Pipe Dreams (30 page)

CHAPTER 53

M
cGrath pulled a dry stick
of spaghetti from his shirtfront pocket and wedged it between his teeth. Someone had told him chewing the bland pasta would calm his cigarette cravings. That guy didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but McGrath did it anyway. Even if he had a cigarette, he couldn’t smoke inside the command post. The spaghetti was better than nothing.

It had been more than an hour since he had relayed the images from Malone
’s camera to the Pentagon and CDC. How long did it take to decipher a chemical formula anyway? He tossed the spaghetti in the trash can and ran his hands through his hair.

The multiple video monitors, lighted instrument panels, and radar screens that flashed on consoles throughout the room had always been a comfort. The instruments ensured a modicum of control. They put him instantly in touch with anyone and everyone he needed to talk to, mitigating the weight of his responsibility. In this room, he wasn
’t alone.

Now, they were useless. Until he received confirmation, he could do little more than pace. There was no doubt in his mind the formulas inscribed on the papers were authentic. Call it instinct, experience, or faith, he knew they were real the instant they had appeared on the screen. Vanessa
’s belief in her grandfather’s nature contributed to his conviction. Whatever the man had done, he had believed it right. All the evidence supported that conclusion – from the hidden formulas to Isaac’s phone call and Harry Rose’s suicide note. These misguided men wanted something better for the world. They also understood the best laid plans often go wrong and had done what they could to ensure humanity had a way to undo their efforts. For that, he held a small measure of gratitude.

Vanessa and Michael nestled together on the floor in a corner of the room. He had tried to get them to return to the barracks, but Vanessa had refused and Michael wouldn
’t leave her alone. McGrath supposed she had more right than anyone to be here when the results came back from the CDC and had granted the small favor after his initial rebuke.

When Michael caressed Vanessa
’s hair, a brief pang of envy knotted McGrath’s heart. He would like nothing better than to be at home with Beth. As he invoked her image, a printer whirred. He spun around and took two long strides to the machine, snatched the paper, and scanned it. Then he crumpled the communiqué and sagged into a chair. The orders he had just received caused all the air in him to compress. The formula had been verified. The antidote, though untested, appeared to be real. Without the threat of the Blue Flu, the military was free to act. They no longer needed to worry about stealth. Instead, they would eradicate the Priscilla virus at its source. He was to recall the SEALs and evacuate the base immediately. The bombers were on the way.

Vanessa appeared in front of him with her hands on her hips. Intense and anxious, her eyes bored into him. “What did it say?” she asked.

“They’re real. We have the antidote.”

Vanessa breathed a sigh of relief and a broad smile lit the contours of her face. “See. He was a good man!” Her smile faded as she registered McGrath
’s expression.

“What
’s wrong?” she asked.

“We have to evacuate the base immediately,” McGrath replied.

“Why?”

“They
’re going to blow the city. They’ll incinerate it to kill every last organism and destroy the Priscilla virus.”

“You can
’t be serious!  What about all the people?”

McGrath shook his head. He was old, tired, and used up. Though he should have been relieved, he wasn
’t. He envisioned the people of Edenton screaming.

“Sound the alarm and relay the order. We
’ll evacuate to Post 31. I want everyone moving in fifteen minutes. And call the team. Tell them to get off the island now. Tell them not to wait. There’s not much time,” he said to his subordinate. The man nodded and turned to his instrument panel. A loud siren blared. McGrath started for the door, but Michael took a menacing step forward and blocked his path.

“What the fuck do you mean they
’re gonna blow the city?  Man, there’s people there. Lots and lots of people. My people are there. You can’t just let them die! Do something! Stop this!” he cried.

“I can
’t Michael. As far as the world is concerned, those people are already dead. They died six years ago when the Blue Flue hit the city. I thought you knew. Technically, you’re a ghost.” McGrath sighed and met Michael’s eyes. 

“Look, this whole thing
’s a tragedy. None of it should have happened. But this is our best bet. The bombs they’ll drop are powerful. The Pricilla virus will never be released. No one else has to get hurt. No one else has to die because of this. Your people were victims. I’m sorry for them. Hell, I’m sorry for you, me, and everyone else who’s been caught up in it. But it’s over. It’s done. Now you need to gather up your people and get them to safety. There’s no time,” McGrath said.

Michael said nothing, contemplating the colonel
’s words. Vanessa grabbed his hand and squeezed it

“Come on Michael. We
’ve got to go,” she urged. As they neared the door, the coms officer shouted.

“Colonel, the team is transmitting. Sir, you
’ll want to hear this.”  He flipped a switch on the console. CoCo’s voice, ragged and heavy, came through the speakers.

