The Ares Decision

by Robert Ludlum

  Randi Russell tried to move, instinct telling her to get to cover when virtually every other system had shut down. She could hear shouting and gunshots but couldn’t feel her arms or legs. The flair of pain in her back had disappeared into numbness, and she found it impossible to discern whether or not she was breathing. The snow next to her had turned red and she tried to grasp what that meant.

  “Randi!”

  A sense of weightlessness came over her as she was dragged away from the house.

  “Hold on, Randi!”

  But she couldn’t. Not this time. She closed her eyes and the sense of weightlessness grew. They’d planned this so carefully. How the hell had she ended up being the one lying facedown in the snow?

  Eric Ivers had Randi’s collar in one hand and his gun in the other, firing it in the general direction of the woods as the man he’d set up on the roof took much more careful shots.

  “Almost there, Randi! Hold on!” he said, leaving a crimson trail as he dragged her behind her car. His partner sprinted across the street and disappeared into the woods as the voice of his sniper came over the radio. “I no longer have line of sight. The shooter is uninjured.”

  Ivers swore under his breath as he eased Randi onto the driveway, unsure what else to do. He was a combat specialist, not a medic. In the end, he just rolled her onto her stomach so that if she vomited her passageway would remain clear, and then set off after his partner.

  “Karen, do you have anything?” he said into his throat mike.

  “Easy tracking because of the fresh snow. But I could use some backup.”

  “On my way.”

  Ivers entered the trees twenty-five yards south of where she had and ran hard, risking the use of open ground to make time.

  He saw a muzzle flash ahead and adjusted his trajectory to take him into the darkness just behind it.

  “I got him!” he heard Karen say over the radio. “The shooter is down. I repeat, the shooter is down.”

  Ivers came in from the side, spotting her creeping toward a man lying across an icy log. He was on his back, struggling to sit up while she screamed at him to stay down.

  The man released the rifle he no longer had the strength to wield and rolled far enough left that Karen wouldn’t be able to see his hands. From the opposite angle, though, Ivers saw him pull a metallic tube from the pocket of his camouflage parka.

  “Bomb!” Ivers shouted. “Karen, get dow—”

  He covered his eyes to protect them from the flash, dropping into the snow as a hot gale washed over him.

  When he looked up, his partner was on the ground, clearly injured but not so badly that she couldn’t give him a shaky thumbs-up. Satisfied that she was all right, Ivers switched his radio to a separate encrypted channel.

  “Mr. Klein. Are you there?”

  “I’m here. Go ahead.”

  “Randi’s down—she took a bullet dead between the shoulder blades. The shooter was booby-trapped and there’s not much left of him.”

  “How did he get close enough to the cabin to take a shot?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But I take full responsibility. The rest of the team was flawless.”

  “This isn’t the time to start allocating blame, Eric. Is your situation stable?”

  “We’ve got the start of a forest fire up here, Mr. Klein. I’m not sure the snow’s going to stop it.”

  “Understood. An extraction helicopter is four minutes out. Burn the cabin and Randi’s car, then get out. The better we can obscure what happened there, the more time it buys us.”

  60

  Over Central Uganda

  November 28—0953 Hours GMT+3

  THE PLANE LEVELED OUT and the seat belt sign went off, prompting Jon Smith to slip from his seat and walk to the back of the first-class cabin. Dahab was easy to spot through a small gap in the curtain, his height and turban making him tower over the other passengers. He was in a window seat, looking around him with paranoid jerks of his head and dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.

  Smith brought his eye closer to the gap, looking for blood on the white cloth. Nothing, thank God. There would be soon, though. Too soon.

  “More champagne?”

  Smith glanced back at the flight attendant putting a cup onto Howell’s tray.

  “Looks like it’s almost empty,” the Brit said, tapping the bottle in her hand. “Perhaps you could just leave it?”

  She cheerfully complied and then headed back to the galley for a fresh one. Howell brought it to his mouth and drained it under the disapproving stare of a woman who clearly wasn’t pleased to be stuck across the aisle from two men who smelled like sweaty camels.

  As always, Howell was thinking ahead. The bottle would be a useful weapon—heavy enough to do serious damage to any skull it came into contact with, but blunt enough not to generate much blood.

  The flight attendant reappeared, this time with a cheese tray, and headed straight for Smith. “Antsy already? We’ve barely been in the air fifteen minutes. Would some Brie help?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said and then lowered his voice. “I’m Colonel Jon Smith with the U.S. Army. There’s a situation on the plane that I need to speak to the pilot about.”

  “A situation? What kind of situation?”

  “I’ve been tracking a terrorist for the past few weeks and I finally caught up with him at the Entebbe airport. But I wasn’t able to keep him from getting on the plane.”

  Her eyes widened a bit, but she was clearly not convinced. “Do you have any identification?”

  “Just a passport. For obvious reasons, I don’t have anything on me that could connect me to the U.S. government.”

  She examined his face for a moment and, finding nothing to suggest that he was joking or a crazy, turned toward the cockpit. “I’ll speak to the pilot.”

