by M. W. Duncan
A five-man squad of soldiers, kitted out in winter camouflage moved toward them, weapons ready. George threw the weapon down and stood, with his hands raised overhead. She did the same, only speaking to confirm her name. Gemma offered no resistance as her hands were tied behind her back and a spit-guard placed over her head. She allowed herself to be taken. They had made it.
***
Work never ceased at the research facility. Staff and guards went about their business. As long as Jane moved with a perceived purpose nobody challenged her, not even the armed guards who watched everything with a predatory interest.
After leaving Holden the night before in his drunken despair, she spent the night formulating some barebones plan to get a message to the outside world. But who to call? Holden no doubt had connections but how many of them knew of the practices here. For many employees, the powers that be would have played with their desire to do good. Some would have been threatened. Some probably complicit in the establishment and maintenance of the facility.
It should have been a sanctuary, a place to share her medical expertise as trade for safety. Hyde, who she assumed was Holden’s unofficial minder, had access to a phone. He walked around clutching the thing to his body like it regulated his heartbeat. She needed to prise it from his grip, use it to contact somebody, anybody on the outside that could help.
Hyde’s personal office was before her, the blinds of the window drawn, the door probably locked.
“You there. Nancy?”
It took her a moment to realise the voice called to her.
Hyde strode up from behind, the satellite phone ever present. Jane attempted to look elsewhere and not at the prize.
“Jane,” she mumbled, pulling her eyes from the phone to his dour face.
“Where is Doctor Holden? He is overdue.”
“The doctor wasn’t feeling well this morning. I think he’s coming down with something.” She looked up to the humming vents. “Probably all the recycled air you’re pumping in here.”
Hyde waved a hand in a dismissive fashion. “He’s here to work, we can’t afford to not have him working. He’s got until the afternoon.”
Hyde breezed past. An overpowering richness of aftershave came like an aftershock. He grabbed a key from a cord on his belt and rattled it into the door lock.
“Well, I won’t keep you.” Jane did not move.
“Piss off,” he said in response. The door closed behind him.
Jane burned a hole in the door with her anger. One way or the other, she was going into that office and taking his phone. It had to be soon.
***
Ryan spent the night in The Owls’ Nest, his accommodation a room of unique opulence. Every piece of furniture no doubt had been chosen for its beauty. The bed, a four-poster, ornately carved frame, was as comfortable a bed as he’d ever slept in. Paintings on the wall, framed in gilded finery did not look like prints. A vase stood here and there, vases he dared not touch out of fear of breaking them. He suspected none to be reproductions.
He waited in his room, waiting to be summoned, showering in a marble bathroom well-suited for a Roman villa. He still felt majorly underdressed, wearing a creased white shirt and jeans. When he was summoned, it was without ceremony or speech. A knock at the door, and a wave followed when opened.
Hector Crispin, or Mr. Nippon, sat at a table crammed with breakfast foods. Large bay windows commandeered a postcard view over Tokyo.
“Beautiful isn’t it, Ryan? For a city with such a massive population it still retains an aesthetically pleasing facade. Sit. Join me. Please, eat.”
Ryan heaped a plate with toasted sourdough bread, poached eggs and slices of smoked salmon. Into a glass he poured equal portions of pineapple juice, orange juice, and apple juice. His eyes devoured the pile of pancakes and the jug of syrup, and thought it a little bold to start on that yet.
“Tokyo is one of the few examples of a city where the presence of people does not detract from the beauty. Of course, like any city, scratch a little below the surface and the rank underflow is revealed.”
Crispin kept his focus out to the city. His face twisted, as if he chewed on a sour grape. He leaned back, and sipped at a hot drink, probably coffee from the scent. He lapsed into silence, his eyes moving from point to point, pondering some great secret. His lips moved with unsaid words, and then, “The Owls’ Nest. Mister Nippon. The Athena Protocol. Grand names, theatrical in a way. I’m sure you’re wondering about them. You’ve heard the first two, of course. The Owls’ Nest, here, where we are enjoying a delicious breakfast. Mr. Nippon, well a code name of sorts. The Athena Protocol. One that you haven’t heard yet. You probably suspect a great deal, some will likely be astute guessing, the rest I shall reveal. A time of great strife is coming, Ryan. Many will not live to see the resolution. And you, my dear boy, have helped us sow our seeds.”
