Kill Switch (41 page)

He told me about the incident at Bristol-Hermann Laboratories, and the subsequent murder-suicide at the police station. Captain Allison Craft and her partner were dead. So was the only suspect who could explain what happened.

“What did they get away with?” I asked.

He said, “That lab processes rare strains, mutated strains, and weaponized strains of highly infectious diseases. The perpetrator stole samples of several of the most virulent diseases currently in existence. And, Captain … one of them is SX-56.”

I nearly slid out of my chair. The room was suddenly too bright, the edges of everything too sharply defined. It felt like I was surrounded by things that could cut me.

SX-56.

“Jesus Christ…,” I breathed. I've faced all kinds of monsters, but it's not the ones with fangs and claws that scare me. Not really. It's the ones too small to hit, too small to shoot. Viruses.

SX-56 was a hypervirulent strain of smallpox. The disease has been killing people since at least 10,000 BC. They found traces of it on the mummy of Pharaoh Ramses V. At the end of the eighteenth century it was killing four hundred thousand people each year in Europe alone. It ravaged the skin, caused blindness in many of its victims, and even though it was lethal to everyone, it was particularly aggressive in kids, killing 80 percent of those infected. Conservative global estimates of people killed by smallpox in the early to mid-twentieth century? Maybe five hundred million.

Be with that number for a moment. Let it bite you deep enough to bleed.

Even during the height of the Cold War, the United States and the Soviet Union worked together to produce vaccines that stopped the disease in its tracks. The global eradication of smallpox was declared December 9, 1979. The monster was dead. We'd won.

Except that we didn't.

Samples of the smallpox virus existed in labs, in viral storage facilities, and in government bioweapons research centers. Yeah … the kinds of labs that are illegal according to all international treaties. But Russia has them, so does China, and every other major power.

So do we.

A few years ago new cases of smallpox began cropping up. Mutant strains that were resistant to the vaccines. They struck and they went away. Over and over again. The press lauded the World Health Organization doctors who descended on the outbreak sites and prevented the spread, and yes, those guys are actual superheroes. But here's the thing … those outbreaks were deliberate and careful experiments conducted by terrorist groups. It was a pattern I've seen too often. I shut down a few of these labs, and in such cases I tended to be moderately harsh. Scorched earth harsh.

The latest and deadliest strain of smallpox was SX-56, developed in Russia by a team officially labeled as “rogues.” I knew better. Everyone in my line of work knew better. They were no more rogue than the Ghost Net hackers who were officially disavowed by the Chinese government.

SX-56 is a monster. There's nothing scarier. It's on a par with
seif al din
and Lucifer 113. Yeah, that kind of scary. It is an ultra-quick-onset weaponized pathogen. Because the virus has a simple gene structure it doesn't need much incubation time. Unlike anthrax, there's no specific drug, antibiotic, or antiviral medicine that can treat people who have it. You get it and you die. If you're an adult you might live long enough to see your children die first. It is an immensely cruel weapon. I knew that research samples of it existed at the CDC, the National Institutes for Health, the FDA, and even in labs affiliated with Homeland Security. The lack of tighter regulations is one of the reasons I never get a good night's sleep.

And Nathan Cross stole it and sent it off strapped to a fucking drone.

Holy God. Is the entire world insane? I mean, really … tell me that we're not all out of our son of a bitching minds.

“What the hell is happening?” I demanded. “Why are people going crazy?”

“I don't know,” said Church. “I'm afraid many of the answers are buried down at Gateway.”

He hadn't meant it to hurt, but it hurt.

It really killed.

 

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

THE PIER

DMS SPECIAL PROJECTS OFFICE

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

SEPTEMBER 8, 8:06
P.M.

Here's another fine example of the world kicking me when I'm down.

The smallpox case was taken away from us before Church had even made it to the airport. Gone. Bam. Done. Handed over to the CIA. Brick called to tell me. He didn't say so, but I had the feeling that Church was not in any mood to tell me himself. Church has iron control but no one can take that many punches in a row. They were on their way back to the Pier.

