Thermals

by Evan Currie

  The situation was just slightly more serious than he’d thought, though he wasn’t entirely certain how much more serious it really was. The bug he was looking at was a genuine nightmare, to be sure, but there were already quite enough of those kicking around that they didn’t quite twist his stomach anymore.

  What made this one special was twofold, Joshua thought. First, it wasn’t just a Biological, there was at least some evidence of Nanotube engineering, which was just slightly more advanced than Raymond Gorra should have been able to manage while working in these facilities. Joshua wasn’t entirely certain what the Nanotubes were for, but he knew that major pharmaceutical companies had been using them for years now to deliver drugs and medications to long term patients, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to see them being used in a Bio-weapon.

  The other thing that made this one special, though, was external. It was the Tower.

  Joshua’s face hardened as he looked at the information on the screen, then jumped as a squeak from behind him jolted him up and out of his seat.

  The guard’s gun filled his fist as he spun around, noting that the door was now rushing open and a figure was coming through, and a big gun swinging towards him.

  They came level with each other almost as one, and Joshua found himself looking down the surprisingly large looking bore of a weapon he recognized as a FN FiveseveN Magnum, a weapon he remembered deriding as underpowered for its job when it was first introduced.

  Oddly enough, he wasn’t feeling ‘underthreatened’ at the moment.

  Across from him, the tall blond man who was leveling the pistol at him had a similarly nervous look as he stared back at Joshua over the sights of his weapon.

  “Don’t move.” The blond man said firmly.

  “Ditto.” Joshua returned sourly.

  *****

  American.

  That was the Interpol Agent’s first thought as Anselm Gunnar found himself staring down the barrel of a Norinco Type Twenty Two autoloader. The accent was American, of course, not the gun. The Gun was typical of what your well armed terrorist might be carrying in the year 2023. A Chinese six millimeter autoloader that was basically a knock off of a Soviet Makarov from twenty years earlier, though in a somewhat improved caliber.

  The gun wasn’t nearly as interesting as the man behind it, Anselm decided, though the six millimeter bore was more than enough to keep part of his attention very tightly focused indeed.

  The man behind the gun was not what Anselm had expected to find deep in a terrorist controlled facility, assuming that was what he was in. The man was obviously in his forties or fifties, and hadn’t really kept himself up. Anselm thought that he might have been fit once upon a time, but those days were gone now.

  That didn’t make him any less dangerous, however. The body on the ground between them was much more in keeping with Anselm’s expectations actually. The unconscious man was fit, young, appeared to be of a more or less competent manner, judging from the gear he was wearing. The only problem was that the man was unconscious. That and the man who wasn’t taking a nap was obviously the one who’d sent the young, fit, competent looking man to dream land.

  Anselm Gunnar was a lot of things, but he liked to think that fool wasn’t one of them.

  He kept his distance from the old fat man and didn’t let the barrel of his FiveseveN waver.

  “Who are you?” He asked softly, eyes flicking around the room.

  It was a laboratory, obviously enough, which sent chills down Anselm’s spine. Lab space in a terrorist camp wasn’t usually good news, to say the least. There was a side door, as well as the large security doors he’d come through, and Anselm shifted slightly so he could watch the man and the side door at the same time.

  “I could ask the same thing,” The overweight man said, his voice oddly soft.

  Definitely American, Anselm thought, listening to the accent.

  That didn’t mean anything, of course. The United States had it’s share of homebrewed terrorists, The Cheyenne Brigade popped instantly to mind, and he’d already picked out members of at least three wildly disparate terrorist organizations here at Tower City.

  Still, why would a terrorist sneak in and knock out one of the guards?

  “Agent Gunnar,” Anselm said, taking a breath, “Interpol.”

  The overweight man’s face cracked, and he cut off a strangled half laugh while shaking his head. His gun, Anselm noted dryly, didn’t waver in the process.

  “You’re kidding me.” The American replied dryly.