“Most of the team hasn
’t returned yet. They’re still in transit. I’ve turned them around and instructed them to get the hell out of here. I’ve got one man down and two wounded. We’re not gonna make it out,” he said.

McGrath picked up the transmitter. “Commander, you get your ass off the island. That
’s an order. I don’t care what you have to do. Just do it and go!”

“Sorry, Sir. Can
’t do that. They’ve released the virus. Everyone at the plant is infected. I leave, I spread it. We’re going to stay where we are, Sir.” A hush fell over the room and several seconds passed before McGrath could speak.

“Are you sure, son?  How do you know?”

“We were on recon, waiting for the rest of the team to get here. We must have been spotted. I had two guys downstairs. Quinn and I were checking out the upper floors. There was a firefight. Quinn took one in the shoulder. Then an alarm sounded. Just after that, the guys downstairs blew an electric panel and created a distraction to help us get out. They managed to get information out of one of the bad guys. The alarms are automatic. They go off when the air has been contaminated. Fucking guy laughed in my man’s face. Said we’re all fucked now anyway. Don’t know for sure, Colonel, but I’m guessing he was telling the truth. So we’re gonna sit tight and wait for the bombers, if that’s alright with you.”

“Jesus,” McGrath said. He ran his hand through his hair and stared at the console, picturing the SEALs holed up somewhere waiting for bombers to blow them to kingdom come. Then he drew a deep breath and pressed the talk button.

“How long has it been since the alarm went off?” he asked

“I
’m guessing two, maybe three minutes,” CoCo answered.

“Okay, son. Hang tight. We
’ll get back to you.” McGrath set the transmitter down and cleared his throat. Then he turned to his subordinate.

“Get this to the Pentagon. Check with Weather. Find out which way the wind is blowing. Get an estimate on how long we
’ve got before the virus reaches the mainland. We’ve got to get these people out of here,” he said.

Without waiting for Michael and Vanessa, McGrath returned to his office where he picked up the phone and called his wife. When she answered, he let out the breath he had been holding. Just the sound of her voice was reassuring.

“Beth, it’s happening. There’s not much time. Grab the essentials and get the kids out. We’re evacuating the base and moving inland, but I want you to go to your sister’s.” He tried to keep his voice from communicating the panic he felt, but she knew him too well. She protested, demanding an explanation. “Honey, you’ve got to trust me on this. I can’t do my job if I’m worrying about you. Please. Don’t argue. I need you safe,” he begged. She choked down a sob. Then she agreed. Relief flooded through him. He had bought his family some time. “I love you, Beth. You know that?  More than anything.” He blinked back tears as she reciprocated the sentiment. Then he said goodbye, promising he would call her as soon as he could, and hung up the phone.

For a moment, his eyes lingered on the picture she had painted for him on their last anniversary. The landscape swirled in rich blues and greens, precisely capturing a storm on the lake. A small boat, tossing in the turbulent water, always made him ache. It spoke loneliness, heroism, and futility – much like his job. Sighing, McGrath turned to the window, observing the evacuation procedures.

The personnel were trained for emergencies. Since the base had been established, it had been likely this day would come. The stalemate couldn’t last forever. Eventually, even without George Kovalic’s assistance, an antidote would have been found. Nevertheless, the scene outside his window was chaotic. Humvees, transport trucks, and other large vehicles were being readied to ferry people, food, and equipment to the outpost. Soldiers ran back and forth, carrying boxes and crates. Satisfied with the progress, McGrath mentally ran through a check list.

The planes would drop FAEs, or Fuel Air Explosives. They would level everything on the island and burn it to ash. The ensuing blast wave would travel at the astonishing speed of two miles per second. Less than four seconds after detonation, the wave would hit the base. It would topple trees, collapse buildings, and wreak total destruction for miles.

Suddenly he panicked. The blast could accelerate the spread of the virus if it escaped into the air stream. McGrath needed to ensure Priscilla remained localized until the bombers arrived. He hurried back to the control room. On a large video display, satellite images of the island flashed. He asked his subordinate to generate a thermal picture of the plant. When the image was in focus, he swore. The exhaust from the ventilation system was clearly visible on the screen.

“Get me Commander Collins,” he ordered. The coms officer complied. When
CoCo acknowledged the transmission, McGrath grabbed the transmitter.

“Commander, is your team still mobile?” he asked.

“Barely.”

“Commander, you need to get to the roof. Everything depends on it. If the virus gets into the air stream before the bombs drop, the blast wave will shove it onto the mainland. Commander, I need you to blow the roof. Every airshaft needs to be destroyed. There
’s no time for precision. Use every explosive at your disposal. Do you understand what I’m saying?  This is critical. It needs to be done now.”

