Synbat (16 page)

Atlanta

_10:06 A.M._
Kate grabbed the phone on the first ring. "Westland."
"Kate, it's Drew. Go secure please."
"I'm secure. What have you got?"
"First off, you need to know we're dealing with Red Level Two, Q clearance information here. You know what that means. Do you still want me to tell you?"
Kate indeed knew what that meant. Heavy shit if they got caught digging around. Red Level Two was the next to highest security level possible. "Go ahead."
Patterson was all business as he laid out the few facts he had dredged up. "Biotech Engineering is working under direct contract for the Pentagon."
Kate had figured as much. "Black Budget?"
"Yes. Trollers's people. I couldn't get too much out of the computer. They're still being smart over there and keeping all their files in paper copy and on disk  --  nothing incriminating in their central data base hard drive. I got more from running the two names you gave me through the unclassified data base.
"Ward  --  that's Doctor Glen Lowell Ward. Graduated Harvard in 1968 with an M.D. Then earned a doctorate in genetics in 1974 from Stanford. He's considered one of the top men in the field. His specialty is animal growth. He was one of the developers of the porcine growth hormone."
Kate interrupted. "What's that?"
"It's something they inject into pigs. Makes them develop faster, more efficiently, with leaner meat. The animals reach market size approximately ten days earlier. That doesn't sound like very much until you multiply the number of pigs by the overhead for those ten days, then it comes out to quite a bit of money."
"Why's he working for the government?"
"I don't know, Kate, but if I had to make a guess I'd say for the research money and more importantly the ability to work without as many restrictions. I also found some news reports that he was involved in work with human fetal tissue that caused a bit of a stink several years ago."
"Do you have anything on what he's working on now?"
"No. The other name  --  Merrit. That's Doctor Robin Merrit. Graduated University of Tennessee with a doctorate in bioengineering in 1985. Worked for four years at the University of Texas at Austin as a lab researcher. Her specialty is recombinant DNA."
Kate considered the information along with Riley's message. "Drew, if you add those two people in with four bodies and monkeys, what do you come up with?"
Patterson's words were chilling. "I'd say they've been doing something to those monkeys. In fact they may no longer be monkeys."
"Whatever they are, they've escaped, and my friends are involved in the security response."
Patterson's voice changed from professional to personal. "Listen, Kate. You know that these people play hardball. If there are deaths involved there's going to be a cover-up, and some very high-level and powerful people will be behind it. Although your friends are caught up in it, there really isn't much we can do. And I'd say that whatever your friends are being told probably isn't the whole truth either. I'd suggest you lay low on this."
Kate knew that Patterson had made a valid point. There really wasn't much she could do to help Dave, other than relay the information to Powers. "Is there anything else, Drew?"
"No. Do you want me to keep digging? I'm really not sure there's anything more I can find out without raising a red flag."
Kate considered the offer. "If you can't get anything on the program itself, maybe you can dig up some more information on those two people. Anything that could possibly indicate what's going on. How about checking their clearance investigations?"
"All right. Be careful."
"I'll do that. Out here." She pressed the OFF button briefly, then turned the phone back on and called Powers.
* * * *

