4 Real Dangerous Place Read online

  “There were . . . other decisions made. After you left.”

  “Evidently,” said MacAvoy. “And I wouldn’t have found out about that, if it hadn’t been for Richter and this crew of his, making some trouble. So now I figure that whatever deal I cut with you people, it’s been canceled. I could step outside this tent right now and call a press conference – there are plenty of news people around – and tell the whole world about what you’ve been doing with this HoBo thing. And maybe I should.”

  Outside the command post, past the police barricades, the reporter bent his head down, listening intently to what was coming into his headphones from the parabolic mike beside him. “This is good,” he murmured. “Real good . . .”

  “Please . . . don’t . . .” Inside the tent, that was Cammon speaking up again. “You don’t understand the consequences. International . . . there are others who have been assured . . . that the entire HoBo project was disbanded . . .”

  “Then let’s just keep it among ourselves, shall we?” MacAvoy turned his hard gaze toward her. “Because I’m cutting the captain here into the loop, whether you like it or not.”

  After a moment, Cammon nodded. “All right . . .”

  Obviously something a person like her wasn’t used to, but she realized she didn’t have a choice. Not any more.

  † † †

  There were other people up on the freeway, who knew the clock was ticking.

  Richter glanced at his watch, then leaned over Feldman at the stacked-up electronic equipment.

  “Don’t bother pulling another license plate,” he said. “We already know which one we’re going to hit.”

  “But –” Feldman gestured at the gear in front of him. “We went to all this trouble. Just to make sure it was random. You said there was supposed to be some kind of psychological effect with that.”

  “Oh, there is.” Richter gave a thin smile as he nodded. “And that’s just what we want them to think.”

  He turned and walked over toward Mozel. The other man was standing at the open rear doors of the jackknifed big rig, assault rifle slung at his side, supervising the rest of the crew spread out among the trapped vehicles.

  “Get another couple of men,” said Richter. “It’s just about time for us to go pick up our package.”

  FIFTEEN

  FROM WHAT I found out later, when that Cammon woman cracked, she went all the way. MacAvoy didn’t have to tell the police captain all about HoBo; she did it. And she knew a lot more – since it’d been her baby and all.

  “It stands for Horror Bomb –”

  She spoke in a flat monotone, as though she were running through a PowerPoint slideshow for the handful of generals in the Pentagon who knew about the project. She didn’t seem to mind, or even notice, that she was still cuffed to the chair inside the police command post.

  “What the hell?” Glover raised an eyebrow as he listened to her.

  “Our group developed it in response to a growing problem for our military’s global counterinsurgency operations.” Cammon droned on in that emotionless voice of hers. “Previously employed antiterrorist and counterinsurgency techniques, such as Predator drones and the like, have become less and less effective, relying as they do upon merely killing individuals and organizations whose personal convictions – ideological, religious, or whatever – are so strong that death is little or no threat to them. After all –” She managed a weird little smile. “How much of a deterrent can the prospect of death be to someone who is perfectly willing to act as a suicide bomber?”

  “And so,” said MacAvoy, “this is what you came up with.”

  “Exactly.” She nodded. “The task of our research team had been to come up with a technology that would be so horrific in its effects that it would intimidate even those inured to the idea of death – and we succeeded. HoBo is essentially a virus-like substance that doesn’t operate on a biomolecular level, but instead on a subatomic basis. It suppresses the action of what we termed the form cohesion field, by which instances of living matter – animals, human, whatever – maintain separate physical boundaries from each other. The resulting horrific effect is one in which living things merge with each other into an amorphous but still animate conglomerated entity, with aspects of the formerly separate creatures continuously re-coalescing and then dissolving again.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following you,” said Glover. “But it sounds disgusting.”

  “It is.” MacAvoy’s face looked harder and grimmer than it ever had before. “I’ve seen the laboratory videos her team made. The ones they showed at their top-secret meetings at the Pentagon.” He shook his head at the memory. “These are sick people, Captain. They actually used what they figured were the cutest baby animals they could find, like kittens and puppies – hell, they probably would’ve used baby seals if they could’ve gotten the appropriation for it. Because that way, the psychological effect on the generals they showed the videos to was heightened. There’s probably some of them who are still traumatized by what they saw. I’ve seen some bad stuff in my time, but that was the worst. It was weeks before I was able to sleep without waking up in a cold sweat.”

  “Jesus.” Glover turned pale, as the imagined visuals sank in. “What kind of . . .”

  “There’s worse,” said MacAvoy. “There’s one video they didn’t show at the Pentagon meetings. But I’ve seen it. There was a young woman on the team, a research assistant – and when there was a containment breach at the lab, she was the one who got exposed to the HoBo substance.”

  “Yes . . .” Cammon slowly nodded. “Poor Karen. I rather liked her.”

