Cobra

by David E. Meadows

  He swallowed, willing the constriction from his throat. He covered his mouth and coughed twice before continuing. “Colonel, once exposed to the atmosphere, the bacteria will stop reproducing, but every breath will inhale the spores, infecting everyone who breathes. A minimum number of spores is all that is needed to activate the disease. We believe that within thirty-six hours after release, unconsumed spores exposed to sunlight will become inert. They won’t wither and die right away, and they won’t last forever like natural anthrax. They will wait patiently until disturbed. Sunlight will kill most of the spores, but some will remain active carriers for a long time. Some may last indefinitely, if they land in dark areas and hidden spaces. Natural anthrax takes years to disappear from an affected area.”

  His confidence returned as he lectured on his specialty. No way he was going to tell Alqahiray that this wasn’t weapons grade anthrax. It was a virulent strain of naturally occurring anthrax that he and his team had refined. “Direct contact with these spores months after the missile is fired will still cause the anthrax to germinate. We thought of that and genetically engineered a safety valve so that after the weapon is used, this strain of anthrax will decay more rapidly than the natural strain.

  That will allow you to go into an exposed area within two months with minimum risk of catching the disease.” Professor Malenkomoff smiled, fighting to keep the smile from breaking. He had spilled information about the anthrax strain he never intended to reveal. He had an idea how the colonel would react if he figured out the anthrax with their genetically engineered shelf life made these weapons useless within the next six weeks. The warheads had already sat idle in the hangars for nearly that same length of time. Of course, the sterile nature of the warheads probably prolonged the viability of the anthrax.

  “The man with the wife in Odessa, Karol, he was the biological engineer who created this strain of anthrax.” Vasilev hurried on, hoping to divert the colonel’s thoughts from the biological missiles. “We owe him for his sacrifice to your plans and your country, Colonel.”

  Alqahiray stared at the scientist. Mad. They are all mad, he thought.

  What in the hell is wrong with the Russian? He acts as if he expects me to cut his throat … which I may do later, but not now. “Professor, I said we do not know for sure how long a human will live once exposed.

  Right?”

  Malenkomoff nodded. “Right, Colonel. We do not know for sure.”

  Alqahiray motioned toward the testing chamber. “Is it safe inside?”

  “Probably not. We figured it was hardly worth the time to go through the precautions to remove the animals. We had too many other things to do, and the cold temperature inside delays decomposition sufficiently. We thought—”

  “You talk too much, Professor.”

  Professor Malenkomoff nodded and turned away. His knees felt rubbery.

  “You are probably right, but you need to know what you are dealing with,” he said, realizing he was pushing the colonel, both wanting the madman to rant and rave, while praying Alqahiray would burst into praise for what they had done and release them. Sure, he did this for money, but none of them ever expected the missiles would be anything more than a political weapon for diplomatic advantage. A professor once told him that naivete was a common trait among scientists. He was right.

  “How do you insert the biological agent once you have the test subjects inside?”

  Malenkomoff moved closer to the window and pointed to the far wall of the room at a small, gray metal panel with nozzles installed in the center of it. “Those nozzles are connected to a container filled with anthrax spores. Like an aerosol spray, we shoot a controlled amount into the space. Inhalation anthrax is a sure killer. Knowing how much—”

  “Thank you, Professor,” said Alqahiray, holding up his hand in front of Malenkomoff. “And that container is still connected?”

  Malenkomoff nodded. “Yes, it is still connected.” Sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “I am going to help you, Professor. We are going to find out how long it takes to work on a human subject.”

  Vasilev shut his eyes. So, this was how Alqahiray intended to pay them.

  How long would he allow them to live, once he knew the truth?

  “I have two volunteers for the experiment. Stay and learn how we do things in the new order.” He motioned to Sergeant Adib.

  Vasilev nearly laughed with relief. His knees buckled slightly. Vasilev caught himself on the six-inch sill that ran along the observation windows.

