South of Eugene, Oregon
March 29
Blood was flowing readily from the gash on Peter’s forearm. He sat near the prone technician and opened the medical kit. “You’re right, there’s not much left in here,” Peter said rhetorically. He suspected the man was not going to dare move or speak as long as Diesel was inches away from his face.
He opened four sterile gauze pads and placed them over the laceration, then wrapped an elastic bandage over them to keep everything in place. It would have to do for now.
“Get up,” he said to the technician. They walked to the two wounded men. “Strip out their shoelaces and heave their shoes into the brush. Then yours, same thing.” After he’d complied, he looked to Peter, expecting further instructions.
“That one.” Peter indicated the man who had wounds to his forearm and thighs. “Leave him. If he tries to go anywhere he’s likely to win a Darwin Award.” Then he looked at the other wounded man. “Him, take his vest off and toss it over here, then tie his hands behind his back.” After the man finished the task Peter told him to sit on the lawn and remove the vest he was wearing. When he finished, Peter secured his hands in the same way as the other wounded technician.
Peter removed his shirt and donned both bullet-proof vests, then tugged his shirt over the flexible armor. It was a snug fit, the fabric tugging at the buttons.
Satisfied, he hefted the riot gun and loaded the magazine with the remaining shotgun shells from his pockets. Then he picked up two pistols from the lawn, stuffing them into his waistband.
“Come on Diesel, let’s go.” With leaden legs, Peter trudged toward the barn. He didn’t want to go there. He didn’t know what he would find inside, how much force he would encounter. Was Danya inside the barn? Was she still alive? She had to be.
Peter wanted to sit this one out, let someone else take over. He’d done enough, time for the next string to come in and take on the fight. Trouble was, he had no idea when, or even if, relief would show up. And he owed Danya his life. It was a debt he was determined to pay, even if it was a one-for-one exchange.
He checked his phone. It was still on, somehow surviving all the mayhem. He decided to call Detective Colson again. The number rang, and then the call went to her voice mail.
He pocketed the phone and turned his gaze down to Diesel. “Well buddy, I guess it’s just you and me. I’d like to think we’ve been in tougher scrapes… but I’m not so sure.” Diesel cocked his head, a reaction that always left Peter thinking his dog was trying to understand his speech, but falling just short.
s
Peter entered the assembly bay and spotted the elevator. He recalled his brief survey of the control room on the ground floor and the catwalk overhead that seemed to connect to a security center. He also estimated that flight operations were conducted from the second floor since he saw no indication of that activity within the control center. The elevator must open onto either security or flight control, he thought.
He pressed the button, and the polished chrome doors opened. Reaching inside, he pressed the button with the number 2, and quickly withdrew his arm. Ignoring his fatigue and drawing upon energy reserves he didn’t know he had, he and Diesel were already running around the outside of the barn toward the entry door as the elevator closed and started to ascend.
Using the key card he had taken earlier, Peter opened the door and ducked inside, Diesel right beside him. He hoped that the elevator opening on the second floor would serve as a distraction of sorts, drawing attention away as he entered the passage to the control center.
His plan worked. There were no guards or technicians on the ground floor, and two guards near the catwalk were facing away as he entered. Peter quickly closed the door.
The center looked much different now that power had been restored and the overhead lights were on, brightly illuminating the computer consoles. He surveyed the scene. The floor was littered with bodies clothed in blue coveralls, evidence of a pitched gunfight.
Some of the monitors were shot up and non-functional, others were showing what appeared to be weather maps and lines of data. And on another monitor he saw what appeared to be a navigational map with a green arrow moving slowly along a lined route. That must be the first drone. They must have got the power restored in time to resume the mission. The arrow was over Eugene, still miles away from the municipal water supply along the Mackenzie River in Springfield, but it was closing the distance at a rapid pace. A count-down timer was displayed on the upper corner of the screen. It read 4 minutes 53 seconds.
He didn’t have much time.
In the middle of the floor he saw Danya’s shotgun and the bandoleer of shells. He still had the riot gun, but wanted the extra firepower of the semi-automatic shotgun.