“I didn’t know what I was doing would be used in such a way.”
Crispin laughed a dry rattle. “Come now, don’t play innocent. You designed and built the pressurised storage and delivery system. You personally delivered the virus to a target of our choosing. You did all knowing it would not benefit anyone in the venue. The almighty dollar sign blinded you. Perhaps such a thing would have been inconceivable under different circumstances.”
A flush of heat burned its way from Ryan’s stomach and into his head, causing his vision to reel. All psychosomatic symptoms he was sure. He attempted to force out a few words in defence.
“Relax, Ryan.” Crispin now looked directly at him, a stare Ryan could not hold. “I’m not judging you. There will be no recriminations, no trace back to you. You provided us a service. Of all those in our employ, you are quite the most unique.”
“In what way?”
“Well,” said Crispin, turning back to the city. “You are the only one we’ve allowed to live after their task was completed.”
How did he allow himself to be there, in The Owls’ Nest? Hector Crispin was right, he was blinded by the money. All he saw was a way to make his life easier for a relatively small task. Ryan almost managed to convince himself that he was doing something harmless, even when he stepped off the plane in Aberdeen.
“What do you know of your father, Ryan?”
“My father?”
“Yes, your father. It’s important because I’m asking you, and you are here under my sufferance. You will answer.”
Ryan blew out his cheeks. “I never knew my father well. He always worked away from home, hardly saw us at all. I know he passed away some years ago. I don’t really remember the date.”
“A sad thing when a father is not mourned by his child.”
“Mr. Crispin, I don’t understand why we’re talking about these things.”
Crispin slammed his hand on the table, rattling crockery and spilling juice. “We are talking about such things because I’ve made it happen. Your survival is down to me, and me alone. Had you been anyone else other than your father’s son I would not have protected you. Your body would never have been found. You would have simply ceased to be. A stain on the annals of history removed without comment or consequence. You are here, talking about what I deem worthy to talk about because I saved your life. Do you understand?”
Ryan nodded, a robotic movement. A chunk of toasted crust sat on his back teeth. He dared not chew. He dared not say another word.
“Your father’s legacy is why you’re alive. And this is something that we shall explore in due course. You understand there is no going back from this. You are on the inside. Should you even consider breaking that trust, people within our group will have you destroyed in the most painful and prolonged fashion imaginable.” Crispin pulled his sleeve back to reveal a golden watch. “In fact, our last loose end will be taken care of in a few hours. Then we’ll be ready to move forward. In time, Ryan, you’ll come to understand what we do. Why The Owls of Athena do what they do. This has been a good conversation.”
Crispin dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. �
��We shall have another tomorrow. If you will excuse me.” He stood. “You have free run of this floor. Entertain yourself as best you can. Do not try to leave. That is unacceptable at this point in time.”
Chapter Five
Desert
The convoy’s journey to the airfield was unpleasant, the heat so oppressive. Brutus’s team was heading into an abnormal situation. All the training in the world, military or otherwise, could not prepare them for what was to come. The airfield itself was little more than a clearing in the desert, a square of flattened sand with high-banked, dune walls. A few Cold War-era military tents rippled in the breeze. On the central landing pad, an aging Mi-17 Russian helicopter waited, the silver chassis darkened by rust. Ry Watson stepped out of the helicopter, wiped his hands on a rag.
“It’s been a long time, Ry.” Brutus stuck out his hand and they shook.
“I didn’t think I’d see you here. When they mentioned your name, I thought it was a mistake.”
