Dead Water

14

The next morning, President Williams convened a meeting with his top directors. All the major agencies were represented.

The president spoke. "I wanted to have a discussion with all of you about this latest terrorist threat before I leave for Maryland later today. First, I'd like Director Lang to read you in on what he has been able to ascertain about this danger. Michael…"

Director Lang, of the CDC, rose and gave a recap of everything that was known about the threat.

The director of the National Security Agency, Elliott Ragar, asked, "What exactly do you mean by 'works with blinding speed'? Are you referring to how fast it kills?"

"I apologize, no. I mean how fast it can contaminate a body of water. I'm sure you have all seen the video. The only thing that appears to stop it is when it runs out of water. Otherwise, all indications are it will just keep multiplying and spreading, killing everything in its path that has blood in its system. It is possible that once this toxin has run its shelf life, it may just die out on its own; however, that is only an educated guess at best."

"Explain that exactly," directed the president.

"Conceivably, you're standing on a dock in Key West and you initiate this synthetic toxin. If it works in salt water, and we have no idea if it does as in fresh, within days all the world's oceans would be contaminated with every living creature in them dead. That, gentlemen, is how fast it can spread — and kill — and as of this moment, we don't have a single idea on how to stop it," described Lang. "If, however," he continued, "it were to die out on its own, there is no way of knowing exactly how far it might reach before it expired. Either way would be devastating."

"Mr. President, out of curiosity, why is the vice president not here?" inquired John Clayton, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

"He's on his way back from Japan as we speak. He has been brought up to speed." It was not a classified secret that the president did not care for Vice President Herbert Lamar.

Matt Sanderson, director of the FBI, asked harshly, "Do we know if we have a definite threat or target for this damned thing?"

"No, Matt, we don't. However, it doesn't take a triple-digit IQ to figure out that has to be its purpose," the president responded with more than a hint of sarcasm. "Bernard," he continued, referring to the director of the CIA, "has anything turned up in your world?"

"No, sir, not yet. I'm pressing every button I have trying to gain information, but so far to no avail. I will also say it's scaring the hell out of my fellow contacts. None of them have ever heard of anything quite like this."

"Gentlemen," the president continued, "we should be scared. Very scared. I believe that this is an attack on America; however, if this agent gets launched in the right manner, we cannot rule out that it could very well turn into a global event. We need to get a handle on this now! Leave no stone unturned, tap every resource, make up some, I don't care. But get me answers, fast!"

"Yes, sir," they replied in unison.

"Mr. President, how long do you plan on being in Maryland?" Coverley Merritt, director of the president's Department of the Presidential Office, inquired.

"As short a time as possible. If the governor wasn't such a huge supporter, I'd cancel, but Laura Green is being a pain in my ass," he said, referring to his chief of staff. This remark eased the tension in the room, but only slightly. "I will not be staying overnight. If anyone has any news, call me direct. Understood?"

The president stood and paused, looking down at the black walnut conference table so highly polished he could see the grim reflection of his own face in the surface. He then looked each director squarely in the eyes.

"Gentlemen, we absolutely must find the source of this contaminant. No compromises. No failures. Do whatever you must, but find this supply and supplier. Do your jobs!" He turned and walked through a door, determination in his step.

Styles was up at five in the morning, dressed for a run. He went down the stairs from his third-floor room two at a time. He walked briskly through the lobby, noting one employee at the registration desk and a second beginning to set up the complimentary breakfast. He nodded at the woman making coffee and headed out the door. He turned right and started into a brisk jog. His intention was to encircle the airport. The sky was getting brighter and promised to be a clear day. Not wanting to deal with cars and traffic, he entered the airport grounds through an open gate and decided to just follow the ten-foot-high chain-link fence around the airport. Easy enough, or at least it should have been.

He was approximately one-third of the way around, running on a paved access road for the airport, when he heard a vehicle coming up behind him. He moved over to his right, giving the vehicle ample room to pass. It didn't. He heard it slow up as it approached him and then matched his speed for perhaps fifty yards. Then blue lights came on with a blip of a siren. Styles slowed and stopped. A copper-colored Chevrolet Blazer, its white doors emblazoned with "Airport Security," pulled alongside with two guards inside. The one on the passenger side yelled for him to hold.

Great! He remained still.