  “Professor, you must get more rest,” Alqahiray said, amused over his astute intuition that the Russian had thought he was to be the test subject.

  Sergeant Adib shoved the two prisoners forward. The frightened officer whimpered. Alqahiray smiled as he stared into the man’s eyes. There was little reasoning behind those eyes, just fear and panic. The man’s ability to rationalize clearly had long since fled. This was the one to watch. You never knew what a frightened person would do to survive.

  Alqahiray stared at the other officer and smiled. For the first time, he saw the man’s jaw muscles ripple. Fear was not a stranger to the intelligence officer. Alqahiray admired the soldier. Another time, another place, they would have been comrades, but he shoved away the fleeting thought to allow the man to live. Everyone has something to fear, and he had found it for this one. Unlike the other intelligence officer, this one knew what was coming. The stubborn military pride would crumble soon. Alqahiray was curious how long it would take before the man broke. He wanted the pleasure of knowing again that he had succeeded.

  “You know what this is?” Alqahiray asked, pointing over his shoulder to the test chamber.

  Sergeant Adib moved to the side of Alqahiray and raised his AK-47, so the barrel pointed at the two prisoners standing about six feet from his hero.

  A whimper greeted his question.

  “It is where you are going to contribute to the survival of your country. It is where you will show us the effectiveness of our weapon.

  It is where you will atone for your sins and prove your loyalty to your country and, by that, your loyalty to me. You will stay in this test chamber for three days, at which time you will be freed.”

  Adib nodded. Soldiers on each side of the prisoners grabbed them by the arms.

  “Of course, Colonel. Whatever you want, Colonel. I will show you.

  Please, believe me.”

  “Professor,” Alqahiray said, ignoring the whining. “If you would show us how the door works so our newest test subjects can enter the chamber, I would appreciate it.”

  Vasilev moved the soldiers aside to step in front of Alqahiray. “Are you crazy? Do you know what this will … ” The question tapered off as Vasilev realized the stupidity of his outburst. Sergeant Adib shoved the barrel of his gun into the Russian scientist’s stomach, knocking the breath out of him and knocking him against the wall. Vasilev looked down at the gun and stared, expecting any moment for the sergeant to fire his automatic weapon. The vision of his abdomen splitting open caused his stomach to tighten.

  “Professor, stop the acting.” Alqahiray chuckled, his hand reaching out to press the barrel of Sergeant Adib’s weapon down. “You knew what we were going to do with the stuff you made. You must have known we would use it. I am just helping you with your testing. A dog? A sheep? No, we need to know how it will work against the enemy. I want to make sure the money paid you was worth it. I would hate to think we have been misled.

  Be thankful we have human volunteers for this portion of the experiment.”

  Vasilev’s head swam, and little stars danced in front of his eyes as blood drained from his face. The mercurial nature of the Libyan madman could easily see him as another test subject. The man was mad, of that he was sure. Alqahiray never had intended to allow them to leave here alive. He bit his lower lip to remind himself to keep quiet. He must think of himself and the others. Would what Karol died for save them? He rubbed his upper left arm, where two weeks ago,
he had had the last injection of the series.

  Alqahiray smiled. “You didn’t really think I would use this weapon, did you, Professor?” He laughed. “Oh, you pathetic fool. I would never have spent this much money if I didn’t intend to use what I paid for.”

  Alqahiray nodded at Sergeant Adib.

  Vasilev shook his head. Alqahiray was right. He never expected anyone would be mad enough to use this weapon. There were too many unknown variables. He figured anyone using such a weapon would know it endangered his own survival, if not from the agent, then from the world, once they identified the source. The anthrax fear had been beaten into the Western mind with the terror of letters mailed in America after the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Nearly fifteen years later, the mere mention of the word anthrax still sent governments into a panic. If they thought this madman had this biological weapon, this laboratory would be reduced to cinders. The American military even vaccinated their soldiers against the disease at the turn of the century until their Congress ordered it stopped. That was many years ago. Even with the anthrax scare of 2001, they only restarted the vaccination program for a few months and then stopped it.

