South of Eugene, Oregon
March 29
“This way, Detective,” Corbett said. “Dr. Ming wishes to express his appreciation for your efforts.” He motioned with his hand to a door at the rear of the assembly bay. The door was thick, and it sealed tightly to the frame.
Jackson had stepped through the doorway, when he seemed to realize something was amiss, but it was too late. Corbett shoved the door closed and locked the latch. Inside, Jackson banged his fist against the door, desperately trying to get out. But there was no latch, and the door was solid and unyielding. The walls were filled with sound-absorbing insulation, and outside his pounding and screams for help could not be heard. The detective turned around, taking in his surroundings. The space was small, and the walls were painted steel panels. There were no windows, and only one overhead light. A chair was next to the wall.
It was a decontamination chamber. Electrical heating elements beneath the steel wall panels allowed the chamber to be heated. Heat combined with various gases was used to sterilize the payload chamber of the drones. Until further study was completed, the scientists at Utopian-Bio didn’t want to risk an unwelcome interaction of bacterial viruses with their engineered virus.
In the assembly bay, Roger Corbett grasped a valve connected to a large cylinder of liquified carbon dioxide. He opened the valve fully.
Jackson slowed his breathing, trying to calm his mounting anxiety and take stock of his situation. Then he heard a faint hissing sound. His eyes darted over the four walls and ceiling, trying to isolate the source of the sound. A moment later, he found it: a small nozzle directly overhead, next to the light fixture. Jackson raised a hand and felt a gentle flow of gas. His pulse raced. They’re going to poison me! As the small, sealed room filled with carbon dioxide, Jackson felt his respiration and pulse quickening. An intense headache overcame him, and he struggled to breathe, even though nothing was obstructing his mouth and nose.
He was taking deep breaths and exhaling forcefully, but his body still craved oxygen. Panic began to take hold, growing in strength by the second as his mind screamed for air. The throbbing pain in his head increased, fueling his panic. His respiration was so rapid he should have been hyperventilating, but it was just the opposite—he was suffering acute oxygen deprivation. His last thought before losing consciousness was that somehow they were taking the air out of the room.
“Mr. Corbett,” one of the technicians called. Corbett left the open gas valve and returned to his priority. “The flight program is downloaded and confirmed. All diagnostics check out. The payload is secured, and the hydrogen cylinders are at max pressure. We are green to go.”
“Very well.” Corbett replied. “Move the craft out into the open. Prepare for launch.”
The three technicians each grasped one of the arms that the rotors were attached to and carried the machine about fifty yards from the barn, setting it down on the open lawn.
“Fire up the motors. Ready for launch,” Corbett ordered. As hydrogen gas entered the fuel cell, the motors began to turn, slowly at first, but within a minute the fuel cell had reached normal operating conditions and the sound intensified as the rotors whipped the air. The sound became a loud buzz, like a massive swarm of bees.
“Final checks are good,” a technician said.
Corbett spoke into a hand-held radio. “Turning over flight control.”
“Bravo team has flight control,” came the tinny reply. “We are green across the board. All systems check. Request permission to launch.”
“Launch,” Corbett ordered without hesitation.
The drone helicopter started to rise. It wobbled a little as the flight team on the second floor of the barn took control, adjusting the speed and pitch of the rotors. Slowly the aircraft climbed in a straight, vertical trajectory.
s
Peter squatted, his back against the rear bumper, and checked the magazine of the pump-action shotgun. It was loaded with buckshot. He worked the action, placing a round in the chamber. Safety off, the weapon was ready.
No sooner had he finished when he heard a buzz, slowly growing in intensity. It reached maximum volume and seemed to hold. Peter glanced over the trunk and through the windshield of the car. In the open grass between the house and barn a team had prepared a drone for flight. The copter was hovering stationary about sixty feet above the ground. And then it started to move toward him.
Based on his prior observations and the information from Ming, Peter was certain this drone was also loaded with the virus. He didn’t know where it was going or what the target was, and it didn’t matter. He reasoned the craft was likely loaded with a dangerous pathogen, and it had to be stopped.
Staying at a constant altitude, the aircraft closed the distance toward Peter. He rested his elbow on the trunk lid and took aim.
BOOM! But the shot missed, and the drone continued level flight. BOOM! BOOM! Still it continued on.
The shots had alerted the men near the barn. En masse they charged toward Peter’s position. They were more than a hundred yards away, but that distance would be covered in seconds.
Peter fired again.
Miss. The drone was overhead, forcing Peter into an unnatural firing position. BOOM!
The drone was now moving away and gaining speed. Soon it would be out of range. He only had two shots left before he’d have to reload, and there was no time for that.
BOOM! came the thunderous report. The aircraft wobbled just a little and seemed to slow. With one shot left, Peter took aim. Leading the drone just a little… holding steady… BOOM!
