Free Contagious by Scott Sigler

a microbe to a man. Once you got through decon, a final airtight door let into the main area: an eight-foot-wide, twenty-foot-long autopsy room. An area about the size of a typical living room to deal with the deadliest pathogens the world had to offer.

The left-hand trailer, Trailer B, held a narrow dressing room with lockers for the hazmat suits and gear. That room wasn’t part of the airtight area—you had to walk into the dressing room, get suited up, then walk back outside and go through the Trailer A airlock to reach the autopsy room. Trailer B also held air compressors, refrigeration units, filters, generators, a nine-slot cadaver rack like you’d find in any morgue, and a clear-walled containment chamber designed for living hosts. That cell held two autopsy trolleys, side by side, with just enough room between them for someone to walk in, turn around and walk out. If they did have to use this cell, the host (or hosts) would likely be strapped down to the trolley: safety and secrecy, not comfort, were the rules of the day.

A collapsible covered walkway extended from Trailer B and connected directly into the autopsy room of Trailer A. That way they only needed one decontamination area to access the airtight areas of both trailers. Gitsh and Marcus were in the process of connecting the accordion-like walkway.

Dew liked those guys. Marcus was the kind you’d want by your side in a firefight. Gitsh not so much, but he always had a smile and a laugh, and on a long, isolated assignment that was just as important as being able to shoot straight. Dew checked his watch—the connection process usually took them ten minutes. Now it was eleven and counting. He’d give them some shit about that later.

Gitsh opened the door to the computer center. Dew got out of his Lincoln, braving the rain once more to dart inside. He sat down at one of the computers, typed in his user name and password, then spread out the blood-smeared map on top of the keyboard. He grabbed the secure phone and punched in a memorized number. He still found it odd that he could dial Colonel Charlie Ogden in the middle of a field engagement and get him every time. The wonders of a high-tech army.

“Company X, this is Corporal Cope.”

“Dew Phillips. Get me Ogden.”

“Right away, sir.”

Dew waited. He held the phone with his right hand while the fingertips of his left traced an as-the-crow-flies line from South Bloomingville, Ohio, to Glidden, Wisconsin. About six hundred miles. Project Tangram had several V-22 Ospreys at their disposal. The Ospreys were perfect for their needs. They could take off and land anywhere, no runway required, courtesy of a helicopter engine on each wing. Once in the air, those engines slowly tilted forward, and the helicopter became a twin-turboprop plane. Seeing as each Osprey could carry up to twenty-four soldiers and do about three hundred miles an hour, they were invaluable for moving Ogden’s troops from Point A to Point B. In a real logistical pinch, the Ospreys could even haul the MargoMobile trailers, one trailer per bird.

“Ogden here,” said the familiar voice. “What have you got for me?”

“You first,” Dew said. “Did you take out the construct?”

“Would I be talking to you if I hadn’t?”

Dew shook his head. Charlie Ogden wasn’t much for pleasantries.

“We’ve got something else,” Dew said. “Punch in Marinesco, Michigan, on whatever fancy map computer you’ve got there.”

Ogden barked an order to his staff.

“Got it,” Ogden said.

“We found another construct there.”

There was a brief pause. “Okay, things make more sense now.”

“How long till you can be there, Charlie?”

“We’ve got our Ospreys close by. With midair refueling . . . maybe two and a half hours.”

“What about the two companies still at Fort Bragg?”

“I can send them now, but they don’t have Ospreys and they’re too far away for helicopters. We could get them on C-17s and drop them right in near the zone. Say thirty minutes to