  “I’m afraid not.” Anselm replied, pulling his jacket back slightly and slowly withdrawing his identification with his free hand.

  He tossed it over to the man when the American put his own free hand out, wryly noting that neither of them let their weapon’s shift more than a few centimeters.

  The American looked over the ID with a disgusted look, then tossed it back. “Great. This just figures.”

  “Your turn.” Anselm reminded him, pocketing the ID wallet.

  The overweight American hesitated, and then sighed. “Joshua Corvine. CIA.”

  Anselm grimaced, mirroring his counterpart’s actions of a few seconds later. “I don’t suppose you have identification?”

  The alleged CIA agent just gave him a dirty look.

  “Of course you don’t,” Anselm sighed. “Very well, I suppose we’re in an interesting situation here then.”

  “More than you realize, I’ll bet,” The CIA man, Joshua, replied tiredly as he lowered his weapon slightly.

  Anselm took the subtle offer of truce and lowered his own weapon until it wasn’t, quite, pointed at the CIA man. When Joshua took it a step further and shifted the bore completely away from Anselm, he reciprocated and let his own weapon muzzle point at the floor.

  “What do you mean?” The Interpol agent asked, taking a step closer, gingerly stepping over the sleeping man on the floor.

  “We’ve got trouble is what I mean, and I say ‘we’ meaning all eighty thousand people within fifty miles of here.”

  “Actually,” Anselm said casually, “The number is closer to a hundred thousand, if you account for tourists and transients.”

  Joshua grimaced, glaring at the Interpol man, “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. It’s all the same to this thing.”

  Anselm looked to the computer the CIA man was pointing at and frowned, “What thing? What is that?”

  “That’s a bio engineered bug.” Joshua replied flatly, “And unless I miss my guess it’s at least a level four.”

  The words ‘at least’ and the words ‘Level four’ sent a shiver down Anselm’s spine much like the words ‘At least’ would do if used in conjunction with the words ‘Nuclear Bomb’. You weren’t supposed to use those two phrases together because, to be frank, there wasn’t supposed to be anything higher to compare them too.

  ‘Level Five’ biological vectors was like ‘Antimatter bombs’, they weren’t supposed to actually exist. Both were supposed to be the realm of science fiction and bad TV, which was precisely where they belonged, in Anselm Gunnar’s opinion.

  “At least?” He asked slowly, looking between the CIA agent and the computer. “You’re kidding, of course?”

  “Not by much.” Joshua replied dryly, stepping back out of arms reach of the Interpol agent as the other man approached the computer. Talking was good, but trust wasn’t in the books. “According to the information I’ve been able to understand it’s been recombined with carbon nanotubes, which means that it’s not properly a biological anymore.”

  Anselm frowned, his attention focused on the computer. He’d taken all the prerequisite courses in Bio-terrorism, but he must have missed that one. “Nanotubes?”

  He knew all about Carbon Nanotubes, as a matter of fact, those tiny little bastards had begun to change the world less than a decade earlier. They were appearing in everything now, from computer memory cores to bullet proof vests and everything in between. There were a great many pundits who rather vocal
ly declared at the Digital Age had come to an end when Carbon Nanotubes were introduced, and the world was now living in the Nano-Age.

  That said, it didn’t feel all that different from the ‘Digital Age’ in Anselm’s opinion. Nanotechnology was unobtrusive and mostly melded perfectly with the Digital technology it was slowly replacing, with none of the much feared runaway ‘nanobots’ turning the world into a mound of silver goop.

  He didn’t know what Carbon nanotubes would be doing in an application like this, however, and so he was justifiably confused when he spoke.

  “Microscopic tubules made from pure carbon on the level of a billionth of a meter,” The CIA man replied, “They’re used by pharmaceutical companies to apply long term dosages of drugs to patients who either can’t, or won’t, stay on a regular regimen of their own accord. I don’t know what they’re being used for here, but the delivery system means that it’s not going to fit into the regular classifications for biologicals. This is new.”

