Dark Project Read online

  “Couldn’t be helped.” Johnson stepped back.

  “Down, Chug.” Dean moved his hand in a downward signal.

  “You’d think he’d get used to me after a year. I’m the one who feeds him.”

  “I like him the way he is.”

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “This.” Dean turned in his executive chair to the monitors and hit the play button on a video recorder.

  “It looks like lab techs are doing their job.”

  “It’s not them. I checked, and they weren’t in the morgue yesterday.” Dean’s fingernails dug into the arms of his chair. He’d worked hard to make major general and become director of this multibillion-dollar, top-secret research project—code name Arctic Warrior. He wasn’t going to let anyone jeopardize his job. “I don’t know who they are, but they found the bodies. Find and kill them!”

  “But—” Johnson looked over the general’s shoulder at the monitors. “The bodies were cremated this morning—whoever they are, they can’t prove anything.”

  “With the Troopers snooping around, I don’t need problems,” Dean snapped as he focused on the replay of the tape.

  “Sable’s not a problem. He’s a hick cop. This is a federal installation. He has no jurisdiction.” Johnson rested his hand on the back of the chair.

  “Good. Keep him away from me.” Dean hit the rewind button and played the tape again.

  “We shouldn’t have covered up the explosion.”

  “And let the world know what Arctic Warrior is?”

  “Whoever they are, they’ll be too scared to talk.”

  “Still, I want them terminated.” The features of the intruders on the tape were indiscernible. They were wearing protective suits. “Check for fingerprints.”

  “WILCO.”

  Dean popped the cassette out of the recorder, swung his chair around, and handed the tape to Johnson. “Take this and do a video enhancement analysis.”

  “The analysis may take hours—or days.”

  “Investigate. Someone will talk.”

  “I doubt it.” Johnson stepped back. “But I’ll try.”

  “Good,” Dean said. After taking over from the previous director, Dean had molded the staff to his way of thinking.

  Johnson didn’t move.

  “You’re not gone?” Dean waved him away.

  “Yes, sir.” Johnson saluted and walked away.

  When the door closed, Dean returned to the monitors, surveying the labs and offices. The screens showed organic chemists, biochemists, molecular biologists, biophysicists and geneticists busily building and testing new chemical compounds and biological agents. In the lower left hand corner was the crematorium where the project disposed of dead animals and most recently the bodies of the scientists who died.

  “Here, boy,” Dean said. Chug sidled up and wagged his tail as Dean stroked the dog’s coffee brown and black head. “Dogs understand what’s important.”

  Dean frowned as one camera revealed Dr. William Kincaid and Dr. Marvin Nelson. Both of them were troublemakers. With them, intimidation had failed—they had no families.

  “Damn! If they continue to get in my way, they’ll disappear,” he growled. The dog looked at the monitors and growled too.

  Dean’s intercom buzzed and he hit the button. “What is it?”

  “General, a Robert Sable from the Alaska State Troopers is on the phone.” His secretary’s sexy voice cooed on the other end of the line.

  “Didn’t I tell you I don’t want to be disturbed?”

  “Sable’s been in touch with Department of the Army concerning the missing men.”

  Dean took a deep breath. “Rose, put him on hold.”

  Dean scanned a pile of paperwork then picked up the phone.

  “General?”

  “Yes. What can I do for you?”

  “You know why I called.”

  “Didn’t my assistant make it clear the scientists quit their jobs?”

  “I talked to Lieutenant General Rath this morning and he assured me you’d cooperate in helping find these men.”

  “How can I tell you where they are? I don’t know myself.” He turned back to the cameras and the phone cord wrapped over his shoulder. The workmen showed up on the screen as specks. This was the heart of the complex. He clicked on another screen. It was his empire. Not even his neighbor to the east, the 49th Missile Battalion, which controlled anti-ballistic missiles in defense of the United States, knew anything about his project. He knew they didn’t realize his project paid a significant portion of the bills at the post.