  When he looked through the curtain again, Dahab was in a heated exchange with the man sitting next to him. Smith tensed, preparing to signal Howell to move, but the Sudanese seemed to lose his train of thought and the argument was suddenly over.

  “Sir?” the flight attendant said, reappearing behind him. “If you could follow me, please?”

  She led him to the galley, where a short, fastidious-looking man in uniform was waiting.

  “I’m Christof Maes, the captain of this flight,” he said, extending his hand hesitantly. “I’m told you believe we have a problem?”

  “I’m afraid so, Captain. A Sudanese terrorist I’ve been tracking managed to get on board—”

  “Is he armed? Did he get a weapon through security?”

  “Not in the normal sense,” Smith said, deviating into the story he’d invented during takeoff. “What he does have, though, is an extremely serious form of drug-resistant tuberculosis. His plan is to get into Europe and spread it.”

  “And it’s my understanding you have no identification or proof of this.”

  “If you let me use your radio, I think I could get you confirmation.”

  “Perhaps it would be better if I notify the authorities in Brussels myself. They can—”

  “It may be too late for that, Captain. He’s also extremely violent and borderline psychotic. He knows that my partner and I are on board, and it’s likely that he isn’t going to go quietly. Also, there’s the matter of quarantining the passengers.”

  “Quarantine? You think that will be necessary?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Now, if you could please let me use your radio to contact my people, they can get in touch with your government and we can try to deal with this thing as efficiently as possible.”

  “I’m afraid it’s against regulations to allow you access to the cockpit,” he said, pulling a satellite phone from his pocket. “I can offer you this, though. In the meantime, I’ll notify ground control—”

  “The phone will work just fine,” Smith said, having to supress the impulse to snatch it from the man’s hand. “But could you hold off contacting ground control? It might be more approp
riate to let our respective governments handle that.”

  Maes frowned as Smith dialed. “I’ll wait for a short time, Colonel. But then I’m going to expect to be satisfied as to who you are.”

  Smith nodded and turned away when Maggie Templeton came on the line. He never thought he could be so happy to hear someone’s voice.

  “Creative Party Supplies. How can I direct your call?”

  “Hi, this is Jon on an open line. Is Fred around?”

  “He’s been anxious to talk with you,” she said with practiced ease. “Hold, please.”

  Klein came on a moment later. “Hi, Jon. It’s good to hear from you. We were disappointed when we lost touch.”

  “Sorry, Fred. I wasn’t able to get to a phone. But now Peter and I are on a Brussels Air flight heading for Europe.”

  “Should I have one of our salespeople meet you at the airport?”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. There’s an ill man on the plane and Mehrak and Sarie decided they didn’t want to fly back with us. I’m not sure how they’re getting home.”

  There was a brief pause before Klein responded. “Understood. How ill is the man on the flight?”

  “I think in the next couple of hours he’s going to need attention.”

  “And are there facilities on the plane to give him the help he needs?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Let me see if I can make some arrangements, Jon. I’ll get back in touch as soon as possible.”

  The line went dead and Smith handed back the phone.

  “That was a very cryptic conversation,” the pilot observed coolly. “Perhaps your British friend has some sort of identification?”

  He did, but an Argentine passport in the name of Peter Jourgan wasn’t going to carry a lot of weight.

  “Just hold off a little longer, Captain. My people are working on this. You should get confirmation of my identity soon.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “I’d like your permission to subdue the man.”

  The pilot shook his head. “Impossible. Until I know exactly who you are and have some kind of authorization, you will not take action against any passenger on this flight. Is that understood?”

  Smith wasn’t happy about the response, but there was very little he could do about it at this point. He headed back into the first-class cabin and crossed over to where Peter Howell was standing at the curtain.

  “Were you convincing, mate?”

  “Apparently not. I talked to my CO. He’s going to contact the Europeans and try to get us some cooperation.”

  “I hope your CO is very fast and very persuasive,” he said, pointing through the gap in the curtain. “Take a look.”

  A flight attendant was offering Dahab a drink, but he didn’t react at all, just sat there banging his knuckles into the window at an alarmingly precise six-second interval.

  “We can go anytime, Peter, but at best we’re on our own.”

  “And at worst?”

  “The crew fights us.”

  Howell sighed quietly. “Too many passengers and too little space, Jon. This is a cock-up waiting to happen.”

  They had been watching the Sudanese for an excruciating two hours when the flight attendant came up behind Smith and tapped him on the shoulder. He followed her back to the cockpit, saying a silent prayer that Klein had been able to work his magic. A thin ring of red was visible at the edge of Dahab’s turban and he seemed to have completely lost touch with the world around him. The only good news was that the passenger sitting next to him had retreated to a vacant seat at the back of the plane. One problem down, a thousand to go.

  “I’m still not entirely certain who you are,” the pilot said as Smith stepped into the cockpit and closed the door. “But I’ll grant that you have a great deal of influence. We’ve been diverted to a military base on an island near the Maldives. It also appears that we’ll be acquiring a fighter escort from a nearby American carrier.”

