Countdown

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 979-8-3509-2683-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 362 Seiten

Reihe: Countdown

'Countdown' is a compelling thriller about a planned act of bioterrorism and the conception and execution of the time-critical strategy to avoid an epic environmental catastrophe and to hold those responsible accountable.

After graduating from the U.S. Naval Academy, Robert Dorsey Smith (Bob) served in submarines for 7 years, and then continued in the Navy Reserve for another 21 years, while pursuing a parallel career in the defense industry. Bob has always been active in his church and other Christian activities that include prison ministry, camp counseling, and short-term mission trips. His songs are heard all over the world via Internet radio, and one of his original music projects was considered for the Contemporary Christian Album of the Year Grammy. He has competed as a swimmer in Senior Olympic events at state and national levels and still enjoys the thrill of competition. Bob's 15 minutes of fame was having worked on the sound effects for the movie 'Hunt for Red October,' which won the 1991 Academy Award for the team's work. During his free time, he enjoys songwriting, recording, being an author, and publishing. Bob resides in Tucson, AZ.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Leseproben

Chapter 1 –
Friday, September 12
(Ten Months Later) Commander Glen Hargrove, United States Navy Medical Corps, didn’t like being called Commander or Doctor, though he deserved both titles. In fact, he would have rather pursued his life’s work, the training of one’s own immune system to seek out and destroy all toxic invaders, outside the boundaries of any formal structure. However, the Navy had provided for his education, his research facility, and an annual budget sufficient to fund him and half a dozen associate researchers. So Glen Hargrove played by the Navy’s rules, though sometimes reluctantly. Within his Biological Defense Research Directorate at the Navy Medical Research Center (NMRC) in Silver Spring, Maryland, just outside the boundaries of Washington, D.C., he bent the rules only slightly to foster a close working relationship among his researchers. He invented the one-up rule for first names. First names could be used to address anyone up to one rank above one’s own rank. Anyone two or more ranks higher was addressed more formally. “Good night, Glen. Have a great vacation.” Lieutenant Commander Cheryl Forrester was Glen’s right-hand person for his immunotoxicology project at NMRC. “See you later, Cheryl. I place the entire project in your capable hands. I’m doing nothing for one glorious week.” “Give me a break,” Cheryl said with a touch of sarcasm. “The phrase ‘do nothing’ is not in the workaholic’s vocabulary. And you, Glen, are a certified workaholic.” “Perhaps. But I’m going to do my best to put you and this laboratory in the farthest reaches of my mind on this trip.” “Good. You need the break. Same place as last year?” she asked. “You bet. The New Hampshire condo. I plan on doing a lot of hiking, swimming, fishing . . .” “And worrying about all the carcinogens in the air and water,” Cheryl finished his sentence. “No way; it’s God’s country up there, the purest environment I’ve ever seen.” The concerns of his job started to fade from his face and voice as he pictured his time-share home on Squam Lake, miles from the nearest civilization. “Have a great time, Commander,” added Lieutenant Jim Thunderhill, one of Glen’s bright young and upcoming researchers. “Thanks. By the way, I’m counting on you two to make some significant progress in the next week.” The comment was directed mostly at Cheryl. She was the senior and more experienced of the two associates. Cheryl knew they would make some progress, but without Glen’s direction, it would be minimal. She admired his talent and trusted his insight. “We’ll be done by the time you get back,” she said straight-faced, but knowing Glen would catch her true message. “I’m out of here. Don’t let them zero our funding,” were Glen’s parting words, a final stab at the bureaucracy that he felt often impeded, rather than encouraged, his work. ******* At the same time that Glen Hargrove was bidding farewell to his colleagues at NMRC and emerging into the glorious afternoon sunshine of metropolitan Washington, D.C., most residents on the West Coast of the United States and Canada were finishing their Friday lunches. Shift change had just occurred at the Lynden border crossing between Washington State and British Columbia, and the usual collection of workers and tourists was making its way back to the United States after work or play in the most southwestern of the Canadian provinces. Derek Morgan loved his job as a border guard. It was much less stressful than his former job as an office supply manager for a Seattle tax consulting corporation, and it allowed him to meet all kinds of people. In addition, it was much more in tune with his