“Got to make a living.” Brutus pulled a cigar free from his pocket and stuck it into his mouth. “Does that thing fly? Looks like it’s seen better days.”
“Don’t let the rust fool you. I had her up this morning. She’ll get us to where we need to go so long as the weather stays like this. When do we leave?”
“As soon as possible. There’s three of our team waiting in the field. Things are moving fast,” said Brutus.
Watson held up a hand. “I don’t need to know the details. I’m here to fly you in and out, that’s all. There’s some crazy shit going on right now. The less I know the better.”
There was wisdom to what Ry Watson said. He was a pilot of above-average skill, proficient in flying a variety of aircraft. He never feared breaking a law or two if it meant making a tidy sum. Drug shipment, gun running, covert ops. Watson had done it all, and he possessed a hefty streak of self-preservation and knew to distance himself from whatever was going on.
“You armed?”
“Out here you’ve got to be.” Watson pulled his sunglasses from his head, and onto his nose, then hiked a thumb toward the cockpit. An AK-47 rested in the pilot’s chair. “I’ve been told that we’ll be unhindered in our flight today.”
Brutus nodded, padding down his tac vest for a light. “So long as we keep to our course and schedule, yes.”
The rest of the men unpacked the vehicles, making ready to load their gear and weapons into the aircraft.
“Tell me the plan again.”
Brutus finally found his lighter, lit his cigar and blew out a thick puff of smoke. “You fly us out there, we disembark. Two days in the field and you return and fly us back here. We go our separate ways. You get paid to fly.”
Watson nodded. “Gear up. We leave in thirty.”
***
The helicopter swept over the Eastern Desert, low and fast. Brutus and his men sat on both sides of the cargo hold, containers and supplies strapped down between them. He leaned back, stretched out his legs and rested them on the cargo. He shifted his AK-47, making sure the barrel pointed down. The vibration of the great engine rattled his bones. Nobody attempted to talk, the noise too great.
A sullen mood descended on the group. The men suspected this mission was something outside the realms of their experience. Brutus remained tight-lipped. Of anyone he probably had the most experience with the infected. He would never let his men face them underprepared, but he certainly would not put the fear of God into them. If only they were more like me, he thought. Fear was a condition Brutus strove to eliminate from his being. The infected scared him to begin with, up until the point he discovered they could be killed. More dangerous than a normal person, resilient to pain and injury but they still went down with a bullet to the head, or a knife to the throat. If it can be killed, there was nothing to fear.
Ry Watson’s voice crackled through his headset. “ETA ten minutes.”
Andor Toth’s pockets must be deep indeed, Brutus thought. They flew over an area of The Sinai. Egyptian security forces fought an Islamic insurgency there. It would be heavily patrolled and monitored, yet the aircraft passed unmolested, unchallenged.
The helicopter shuddered, slowed and began a controlled descent. The men inside were rocked as if enduring a storm on a ship. Brutus clung to his seat, knuckles white. It felt as though the helicopter would rip itself apart. It hit the ground, bounced, struck terra firma once more before coming to a standstill. The engine powered down.
Ry Watson popped his head through from the cockpit. “We’ve arrived.”
Stepping from the cargo hold felt like marching onto an alien planet. Wind whipped sand and dust about in a frantic cyclone. Brutus pulled his shemagh up over his mouth and nose. His companions did likewise. The nature of Brutus’s work often took him to places he would describe as a shithole, and here in Egypt, was one of those.
“Stay with the helicopter, Ry.” Brutus patted the side of the aircraft. “Keep her ready to get us out of here ASAP.”
Ry nodded and retreated up the ramp. The last of Brutus’s team jumped from the chopper, carrying weapons and equipment. They were travelling light, packing only essentials for survival in the desert. Nobody grumbled or complained. The job was the focus.
Brutus checked his watch. Ash Gibbons was late. Ash Gibbons, Roy Smart and Craig Muir all kept station near their target, observing the village, unseen and silent watchers.
The ramp of the helicopter closed with a final bang. For a moment, Brutus envied the simplicity of Ry’s part in the job.
