The Hades Factor (24 page)

“And the answer to who killed Sophia could also tell us the rest, too,” Peter decided. “My assignment, right?”

“Yes. Yours and Marty's.” He looked back. “You keep trying to pull up any missing phone calls, Mart, and locate Griffin. But hit and run this time. Don't stay on the same line long. Switch routes. Those are two important assignments.”

Marty's face was guilty. “I'm sorry, Jon.”

“I know.” Jon paused. “We've got to have some way to stay in touch.”

“The Internet,” Marty said promptly. “But not regular E-mail.”

“Right you are,” Peter agreed. “But perhaps there's somewhere we can leave a message.”

Jon smiled. “I know--- right under their noses, where they'll never see it. We can use the Asperger's syndrome Web site.”

Marty nodded enthusiastically. “That's great, Jon. Perfect.”

They continued to discuss the site's Web ring and what kind of coded messages to leave until Peter suddenly shouted: “Hold fast! Bogies at ten o'clock!”

The RV gave a wild lurch to the right, swaying so far over for a second it rode on two wheels. A volley of shots exploded from the forest. Glass flew and metal ripped at the back of the RV. Marty cried out.

“Mart?” Jon looked back.

Marty sat huddled on the floor of the careening RV, clutching his left leg and trying not to be flung from side to side like a sack of flour. A bloody sack of flour. Jon could see a spreading pool of red on Marty's trouser leg, but Marty grinned feebly and said in a shaky voice, “I'm all right, Jon.”

“Get a towel,” Jon called back, “fold it and press it hard against the wound. If the bleeding doesn't stop soon, yell out.”

He needed to stay in the cab where he could use Peter's Enfield if any of the attackers cut them off.

Peter was too busy to use a weapon as he turned the wheel with a vise grip, his pale eyes cool. The unwieldy vehicle bounced off the road through the trees and brush, miraculously hitting nothing as Peter guided it with the precision of an astronaut docking at a space station. Twice he plunged the massive vehicle through streams, kicking up sheets of water and tilting dangerously on rocks hidden beneath the surfaces.

On the road, two men ran with rifles trying to get a clear shot at the RV, but the bone-jarring, unpredictable lurches and bounces of the vehicle frustrated them. They dodged branches and leaped over rocks. Behind them, a gray SUV battled to turn on the narrow road so it could join the pursuit.

As the runners fell farther behind, Jon spotted a deep ravine looming straight ahead. “Peter! Careful!”

“Got it!” Peter slammed the brakes and pivoted in a half J-turn. The top-heavy vehicle threatened to flip over as it skidded sideways, sideswiped two giant boulders, and finally came to a shuddering stop barely feet from the chasm.

On the road, the runners were far back but closing in again. In the distance, the SUV had almost succeeded in turning.

Tension in the RV was thick. Jon stared down at the deep ravine and wiped sweat from his face.

“Here we go.” Peter gunned the engine, and the big vehicle leaped ahead parallel to the ravine and straight toward the road.

Jon watched the two pursuing attackers, who were trying to shortcut the road by sprinting among the trees. “They're getting close!”

Peter gave the running men a quick glance. The ravine made a sudden sharp turn away, and he angled the RV out of the trees and onto the road once more. With a relieved grin, he jerked the clumsy vehicle around and roared away down the dirt road, kicking up clouds of dust.

A final fusillade rang out, and bullets slashed through the trees around the fleeing vehicle. Jon forced himself to take a long breath and relax his hands on his weapon. He checked the side-view mirror: The two men had been joined by a third, and they stood angry and frustrated, their weapons dangling at their sides, in the center of the dusty road.

Jon recognized the short, burly man who had joined the first two.

“It's them,” he said angrily. “The people who've been trying to kill me.” He looked at Peter. “There'll be more of them somewhere.”

“Of course.” Peter studied the rough road as the vehicle continued to shake and bounce. “Evasive strategy, I should say. Knowledge of the terrain. Trust the enemy to overrate the element of surprise.”

Jon climbed back to Marty, hanging on to anything he could hold. But this time Marty was right--- the flesh wound in his left leg was superficial. Jon applied antibiotic and a bandage. One of the RV's windows had been shot out and the outer shell ripped with bullet holes in three places, but nothing had penetrated, and nothing important was damaged, especially not the computer that was part of Peter's standard equipment.

He rejoined Peter up front, and five minutes later heard the sound of traffic.

“What do you think?” He scrutinized the dirt road ahead as it wound down among the trees. “Will they be waiting where we join the highway?”

“Or sooner. Let's disappoint them.” Peter smiled his almost dreamy smile.

Ahead was a track that led off from the road to the left. Even narrower than the road they traveled, even more deeply rutted, it was only inches wider than the RV. But it was a road, not a trail.

