by Mills, Kyle
“You need to let me talk to my people, Farrokh. We might have enough information to convince them to enter Iranian airspace. We have bunker busters that—”
“Out of the question. I will not use the American military against my country.”
“I am the American military.”
“A bit different, wouldn’t you say?”
“Millions of lives are at stake, Farrokh. This isn’t a—”
“What if you had known for a fact that the Iraqis didn’t have weapons of mass destruction? Would you have helped the Iraqi air force cross your border and destroy your military bases in order to stop an invasion that has spread death and misery throughout the region? We have fifty men willing to die at my order, Colonel. Nothing more.”
Smith rolled onto his stomach again, fantasizing about slamming a rock into the back of the Iranian’s head and taking his phone. Unfortunately, he’d noticed him entering a PIN to unlock it with every use and he hadn’t been able to determine what that PIN was.
“You’re the boss, Farrokh. Call Howell and your man back. I want to be well clear of here before the sun comes up.”
The Iranian punched in another text and a few moments later the phone vibrated with a response.
nt yt. got idea. gnteed fun 4 all.
76
Central Iran
December 5—0654 Hours GMT+3:30
THE HORRIBLE SCREECHES AND metallic rattle of cages were nearly unbearable as Sarie entered the room containing the test monkeys. She fought the urge to strip off her stifling hazmat suit and run out, instead calmly setting down her clipboard and slipping a thumb through the ring at the back of an oversized syringe.
It was full of blood from an animal in the final stages of infection, and she knew that the sensitive parasites suspended inside would soon begin to die. There was no more time for reflection. No more time to second-guess or try to devise a less horrifying end to this. No more time for anything.
As she passed the first of the canvas-draped cages, the monkeys inside keyed on the sound of her footsteps and attacked the bars imprisoning them, trying desperately to get to her. The next section contained animals infected only a few hours ago, and they didn’t react at all, trapped in a dazed, silent stupor. It was the third section she was interested in, though—the one containing the group that hadn’t yet been exposed.
Each animal was connected to an IV that led to a central system for introducing drugs and pathogens. Sarie filled it from the syringe and tapped a command into a plastic-covered laptop. The parasitic load sent was an order of magnitude greater than they would have ever been exposed to in an attack. Based on the formula she’d come up with, groups of two and three would reach full symptoms around the same time. By then, group one would be dying but still in possession of around thirty percent of their peak strength and mobility. More than enough to be deadly.
The procedures for disposing of the syringe and shedding her protective clothing were pointless now, but she went through the motions with the same deliberate resolve as she had every other day. Even with time so short, she couldn’t risk the security cameras picking up anything out of the ordinary.
By the time she entered the outer office, the clock on the wall read seven thirty a.m. Yousef Zarin was the only person there, working on a computer terminal surrounded by files and loose papers.
She sat next to him, keeping her back to the surveillance camera as she looked at the schematic filling his monitor. In a monumental stroke of luck, the facility had been shut down so soon after flunking his inspection that no one had bothered to delete the passwords he’d been given. Zarin had full access to the system and enough knowledge of programming to put that access to use.
“Is everything ready?”
He nodded. “When we signal an emergency, all doors leading to the outside world will automatically seal, as they were designed to do. However, I’ve made two subtle changes. The first is to the interior doors. The original programming caused them to close and lock in order to section off the building and contain any leak in as small an area as possible. I left the locking subroutine intact but introduced an error into the subroutine that causes them to shut.”
“So they’ll still be open when the deadbolt extends,” Sarie said. “It’ll block them open.”
“Exactly. The other change was more difficult because I had to create the code from scratch, but I just ran a simulation and it is fully functional.”
“The monkey cages?”
“Yes. The locks on the cages will retract and then be permanently frozen in that position.”
She nodded slowly, trying to will her heart to slow. For all intents and purposes, they were turning the facility into a tomb. One that would descend into unimaginable violence and chaos before going silent forever.
“Are you all right?” Zarin said, concern visible in his dark eyes.
“Yes.”
“It’s not a pleasant prospect, is it?”
“No. But I’m coming to terms with it.”
“As am I,” he said. “But I would like to have seen my family again. There is so much left unsaid when you think you have time.”
She smiled weakly, a bit queasy at the realization that there was no one she needed to see. The university would have a tasteful memorial when it became clear that she was never going to reappear. Her colleagues would shake their heads and say that they’d warned her about spending so much time alone in the bush. And then life would go on.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Zarin said, standing. “I’m going to pray.”
She watched him leave, wishing she’d inherited her father’s devotion to the Bible. A little comfort from above would be welcome in light of the facility’s complete lack of alcohol.
The coffee machine still had some dregs in it from last night, and she’d have to settle for that. It seemed a bit surreal to have reached the point in her life that there was no longer time to brew a fresh cup.
She wondered what the people who found them would think of what they saw: the blood, the demolished makeshift barricades, the human and animal corpses still tangled together.
The important thing, though, was that by then, the parasite would be long dead.