"What are you doing out here?" demanded the officer in the passenger seat.

"Running," was Styles's reply.

"Why out here?"

"Didn't want to bother with traffic. Running around the airport seemed like a good idea."

"You know you are trespassing, don't you?" the guard responded testily.

"No, I don't. I haven't seen a single sign. If I had, I wouldn't be here."

Both the guards exited the vehicle. The one who had been talking was obviously the senior officer of the two. He appeared to be in his midthirties, exhibited an athletic build, and displayed an openly aggressive attitude. The second, the one who had been driving, looked to be ten years younger. Both were armed with Tasers and guns.

Glocks. Probably nine millimeter, Styles thought.

"I'm going to need to see some ID," the older one stated flatly.

"Sorry. Left it in my room over at the Ramada. I didn't realize you now need an ID to run." Styles casually took a step closer to the pair.

"You need to do anything I say," ordered the security guard belligerently.

"There is no trouble here. You can clearly see I'm not carrying anything. Hell, I've got on a T-shirt, gym shorts, ankle socks, and shoes. What do you think I'm going to do with that?"

"I think you're going to turn around while I cuff you. We'll take you back to headquarters and run a make on you to be safe."

Styles took another step closer, holding his hands out to his side as in an attempt to plead his case. "I don't think so. It would be better for you two boys to continue your rounds, or if you want, you can follow me. I'm not doing anything wrong, and I don't feel like being the subject of your morning conversation. A word of advice. Don't go for the Tasers or Glocks. It won't end well."

"On the ground," commanded the guard, reaching for his Taser.

Styles took a quick step toward him and executed a perfect front jump kick, catching the man squarely under his chin, snapping his head and shoulders back and then falling into a heap onto the pavement. Without stopping, Styles turned to the second man.

"Hey, I'm not part of this," he said with his arms straight out from his side. "Ed's an asshole. He hassles everybody. Thinks he's some king shit karate expert, but it looks like he's got quite a way to go. I've got no problem with you."

Styles stopped short. "So what are you going to tell your boss?"

"That he fucked with the wrong guy. Look, I leave in two weeks for the marines. They can fire my ass this morning, and I don't care. Day after tomorrow is my last day, anyway."

"Marines, huh? I just got out a while back, retired."

"Yeah, you look retired."

"Okay. We'll call it square. You'd better get your buddy to the ER. I know I broke his jaw," Styles directed.

"He's not my buddy. I can't stand him. I'd say he's lucky to have his head. I never saw anyone kick like that. Thanks for not taking my head off."

"Like I told him, I wasn't looking for trouble."

"No, you weren't. That's just what I'm going to write up. You got my word on that."

Styles stepped up and extended his hand. "Word from an ingoing marine is good enough for me. Good luck to you." Styles shook his hand.

"I'll put it on the radio that you're running the fence. You won't have any more problems. Hell, Ed's the only asshole we've got working with us."

"Appreciate that. Like I said, good luck." Then Styles was off and running.

Styles, freshly showered, met with Starr, Christman, and Phillips in Phillips's hotel room. Starr had gone down to the in-house restaurant and brought up breakfast sandwiches and coffee for everyone.

Phillips was visibly tired. She'd been up most of the night researching.

"Okay, guys, this is what I've got. Inland Helicopter. They are definitely suspect. I traced two bank accounts to the Cayman Islands and had to go through a dozen shell companies to get to the owners. Saudi. Any questions? Good," she said, not giving anyone time to ask one. She tossed a stack of papers onto the table. "Here's what I found out. Go over it when you've got the time. If Northern Hunting Expeditions is involved, it has to be minor. My feeling is they are not. I could be wrong. Chopper guys are definitely involved. Cross-referencing cell phone calls, I came up with one name. Not sure exactly where he fits in, but he's in there somewhere. Ryyaki Ali. Billionaire Saudi. Has four mansions in this country alone, a total of nine worldwide. One is a retreat outside Portland, Oregon, on about thirty-five acres. He enjoys a luxurious lifestyle. I have three other cell numbers, but I can't match to any names yet. I'll keep digging." Again she stopped for coffee.

Styles spoke up. "J. C., you go check on the plane, be sure it's fueled; whatever. Starr and I are going to pay Inland Choppers a visit. Phillips, get some sleep; you've earned it."