A single figure appeared through the wall of sand. Ash Gibbons. He pulled his own shemagh down, shouting to be heard. “Storm’s coming.”
“Tell us something we don’t know,” shouted Niall Campbell.
“We need to make it to camp soon. The storm’ll keep us pinned down in an hour or two.”
“How long to camp?”
“Ten klicks.”
They set off, the pace hampered by the strong winds and poor visibility. Snow or sand, Brutus hated them both. He pulled his shemagh back into place, his baseball cap low, and held his AK-47 at the ready.
The trek was hard going, feet sank into the soft sand, and visibility was reduced to almost nothing. At one point, they were forced to scramble up a dune on hands and knees. There was no path to follow. They were completely reliant on the guiding skills of Ash Gibbons who led without reservation.
***
Camp site was well chosen. You could have stood a few metres away, and if unaware, would miss it completely. The wind was thunderous. Brutus knew the target village was close, close enough for two men to observe comings and goings without risk of detection.
The camp was little more than a collection of tents, pitched to provide maximum protection, nestled in the protective shallow of a wadi, and obscured from sight by sandbank parapets.
Ash pointed to one of the tents, and Brutus gave him the thumbs up. Brutus unzipped the canvass, stooped low, and threw his pack to the back of the tent. Daniel Ziaber followed close after, and closed the flap, zipping the storm outside. He spat sand from his mouth.
“What do we do now?”
Brutus removed his boots and outer layers. He stretched out, laying his AK-47 on his chest. The storm battered the canvass with little pause. The storm would get worse before subsiding. Once night came the temperature would drop and the situation would become uncomfortable. Roy Smart and Craig Muir were outside somewhere, keeping watch on the village and making sure the camp was secure. They would be more than uncomfortable, but they would keep everyone safe.
“Get some sleep while you can, Daniel.” The wind howled a call of promised rage to come. “I doubt we’ll be getting much through the night.”
***
Brutus was right. The night took its toll. Tents collapsed, and outside, temperatures froze anything that stood still. When Brutus emerged from his tent, it was as if the camp had been swallowed by the desert. New piles of sand hid parts of the camp.
A hundred metres out
of the wadi, Ash Gibbons peered through binoculars, a dusty baseball cap sitting backward on his head. His beard was longer than Brutus’s and was ruddy-blond in colour matching his ponytail. Brutus rested his rifle on its sling.
“Good morning,” said Brutus.
Ash dropped the binoculars from his eyes.
Ash was always the first to laugh, the first to joke, never took any situation too seriously in a superficial way. But his typical humour seemed to be missing that day.
“Everything okay?”
Red eyes flashed at Brutus. “I need to check on Craig and Roy. You should probably come, too.”
“How far?”
Ash pointed forward. “Fifteen minutes or so.”
The rest of the team stirred, escaping the confines of the tents, stamping cold feet, clapping cold hands. Brutus did not have to tell them how to conduct themselves. They grabbed shovels and began to attack the build-up of sand.
Brutus followed Ash in silence, up dunes and down steep slopes. The morning was starting to warm with the rising of the sun. For that Brutus was glad. The light brought life back into his cold body.
Rising from an unseen location was the target village. They reached a small dugout on the cusp of a dune. A small canvass-cover sheltered the trench from the elements. A figure, clad in a desert ghillie suit, lay in the trench, an M40 sniper rifle next to him. He watched the village beyond with a telescopic lens.
Craig appeared from behind. Brutus had his rifle in his hands before he realised the sudden appearance was friend not foe.
Roy turned, slipping down into the recess and waved to the two new arrivals. Both men looked exhausted. Nights spent in the desert and in the storm would do that to a person.
Roy waved the two men down to a crouch. Brutus followed Craig and Ash into the dugout, sinking into the sand. Brutus pulled out his canteen, sipped some water, swished it around his mouth and spat it out.
“What’s the report?” asked Brutus.
