The Coast Guard officer had a deep voice with a Texas twang.
“This is a three thousand dollar kayak,” Stillwater said, slouching out of his life vest. “I’m not going to just abandon it.” He paused, squinting up into the downblast of the chopper rotor. “Any experience with kayaks?”
The Texan broke into a broad grin. “Yes sir.”
Derek nodded and slipped into the harness. He handed over the paddle and shouted, “Slip 112, Bayman’s Marina, ‘The Salacious Sally.’ Just leave the kayak on the rear deck.”
“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll take care of her.”
“Yeah, and have fun.”
The Texan laughed. “Yes sir. You too.”
Stillwater shook his head. “Un-fucking-likely.” The Texan gave a thumbs-up to the chopper and they reeled Derek Stillwater skyward.
The pilot of the helicopter was a young woman with black hair cut in a wedge. She had flashing green eyes and an oval face and Stillwater thought she was pretty cute, though entirely too young to be behind the controls of a helicopter. He kept both observations to himself. There was another coast guardsman on the flight deck manning the winch. He helped Stillwater in.
Derek shouted, “Can you land at the marina? I need some things.”
“We’re to take you directly to the—”
”I have two GO Packs on my boat. I have to have them!” The wind roaring into the chopper was so loud they could hardly hear each other. “Can you stop there?”
“Yes sir. We’ll call ahead and have the local cops clear the lot. Will you be long?”
“No.”
The guardsman was a lean redhead with freckles. I’m getting old, Derek thought, darting another glance at the pilot. Well, maybe not too old…
The chopper ascended in a hurry, arcing toward land. Through the open cockpit Derek watched the Texan in his kayak diminish in size. Going, going, gone, he thought.
In about four minutes the chopper landed in the marina parking lot. On each end two cop cars, lights flashing, were keeping people at bay. Jumping out, Stillwater dashed to the docks, aiming for slip 112, his boat and home, a 52-foot Chris Craft Constellation. It was a large marina, heavy on sailboats rather than cabin cruisers. Derek didn’t know why that was the case, but it was, the marina looking like a denuded forest with hundreds of masts jutting skyward. He jumped aboard, unlocked the cabin door, quickly snatched a fax from the machine, snagged a blue nylon frame backpack and a military-issue duffel bag and sprinted back to the helicopter. He threw his GO Packs into the chopper and clambered in after.
He gave an OK and they lifted off. Derek glanced at the fax.
To: Dr. Derek Stillwater, Ph.D.
From: James Johnston, Secretary
Department of Homeland Security
CODE RED
Immediately evaluate, coordinate and investigate assault on U.S. Immunological Research in Baltimore, MD. Preliminary reports indicate possible theft of a Level 4 bio-engineered infectious agent by unknown subjects. FBI on scene. Inform ASAP
Below the typed message was a handwritten note. It said:
Why aren’t you wearing your goddamned phone?
Godspeed and take care. JJ
Derek tore the message into pieces and let them flutter out the open cockpit door. Then he dug through his nylon pack and drew out a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, socks, underwear and a pair of shoes. Stripping, he noticed the cute pilot taking a glance over her shoulder. Buck naked, he grinned, made a turn-around gesture with his finger and shouted, “Not on the first date.”
The co-pilot grinned, then looked startled. “What are you doing?”
Having pulled on his clothing, Derek was holding his swimsuit and tank top out the hatch. “Drying my clothes,” he said.
From the marina it was a short hop over Baltimore to the incident site. The chopper set down in the parking lot of U.S. Immunological Research. Before climbing out, Derek scrambled up next to the pilot. “Thanks for the lift. What’s your name?”
“Cynthia Black.”
“Cindy?” He offered his hand. “Derek Stillwater. Mind if I call you when this is over?”
“When what’s over?” she said, shaking his hand.
He shrugged. “If I get called in, it usually means the end of the world.”
She considered him for a moment. “Well,” she said, “if it doesn’t end, sure, give me a call.” She picked up a pen Velcroed to the dashboard. “Got some paper?”
Stillwater held up his hand. “Write it here.”
Cynthia Black cocked an eyebrow, then scribbled her cell phone number on the palm of Stillwater’s hand. “Good luck.”
He grinned, clutched a chain around his neck for a moment, then tipped a salute to the other guardsman and jumped out of the chopper, GO Packs over each shoulder.
3
The Coast Guard helicopter lifted off into the azure sky and Derek ran about thirty yards when he was surrounded by tense, armed men. Three of them wore suits, but four were decked out in military fatigues. All of them were aiming their weapons — a variety of rifles and hand guns — directly down his throat.
He froze. “Whoa! I’m not moving! I. Am. Not. Moving!”
One of the suits said, “Identify yourself!”
Still unmoving, he said, “Derek Stillwater. Department of Homeland Security. My wallet and ID are in my right rear pocket.”
Some sort of silent communication spun around the circle, then one of the Army guys lowered his M-16, stepped over and plucked Derek’s ID from his pocket.
He flipped it open and read. “Okay. He’s legit. Says you’re a troubleshooter.”
The men lowered their weapons. “That’s the job title,” Derek said. “Who’s running things?”
The head suit, a slender blond guy wearing wire-rimmed glasses, said, “Spigotta. Hang on. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
Two of the suits led Derek to the building’s entrance. It didn’t take a trained eye to see that it had been shot to pieces. Derek paused to take in the destruction. His gaze lingered on the human-shaped mounds beneath blood-soaked white sheets. The odor of death and blood and cordite lingered in the air. He flinched. Images of war zones flashed in his head. Iraq. Panama. Bodies rotting in the sun, flies buzzing in swarms. For a moment he swayed, then took a deep breath, returning to the present, which wasn’t much better. He’d come after the photographs and triage, but before they could move the bodies out. He felt something clench in his stomach, thought, Good God, what do we have here?
The Blond Suit, who hadn’t bothered to ID himself, described what they thought had happened, the three vans, the automatic weapons, the penetration of the building. “We’ve got guys going over the security tapes now.”
“How many casualties?”
“Looks like 23 dead, 18 wounded. Let’s go.”
Before following, Derek turned around and scanned past the chain-link fence. There were mobs of TV crews, onlookers and cop cars. He realized he’d probably make the news with his dramatic entrance and hoped everyone had the sense to keep their mouths shut about him.
Blond Suit was looking at him impatiently. “Spigotta’s debriefing a couple of the scientists. Hope we can figure out what this is all about.”
I’m afraid I already know exactly what this is all about, Derek thought, and followed the agent into the facility. He processed the sight of all the vent stacks on top of the building. He knew that meant heavy-duty air filtering and treatment. Usually it meant negative air pressure and infectious agents and chemicals that God should never have invented, that human beings should never have discovered.