  “Here’s what happened to her.” MacAvoy took a deep breath before he could go on. “What I saw on the video they made. The first symptom was a trickle of some black, blood-like fluid from her nostrils. That didn’t last long – because like the kittens and puppies they’d experimented on, her form cohesion field dissipated. And then she was absorbed into that living, conglomerate . . . thing they had there. She became part of it.”

  “Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad,” mused Cammon. “If we hadn’t attached the neural electrodes and discovered that she was still conscious somehow. She was in there, and she knew what had happened to her. And that there was no way out . . .”

  “Except to pull the plug. And destroy it.”

  “Yes . . .” Cammon looked up at the colonel. “You did that. And there was still so much more research we could have done. Valuable research. And technically . . . that was murder.”

  “No,” said MacAvoy. “It was mercy.”

  “In science, there is no such thing. Especially not when you’re working for the military. That was why we had you cashiered, Colonel. Thrown out. You took things into your own hands once too often. Because this is what you don’t understand. The HoBo project was a success. We came up with what we had been ordered to. The ultimate psychological weapon. The horrific effects of the technology we developed, by which individuals aren’t killed, but are instead consumed and trapped in an unending, nightmarish existence, constitute the perfect deterrent to be employed against an ever-expanding list of adversaries around the world, to whom death is no longer a sufficiently intimidating threat.”

  “That’s not a weapon.” MacAvoy reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small but effective pistol. “This is a weapon. It just kills people. What you’re talking about is terrorism.”

  “It’s not terrorism,” said Cammon, “when we do it.”

  “And that’s why,” MacAvoy replied, “I didn’t have to be thrown out. I walked. I didn’t sign up for anything like that.”

  “Whatever.” Glover held up both his hands. “I’ve already heard more about this crap than I ever wanted to hear. What’s the delivery system on it? You called it a bomb – is that how it works?”

  “Basically.” Cammon nodded. “Our team formulated the HoBo substance so it could be effectively aerosolized by standard explosive devices. In addition, a positive elec
trical charge is imparted to the individual microparticles – once exposed to air, they disperse extremely rapidly. And over a wide zone, such as a major metropolitan area.”

  “I’m hoping there’s an antidote.”

  “That’s part of the problem,” said MacAvoy. “They didn’t bother with that little detail.”

  “There’s no way that we could have.” Cammon shrugged. “An antidote isn’t even theoretically possible. Once an individual’s form cohesion field is destroyed, there’s no putting it back. It’s gone. There is a form cohesion enhancer, however, rather similar to a blood coagulant factor. When injected regularly, it can keep an exposed individual free of the HoBo’s effects for a while.”

  “How long’s a while?”

  “Months – perhaps even as long as a year. But eventually the enhancer’s protective effects diminish, bit by bit. And then they cease.”

  “And that’s it?”

  Cammon nodded. “That’s it.”

  † † †

  Looking back on the whole thing, there’s kind of a creepy feeling that comes across my arms and spine, all chills and goose bumps. Not from thinking that there was some cold-blooded murderer like that Richter guy, who with his bunch of like-minded thugs was perfectly willing to toss a thermite grenade inside a car with people in it, then throw the whole flaming mess over the side of the freeway. And not from thinking that it was all up to that little electronic roulette wheel he was carrying, as to when my particular number might come up, and it would be my lap that the grenade got tossed onto.

  No, what weirds me out is knowing that there were even creepier people around, like that Cammon woman and her mouthpiece Weiss, who spent all their time coming up with even more horrible stuff they could make happen to people – that HoBo stuff, when I found out about it, really turned my stomach. Plus, my tax dollars were paying for it. Once I got over being creeped out, then I was pissed off. I mean, they might not have been particularly nice guys, but at least Richter and his crew didn’t expect me to fund them while they went around cooking up even more gruesome ways to kill me and everybody else trapped up there on the freeway. Just goes to show that in some way, small businessmen like them really are the backbone of the country.

  Not that I was thinking about them that way when Elton and I saw Richter and his second-in-command Mozel heading down between the lanes, with two of their rifle-toting crew right behind them.

  “Uh oh.” I kept my eye on the scary-looking bunch while I nudged Elton beside me. “There’s trouble about to happen.” I had been tracking the time on my wristwatch, since Richter had made his announcement about what the rules of the game were going to be, followed by the first of the torched cars being heaved over the side. Just about twenty-nine minutes since that had all gone down. “Big trouble.”

  “Well . . .” Elton kept his usual cool. “More of the same, at least.”

  You know what’s another creepy feeling? When you’re sweating it, that something really bad might be about to happen to you – and then it happens to someone else. Your gut unclenches, you can breathe again – and some part of you realizes that you’re not really a very nice person at all. A long time ago, Cole had said that about me. According to him – and he was the one who got me into killing people, so you’d expect he’d know about this sort of stuff – that was what made me perfect for this line of work. Or at least it would, when I finally stopped feeling bad when things happened to other people, and I got all cold and unemotional, the way he’d been. Which of course brought up another creepy feeling, that he might’ve been right about it. And that was what I had to look forward to.

