The Ares Decision

by Robert Ludlum

  She swung another pointless fist into the side of the man holding her as they passed through a set of blast doors she’d never seen open. Inside, the scientists who had slowly been going missing—Omidi’s believers—were scurrying around with arms full of files, samples, and computer drives.

  The guard released her, jabbing a finger in her direction and saying something that clearly meant that she wasn’t to move.

  He ran off to help the others pile everything that wasn’t bolted down into a chute that led to the incinerator, while she turned her attention to the glass wall to her left. There were three infected men imprisoned behind it, pounding their broken and bleeding hands against the barrier as the chaos in the lab continued to intensify. They didn’t display any animosity toward each other—or even seem aware of the others’ presence. Were they not infected with her latest version of the parasite? Were her modifications not effective in humans? Perhaps the alterations weren’t yet powerful enough. It was possible that they still had a strong preference for uninfected victims and wouldn’t turn on each other unless they were isolated from that temptation.

  Mehrak Omidi was desperately punching commands into a computer terminal as he looked at two monitors near the ceiling. She took a few hesitant steps toward them, squinting at the tiny images of the exterior of the facility.

  Sarie felt a wave of elation at the sight of men with guns engaging the guards but then felt some of it fade when she saw that it wasn’t the Americans. They appeared to be Iranians, and even she could pick out their lack of cohesiveness. Some didn’t even seem to be looking in the direction they were shooting.

  Omidi was on the move again, running to a refrigerated safe and entering a lengthy code into the keypad on the front. It opened with a puff of frosty air, and he retrieved a rack of glass vials, carefully transferring them to a foam-lined briefcase.

  Less and less attention was being paid to her, and she edged over to a desk a few meters away. She felt around behind her for the scissors lying on it and was in the process of slipping them down the back of her pants when Omidi closed the briefcase and ran at her with three guards in tow.

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the hall, pausing in the doorway to shout a few last orders at the two remaining security men in the room. They slid the guns from their shoulders and she watched in horror as they opened up on the scientists still working to destroy the evidence of their work.

  It was over in a few brief seconds. Smoke hung in the room and the stench of gunpowder filled her nostrils as she looked down at the dead researchers, at the men who had murdered them, and at the three parasite victims still trying to get through the glass.

  When Omidi began pulling again, she no longer had any strength to resist.

  They came to the end of the corridor amid the echo of continuing gunfire behind them. One of Omidi’s men punched a code into a pad mounted to the wall, and a steel door slid open to reveal an enormous cave hung with lights and reinforced with concrete pillars. She was shoved into the cab of a military truck, followed by Omidi, who was cradling his briefcase as though it contained the cure for cancer.

  He noticed her staring at it and smiled humorlessly. “My people have kept the parasite alive outside the body for almost forty-eight hours. Plenty of time to get it to Mexico and smuggle it over the U.S. border.”

  One of the guards slipped into the driver’s seat carrying a laptop that she recognized as belonging to Yousef Zarin. Omidi started the computer as another of his men jumped into the back of the vehicle to take control of a machine gun mounted to the bed.

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” Omidi said. “That the program you created to destroy us will be the thing that saves us?”

  The engine started and a moment later they were reversing out of the parking space. There was no more time. She had to do something.

  The scissors were still in her waistband and she grabbed them, swinging the blade into the driver’s ribs with one hand while using the other to take hold of the wheel. He shouted in surprise and pain, but the scissors penetrated only a few millimeters and left him with the strength to slam on the brakes.

  They were thrown forward, and she instinctively reached for the handle of Omidi’s door. It flew open and she pushed off, sending them both through it. They hit the ground hard, but she’d been ready for it and managed to tuck into a roll, while Omidi landed square on his back.

  The impact knocked the briefcase from his grip and sent it skittering across the dirt. She made a grab for it, catching the handle and letting her momentum carry her back to her feet.

  There was no point in looking back, and instead she sprinted toward the door they’d come through. Shouts rose behind her, followed by the static of the gun mounted on the bed of the truck, but the rounds went wide.

  It didn’t take as long as she had hoped for the guard to swing the gun into position, and she was forced to dive behind a support pillar as he zeroed in. The powerful rounds hammered it for a few moments, tearing away enough concrete to expose the rebar inside. Then suddenly everything went quiet.

  “Dr. van Keuren,” Omidi called, breaking the silence. “Listen to me. There’s nowhere for you to go. Come out and I will guarantee your safety. Do you hear me?”

  She poked her head from behind the column and then pulled it immediately back. The man she’d stabbed was working his way right with a pistol in his hand and a bloodstain spreading across his shirt. Omidi was on the ground typing on the laptop, which apparently hadn’t been smashed into the million pieces she’d counted on.

  His offer of safety was complete bull—he’d called off his gunner only because he was afraid of damaging the briefcase. Given the chance, Omidi would either kill her and unleash the parasite on America or take her prisoner again and set her back to weaponizing it. Neither was a particularly attractive scenario.

