David Dun: Necessary Evil

The tiny placards on the scattered vials read variously: avcd- 4, AVCD-4-II, MY-TB, TB-i, TB-2, TB-AV, HP-A, HP-B, HP-C, and a host of other labels. Given the number of pods, if they were all similarly packed, there must have been thousands of vials.

Kier knew that "CD 4" was a name for a protein molecule on the outside of the white blood cells of humans and certain monkeys, but he did not know what "AV" might mean. He knew that '' My TB'' might stand for mycobacterium tuberculosis. HP-A, HP-B, HP-C were perhaps hepatitis A, B, and C. In fact, it seemed that most of the labels bore initials that were shorthand for an infectious disease. He recognized malaria, typhus, scarlet fever, the bubonic plague, leprosy, and many others. Still more vials, with labels like stage 5-mal mel, appeared to be shorthand for various kinds of cancer cells. A planeload of human diseases, a veritable Noah's ark of the plagues of mankind.

His scalp prickled. After glancing again at Jessie, who still knelt by the corpse in the snow, he turned his attention to a large black box that lay open. Its contents were five heavy binders. Possibly laboratory documentation.

No ordinary container, this box had a thick layer of rubberized material on the outside. The inside of the box was metal lined and its walls thick. It was undoubtedly fireproof and shock resistant. Beside the box lay two hefty combination locks that obviously had secured the latches before someone opened them. Carefully he lifted out the binder labeled vol. i, opened it, and saw a table of contents for six volumes inserted loosely, as if the set was regularly updated. Looking down at the box again, Kier saw space for a sixth binder of the same dimensions as the first five. If the sixth volume had ever been there, it was now missing.

Jessie edged silently past him, headed toward the bodies in the plane.

After the table of contents came a handwritten page scrawled in blue ink. There was a spidery quality to the writing that was the telltale sign of a fountain pen in a hurried hand.

Jack Tillman's going to kill us all, Lord help us. And we have given him the tools.

Although I have not yet made him God, I have put him at God's right hand. These volumes must be given to the media and to scientists who can sort out how to responsibly use what we have discovered. If you 're reading this (and whether you work for Tillman or not) you must kill him before he kills you.

I wanted to help my wife. That's how Tillman talked me into the Wintoon Project with the

Tiloks. I never knew that by trying to save her, I would start this nightmare

The page ended in mid-sentence.

Kier recalled Tillman's arrogant stare. He searched for the remainder of the handwritten diary, flipping quickly through the other volumes, looking for more summary explanations. Nothing.

Jessie, looking at bodies, said something about not touching things. But this was a treasure trove of information and even she didn't sound convinced. Not wanting to start an argument, he said nothing and continued on.

He searched the index for "Wintoon Project," finding only a reference to Volume Six. But Volume Six was nowhere to be found, unless it was in the forward cabin among the debris.

Kier's eye wandered back to the flasks and vials and then to an index page. In a subheading that read "Adult Cloning Methodologies," he found a cross-reference to "Wintoon Project" at page 67 in the missing Volume Six. In fact, the table of contents showed that the entire last half of Volume Six was devoted to "DNA Reconstruction," "Gene Reassortment," "Gene Expression," and "DNA Chip Methodologies."

Looking up, he saw that Jessie was mostly finished with the bodies, staring back at him, wanting to know what he was finding. Where to begin? "I'll tell you later," was all he said, in deference to the smallness of his real answer as contrasted with the potential magnitude of the discovery.

Urgently, he skimmed the dense material for additional references to Wintoon. He again looked for the missing Volume Six, walking up the aisle partway toward Jessie. Nothing.

He had to get these books out of the plane in case it exploded and burned. Kier carried the binders out into the maelstrom and found the mountain still in the midst of its makeover. Snow blew in swirls-it blew up, it blew down, it covered every offered space.

He let his gaze wander over what he could see of the snow-covered trees and the crumpled jet, using what he observed and felt to focus his thinking. The men in this plane had been experimenting with DNA. They had been engaged in genetic tinkering that somehow involved the Tilok. According to the writer, Jack Tillman was a very dangerous man. He apparently owned the contents of the jet. Was all of this related to the Indian girls and their birth-mother jobs? And the disease agents? How?

As he placed the metal box beneath a fir, Kier felt overcome by a sense of disquiet. He shuddered with anticipation as his mind turned to Jessie. When he had last seen her, she had been walking toward the cockpit. He would check on her from outside the pilot's window.

In a few quick strides, he was at the airplane's front windshield, which was badly shattered, but not completely broken through. Even on the lee side of the plane, the same side they had entered at the tail, the snow had drifted halfway to the windows. But it was cottony soft. He sank in to his thighs.

He leaned a large metal bracing structure from the wing against the fuselage and stood on it, still barely able to see inside. It surprised him to find three bodies, one of them facing aft. He pulled himself up another inch. His eyes caught movement-the dull glint of metal. The third body was a live man, gun trained on Jessie through the jagged hole in the cockpit door.

Sliding back down the side of the plane, Kier ran, his great steps eating up the distance. As he passed through the rear entry into the cabin, he choked back the scream that threatened to escape his lips. He became a shadow, sliding up the aisle. He could see Jessie now, her hand reaching for the door, the assailant's bloodied face rising.

Jessie saw the ugly circle formed by the barrel of a large-bore handgun pointing through the hole in the cockpit door.

"Oh no," she breathed like a spent balloon.

Just then Kier's huge hand grabbed her thigh, pulling her body to the side of the cabin. A muted pop followed, and she knew that the silenced shot had narrowly missed her.

As she started to retreat, she brought her gun up and pulled the trigger. It felt like slow motion, but the sound of her shots almost ran together, the roar filling the tight space as the gun jumped in her hand. Kier kept pulling her aft. In a panic, they squeezed through the bodies until they both jumped outside.

Once in the snow, she looked at Kier. Both of them were wet with perspiration despite the cold. "Thanks," she said shakily.

She popped the clip out of her pistol, willing herself to gather her thoughts as Kier peered back into the cabin, no doubt trying to catch a glimpse through the hole that had framed the shooter's face. Thirteen shots. Slowly she slid the clip back in place. Think. Think. I've got a live shooter in the cockpit. Any more shots, the plane could explode. Talk him out. He's bleeding, it's cold. Time is on my side.

"This is the FBI," she called into the fuselage.

Nothing. Not a groan, curse, or plea for help.

"Talk to me," she shouted.

Then she had an idea. When she looked at Kier, he was motioning to the front of the plane, mirroring her thoughts. It would be better to check the cockpit from the outside.

At the cockpit, she had him lift her to the windshield's edge. For an instant, she contemplated the feel of his large hands on her, even as the frigid wind iced her wet body.

Swiping the snow from her eyes, she peeked through the side window. Straining, she saw the gunman's torso. The shooter's gun hand jerked into view. She pulled away from the window, and Kier let her drop as the shooter's bullet split the windshield where her face had been.