  Vasilev stepped back. “You’re right. I never expected you to use it. I expected it to be used as a negotiating point to obtain your independence.”

  “Oh, it will, Professor. This weapon of yours will be a negotiating factor in obtaining our independence. A factor called fear and respect.”

  He nodded toward the testing chamber. “Enough of this useless chatter.

  Show me how we put our two prisoners into the chamber, and then you can go back to your other work. That is, you can go back, Professor, until we have finished Jihad Wahid, when you will join our two intelligence officers in the chamber, along with the rest of your team. I will have no need for you by then.

  Vasilev moved to the heavy metal door and worked the switches to open the chamber. Certain that the air pressure would keep him from being exposed to any anthrax spores remaining in the isolation chamber, he swung the door open. At another time, he would have enjoyed the sight of the soldiers moving backward, away from the opening.

  “You are safe. All dead decay in the same manner, only some at a quicker pace.” Maybe the spores were dead or maybe just dormant, waiting for new victims like some alien life form. Earth was more dangerous than most realized.

  Alqahiray motioned to Sergeant Adib. The fear the soldiers showed amused him. Allah protected him from such earthly dangers. He nearly stepped forward and through the door into the unsealed room, thinking how it would enhance his followers’ veneration of him. Allah may protect him from earthly dangers, but why tempt Allah’s patience? The guards shoved the two prisoners toward the door, motioning them forward with their AK-47s.

  “Don’t hesitate, my fine friends of Major Salim. It matters little to me whether you are wounded or not when you enter the chamber. Sergeant Adib is fully prepared to administer bullets to the legs, knees preferably, and then have you dragged into the chamber.”

  Several of the soldiers exchanged glances over the idea of dragging the two prisoners into the anthrax chamber.

  The brave one swept his gaze around the room, locking eyes with every soldier. “Watch me closely, fellow Libyans. What you see here will someday be you.” He took the limp hand of the broken officer and led him through the door into the chamber, the whimpering and cries becoming louder as they entered.

  Vasilev slammed the door shut, spun the lock, and tugged oh the handle a couple of times to ensure the door was secure. On the other side of the vacuum-sealed windows, the two prisoners appeared out of the narrow entranceway. The brave one positioned his comrade in front of a nearby bed and gently pushed him down on it. He turned to the staring faces arranged along the windows. He gazed at them briefly before lying down on another bed and putting his arm across his eyes. The intercom system between the two areas was open, allowing the two prisoners to hear everything said on the other side.

  “Professor, I want a camera running the entire time until they die. Then contact Sergeant Adib, and he will send someone for the disc. I am interested in how your research has paid off.” He turned and stared at the two prisoners. “I am interested how long bravery survives in the face of a slow death.”

  * * *

  Vasilev watched Alqahiray and the soldiers leave.

  He had made no safety mechanism to leverage such a situation. The stuff in London would stay in the safe-deposit box for years before the British government declared the owner missing and the contents state property. By then, the discovery would be of little use to him and his colleagues. He walked to the control room and peered inside at the others working. Alqahiray had no way of knowing that their work had been finished over two months ago. What they had been working on now was their own survival.

  He looked over his shoulder. They still had time and access to do something with the missiles. Or to try to do something. Alqahiray intended to kill them. Why should they leave anything for the madman?

  Alqahiray would move the missiles soon. With luck, they could disarm most of them without the colonel knowing. They would have to hurry. The colonel might be crazy, but he was no fool. Before the colonel was overthrown, guards used to be permanently down here. Since then, their presence had grown so sporadic that a couple of weeks ago, they ceased altogether. Eventually, the madman would realize he had no guards here, and when he did, their flexibility would be at an end.

  He pressed a buzzer. Inside the sterile, pressurized compartment, everyone looked over to the control room. He picked up the microphone.

