Contagion Option. Don Pendleton

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      CHAPTER TWO

      Park City, Utah

      Stan Reader looked up the tree-lined snow trail, cold air biting his cheeks. He took a deep breath, flexed his feet in his ski boots, then lurched forward, taking long loping strides to get up to speed.

      Reader cut a narrow path through the powdery snow, little rooster tails puffing up as he moved along. He bent back a pine branch and let it go, leaving a cloud of fine flakes in his wake. Reader then settled into his long, usual pace, ignoring the bounce of the stainless-steel Model 63 .22-caliber rifle against his back. The Taurus 63 was a relatively new rifle, and one he wouldn’t normally use in biathalon competition, but this was just a day for exploring new woods and plinking his rifle at impromptu targets, deftly keeping to the narrow trail between trees. Trunks rolled lazily at his slow, cross-country skiing pace, and Reader lost himself in the moment, his long lean legs and his ski poles swinging in a steady, repetitive motion. This was a one-man sport, and it allowed Reader to get some exercise while freeing his consciousness for other thoughts, such as complex physics formulas or mathematical equations. At various points, he would stop, unsling the rifle and take aim at a small target. On an official course, it would be a five-inch steel plate, and he’d have had to foster his endurance so that his breathing and heartbeat wouldn’t throw off his aim of the sensitive .22 target rifle.

      Off to his right, another figure lurched into view, keeping pace with him. It was Kirby Graham, his best friend from college and the military. The big, brawny FBI agent skied alongside Reader for about thirty yards before they spotted an outcropping.

      “Race ya, Stretch,” Graham said.

      Reader smirked and increased the pace, loping along, arms digging in with the poles to spread the effort of motion to all of his limbs. Graham was bigger, so he had a longer gait that could drive him faster, but Reader, despite being tall, was lean and gangly enough that his wind resistance was lower. Reader sliced ahead of Graham, then cut around the outcropping. There was a dropoff, and the biathlete slashed through the powder for thirty feet. Since gravity was doing its thing, Reader allowed his limbs to relax as he plummeted down the slope at full speed, only switching and altering his balance to keep from crashing into pine tree trunks in his path. Landing upright on crosscountry skis was a testament to his skill.

      Stan Reader was a polymath. By age twenty-four, he’d earned degrees in four different sciences, was a pilot and had managed to be an alternate on the Olympic biathalon team. Reader had put his scientific knowledge to good use in the United States Navy, serving on a nuclear aircraft carrier as an engineer. During his military career, the brilliant young man had also become an expert marksman with both handguns and rifles, competing against Marines and Navy SEALs in both sponsored competition or just shooting for cases of beer.

      Graham, one of the Marines Reader had competed against, grumbled that Stan would never need to buy another alcoholic drink for the rest of his life, thanks to everyone who had lost to him. Graham had been an F-18 jockey, spending the early part of his career risking his life enforcing the Iraqi no-fly zone and splashing four MiGs before being signed on for the Navy Blue Angels. After that, Graham mustered out and joined the FBI as a special agent. But it wasn’t competition that had forged their friendship.

      Reader had been a sixteen-year-old geek in college, easy prey for bullies and frat boys. Graham had been a football player in danger of losing his scholarship. They were unlikely roommates, the skinny, nerdy Reader and the big, gruff Graham. But, Reader had helped focus Graham’s studies, putting him on the honor roll. And nobody wanted to give Reader any trouble with a brick wall like Graham as a guardian angel. It was Graham who’d introduced Reader to skiing in New York state, and to rifle shooting. The biathalon was a wonderful mix of the two sports Reader fell in love with. Long, quiet hours, in quiet serenity across snows, punctuated by a display of marksmanship for five shots, and then moving along. If only someone could combine this sport with Star Trek, Japanese monster movies and professional wrestling, he’d have been in absolute heaven.

      Graham had graduated with honors and repaid his college education in the United States Marine Corps. Reader, by contrast, had joined the military simply because he’d thought it would be a challenge. Both men had served on the same carrier, which cemented their friendship.

      Now, Special Agent Graham was on station for the FBI in Salt Lake City, and Reader had officially come to Park City to engage in the Nordic Games. Reader had a job to offer his friend, something that could challenge the brawny pilot and get them working together.

      The ski weekend was a time to play catch-up, and a chance to engage in friendly competition. Graham might not have been a multidisciplined scientist, but he was one of the few people who could push Reader, not only in discussion, but in physical competition. By all rights, Reader considered Graham his brother, and the big FBI agent felt the same way.

      Graham eventually came to a halt beside his friend. His skin was wind-burned and red, but a wide smile split his face. “Fantastic.”

      “Weren’t nothing.”

      “You’re really starting up your own company?” Graham asked.

      Reader nodded. “Just a little something to make good use of my talents.”

      Graham pursed his lips. “So what do you need a dumb ex-fighter jock like me for?”

      “We need a pilot and a head of security, and I need my brother by my side,” Reader explained.

      “You just want someone to keep you out of trouble, Stretch.”

      “My aim is to get into trouble, a lot,” Reader retorted. “And then to fix a few problems on my way back out of it.”

      Graham took a deep breath. “I’d love to help, but I’ve got a case going on.”

      “Maybe I can help?”

      “The FBI doesn’t look kindly on agents calling in non-contracted experts,” Graham responded.

      Reader grinned and reached under his parka.

      “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Graham responded.

      “Since СКАЧАТЬ