The Big Ten: The First Ten Books of the Beginnings Series
THE BIG TEN
First Ten Books of the Beginnings Series
Jacqueline Druga
THE BIG TEN
Beginnings Books 1- 10
By Jacqueline Druga
Copyright 20 13 by Jacqueline Druga
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
So many people have helped replenish this series, so thank you to Cindy, Sonia, Bonnie, Rita and Jhanelle.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Silent Victor
Cain
Beyond the Wall
Circle of Justice
The Ripple
State of Time
Inner Struggle
Blink of an Eye
Freedom Fight
Horse Soldier
BONUS
Characters
Map
Robbie’s Tale
THE SILENT VICTOR
Book One
This book is dedicated to my father and his memory, for without him the character of Joe would have never been born.
THE BEGINNING
No one said life would be easy
No one said life would be fair
No one said life wouldn’t end
With one simple breath of fresh air
MONDAY, MAY 4 - 11:50 a.m.
Reston, VA
His hands were large and strong, and so was his stature which seemed to hide the age behind his fifty-two years. Joe Slagel leaned toward the trunk of a black car, his protective vest barely fitting. His left hand rested on the back of his neck, the other smoothed out across a map. He explained with authority to the six men who stood behind him, “Davis, you take the rear porch and hold up there until you get my signal. Brian, you ... Where in the hell is he?” Joe turned around, his head looking back and forth for his partner. How hard would it be to spot a six foot four, skinny, red haired ‘pup’ as Joe referred to him. “Brian, get over here!” Joe scolded.
“Sorry, Joe.” Brian hunched some as he walked over to join the others at the car. “My uh ...” He held up a paper cup. “ ... coffee.”
Joe continued, “We have all bases covered. We haven’t seen any action or movement from within that house for over fourteen hours.” He indicated two blocks down the street to the small white and blue frame house. The blinds were drawn. “Now we can go in as soon as our immigration guys show up.” He lifted his head to the sound of two cars pulling up. “Which they just did.” Breaking free of the huddled group, Joe hurried his way to the first suited gentleman who stepped forward. “Joe Slagel, CIA.” He extended his hand.
“Daniel Kennedy.” Daniel removed his sunglasses. “We’re ready when you are.’ He called his four guys in. “What’s going on?”
“Basically, we believe there are eight members of a terrorist cell in the house. We’ve been tracking them for years. Unfortunately we have been unable to bring them in on anything, not even a traffic violation. For months threatening faxes have been sent to the CDC; we feel it’s them. Yesterday we got a tip from the Jensen Manufacturing Group that they sent a shipment to the house. A shipment that did not contain anything illegal or anything they were not allowed by law to send. However, the contents if combined correctly could be used to make an explosive device.”
Daniel Kennedy listened as he nodded his head. “That’s where we come in, correct?”
“Correct. Your people confirmed this morning that one of the eight, an Izan ...” Joe cringed as he looked over his notes. “ ...something or other, is not registered with the US Citizenship and Immigration Services. There’s our ‘in’ to enter the premises. We surveyed this house for four months. At zero three hundred hours yesterday all eight were in there. However, as of nine-twenty yesterday morning they haven’t so much as turned on their cable television. So, Agent Kennedy, if you lead the way, the CIA and the FBI will be more than happy to escort you in and help with any resistance you should encounter.” Joe spoke with a smile.
Daniel Kennedy opened his suit jacket removing his revolver from his shoulder harness. Checking his weapon, he signaled his men forward.
Joe gave his signal to his brigade. Quickly, quietly, and armed, they all took their positions. Joe stood armed in a ready position with Brian present holding open the screen door for Daniel Kennedy. With a nod, a signal, Daniel raised his free hand.
Three knocks, firm and loud: “This is Immigration. Open up.” He paused. “We know you are in there, Izan, open up!” Daniel took a firmer tone. “Open up or we are coming in.” Still nothing. Daniel stepped back. “All yours, Agent Slagel.”
Looking pleased, Joe reached for the doorknob—locked. He adjusted his headset radio and spoke softly into it, “On my call.” Stepping back he held his weapon high, signaling to Brian with his head. “Now!” Joe gave one powerful kick to the door; it blasted open, sending splinters of wood flying. Barreling forth, Joe extended his revolver as he entered the living room. The sound of the back door smashing was the only other noise in the silent house. When he witnessed the scene, Joe did not flinch nor did he moan loudly in disgust like the others. He covered his nose with the back of his hand and put away his revolver. “Christ.” He exhaled, casting the smell of death from his nostrils.
He moved forward, peering around the living room in angry annoyance at a failed attempt. Eight men lay dead. Their faces blue, eyes wide open, bodies reeking with an odor he was unable to ignore. Seven lay scattered about in no particular order; dried gray and brown vomit was spewed on and around them. Their suicides were evident by the open empty bottles of drain cleaner that laid upon the coffee table.
The eighth man was used to write their suicide note. He sat in a chair, legs extended, head slumped to the right, his long brown hair covering his face. His right arm hung down; the wrist was cut deeply, and below his lifeless hand was the pool of blood that the other seven had used for their ink.
