Scott Sigler - Contagious

The left-hand trailer, Trailer B, held a narrow dressing room with lockers for the hazmat suits and gear. That room wasn’t part of the airtight area—you had to walk into the dressing room, get suited up, then walk back outside and go through the Trailer A airlock to reach the autopsy room. Trailer B also held air compressors, refrigeration units, filters, generators, a nine-slot cadaver rack like you’d find in any morgue, and a clear-walled containment chamber designed for living hosts. That cell held two autopsy trolleys, side by side, with just enough room between them for someone to walk in, turn around and walk out. If they did have to use this cell, the host (or hosts) would likely be strapped down to the trolley: safety and secrecy, not comfort, were the rules of the day.

A collapsible covered walkway extended from Trailer B and connected directly into the autopsy room of Trailer A. That way they only needed one decontamination area to access the airtight areas of both trailers. Gitsh and Marcus were in the process of connecting the accordion-like walkway.

Dew liked those guys. Marcus was the kind you’d want by your side in a firefight. Gitsh not so much, but he always had a smile and a laugh, and on a long, isolated assignment that was just as important as being able to shoot straight. Dew checked his watch—the connection process usually took them ten minutes. Now it was eleven and counting. He’d give them some shit about that later.

Gitsh opened the door to the computer center. Dew got out of his Lincoln, braving the rain once more to dart inside. He sat down at one of the computers, typed in his user name and password, then spread out the blood-smeared map on top of the keyboard. He grabbed the secure phone and punched in a memorized number. He still found it odd that he could dial Colonel Charlie Ogden in the middle of a field engagement and get him every time. The wonders of a high-tech army.

“Company X, this is Corporal Cope.”

“Dew Phillips. Get me Ogden.”

“Right away, sir.”

Dew waited. He held the phone with his right hand while the fingertips of his left traced an as-the-crow-flies line from South Bloomingville, Ohio, to Glidden, Wisconsin. About six hundred miles. Project Tangram had several V-22 Ospreys at their disposal. The Ospreys were perfect for their needs. They could take off and land anywhere, no runway required, courtesy of a helicopter engine on each wing. Once in the air, those engines slowly tilted forward, and the helicopter became a twin-turboprop plane. Seeing as each Osprey could carry up to twenty-four soldiers and do about three hundred miles an hour, they were invaluable for moving Ogden’s troops from Point A to Point B. In a real logistical pinch, the Ospreys could even haul the MargoMobile trailers, one trailer per bird.

“Ogden here,” said the familiar voice. “What have you got for me?”

“You first,” Dew said. “Did you take out the construct?”

“Would I be talking to you if I hadn’t?”

Dew shook his head. Charlie Ogden wasn’t much for pleasantries.

“We’ve got something else,” Dew said. “Punch in Marinesco, Michigan, on whatever fancy map computer you’ve got there.”

Ogden barked an order to his staff.

“Got it,” Ogden said.

“We found another construct there.”

There was a brief pause. “Okay, things make more sense now.”

“How long till you can be there, Charlie?”

“We’ve got our Ospreys close by. With midair refueling… maybe two and a half hours.”

“What about the two companies still at Fort Bragg?”

“I can send them now, but they don’t have Ospreys and they’re too far away for helicopters. We could get them on C-17s and drop them right in near the zone. Say thirty minutes to get wheels up, ninety minutes to fly and jump, fifteen minutes for them to gather and move in. Either way we’re looking at two and a half hours best case, three hours more likely. You got pictures of this thing?”

“We’re bringing satellites online now,” Dew said. “We should have something any moment. I told the squints to send you pictures as soon as we get them.”

“Understood. Listen, I think South Bloomingville was a feint. Designed to draw our attention while they set up at Marinesco.”

“What are you saying, Charlie?” Dew asked. “These little bastards are using high-level tactics?”

“They didn’t defend themselves. When we closed in, they destroyed the construct, killing themselves in the process. And I think it was a prop.”

“A prop ?”

“Yeah, like fake planes on a fake airstrip designed to fool satellite intel. It heated up like the other gates, but it was thinner. Just enough material to have the right shape and the right behaviors, not enough to be functional.”

Dew felt a helpless feeling spreading through his guts. “So if this Marinesco gate is already hot,” Dew said, “if you can’t get there in time, then what?”

Ogden’s voice dropped a little as he spoke to someone near him. “Cope, order the FAC to this location.”

Dew heard a distant “Yes sir.”

“Charlie,” Dew said, “what the fuck are you doing?”

“I just deployed the FAC, the forward air controller. It’s an F-22 Raptor fighter, fast as hell. It will acquire the target and transmit coordinates to the Strike Eagle squadron.”

“The F-15s? You’re dropping fucking two-thousand-pound bombs on it? It’s Michigan, not fucking Fallujah, Charlie. Why can’t we use the Apaches like we did in Wahjamega and Mather?”

“Depends on if we can get them there in time,” Ogden said. “If I send the Apaches now, it’s a two-hour straight flight. The Eagles do Mach 2.5—they’ll be there in twenty-five minutes.”

Dew’s cell phone buzzed—he checked it to find a text message that was nothing but a sixteen-character code.

“I’ve got sat pictures, Charlie.”

“We just got them, too. Cope, up on the screen.”

Dew shoved the map aside and carefully typed in the code. A series of thumbnail images appeared, some in color, some in black and white. Dew clicked on the first black-and-white image, blowing it up to fill the screen. Most of the picture showed the black, irregular patterns of dense trees. The center of the image, however, showed a fuzzy white symbol that had come to represent the unknown terror of the infection.

White meant that the gate was already hot.

“I’m ordering a full strike,” Ogden said. “Taking that damn thing out of the game.”

“Hold on, Charlie,” Dew said. “The area looks pretty unpopulated, but we don’t have any intel on the residents. Can we get some planes to make a pass? See if any people are around?”

“Phillips, I don’t give a fuck if the gate is built right on top of a compound full of orphans and nuns. I’m taking it out.”

“Charlie, come on. You’re talking about two-thousand-pound bombs on U. S. soil. We have to get approval from Murray on this.”

“No we don’t,” Ogden said. “I have authority from the president to make any necessary battlefield decisions up to Option Number Four. That one has to come from the big man himself. Other than that, it’s my call.”

“But that order was from President Hutchins. Gutierrez probably doesn’t even know about it.”

“I have my orders,” Ogden said. “We have to strike immediately, and with force. Nice work uncovering this location, Dew. All I can say is thank God we’ve got Dawsey. He’s the only thing keeping us in this game. Ogden out.”

Charlie broke the connection.

Dew put the handset back in its cradle.

Thank God we’ve got Dawsey . Imagine that. The kid was twelve doughnuts shy of a baker’s dozen, and he was their ace in the hole. What would ol’ Charlie have thought if he knew that Dew had almost shot Dawsey in the mouth with the .45? Sorry, Charlie, our ace in the hole has a hole in his head.