Don Pendleton - Critical Effect

“If you say so,” Delmico replied. “By my estimates, I have seventy-two hours before the deadline. You will have the material by then, if not before, assuming the tests are positive. Is that satisfactory?”

“Of course, Doctor. I am a reasonable man.”

“Yeah? Well then, try calling me at a more reasonable hour next time.” He slammed down the receiver. “Fucking kraut.”

Delmico whipped back the sheet covering his nude body and swung his legs to the floor. He stood and then carefully limped his way through the semidarkness to the bathroom. Practically every time he walked, Delmico thought of his impairment. The skin on the nub of his left leg—the only remaining evidence of his foot—had grown callused with use. Delmico had undergone complete amputation after the accident in Washington, D.C.

Yes, once upon a time, he’d been a respected microbiologist with the U.S. Department of Defense, BioChem Counter Warfare section. A single mistake had cost him a foot as well as his job. That pompous board of safety directors hadn’t even bothered to look at all the evidence. They only took into account Delmico’s decision to disobey the orders of his supervisor, and terminated him for violations of a half dozen safety regulations. While Delmico had been the only one injured, the character references from half a dozen colleagues saved him from permanent exile. Instead those arrogant assholes at the Pentagon, he recalled, decided they would make his infraction part of his sealed file, call the loss of the limb an accident—although he would receive no federal disability for it—and recommend him to a teaching post in some out-of-the-way school.

The salary he received being an associate professor at Washington U had proved little more than a meager stipend for the bare necessities of life. To a man who had made nearly $150,000 a year working for the government, his present rate amounted to a pittance. And then during a guest lecture in Bonn, an impressionable giant of a man approached and offered to buy him a drink. That’s when fortune struck him like a blow to the back of the head. What Simon Delmico didn’t know at the time was he’d be selling his soul to Satan’s archangel.

Delmico agreed to hold up his end of the bargain only after making Burke promise not to use the chemical agent against American targets. Burke agreed, a bit too readily Delmico thought, but the deal got made. Through the course of the past year, Burke had funded Delmico’s research and the microbiologist’s efforts finally came to fruition. He christened his formula Shangri-La Lady, a mnemonic of sorts for the compound’s chemical makeup: solanine-lithium liposome.

Now the only task remaining would be a test on live subjects; Delmico had already chosen them. He’d agreed to let three of his present Chemistry I students—obnoxious jocks who wanted nothing more than a free ride through college simply because of their athletic prowess—improve their failing grades by conducting experiments at the campus after hours. Delmico had given them enough information that they’d actually created the delivery mechanism for Shangri-La Lady. The microbiological spores did the rest.

Already, he’d noticed the youths begin to look increasingly unwell when they arrived at class. Their condition began to worsen on almost a daily basis, and Delmico had even heard talk of one of them collapsed in the locker room after evening practice. A visit to the team nurse left everyone assured their star linebacker had merely suffered from a case of dehydration and exhaustion coupled with a lack of adequate rest. Delmico had lied to Burke. He had more than enough positive results to know the poison would work. At the moment, he simply took satisfaction in making the pedantic bastard wait as long as possible. Wake him up at this fucking time of the morning and expect Delmico to act like Susie Sunshine….

Two of the boys had been taken away by ambulance and admitted to the infectious ward of a local hospital. The third had taken a sudden leave of absence to attend his sister’s funeral, so the scientist had no idea of the youth’s present condition. Delmico hadn’t told anyone about the extra-credit project at their request. After all, such publicity would not only threaten their scholarships but it might make their coaches consider suspension of activities until they got their grades up. Nearly a week had passed since the original experiments and Delmico doubted the boys would draw any connection between the two.

That was, of course, if they lived long enough to tell anyone at all. Delmico took great satisfaction in thinking about the shocking repercussions that would soon come. He chuckled at the thought, in fact, as he relieved himself and then returned to bed. He removed his glasses, fluffed his pillow and lay down. He still had a few hours before having to rise again.

Within minutes the world around him faded to black and he drifted into peaceful slumber.

Carl Lyons wiped the sweat from his brow with a white towel that encircled his neck and picked up the pace. He turned to check the progress of the two men behind him, surprised to see they had fallen back a bit. Lyons wanted to shout a jibe at them, but he reconsidered. It was better to not pick on the ladies.

The sudden incline of the road signaled the final stretch to Stony Man Farm. Lyons had made this trip more times than he could count. The Farm served as haven and headquarters for the Stony Man operations, but through the years Lyons had also come to call it home. When he or one of his partners said they wanted to go home, the others knew it really meant Stony Man Farm. The farmhouse, Annex and grounds lay deep in the conifer-thick terrain of the Blue Ridge Mountains, approximately eighty miles from Washington, D.C., by chopper. Lyons couldn’t think of a nicer place to rest, as little as he got, but he took more stock in the bonds forged with his colleagues. Those relationships built from fighting side by side with others sworn to the same call of duty had grown stronger than most family ties.

Lyons really poured it on at a final bend in the road, which opened onto the Stony Man property. Directly ahead, the two-story farmhouse greeted him. The warm earth tones of its wood-and-brick exterior seemed to reach out to him as if extending arms of welcome. Lyons slowed to a walk when he reached the perimeter of the front lawn, and breathed deeply to slow his heart rate and allow his body to cool down. He walked in circles a bit, hands extended to his sides to permit maximum expansion of his chest. The “Ironman” moniker—earned by not only his record in that event but also his personality—fit him well. He’d proved a formidable ally for Stony Man through the years, and a capable leader in spite of his flammable temperament and sarcastic humor.

Neither of the men who had lagged behind and now joined him would have traded Lyons for the ten best commandos in the world, primarily because that wouldn’t have been enough.

“Looks like Ironman has been eating his Wheaties,” Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz remarked.

Droplets of sweat rolled from his hairline, traveling down Schwarz’s swarthy face and glistening like rain dew on his mustache. He broke into a grin when Lyons flipped him the bird, but he didn’t take a bit of the ribbing personally. He’d come to know his teammate too well.

“I would just like to die,” said the other man, hardly able to respond through all of his heavy breathing.

Rosario Blancanales had always carried a slight paunch—many a foe had underestimated him for that, much to their dismay. Not that it mattered. They called him “Politician” due to his gregarious mannerism and ability to charm his way out of just about any confrontation. Only hostilities against the enemies of America were nonnegotiable, and Blancanales minded his business well.