  She heard a creak behind her and saw the door leading back into the facility begin to close. He was running Zarin’s program—trying to seal in the force attacking them and set the infected animals loose.

  With no other choice, she ran for the closing door, gripping the briefcase tightly to her chest as she broke into the open. She ignored the sound of gunshots behind her, focusing entirely on getting to the door before the gap became too small to pass through.

  A searing pain flared in her leg and she went down, sliding uncontrollably forward as the briefcase flew from her hand. She came to a stop halfway across the threshold and made a move back toward the case but was forced to stop when a bullet exploded against the rock wall next to her.

  The door hit her in the shoulder and she shoved uselessly back against the powerful motor closing it. The man she’d stabbed was running hard in her direction, and the barrel of the mounted machine gun was aimed directly at her. There was nothing she could do. They were going to get the briefcase. But hell if they were going to get her.

  She dragged herself the rest of the way through the door, barely managing to clear her feet before it sealed, and then just lay there trying to get control of her breathing.

  The wound in her leg was only a graze, and she tore off one of her sleeves to use as a bandage. There was no way to know who was attacking the facility, but whoever they were, they were her best—only—hope.

  Sarie pushed herself to her knees and was trying to get to her feet when she froze, straining to decipher a faint buzz just beginning to rise above the ringing in her ears.

  It was the monkeys. They were free.

  80

  Central Iran

  December 5—1015 Hours GMT+3:30

  JON SMITH LOOKED OVER the edge of the dry moat and studied the tower on the northeastern edge of the fence line, searching for the sniper ensconced there. Hakim’s truck tipping over had been a complete disaster, pinning down Farrokh’s team and potentially turning the entire operation into an unwinnable war of attrition.

  Howell was prone on the bridge above, using his freakish marksmanship to cover the men huddled behind the capsi
zed truck. Farrokh was crawling back and forth among them, patting shoulders and delivering words of encouragement, but most still looked like they were about thirty seconds from melting down.

  The distance between them and the remaining towers had neutralized the advantage of elevated machine guns, and the men in them had switched to rifles. They were good, but not particularly great shots—with one exception. There was a sniper in the northeastern tower who was a damn prodigy. He’d already taken out three of their men and was throwing an extremely large wrench into what little was left of their machine.

  His bearded face appeared over the rim of the tower, and Smith was unable to adjust his aim before the muzzle flash. The round ricocheted off the bridge and he turned to see that it had knocked loose a chunk of concrete near Howell’s shoulder. The Brit remained completely still, eye glued to his scope.

  “I’d be much obliged if you’d kill that son of a bitch, Jon.”

  “Working on it.”

  A bullet kicked up some sand two feet from Smith’s head, and Howell fired off a few rounds in the general direction it had come from. Sitting there waiting for the Iranians to find their range and call in reinforcements wasn’t an option. If they broke cover, though, the sniper to the northeast would have a field day.

  And so it was a guessing game. On what part of the tower would he appear next? In order to have time to get off an accurate shot, Smith would have to anticipate his position within about a foot.

  “I think I’m starting to get a sunburn,” Howell said, making the point that he hadn’t come there to get involved in a deadly stalemate.

  “South, east, or west?”

  “What?” Howell said.

  “Choose one.”

  “South.”

  “Pick a number between one and ten.”

  “Six.”

  Smith aimed at the south side of the tower, about six feet from the left, and waited. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. When the dark face appeared again it was almost exactly where Howell had unknowingly predicted.

  Smith held his breath and squeezed off a round, waiting the split second it took to travel across the compound before seeing the head jerk back in an explosion of blood.

  “You have the luck of the Irish, Peter. Go!”

  Farrokh’s men laid down suppressing fire at the line of men Howell had been keeping in check, but their position made it impossible to do anything about the remaining snipers in the towers.

  Smith heard the bullets hissing by as he tried to coax a little more speed from his legs in the heavy sand. “Break right!”

  Howell did as he was told, diving behind the sandbags that had torn through the truck’s canopy when it tipped. He fired controlled rounds at the towers as Smith jumped over the body of one of their people and slid up next to Farrokh, who was trying to keep his surviving nine-man force from completely depleting their ammunition in one panicked burst.

  “We’re safe! Pull back!”

  Farrokh shouted for his men to retreat fully behind the truck again. Smith grabbed the youngest of them, swatting away the phone he was inexplicably using to film the battle, and dragging him toward Howell.

  “The tower at three o’clock!” Smith said, throwing him down next to the Brit. “Do you understand? Cover the tower at three o’clock!”

  He cried out when a round struck a few feet away, but then rolled dutifully onto his stomach and propped his rifle on a sandbag. It was his first time in combat, but he’d grown up hunting with his father and was a better-than-average shot.

  Howell reached over and patted him on the back. “That’s a good lad. You’re going to do fine.”

  Farrokh and the others had crammed themselves into the now empty bed of the truck while Omidi’s men blasted away at its underside, undoubtedly trying to penetrate the armor protecting the fuel tank.