Land Between the Lakes

_10:13 A.M._
The DIA van finally pulled up and Lewis got in the back, gesturing for Ward and Riley to join him. The inside was packed with electronic equipment and smelled of wet clothes. There were no windows and the driver's compartment was separated from the rear by a thick black curtain. Lewis commandeered a swivel seat facing a communication system. Riley sat down on the floor and leaned his back against the door. Two other DIA men sat in their own chairs looking at the colonel expectantly. Ward slumped into another seat, managing somehow to look more miserable than everyone else.
"What did the sheriffs have to say about the dogs?"
Riley ran a hand across his forehead, trying to stop the water from dripping into his eyes. "The dogs are done for until this storm stops."
"You have any suggestions?"
Riley was slightly surprised to be asked that by Lewis. He realized that the colonel must be at the end of his rope. He considered his reply. The Synbats, or at least two of them, were somewhere not too far ahead. Although the dogs were no longer useful, and visibility was down to about fifty feet, they couldn't just drop this and go back to the lab. He checked his watch.
"My men should be back here with the humvees in a little while  --  I'd say anywhere from fifteen minutes to a half hour. Without them, we'd just be blundering around. I suggest we wait for them to get here and, while we're waiting, work out a search pattern so we can get started the minute they arrive."
Lewis got up from his chair and stepped over to an acetated map stapled on a board. "Let's do it."
In fifteen minutes they had worked out the rudiments of a plan that would allow them to quarter as much of the area as conditions and trails would permit. Riley wasn't optimistic about their chances of finding the Synbats in this weather without the dogs, especially if the creatures kept moving, but he knew that they had to give it their best shot.
Someone pounded on the door and Riley slid it open to the whipping rain. Knutz stood there wearing a Goretex rain suit.
"Got the vehicles, chief."
"All right." Riley took his waterproof case containing the map of the area and tied it with a length of cord to the buttonhole on his right cargo pocket, then zipped up his rain jacket. Ignoring the weather, Riley gathered his team around the hood of the humvee on the right. The other three vehicles were parked next to it, their squared chassis held high above the mud by the beefed-up suspension.
Humvee is the nickname for H.M.M.W.V.: high-mobility, multipurpose, wheeled vehicle. The humvee started coming into service in the mid-eighties, replacing not only the venerable jeep, but also the gamma goat cargo carrier and the mechanical mule used by airborne units. The vehicle had become particularly popular during the Persian Gulf War. The basic design was a four by four, powered by a 6.2-liter V-8 diesel engine. Its rated top speed was sixty-five miles an hour, but members of 5th Group had broken that barrier several times. It was capable of climbing a sixty-degree embankment, fording five feet of water, and could run for thirty miles with all four wheels flat.
The 5th Special Forces Group had taken the basic-issue humvee and modified it for operations in Southwest Asia, the group's area of operations. Each vehicle mounted either a .50-caliber machine gun or 40mm automatic grenade launcher in an open hatch in the center of the roof: sort of an armed sunroof. The gunner stood with his chest out of the vehicle, and the pedestal-mounted gun was capable of firing 360 degrees. The humvees also had FM radio capability. Each team in the group had four vehicles assigned.
After outlining the various areas of responsibility to the vehicle commanders, Riley added some final words. "We'll go with team SOP for breakdown on crews. I want the guns manned and all quarters scanned. I know that the weather conditions aren't the greatest, but we're dealing with something that has killed and will do so again until we stop it.
"Don't underestimate these things. Just because you have weapons, don't think you hold the advantage." He looked around at the wet faces and felt a slight unease. He was leading men into a potentially life-threatening situation, and he felt a strong sense of responsibility for each of them.
"We'll search until dark. Stay in contact on your FM radios according to schedule. The van back at the campsite will be called Search Base. Colonel Lewis's call sign is Search Six in that van there. You know our call signs. Everyone make sure you check the headspace and timing on your fifties before moving out. Any questions?"
Doc Seay raised a hand. "What if we come into contact with any civilians? What authority do we have over them?"
Riley turned to Colonel Lewis. "Sir, can you give us something on that?"
Lewis had come out of the van to watch the briefing and now he pushed his way in next to Riley. "Technically we don't have any authority over civilians. I can't even get permission to seal off the area yet. But let me tell you all something. These things have already killed. I don't want any more deaths. You come across anybody, you tell them to get the hell out of the area. If they ask you why, tell them it is a federal security exercise. They might not believe you, but at least you've given it your best shot."
Riley was surprised for the second time that day by the DIA man. Obviously, he did care somewhat about what he was doing, and about people as well. Riley sensed that in a way Lewis was as upset as he was about what had happened so far. One of the greatest drawbacks of military service was that sometimes you didn't want to be involved in a particular situation but you had to do your best anyway.
Everything that needed to be said had been said. Riley put his map away. "Let's move out."
The ten men of ODA 682 broke down into four groups and hopped into their respective vehicles. Ranger One was Riley's humvee and call sign. He had the team's only commo man, John Carter, as his driver. Riley would man the gun and radio.
Ranger Two was commanded by Knutz with T-bone as driver. Ranger Three was Doc Seay's with Bartlett as driver and Caruso along for the ride. Bob Philips was in charge of Ranger Four; Trustin was the driver and Trovinsky was also part of that crew.
The four humvees rolled out, vehicle commanders standing in the top hatch manning the .50-caliber machine guns. The drivers were scrunched up in their seats, noses pressed against the flat pane of glass that served as a windshield, as the wipers struggled against the pounding rain. Both drivers and commanders wore headsets with boom mikes that allowed them to work both the radios and intercom. It looked as though it was going to be a long, wet day driving around in the mud.
* * * *

