The Janus Reprisal c-9

by Jamie Freveletti

  “How bad do you feel? Is it from the tear gas?”

  Howell shook his head. “I’ve been gassed twice before. This is something more.”

  “The virus?”

  “I believe so.”

  Smith yanked on the ripped portion of his shirtsleeve. He worked the tear until the sleeve fell free. He handed it to Howell. “Wrap this around your nose and mouth. If they toss some more bacteria, it will help.”

  “I also found a discarded plastic bag. It’s foul, but I’ll not hesitate to put it over my head if it is required.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you this but I’m the one who threw the tear gas.”

  “Ah. I see,” Howell said.

  “But it’s still advisable to cover your mouth and nose.” Howell placed the cotton around his face, tying it in the back.

  Smith peered down the tunnel. He could see the men scrambling onto the platform.

  “They’re taking off, let’s go.” Smith burst out and started running toward the platform. When he reached it, he saw three of the attackers as they vaulted up the stairs and disappeared around a corner. He pulled himself onto the platform and followed.

  There were two stairwells about ten feet apart. Smith pressed his back against one and waved Howell to the other. He peered around.

  “This one’s clear. Yours?”

  “Clear,” Smith said. He ran up the stairs, meeting Howell on the first landing where the two stairs met. They repeated the maneuver and kept going up. Smith made it to the next landing. He caught sight of one of the attackers, who lobbed something at him. Smith dodged and it flew past him, rolling on the ground and then tumbling down the stairs.

  “That sounded like a grenade,” Howell said.

  “They wouldn’t risk it. It would destroy the third rail. They need it to spread the virus.”

  “Then it’s filled with something other than explosives, because I’ve heard grenades being thrown and that was one.”

  Smith listened to the attackers’ footfalls as they ran away.

  “Strike that. They’re taking off, it must be a…” Before Smith could finish, he heard a small pop and then a fizzing noise. With it came an overpowering smell of garlic. “Gas. Hold your breath and run like hell,” he said.

  Smith turned another corner and stared down a long tunnel. The attackers were already at the far end. The first group pounded up the short stairwell and disappeared into the night. Smith sprinted down the tunnel. He pulled the mask back over his face completely as he did. It had no more oxygen, but covering his face with the rubber was better than nothing. Howell was next to him. Graffiti images and drawings flashed in his peripheral vision. The tunnel felt endless. He felt his lungs start to burn from holding his breath, but he knew better than to inhale. After a moment he noticed that Howell had fallen farther behind. He backtracked to grab him, wrapping his arm around the man’s bicep and dragging him forward. Howell had the plastic bag over his head. They reached the stairs and Smith pushed Howell ahead of him. While the oxygen mask was out of air, it still contained a filter, so Smith thought he would be spared the worst effects. Howell’s makeshift mask would be far less effective. Cotton was useless against gas and while the plastic would help, the best antidote would be to get out of the subway and get clean.

  Smith couldn’t hold his breath much longer.

  He ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He reached the top and stumbled into a man standing at attention with a gun pointed at his head.

  “Bloody hell,” Howell said.

  A quick glance told Smith all he needed to know. Sheets of sweat ran down the man’s face and the gun wobbled a bit. Nevertheless, Smith stayed still, not wanting to provoke him into firing. A temporary canvas screen surrounded them, blocking the subway entrance and creating a ten-foot-wide area. A makeshift work light clipped to a pole threw a harsh white glare in the small space. The light’s cord snaked into the back of a panel truck and Smith could hear a generator humming. At their feet was a large hose that had one end attached to a fire hydrant and the rest fed into a subway grate. Next to the hydrant lay two men, both dead. Then the man with the gun collapsed.

  “The hydrant. Fast,” Smith said.

  “Ricin?” Howell said. He pulled the plastic bag off his head.