  Finally afforded an unobstructed view, Smith looked toward the rock outcropping that held the entrance to the facility. The heavy doors were blackened and dented, but the breach wasn’t what he’d hoped—no more than a two-foot-by-five-foot gap where the steel plates had been pushed apart. It would be enough, though. That is, if they could get to it. The truck was the only thing keeping them from a cross fire no one could survive. And since there was no way they could abandon it, they’d just have to take it with them.

  “Come on!” Smith shouted, digging his fingers into the sand beneath the top of the cab. “Let’s get this thing on its wheels!”

  Farrokh and his men came to his aid, and with all ten of them working together, it began to rise.

  “Keep going!” Smith yelled over the sound of Howell and his new protégé trading fire with the towers. The man to Smith’s left was hit in the shoulder blade and went down, causing the truck to lurch back toward the sand. “Harder!”

  They managed to get it on the edge of its tires, and he walked his hands up the windshield pillar as the load lightened. When gravity finally took over, he dove through the open window, shoving Hakim’s body out of the way and jamming the clutch down with his elbow.

  He twisted the ignition key and was surprised to hear the engine fire almost immediately. Maybe their luck was finally changing.

  Still stuffed up under the dash, he used his knee to move the shift lever and eased off the clutch, propelling the truck toward the facility’s entrance as bullets rang off the armored door.

  After what seemed like an hour but was probably less than a minute, the truck slammed into something and came to a stop. The motor stalled and Smith kicked the door open, sliding out to see that Howell and his companion had already repositioned themselves and were once again lining up on the towers.

  In the distance, he could see a cloud of dust coming toward them and knew it was the convoy of men they’d held back so that they wouldn’t arrive on the bridge looking like the invading army they were. It would be another fifteen minutes before they arrived, though, so no help there.

  Keeping tight to the truck, Smith approached the blackened steel doors. He could feel cold air blowing through the gap and see the shimmer of fluorescent light inside. But that was all. There was no sound and nothing that would indicate movement.

  He stood motionless for a moment, hearing a round shatter the windshield of the truck behind him. Howell was doing everything humanly possible, but it was just a matter of time before the snipers picked them off.

  “What now?” Farrokh said, slipping up next to him. Smith shouldered his rifle and pulled out the .45 he’d been given. It felt heavy and clumsy compared to the one Janani had made, but it would have to do.

  He eased forward, but when the gun came even with the gap in the doors, a shot sounded and the pistol was ripped from his hand.

  “Damn it!” he said, jerking back and making a quick count of his fingers. All still there.

  A few more shots followed, scattering Farrokh’s confused men as Smith tried to decipher what he was hearing. Three, maybe four, separate guns, all trained on the narrow gap that they needed to pass through.

  “Do we have any explosives left?”

  Farrokh shook his head. “The men coming have a few grenades, but we put everything else we had in the truck.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. You didn’t hold any back?”

  “If we didn’t get through the door, what would we have done with them?”

  It was a valid point, but not what he wanted to hear. They still had the truck. How could they use it? Ramming the doors was unlikely to get them anywhere—they still looked solid. Maybe attach chains and pull?

  Great idea, if they had chains. And a few hours. And no one trying to kill them.

  More shots sounded from inside, and Smith backed away from the opening before he realized that the bullets weren’t coming through. Panicked shouts became audible a moment later, followed by an eerie, echoing screech that sounded strangely like monkeys.

  He picked up the charred remains of a fender and waved it in front of the breach. The shooting and shouts continued inside
, but none of it seemed to be directed at the fender.

  As much as he hated leaping in blind, an opportunity had presented itself and it was impossible to know if there would ever be another.

  “Peter!” he shouted. “We’re going!”

  Howell slapped the young man next to him on the back and then ran toward Smith, who was barking orders while Farrokh translated.

  “You. Take Peter’s place and cover those towers as best you can. You three, use the truck and whatever else you can find to block this entrance after we go in. Nothing comes out. You understand what we’re dealing with, right?”

  They all nodded. “All right. Hold tight. Reinforcements are on their way. The rest of you are with us.”

  Smith pulled his assault rifle in front of him and took a deep breath before leaping through the gap. He immediately fell to the floor, staying as close to the wall as he could and yelling for anyone following to do the same.

  He had been right about there being three men covering the entrance, but now they had so little interest in it, they hadn’t even noticed him come in. They were firing wildly at two small, blood-soaked monkeys darting from wall to ceiling to floor so quickly it was hard to believe they didn’t have wings. Ricochets filled the air as the rounds bounced off stone and steel in search of something more forgiving.

  Farrokh came through next and Smith grabbed him, making sure he stayed low as his men followed.

  “Hold your—,” he started, but it was too late. The second man through let loose a series of uncontrolled bursts at the red blurs streaking around them, filling the air with even more lead.

  “Peter! The monkeys!” he yelled as the Brit came through.

  The benefit of Omidi’s guards’ being completely preoccupied with the animals on the ceiling was that it made them easy targets. They crumpled unceremoniously to the floor when Smith put a single round into each of their chests.