Chapter Thirty-Eight
“What the hell do we do with this dog?” James asked.
Jacob put a hand on the retriever’s head and scratched at its ears. The dog wagged its tail and cautiously moved closer, pressing into Jacob, nearly knocking him off balance. Jesse smiled and broke off a piece of jerky he’d been carrying in his pocket and fed it to the dog. The dog lapped at it hungrily then licked Jesse’s hand, begging for more.
“No, dammit; don’t go feeding it,” James protested. “Now we’ll never get rid of it.”
Jacob patted the dog on the side. “Don’t worry about it; he’s friendly and done something right to survive out here on his own. We could probably learn a thing or two from him.”
Stephens put his hands up. “Shut up about the dog, James. If it causes problems you can deal with it.”
“Fuck that, I ain’t shooting a dog,” James muttered under his breath.
“Enough.” It was Marks, growing frustrated. “Back to the task at hand. James, let’s get this done; move us out.”
James crouched, and then stood. Looking back, he offered Jacob a hand and rocketed him up to his feet. He put his mouth close to Jacob’s ear. “Just give me room to work. Stay close… but not too close,” he whispered.
Jacob shook his head mockingly then nodded his understanding, allowing James to step off ahead of him, before following along the wooded roadside. Jacob looked back and saw that the rest of the team were on their feet, spread out along the tree line. The dog walked just in front of Jesse, its tongue out like he was on a leisurely stroll through the park, happy to be a member of the pack.
James crept along out front, positioning himself so that he stayed in the shade and shadows of the tall poplar trees. They approached the gate, still concealed in the tree line on the far side of the street. A sign labeled the area as a loading dock entrance—not a main entry for factory and office workers. From the back, the factory was dead, no signs of movement or life. Tall sheet metal buildings with dirty windows stood empty, and a parking lot near the guardhouse was completely void of any vehicles.
James looked back at Jacob and waved him forward. “Looks like this place is closed up tight. We cross together. I’ll work the lock while you cover me.”
Jacob again nodded. James used a hand to slap his back then they ran across the open area of the street together. The gate was in a small stretch of gravel lot; their boots made noise as the treads shuffled along the crushed stone. James slid in and crouched down. Removing a lock pick kit from his cargo pocket, he immediately went to work on the padlock. Jacob turned so that he was looking past James. His rifle up, he swept the terrain for targets. The chain clanged and the lock fell to the ground. James undid the latch and they pushed until the gate gave way then opened it just enough so they could slip inside. James hung the lock on the fence so the last of the team could secure the gate behind them after entering.
The guardhouse was just ahead. The building looked intact, even though the door was open. James ran, crouching low, and pressed against the shack’s front wall, squatting so that he was hidden below the window. He waited for Jacob to fall in beside him before he slowly moved down the wall and, working angles, cleared the doorway. He stood and leaned inside before pulling back out. “Yeah, it’s empty; go see if you can find anything.”
Jacob pressed forward and slipped around him, moving past the open door and entering the guard shack—a small, square building with windows on all sides. Just in front of the door was a steel gray desk. A lunch box was open with a half-eaten, dried up sandwich on top of a paper towel. A small thermos sat near the edge of the desk, next to a full cup of coffee. Draped over the chair was a man’s heavy work coat with security patches on the sleeve.
A clipboard with scribbled entries hung on the wall near the door. In black ink, the final entry read Lockdown complete 16:00. The date of the entry was blank. All entries before it were routine: gate secure, facility closed. Jacob turned away from the clipboard and searched the small file cabinet next to the desk. Like most security offices, it was filled with garbage instead of official business; hot sauce packets, paper plates, and Styrofoam cups joined a stack of unfiled incident reports bundled together on the bottom of the drawer.
Jacob felt discouraged, not wanting to let the team down. He got low on the floor, looking under the desk and pulling things away from the wall. He spotted a red plastic container, the size of a ream of paper, mounted on the far side of an open and empty first aid kit. Jacob removed the plastic case from the wall and placed it on the desk. The case had a fire department logo sticker on the front and TIER II reports in stenciled, bold letters across the middle.
He unlatched the box and flipped it open. The hazardous chemicals report was directly on top and dated within the last year. He lifted the stapled pages out and set them aside. Next was a long list of emergency contact numbers and, finally, a site schematic—exactly what Jacob was looking for. He flipped through the pages, looking for the word “dioxin”. He found it on the third page, 2,3,7,8 – Tetrachlorodibenzo-p-dioxin Military Experimental (TCDDMX4). A grid reference line
