Three hundred yards to go.

Unfortunately the wheels were not so well covered. He felt one of the dual tires in the right rear go flat, and he steered gently, carefully, to avoid getting the liquid sloshing and so overturn the truck.

Only two hundred yards now.

The car roared up, trying to get alongside on the right, upwind of the mist. Daniel kept the speeding truck close to obstacles on that side – parked cars, fenceposts, curbs – preventing them from passing. One hundred yards.

The truck shuddered and he felt the other right rear tire go. The vehicle settled on its suspension and he could barely control it, so he just kept his foot on the floor and aimed for the piece of fence that separated the sports complex from the water treatment plant’s eastern perimeter road. Strips of shredded rubber banged into the fender well, louder than the gunshots, and he prayed for speed as the barrier came up.

He crashed through.

Still at thirty miles per hour, Daniel roared along next to the enormous rectangular pools that held and distributed the water for treatment. He blessed the designers of the Eden Plague, as Elise had told him that the processing would not kill the virus. Even now the mist was settling into the pools, contaminating Los Angeles’ main tap supply with the life-giving microbe.

He’d almost made it to the end of the complex when he felt the tearing of a bullet in his shoulder and his right arm went numb. His vision blurred and the unstable truck yawed to the left, then rolled once and ground to a halt, breaking open the tough plastic solution tank. He felt the liquid slosh onto him.

Moments later the legs of his pursuers walked into his line of vision. His head was stuck at an awkward angle, pressed against the ground and the remnants of the broken driver’s window of the truck. Dust and grit swirled over him, getting in his eyes, and he was sure his body was broken in several important places. He wondered whether the virus would knit his bones in this awkward position.

Daniel could hear the buzz of a helicopter getting closer. It didn’t matter. He’d done the job.

“Should we get him out?” asked a voice attached to the legs.

“They said not to touch him. He’s contaminated.”

“This whole thing’s probably contaminated. Stay upwind. Besides, he can lie there and bleed for all I care. Scumbag terrorist. ”

“Did they say what the stuff is?”

“No, just some kind of chemical. Nothing too bad. I already called it in. They’re shutting down the plant until they can make sure the water is safe.”

“High five, partner.”

“Yep. Might get a commendation out of this one.”

“We should.”

The sound of the helicopter drowned out their conversation, though it barely added to the gritty wind. The legs walked out of his line of sight. Daniel waited. It seemed like forever, but was probably just a few minutes. He drifted off in a fog of pain. This was good, because the gnawing hunger of the Eden Plague was coming back. He let himself slide into unconsciousness.

Daniel awoke to the smell of plastic and his own bodily fluids. The world looked blue, but that was just the colored sheet covering his face. It was loose enough for him to breathe, but he couldn’t move. He was wrapped and taped. He could hear sounds of activity nearby, snippets of conversation and orders. It sounded like they were cleaning up the crashed truck. He felt himself being lifted. The motion told him that unfortunately he was right; pieces of him had healed into an unnatural configuration. His mind drifted to wondering if someday Elise and the rest would be able to adjust the virus to straighten out bones too.

Daniel heard a resonant, commanding voice rise from the babble. “Put him in the chopper.” He laughed to himself, his mind seizing on irrelevancies. Nobody who actually lived and worked around helicopters called them “choppers.” Aircrew called them “airplanes” or “birds” or sometimes “helos,” or by their military designation – “Black Hawks” or “Sixties” or “Hueys.” Never “choppers.”

Amateurs.

They put him inside the running bird, which sounded to him like some kind of Sikorsky, probably a UH-60 Black Hawk. He was in the hands of the enemy, now, and in God’s, Cassie would say. He sure hoped she was right. He could use some God right now. Closing his eyes, he said a prayer, and let the pounding of the rotors lull him to sleep.

***

It had taken five days for Nightingale and Nguyen to work their way back up through Mexico, eventually crossing using false documents at San Ysidro, the busiest border station in the US. Checked into a nondescript motel in Mission Hills, California, they ate free continental breakfast and watched the headline news.

“Search and rescue forces of three nations were mobilized today as the cruise ship Royal Neptune was reported overdue to arrive at Port Canaveral, Florida from Bermuda. While the US Coast Guard cautions against speculation, the internet is already buzzing with talk of the latest victim of the Bermuda Triangle.”

The two men turned to each other with ill-concealed horror.

Larry downed his coffee. “Damn. DJ was right. They hijacked it, quarantined it,” he whispered.

“Or sunk it to the bottom. The war, it is starting.”

“I guess it is. So let’s go fight it.”

They drove their rental car the mile or two to the north edge of the fence line surrounding the Van Norman water treatment plant. There was a communications conduit thirty yards inside the fence, where it ran from the main structure to a point where it dove into the ground. Beneath the earth, it would join and run alongside the enormous pipes of the Los Angeles Aqueduct, providing a secure fiber-optic link all the way up the pipeline. The line connected the whole system together, computers at each critical node – control valves, hydroelectric generators, pressure sensors – and the water treatment plant in front of them. But right here, it was exposed.

Larry checked his watch. “Some time in the next hour, I’d say. You still think you can do it fast enough?”

“As long as nobody shooting at me, I do it in under one minute. If they are, I do it even faster.”

Larry shrugged, resigned. “Sure hope you’re right. This is gonna take some nice timing.” He stared at his phone.

Seventeen minutes later the phone beeped and the go-code displayed.

They immediately exited the car, walking up to the barrier. Larry worked heavy-duty wire shears along the cyclone fencing, making a hole within seconds big enough for Spooky.

The small man slipped through with a tool bag in his hand, his eyes roaming over the concrete and steel facility. They were far away from any of the plant workers’ usual locations, and the fence line only got checked twice a day. Dropping to his knees next to the conduit, he took a battery-powered saw and sliced carefully through the thin conduit pipe. Peeling it away with pliers, he exposed the fiber-optic lines within.

With a few deft movements of his fingers he attached a clip-on shunt, which interposed itself into the line. Now, unknown to the plant managers, Spooky had access to the computer that ran the whole system. He pressed a button and the LED on the shunt started flashing. Slipping back across the hot dry dirt, he ducked through the fence and into the car.

The tiny flash drive in the device dumped the cyber-worm Vinny had prepared into the line, where it burrowed its way in and immediately started taking over the system. Within two minutes the control computer, though otherwise unaffected, would ignore all commands to shut down water distribution. It would take tens of minutes or even hours to manually close valves and stop the contaminated liquid from flowing out into greater Los Angeles. By that time it would be too late.

Larry put the sedan into reverse, backing into a position away from the fence but facing down the long perimeter road. “I know he said to leave right away, but I ain’t gonna miss this.”