  “Then I need access to their files.”

  “Did you check the Civilian Personnel Office?”

  “They said your organization has the files.”

  “If we do, of course you can have the files—anything to help. Let me check.” Dean pushed the hold button and leaned back in his chair. After a couple of minutes, he pushed the hold button again. “I’m sorry but those files have been forwarded to National Personnel Records Centers (NPRC). You can get them there.”

  “National Personnel Records Centers?”

  “Yes.” He knew NPRC would keep Sable running in circles for weeks while he purged the files.

  “Can I have the address?”

  “Sure, I’ll put you back with my secretary. She’ll get it for you.” He paused, then turned back to his desk. He cleared his voice, hit the intercom button, and told his secretary, Rose Lawson, not to volunteer anything to Sable and only give him the address. Before he hung up, he said, “Call back when you’re finished.”

  Two minutes later his private line buzzed. “I’m here for you.”

  “Careful what you say—when are the workmen going to be finished wiring the labs?”

  “By the end of the month, all the sleeping quarters will be ready. I’d really like to try them out, if you know what I mean.” Rose’s voice became low and throaty.

  “Maybe we can.” Dean had to be careful. A couple generals had recently made the front page because of their affairs. “Put out a memo to all hands. We’re going into lock down. Inform them they are required to stay at the complex during their weekly shifts. It’s for security.”

  “Anything else, darling—give you a massage?”

  “I’ve told you not to discuss us at work,” Dean said. Although his Rose was beautiful, she was a liability. Her blonde hair, piercing brown eyes, and shapely figure put him into rut, but his rational side knew the affair was dangerous.

  “Don’t worry, your precious wife’ll never find out.”

  “Let’s keep it low key until after the divorce.” His wife, Cindy, was having an affair with a Superior Court judge from Fairbanks. He couldn’t really blame her, but a divorce for a man of his rank could destroy his career. And if the Army investigated his affairs, the same would happen. It left him with one alternative—kill Cindy. Plans whirled in his mind—accidents, muggings, and more—where, of course, she’d be killed.

  “Are we going…”

  “I’m going on a fishing trip.”

  “We had plans.”

  “I’m taking General Davenport fishing—couldn’t get out of it.”

  “But I want to be with you tonight.”

  “Be patient. Soon we’ll have all the time we need.”

  “I come can relieve your tension?”

  “Later.” After he clicked off the intercom, Dean leaned back in his chair. Who would have believed a sickly boy from the wrong side of the tracks in Chicago could make it this far? He had to be careful not to lose it.

  The hell with it. He needed to relax. He hit the intercom button.

  “Yes.” Sexiness dripped from Rose’s voice.

  “Bring your notepad; I need you—” Rose swished into the room before he could finish the sentence. He motioned to the dog. “Chug, go outside and guard.”

  She locked the door behind her.

  “You look delightful.” His eyes traveled from her loose-fitting, brown skirt that for
med to her legs with each move, to her tight fitting blouse that emphasized the fullness of her breasts.

  Rose moved around the desk and kissed him deeply. Then she pulled away, smiling. He cupped her face, drew her mouth to his, and savored another kiss. He felt her rub against the erection that strained to free itself from the confines of his uniform. Slowly, he unbuttoned her blouse while nibbling at her ear and neck. As he unsnapped her bra and ran his hands over her nipples, she arched her back.

  “When’s the divorce?” Rose leaned over and bit his earlobe.

  “Soon,” he said, finding it hard to mouth the word.

  “Doesn’t your detective have enough evidence on your wife’s affair?”

  “Just a few more photos will clinch it.”

  “It better be soon.” She slipped down his lap and urgently unbuckled Dean’s belt and unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. “I’m tired of waiting for a ring.”

  Chapter 4

  Bill Kincaid fidgeted, took a deep breath, and knocked on Sable’s office door. Masters stood to the right and behind him, towering over by several inches and at the same time crowding him.