Fort Campbell

_11:23 A.M._
Colonel Hossey drummed his fingers on the desktop. The door across the room opened and Powers stepped in. The NCO stopped at the appropriate two steps in front of the desk and snapped off a brisk salute.
"Sergeant Major Powers reporting as ordered, sir."
"Sit down, Dan." Hossey waited until Powers was settled. "You have contact with six-eight-two?"
"Yes, sir."
"What's going on?"
Powers considered his answer carefully. "As far as I know they're doing some classified work for the DIA in the vicinity of Land Between the Lakes, sir."
"When will they be back?"
"I don't know, sir."
"When was your last receive?"
"Zero eight this morning, sir."
"Anything interesting in the message?"
Powers hesitated. "No, sir."
"Then why did they draw their humvees and fifties this morning? With live ammunition?"
Powers knew he couldn't keep something like that a secret. "I don't know, sir. I saw Master Sergeant Knutz when he came back in and he wouldn't tell me. He said it was classified."
"Do you have any idea what they are involved in?"
"No, sir."
Hossey looked long and hard at the sergeant major. "Dan, I know we're dealing with classified material that we don't have a need to know. But I also know that you and Dave Riley are very tight, and I have a strong suspicion that he has at least given you an idea of what's going on out there. My primary concern is the safety of my men. I want to know if they are in a dangerous situation."
Powers sighed. He reached into his right cargo pocket and pulled out the hard copies of all the sends and receives for 682. He handed them across the desk to the group commander.
It took Hossey only a couple of minutes to go through them all. "I don't like this, Dan. Four deaths, yet there was nothing on the news other than that prison break stuff. Nor have I been informed of anything by the DIA. What did Riley's friend find out?"
Powers was surprised that Hossey hadn't gotten upset over that part. "Just some information on the doctors working at the lab." He handed over the draft of the message he was going to send to Riley later in the day.
Hossey looked at it. "This is some bad stuff. Genetic engineering. God knows what they're messing with out there." He grabbed a notepad and wrote on it. "I want you to add this to your next message."
Powers took the slip of paper along with all the messages. "Yes, sir."
"Now, get out of here and let me get some work done."