The radio receiver was silent as
CoCo digested the request. When finally his voice came through the speakers again, it was clear and calm. “Yes, Sir. We’ll do our best.”

McGrath closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. He had just ordered three men to actively participate in their own death. He swallowed hard and pressed the talk button.

“Commander, I salute you and your men. We are in your debt. Is there anyone you want me to call, anything you want to say?”

“No, Sir. Just make it count,”
CoCo replied. McGrath squeezed the receiver so hard the rigid plastic dug into his skin. After several seconds, he pressed the talk button again.

“Thank you, Commander. God speed and good luck.”

CHAPTER 54

Ramirez was sleeping when
the alarm sounded. The perpetual scream of the siren intruded into his dreams, forcing him awake just as an explosion rocked the building. He rolled off the cheap mattress and onto the carpeted floor of the small office to which he had been assigned. Crawling to the door, he opened it a crack. Smoke filled the dimly lit hallway and emergency lighting cast a strange light on the white walls. Gunfire volleyed in the distance, but no one was in sight.

His room was on the first floor of the main building, not far from where Mac resided. Creeping to the office where he had bid Mac goodnight, he tapped on the door and whispered, “Mac. Hey, Mac, are you in there?”  There was no reply. Instead, a burst of gunfire crackled and men shouted nearby.

Training kicked in as Ramirez pushed himself flat against the wall. He wasn’t safe where he was. In a low crouch, he dashed to the end of the hallway and turned right, away from the noise. Wisps of smoke trailed above him and the siren continued to blare.

His brief tour had only included his residence, the conference room that served as a cafeteria for the drug techs, and the drug manufacturing plant. He headed in that direction. Regardless of what was happening in the main building, the mercs would avoid a firefight near the volatile drug lab. In addition, the shipping room fronted the lake. If the fire got out of control, or the fighting escalated, the water would protect him.

The hallway turned left, toward a burst of gunfire, but he did not turn around. Easing his way forward, and staying close to the wall, he prayed with each step. The conflict was straight ahead. He got lucky when another corridor opened to his right. Pressing himself flat, he peeked around the corner. No one was there. Thanking god for his good fortune, he headed toward the fire exit at the far end. Two spotlights on either side of the plastic sign illuminated the area in front of the metal door. He quickened his pace. The stairwell would take him to the lower level and, hopefully, to the processing plant. He sprinted for it and ducked inside.

Ramirez hurled himself down the concrete steps, taking them two at a time. At the bottom, he paused to listen. Two low voices echoed from somewhere above. “We
’re outnumbered. Derek’s wounded. Took one in the leg. It’s pretty bad,” a breathless voice said. Then he heard a soft pop and the stairwell went dark, lit only by another exit sign on the door in front of him. Son of a bitch, he thought. Someone has a silencer. But who?  The mercs didn’t use them. A gunshot was followed by another soft pop and a body tumbled down the stairs. Using the noise as cover, Ramirez spun around, opened the fire exit, and dashed through.

He recognized the room from his earlier visit. Artworks and packing materials cast hulking shadows on the cement floor. A noise in the stairwell made him start. He ducked behind a large, wooden crate just as the door opened. Two men, dressed in black and fully outfitted with military gear, came through. They had their arms around each other. One of them was injured and groaning in pain. The other braced an M4 Carbine against his hip.

Unlike the mercs, these men had knives strapped against their chests and wore their sidearms on their legs. Ramirez was sure they were US Special Forces, but he didn’t reveal his presence. They had no reason to believe he wasn’t a hostile and he had no desire to get shot. Instead, he fingered his cross, watching and listening.

“Can you make it?”

“Six flights? Not a chance. I’ll be in the way. You go.”

“Derek, I
’m not leaving you here.”

“Don
’t make much difference either way. We’re fucked. Go. You’re the demo guy. We need you, man. The whole world needs you right now. You’re it.”

Derek hobbled away from the door, sat down, and rested his back against a shelf piled high with packing material. Easing his rifle off his shoulder, he laid it across his lap.

“Go on, Jim. Do what you need to do. I’m counting on you,” he said, extending his hand. Jim hesitated and then shook it. Casting a rueful glance behind him, he opened the door to the stairwell and was gone.

Derek pulled a radio receiver from his ear and unhooked the transmitter from his lapel. He laid them on the floor next to him and smashed them with the butt of his rifle. The small, plastic mechanisms cracked open. Placing the rifle back across his lap, he picked up the broken pieces and inspected them. Satisfied, he dropped them and released the tourniquet on his leg. At once, blood pooled on the concrete floor.