  “Come in,” a familiar voice shouted.

  Bill opened the door and put on his most serious expression. “You wanted to see me?” Masters nudged him, and he stumbled into the room.

  “Yes, I did, Mr. Kincaid.” Sable bit his tongue. Bill had been a classmate of his at Alaska Pacific University. As a carpenter’s son, Bill had worked hard to get to there. Initially Bill had gone into seminary, but due to his cavalier attitude, he’d been asked to leave. He was smart, but not enough to win scholarships or grants, because his parents had been well to do. He and Sable earned college money by working together at Providence Hospital washing dishes and working on the food line. He owed Bill a large payback. One afternoon, Bill and a friend had picked up a cook and threw her over their shoulder, while yelling, “Sacrifice to the Turtle God,” and headed for a nearby creek. Though Sable had not been involved in the endeavor, he had been blamed. On another occasion, Bill had talked him into a food cart race—the six-foot tall ones. Making matters worse, in each cart was a willing passenger. Toward the end of the race, as Sable was winning, the wheels of the cart became unstable and he found himself slamming into a wall. He’d come close to losing his job over it, but thanks to Bill, everyone involved escaped punishment, except for paying to repair the wall. Later, they academically proved themselves and won scholarships. While Sable had gone on to graduate school and into the Troopers, Bill had chosen experimental biochemistry.

  “So why did you call me in?” Bill asked.

  “We’ve had a hard time trying to find you, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “It’s my work. It takes me away from home for long periods of time.” Bill seemed confused but appeared to be playing along with the joke.

  “You want me to take him to our special room and soften him up some?” Masters drove his fist into his open palm.

  “Sarge, I can handle this.” Sable shook his head and gestured to the chair. “Have a seat. Did you pass on my invitation to Dr. Marvin Nelson?”

  Bill paused for several seconds then answered. “Oh, you mean Red—sure.”

  “I understand you work for a project at Fort Greely named Arctic Warrior.” Sable wasn’t smiling.

  “How…” Bill asked, searching his mind for the reasoning behind this line of questioning. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Maybe this will refresh your memory.” Sable slid several sheets of paper across the desk.

  Bill frowned and with his fingers gingerly pulled the file toward him. Before him was his entire history down to every traffic ticket. “Where’d you get these?”

  “I’m the one who’s asking questions here, and I want you to tell me everything you know about Harry Aston, Keith Zahler, and Dale Yarnot.”

  Silence.

  “Put your hands behind your back.” Sable stood, whipping a set of handcuffs from his belt and moving around the desk.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not repeating myself,” Sable said as Masters moved to Bill’s right and yanked him up. Sable snapped the cuffs around Bill’s wrists.

  “Robert, this is Bill, your friend.”

  Sable pulled a card from his pocket. “You have the right to remain silent—”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry I have to do this—”

  “But—?”

  “You’re wanted for the kidnapping and murder of these men.”

  “It’s me—we’re friends—you know I wouldn’t—” Bill felt his chest tighten and the blood drain from his face. He slipped into the chair, his knees turning to putty. “I had nothing to do with—”

  Sable looked at him, then a broad smile crossed his face. He laughed. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  “You son-of-a-bitch!”

  “Watch it now or I’ll put you in the slammer for real.” Sable unlocked the cuffs.

  “And I’ll help him,” Masters said, moving forward, forcing Bill to tilt in his seat.

  “Why’d you call me in?” Bill’s hands still trembled as he rubbed his wrists.

  “I hope you pissed your pants.” Sable stuffed his cuffs into their case.

  “Almost.”

  “I need your help.”

  “After what you did?”

  “It was a joke.”

  “In poor taste.”

  “Payback for the jokes you pulled on me in college—now we’re even.”

  “Touché. I admit the exploding toilet seat was a bit much.”

  “And the exploding chair legs, and—” Sable reiterated several other stunts Bill had pulled on him, then sat.