Peter explained, “Fire road. Forest's full of them. Unmarked on any maps but the forestry service's and the fire district's.”

“We're taking it?” Jon asked.

“The scenic route.” With a short smile, Peter swung the RV onto it.

Pine branches brushed and scraped against the RV's metal sides. The noise was endless and unnerving, like fingers on a chalkboard. Fifteen minutes later, just as Jon was beginning to think he was going to lose his mind, he saw the end of the road.

“This it?” he asked Peter hopefully.

“What? Stop this lovely jaunt?” Peter turned the vehicle onto another fire road. “We're going downhill now, notice? Won't be long,” he said cheerfully. “Buck up, lad.”

This fire road was an equally tight squeeze. Overhanging branches continued to scratch the sides as Peter pressed the RV onward. Jon closed his eyes and sighed, trying to keep his skin from crawling. At least Marty was not complaining from the back. But then, Marty was on his meds. Thank God for at least that.

When they finally reached the highway, Jon sat up alertly. Peter paused the RV among the trees at the blacktop's edge. The horrible scratching and groaning stopped, and only the sound of the engine and the traffic marred the quiet beauty of the forest.

Jon peered around. “Any sign of them?” Traffic on the wide two-lane road in front of them was heavier than he'd expected. “This isn't I20.”

“U.S. 395. The big one on this side. Should do. See anyone lurking?”

Jon surveyed both directions. “No one.”

“Good. Neither do I. Which way?”

“Which way gets us to San Francisco faster?”

“To the right, and back on I20 through Yosemite.”

“To the right then, and I20.”

Peter's pale eyes twinkled. “Cheeky of you.”

“Going back the way we came should be the last thing they'd expect us to do, and all RVs look alike anyway.”

“Unless the ambushers read our plate.”

“Take the plates off.”

“Dammit, my boy. Should've thought of that.” Peter pulled a screwdriver and a set of Montana license plates from the glove compartment and jumped out.

Jon grabbed his Beretta and followed. He stood watch as Peter lifted off the old one and screwed on a license from Montana. In the tranquil forest, birds sang and insects buzzed.

Minutes later, both men returned inside.

Marty was sitting at the computer. He looked up. “Everything okay?”

“Absolutely,” Jon reassured him.

Peter put the RV into gear and said enthusiastically, “Let's bell the cat.”

He rolled the lumbering vehicle onto the highway heading south. When the I20 intersection appeared, he turned onto it, and they climbed back uphill. A quarter of a mile later they passed two SUVs parked along the dense forest, one on each side of the dirt road that led from the back of Peter's property.

At one of the SUVs, a tall, pockmarked man with hooded dark eyes and wearing a black suit spoke into a walkie-talkie. He seemed agitated, and he stared up the mountainside in frustration. He hardly glanced at the battered RV with the Montana plates as it climbed up the highway toward Yosemite.

“Arab,” Peter said. “Looks dangerous.”

“My conclusion, too.” Jon stared at the highway traffic. His voice was grave. “Let's hope I can find some answers in Iraq, and that you'll be able to track Bill Griffin and find out more about Sophia's death. Those erased phone calls could be critical.”

They drove on. Peter turned on the radio. It droned news of an unknowing world, while the approaching darkness cast its long, ominous shadows over the white peaks of the high Sierras ahead.

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Covert One 1 - The Hades Factor

PART THREE

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CHAPTER

TWENTY FIVE

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8:00 P.M., Tuesday, October 21

The White House, Washington, D.C.

Like an accusation, the front page of The Washington Post lay on the big Cabinet Room oval table where the president had left it. Although none of the solemn cabinet chiefs who sat around the polished table and none of their assistants who packed the walls looked at the newspaper with its banner headline, everyone was painfully aware of it. They had awakened to find their own copies lying on their doorsteps, just as hundreds of millions of Americans had discovered similar terrifying headlines awaiting them. All day long the news had blared from their radios. On television, little else was discussed.

For days scientists and the military had kept the president and high officials informed, but not until now, when the so-called civilized world seemed to erupt with the news, had the full force of the growing epidemic hit home.

DEADLY PANDEMIC OF UNKNOWN VIRUS SWEEPS GLOBE

In the packed cabinet room, Secretary of State Norman Knight pushed his metal-rimmed glasses up on his long nose. His voice was sober. “Twenty-seven nations have reported fatalities due to the virus, a total so far of more than a half million. All began with symptoms of a heavy cold or mild flu for some two weeks, then it'd suddenly escalate into acute respiratory distress syndrome and death within hours, sometimes less.” He sighed unhappily. “Forty-two nations are reporting sudden cases of what appears to be a mild flu. We don't know yet whether that's the virus, too. We've barely started counting those victims, but they're in the high millions.”

A shocked hush greeted the secretary's figures. The packed room seemed to grow rigid.