You can sit there and gape in shock or you can do something. I yelled at Bug and at Dr. Hu to get me some actionable information. Bug already had his whole team on it, and he didn't seem to care any more than I did that this wasn't our case. Hu, who usually entertains himself by insulting me, had a different take today.

He said, “Believe me, Ledger, I am going to make sense of this. I am not going to be ass-raped by the fucking CIA.”

Then he hung up. I wanted to pat him on the back.

After that, I began tearing through the reports of the DMS failures, looking for patterns and trying to build a case out of scant information. No, let me correct that. It wasn't that we had insufficient information, we actually had a lot of it, but so far it didn't make much sense. The Cop part of my brain was offended by that. I needed answers and I needed logic. I'm occasionally an idiot, I'll accept that, but at the end of the day I am a trained investigator who needs things to make sense. You see, people don't understand the cop mind. They think we like puzzles. We absolutely do not. We like order. We attack mysteries in order to put disparate pieces back into their proper place. We don't enjoy the process. It's the end result that matters. Order out of chaos. It's not entertainment, it's who we are.

So the core of this thing seemed to originate at Gateway and the projects Erskine was running. Using what few resources I had, I began to make a list of the things I knew and to draw inferences from them.

Point one, the God Machine. It looked mostly but not entirely like a hadron collider. It had a hatch or opening. Air passed in and out of it. What was it? I had no idea because I lacked enough information.

Point two. Kill Switch. It was a directed-energy weapon that appeared to be able to temporarily interrupt electrical fields. It was nonlethal. Top, Bunny, and I had been exposed to it down at Gateway. People in Houston, at the NASCAR track, and at the debate had all been exposed to it. It stopped everything from digital watches to cell phones to engines. According to the reports it also stopped pacemakers. However, it did not short-circuit the central nervous system of living beings. There were no animal deaths. Not even birds or insects. I called Dr. Hu back and asked him about that. He told me that it was scientifically impossible. He sounded offended by that, too. And he hung up on me again.

Point three. Dreamwalking. The name was suggestive. Could it be some kind of mind control or psychic possession? A week ago I would have laughed at that idea. Now it scared me. I sent another request to Bug to get me any information on known research into mind control or manipulation using mechanical, chemical, or electrical means. As an afterthought I told him to check out research into psychic control.

“Joe,” he said, “Mr. Church already has us working on that.”

Interesting.

Point four. Freefall. So far we hadn't come up with anything on that. Not a word or a whisper.

Point five. Dreamshield. What was that? A defense against whatever kind of weapon Dreamwalking was? No way to know for sure, but my gut said yes.

Lydia-Rose tapped on my door and leaned in. She does that. Leans. Not sure why she doesn't actually step into the doorway or come inside. Leaning does it for her. A head, one shoulder, one boob, and a smile.

“Joe—? You have a visitor.”

The door opened and he was standing right there.

Him.
The guy that every shooter, every spy, every special operator in the United States intelligence and covert military services pretty much thinks is a god. Our god. Specifically the messiah of the clandestine trade.

Harcourt Bolton, Senior.

CIA superspy. A guy who's closed more top-level cases than I've had cold beers. A man who has saved the world so often that we should consider adding a fifth face to Mount Rushmore. Like that, and maybe double that.

Ever since Church had told me that the president appointed Bolton as codirector of the DMS I'd been privately trying to hate him. But that was for shit as soon as the man walked into my office. I instantly stood up and very nearly saluted. He was tall and handsome in a sixtyish Kevin Costner way. Powerfully built, but built for speed, built for action. Am I gushing? You bet you. I was a fanboy and this was Captain America. This was Batman.

“Mr. Ledger,” I said, hurrying around the desk and offering my hand. “I'm Captain Bolton.”

His smile was warm, amused, and patient. He shook my hand—and, yes, his grip was firm and dry—and he made no comment as what I'd said caught up to my stripped-gear brain.

“Um, I mean I'm…”

“Call me Harcourt, Captain,” he said. “May I call you Joe? It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I've been following your career with great interest. The Deacon was right to rely on you as his right hand. You put my record for big-ticket saves to shame. I'm honored to shake your hand.”

