Project Apollo

Chapter 25

Safe House #29

South DC

9:45 AM

The sunlight illuminated the apartment flat in strips, as it shown through the blinds into Mac's apartment. They had just pulled an all-nighter, following surreptitious leads from Geneva. A brewing coffee pot in the small kitchen, sighed as it finished and released an aromatic roast into the air. Cusick and Mac now had access to the traffic camera grid but had no luck in finding the Hyman Seafood truck. Morale was dropping as the hunt was beginning to run cold.

"So, Ezra has confirmed that the targets are in the DC metropolitan area, but finding this truck in the city is like finding a needle in a haystack, or should I say a needle holding deadly bacteria in a haystack the size of Washington, DC." Mac glanced behind him.

"Get it?" he asked, almost immediately giving up on the joke, seeing Cusick consumed in his computer screen. Mac wiped the exhaustion from his face and then slapped his face. After a few silent moments Cusick chimed up.

"Got it!"

"It took you that long to get it, come on man. I thought that was pretty clever." Mac smiled.

"No, I got it!" Mac turned from his chair to face Cusick with a quizzical expression.

"The truck..." Cusick explained. Mac jumped out of his chair, eyeing the laptop monitor.

"When is this?" Mac asked, already over Cusick's shoulder. His finger tapped on the feed's time stamp. 10:09PM. They watched the truck park and wait alongside H Street outside the Rock and Roll Hotel. Cusick fast forwarded the footage to see Harak Khan get out of the truck, wait at the truck's backside for a young lady to walk by. The two hackers were shocked to see the sedative driven into her neck and her limp body thrown into the back of the truck. Mac gaped at the feed. He leaned forward and focused in on the next breadcrumb of the trail.

"Who is that girl?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stacey Chapman was running down the street, buttoning up her military formals. She brought the phone to her ear as she rushed down the sidewalk. After a couple quick rings, an impatient voice answered.

"Stacey, where the hell are you?"

"I am on my way! I am so—" Stacey surrendered to another fit of coughing. She then crossed over an intersection and turned – the building where she worked was now in sight.

"Are you okay?" the voice asked over the phone.

"Yeah! I'm fine..." she exhaled gasping words, as she kept her pace up.

"How long until you get here?"

"I'm walking through the door now, I swear! I am so sorry." Stacey's apology was hoarse and discordant, as she battled the infection taking hold of her. She shook off any bit of unprofessionalism, straightened her military blouse and walked through the door.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The clocks populated the Situation Room monitor on the far wall. There were isolated discussions throughout the room as they hypothesized the meaning of them.

"2:04, 51, 53, 11:46, 2, 11" The President read the clocks, bewildered. "Are they times to an attack? 51, 53, 2, 11. These numbers may indicate trains departing in Union Station," he hypothesized.

"On it, Mr. President!" Powers consulted the Amtrak schedules of the day.

"They could be referring to different clocks around DC, marked by that time." Hardy suggested.