The Ares Decision

by Robert Ludlum

61

  Over Northern Ethiopia

  November 28—1312 Hours GMT+3

  JON SMITH STEPPED OVER Dahab’s garbage bag–cocooned body and peered into the open door to the bathroom. “You okay, Peter?”

  Howell was leaning over the sink, supporting himself with palms planted on either side. When he spoke, the water in his mouth ran out red.

  “Just cricket, thank you for asking.”

  “Do you think any of his blood got in your cuts?”

  “How the hell should I know, Jon? There isn’t a square inch of me that isn’t torn or broken.”

  “Yeah…”

  “What about you?”

  “The same.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll know soon enough, then.”

  The pilot had done the best he could to calm the passengers, telling them that Dahab was a drug runner wanted for murder and that they were from Interpol, but not everyone was convinced. Cautious whispers had evolved into loud, multilingual discussions, and then into a constant, panicky drone. Ten rows up, two men were standing in the aisle jabbing at each other in one of a number of arguments that seemed almost certain to get out of hand. When one got shoved into the lap of the woman behind him, Smith stepped through the curtain and banged loudly on the wall.

  “Hello! Can I have your attention, please?”

  Silence immediately descended on the plane, and everyone turned toward him.

  “My name is Jon Smith and I’m a doctor with the U.S. Army. If you’ll give me a minute, I’d like to tell you what’s going on.”

  His voice didn’t quite achieve the calm authority he’d hoped for, but in truth, he was lucky he could talk at all. The sensation of Dahab’s grip on his throat was still palpable beneath the finger-shaped contusions.

  “The man who was killed was a terrorist.”

  The volume went up again as people shouted a barrage of questions: Could he have accomplices on the plane? Was there a bomb? Why had he been allowed to board?

  Smith waited for the cacophony to die down before starting to flesh out the story told to the flight crew.

  “He wasn’t armed and there are no explosives. He had a drug-resistant form of tuberculosis that he planned on trying to spread throughout Europe.”

  More shouted questions as the level of fear notched noticeably higher.

  “Please! Let me finish. I want to stress that this strain of TB can be cured with special antibiotics. However, those antibiotics are expensive and we only have a few thousand doses stockpiled. Obviously, that would be a serious problem in a pandemic, but it’s not a serious problem for the people on this plane. We’re currently being diverted to a naval base where we’ll be met by American medical specialists. In the extremely unlikely event you’ve contracted this illness, you’ll be given medication that will take care of it.”

  * * *

  JON SMITH STOOD at the back of the cockpit, looking through the windscreen at the scene below. There were three C-5 transport planes on the ground, and medical tents were in the process of being set up. Various military vehicles were lined up along the runway, and green-clad figures rushed through the glare of portable spotlights. This wasn’t going to do much for the passengers’ peace of mind, but the time for subtlety was long past.

  They touched down and bounced around a bit before rolling to a stop in front of a steel barricade. Armed men in biohazard gear immediately surrounded the plane, and blocks were put around the wheels to make certain the plane couldn’t take off again. The frightened voices of the passengers rose to a volume that almost obscured the ringing of the pilot’s sat phone.

  Smith picked up. “Go ahead.”

  “What’s your situation?” Fred Klein asked.

  “Unfortunately, the patient didn’t make it. We’ve wrapped up the body and put it in the back.”

  “Possibility of spread?”

  “To the passengers and crew, I’d say minimal. To me and Peter, medium to high.”

  “I’m going to get you two off the plane. We have a situation that needs your attention. Everyone else stays put until we finish setting up. Go to the door closest to the cockpit. We’re bringing up a ladder.”

  “Two minutes,” Smith said. “I need to brief the passengers.”

  “Two minutes.”

  He went back out and found Peter trying to make his way to the front of the plane as people grabbed at him and pointed out the windows at the soldiers.

  “Hello! Can I have your attention again, please?”

  They all looked to him, and Howell used the diversion to limp to the front of the plane.

  “Peter and I are getting off,” Smith started before once again being drowned out.

  “Everybody calm down and listen to me! We came into direct contact with the infected man, so we’re the most likely people here to have contracted the illness. We’re being taken to quarantine so there’s no chance of us passing it on to any of you. More medical personnel and equipment are being flown in and you’ll be let off when they get set up.”

  “When do we get the antibiotics?” someone shouted.

  “Most likely you won’t need them, because I doubt any of you are going to get ill—this strain isn’t particularly contagious. Look, I know a lot of the doctors out there and they’re the best in the world. You’re in good hands.”

  Someone outside banged on the door and he twisted the handle. By the time he got it open, the man on the ladder was already on the ground and retreating to a sandbagged machine-gun placement.

  A few of the passengers surged toward the door, but Howell blocked them. “Please stay back,” he said, retreating toward the ladder. “I could be infected.”

  That slowed them enough to allow Smith to climb onto the ladder and quickly descend, trying not to think about the battery of guns trained on his back.

  62

  Diego Garcia

  November 28—2300 Hours GMT+6

  KEEP MOVING, SIRS.”