*Chapter 11*
_Land Between the Lakes_
_2:30 P.M._
"Look at them damn rebels," Jeremiah muttered. "I thought they was supposed to be setting up yonder along the holler."
"It don't start till tomorrow, Jer." Louis, the elder of the Sattler brothers, locked the brake on the tractor trailer truck and turned off the engine. "I guess they're setting up here for tonight and are leaving their trailers and such in the parking lot for the duration. I'm sure they'll be gone tomorrow."
"I don't want to be spending no night this close to rebels." Jeremiah spit a large wad of tobacco out the window on his side, then opened the door and followed it out. Louis exited his door and met his brother in front of their rig.
Four men on horses splattered by in the rain and tipped their hats. Louis returned the gesture while his brother pointedly ignored the riders. The men wore the light gray and butternut of southern cavalry. Jeremiah noted the insignia on their belt buckles  --  3d Georgia Cavalry.
Jeremiah and his brother were dressed in the dark blue coats and light blue pants of Union soldiers. Their insignia designated them as members of the 7th Cavalry  --  the Garry Owen Regiment. Louis was wearing the rank of a lieutenant; Jeremiah, only fifteen years young, was a private.
"There's the colonel. Let's see where we picket the horses."
The two brothers had just driven seven hours from the regiment's hometown of Waukegan, Illinois, a moderate-sized city on the north side of Chicago. A truck driver in his other life, Louis hauled the trailer containing eight of the regiment's horses whenever the unit traveled to a reenactment. The rest of the men should be arriving later in the day and on into the evening in several cars. The long weekend's festivities would start this evening with a formal mustering of the Confederate and Union forces on the large open field three miles to the south of the LBL Wrangler Camp. Then the two groups would separate and conduct mock battle for the two days before heading home Sunday evening.
Louis was looking forward to this camp. It was predicted that there would be units from almost every state east of the Mississippi. A visitor wandering through the area would have felt transported a hundred and thirty years to an era of citizen-soldiers who waged the bloodiest war the world had seen up until that point.
Every detail was painstakingly exact, from the horses' rigs to the wire-rim glasses the men wore. No modern tents were pitched in the campground; rather there were canvas tarps stretched between trees, and men cooking "sloosh" on their ramrods over open fires.
At every reenactment, Louis felt himself sent back to a time when he should have been born. In his heart he was a cavalryman in the 7th Cavalry. His other existence as a truck driver for Red Ball Lines was just to provide him the means to explore his real life on these weekend trips.
The colonel directed them to picket the horses on a rope between two trees on the edge of the field and throw some feed to the animals for the night. Wisps of fog and the light, misty rain combined to reduce visibility to less than a hundred yards.
That task done, the two brothers looked for a spot to string up their tarp. Jeremiah was adamant about not setting up within sight of any rebel camps. Sometimes Louis worried about his little brother; he took the whole thing way too seriously.
At Jeremiah's insistence, the two set up their camp the farthest east, out in the woods. After getting their gear settled in, they headed over to the main encampment to join in an afternoon and evening of authentic Civil War camp merriment. The only thing lacking were the camp followers.
Jeremiah was carrying his brother's rifle in addition to his own. Louis took charge of the canteen full of "Oh-be-joyful," which he had started sipping when they'd crossed the Illinois-Kentucky state line. He was feeling no pain and didn't even notice the light rain. They had just reached the edge of the forest when Jeremiah halted, his brother bumping into him.
"Whassa-matter?" Louis slurred.
"Listen."
"To what?"
"It's quiet." Jeremiah's fifteen-year-old mind was in tune with the forest and the creatures in it. And the creatures were lying low and quiet. From ahead, the sounds of the main encampment could be faintly heard.
Louis just wanted to get there and share his canteen with the others. He tugged on his brother's arm. "Come on."
"Shh!" Jeremiah didn't know what was happening, but if all the woodland animals were being still, it might be good for the two humans to do the same. He strained his eyes, trying to see, turning his head from side to side. Something was coming. He wasn't sure what it was or from where, but it was coming.
"Here," he whispered, handing his brother his musket. "It's charged. Ain't got time to put a ball in it."
Visibility was poor. Jeremiah put his musket to his hip, muzzle pointing out. The part of him that went to school every day told him he was being foolish, but the part of him that spent the afternoons and weekends in the forest told him to beware.
His seriousness had finally gotten through to his brother, who matched his position. "What are we waiting for?"
"I don't know, but there's -- "
Something large flickered across his field of vision  --  up, above their heads in the trees. Jeremiah swung the muzzle up and pulled the trigger. The rifle roared and a tongue of flame licked up toward the branches. There was a loud screech and suddenly the branches were alive with movement. Louis blindly followed suit with his musket.
The noises in the branches moved away. Jeremiah quickly reloaded, his hands running through the twelve steps with the ease born of thousands of practices. This time, though, he included the one step they never did at reenactments: He inserted the .60-caliber minie ball. He wished he'd had a round in the weapon instead of just the powder charge on the first shot. He didn't know exactly what he had glimpsed in that brief second, but there was no doubting it was bad.
"What was up in the trees?" Louis was fully alert now.
Jeremiah pointed his loaded weapon, listening. The woodland sounds were coming back slowly. Whatever had been in the trees  --  it or they  --  was gone. The younger Sattler felt a chill hand settle over his heart. He didn't know why, but he knew.
"It was a demon." He turned to look at his brother. "It was here to claim us."
Louis wanted to laugh out loud at his brother's words, but he'd long ago learned that Jeremiah was a different sort of person who sensed things that others didn't. Instead of laughter, he felt a sense of unease wrap around him. He pulled his brother by the arm. "Come on. Let's get over to the main camp."
* * * *