77
Central Iran
December 5—0902 Hours GMT+3:30
SARIE VAN KEUREN SAT in front of Zarin’s terminal listening to the endless drone of the monkeys and watching the clock march inevitably forward. She’d hoped he would come back—that she wouldn’t be left to do this alone. But she respected his desire for solitude.
It was hard to recognize herself in the reflection on the sleeping computer screen. The drawn features, dark-rimmed eyes, and dead expression seemed to belong to someone else. Someone who had wandered too far from home.
She wiped away a tear and touched the keyboard, bringing the monitor back to life. A few clicks of the mouse brought up the emergency lockdown button, and she hovered the cursor over it, thinking of Zarin and the family he was leaving behind. Of the family she would never have.
An insignificant twitch of her finger activated the alarm, overpowering the screams of the monkeys. She held her breath, resisting the urge to run. Better for it to be over quick.
But nothing happened.
Sarie turned in her chair and examined the closed door leading to the hallway. It should have automatically opened and the deadbolt should have extended. Confused, she clicked the button again. The alarm kept droning, but the door stayed closed and the monkeys remained safely in their cages.
The screen flickered and went blank for a moment, finally reverting to the log-in page. She typed in Zarin’s password and was trying to access the facility’s schematic when the door behind her finally opened.
The computer wasn’t responsible, though, and she jumped to her feet as three men with machine guns burst in. Omidi followed a moment later, dragging Yousef Zarin along behind him. The academic’s right leg was broken and it gave way when Omidi let go, leaving him bleed
ing and confused on the tile floor.
“Do you think I wasn’t watching you?” Omidi screamed. “Do you think I didn’t read the report Zarin wrote about this place?”
“I…,” Sarie stammered. “I thought one of the cage locks was defective. That—”
The Iranian rushed her, slamming an open hand into the side of her face hard enough to knock her to the ground. “We have people monitoring the computers! We saw him rewriting the security subroutines. Now tell me what you’ve done!”
Sarie shook her head violently, trying to clear it. Zarin hadn’t talked. He’d managed to hold out despite the torture he’d endured.
“I…I infected the rest of the lab animals,” she said, sticking to the obvious. “We—”
“I know that,” Omidi said, aiming his pistol at Zarin. “You’ve been working day and night with the parasite. Tell me what you’ve done to it!”
“Nothing!”
Omidi pressed the barrel of his gun into the back of the injured scientist’s head. “Tell me or he dies!”
“That’s what I did—nothing!” Sarie said, being careful not to give away anything his believers couldn’t easily figure out on their own. “I haven’t really sped up the time to full symptoms; I’ve just been infecting the animals with larger and larger loads.”
“The great Sarie van Keuren could think of nothing better than that?” he said, curling a finger around the pistol’s trigger. “Give me the truth! Now!”
It was over. One last diversion that might save a tiny handful of lives was all that she had left. “Okay! Don’t hurt him. I was selecting for parasites that attack the corneas to add blindness to the symptomatology.”
She jerked at the sound of the gun, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the blood and brain matter splashing across her.
“You will show our scientist exactly how you have sabotaged the parasite and how to repair the damage,” Omidi said, redirecting his aim to her.
Sarie stared down at the scientist’s body, no longer feeling fear. No longer feeling anything. Finally, she just raised her hand and extended her middle finger.
78
Central Iran
December 5—0930 Hours GMT+3:30
THE TRUCK FISHTAILED IN a bog of deep sand, causing the canvas at the back to flutter open. Through it, Peter Howell could see a similar vehicle close behind, straining to keep up. It’d be a miracle if it made it. Or, perhaps more accurately, it would be a miracle if any of them made it.
He pulled the canvas closed again and scanned the faces of the men crammed in among the sandbags used to make the truck heavier. The stoicism and laser-like focus he’d found so comforting in the SAS were completely absent. Every expression told a different story: hatred—for him, for the British in general, for the Iranian government. Fear. Self-doubt.
A rousing pep talk was probably in order, but since only a few of the men spoke English, it probably wouldn’t have much impact. Instead, he peered out a small hole cut in the canopy, squinting into the sun at the approaching guard towers. There was one on either side of the entry gate, each armed with a well-placed machine gun and manned by soldiers he suspected were far more seasoned than any of his boys—many of whom were now enjoying what would be the last few minutes of their short lives.
Their driver, a rock-solid former special ops man named Hakim, began to brake. They’d done no fewer than fifty live-fire simulations, and Howell was pleased to see the young men around him begin to check their rifles as they’d been taught.
When the truck bumped up onto the concrete bridge, he returned to the peephole. One of the two soldiers in the guardhouse cautiously approached the driver’s door while the other made his way to the back. Howell had no idea what Hakim was saying, but the bored irritation in his voice sounded spot-on over the grinding gears of the truck rolling up behind.
Howell pulled out a silenced .22 pistol, frowning down at it as he listened to the approaching footsteps of the guard. A knife would have been more appropriate for the situation, but Smith, who was in the other truck with Farrokh, had been concerned that it could end up being messy enough to spook their green troops.