  “Mustard gas. Smelled like garlic, which is a marker. Mustard gas is heavier than oxygen, so it sank. Running upstairs to higher ground helped, but we need to get this hose out of the grate and ready to use, fast. We need to wash it off.” He shoved his own pistol into his waistband and pulled on the hose, retracting it from the subway grate. Howell worked next to him. The hose was heavy but the water wasn’t on, making it easier to remove. When the end appeared, Smith dropped it next to the body of the collapsed man and reached for a two-foot-long heavy-duty wrench that was still attached to the nut on the hydrant. It wasn’t until then that he noticed that the hose connection to the hydrant was not complete. The men must have been in the process of disconnecting it when they took ill.

  “Slow,” Howell said. “There may be a lot of force.”

  “We can’t afford slow,” Smith said. “Step back.” He hauled on the wrench and was rewarded by the sound of gushing water. He jogged backward, watching the hydrant. Within seconds the force of the water unseated the hose and water exploded into the air. Smith stepped into the stream and shivered as the water washed over him. He fought to keep standing while being pummeled by the open hydrant. Howell stood next to him, with his face up to allow the water to rinse it. He started to tear his clothes off and Smith followed suit. The stream hit the canvas screen and drenched it. The aluminum frame rattled from the force of the pummeling water, but the supports’ feet were held down with sandbags and the screen stayed upright. Too late Smith remembered the pistol in his waistband. He placed it out of the main stream of water before stripping off his pants, but it was probably soaked already. So be it, he thought. Better than having two-thirds of his body blistered with third-degree burns from mustard gas exposure. He stood naked in the shower of water and shivered at the cold of it. He stepped past the screen and spotted a pharmacy, closed at the early hour, across the street.

  “Wait here,” he told Howell.

  He reached down and ripped the clothes off the collapsed terrorist, putting the pants on as quickly as he could. They weren’t his size but Smith didn’t care. He removed the wrench from the hydrant and ran across the street, dodging a lone car that drove past.

  The pharmacy was a small independent, with minimal square footage and inventory. The partial glass door was recessed between two glass storefront displays. Smith stepped into the recessed area and swung the wrench at the side of the glass display. The pane shattered and an alarm went off. Smith hit it again, knocked out a section large enough for him to fit, and angled through into the store.

  It was his third visit for first aid in less than twenty-four hours and he had the fleeting thought that he hoped it was to be his last. His clothes dripped and the floor was cold under his bare feet. He snatched at a plastic bin and carried it with him, heading to the baby section and tossing three big bottles of baby shampoo into the carrier. He found the contact lens supplies and snatched two bottles of saline off the shelf and headed to the pharmacy area. He located the Betadine and tossed in four bottles. He worked his way back to the front door, crawled through the glass and ran back to Howell, who was still standing in the water. He shoved a bottle of baby shampoo at him.

  “Mustard gas has lipid qualities. This will dissolve some of it.”

  “Excellent,” Howell said. “I put the clothes in the plastic bag and tied it. That should help contain the off-gassing of the vapor.”

  Smith nodded. He pulled his clothes off again, uncapped a bottle of baby shampoo and poured it over his head, arms, chest, and legs. He scrubbed his skin, letting the soap run down his body. Howell was busy flushing his eyes with the saline.

  “Here.” He handed Smith the bottle. “Don’t delay.”

  “U
se the baby shampoo in your eyes as well,” Smith said. He flushed his, though he thought that perhaps the mask had spared him his eyes. His major exposure would be to his body, because clothes wouldn’t be any protection against it.

  Howell picked up the Betadine. “Why this?”

  “It’s been shown to help. It’s the same thing that we used to wash our hands in the ER, so it makes sense. Can’t hurt. Done?” Smith indicated the water spray. Howell nodded.

  Smith went to the hydrant and shut it off. He grabbed the Betadine and started to smear it over his skin. Howell did the same. They worked in silence. Smith’s mind raced with clinical observations; that they’d gotten their skin rinsed within one minute of exposure, washed in three, and flushed their eyes within five. One minute was good. Five, not so much.

  “How long do we have to wait before the symptoms appear?” Howell said.