  Smith glanced back at the soldier coaxing them forward and then at the armed men in hazmat suits falling in around them. The private jet he and Howell were walking toward seemed to have just come off the assembly line, with nothing that would betray the identity of its owner or suggest any connection with the United States. Smith dutifully climbed the steps to an open hatch, pausing at the threshold before committing to enter.

  A thick wall of plastic had been erected to his left, sealing off the front third of the plane. To the right, all the seats had been removed with the exception of the rearmost two, and portable filters had been installed to keep the air supplies separate. A bottle of single-malt scotch gleamed on one of the cushions, and the other contained two glasses and two pairs of handcuffs. The incredibly thorough hand of Fred Klein.

  Howell followed him down the aisle and fell into one of the seats, examining the bottle and reclining in the soft leather with a satisfied groan. Smith held out the glasses and the Brit filled them, raising his in salute. “To the fleeting pleasures of the here and now.”

  It was as good a sentiment as any, and Smith tipped the glass up, reveling in the smoky sensation of the liquor burning its way down his raw throat. When he leaned back, he spotted a shoebox-sized device set up near the plastic wall. It was topped with a line of green LEDs and, unless he missed his guess, was filled with enough plastique to completely disintegrate the plane should it become necessary.

  “How are you gentlemen feeling?”

  Smith leaned forward and squinted, trying to put the man emerging from the cockpit with the voice that unmistakably belonged to Fred Klein. His normally medium-length hair was cropped close to his skull, and his glasses had been replaced with blue contacts. The rumpled suit that he seemed to have been born in was gone, too, in favor of a heavily starched U.S. Army uniform that clung to a waist so narrow that it suggested some kind of girdle. An expedient disguise that would shield him from undue attention and prevent Peter Howell from recognizing the old spook.

  “Better now, Brigadier,” Howell
said, using the scotch bottle to effect an improbably respectful salute.

  Klein took a seat facing them through the plastic. “Based on the reports I’ve read, I thought you boys could use a drink.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Smith said, playing along.

  He gave a short jerk of a nod and then moved on. “It’s my understanding that if you’re infected, you’ll start showing symptoms between seven and fifteen hours from exposure.”

  “Yes, sir,” Smith said, calculating for the hundredth time how long it had been since their fight with Dahab: seven hours, thirty-nine minutes. “It appears to start with general disorientation, followed by the bleeding you’re familiar with and then violent insanity.”

  The plane started taxiing and Klein pointed in their general direction. “Buckle up.”

  The implication was clear, and after fastening their seat belts they each secured one wrist to their seat with the provided handcuffs.

  “I also understand, Colonel, that if you start showing symptoms, there’s nothing I can do to help you.”

  “That’s correct, sir. But I think I speak for both myself and Peter when I say we’d appreciate it if you didn’t let us die like that.”

  “If it becomes necessary, we’re equipped to take care of the situation.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Another curt nod from Klein. “The two of you have left us in a bad way. We’ve talked to a few top people, and they all believe that van Keuren is going to be able to weaponize the parasite and that it’s not going to take her long. Apparently, she wrote the book on transporting live parasites. And I mean that literally—she wrote a text on getting parasites from the field to the lab.”

  Smith took a swig of his drink, swishing it painfully over the cuts in his cheek. Again, it was his failure. He’d had multiple opportunities to do what was necessary with regard to Sarie and he’d hesitated. Now it wasn’t just her blood on his hands; it could be the blood of millions.

  “I’ve spoken at length with the president,” Klein continued, “and we don’t have many alternatives. Let’s start with the bad news. Diplomacy is a dead end—there’s no point in even starting. The Iranians will deny involvement and we’ve got no cards to play other than the testimony of two men who—and I regret saying this—will probably be dead in a few hours.”

  “What about military options?” Howell said.

  “Complicated. We don’t have anything convincing enough to get our allies on board, and the Russians and Chinese aren’t going to stand by while we go in with guns blazing. And that’s assuming we even had the troops available. A more surgical strike would be feasible, but we have no idea where Omidi is or where he’s taken the parasite.”

  “I already know I screwed up,” Smith snapped. “Do we really have to dwell on the point?”

  Klein’s eyebrows rose perceptibly, and Smith went into self-examination mode. Was his outburst the product of frustration and exhaustion or something more?

  “I didn’t intend that as some kind of backhanded reprimand, Colonel. Everyone involved knows that you did everything you could. Now, where was I?”

  “I hope getting around to the good news, Brigadier,” Howell said.

  “The good news. Yes. The CIA has a number of contingency plans for dealing with bioterror attacks, and one of them was easily adapted to this scenario. We’ve put together a team of experts to refine the plan and we’re quietly rolling out equipment and procedures across the U.S., as well as pulling back some military from abroad to handle implementation.”

  “Are there casualty projections?” Smith asked.

  “Three hundred thousand is a best-case scenario from the infection. Another twenty to thirty thousand in the general chaos. A more likely number would be in the million range.”

  “That’s the good news?” Smith said. “That over a million people could die?”