It is entirely possible I said, “Eeeep.” Not sure, but let's not rule it out.

It was in that moment that I became incredibly aware that my office was a mess, with a cluttered desk, stacks of folders everywhere, an open box of half-pawed-over doughnuts on the credenza, and the stale odor of overworked idiot perfuming the air. I wanted to tuck in my shirt and check to see if my fingernails were clean.

“And who's this?” said Bolton, nodding to Ghost. “That's a handsome dog. Combat trained, I expect. A beautiful example of the breed.”

He held out his hand to be sniffed. Ghost took his scent but then backed away, ears flattened, eyes narrowed. He even started to growl.

“Stop it,” I snarled, and Ghost jerked backward from me.

“No, no, it's okay,” said Bolton easily. “I was petting Bastion and your dog probably smells that.”

I ordered Ghost to lie down. He obeyed, but it took me three tries. That was embarrassing, too, but Bolton did not comment on it. Too classy a guy for that.

“So sorry to intrude on you without a call,” said Bolton, “but with everything going on … well, you understand. Do you have time for a quick catch-up chat?”

“Oh, geez, I've got no manners at all. Please, come in.” I swept files from a leather guest chair and very nearly pushed him into it. “Rose, bring coffee and—”

“Tea for me, if that's okay,” said Bolton.

“Tea. Sure. We have tea. Rose, do we have tea? Get some tea. Right now. Milk and cookies, too. And send someone out for pastries.”

“Just tea,” said Bolton, smiling, trying not to be too openly amused by my circus clown performance. I tried to straighten my desk without looking like I was straightening my desk. I opened a drawer and put my old coffee cup and the ham sandwich I was about to eat into it. Sadly, I wouldn't find that sandwich for days. Then I sat down.

Yes, I am fully aware that I was acting like a moron. No, like a Trekkie who suddenly found himself in an elevator with Captain Kirk. I don't actually have many heroes, but when I go bromance I go full bromance.

Bolton sat back and crossed his legs. He did it with great elegance. Very nice suit, polished shoes with rubber soles made to look like leather. Great for walking quietly while still looking nonchalant. Those shoes jumped onto my Christmas wish list.

Yeah, I said it. I coveted the man's shoes.

Bolton said, “The Deacon tells me you've been working the Gateway case. Where are you with that?”

And suddenly I was back in the real world. I laid my hands flat, fingers splayed, on the files that still covered most of my desk. “This,” I said, “is a grade-A prime example of a clusterfuck. Pardon my French.”

“I've heard the word before, Captain. And as I work for Uncle Sam I've had cause to use it more times than I can count.” He paused, looking briefly uncomfortable. “Let's get this out into the open right from the start, okay? I didn't ask for this post. Being director of the Special Projects Office. I think this is the president taking a cheap shot at the Deacon. I think it shows a remarkable lack of faith in an organization that has done more measureable good for this country than anyone else. Including the CIA, and that's my home team. And I am embarrassed to have to act as your boss. That's wrong.”

I said nothing.

“Between you and me and the wallpaper, Captain, this is your shop and this is your op. You call the shots. I'll be happy to file reports to mollify POTUS, but I'm not going to come in and piss in your yard and pretend I'm the dog with the biggest dick. Are we clear on that?”

“Thanks,” I said. “That means a lot. More than I can express.”

We shook hands. But I sagged back, feeling how weak and sick I still was.

“I heard you got beat up,” he said, nodding to my bruises.

“It worked out in my favor,” I told him. “But thinking about it hurts my head.”

He nodded. “Another case like what happened with your friend Dr. Sanchez?”

“Yes. If you have any suggestions or theories I am all ears.”

“Sadly, no. This is a strange case.”

“Strange doesn't begin to cover it. This started off weird and got weirder.”

Bolton said, “You mean the
Mountains of Madness
and the connection to pulp horror writers? I know, it's maddening. However, the reference to the God Machine in what your man, Bug, found…? I think I might have something useful on that.”