the Devil's Workshop (1999) (39 page)

Colonel Chittick stood in the field and looked at the impressive arrival of the White Train. There was only one such unit operating in the United States. It was booked by appointment through the Pentagon; its missions included frequent runs carrying nuclear waste from Three Mile Island, through the Appalachian Mountain Pass, across the South to Texas, where its radioactive load was pumped from the covered caskets inside the hopper cars into a titanium pipe that went thousands of feet down into the hot inner crust of the earth. There it was swept away by the burning, molten inferno of inner-earth gases into the planet's core.

As the engine shut down, its diesel growled like an unfed beast. Colonel Chittick hoped that in a matter of hours, they would have all of the sarin and anthrax that had been developed and stored at Fort Detrick over the last twenty years pumped aboard the hopper cars and that the train would be safely out of there.

The troop car door suddenly opened, startling Colonel Chittick. Then a uniformed scientist from the C
. D. C
. branch at Walter Reed Hospital got off. He was in an Army Major's uniform, complete with medical insignias.

"Major Flynn?" Colonel Chittick asked, reaching out to shake his hand.

"Yes. Colonel Chittick?" the man replied. Flynn did not have a trace of military bearing; he was a narrow-shouldered, balding man with glasses. He wore no combat designations or ribbons. He looked to Colonel Chittick to be in his mid-fifties.

Chittick nodded as they shook hands. The two of them had spoken twice on the phone.

Now, several Marines got out of the troop car and looked around. They were all dressed in camouflage uniforms and high
-
laced combat boots with their pants bloused and tucked neatly inside; all were wearing white helmets with the HAZMAT seal on the back.

"Come on," Chittick said. "We can take my car to the containment area." As the two Bell Jet Rangers finished winding down, the whine from their engines was finally replaced by the sound of cold night wind blowing across open fields of tall grass. Chittick led the Major over to a sedan command car, parked on a concrete apron with its headlights on. They got into the car, Colonel Chittick behind the wheel. He had released his driver for security reasons. As he pulled off the apron onto the narrow lane, he looked back over his shoulder... The White Train was parked in the middle of the empty field lit by moonlight, looking like some ghostly apparition with the two black dragonfly helicopter gunships next to it.

"Pretty fucking impressive," Chittick said.

"We transport some very nasty stuff," Major Adrian Flynn said, in his quiet, unobtrusive, scientific voice.

The trip to the Underground Containment Room took about ten minutes, and finally Chittick pulled up to a chain-link fence where two uniformed M
. P. S
with fully automatic M-14S let him pass. They drove down a concrete ramp to a pair of heavy metal doors that were cut into the side of a hill, like a fifties-style bomb shelter. They got out, and Chittick motioned Major Flynn over to the back of the car, where he removed two HEPA masks and canvas bio
-
suits from the trunk, then handed one rig to the Major.

"What's this for? I thought the material was stable."

"Well, let's call it a precaution," Chittick said. "There's a changing room right inside the underground," he added.

They moved down to the metal doors cut into the concrete wall. Colonel Chittick punched in a code. The door lock clicked and he swung it wide, then both men stepped inside.

They were in a small ready room, lit by neon bulbs. It was spare, with only two benches. The ceiling, walls, and floor were all poured concrete. There was a lead-foil material on the floor that wrapped up around the baseboards.

"Are you getting leakage?" Major Flynn asked, looking with alarm at the metal sheeting on the floor.

"This stuff started getting stored here in the mid-seventies. Back then they were using steel drums. We didn't switch to bio
-
containment caskets until the mid-eighties." Chittick tried to make it sound matter-of-fact, but Major Flynn was now glaring at him.

"You gotta be kidding," he said. "And how much time do I have, again, to get all this out of here?"

"No time, Major. We could have Senate investigators down here in a matter of hours--days at the most. There's more than just a little shit in the wind on this deal right now."

"My invoice says I'm picking up hundreds of gallons of sarin, anthrax, and accelerated Prions. Now you're telling me some of this stuffs in old oil drums?"

"Major, let's spare each other the golly-gee-whiz bullshit. We all know it's never as neat and clean as everybody says it is. The world is full of careless assholes, and we have to be ready to defend ourselves."

Major Adrian Flynn didn't say what he was thinking, but in that moment, he definitely agreed that the world was full of careless assholes ... and he was standing next to one of the biggest. After a moment of reflection, he finally started putting on the bio
-
containment gear.

Flynn and Colonel Chittick finished dressing, then moved to a security door, which was marked with stenciled red letters:

DANGER

LEVEL 3

Colonel Chittick had to place his palm on an electronic reader which identified his print before the lock clicked open. They moved into a huge underground storage warehouse, cold and windowless, lit with long banks of fluorescent tubes. Flynn estimated the room was almost an eighth of a square acre. Large metal drums sat on racks piled three tiers high. Each drum was marked with the type of biological or chemical weapon it contained, along with the date of manufacture and the date of storage. The classifications were stenciled on the front of each barrel in white letters.

There was another man standing in the room, also in full HEPA gear. Before they got to him, something caught Major Flynn's eye. He moved to inspect a row of metal drums.

"This shit is sweating," he said in alarm. "You've got rust here, and corrosion. How the fuck are we supposed to get this out without killing ourselves and half the camp?" He read the markings on the barrel. "This is pure sarin, for God's sake! From 1976!" Then he touched the barrel with a canvas-gloved hand, drawing his fingers across the sweating metal. "You people are outta your minds! This is about to start leaking. You've got enough stuff stored in this room to kill the entire population of the world twenty times over. Who's the idiot in charge here?"

"I am," a sandpapery voice came through the third man's HEPA mask.

"May I introduce Admiral James G. Zoll," Chittick said softly.