Joe looked to the note written in large letters across the far wall of the living room. Clenching his jaws, he faced his entourage. “Pick it up, gentlemen, we have our work cut out for us. Brian?”
“Yeah, Joe?”
“Let’s get some pictures of this wall, and find me a handwriting analyst. I want to see if this matches the notes that the CDC has been getting. I doubt it, though.” Emotionless, Joe once again read the note on the wall. Their final words, their warning was written in big brown letters, slanted upward. It simply and eerily read: ‘This is the end. Get ready ... Be prepared.’
WEDNESDAY, MAY 6 - 11:15 a.m. EST
30 miles southeast of Hawaii, Carrington Research Island
Doctor Catherine Donovan snapped her fingers and, at the same time, orders to the Center for Disease Control assistant that walked alongside of her. She had exited the large gray research building that could be seen from the shore. Flowers, fresh, alive, lined the path that led to the small grade that took her and Jan to the beach below. A cool ocean breeze swept through her dull, short blonde hair. Her flowered polyester dress was somewhat wrinkled from just dropping it to her bag. But she was glad to have it on in replacement of the biohazard suit she had been wearing. She walked awkwardly in the flat shoes she wore, like a man would. In fact Dr. Catherine Donovan was built much like a man, big, stocky. However, she found herself attractive and that was conveyed to everyone she met.
Catherine paused before heading to the beach. Such an ideal place to work and live, as all of the Carrington employees did. Catheri
ne would have been jealous of all of the doctors there if it had not been for the reason for her visit: A distress signal sent by the research island to Carrington main office, a distress signal that brought the CDC.
A place that was perfect, yet now quiet; not even the sounds of birds were heard. For they, like the inhabitants of Carrington Research Island, had dropped, seventy-two hours earlier, in the midst of their lives. The feathered creatures lay on the beach, walkways, wherever they fell in death. The people of the island--the same. Such horror had struck them quickly, painfully and at the same time. Suddenly and abruptly death hit them, and their bodies lay at desks, fallen from bikes, on the playground and even in the showers. The CDC and Catherine were just getting to that phase of the investigation, the accountability and removal of the bodies.
Whatever caused the deaths remained a mystery. Catherine and her crew determined that it had to be something Carrington was working on. It released itself into the air, the water, and like a time bomb it exploded taking all but two lives. Leaving shells of bodies shriveled, blistered, and drained of all fluids, fluids that had made their escape from the bodies one way or another. A chemical agent, not a trace of it left. Nowhere. Not even in the air. That revelation was what allowed Catherine and her crew to now walk the once beautiful island, free from the restriction of the protective gear they had previously worn.
Catherine took another step toward the beach to wait for her people to bring the bodies. The closer to the sand she drew, the more in focus they became. Or rather he became. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Catherine studied him—the newcomer in an Army uniform. He barely could be seen hunching at the water’s edge. His hair blew in the wind. “Jan?” Catherine called curiously. “I see the Army has arrived.”
“They have.” Jan stood next to Catherine.
“Who’s ... who’s the kid?” She pointed to him at the beach. “I can’t believe they sent a kid to do a man’s job. He’ll screw up all our work.” Perturbed, Catherine headed toward the man, one of ten that had arrived that morning.
“Catherine ...” Jan tried to stop her marching superior.
Catherine ignored her assistant, calling out to him. “Excuse me.” She approached the youthful-looking man. “Excuse me ...”
“I’m Lieutenant Hayes.” He stood, looking up to the woman who towered over him.
“I’m sure you are.” Catherine placed her hands on her hips. “I know why you people are here. I want you to know that my people have worked very hard.”
“I’ve read your research, thank you.” Lt. Hayes placed his water sample in a box. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”
“No, I won’t. Do you know what you’re doing?”
His silent laugh produced a smile, a bright smile across the boyishly handsome face. “I thought you said you knew why we’re here. If you do, then you know the United States government has every right to be here. You’ve done your job, Doctor, thank you.” He started to walk from her, his soft spoken voice suddenly taking on an edge. “Hey!” He called out to two men who carried a body bag. “No, you don’t.” Lt. Hayes ran to them, halting them. “Take that body back. Take that body back now. I don’t want a single body, specimen, culture or sample leaving this island without my viewing it. Understand?”
Catherine approached him. “I’m afraid you don’t understand the importance of our part in this.”
“No.” Lt. Hayes faced her, more serious. “I’m afraid you don’t understand the importance of our part in this. Now you either stop your people or my men will.” Lt. Hayes walked from her to one of his own team. “I need to review everything. Do not let anyone leave this island at all.” Returning to his things on the beach, he saw Catherine still standing there. “Now, Doctor,” he spoke to her. “We can work together on this or apart.”
“I don’t work with children.”
Biting his lip, and closing his eyes tightly, Lt. Hayes twitched his head to the left. Refraining himself from insulting the woman, he grabbed his things and walked away.
Jan, Catherine’s nervous assistant, rushed to her. “Catherine, do you know ...”