  “Earliest would be one hour, four hours at the latest. First your eyes will swell and itch. Then the itch will spread to your entire body. After that the skin will start to blister from the exposure to the gas, which can create second- or third-degree burns.” Howell rubbed the Betadine on his face while he listened. Smith couldn’t help but notice the grim expression there.

  “Painful?”

  Smith nodded. “Horribly so. But we acted fast, getting into the water and washing it off. I’m hoping the skin eruptions will be lessened. It’s the eyes and lungs that I’m worried about. They’re particularly sensitive.”

  “Will it blind us?”

  “Temporarily, yes. After a while, though, it should clear. While people can die of severe exposure, many recover completely.”

  “How long for the eyes to clear?”

  Smith hesitated. He didn’t want Howell to worry. There was nothing more to be done for them that they hadn’t already done. Even a hospital could do no more. There didn’t exist a shot, pill, or antidote to halt the symptoms. One just had to endure them. But Howell had taken a far worse hit than Smith had. His symptoms would be severe.

  “How long?” Howell pressed for the answer.

  Smith sighed. “Thirty days.”

  52

  Klein saw the incoming call from Howell.

  “Peter, what happened?”

  “It’s Smith. I’m using his phone. Did Nolan call you?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “What about Russell?”

  “No. What’s going on?”

  “Switch off the third rail. My hypothesis was right. And block all traffic to the target stop and one stop in either direction. Dattar threw mustard gas. The NYPD is going to have to send in a decontamination crew.”

  Klein was on his feet and headed to his second secure phone.

  “On the rail shutdown. Station only? Or system-wide?”

  “System-wide. I don’t think we can take the risk. The rail’s been on for twenty minutes while I was in the tunnel.”

  “Do you have Dattar?”

  “I’m sorry, but no. He got away.”

  “Does he have more of the bacteria? Can he spread it elsewhere?”

  “I don’t know. It’s still imperative that we get him.” Klein heard the screaming of sirens in the background.

  “What’s that?”

  “Probably the NYPD. I just broke into a pharmacy. I needed something to wash off the gas.”

  “I’ll ask for a hazmat crew to be sent to the location.”

  “I’ll stay here until the hazmat team comes, but then I’m going after Dattar,” Smith said. “Can you call Ohnara? The clean-up crew may need his expertise.”

  He hung up and handed Howell the phone. The sirens were increasing. Howell was busy putting on the clothes of another dead terrorist. Smith dressed as well. His shoes were only slightly wet, and Smith wondered how many gas molecules were embedded in them, but decided that the protection from the soles outweighed any risk from the gas.

  When Howell was finished, he wore green cargo pants and a gray T-shirt, both two sizes too big for his slender frame. His eyes were still red and his cheeks raw looking. “I’m going to go get Russell. There’s no gain in my being here. You can handle the NYPD. Staying here will just blow my cover.”

  Smith nodded. “Can I have the phone?” Howell handed it back.

  “I’ll pick up another,” Howell said. “Russell’s one station away?”

  “I hope so. Neither she nor Nolan checked in with Klein. I don’t like it.”

  “I’m on it.” He slapped Smith on the shoulder and took off, cutting around the corner of the screen. Smith waited in the screened-off section for the NYPD. The canvas walls turned red with a flashing glow as the spinning lights threw their color.

  The first police car blew by without stopping. The second and third followed suit. Smith picked up his gun and stepped out from behind the canvas just as a fourth car went screaming by. Two ambulances followed. All drove by. Smith dialed Klein.

  “They’re not stopping. Do they know the gas is here?”

  “They know exactly what to do. The president called the governor and he briefed the antiterrorism unit, but they received a call from Harcourt, the CIA’s liaison with the NYPD. He said that he received some intelligence that Dattar is at the 215th Street station. That’s where they’re going.”

  “Is the subway off?”

  “We’re doing it in sections, with the stations closest to the infection point shut down, and those farther away allowed to enter a station and unload before turning them off. Too many people would be trapped in the cars if they shut the entire system down. It would be a nightmare to evacuate. They’ve cut power to four stations on each side of the 191st Street station.” Smith ran a hand through his hair and started to pace.