President Samuel Adams Castilla's penetrating gaze traveled slowly over their faces. He was looking for clues into the minds of his cabinet chiefs. He had to know on whom he could count to remain steady and bring knowledge, wisdom, and the will to act. Who would panic? Who would be shocked into paralysis? Knowledge without the will to act was impotent. Will to act without knowledge was blind and reckless. And anyone with neither to offer needed to be dismissed.

Finally he spoke, keeping his voice composed. “All right, Norm. How many in the United States?”

The secretary of state's long face was topped by an unruly shock of thick white hair. “Beyond the nine cases early last week, the CDC reports some fifty more deaths and at least a thousand flulike cases that they're testing for the new virus right now.”

“It looks like we're getting off light,” said Admiral Stevens Brose, chairman of the Joint Chiefs. His voice was cautiously hopeful.

Too cautious and too hopeful, President Castilla reflected. It was strange, but he had noticed that military men were often the least willing to act on the instant. But then, they had seen the deadly consequences of ill-considered action more than most.

“That's so far,” Nancy Petrelli, secretary of Health and Human Services, pointed out ominously. “Which doesn't mean we won't be devastated tomorrow.”

“No, I suppose it doesn't,” the president agreed, a little surprised by the HHS secretary's negative tone. He had always found her to be the optimistic type. Probably a measure of the terror this virus was instilling in people and governments. That alone emphasized the need for action--- considered and meaningful action, yes, but some action, to mitigate the sense of helpless panic that could freeze everyone in its grip.

He turned to the surgeon general. “Anything new on where those six original cases contracted the virus, Jesse? A connection among them?”

“Aside from the fact that all were either in Desert Storm or related to someone who was, neither the CDC nor USAMRIID has been able to find anything.”

"Overseas?

“The same,” Surgeon General Jesse Oxnard admitted. “All the scientists agree they're stumped. They can see it in their electron microscopes, but the DNA sequence information so far doesn't offer any useful clues. It matches no known virus exactly, so they can only guess how to deal with it. They have no idea where it came from and nothing that'll cure or stop it. All they can suggest are the usual methods for treating any viral fever and then hope the mortality rate is no worse than the fifty percent we had in the first six cases.”

“At least that's something,” the president decided. “We can mobilize every medical resource in the advanced industrialized countries and send them all over the world. Medicines, too. Everything anyone needs or thinks they need.” The president nodded to Anson McCoy, secretary of defense. “You put the whole armed forces at Jesse's disposal, Anse, everything--- transports, troops, ships, whatever it takes.”

“Yessir,” Anson McCoy agreed.

“Within reason, sir,” Admiral Brose warned. “There are some nations that might try to take advantage if we put too many resources into this. We could leave ourselves open to attack.”

“The way it's going, Stevens,” the president said dryly, “there might not be much left to attack or defend anywhere. It's a time for new thinking, people. The old answers aren't working. Lincoln said something like that in a crisis a long time ago, and we may damn well be approaching the same kind of crisis now. Kenny and Norman have been trying to tell us that for years. Right, Kenny?”

Secretary of the Interior Kenneth Dahlberg nodded. “Global warming. Environmental degradation. Destruction of the rain forests. Migration from rural areas all across the Third World. Overpopulation. It's all leading to the emergence of new diseases everywhere. That means a lot of deaths. This epidemic may be only the tip of the iceberg.”

“Which means we've got to put everything into stopping it,” the president said. “As must every industrialized country.” Out of the corners of his eyes he saw Nancy Petrelli open her mouth as if to object. “And don't tell me how much it's going to cost, Nancy. That doesn't matter at this point.”

“I agree, sir. I was going to offer an idea.”

“Okay.” The president tried to control his impatience. In his mind he was gearing up for action. “Tell us what's on your mind.”

“I disagree that all scientists have nothing to suggest. My office had a call not an hour ago from a Dr. Victor Tremont, chairman and CEO of Blanchard Pharmaceuticals. He said he couldn't be absolutely certain, having never tested it against the new virus, but the description he's heard of the virus and its symptoms seems to closely match a monkey virus his company's been working with for some years.” She paused for effect. “They have developed a serum that cures it most of the time.”

There was a stunned moment. Excitement exploded in a cacophony of conflicting voices. They bombarded the HHS secretary with questions. They objected to the possibility. They thrilled at a cure.

Finally the president slammed his fist onto the table. “Hold it, dammit! All of you, shut up!”

The cabinet room almost vibrated with the abrupt silence. The president glared at each of them, allowing time for the room to calm. Tension was palpable, and the ticking of the clock on the mantel seemed as loud as thunder.

Finally, President Castilla returned his hard gaze to the HHS secretary. “Let's hear that again straight out and in fewer words, Nancy. Someone thinks they have a cure for this thing? Where? How?”

