“I’ll use his badge one more time to get off the ship,” Spooky said as he packed a shoulder bag. “We meet at El Gringo Loco.”
Larry raised his eyebrows at Spooky. Actually they weren’t going anywhere near that bar, but the man in the closet would certainly pass this tidbit on to the authorities. He raised his own bag to his shoulder and the two men made their escape from the ship, Spooky from the staff and crew exit, Nightingale with the usual crowd of tourists heading in to the bars in Cancun.
-23-
Infection Day Minus Two.
Binoculars brought the water treatment plant at Van Norman Lakes Reservoir into sharp focus. Daniel could see the enormous tubes of the termination of the Los Angeles Aqueduct. Beyond it were hundreds of miles of pipes that gathered and funneled waters from the Sierras down to the Los Angeles Basin. It was a marvel of engineering, completely gravity operated, even generating hydroelectric power on the way. The devastation that the diversion of water caused Mono Lake and Owens Valley and many other, smaller natural Edens of California was deemed a cheap price to pay for keeping the economic powerhouse of the West Coast going.
Daniel shifted his view to the trees planted between the Granada Hills Youth Recreation Center and the enormous structures that prepared millions of gallons of water a day for Los Angeles thirsty residents to use. The stiff breeze’s direction was important; he had to choose a place upwind to maximize his chance of success.
Not that he actually expected to succeed.
Daniel had spotted the car tailing him ten minutes ago; figured he had another ten minutes before Homeland Security pulled him over and checked him out. He opened and drank as many canned protein shakes as he could, choking down about seven.
Homeland Security. Such a wonderfully loaded phrase. Nobody could possibly object to some nice security for the homeland, right? But it gave birth to dysfunctional abominations like the Transportation Security Administration, stealing iPads, patting down toddlers and detaining old people with colostomy bags for fear of being politically incorrect while angry young underwear bombers were let through. It led to trading away constitutional rights and responsibilities to those in power, in return for the comforting illusion of protection that no amount of armed security forces or foreign interventions could provide.
He cut short his musings as he noted the wind direction was blowing just right for his ploy. Dialing a number on the disposable phone, he put in a code, and then tossed it out the window into a drainage ditch.
Shoving the surplus agricultural spray truck in gear, he drove down the slope of the hill and along Balboa Boulevard. It was the last mile of his journey across seven states, trusting to anonymity and the millions of vehicles on the road to get him to his goal. But it didn’t really matter where or if he was intercepted; the design had been put in motion the moment he left the Sosthenes Bunker. It would be great if he could deploy the Plague into the water; but with or without him, the plan was going forward.
The tail car started accelerating behind him, and he knew he was blown. They’d probably gotten a look at his face, despite his best efforts at concealment, and matched it against a biometric database. Daniel sped up, taking the turn into the recreational complex in a skidding screech. He was just five hundred yards from his target section of the fence.
Daniel floored it, then reached over and threw a large lever under the dashboard. The mechanism in back of the truck, normally used for spraying a fine mist of agricultural chemicals in orchards or fields, coughed to life. In a moment a pale white fog trailed behind him, the stiff Santa Anna wind carrying it almost due west.
Four hundred yards, he thought.
The heavy government sedan behind him gained on his anemic truck despite the best he could do; it wasn’t long before he heard the impact of bullets. But five thousand gallons of Eden-Plague-infused solution protected his person from harm.
Three hundred yards to go.
Unfortunately the wheels were not so well covered. He felt one of the dual tires in the right rear go flat, and he steered gently, carefully, to avoid getting the liquid sloshing and so overturn the truck.
Only two hundred yards now.
The car roared up, trying to get alongside on the right, upwind of the mist. Daniel kept the speeding truck close to obstacles on that side – parked cars, fenceposts, curbs – preventing them from passing. One hundred yards.
The truck shuddered and he felt the other right rear tire go. The vehicle settled on its suspension and he could barely control it, so he just kept his foot on the floor and aimed for the piece of fence that separated the sports complex from the water treatment plant’s eastern perimeter road. Strips of shredded rubber banged into the fender well, louder than the gunshots, and he prayed for speed as the barrier came up.
He crashed through.
Still at thirty miles per hour, Daniel roared along next to the enormous rectangular pools that held and distributed the water for treatment. He blessed the designers of the Eden Plague, as Elise had told him that the processing would not kill the virus. Even now the mist was settling into the pools, contaminating Los Angeles’ main tap supply with the life-giving microbe.
He’d almost made it to the end of the complex when he felt the tearing of a bullet in his shoulder and his right arm went numb. His vision blurred and the unstable truck yawed to the left, then rolled once and ground to a halt, breaking open the tough plastic solution tank. He felt the liquid slosh onto him.
Moments later the legs of his pursuers walked into his line of vision. His head was stuck at an awkward angle, pressed against the ground and the remnants of the broken driver’s window of the truck. Dust and grit swirled over him, getting in his eyes, and he was sure his body was broken in several important places. He wondered whether the virus would knit his bones in this awkward position.
Daniel could hear the buzz of a helicopter getting closer. It didn’t matter. He’d done the job.
“Should we get him out?” asked a voice attached to the legs.
“They said not to touch him. He’s contaminated.”
“This whole thing’s probably contaminated. Stay upwind. Besides, he can lie there and bleed for all I care. Scumbag terrorist. ”
“Did they say what the stuff is?”
“No, just some kind of chemical. Nothing too bad. I already called it in. They’re shutting down the plant until they can make sure the water is safe.”
“High five, partner.”
“Yep. Might get a commendation out of this one.”
“We should.”
The sound of the helicopter drowned out their conversation, though it barely added to the gritty wind. The legs walked out of his line of sight. Daniel waited. It seemed like forever, but was probably just a few minutes. He drifted off in a fog of pain. This was good, because the gnawing hunger of the Eden Plague was coming back. He let himself slide into unconsciousness.
Daniel awoke to the smell of plastic and his own bodily fluids. The world looked blue, but that was just the colored sheet covering his face. It was loose enough for him to breathe, but he couldn’t move. He was wrapped and taped. He could hear sounds of activity nearby, snippets of conversation and orders. It sounded like they were cleaning up the crashed truck. He felt himself being lifted. The motion told him that unfortunately he was right; pieces of him had healed into an unnatural configuration. His mind drifted to wondering if someday Elise and the rest would be able to adjust the virus to straighten out bones too.
Daniel heard a resonant, commanding voice rise from the babble. “Put him in the chopper.” He laughed to himself, his mind seizing on irrelevancies. Nobody who actually lived and worked around helicopters called them “choppers.” Aircrew called them “airplanes” or “birds” or sometimes “helos,” or by their military designation – “Black Hawks” or “Sixties” or “Hueys.” Never “choppers.”