mate Master Chief Mark Stag.”  He had pronounced
Boatswains as ‘Bosuns’, and held his hand out in greeting after pushing past
the younger men.

Kanger
automatically extended his and Stag grabbed it in an iron grip, pulled them
close together and pressed a Taser against the Doctor’s neck.  He held it there
briefly before quickly shoving it in a pocket and gently lowering Kanger to the
dock.  He pulled his hands behind his back and secured them with a zip tie.

“Think you
ladies can get him on the fuckin’ boat now?”  He turned and glared at
Lieutenant Sam.  “We miss the goddamn tide we aren’t going in until tomorrow.”

Sam gestured
at two of the men and they moved to each side of Kanger, grabbing him under the
arms to lift him to his feet.  Stag led the way to the RIB, the SEALs following
with Kanger in tow.

“Goddamn
squids,” Stag muttered as he started the engines.

“You
remember I’m an officer?”  Sam said as the men got settled and strapped Kanger
to an empty seat.

“You
remember I’m retired and don’t have to put up with any shit from wet behind the
ears kids?”  Stag growled, feeding in throttle as soon as one of the men
released the last line that was securing them to the dock.  “Better have a
seat, sonny.  It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

With the bow
pointed at the open water of the harbor, Stag shoved the throttles forward and
the RIB leapt ahead.  The harbor was sheltered but the water was still choppy. 
It was nothing like the eight and ten foot waves breaking in the open water of
Puget Sound. 

The rain was
coming harder and as they approached the transition to unprotected sea the weather
picked up and Stag had to turn the wheel into the teeth of the wind to keep
them on course.  Adjusting his speed he timed it so that they exited the harbor
into a trough between two waves, cutting the wheel hard left and feeding in more
throttle to get the small boat in sync with the water. 

A large
storm was pushing down from the Gulf of Alaska, bringing strong winds and lots
of rain to the region.  The wind pushed on the surface of the Sound, lifting it
into rank after rank of waves rolling south towards Seattle.  They were moving
fast but Stag wanted to move faster.  Once they reached Seattle they would have
to enter a ship canal and then transition through a series of locks into Lake
Union.  Their destination was on the south shore of the lake.

The locks
were the Hiram M. Chittenden Locks, or the Ballard Locks to the locals, and had
been built by the Army Corps of Engineers.  They separated several large fresh
water lakes, Lake Washington the largest, from the salt water of Puget Sound,
keeping the level of the lakes several feet above the sea. 

Boats moving
from the Sound into the lakes, or vice-versa, could pass through and be lifted
or lowered to the level of the water they were transitioning to.  Unlike the ocean
the lakes didn’t have tides.  As the water level in Puget Sound went up and
down with the position and phases of the moon, the difference in levels controlled
by the locks changed significantly. 

High tide
was in another ninety minutes and if they didn’t get there in time they
wouldn’t make it through.  Without the higher water level brought by the tide,
and to a lesser degree the storm surge, there would be too much of a difference
in levels between the canal that was open to the ocean and the lake.  There was
no electricity to run the powerful pumps once a boat was in the lock, so they
needed every inch of height they could get from the ocean side.

The massive
gates that controlled the locks could be manually operated, but if the water
levels were more than a few feet different, transition through would be too
dangerous.  As they approached the first gate they would be floating on water
open to the sea.  The SEALs could crank the big wheel that would open the salt-water
side gate, letting the lake level water trapped inside the lock flow out until it
equalized with the sea.

Stag had
already made a scouting run and knew the current water level in the lock.  When
the outer gate opened the extra water would come surging out in a flood, but he
could have the boat far enough away that it would only be a ripple when it passed
under his hull.  The height would now match sea level and he could motor into
the lock.  Once the SEALs closed the outer gate, they could open the inner. 

At high tide
there was approximately a two and a half foot difference between sea level and
the lake surface.  When the inner gate opened, a thirty-inch high wall of lake
water would rush into the lock, hopefully not smashing the RIB into one of the
concrete walls with enough force to damage it. 

Thirty
inches didn’t sound like a lot, but Stag had lived and worked on the water his
entire life and knew how deceptively powerful and devastating it could be.  The
small lock they would be using was thirty feet wide and one hundred fifty feet
long.  Thirty inches of water depth meant more than eleven thousand cubic feet
of water would come boiling in as soon as the inner gate was opened.

A cubic foot
of water weighs about sixty-three pounds.  Conservatively, Stag estimated,
there would be about seven hundred thousand pounds of water come crashing in
when they opened the lakeside gate.  And the fucking squids wondered why he was
in such a goddamn hurry to get there at high tide.