Nancy Petrelli glanced with considerable animosity toward her fellow cabinet members and the other advisers who were ready to jump on her again. “As I said, sir, his name is Victor Tremont. He's CEO and chairman of Blanchard Pharmaceuticals, a large international biomedical company. He says a team at Blanchard has developed a cure against a virus found in monkeys from South America. Animal testing has been highly positive, a veterinary use patent has been granted, and everything's under review by the FDA.”

Surgeon General Oxnard frowned. “It hasn't been approved by the FDA even for animals?”

“Or ever tested on humans?” Secretary of Defense McCoy demanded.

“No,” the HHS secretary said, “they had no intention of using it on humans. Dr. Tremont thinks this unknown virus may be the same monkey virus but contracted now by humans, and I'd say--- considering the circumstances--- we'd be idiots not to investigate further.”

“Why would anyone develop a cure for a monkey virus?” the secretary of commerce wanted to know.

“To learn how to combat viruses in general. To develop mass production techniques for the future,” Nancy Petrelli told them. “You've just heard Ken and Norman say emerging viruses are an increasing danger to the world with all the access to what were once remote areas. Today's monkey virus can be tomorrow's human epidemic. I'd say we can all appreciate that now, can't we? Maybe we should consider the possibility that a monkey-virus cure just might cure humans, too.”

The hubbub erupted again.

“Too damn dangerous.”

“I think Nancy's right. We don't have a choice.”

“FDA would never allow it.”

“What do we have to lose?”

“A lot. It could be worse than the disease.”

And: “Does it sound a little funny to anyone else? I mean, a cure for an unknown disease just appearing out of nowhere?”

“Come on, Sam, they've obviously been working on it for years.”

“A lot of pure research doesn't have a practical use at first, then suddenly it does.”

Until the president again banged the table.

“All right! All right! We'll discuss it. I'll listen to any and all objections. But right now, I want Nancy and Jesse to go to this Blanchard Pharmaceuticals and check it out. We have a disaster on our hands, and we certainly don't want to make it any worse. At the same time, we could use a miracle right about now. Let's all hope to hell this Tremont knows what he's talking about. Let's do more. Let's pray he's right before half the world is wiped out.” He stood up. “All right, that's it. We all know what we have to do. Let's do it.”

He strode from the room with a far more positive stride and manner than he felt. He had young children of his own, and he was frightened.

__________

In the soundproof backseat of her long black limousine, Nancy Petrelli spoke into her cell phone. “I waited until the situation appeared to be as grim as possible, as you suggested, Victor. When I saw that everyone was ready to concede all we could do was put on Band-Aids and hand out a lot of TLC, I dropped our bombshell. There was a lot of gnashing of teeth, but in the end I'd say the president's position is, basically, he's ready to take any help he can get.”

“Good. Intelligent.” Far away in the Adirondacks, Tremont smiled in his office above the placid and peaceful lake. “How is Castilla going to handle it?”

“He's sending me and the surgeon general up to talk to you and report back.”

“Even better. We'll put on a science-and-humility show for Jesse Oxnard.”

“Be careful about it, Victor. Oxnard and a few others are suspicious. With the president looking for anything positive, they won't do more than mutter, but give them any suggestion that something isn't right and they'll pounce.”

“They'll find nothing, Nancy. Trust me.”

“What about our colonel Jon Smith? Is he out of the picture?”

“You can count on it.”

“I hope so, Victor. I really hope so.”

She clicked off and sat in the dark limo, her manicured fingers tapping rapidly against the armrest. She was excited and afraid. Excited that everything appeared to be going exactly as planned, and afraid that something... some small chink they had forgotten or ignored or had not dealt with... could go wrong.

In his office, Victor Tremont looked out at the distant dark shadows of the high Adirondacks. He had reassured Nancy Petrelli, but he was having a harder time reassuring himself. After al-Hassan missed Smith and his two friends in the Sierras, all three had vanished. What he hoped was that they had gone into hiding and posed no further threat that they were hunkered down, afraid for their lives.

But Tremont could take no chances. Besides, from every piece of information he had been able to learn about Smith, it seemed obvious to him that Smith was not the type to give up. Tremont would continue to keep everyone watching for him. Smith's chances of doing damage, or even surviving, were not good. Tremont shook his head. For a moment he felt a chill. A not-good chance with a man like Smith was not the same as no chance at all.

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CHAPTER

TWENTY SIX

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8:02 A.M., Wednesday, October 22

Baghdad, Iraq

Once considered the cradle of civilization, the city of Baghdad sprawled on a dry plain between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. A metropolis of contrasts, it seemed to shudder in the morning light. From turquoise-tiled domes and minarets, muezzin wailed across the rooftops of the exotic city, calling the faithful to prayer. Women dressed in long abayas glided like black pyramids through the narrow byways of the old suq and toward the glassy, modern high-rises of the new city.