  “Yuri, Fedorov, Alexei, Stepkolov, Hova, and, of course, you, too, old man, Popov. Please, come out. I will meet you in the conference room.”

  He put the microphone back in its rack and heard Popov say, “See, I told you when the madman came through the elevator it would mean more work for us. Vasilev! I want more money. This old communist needs more capitalistic dollars for working so far from the sun of the workers, from the beautiful motherland.”

  Vasilev grinned weakly, watching for a couple of seconds as everyone moved toward the exit. It would be ten to fifteen minutes before they finished the sterilization process. Time enough to make a fresh pot of coffee and open the hidden bottle of vodka. He smiled at the tirade Popov would give once he saw the vodka. The man thought the last of the fiery, clear liquor had disappeared weeks ago. It would be a welcome relief for the task ahead. How do you tell a group of people they may die? He was surprised he accepted the fact so calmly. Maybe when you accept death as inevitable, you shrug it off, refusing to believe it.

  He hurried into his office. A small gray safe sat on the floor behind his chair. The one thing he kept from Alqahiray was that Karol died developing a vaccine for this strain of anthrax. The work killed Karol, but not before he was nearly finished. Vasilev and the others had completed the work. Vasilev had had to argue forcefully to make the other scientists take the shots, but once they saw minimum reactions to the vaccine, they finished the series. It had taken three weeks to complete the immunization. They had hurried the process because of Karol’s death. Hova Vaitsay had had the worst reaction. The Hungarian ran a fever for two days and had such diarrhea Vasilev had ordered bags of saline solution to compensate for the dehydration.

  They should be immune, but he would not know for sure until they were exposed, something he would prefer to avoid. The other secret kept from the Libyan colonel was that the concentrated strain of anthrax they had developed was not much different from normal spores found in nature. He wondered if the immunization shots veterinarians normally take would prove effective with this strain. He thought they would, but without inhumane testing, he would never know. He looked up. Well, that wasn’t true. Two subjects were now in the containment test lab.

  Vasilev took the tray of test tubes filled with the clear vaccine and set it on his desk. He pulled two hypodermics from a nearby medical cupboard and laid them on a tray along with tw
o of the tubes. He turned toward the testing chamber. He knew it was already too late for the two officers, but at least with this, maybe they would have a chance. He should have lied to Alqahiray and told him the chamber was still infected. The last few minutes with the Libyan leader had been sad ones where he had to enter the side chamber and spray the anthrax spores into the space where the two prisoners waited. He should have had a neutral solution on hand, but he never considered that something like this would happen.

  They must atone for their crimes and atone quickly. Those missiles had the range to reach as far as halfway up the Italian boot, maybe even to Rome. With the mechanism to disperse the spores at ten thousand feet, four missiles could contaminate the whole of Italy, including the islands of Crete and Sicily. It would be a crime equal to if not surpassing Hitler’s.

  Popov was first out of shower row. His eyes widened at the sight of the vodka bottle. “What a great and wonderful asshole you are, Vasilev!

  Remind me later to bloody that bulbous nose of yours.” Popov reached forward and grabbed a water glass from the table; it disappeared within the huge, hairy hand. “Oh, how the stomach yearns for mother Russia, but if mother Russia is not here, then its clear water must do.” His deep bass voice echoed off the walls.

  Vasilev poured a generous shot of the fiery liquor for Popov, who hoisted the glass in a one-sided toast and drained the vodka. Behind him, the four Russian scientists followed by the taciturn Hungarian, Hova Vaitsay, stepped, one after the other, through the door. Hova would do anything to escape this confinement. Vasilev had no doubt the thin, greasy-haired Hungarian would work furiously when he told him what needed to be done. The man missed the puszta plains of eastern Hungary as much as he missed his Valerie. The others would argue, but Hova would dive into the challenges they would face in the next few hours — a day, if they were lucky. There was something strange and secretive about the Hungarian scientist. At tempts to draw out Hova had always been met with evasion or silence.