“Strap yourself in!” he heard from above. “And hold on tight!”
Harley didn’t need to be told to hold on tight. He slammed his butt into the basket, threw the strap around his waist and fastened its buckle to the clamp, then clutched the rope for dear life.
The leader of the pack lunged at him just as Harley felt the winch tighten and the basket lift. He kicked a boot out and caught the wolf on its snarling muzzle. The basket swung out over the surf as the chopper maneuvered away from the cliffs.
Harley saw the rocky beach fall away beneath him, the wolf pack, denied their prey, milling around the coffin lid now. Close, but no cigar, he thought with jubilation.
Up, up he went, swinging in the frigid air, the wolves and the beach itself disappearing in the darkness. But just before he was gathered into the belly of the helicopter, he thought he glimpsed, on the top of the island’s highest cliff, a yellow light, like a lantern, hovering in the gloom.
Chapter 5
“Glad you could make it,” Dr. Levinson said, as Slater slunk into the conference room twenty minutes late.
Considering everything he owed her, the last thing he wanted to do was to be late to the first meeting she’d requested since the trial. “Sorry, but I had some trouble at the gate.”
Trouble he should have seen coming. Monday-morning traffic in D.C. was always bad, but today was the first time since his court-martial that he’d tried to enter the Walter Reed Army Medical Center through the STAFF ONLY gate on Aspen Street. His officer status, he learned, had already been revoked—the Army could be efficient as hell when they wanted to be—and though the guards knew him well, they had been obliged to hold him for clearance before letting him pass. Especially as he was attached to the AFIP—the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology—where some of the country’s most highly classified work on deadly contagions and biological warfare was done. Dr. Slater, as he was now simply known, was given a day pass, a new decal for his windshield, and instructions to enter the grounds through the Civilian Employee Gate on 16th Street from now on.
The soldier at the gate said, “Sorry, sir,” as he finally raised the crossbar.
And Slater said, “No reason to be—and no reason to call me sir anymore, either.”
“No … Doctor.”
Slater drove his government-issue Ford Taurus onto the huge campus, wondering when the car would be repossessed, then looped past several of the other buildings, including the old Army Medical Museum (now the National Museum of Health and Medicine), before parking in his reserved spot on the A level of the institute’s garage. They couldn’t take that away from him—he did still have a job as a senior epidemiologist for the Division of Infectious and Tropical Disease Pathology. And according to Dr. Levinson, his expertise was now required on a subject of national interest.
At the moment, however, all he saw was a conference table, with Dr. Levinson squinting hard at an open laptop in front of her.
“How are you feeling?” she said, but it was more than just a courtesy question. “Have you had any recurrences of the malaria?”
“I’m fine,” he said, working to keep his voice even and his gaze level. Shrugging off his overcoat—he’d rushed straight upstairs without stopping at his office—he took a seat at the table. The blue suit he was wearing hung loose on his frame; he’d lost weight in Afghanistan.
“Don’t lie to me, Dr. Slater. It’s important.”
“Whatever you need,” he said, trying to dodge the question, “I am available.”
Whether or not she believed him, or was just too intent on gaining his services to push it any further, he did not know. But leaning back in her chair and surveying him carefully, she said, “We all have a certain number of chips we can call in, and frankly, I used up most of mine at your trial.”
“I understand that,” he said, “and I appreciate it.”
“Good, I’m happy to hear that. Because now I’m going to tell you how you can pay me back.”
“Shoot.”
“We have a problem.”
So far no surprise. Slater’s job was nothing but dealing with problems.
“In Alaska.”
Now that was a surprise. Slater had been dispatched to some far-flung spots, but seldom anywhere in the United States.
“First, I want you to see some things.” She tapped a few keys on her laptop, and a slide appeared on a screen that had lowered behind her. It was a shot of a snowy road, with a long line of telephone poles running along one side, but all of them were teetering at odd angles.
“This shot was taken a few days ago, outside a town called Port Orlov.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”