Zoll stepped forward and looked at the startled Major through the glass plate in his mask. The two men exchanged unfriendly looks.

"Here's the deal, Major," Admiral Zoll said. "You and your men get this stuff outta here and onto that train by tomorrow night, or the consequences will be staggering."

"That just may not be possible, Admiral. If one of these barrels breaks open, we'll have a bio-contamination disaster, which will take weeks to neutralize. I suggest you bulldoze the entrance and bury this room. Then pave the area over and pray you never get an earthquake."

"There are plans in the Pentagon that identify the location of every structure at Fort Detrick, including this underground facility. This bunker is clearly visible on the layout. Since I have a feeling the Senators are going to want to see it, one way or the other, you're gonna get it emptied out," the Crazy Ace growled.

"And if that's not possible?" Major Flynn said, his voice shaking with dread and anger.

"Everything is possible, Major. I just have to have the right man for the job and push him hard enough. You better be that man. What we have in this room is an international disaster waiting to happen. So let's not debate protocol, or operational difficulties, or your opinion on feasibilities. Let's just get this shit on its way."

Chapter
42

Fannon said, "I've been studying the original Greek and Hebrew versions of the Bible, and I found out that 'Adam' actually is a word that when translated from its root means 'capable of showing blood in the face.' "

"Really?" Dexter tried to sound interested, while hiding his contempt. He had had almost all he could take of Fannon Kincaid and his endless, egotistic, self-centered sermons that dealt more and more with his own martyrdom. Fannon saw himself as a religious superstar, destined to be remembered in church hymns and on stained-glass windows.

They were in a gully south of Frederick, about half a mile from the train yard, waiting for the six-o'clock switcher that would pass by on the track above them with ten cars loaded with supplies for Fort Detrick. The switch engine was a "pusher," so Fannon had warned them to be careful boarding or the engineer would see them from the high-hood switcher's windows.

"This ability to show blood in the face is what defines a White man. More proof that Adam was the father of the White race," Fannon said, after a long reflective pause.

"I see," Dexter said. "That makes very good sense." His mind was wandering dangerously.

Once they got on the base at Fort Detrick, Dexter had to devise a way to alert the Fort commandos. He was fairly sure that the Torn Victor Delta Force Rangers would make short work of Fannon Kincaid and his Choir of fanatics.

It would take Dexter only a short amount of time to change the pH factors on the Prions that were in the sturdy bio-containers, which Fannon had given Randall Rader to protect. Dexter intended to stall in the lab to buy time, and find a way to alert security. He had decided to use the USAMRIID neurotransmitter lab in the basement of Building 1666. He had chosen it for two reasons: It was a well-stocked lab that he had worked in for two years, and he knew where everything was; and, it was in an old building with few exits. Once they were below ground, if Dexter could set off one of the contamination alarms, they would be up to their asses in commandos in seconds. Then all he had to do was find a way to keep out of the line of fire until Fannon and his Choir were mowed down with the armor-piercing Black Talons that he knew the Fort commandos all used. Dexter had never been drawn to violence, but he was hungry to see Fannon Kincaid and his "Blood in the Face" Brotherhood riddled with bullets.

Then the high-hood switcher arrived right on time, pushing its ten cars. Six or seven of Fannon's men charged up the bank, out of hiding, and boarded the front cars as the train passed. Fannon's war party was only ten strong, including Dexter. The Reverend had elected to leave the majority behind, going for a small, less visible strike force. Dexter and the rest of the heavily armed band now raced up the bank of the gully. While a bend in the track blocked the engineer's view, they jumped on the rods that were under the cars. It was uncomfortable and dangerous, but Fannon had already explained that they were only going to be on the train for five miles, until it arrived inside the Fort.

With Randall Rader lying under the railcar beside him, Dexter felt his heart beating with apprehension. He was only a few feet above the grinding metal wheels, resting on the narrow suspension rods, holding on for dear life.

In less than fifteen minutes, Dexter DeMille and all ten members of Fannon's assault team were inside the Fort. The train was only going twenty miles an hour, but the frightening sensation of speed caused by lying so close to the tracks was overpowering. Dexter locked his eyes on the scenery beyond and prayed he wouldn't lose his grip and fall. He had been hoping that they would be stopped and arrested at the perimeter of the Fort, but the rail system had proved to be a surprisingly good way of subverting all roadblocks and security measures.

Once inside Fort Detrick, the train slowed and headed across open fields toward the warehouse where the cars would be disconnected, then left to be unloaded. As they neared the low black buildings, Fannon Kincaid was the first off the train, suddenly running alongside the car that Dexter was on.

"Off now! Head for that gully!" Fannon screamed above the rumble of the metal wheels. Randall, who was riding the same suspension rod as Dexter, pushed him in the back, knocking him off his resting place and onto the gravel shoulder. Dexter rolled down a hill, with four other members of the Choir alongside him, until he hit with a thud at the bottom of the gully.

"Stay low," Fannon commanded, as the high-hood switcher rumbled past. The engineer appeared not to have seen them.

Suddenly, the air brakes on the huge train screamed; metal shrieked against metal, as the ten cars slowed dramatically. The engineer inched the cars closer, until they were alongside a concrete loading dock.

Dexter was watching all of this from fifty yards away when suddenly Fannon Kincaid was at his shoulder.

"We're gonna hide in them woods, over there," the new Messiah said, pointing at a heavy stand of trees some distance off. "Everybody stay in this gully till we're outta sight a' them buildings," he ordered.

They moved in a group, crouching low, heading toward the wash near the tracks and finally up into the coolness of the wooded hillside.

"God's time is coming," Fannon said to them all, as they crouched in the leafy moon shadows created by the stand of trees.