  “Lovely.” The Swedish Interpol Agent muttered, shaking his head. He looked back over to the CIA man, “I don’t suppose you came prepared for something like this?”

  “I didn’t even know anyone was working on something like this. Anywhere.” Joshua replied dryly, “We have to get out of here and call in backup.”

  “Agreed,” Anselm replied, straightening up, “This is beyond the scope of my operations. You have backup coming in?”

  Joshua didn’t reply to that question.

  Anselm smiled, “Of course you do. So do I. Let’s get out of here and wait for them.”

  Anselm watched the CIA man nod jerkily in agreement, and made to turn back toward the door only to stop and looked down at the man on the ground. “What do we do with him?”

  “I don’t know,” Joshua replied, grimacing down at the unconscious man. “He wasn’t in the plan.”

  “They never are,” Anselm sighed, holstering his pistol finally and crouching down by the man’s feet as he looked around. “We’ll never get him out of here, you know.”

  Joshua nodded uneasily, “I know.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m not into killing in cold blood…and even if I was, the body would still present a problem…”

  Joshua bristled slightly, “Don’t believe everything you’ve heard about the CIA. We don’t do that.”

  Anselm shrugged, “Whatever. Hardly matters, since we would still have the body to deal with.”

  “I suppose we’ll have to leave him and take our chances,” Joshua said finally, shaking his head. “I just pray they don’t push up their schedule.”

  “Do you know it?” Anselm looked up sharply.

  Joshua shook his head reflexively. “No, but Gorra is nuts, not stupid. He’s got a plan.”

  It took Anselm a few moments to remember that Raymond Gorra was Abdallah Amir’s legal American birth name.

  “Agreed.” He nodded then, “There has to be something…”

  Joshua shook his head, about to say something, when the side door opened up and the entire question became a moot point.

  *****

  Carly Simmonds was a little ticked.

  The hourly security check was a cakewalk, all the guard had to do was check the lab and a couple other rooms, call in, then go back and rejoin the damned card game. Instead, he and the other players had been stuck waiting now for ten minutes, and Carly had been on a roll.

  He grabbed the handle to the big security door that opened into the lab, knowing that it was the last place the guard could be, and threw the door open.

  “God dammit, Jack,” Carly cursed, looking in, “What the fuck is taking you, we’ve got forty bucks in the pot and I…”

  He cut off at that moment staring, not at Jack as he’d expected, but at two other men who were staring back at him. On the ground between them was the body of the expected Jack, and he wasn’t moving.

  “What the…”

  Carly was already moving as he spoke, his hand sliding in a rapid acceleration toward the pistol on his hip, and then everything went to hell. The fat guy already had his gun in hand, though it was pointed away, so as soon as Carly cleared leather he brought the muzzle of his Norinco OTs-33A into line with that one.

  The Norinco pistol was a 6mm descendent of the venerable Ots-22 SMG, manufactured in the Chinese National Army 6.23X23mm caliber, purportedly for the export market. In reality few countries outside the growing Eastern Alliance Block was interested in using that particular round so the company regularly posted a surplus of weapons and a deficit of cash.

  Off the books, the Norinco company had become the defacto supplier of international arms to revolutionary groups the world over, especially since the Soviet arms companies had slowly withdrawn their weapons from free export over the past two decades. Given the long plateau in personal weapon systems starting as far back as the introduction of the Avotomat Kalishnikov and the M-16 Assault Rifle, this hadn’t seemed a big deal to many ‘revolutionary’ groups at first, until it became evident that the venerable 7.62 and 5.56 millimeter rounds were no longer viable in combat against modern police and military forces.

  Since the inception of the Fabrique Nationale P90 and its main initial competition, the Heckler and Koch MP-7, the arms community had begun advancing in leaps in bounds, every company rushing new designs to market, taking chances with exotic calibers and materials, while companies that designed and manufactured personal defense armors likewise leapt to the challenge of creating new and more effective materials to counter the new arms race.

