by Brian Parker
“Simon Groves is the man planning this mission for the British government. I expected him to be here.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Harper, but I am the man planning this mission for the British government. Imagine my surprise when I was told that my force would be a group of American mercenaries.”
If the slight offended Grady, he didn’t show it. “Okay, so you’re my main POC then?”
“Yes. I am the point of contact, and the team lead for this operation.”
“Bullshit,” Grady replied. “I’m in charge or we walk.”
“There is no way that I will let a Yank tell me what to do during a mission that I planned and that my government is funding, Harper.”
“Fuck you,” Grady hissed. “That wasn’t the deal.”
“Fuck you, sir,” Alcock retorted. “That has been the plan from the beginning. I would lead the mission, utilizing resources that I already have in place on the mainland.”
“Goddammit. I need to call Havoc.”
“Grady,” Hannah said, placing a restraining hand on his arm. “Maybe there’s a compromise. Let’s let Major Alcock tell us his plan before we pull out of the mission. We can see what these resources are that he has in place; maybe we can save ourselves a ton of time and effort by using the assistance that our allies are offering.” She emphasized the word to remind Grady of where they were, and who was paying their bills. It sure as hell wasn’t The Havoc Group right now.
Anger flashed across his gray irises, then faded away. He nodded his chin slightly. “Okay, what’s the plan for insertion?”
Hannah grinned. If he could allow for a little bit of flexibility and accept help from the Brits who knew the region, then the chance of success would increase immeasurably. The insertion had been a major sticking point with the team. Nobody liked the news that Grady brought back from his visit with “Wild” Bill Kizer regarding going through Russia and Hannah was just as anxious as everyone else to learn what the final plan would be.
“Your equipment arrived this morning from Yokota. It’s in the garage,” Alcock replied. “Once your men arrive, we will adjourn to a meeting room and discuss our plans.”
“Give me the Cliff’s Notes version before we tell everyone else,” Grady stated. “How are we inserting into North Korea?”
Major Alcock frowned, causing Hannah to wonder if his grand unveiling celebration was being circumvented. “We will fly to Vladivostok via commercial airliner. From there, we’ll travel into the Siberian wilderness to link up with my contact and the interpreter at a logging camp. Then, we will infiltrate North Korea overland.”
Grady nodded. It was the same as he’d been told. “And the EXFIL?”
“We will have a submarine waiting twenty miles off the coast in international waters. I’m not sure what we’ll find in-country after we complete the mission, so I can’t tell you how to get to the sub, only that it will be there.”
“Fair enough. How long will it stay on site? This mission has the potential to go on for a few weeks if we can’t find this place right away.”
“The submarine will remain on station as long as we need it to do so,” Alcock replied. “You don’t need to worry about that aspect of the mission. They will recover the team properly.”
Grady nodded and looked to Hannah. “Any questions?”
“Uh…” She hadn’t expected him to ask her opinion. “Yeah, actually. What if we get caught? Will the British government—or the US for that matter—try to negotiate for our release?”
The major frowned. “Well, you see, your team was hired specifically for this reason. We—”
“No, Hannah,” Grady cut in. “If we get caught, we’re on our own.” She knew that, but wanted to hear it from the Brit.
“Ah, well, there it is,” Alcock replied. “No one on your team is a citizen of the United Kingdom and therefore, we would not negotiate for your release. As private American citizens, your Department of State may assist with negotiations, but that is only my guess.”
Grady shook his head. “Nah. That’s why Havoc fired us all. We’re on our own.”
Alcock shrugged and sniffed. “I wouldn’t know about that.” He took a drink and then slapped the table. “What do you need from me?”
“Beds, first of all,” Grady said. “Then some food.”
“Of course. Do the two of you need ah— Are you sharing a room or do you need separate rooms?”
“Separate,” Hannah answered immediately. “We’re not together.”
“Oh, I’d rather thought—”
“You were incorrect.”
“Right. Let’s move on then,” the major stated. “There are rooms available for everyone and meals may be taken in the dining room at any time.” He gestured toward an open doorway across the lobby.
The Brit’s cell phone rang in his pocket. “Excuse me, please.”
When he stepped away, Grady took a healthy sip from his whiskey. “Can you believe he thought we were together?” he laughed when the glass left his lips.
“I know, crazy right?” She looked him up and down. “I mean, if we weren’t on the same team, maybe, but—”
“Yeah. That wouldn’t ever happen,” he agreed, glancing toward the front of the hotel where several men walked in.
Hannah followed his gaze. Even from this distance, she could see that it was the rest of their team, newly arrived from the airport. “You boys are a little late to the party,” Grady called across the lobby, turning his back to her and walking to where the men stood, mouths agape at the hotel’s splendor.
She sighed and reached for the decanter that Alcock had poured her drink from. Any chance she had of talking with him privately just evaporated with the arrival of the team. She wasn’t so naïve as to think she’d fallen for her team leader in the short time that she’d known him, but there had definitely been a connection between the two of them the other night. Grady’s insistence that they keep it professional was the smartest thing for everyone involved. Wasn’t it?