  “How can I help you?” Bill rotated his shoulders and neck, trying to unknot his muscles.

  “Before we get into this—do you want any coffee?”

  “Sure.” Bill laughed and took the cup Masters offered him. He swigged a third of the cup and choked. A harsh, bitter taste jolted his mouth and the fluid burned as it traveled down his throat. “This stuff tastes like shit.”

  “Then don’t drink it.” Sable took a drink of his now cold coffee and suppressed a grimace.

  “Unfortunately, I’m addicted to caffeine.” Bill took another swig. This time, the coffee didn’t taste as bad. “In fact, lately I almost live on it.”

  “Well, here goes. Since you work at Greely, I thought you could help.” Sable handed Bill a sheet of paper. “Do you know these men?”

  Bill studied them.

  “Well?” Sable pulled a pen from its stand.

  “I—”

  “Good God. What’s wrong with you? These men have families.” Sable hunched over the desk and locked gazes with Bill.

  “I wish I could tell you.” Bill folded his arms across his chest and crossed his legs. He had known Sable for—what was it, ten years? They were such close friends—high school and college buddies, hunting and fishing partners, and they’d chased women together when they were younger. He knew Sable would risk his life for him and vice versa. He couldn’t lie to him. Christ, he had even been best man at Sable’s wedding.

  “The hell with security,” Sable said. “Tell me. It’s the right thing to do.”

  After several seconds of silence, Bill said, “This is close hold.”

  “We can’t promise you anything,” Masters said.

  “It’s national security. If I tell you, I could go to jail for a long time.” Bill cleared his voice. “And with the things currently going on at the project—it may mean my life—maybe Red’s—even yours.”

  “The men, where are they?” Sable’s voice was at a razor’s edge.

  “You’ll never find them.” Bill rubbed his hands on his pants. “Red and I snuck into the lab this last weekend and found the bodies. They were all killed in an accidental explosion and Dean had them cremated.”

  “Continue.” While standing, Masters put a foot on a chair and placed a hand on
his knee.

  “Their bodies carried a deadly virus.” Bill nervously placed his hands on his knees and wiped them.

  “Army could’ve told the families,” Sable said.

  “Arctic Warrior doesn’t exist. I’ve heard the President and Congress don’t even know.”

  “They could have trumped up some story,” Sable said, adding, “What in the hell are they doing there?”

  “I’ve said too much already.”

  “Do you think the wives will let it end there?’ Masters asked.

  ‘I guess not.’

  “Hell, what about their husbands’ insurance?” Sable asked.

  “No death certificates, no money,” Masters growled. “You’re putting widows out on the street.”

  “You, we need to rectify this situation.”

  “Okay, okay.” Bill pulled an object from his breast pocket and pushed it across the desk. “You can’t say where you got this.”

  Sable turned the memory card over in his hand. “What’s on it?”

  “Photos of the scientists and the records of their deaths.”

  “Damn, the motherload,” Masters said.

  “If you tell them where you got the pics, Red and I are dead.”

  “I can cause a lot of trouble for General Dean and his cronies.” Sable wrote a few notes on his pad. “I’ll bring in the Feds.”

  “You’re digging your grave.”

  “It’s my shovel. Soon your project will be front page news.”

  “What are you going to tell the wives?”

  “I still haven’t figured it out.” Sable glanced over at his wife’s picture.

  “Good luck with them.”

  “You’re invited to Sunday dinner.”

  “Sure.”

  “With Red?”

  “You want me to bring him? He’s a hound dog. He’ll chase anything in a skirt.”

  “I won’t wear one.”

  “I meant Amy.”

  “Tell him if he ever goes near her, I’ll break his arm.” Sable laughed.

  “He won’t care.”

  “If he does, I’ll throw him in the slammer.” Sable stood, and reached across the desk.

  Bill’s grip felt cold, sweaty, and limp. “You look like hell.”

  “It’s the nightmares.”

  “I thought you’d gotten rid of them.”