Force Lines. Don Pendleton

you with me so far, Paul?”

      “I’m listening.”

      “We know that you suspect fallen comrades under your command in Gulf One were infected by our side in a vaccine program that was meant to combat the effects of what is now commonly referred to as Gulf War Syndrome.”

      “But which, was, in fact, our guys contracting the effects of a nerve gas agent and an unknown bio agent that was covered up by Washington after we blew up a couple of depots and were infected by subsequent fallout and which we were never told what was in said depots.”

      “Or everyone in the area in question was stricken by undetermined biohazards relating to Saddam’s torching of those oil fields when his soldiers were sent packing from Kuwait.”

      “Or both.”

      “Or both. Correct. You made something of a spectacle a number of years back, but, as is the case of general public apathy when it comes to the military and the running assumption out there in America that national security is, in fact, ‘secured,’ and how it gets done is none of their affair as long as their lives go happily on in blissful ignorance, you kept up contact with certain men in the armed forces. Most of whom, I need to inform you, are no longer among the living. You were fanning the flames from the shadows, Paul.”

      “I was looking for the truth.”

      “The truth. You want to know about the truth, Paul?”

      “I bet you’re going to tell me, ‘I can’t handle the truth?’”

      The Voice turned cold. “That stash you came across in southern Iraq was some of the most virulent bacteria before then known to man. Those three mobile labs you seized? Those bioagents were confiscated and shipped back to America for analysis.”

      “For upgrade and potential deployment, you mean. Unless some of those late comrades of mine you mentioned missed their guess, they were cultivated in germ factories in Idaho and Montana—recombinant DNA, altered genes and so forth—and for the advancement of a secret biological-chemical warfare scheme.”

      “Of which you and the others had nary a clue as to what it was—is—really all about.”

      Radfield pulled on his cigarette, blew a stream in what he suspected was the general direction of his tormentor. “Really? So, our theory that a general conspiracy about a shadow government within our government engineering a controlled genocide program and running experiments on live test subjects without them knowing it is a bunch of nonsense?”

      “Not necessarily. What you suspect has been done before. Pesticide spraying in New York, New Jersey, Miami, for instance.”

      “Where there were so-called mosquito infestations that were spreading the West Nile Virus? Except the only areas being sprayed were the black and Hispanic neighborhoods? That conspiracy?”

      The Voice chuckled. “You’re getting warm. Think of a circle, Paul. Think of how the past somehow all circles back to the present.”

      Radfield felt his hand freeze as he put the cigarette on his lip.

      “That’s right, Paul. Manexx PetroChem.”

      “You’re telling me…”

      “I am, indeed. You work for a classified Homeland Security operation that is involved in producing both counter and offensive biological and chemical weapons, the likes of which would be catastrophic if they were unleashed. Only there is far, far more involved.”

      “Homeland Security?”

      “That’s right, or, rather, a recent and covert arm known only among the few elite as National Security Military Intelligence. Paul, you were chosen, you were groomed, and specifically for this moment in time. Think of it as destiny calling.”

      Radfield was inclined to believe the man, all of it. There were secrets, things—black ops—the United States government did in order to protect, secure and maintain the country’s vested interests, both at home and abroad. Even if he were a nonmilitary citizen, reason alone would tell him the United States was number one in the lion’s share of global weapons sales. That, all by itself, informed even the most unsuspecting and naive that America was, by and large, using its vast wealth to either thwart the expansion of rogue nations and terrorism, or seeking to foment chaos and plant their own lackey criminal regimes in countries of interest in order to keep the United States on top of the world heap. At the forefront of that list were the oil-producing nations. Then there were various strategic nation states that could serve as buffered armed outposts where attack could be launched with the quickest of ease…

      Then it hit him.

      Now he knew who and what the Voice represented. Now there was no choice how he left what was, without question, the hot seat.

      “I can almost hear your thoughts, Paul. Play ball, save your family or—I would at least allow you the dignity of making your peace with God.”

      “What do you want me to do?”

      “Go to your office. Proceed with the day as you normally would. You will receive an e-mail that will give you step-by-step instructions on the access codes we require. Your movements for the immediate future will be detailed, and monitored. You will obey?”

      “Do I have a choice?”

      “There’s always a choice, Paul.”

      “I’ll go with the program.”

      “Then, not only will I spare your life and the lives of your family, but I assure you that when this is done you will be more than adequately compensated. Both in terms of money, and the truth you seek.”

      And he was abruptly dismissed, as the cigarette was knocked off his lip and a viselike grip hauled him to his feet. There was no point in counting paces, direction and time from there on, but instinct took hold. It was roughly a dozen yards before a door opened and the sense of sound and smell began to give him some clue as to his whereabouts. There was a faint but sickly taint of sulfur in the air. There was no other smell like it he knew of, and it was more than noticeably noxious in certain areas around Galveston Bay where the waters around the island city were still yellow from ships spilling the infernal toxin from years gone by. He heard seagulls, caught a whiff of shrimp and diesel fuel, figured he was in the general vicinity of Seawall Boulevard, named so for the ten-mile, seventeen-foot-high wall built after the 1900 hurricane had all but wiped the fledgling town off the map and dunked it in the Gulf. He was three steps, smelling and listening, when a hand he figured could palm two basketballs dropped over his skull, bent him at the head and shoulders and shoved him ahead where he crashed into the soft padding of a long seat.

      “Don’t move.”

      By God, he wanted to spring at the new voice, would have if it had just been himself he was looking to save. Before he knew it the cuffs were gone, the cinch around his neck loosened. The hood was whipped away, but just as he began adjusting his eyes to harsh sunlight the figure was a blurring shadow, slamming the door in his face. His temporary home, he found, was the well of a limousine, with, of course, the windows blacked out from the inside. Hunched, he moved to the other seat, discovered the driver’s partition was likewise blackened, and, most likely, shatter-proof. As he picked up the small black file on the seat beside him, a voice patched through the intercom and told him, “You are to read and memorize that and leave it on the seat when you leave. Do what you are told, Mr. Radfield, and you and your family will be fine.”

      They were pulling away, smooth and slow, when he picked up the file. No sooner had he opened and looked at the first sequence of numbers than Paul Radfield felt his stomach wanting to roll over. He wasn’t one hundred percent certain what they wanted, but judging by what they wanted him to do—at least initially—a dark cloud settled over his thoughts.

      Conspiracy and treason leaped to mind.

      And which he was now part of. With three innocent lives he cared about more than his own life he was along for the full ride.

      Stuck.