FIFTEEN
* * *
BRAZILIAN HIGHLANDS RAINFOREST, BRAZIL
ONE WEEK BEFORE THE OUTBREAK
The phone clicked through several satellite relays and switches before connecting to Major Shaikh’s point of contact. He assumed the Facilitator was in Tehran, so the fact that he’d called at this hour meant it was well after midnight in Iran. That meant he’d missed an extremely important phone call while he was away from the command center.
Taavi had been at the runway supervising the final shipment of supplies from the defunct Korean site. Even now, the giant shipping containers littered the area behind the facility. The distances that the equipment had to travel, through second- and third-party carriers before it could finally be delivered to Site 53 was mind-boggling. He was glad to be a simple soldier and not a logistician working to stay ahead of the American intelligence juggernaut.
Administrator Kim had only been on the ground at the facility for a few days when he was recalled to North Korea for a face-to-face meeting. Given the manner of topics they routinely discussed over the secure telephone lines, Shaikh could only imagine what was so important that it couldn’t be spoken over the phone.
“This is Sari,” the Facilitator said in his normal way of greeting. “Is this Shaikh?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I’m sorry I missed the call. I was at the airfield.”
“Never mind that,” Hamid Sari said. “Our timeline must be moved up. The Americans have a team preparing to infiltrate North Korea.”
He waited for the Facilitator to continue. When he did not, Shaikh grunted at the man’s apparent lack of intestinal fortitude. “I thought we were preparing the vaccine to administer to our Muslim brothers before we unleashed the curse upon the world.”
“The Americans have forced our hand,” the Facilitator stated. “We will continue to work on the vaccine at Site 53. But Kasra has ordered the release ahead of schedule.”
“What is it that I must do? I wa
s not prepared for this. I thought Administrator Kim would—”
“There is no time to await his return. There are twelve men in the facility who have been trained for this. Their passports are in Kim’s office safe. The code is five-eight-seven-three-three-two-five. Repeat it to me.”
Shaikh cursed under his breath. “I’m sorry, Facilitator. I did not have a pen.” He took the pen from Lieutenant Khavari’s hand. “Say again the safe code.”
“Five. Eight. Seven. Three. Three. Two. Five.”
Taavi read his note into the phone. “Five. Eight. Seven. Three. Three. Two. Five.”
“Yes. That is it,” Sari stated. ”You will segregate the twelve men. You will have them travel to America in three waves, four men each. The first group should leave immediately, with the second following in a few days.”
“What of Europe and Asia? Australia?”
“Do not worry. I have several teams preparing to fly right now from other locations. They will be in position before your men will since you have so far to travel to the airport. Do you have questions?”
Shaikh had so many questions. More than he could put into words. “Promise me that my family will be safe,” he chose to say instead of asking them.
“Bah! Your family is secure. They will remain safe inside our borders. You must initiate the spread, but do not inject the travelers until they are ready to board the planes.”
“What of their flights? How am I to—”
“Khavari will book their flights out of Rio. It is important that you send them in different waves in case one of the groups fail. Remember, if you do not do this, your family’s lives will be forfeit.”
“Yes, of course. I will follow your instructions.”
“Good. You are a good man, Shaikh.”
The pit of his stomach dropped. To be called a good man by that snake, Hamid Abdullah Sari, was akin to calling him a slimy worm. It sickened him. “Thank you,” he forced himself to say.
“Do this and you are guaranteed a position in Jannah, Shaikh. Allāhu Akbar.”
“Allāhu Akbar,” he replied automatically without thinking of the implications of what he was being asked to do. He couldn’t balk at this task. His family’s lives depended on his obedience.
The phone clicked dead and he handed the receiver to Lieutenant Khavari. “It is time,” he muttered. The lieutenant’s eyes went wide. Before he could ask a question, Shaikh continued. “Do you know the names of the men to schedule their airline tickets?”
“I do not, Major Shaikh. I’ve been trained to schedule their flights into the United States, but was not trusted with the names.”
“Fine. Prepare whatever connections you need while I go to the administrator’s office and retrieve the passports.”
“Forgive me, Major,” the lieutenant said, holding up a hand.
“What is it?”
“How will the men pass through security? I’m sure the American intelligence officers will be looking for foreigners entering their country from South America.”
Shaikh scratched idly at his beard. It was widely known that when the American wars in the Middle East wound down, foreign fighters made their way back to their home countries. In many cases, the fighters became mercenaries, abandoning the honorable jihad and chasing the money. South America had a lot of money—or at least the criminal underworld of most South and Central American nations did. The fighters joined cartels and gangs, passing along their knowledge of tactics and techniques that they’d gained from years of fighting in the deserts of Iraq, Syria, and Yemen. It was also widely known that the Americans kept close watch on all air traffic coming to the continent across the Atlantic, and a very close watch on anyone coming to the US from the south.
“I want you to schedule flights into Canada, Northern Mexico, and the United States,” Shaikh ordered. “We will hit them from different locations all at once.”
Lieutenant Khavari seemed to like the answer because he grinned widely. “Yes, sir.”
