“A roadblock?” Dew said. “Are you insane? Do you really want heavily armed, combat-tested soldiers going up against some state troopers in a roadblock?”
Dew was right. “I’ll take care of it,” Murray said.
“Get on the offensive, Murray. Pin them down, whatever it takes. We have to get Perry on the ground in Detroit so we can find the gate.”
“Wait for Yankee and Zulu companies to arrive from Fort Bragg,” Murray said. “Ogden’s units have ten Stinger missiles, and you can bet he took them all to Detroit. We need to account for those before you go in. We can’t afford to lose Dawsey.”
“L. T., if Perry’s right about the time, that thing opens up in seventy-five minutes. Whatever you do, don’t drag your feet.”
“Just hold outside the city,” Murray said. “We’ll get to work softening up his positions, tasking satellite coverage to see if we can spot the gate and find you someplace to land.”
Margaret stood in the isolation chamber, looking down at Officer Carmen Sanchez. Clarence stood outside the chamber—patient, quiet, clearly ready to act if Sanchez sprang to life.
But that just wasn’t going to happen. Sanchez was having difficulty breathing, and it was only getting worse. She might have to intubate him soon. That, or take him off the latrunculin altogether, because he wouldn’t live through another hour of the treatment.
His tongue still looked normal.
His tissue samples no longer showed crawlers. Either the latrunculin had worked or the last ones had moved into his brain. But if they had reached his brain, was the chemical stopping them from forming that mesh? Could the mesh form despite the chemical?
No. She refused to believe that. It had worked. This was so much bigger than just Sanchez. Latrunculin worked. It killed them. Not all of them, but a lot, and that meant she had a weapon. The weapon needed development, true, but at least she had a starting point.
And if it didn’t work, then she had nothing. No cure. Sanchez had been exposed to a small amount of the vector. If she couldn’t defeat that much, what could she do against higher amounts of exposure? Some of the John Doe’s pustules had grown to the size of baseballs—a hundred times the size of what had popped on Sanchez. Someone hit with that much contagion and she’d have no chance at all.
Fuck Murray’s secrecy. Margaret was going public, and she’d call Dew out on his offer to back her up. Would Clarence also back her, or would he continue to obey orders?
Gitsh’s voice in her earpiece. “Otto, Dew’s calling in.”
“Patch him through,” Clarence said.
“You’re connected, Dew,” Gitsh said. “Otto and Margo are listening in.”
Dew’s voice, urgent and excited. “Otto, have you or your people had any contact with Ogden’s men?”
“No sir,” Clarence said. “We’ve been working all night on the John Doe and the police officer. We didn’t even know Ogden’s men were in Detroit.”
“They are,” Dew said. “And you are to avoid him at all costs. Your trailer, is it visible from a main road?”
“No. We’re tucked under a little railroad overpass, trees on either side. Excellent concealment. You can’t see us at all.”
“Okay,” Dew said. “Then maybe you should just stay put.”
“Dew,” Margaret said, “what’s happening?”
“Ogden is working for the triangles.”
Margaret looked at Clarence, her anger at him forgotten for the moment. “Ogden?How… how do you know?”
“His men tried to kill Perry. Perry’s okay, but they got Baum and Milner. Ogden’s men are shooting the fuck out of the highways in Detroit, murdering people left and right. The gate is somewhere in Detroit, and Ogden wants to protect it.”
She shivered at the implications—just like that, Ogden and his men, converted, working for the enemy. She’d missed something back in Gaylord, clearly. And even if her new drug worked, was it already too late?
“We’re coming in,” Dew said. “Perry is going to find the gate. If we can get to you, we will, but otherwise stay put.”
“Watch out for infected bodies,” Margaret said. “That’s how the contagion spreads. Bodies can have big, puffy pustules, filled with spores. Those pop on you, you have the new strain. And they can spread it through their tongues, so make sure no one licks you.”
“Understood. You have a cure for this shit yet?”
Margaret looked down at Sanchez. “We’re very close.”
“Get your info to Murray, Margo, in case Ogden finds you and takes you out. You guys are in a bad spot. I’m pretty sure you’re inside Ogden’s perimeter.”
“Understood,” Clarence said.
She couldn’t stop now. She had to get Sanchez out, away from the danger.
“Dew,” Margaret said, “I appreciate what’s going on, but we have to evacuate the patient. He could be the key to stopping this.”
“If Ogden finds you, he’ll kill you,” Dew said. “He’s hit all the major roads out of Detroit. Surface streets are jammed with people trying to leave, so there’s no fucking way you can get a semi out of town. You guys either stay where you are, or you leave the trailer, find a hidey-hole and lay low till I know I can get transport to you. You got it?”
“But Dew, this is a critical phase—”
“We’ve got it,” Clarence interrupted. “We’ll evaluate the situation and act accordingly.”
“Good,” Dew said. “No offense, Margo, but let Otto handle this unless you like the taste of bullets. And how about you guys put away the nerd gear once in a while and watch the fucking news.” He hung up.
“Uh, guys?” Gitsh said. “I think you better come to the computer room. We just turned on the local news, and we’re in a lot of trouble.”
Clarence looked at Margaret, then held an arm toward the airlock door—After you.
Margaret took one more look at Sanchez, then headed to the airlock.
Northwest Flight 2961 from Detroit to Bangor never had a chance.
The Airbus A319 jet carrying 193 passengers took off from Detroit Metro Airport. Michelle McMichael, age sixty-three, had the window seat because Bernie, her husband of forty years, basically had to pee every twenty minutes. He got the aisle. That was fine by Michelle. She liked to hold a map and look out the window when they flew. Using the map to identify landmarks was a fun way to pass the time. As the A319 banked to the right, it gave her a nice view of a long stretch of I-94. The map said she was looking south at Taylor, Michigan. She craned her head to look back at the airport.
That was when she saw it.
Michelle was no military expert, but she’d seen enough movies to know a missile’s smoke trail when she saw one. And just like that, she knew that this was the end.
Michelle had time to reach out and grab Bernie’s hand. She looked into his eyes and said, “I love you,” and then the Stinger missile hit the A319 just behind the right wing.
The warhead penetrated and erupted, splitting the plane in two and ripping the right wing free from the fuselage. Michelle died on impact, she and her seat torn into three separate pieces. Bernie actually lived through the initial blast, barely, but was quickly incinerated as a fireball rolled through the broken cabin.
The A319’s tail spun away and started to drop. A secondary blast disintegrated the midsection. From row ten forward, the A319’s nose arced toward the city, trailing fire and smoke as if it were a second, gigantic rocket.
At the northwest corner of Detroit Metropolitan Airport, also known as DTW, Vining Road passes over a parallel set of railroad tracks. Under this overpass stood Brian Hunt and Jordan Willis, formerly of Domestic Reaction Batallion’s X-Ray Company, now proud members of Chelsea’s Army. The overpass hid them and their Hummer from view yet still gave them a clear field of fire on several of DTW’s runways.