  Norinco had been one of the fastest out of the gate, jumping into the race early and hard, the company enjoying the same benefit that the Soviet manufacturers had enjoyed prior to the end of the cold war, that of guaranteed government money and no fear of introducing a design and having it be completely ignored.

  So the ’33 Carley wielded was the result of almost two decades of military one upsmanship, and could unload its thirty round magazine in a little under six seconds. It also had a semi-automatic mode, of course, but the shooter had to be quick enough, or smart enough, to set it that way.

  Carley wasn’t.

  The snarl of the machine pistol cut the air of the room, spitting bullets in a near continuous stream, tracking up along the floor toward the armed man who was already turning toward him with a heavier, though slower, pistol in hand.

  *****

  As the snarl of gunfire filled the room, Anselm Gunnar threw himself into a flat dive for cover, his hand digging under his jacket automatically for his own pistol. He hit the floor in a slide, rolling over onto his back as he finally managed to jerk the gun from its holster, and came to a stop behind a rack of computer equipment as he scrambled to pull his legs in.

  A double crack of return fire sounded, punctuating the snarl of the submachine weapon, and Anselm turned just in time to see a blood plume erupt from the CIA agent as the man’s pistol bucked a third time in his hand. The big American went down to one knee, rolling as it buckled under him, and came to a rest with his back against a large cabinet type table that was set in the center of the room.

  “You ok!?” Anselm hissed, eyeing the injured agent.

  “I’ll live.” Joshua muttered through gritted teeth, pressing his free hand up against his side. “I just had some of my extra padding ventilated.”

  “I don’t suppose you got him?”

  “Fraid not.” Corvine grimaced, drawing his hand away and looking at the blood.

  There was a sound of yelling in the background and Anselm grimaced as well.

  This wasn’t going well.

  He risked a look past his cover, just flashing his head out slightly.

  Another snarl of gunfire pushed him back, the bullets ripping into the floor and wall just past him. He pushed his FN FiveseveN out and returned fire with two shots.

  Corvine shook his head, “Save your bullets. You don’t have an angle on him from there.”

  “Give me a bit of cover, I’ll get an angle…�
�� Anselm promised.

  Joshua panted a bit, sweat beads forming on his forehead from the stress of his injury more than any exertions he’d made, and risked a glance out himself. No answering snarl of gunfire greeted him, and he nodded a moment later.

  “Alright…get ready to move.” The CIA Agent said, levering himself up to one knee as he tried to hold the pressure on his injury while moving. “On three…”

  “One…”

  “Two,” They said together.

  The word three was spoken, but was lost in the sound of gunfire that erupted through the small lab room as the Interpol Agent rose from his cover as the CIA man ducked out and opened fire. The man at the door hesitated for a split second as he looked between two targets, his gun wavering, and then he was knocked back as five plumes of blood erupted from his chest.

  He stayed standing, though, a shocked look on his face as he felt very little actual pain. What struck him most, as he stood there, was the faint odor of cooking flesh mixed with burning plastic from the smoldering holes in his cheap synthetic suit and his already dying body.

  He began to crumple, his finger tightening in a final reflex, and emptied his magazine in a wild spray of fire that ended with the bolt locking back on an empty chamber. His body hit the ground just after that, making a solid thump when his head bounced unfeelingly off the hard floor.

  Anselm straightened up, turning toward the CIA Agent, “Come on, we’ve got to…What? What’s wrong?”

  Corvine was staring, not at Anselm or the dead gunner, but at a hissing cylinder that had been under the Class Three Biological Containment hood, which was now punctured by several bullet holes.

  The CIA agent hesitated only for an instant, then instantly turned and threw his bulk at Anselm, slamming into the Swede with his full weight and literally throwing him out the security doors to the main hallway.

  “Out!” He roared, falling back inside the lab as Anselm hit the hallway floor in a skid.

  “What the hell are you doing!?” Anselm yelled, picking himself up in a rush, scrambling back.