  Anyway, my spine untightened a bit when I saw Richter and his bunch head over to that dairy delivery truck a little way in front of us. Now I was mainly concerned that when they blew it up, some piece of flaming shrapnel might come through the panel truck’s windshield. I got ready to duck below the dashboard.

  With their assault rifles hoisted up into firing position, the little group split up, two of them going on either side of the dairy truck. I could see one of the delivery guys pulling himself up into full alert behind the steering wheel.

  “We’ve got company –” I’m pretty sure that’s what he said, or something like it, to the other delivery guy beside him.

  “You two clowns even know what you’re carrying?” With Richter standing back a bit, Mozel aimed his rifle straight at the dairy truck’s driver. “What do you think you got in there?”

  “Hey, man – there’s no need to get excited.” The delivery guy took his hands from the steering wheel and held them in the air. “Anything you want, just take it. The doors are unlocked.”

  “We’re not here for the cottage cheese.” Mozel smiled at him. “I think you kinda know that.”

  In the passenger seat beside me, Elton frowned as he watched the action in front of us. “What’s with all this talking?” He shook his head. “This isn’t going down like the last one. This is something else.”

  I’d already figured that. If Richter and his little bunch had come over to blow up the dairy truck, then have that heavy-equipment Claw machine on the other side of the divider pick up the burning wreck and toss it, they would’ve done that already. Instead, I could see one of the bunch go around to the back of the dairy truck and open it up. Slinging his rifle behind his shoulder, he stood on the bumper so he could stick his head into the refrigerated cargo area and start tossing out cases of milk cartons. Pretty soon, there was a white puddle spreading across the concrete.

  “They’re looking for something –” I peered through the windshield, trying not to be too obvious about it. “There’s something they want –”

  In the dairy truck, the first delivery guy shrugged. Both he and the one beside him still had their hands in the air.

  “Nobody told us anything,” he said. “They just gave us this address –”

  He reached inside his white uniform jacket, but instead of pulling out a piece of paper, he whipped out a gun. A big one, hefty enough to remind me of my .357.

  The second one had his piece out by then as well. He managed to blow away the thug on his side of the dairy truck before he could squeeze the trigger of his assault rifle. From behind the steering wheel, the other delivery guy managed to get off a couple of quick shots.

  Mozel had already dived to the pavement, though. Rolling onto his shoulder, he hosed the cab of the dairy truck with his rifle. Both delivery guys were slammed back against the seat, blood spattering and soaking through their white uniform jackets.

  “Crap!” I had already hit the panel truck floorboard, down by the brake and gas pedals. I looked across at Elton, who’d done the same. “Those weren’t milkmen –”

  “Guess not.” The noise of gunshots had ended, enough that Elton could cautiously raise his head and peek over the dashboard. “Or least not the usual kind.”

  † † †

  Down in the police command post, they heard the distinctive snarl of assault rifle fire as well. Glover and MacAvoy left off their grisly discussion with Dr. Cammon and huddled around the video monitor.

  The news copter had returned to hovering over the freeway. The feed from its camera swung over to the action with the dairy truck. From that elevated angle, one of Richter’s crew could be seen, sprawled dead on the concrete. The bloodied corpses of the two delivery guys could be seen through the windshield. At the rear of the truck, Richter and Mozel watched as another one of their crew pulled out a dull gray metal cylinder, about the size of a fire extinguisher.

  Lowering itself a bit, the copter zoomed in on the cylinder. The yellow-and-black biohazard markings were visible on it.

  MacAvoy glanced over his shoulder at Cammon. “Seems like this bunch knew about your little parcel, Doctor.”

  “Wait a minute.” Glover looked from one to the other. “This . . . whatever it is; this HoBo stuff . . . it’s been up there the whole time?” He pointed through the tent’s open flaps toward the freeway. “In a dairy truck
?”

  Cammon said nothing. Beside her, still cuffed to the other chair, Weiss looked embarrassed. “We thought . . .” A shrug. “That would be the safest way. You know. Inconspicuous.”

  “You’re joking.” By this point, Glover was vibrating with barely suppressed anger. “Something like that – it’s not even legal to bring it through a populated area without special arrangements. You would’ve needed to be in touch with my office months ago, just to get the paperwork started.”

  “There wasn’t time for that,” said Weiss. “There’s some time pressure involved.”

  “Screw that. We’ve moved hazardous materials through the city before. If you’d worked with us, we would’ve arranged a whole security convoy, with enough officers involved that these punks wouldn’t have had a chance of pulling off something like this.”

  “Come on, Captain – figure it out.” Standing beside him, MacAvoy shook his head. “They didn’t make those arrangements because – officially – this wasn’t supposed to be happening at all. The orders to dismantle the HoBo program and destroy all the materials, including the HoBo substance itself, came all the way from the top. It wasn’t just me who thought this whole thing was a bad idea.” MacAvoy’s face tightened as he looked over at Cammon. “But apparently, there were some elements in the chain of command who didn’t agree with that decision. Right, doctor?”