  “What about a hazmat team? They need to get down there and start scraping away the biofilm and figure out a way to stop it from spreading. I can’t go back down without a suit, the bacteria are active and so is the mustard gas.”

  “It was notified. It’s not there?”

  Smith looked up and down the streets. Only four cars and two cabs were on the road. The pharmacy alarm still shrieked.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “I’m going to check. Hold tight.”

  Klein rang off and Smith went back behind the screen. His left eye felt itchy and he rubbed it, relishing the feeling. He paused. In the distance came another siren, growing louder. This time he stepped out to greet it, waving his arms as the boxy emergency vehicle from the Fire Department of New York approached. It pulled to the side and two men stepped out.

  “What’s going on? I’m Carter and this is Rolly.” Carter was a large, paunchy forty-something with a sharp nose and a buzz cut. His arms were huge. He wore a uniform and standard-issue shoes that squeaked as he walked. Rolly was the exact opposite, slender, with graying hair and a hawklike nose that took up a ton of acreage on his face. Smith pointed to the subway entrance.

  “Mustard gas. Thrown twenty minutes ago. The entire station is contaminated.”

  “Who are you?” Carter said.

  Before Smith could answer, an NYPD patrol car came screaming around the corner. It angled halfway into an open area at the curb before coming to a halt. The officer catapulted out of his car with his weapon drawn, and Smith saw that it was Manderi, the same suspicious officer Smith had spoken to right after Jordan was found shot in his car.

  “Down on the ground. Now!” he said.

  Smith stood his ground. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith of the United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases.”

  “I know who you are, asshole. You’re the one who killed the lady at Landon. I said get down!”

  Smith felt his fury rising. He pointed a finger at the cop. “You get on the phone to your superior, now. Because every minute you delay, the gas is filling the tunnel.”

  “Get down or I’ll shoot you down,” Manderi said.

  Smith kept his eyes on Manderi while he lowered himself to the ground. The grit from the
asphalt bit into his cheek. He felt Manderi jerk his arms behind him and seconds later the cold metal of handcuffs tightened around his wrists.

  Manderi glanced at the canvas screen. “What’s that?” He walked around the canvas and Smith heard him give an oath. He came back in sight. “There’s three dead guys here!” Carter and Rolly went around the screen. The squawk of a radio came from inside Manderi’s car.

  “Watch him,” Manderi said to Carter when he came out from the screen.

  Smith could see the car from his prone position, and he watched as Manderi crawled back inside. Manderi slammed the door and began a conversation on the radio. The words were unintelligible. After a moment he emerged.

  “I’m taking him in,” Manderi said.

  “Wait a minute, I want to ask him some questions.” Carter lowered himself down next to Smith’s head. “Tell me why you think there’s mustard gas in the tunnel.”

  “I was there when the canister was thrown. An overpowering smell of garlic came with it,” Smith replied. “I got hit with it.”

  “Funny, you look all right to me,” Manderi said.

  “The symptoms don’t appear right away,” Carter told Manderi.

  “You see anything? A smoke cloud?” Manderi said.

  “Mustard gas is colorless. Stop wasting my time,” Smith said.

  “Carter, that true?” Manderi said.

  Carter nodded. “I was National Guard. Did a stint in Iraq during the Gulf War. He’s right. Mustard gas is colorless, and some guys can’t even smell the garlic when it’s thrown. That was the real danger because you didn’t even know you’d been exposed until the burns show up later. I wouldn’t mess around. It’s a bitch that they threw it in the deepest subway stop in the system. The stuff is heavier than the air and sinks. Ventilating the area is gonna be tough.”

  A second vehicle pulled up to the patrol car. Smith lifted his cheek from the ground and craned his neck to see the new arrival. This one, a heavy American-made sedan, black with dents on one side, was an obvious undercover patrol car. A light on the dashboard circled in the dark. The door opened and the same black man in the long braids who had appeared from the darkness and given Smith the guitar case emerged. This time he wore a lanyard that displayed a large badge. He took in the scene, glancing at Smith on the ground and at Carter and Rolly.