Shaikh didn’t wait any longer. He turned on his heel and made his way across the hallway to the administrator’s office. The room was spacious, by subterranean standards, boasting a desk, two chairs opposite the administrator’s chair, and a small sofa with two wingback chairs across from it. Behind the desk was the safe. Taavi knew it was there because he’d supervised the placement two months ago.
He knelt and typed in the seven digit passcode, then pressed the enter button. The safe’s locks disengaged, allowing the door to pop open slightly. Inside, sitting on top of a flat, rectangular case was a handgun. It looked to be the standard Type 70 piece of garbage produced for the North Korean Army. Shaikh thought of the things that the scientists had locked away in their cages deeper inside the facility. The .32 ACP rounds that it fired would have little effect upon the Cursed if it came down to a fight.
Shaikh nudged the pistol aside and withdrew the olive green case. It was made of rigid plastic with two black butterfly clasps on the side. He set it on the administrator’s desk and twisted the clasps. Inside were a dozen gently worn Brazilian passports and a black leather folio with a rubber band around it. He picked up the passports and scanned a few of them. Each of the men’s names were either Portuguese or Spanish and he recognized several of the men in the photos as workers who’d come to the facility on the last cargo plane. All of them were clean-shaven and thin, not the muscular military men that he’d been expecting. Whoever had made the passports had taken time to recreate immigration stamps for several countries ranging far and wide. New passports might have raised suspicions, but these were designed to look like the traveler had done a mixture of business and leisure travel. Perfect, he thought.
He set the passports back down and picked up the leather notebook. Sliding the rubber band off of the book, Shaikh thumbed through the pages. The first thing that jumped out at him were the photographs stapled to each page. They were duplicates of the pictures in the passports. Each page held one passport-sized photo with notes in the archaic symbols that the Koreans said represented words, as well as notes in Persian. He skipped the Korean and focused on the parts he could read.
After a reading several of the pages, Shaikh concluded that each of the Iranian men had been hand-picked based on their religious fervor, looks, and cognitive abilities. He wasn’t entirely sure what the Korean requirements had been since he couldn’t read the men’s bios. From the parts that he could read, he gleaned that the primary targets seemed to be cities with large homeless populations. As in Iran, no one in America paid attention to the destitute. If they were ill, people would simply avoid them, allowing the sickness to complete its cycle. There were also notes about how to avoid detection once the men reached their destinations and the best places to go where the infection could spread unchecked before authorities discovered the illness. The Council had thought of everything.
Shaikh closed the book and tossed it back into the olive green case. He picked up the entire box and carried it next door where Lieutenant Khavari waited to schedule the flights out of the country.
RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL
The large cargo plane taxied a third of the way down the runway before turning toward the terminal. Shaikh unbuckled quickly and readied his sidearm. He moved up by the door and slid behind the cargo netting that ran from the ceiling to the floor in the middle of the fuselage for concealment. If they were boarded by the national security forces, he would die fighting.
The crew chief looked to him for approval and he nodded once, quickly. The plane’s tiny windows were set too high to see out of in his current position, so he had no way of telling what transpired on the tarmac below. The door slid open and Shaikh flipped the pistol’s safety off.
The humidity of the coastal city hit him like a blast from a furnace. He’d grown accustomed to the relative dryness of the Highlands. The damp air clung to him, making his grip on the weapon slippery and dangerous. He wiped the sweat from his palm and prepared himself.
Nothing happened
. The crew chief looked outside, waving to someone out of the major’s line of sight before lifting the stairs up and allowing them to fold downward to the tarmac.
“All is clear,” the young man said.
Shaikh nodded, safing his pistol before placing it in the holster under his shirt. The crewman disappeared through the door and he could hear the big engines winding down outside. He only had a moment to reassure his men before they needed to get into the terminal.
“I need one final confirmation that you remember what to do,” Shaikh said, allowing his voice to carry to the four men seated near the front of the plane.
They all nodded, sweating in the city’s humidity as it flowed through the open doorway. One man held up the small plastic bottle of eye drop fluid. Shaikh took it from him and examined the seal.
The carriers had to travel from Brazil to the United States before they showed signs of infection, which created a problem as to how to spread the disease. Simply putting vials of the serum into the men’s baggage was not optimal as any number of things could happen to it and wreck their plans. It was a challenge that didn’t have a solution until Lieutenant Khavari saw one of the soldiers using eye drops for their allergies to the godforsaken jungle. Scientists at the facility said that the most reliable transmission of the diseased pathogens was through the eyes, so a plan was hatched. They inserted the serum into empty eye drop containers and shrink-wrapped them with plastic and a hair dryer to make them appear as if the bottles were new and unopened. Airport security defeated.
“Good. Leave the serum in your carryon bag. Do not let it out of your sight, ever. Do you understand?”
Once more the men chosen to be the harbingers of Yawm al-Qiyāmah nodded their heads. They had known their role for weeks, maybe even months back in Iran. Shaikh was unsure how long they’d been a part of the plan. To a man, all of them had arrived on the last transport to be workers at the facility, so he barely knew them. He had to trust the Facilitator’s judgement that they knew what to do.