As Peter recovered from the recoil he saw two of the rotors disintegrate, sending pieces of metal and plastic flying in all directions. The aircraft tilted to the side, unable to maintain proper trim and lift, then it crashed hard into the gravel driveway, shattering into hundreds of pieces.
The gunfire had agitated Diesel to the point that Peter was worried he might break his command and dash for the forest. In a stern voice, Peter said, “Diesel! Stay!” He held the palm of his hand toward the dog, visually reinforcing the command.
Peter slumped behind the trunk. Bullets were raining in on the sedan, smashing through the windshield and exiting the rear window. But the mass of the engine served as a very effective shield, affording Peter precious seconds to reload the riot gun. He rammed shell after shell into the tubular magazine, mentally counting down the seconds until he estimated the assailants would overrun his position.
After only four shells were loaded, Peter stopped and jacked a round into the chamber, safety off. He darted around the passenger side of the car, shotgun shouldered and seeking targets. And they were right in front of him. There were four in total—the men who had just launched the drone.
Peter fired. The space separating him from the gunmen was about thirty yards. He kept moving to the side. They returned fire, pistols spitting out 9mm bullets at a furious pace. One of the technicians stumbled, buckshot striking high on his leg. His gun hand dropped as he fought to stay on his feet, only to lose the struggle and tumble to the ground.
Pumping the action, Peter fired again, still moving, trying to keep distance which worked to his advantage. The 00-buckshot spread into a deadly pattern about a foot in diameter before tearing through a second technician. One of the pellets smashed his forearm and others ravished both thighs. The ballistic vest he wore saved his life, but he fell to the lawn, bleeding profusely.
The remaining two gunmen seemed to hesitate. One of them was reloading, and Peter recognized him as Roger Corbett. The other technician slowed but kept firing his weapon. Both assailants held back, not daring to charge into the business end of the shotgun.
With his SIG Sauer pistol reloaded, Corbett faced Peter and aimed. Looking down the sights of the riot gun, Peter fired first. The shot hit Corbett low in the belly. His vest prevented penetration, but the blow was like six hammers slamming into his gut, all at the same time. Three of the lead pellets hit below the vest, striking him in the groin and hip. He doubled over as if hit by a steel beam. And then he fell in a heap on the lawn.
The remaining technician, realizing he was alone, dropped his gun and raised his hands. “I give up!” he shouted.
Peter approached, but never lowered the shotgun. When he was a few yards away, he said, “Do you have any other weapons?”
The man shook his head.
“Okay. Go to the trunk of the car and get the first aid kit. Make any move that appears threatening, and you’re dead. Understand?”
“Yes,” he replied nervously.
With Diesel by his side, Peter kept a safe distance as the man retrieved the medical kit spotted earlier in the trunk. “Go to your friends and see what you can do to stop the bleeding.”
The technician started toward Corbett but was stopped. “No, not him. He’s last.”
The first two men to go down were writhing in pain and showed zero interest in any further conflict. Still, Peter kept his weapon pointed at each one as he kicked their guns away and watched diligently as gauze was applied and wrapped around their wounds. They needed serious medical attention, but this was the best he could offer under the circumstances.
That left Corbett. The technician had few supplies left in the first aid kit. He came up to his boss, who appeared to be on the verge of blacking out. He was on his side, legs drawn up. Even so, the amount of blood loss was evident as the pool of crimson grew ever larger on the grass. Corbett was muttering something incomprehensible.
“I don’t know what to do,” the technician said.
“Roll him onto his back. See if you can get some gauze onto those wounds.”
The man leaned over and placed his hands against Corbett, but he resisted. “No,” Corbett said. “Need to tell you…”
The technician shook his head. “He’s saying something. Says there’s something he needs to tell you.”
“He’s got nothing to say that I’m interested in. Roll him over.”
The man tried again, and as soon as his hands touched Corbett he said, “No! You have to listen! There’s more…”
The technician removed his hands from his boss, and Peter paused a moment to consider the unexpected turn of events. What if Corbett had something important to say?
“On your belly,” Peter ordered the technician. He complied readily. “Diesel. Guard.” The red pit bull stood only inches away from the man’s face, the amber eyes locked onto his, watching, waiting for any sign of aggression.
Peter leaned closer to Corbett, the shotgun still firmly held in his right hand. “Make it quick, you’re bleeding out,” he said.
Corbett moved his lips, but the words were too soft to make out. Peter lowered his head further, straining to hear. Suddenly Corbett lashed out with a knife he’d held tight against his body. Peter jerked back, the blade narrowly missing his chest, but it slashed across his right forearm.
Reflexively, he squeezed the trigger on the shotgun. The barrel was nearly touching Corbett’s chest. With no distance to spread out, the cluster of buckshot behaved more as a single mass, ripping through the ballistic vest. As the shot entered his body, the pellets spread like a fragmentation grenade, shredding his lungs and organs.
Roger Corbett was dead.