Jonathan Maberry - Patient Zero

“Trucks carrying what?” Bunny asked.

“Cargo unknown, but it could have been one or more of those big blue cases.”

Ollie narrowed his eyes as he studied the satellite image. “What kind of traffic in or out since then?”

“Except for a security guard,” I said, “none.”

Top looked dubious. “We see anyone other than the guard?”

I shook my head. “No. Just the one guard and he works four ten-hour shifts a week, from ten at night to six A.M. Long-range photos have ID’d him as Simon Walford, age fifty-three, a rent-a-cop from a company based in Elkton, though Walford lives right up the road. He’s worked the plant for two years and change.”

“We know anything about him?” Skip asked.

“Nothing that fits the profile of a terrorist sympathizer. Widowed, lives alone. No military record, no arrests, no memberships in anything except Netflix and BJ’s Wholesale. Cheats on his taxes, but it’s penny-ante stuff to hide income from a side business he has repairing two-stroke engines. Lawnmowers, weed whackers. Son owns a lawn care business. His bank records show what you’d expect—virtually no savings, no portfolio, and maybe two grand in checking. Not living check to check, but close enough. His e-mail is clean and about the only thing he uses the Internet for is Classmates.com. His thirty-fifth high school reunion is in August.”

“So he’s a nobody,” Skip concluded, but Bunny and Top both turned to him.

“That’s not what the man said, boy,” Top snapped. “He said that he has no trail. Doesn’t mean the same thing as no involvement.”

“Trust no one,” said Bunny. “Didn’t you ever watch the X-Files ?” Skip colored.

“I went over this guy’s profile,” I said, “and sure, it looks like he’s okay; but he could be anything from a turncoat to a closet mercenary to a convert to the cause. Or he could be clueless. We don’t know until we get there.”

“Just the one guard?” Skip said, eager to correct his mistake. “Four shifts a week?”

“One we’ve seen,” Church corrected, pleased with the observation. He leaned over and slid the box of cereal bars toward the young sailor. Skip hesitated and then took a granola one and looked at it for a full five seconds without opening it. I wondered if he was going to have it framed.

“The grounds are not patrolled during the day,” I said. “When Walford goes home he locks the gate from the outside. Except for Walford; no one else has come or gone.”

“If I say ‘that’s weird’ I won’t get a cookie, will I?” Bunny said, and Church kind of smiled. Bunny reached out and took a chocolate cereal bar with a “Mother, May I?” expression on his face. He tore it open and popped it in his mouth.

There was a burst of squelch and the pilot’s voice said, “ETA forty minutes.”

“Okay, guys… assessment,” I said, and everyone’s face sharpened.

Skip said, “Nine vehicles… so we got nine potential hostiles.”

“Truck had two,” Ollie said looking at his notes, “so make it ten.”

“No,” Top said, rustling his copy of the intel report, “look at page four. Trucks are registered to the company. Probably parked there on a regular basis, which means that the two guys who drove it there likely commuted in by car. We have six cars in the lot.” He looked up. “Thermal scans?”

“Place packs seafood,” Church said. “They got ice machines and refrigeration. Thermal signals are weak. We’ve picked up a max of four weak human signals at one time. Distortion is too bad to permit any useful guesses as to how many people are in there.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Bunny said, “if this place has been shut down since the beginning of the year why the hell they running ice machines and fridges?”

I beamed at him. “That’s a damn good question, isn’t it?”

Church considered him for a moment, then pushed the package of cereal bars all the way over to Bunny. Skip looked crushed.

“Shit,” Top muttered. “So we got no idea what the hell we’re stepping into. Could be twenty people in there. Could be twenty of those dead-ass zombies in there, too.”

“We have to be open to any possibility,” I agreed.

Church nodded. “We know this: as of the Presidential Order in my jacket pocket that crab plant is now designated enemy soil. Rules of war apply, the Constitution is suspended. Hostiles are designated as enemy combatants.”

“Sucks to be them,” Bunny said, munching a cookie.

Crisfield, Maryland / Wednesday, July 1; 2:33 A.M.

WE TOUCHED DOWN behind a volunteer fire station a mile from the plant. A second chopper stood nearby and the lot was crammed with all manner of official vehicles, most of them painted to look nondescript. But I’ve seen enough of them to tell.

We piled out and hurried in through the station’s back door. Gus Dietrich was already there, standing by two wheeled racks of equipment. Each member of the team was issued a communicator that looked like a streamlined Bluetooth. By tapping the earpiece we could change channels. Channel one was secured for team communication, which would be monitored by Church and his command group in a van that was parked a half-mile away from the plant. Other channels were for full-team operations, should it become necessary to bring in the special ops, SWAT, and other specialists on standby. One channel was reserved as my private line to Church.

The Saratoga Hammer Suits had arrived and we all tried them on. They fit like loose coveralls and were surprisingly comfortable and mobile. I did some kicks and punches in the air while wearing my suit, and even with the Kevlar vest and other limb padding it didn’t slow me down much at all. Bunny’s was a bit tighter and he looked like a stuffed sausage.

We had our choice of weapons. I still didn’t have a sound suppressor for my .45, so I kept the Beretta M9, and anyway it was lighter and already loaded with nine-millimeter Parabellum hollow-points. When I looked up I saw Rudy watching me, his eyes showing doubt and concern.

“Si vis pacem, para bellum,” I quoted as I holstered the gun.

He squinted as he worked out the translation, “‘If you seek peace, prepare for war.’”

“Hooah,” Top murmured from a few feet away.

“That the trademark of the gun manufacturer?” Rudy asked.

“No,” I said as I checked the magazine and slapped it back into place. “The ammunition is nine-millimeter Parabellum. The name comes from a quote by the Roman writer Publius Flavius Vegetius Renatus.”

“At least formal education wasn’t wasted on you,” Rudy said. He cleared his throat. “Good luck to all of you. Come back safely.” He backed away and sat on the rear bumper of one of the fire trucks, hands in his lap, fingers knotted together in a nervous tangle. He was sweating but I doubt it had anything to do with the heat of this humid July night.

I gave him a wink as I put extra magazines in a Velcro pouch around my waist. Each of my four guys had MP5s fitted with quick-release sound suppressors. I strapped a sturdy fighting knife to my calf—the Ranger combat knife, which is ten and three-quarter inches from pommel to the tip of its black stainless steel blade and is nicely balanced for close fighting or throwing.

Grace Courtland’s chopper landed while my men were checking each other’s equipment; she led Alpha Team in and they immediately began sorting out their Hammer suits. She walked over to me.

“Enjoying your first day with the DMS?” she said with a wicked grin.

“Yeah. I find it very relaxing.”

“Well, maybe tomorrow we can go find some bombs to defuse.”

“It’d make a nice change.”