President Williams sat down. "What we just saw was exactly what it looked like. Someone dressed in a hazmat suit threw something into that lake. Twelve hours later, it was a body of dead water. Nothing survived."
Bernard Backersley, director of the CIA, was visually stunned. "Sir, where in the hell did you get that video?"
"That is not important, Bernard. What is important is that we have it."
Backersley looked around the table. "Has anyone else seen this?" Backersley was not used to being upstaged. All he received was a shaking of heads.
He turned his attention back to the president. "Sir, with all due respect, how do we know this video is factual?"
President Williams was in no mood to spar with Backersley. "Bernard, I realize that you are unaccustomed to information that you are unaware of; however, this is as factual as it gets. We need to focus on what the hell we're going to do about it."
"Well, it would certainly appear that if it was tested in water, then water would be the target."
"Good guess," Matt Sanderson of the FBI retorted sarcastically.
"Enough!" President Williams yelled. "This is not about who's the big dick here. Either get along or get out. I won't say it again." The room was silent. "I want everyone back here at two tomorrow afternoon to give your opinion on possible targets. If any of you want to work together, that's fine. I don't care. Just bring me ideas." He got up and stormed out of the room.
Phillips and Christman had their own cabins that had been constructed at the Ranch. This was to allow them private quarters when present. Each was designed in a rustic country motif, were comfortable, and reasonably spacious. The open floor plan attributed greatly to the feel. A large brick double-sided gas fireplace in the center completed the effect.
Phillips had taken a smaller bedroom in the main house that was not being used and turned it into her personal computer room. She had taken a Sharpie and written on the exterior of the entrance door "Keep the Fuck Out," using this area when working alone rather than the war room.
"Bossy bitch," Starr had chuckled when he'd seen it. "Just another reason I'm not married."
"Starr, you couldn't con a Russian mail-order bride into marrying you," Phillips had shot right back.
"She's got you there," Styles threw in.
Close to lunch, Phillips walked out into the main living quarters. Starr was looking over some papers while Styles and Christman were nowhere to be seen.
"Where are the other two?" Phillips asked.
"Out in the gym. J. C. asked Styles to show him some basic fighting moves."
"Can you bring them in? I've got some serious shit to show you guys."
"Sure." He got up and walked out toward the barn that contained the gym. Walking in, he saw Styles helping Christman up off the mat. "Hey, Phillips has found some stuff she wants to go over."
"Fine by me," said J. C. "Styles is about to put me in a grave."
"You're doing fine, J. C. You gotta crawl before you walk," Styles replied.
"I'll be lucky if I can walk."
The three headed back toward the house with Christman limping slightly.
As they went inside, they heard Phillips yell, "Anybody want anything to drink?"
"Water," they answered in unison.
The three men followed Phillips back to her computer lair. "Have a seat," she said. She had the room set up very simply. There were three viewing chairs aimed at a row of four large flat-screen monitors. Two walls contained a continuous L-shaped desk with keyboards, smaller LED monitors, and other assorted equipment that none of the men would admit to not having a clue about.
"Okay, guys, here we go. The far-left flat screen appears black. It is. It's night. Now this is going to be real time."
Suddenly, a medium-size orange-red object appeared and crossed the screen. "That was an aircraft — helicopter, to be exact. That was at eight thirty the night before the person in the suit was seen." The blip disappeared, leaving a very small spot in its place. "That is our guy, who has jumped out of the helicopter. Styles, you were right." They watched in silence as the orange object seemed to just stay in one spot. Then slowly, it turned to a northeast direction. After a few minutes, the spot settled in one spot again. "He's down, right in the same clearing where the president's team landed."
The spot moved slowly a short distance and then stopped again. Suddenly, another small spot flared up. "My guess it's a campfire," Phillips offered. They watched for a bit until Phillips said, "I'm going to jump ahead a little bit."
The second spot diminished completely, and the original spot dimmed, but not entirely.
"He's settled in for the night," observed Styles.
"I agree," replied Phillips. "I'm going to jump ahead again. This next scene will be the following evening, after we've seen him throw something in the lake. I've highlighted the shoreline in gray for reference."
When the video started, roughly one-sixth of the lake had started to turn orange. It was brightest at the shore, while the color lessened as it got farther from lake's edge. "I'm going to speed this up about eighteen times," Phillips stated. For the next twenty minutes, the group watched as slowly the entire lake turned orange.
Christman asked the obvious. "Phillips, I know the orange represents heat, but what is that heat representing?"
"I'm guessing a couple of things. That toxic weapon has spread, killing everything in that lake, which is generating heat — the agent itself, the fish dying, maybe the starting of decomposition. Probably the act of killing the fish is causing heat. Either way, I figure this entire action took somewhere around seven hours to complete, give or take."
"Seven hours?" exclaimed Starr.
"Yes, maybe less. The really scary part is how small an amount must've been used to cause this," Phillips continued. "I was able to track that copter. It landed just outside of Bethel, Alaska."
"We've got a real fucking problem," Starr swore. "I've gotta call the Man." He got up and left.
Styles straightened up in his seat. "We have us a starting point."
7
Ryyaki Ali was standing in a dimly lit warehouse on the edge of the industrial park just outside Portland's main shipping district. The early September weather was damp and chilly. He snugged his jacket closer to his neck, glad he'd worn a hat. He was meeting with a man whose nationality was unknown. He simply went by Smith. He was Caucasian, mid-forties, and everything about him radiated cold: his look, his appearance, his manner, everything. He had hair so blond at first glance it could have been mistaken for white. Ice-blue eyes combined with blond eyebrows and a skin tone suggested he was Scandinavian. He was fluent in several languages. He was undoubtedly one of the world's leading biochemists. He had gone off the grid ten years earlier. He'd spent that time developing a new synthetic toxin. Through a series of representatives, he had been introduced to Ryyaki Ali. Smith was in the act of peddling his wares.
"Your agent worked as you stated!" exclaimed Ali.
"Of course it worked."
"I would like to finalize our negotiations," Ali said.
"So would I," agreed Smith.
"I need to know the final amount of money you are requesting," Ali replied.