“Who was that arrogant little shit?” Catherine pointed as Lt. Hayes barked orders on his route to the research building.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Do you know who that was you were speaking to? That was Lt. Dean Hayes. The Lt. Dean Hayes. The virologist, DNA specialist, top mind in his field Dr. Hayes. Ring a bell?”
“Oh shit.” Catherine turned stunned, her mouth dropped open. “That was Lt. Dean Hayes? You’re kidding?” Her eyes shifted back to Lt. Hayes who was fading from view. “God, he looks twelve.”
Thursday, May 28th - 10:33 p.m.
CIA Headquarters - Washington, DC
The chair squeaked loudly as Joe plopped down. He’d had the same beat-up brown chair for so many years he was beginning to use duct tape to hold it together. But it was his favorite chair and Joe swore that, other than on the commode, he did his best thinking there.
Exhausted mentally, he leaned as far back as he could in that chair rubbing his eyes, possibly trying to rub away the tiredness of a case that was far from over. A case Joe feared wouldn’t be over for a very long time.
Zero progress had been made in figuring out why eight men were dead after leaving an ominous message in blood on the wall, the same message that had been sent over and over to the Centers for Disease Control. He had tips, yes, but they went about as far as a cheap ball point pen.
Snapping from the memory of his eventful day, Joe sprang forward in his chair at the same time a folder dropped upon his desk before him. Raising his tired eyes, Joe glanced at his partner, Brian.
“Christ, what now?” Joe asked when he saw the look on Brian’s face.
“Centers for Disease Control received another fax while we were in Reston.”
Taking a deep breath, Joe hesitated before opening the folder. “Just tell me. Same message?”
“Yep. Little warning like always. Saying the same thing we saw today. Get ready. Be prepared.” Suddenly the corner of Brian’s mouth raised in a sneaky manner. “But he made one mistake. He used the same copy store in New York.”
Joe’s tired eyes opened wide. “Tell me. Tell me we got someone that saw him.”
Brian’s smiled. “We got a lead.”
DAYONE
Friday, May 29th - 8:15 a.m.
Fort Sioux Research Facility - Nebraska
The folder set before General Green was thick. The tall, strong black man in his late forties allowed a smirk to pass across his thick lips as he glanced up at Lt. Dean Hayes.
A sweep of his index finger across his military mustache and General Green, hand on folder, leaned back some in his chair. “Carrington’s done, Lieutenant?”
“Unfortunately. And I, um ...” Dean cleared his throat in nervousness. “I apologize for my error, Sir.”
“Error? The ‘I’m the best at what I do and never make a mistake’ Lt. Hayes admits an error?”
Dean tilted his head while holding up two fingers an inch apart. “A small one. Not a complete error. I dismissed it too soon.”
“Give me what you got.”
Dean pointed to the folder. “May I?”
“Be my guest.”
Turning it to face him, Dean pulled out the top sheet and handed it to General Green. “Carrington Research Island. Isolated, located about 125 miles north of Kauai. The residents of the island are those who work for Carrington and their families. Dedicated solely to the research of biological growth formulas. So ... why do we have this?” Dean opened his laptop, clicked the keys a few times, turned it to General Green’s view then moved behind him.
A video began to play scenes of the island. Documentary-style footage showed dead birds, shriveled bodies, remains fallen on parking lots, beaches, and even playgrounds, all appearing to have lost their lives in the midst of whatever they were doing.
Dean shut down the video. “Everything on that island was wiped out in a
matter of seconds. Not a trace of anything was found in the air. Nothing. Chemical agent? Hardly. Try biological agent spewed out into the air when their ventilation system reversed itself during the accidental spill.”
“Biological?”
“Synthesized, souped up, deadlier version of the bubonic plague kind of mixed with H1N1 and a little of H5N1, hence our birds dropping.”
General Green leaned back in his chair. “Any thought to a connection between this and those threatening faxes to the CDC?”
Dean lifted his hands up and dropped them. “Could be. Couldn’t be. Carrington is a private corporation. Why they are recreating the bubonic plague is beyond me. Someone has them doing it. But the ‘why’ is not my job. Anything more than what the germ is would be matter of personal opinion.”
“Then let me hear it.” General Green folded his hands. “Give me your personal opinion.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Dean stated firmly. “Doesn’t matter if there is a connection between Carrington and the faxes to the CDC. I have said it from the get-go. If the Centers for Disease Control are receiving terrorist threats, then, in my opinion, the situation should be taken as seriously as if God himself wrote the same message to the pope. They both could mean the same thing if the warnings are legitimate ... Armageddon.”
May 29th - 10:20 a.m.
Ashtonville, Connecticut
Happy little cartoon animals and bright red balloons graced the lab coat of Ellen Callaway. Ten years she had worked in the same doctor’s office, and she still managed to remain cheerful and happy. She surfed the radio for a better selection of music in the small examining room. With her fingers adjusting the knob, Ellen head banged to the rock beat; she wanted to find something to soothe the worried and wiry little patient that waited for the doctor. “Better?” Ellen asked turning around.