With the police shotgun at his shoulder and sweeping the room, he moved purposefully and silently to retrieve Danya’s weapon and extra ammunition. Not knowing how many, if any, shotshells were in the magazine, Peter plucked shells from the bandoleer and shoved them into the magazine until it would hold no more. He noticed they were slugs, not buckshot, appreciating the added punch of the solid projectile.
The sling on the FN semi-auto shotgun came in handy as Peter draped it over his shoulder. Loaded down with two pistols and two shotguns, not to mention the combat tomahawk tucked under his belt behind his back, he felt slightly more confident.
Peter was not a military veteran, nor did he have law enforcement experience. But he had been on missions with some of the world’s most elite soldiers, the SGIT team under the command of his friend Commander James Nicolaou. And through those experiences, he’d learned some basic tactics. Such as you never want to fight uphill, or from the ground floor moving up in a building.
Unfortunately, he had no choice. He was on the ground floor and the pilot team flying the drone was located on the second floor, likely adjacent to the security office. Could that be where Danya is being held? he wondered.
Considering the carnage, he knew Danya had put up a strong fight and extracted blood, and plenty of it. Was she still alive? If she was, he vowed to find her and bring her to safety.
But first, he had to stop the drone.
s
In a crouch, Peter climbed the stairs to the catwalk, carefully placing his foot down with each step to avoid noise that would alert the guards on the second floor. Diesel padded beside him matching his master’s pace. The riot gun was shouldered, his finger just barely touching the trigger.
He stopped just before the top of the stairway, listening for any sound of motion. There was none.
Sighting down the shotgun barrel and both eyes open, he resumed his methodical pace. As he cleared the top edge of the stairs, the two guards came into view. They appeared to be engaged in conversation, but they must have been speaking very softly because he couldn’t hear their words. Peter continued to inch forward, closing the distance. Beyond them Peter noticed a large room. The elevator was centered on the back wall. To the right, two persons were seated at a control station, each focused on the multiple screens before them. To the left were three more guards, but their backs were turned toward Peter.
Just three steps before the top, one of the men caught Peter’s movement and turned. His hand dropped to the holstered pistol on his hip. Peter fired, then pumped the action, and fired again. Both guards were hit with a tight cluster of buckshot, knocking them onto their backs. They struggled to draw their weapons, but Peter fired again and again until the men stopped moving. The .33 caliber lead pellets had done serious damage as both men were bleeding from multiple wounds to their legs and lower torsos. Arterial blood was pumping from severed femoral arteries. Within a minute, both guards bled out.
The remaining three guards jumped to action. Peter fired at the first guard to face him. The buckshot hit the man in the chest, but he stayed on his feet. He pumped the action and pulled the trigger again. Click! He dropped the empty weapon, his hand going for the FN shotgun hanging from his shoulder. He was swiveling the weapon up when another guard raised his pistol. He had the drop on Peter, and he fired.
Peter was pushed back as if a massive fist had punched him in the chest. At first, he couldn’t breathe and was gasping for air, but then his rhythm started to return. He was still bringing up the shotgun when two more rounds hit his chest simultaneously, forcing the air out of his lungs with an audible grunt. He’d never felt such a powerful blow to his body, imagining it was like a 200-pound man jumping on his chest.
Staggering, and trying to stay on his feet, he got the FN to hip level. The three guards seemed to come to the realization at the same time that Peter was wearing body armor. They were adjusting their aim upward when Diesel took off like a rocket. The sudden blur of motion distracted all of the men. One managed to lower his sights and squeeze off a single round at the charging canine, but it missed and then Diesel was on him. Jaws latched onto his gun arm and began lacerating flesh like it was tissue paper.
The momentary distraction was enough time for Peter to level his gun and fire. The first slug blew through the chest of the middle guard. He was still falling backwards when Peter nudged the muzzle and sent another armor-piercing slug into the belly of the guard on the left. He fired a second round into the man’s chest, ending his fight.