The canvas rustled as the guard untied it, and Howell carefully raised the pistol. No need to rush—it would take a moment for the man’s eyes to adjust, and if Hakim was as convincing as he sounded, there would be no reason for anyone to expect trouble.
Howell waited until the flap was fully thrown back, reaching out casually with one hand while using the other to put a round neatly through the man’s eye.
The low-caliber and elaborate silencer combined to produce almost no sound at all, and Howell guided the limp body over the gate. After an inexcusable second-and-a-half pause, two of his men pulled the corpse inside.
The driver of the second vehicle gave a subtle nod through the windshield to indicate that no one yet realized what was happening. The trade-off to putting the machine-gun towers in an ideal position to create a cross fire on the bridge was that their line of sight was blocked by the trucks’ canopies.
Howell wiped a streak of blood from the gate and helped one of his men to the ground. They’d taken photos of the soldiers in the guard shack and had reasonably convincing doubles for both of them, right down to uniforms hand-sewn by the women in Farrokh’s training camp.
The young man did himself proud, walking casually to the window of the driver behind them as Howell climbed out and unloaded a few more of his people. Smith would be doing the same, getting his team into position by the rear wheels.
Howell gave the frightened men next to him the thumbs-up, then calmly stepped out into the open and began firing on the west machine-gun placement. The surviving guard clawed for his sidearm, but Hakim dropped him with a pistol shot before slamming the accelerator to the floor and leaving Howell and his men completely exposed.
As expected, the first volley from the tower guns went wide as the soldiers manning them tried to make the adjustment from boredom to combat. It was obviously not the first time they’d been under fire, though, and it didn’t take them long to realize what Howell already knew: the design and construction of the towers made them completely impervious to the small arms that Farrokh’s fledgling army had access to.
In his peripheral vision he saw Smith and his team concentrating their fire on the other tower and Hakim ramming the gate. The truck managed to get through but then went up on two wheels and teetered for a few moments before tipping on its side. The Iranian tried to crawl through the window but made it only halfway before a sniper from a tower along the facility’s western perimeter blew most of his neck away.
The young man a few feet to Howell’s right was caught in the side by a round from the machine gun, and the Brit dove toward the truck still stopped on the bridge, a loud grinding coming from the transmission as the driver tried to force it into gear.
The gunners in the towers were gaining confidence, and with it came accuracy. Another man went down, and Howell saw Smith running, barely staying ahead of a steady stream of bullets knocking loose chunks of concrete behind his heels.
Inside the shattered gate, men were pouring out of the back of the capsized truck, ducking behind it to stay out of the sniper’s sights but leaving them defenseless if the tower gunners should decide to turn on them.
The sound of the truck behind him going into gear rose above the drone of the machine guns, and he rolled out of the way as it started forward, taking heavy fire.
“Blow the bridge, you bloody idiots!” Howell said to himself as he fell in behind the vehicle.
As if they’d heard him, a sudden, searing blast knocked him to the still-intact concrete.
Dazed, he did his best to focus on the east tower, watching it sway for a moment before tipping toward the one on the other side of the bridge.
“Hakim, you beautiful bastard,” Howell said when the structures collided and the machine guns went silent.
During their reconnaissance, they’d moved the charges meant to take
out the bridge to the base of the tower. Hakim had spent most of his career attached to an elite demolition unit and personally guaranteed that the tower would fall exactly like it had. Of course, Howell hadn’t believed it. How often did things actually go to plan once the shooting started?
The second truck was inside the perimeter now, picking up speed as it closed on an enormous steel door set into a rock outcropping. Howell ran to the east edge of the bridge and fell into a prone position above Smith, who was dug in at the lip of the protective moat.
The vehicle was up to at least forty when it hit, the impact setting off charges hidden beneath the floorboards. It was impossible to tell if the door had been breached, but Howell silently saluted the dead driver’s courage as he flipped the lens cover off his scope.
“What am I looking for?” he shouted.
“Towers at nine o’clock and three o’clock are active,” Smith yelled back. “There are men coming in from the north trying to get an angle on our guys in the overturned truck.”
Howell peered through the scope, finally catching a glimpse of movement along the west fence line. He squeezed off a round and winged the first of six men running for the cover of a boulder about 150 yards away.
“Oh, and Peter?” he heard Smith say as he searched for another viable target. “It’s good to see you still breathing.”
79
Central Iran
December 5—0946 Hours GMT+3:30
SARIE VAN KEUREN STRUCK uselessly at the man dragging her down the corridor, losing her footing and nearly falling as the deafening alarm finally went silent.
She had no idea what was going on, but there was no way to miss the change in her captors’ demeanor when the sound of a muffled explosion had drifted down to them a few minutes before. Omidi’s casual superiority and smug smile immediately disintegrated, and he’d run ahead, barking orders at the frightened people occupying the offices and labs lining the hallway.