From training, Ramirez knew how bad a gunshot wound to the leg could be. A bullet could shatter the femur, causing hemorrhage. Because the man had used a tourniquet, his wound was critical. It didn’t take long before his head dropped to his chest and his breathing slowed. As his bowels released, a foul odor filled the room. Ramirez didn’t hesitate. He eased out of his hiding place, bent over, and lifted the rifle from the man’s lap.   

The silenced M4 carbine was a beautiful weapon. Ramirez had never used one, but he had read about its unique properties. The sleek, black machine was gas operated and had a telescoping stock. Unlike many assault weapons, this one had a 14. 5 inch barrel that made it excellent in close quarters. He checked the magazine and slung the strap over his shoulder, glad to be armed again.

Scanning the room, he oriented himself. A large rollup door was just visible past sundry art objects, packing crates, tables, and shelves. He maneuvered around them, heading for an outside exit. When another door opened on the opposite side of the room, he dropped to a crouch and pulled the weapon off his shoulder. Men approached, engaged in a loud conversation. Ramirez gasped when he recognized the voice of his commanding officer.

“That
’s not good enough. Listen, Lewis. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. When we get clear, I want to be done. Get it? Done. I want to sit on a beach somewhere and drink margaritas, ” Bowen said.

“One thing at a time, Chief,” Lewis replied.

“God damn it!  I want your promise. I’ve done enough.” The footsteps stopped and Lewis’ voice grew louder.

“Now you listen to me, Bowen. I
’ll tell you when you’re finished and you’ll do what I say until then. I think I’ve been clear. I’m not going to repeat myself. You want out of here?  You shut your mouth.”

A tall, well built mercenary accompanied them. The merc held a pistol in his hand. Ramirez ducked back down. Bowen and Lewis were trying to get away. He would not let that happen. Carefully aiming the M4 at the merc
’s head, he squeezed the trigger. The rifle let loose with a savage kick. Set on full automatic fire, the power of the discharge threw Ramirez off balance and bullets sprayed the room. He let go and the weapon stilled. Smoke drifted in the air. A sculpture fell off a shelf and crashed to the floor. Then there was silence.

It shattered when a pistol round went wide. Ramirez sprinted to a heavy bench on his right and ducked behind it as another shot rang out. When nothing happened, he raised his head. The merc lay sprawled on the floor in the middle of the room, but Bowen and Lewis had vanished. Ramirez dropped to his belly, searching for a glimpse of their feet. Near the rollup door, two pairs of shoes stood still, but he didn
’t have a clear shot. He swore beneath his breath and crept toward them.

An enormous crate blocked his view for a few seconds. When his line of sight was clear, the shoes were gone. Grimacing, he jumped to his feet and ran. Bowen and Lewis had disappeared through a side door. As he pulled it open, someone released a spray of bullets. He ducked back inside, pressed himself against the wall, and waited. Then, poking the muzzle of the M4 through the opening, he returned fire. This time, he was ready for the kick. 

A large, warehouse-like room lay beyond the open door and he risked a look. In its center, a small, black submarine floated in greenish water. A wooden walkway led to a rough dock. An armed merc stood on the submarine’s deck, aiming a gun in his direction. Ramirez dived as the man fired. The bullets shattered the doorframe above him. Ramirez reciprocated, letting the full power of his weapon loose. The noise was deafening. Pulling himself upright, he charged, casting bullets in a wide arc. The merc went down. While Ramirez searched the dusky bay for signs of Bowen and Lewis, another merc popped out of the hatch.

Ramirez aimed and fired. Then a sharp pain in his lower leg caused him to stagger. He had been hit. Stumbling backward, he pressed himself against an iron girder that supported the metal roof. Ignoring the wound, he pointed the M4 in the direction the bullet had come from, pulled the trigger, and waited. When he looked again, Lewis was handing objects to someone inside the hatch. Bowen was on the dock behind him. The craft was submerging. The merc fired again and Ramirez darted behind the girder, wincing as the rounds dinged against the metal.

Lewis and the chief were getting away. Ramirez stepped out in full view. Lewis was inside the sub. The merc extended a hand to Bowen. Ramirez fired. The merc fell backward and disappeared into the murky water. Bowen discharged his pistol, but the bullets missed. Ramirez didn’t hesitate. He released his weapon on his former commander. As the bullets riddled Bowen’s body, Ramirez made a dash for the sub. The hatch was still open and Lewis had to be stopped.

As he lunged forward, a huge explosion shook the dock. Ramirez caught a glimpse of flaming debris falling through the air before the blast sent him flying onto the deck of the rapidly sinking submarine. He screamed on impact and a wave of pain washed through him. His leg was impaled on an antenna. As he struggled to get free, the sub fully submerged, pulling him into the icy water.