That left one guard struggling against the powerful pit bull. It was a chaotic fight, intense and vicious. Driven by an instinctive desire to protect one of his pack, Diesel was ablaze with bestial fury. With jaws clamped like a vise, his head thrashed back and forth in a frenzied whiplash. Blood flowed freely from the ever-opening wound. As muscle tore and tendons severed, the guard lost control of his hand and the pistol thudded to the floor. Panic over-rode his sense of pain. He was desperately attempting to pry the dog away, his free hand grasping a fistful of lose skin on the hound’s neck. But it was no use.
Peter raised the shotgun, aimed the sights on the struggling guard, and fired. The slug struck the man just above the bridge of his nose. The result was grisly, leaving little of his face that could be recognized as human.
The pilots at the flight control station had ejected from their chairs and hugged the floor as soon as the gunfire started. Although they were both armed, neither wanted to jump into the fight. Perhaps because they’d seen nearly all their comrades be killed or wounded—perhaps because they were here to be pilots, not soldiers. Whatever the reason, it mattered little to Peter.
He aimed the FN shotgun at the two prone figures. “Gently, unholster those sidearms and throw them toward me.” They complied without hesitation, taking extra care to be slow, deliberate, and above all, non-threatening.
“Diesel, come!” Peter commanded. Then he pointed to the two pilots on the floor, a man and a woman. “Guard!”
With no other immediate threats, Peter gazed around the space. No one was there other than the pilots on the floor.
“Are you two flying the drone?”
“Yes,” the woman replied. “I’m the pilot, responsible for flight control.”
“What’s your name?” Peter asked.
“Abresch,” the pilot replied.
“And your partner, Ms. Abresch—what is his job?”
“He’s the co-pilot, and in charge of the dispersion once the drone reaches the designated target.”
Peter walked closer to the flight control consoles, looking over the multiple monitors. “How long until the drone reaches the Hayden Bridge water intake?”
“Several minutes; three, maybe four. The count-down timer is located between the two keyboards.”
Peter’s eyes quickly found the digital display. It read 3:17. “What happens when the drone reaches the target?”
“It’s flying on autopilot right now. Once it’s over the water supply, I have to take control of the flight, managing altitude and speed, taking into consideration local windspeed and direction. Then the co-pilot will initiate the release of the virus. It’s a powder that needs to be dispensed at a calculated rate.”
“That’s a lot of data to collect and numbers to crunch. Is that why there’s enough computing power in this building to send a satellite into orbit?”
Abresch hesitated before answering. “Yeah, sort of.”
“Sort of? I want straight answers, Ms. Abresch. It’s been a very long day and I’m very tired. I’ve been kidnapped, shot at, and nearly executed. And it is not even time for lunch yet. Don’t test my patience.”
“Okay, okay. You’re right. There’s a lot of meteorological data to collect and that feeds into calculations that determine the altitude, direction, and speed to fly the drone. But…” The pilot paused.
“Go on,” Peter urged.
“This center is linked to all the other launch locations. The drones, all of them, will be flown and operated from here.”
“There are other locations?”
“Yes, across the country. Drones will be launching against dozens of municipal water systems.”
“We’ll see about that.” Peter checked the timer again—2:14. “What happens if your co-pilot doesn’t activate the release of the virus?”
“There’s a failsafe. If the dispensing is not activated, or there is a mechanical failure, the aircraft will automatically return to the launch point. But it doesn’t have enough fuel—hydrogen—to make it back here.”
“When it runs out of fuel, will it crash and spill the powdered agent?”
“No. A second failsafe. When the fuel level reaches critical, the onboard computer will find the nearest landing zone on its programmed course, and touch down. The onboard battery will power a transmitter for three hours, enough time to retrieve the aircraft.”
“Good. Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Abresch. You two are done working for today.”
“Are you going to shoot us?” Abresch asked, her voice quivering.
“Not if I don’t have to.”
Peter rotated his head, taking in the flight control center. There were two other stations. “Where are the other pilots?” he asked.
“They left when the shooting began,” Abresch said. “They went down in the elevator.”
They could be rounded up later, Peter reasoned. Right now, he had more important concerns. “The woman. Where is she?” he demanded.
Before the pilot could answer, the elevator doors opened. Danya was standing rigidly, Ming was behind her holding a gun to her head. “I think I have someone you care about,” Ming said.