  “Our hope, obviously, is to keep it under that number, and with the body of the infected man you killed on the plane, we might be able to learn something useful. At the very least, though, it’ll help us refine our containment plan.”

  “A containment plan? That’s it? The Iranians are creating a weapon that could make people look back fondly on the atomic bomb and we’re working on a containment plan?”

  “No, there’s more. We’ve been talking to the Iranian resistance.”

  “The resistance? You have a line to Farrokh?”

  “Line might be an overstatement. We have tentative communication with people who say they’re linked to him. This is about as back-channel as you can get, Colonel. You can imagine what would happen if word got out that we’re involved with the leader of the Iranian resistance.”

  Howell had abandoned his glass and was now drinking directly from the bottle. “All due respect, sir, but it sounds as though you’re not sure if you are.”

  “That’s not entirely unfair. Look, we took the leap of being more or less honest with them about the situation and we asked them to help us get a special forces team into Iran to track down the facility where Omidi’s working on the parasite.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They flatly refused. However, they may be amenable to a visit from the investigating doctor and his British escort.”

  “May be amenable?”

  “It’s the best I can do. They’re a very suspicious bunch.”

  “So, assuming we don’t die en route, you’re sending us into Iran?”

  “I’m afraid so. You’re going to be inserted from Turkey and link up with a resistance force. Get them to trust you and help you find van Keuren. Then contact us with what you’ve learned and stand by.”

  Smith just stared at his boss. “Is that all?”

  “I know it’s a tall order, Jon. And to be honest, I don’t expect you to succeed. In the unlikely event you actually make contact, there’s a good chance Farrokh will just decide you’re spies and kill you.”

  “And then a million people die,” Smith said.

  Klein shook his head. “A million Americans. We’ve drawn up plans for a retaliation, and I can tell you that it won’t be pretty.”

  “What are you estimating Iranian casualties at?”

  “After we take out their entire military capability, we’re looking at destroying all their major cities and annihilating their power grid and freshwater systems. It’s not possible to accurately estimate casualties because there’s honestly no historical precedent. What I can tell you, though, is that the deaths from disease, starvation, and thirst in the aftermath could be more than ten times what they are in the initial assault. If we can’t use the scalpel, Jon, it’s been made clear that we’ll use the hammer.”

  63

  Above Central Iran

  November 28—2234 Hours GMT+3:30

  SARIE VAN KEUREN COULD feel Omidi’s eyes on her as she walked to the back of the plane holding a cup of water.

  “Thomas? Are you thirsty? Would you like something to drink?”

  The white-haired doctor was belted tightly into his seat, further restrained by a straitjacket and ankle shackles. It was an incredibly dissonant image—the frail, elderly man trussed up like some kind of psychopath or mass murderer.

  Despite everything she’d seen in her years researching parasites, all this still seemed impossible. Intellectually, she knew that humans weren’t special in the animal kingdom, but somewhere deeper she had always harbored a belief in the soul. To see it so easily stolen, to be forced to watch this gentle man turn into a monster, was terrifying.

  “Thomas?”

  He was staring blankly at the seat in front of him, and she was ashamed at the fear she felt when his head finally turned toward her. There seemed to be no recognition in his eyes at all, no acknowledgment of the fact that another human was close.

  As it always did when she was depressed or lonely or scared, Sarie’s mind retreated into science. How did the parasite work? What places in the brain did it target? How fast did it multiply? Was the detachment
she was seeing the first step in creating a creature with no compassion or mercy?

  “We’re nearly there,” Omidi said. “Sit.”

  She glared back at him but his face remained a mask—not much different from poor Thomas’s. Some men didn’t need a parasite. They became monsters all on their own.

  The landing strip was well camouflaged and they were probably less than a hundred meters from the ground when two dim strips of light appeared to mark its boundary. Beyond that, all she could make out was a few rocky outcrops and a distant wall of cliffs outlined by moonlight.

  “Your new home,” Omidi responded. “The place where you will make the parasite transportable and more virulent.”

  “What? Why in God’s name would you want to do that? Bahame’s insane, but you’re not. How could someone who understands what this does to people—innocent people—want to use it as a weapon?”

  The Iranian smiled easily. “The West has created a moral framework for the world that is unwaveringly in their favor, Dr. van Keuren. If an American missile hits a primary school or market in an effort to kill a single man whose ideology they don’t agree with, the casualties are considered collateral damage—an unfortunate by-product of a war that doesn’t exist. If, on the other hand, a plane flies into an American office building, it’s an earth-shattering act of terrorism. Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “The West tells the world that it is right and just to kill only if you use the weapons they consider honorable. And then they do everything they can to prevent others from acquiring those weapons. They can stockpile thousands of nuclear weapons and threaten my country with them, but we cannot do the same. They can kill countless women and children with sophisticated bombs built by Lockheed Martin and General Dynamics, but it would be unthinkable for a Muslim to do the same with an explosive built in his basement. The Americans have brainwashed the world—constantly changing the rules of the game in their favor. But that time is over. Their time is over. The order of things is about to change.”