  His expression suggested that he wasn’t happy about the assist from the U.S. Navy. Maes was smart enough to know that there was nothing a fighter could do to help them. The only reason for its presence was to make sure that if things went seriously south, the plane never made it to land.

  “I’ve also been told in no uncertain terms that you are now in full command of this flight and that we are to follow your orders without question.”

  Smith nodded, not bothering to hide his relief. Fred Klein once again had come through.

  Jon Smith strolled casually down the aisle in the copilot’s uniform, sunglasses on and hat pulled low over his forehead. He smiled and nodded at the passengers as he passed but stayed focused on the Sudanese in his peripheral vision.

  The flight attendants had been fending off an increasing number of complaints about the African, and as Smith got closer, he could understand why. The edges of Dahab’s turban were wet enough that the blood would soon be running down his face. He didn’t seem to notice, though, and continued to rap split knuckles against the window.

  As bad as viruses like Ebola and Marburg were, Sarie was right—they were just mindless biological machines. The creatures infesting this man seemed almost sentient. It was as if they understood that their host was dying and were consciously trying to find a way to escape.

  Dahab’s stare remained fixed as Smith approached carrying a canvas mailbag containing a heavy wrench and a roll of duct tape—the most sophisticated weapon and hazmat equipment the plane had to offer.

  He stopped at the rear bathrooms, watching a terrified flight attendant come down the aisle and lean her impressive bosom into the row behind the Sudanese.

  “You look like two very fit gentlemen,” she said, following the script they’d concocted. “A drink cart tipped over up front. Would it be possible for you to help me?”

  Smith retrieved the tape from his bag and used it to secure the sunglasses to his face while the men followed her up the aisle. A pair of surgical gloves completed his protective clothing, and he ran a latex-covered hand over a gash in his cheek sealed with Krazy Glue.

  Showtime.

  He tried to keep his gait relaxed as he slipped into the empty seats behind Dahab, removed the wrench from the bag, and double-checked the cord threaded through the grommets around the opening.

  His actions had attracted a fair amount of attention, and he grinned at a toddler staring at him three rows forward. The gloves were easy to hide, and most of the duct tape was obscured by his hat, so after a few minutes the passengers went back to their books and movies.

  He rose casually and gave the child still staring at him another quick smile before ramming the canvas bag down over Dahab’s head. The African immediately tried to jump from his seat but discovered that his seat belt was fastened—something Smith had confirmed when he’d walked past.

  By the time he thought to reach for the clasp, Howell had vaulted the people trying to escape the seats directly in front, going headfirst over them and clamping a hand around the buckle mechanism. Smith used the cord to tighten the bag around Dahab’s neck with one hand and arced the wrench toward his head with the other, ignoring the rocking of the plane as the passengers shifted en masse.

  It was only inches from impact when the Sudanese jerked forward. The power of his movement felt utterly inhuman, and the wrench missed its target as Smith was pulled helplessly over the seats.

  With three grown men now thrashing around in the confined space of two economy seats, there was no way to cock the wrench back far enough to build any real momentum. Smith abandoned it, concentrating on trying to keep the bag in place as Dahab reached back and found his throat.

  His grip felt more like a five-fingered vise than anything human. Air and blood flow suddenly cut off, all Smith could do was grab weakly for the man’s wrist. He tried to use the wall for leverage, but his vision began to swim and he became confused as to where the wall was. The sound of a snapping bone that initially seemed to be signaling the collaps
e of his spine instead eased the pressure suffocating him. Another quiet crack and his vision cleared enough to see Howell digging beneath Dahab’s fingers, breaking them one by one.

  When the third one went, Smith pulled back, falling into the aisle gasping for air. He was free.

  But so was the Sudanese. The seat belt had released and he was now staggering into the aisle with Howell hanging like a rag doll over one of his shoulders. Smith stayed low and wrapped his arms around Dahab’s legs, unintentionally bringing him down on top of Howell. The bag slipped, but the Brit managed to shove it back down despite the fact that he was absorbing a steady stream of blows that reverberated with the same sickening thud as a butcher pounding meat.

  Smith released the African’s legs and grabbed for the wrench, bringing it down full force on the back of his head.

  Instead of falling over dead, though, Dahab just kept beating the increasingly defenseless Howell. The protection provided by the bag and turban had combined with the infection to allow him to completely ignore the impact.

  Smith brought the wrench down again and again, grunting and huffing like a madman. The African’s skull turned soft on the left side and he focused on that spot, gritting his teeth and throwing his entire weight behind each swing.

  Finally, the man went limp and Smith fell back against the seat behind him, gasping for breath. The sunglasses he’d taped to his head were still in place and he ripped them off, checking to make sure the cut on his face was still glued together. It was, but that didn’t mean much.

  Howell finally managed to get out from under Dahab’s lifeless body and tried to get to his feet like any self-respecting SAS officer would. His legs couldn’t support him, though, and after a few valiant attempts, he just sank back to the ground, coughing uncontrollably.