personality. Office work, he concluded after only a year in the business, was for wimps. In the four years of his current employment, he had developed what he called a sixth sense about suspicious entry attempts. He felt that all illegals would give themselves away at some point in the entry interview, partially because of his clever set of interview questions and partially because people couldn’t maintain a consistent lie throughout the questioning. “They just don’t do their homework,” he was fond of saying to his friends and fellow guards. Morgan was supremely confident in his ability to sniff out the perpetrators of evil in the world, his post-Cold War replacement phrase for the word “commies.” In truth, if you looked up either egotist or bigot in the dictionary, you might find a picture of Derek Morgan. When the blue Chevy Malibu pulled up to his station, there was no reason to suspect a problem, but Morgan put his interview plan in motion anyway. The first thing he noticed was the Avis license plate holder. “US citizens?” he asked. The driver replied with a simple yes as both he and his passenger produced California driver’s licenses. Morgan noted the license information, compared the pictures to the faces, the nationality of which he couldn’t quite place, and returned the cards. “Anything to declare?” “No.” “A little sightseeing?” “Yes, a lot of sightseeing,” came the response in flawless English. “We spent a few days in Victoria, then took the ferry to Vancouver and spent two days there.” “A bit cooler than . . . where was that you’re from?” Morgan continued with his surefire plan. “San Francisco. Actually no, about the same weather.” IDs check out okay, Morgan concluded. And they know the climate. “What did you like the most on your trip?” “Butchart Gardens near Victoria. We both garden.” Definitely tourists with an interesting hobby for men, Morgan thought. “No wives on this trip, guys?” “No, just us guys. The ladies had their own plans for the week.” “Mind if I look at your rental papers?” The final check. “Please do.” The driver handed Morgan the rental agreement. Morgan quickly reviewed the paperwork. The car was picked up at Sea-Tac airport five days ago—in line with the time spent in Canada. Everything checks out. Morgan returned the papers. “You can be on your way, guys. Have a nice day.” As the Malibu pulled away from his station and the next car pulled up, he said quietly to himself, “I am good at my job.” ******* “Do you really think he wants us to have a nice day?” the Chevy passenger chuckled. The driver shook his head. “Americans, they are so gullible. They are full of words that mean nothing, and they are blind to the reality of the world. They have had it too easy for too long. The American worker believes the world owes him a living. He has become soft and nonproductive. His complacency will be the downfall of this country.” “You’re not referring to that guard back at the crossing, are you?” the passenger responded sarcastically. “He and everyone like him. He thought his thoroughness would reveal something sinister, but I read him like a book. What Mister Border Guard doesn’t realize is that his smug, overconfident attitude has contributed to the ultimate success of our mission, much to the detriment of his beloved country.” The passenger agreed with a nod, and the next thirty miles were spent in silence. The first thing that Derek Morgan didn’t realize was that the Malibu’s occupants were not two men on vacation from San Francisco, but two highly trained and experienced terrorists. The driver, Ahmad Ad-Faddil, and his accomplice, Shakir Hassan, were highly potent weapons for nefarious activity, partly because of their heritage. Although the mixed marriages of their grandparents and parents had diluted their Middle Eastern blood and lightened their skin color, they nevertheless maintained a fierce animosity toward the United States. What made these men even more dangerous was that they had no allegiance to any particular country or religion. They were mercenaries, pure and simple—terrorists for hire. Money was their god. Though prior Middle Eastern sponsors could not comprehend the financial aspect of their motivation, they forgave them this vice because of their excellence at clandestine terrorist activities. In truth, the money motivation helped to sharpen their skills and sensitize their instinct for survival. The current mission of Ad-Faddil and Hassan was so motivated. They knew that several Middle Eastern nations would be pleased at the embarrassment and humbling of the mighty United States in such an innovative way. But they were also being paid handsomely for the transport, placement, and if necessary, release of their precious hidden cargo, which was the second thing of which Derek Morgan was unaware. Carefully concealed within the interior of the right rear passenger-side door were three explosive metal canisters and one small Lucite-encased vial, each containing one of the most deadly biological toxins ever developed. Their mission...