by D C Alden
He looked over his shoulder. The corridor behind him was filled with infected, the girls from the kitchen, now joined by at least a dozen others, some of them security guards, others in civilian clothes, all of them enraged and howling for blood. They pushed and shoved, and one of them fell, bringing down several others. The charge faltered, but only for a moment. Ray realised he wasn’t going to make it.
He ducked around the corner and then Felipe was stood right in front of him. He grabbed Ray and shoved him sideways through a door. Ray stumbled and fell against a flight of steps, cracking a shin. Then he saw Felipe closing the door, fast and silent.
Ray used the banister rail to pull himself up. Everyone was leaning against the door, hands spread, bodies at forty-five degrees. Ray rubbed his shin and gulped air like a beached fish. Outside the snarling and grunting reached a crescendo, but there was no pounding against the door, no bloodied fingers squeezing through the gap. The pack kept moving.
Death, or something worse, had passed them by.
The others straightened up. Felipe was pointing to the ceiling, urging the others up the stairs with hand gestures, leaving the door behind them unlocked. Ray looked around, realising they were in a grey concrete stairwell. A fire escape.
Which meant no locked doors.
As they climbed the stairs, Ray had never felt more exposed in his life. With every step he expected the door below to crash open, for a swarm of infected to charge up towards them. They passed several landings but no one was interested in going back inside the mall.
They kept climbing until they reached another door, this one made of grey steel and secured with heavy bolts top and bottom. Felipe eased the bolts back and stepped inside. Bringing up the rear, Ray followed the others into a short corridor. Pipes ran across the ceiling and there was a workbench against one wall. They found some lengths of timber and braced the door handle behind them. Ahead of them was another grey steel door, and Leon pressed down on the bar, pushing it open. A cold wind swirled around them, and Ray followed the others outside, grateful for the fresh, frigid breeze, before it started cutting through his thin shirt. That’s when he realised his overcoat was folded on a chair in the diner downstairs.
Everyone walked towards the roof’s edge that overlooked the main parking lot, drawn by the terrible screaming. And there was gunfire now, volleys of shots that sounded like hollow pops on the night air.
They reached the edge of the roof and looked down into hell.
There were bodies everywhere, some dead, some injured and some crawling. People ran in all directions as packs of infected hunted them down. Men, women, children, no one was safe or spared. A short distance away a gas station burned, the red flames licking up over the apron as black smoke boiled up into the night sky.
Ray watched in horror as a large pickup truck accelerated away from the mall, swerving wildly, clipping bodies, bouncing over others, dragging them beneath the chassis, leaving a trail of blood and broken humanity in its wake. He looked away, sickened.
The he heard something else, a low, rising tone that turned into a wailing, screeching blast. The tornado warning system had been activated, its doom-laden scream reaching across the city. Ray’s eyes were drawn back to the terrible scene below, and he was jarred by the similarity to the drone footage from Baghdad.
But this time it was different.
This time there were no walls to keep the infection in.
Bombay Blues
The Cessna Citation X landed in the steamy mid-afternoon heat at Mumbai International Airport. As the aircraft taxied to the private jet terminal, Mike took a call from Stan Lando on his sat phone.
‘The locals aren’t being as cooperative as we’d like,’ the field supervisor told him. ‘They wanna know everything before they green light any op.’
Mike winced. ‘Are you kidding me? Don’t they realise what’s at stake?’ The line crackled as the signal bounced across the globe.
‘The White House is on the case,’ Lando responded, ‘but in the meantime, the carrying of weapons has not been authorised. Gordon Kappes will pick up that slack. He’s Head of Station at the Consulate.’
‘This is turning into a shit-show, Stan.’
‘Agreed, but the NSA is quietly crawling all over the Indian networks. We’ve got Philip on CCTV all the way through the terminal, including the licence plate of the taxicab he got into. The bad news is, we lost the vehicle in the traffic. They’re tracing the driver as we speak.’
‘What about Marion?’
’Whereabouts are still unknown. Stay focused on this Philip character, Mike. As soon as we have a location, we need him lifted and squeezed.’
‘What if the locals don’t play ball?’
‘We go anyway.’
‘Good enough.’ Mike ended the call and walked to the cockpit. The pilots had shut down the engines, and through the windows, Mumbai’s airport rippled in waves beneath the afternoon sun. Two dark blue Nissan Pathfinders emerged out of the shimmer and swung around the side of the aircraft.
‘Fuel up and standby,’ Mike told the pilots. ‘We may have to leave in a hurry.’
The pilot nodded behind his Ray Bans. ‘Roger that.’
Back in the cabin, Mike briefed his Task Force. ‘The locals are being problematic, which means no operational jurisdiction. We leave weapons on the plane, but take your personal rigs. Replacement hardware will be made available at the Consulate. Let’s move.’
With an Indian police escort on blue lights, it took twenty-two minutes to get to the consulate, a collection of sand-coloured rectangular buildings ringed by high perimeter walls. Like most US embassies located in Third World countries, they were a target, and security was tight. The Nissans passed through the checkpoints and skirted the main building, stopping inside a large vehicle shed near the perimeter wall. The heat beneath the corrugated metal roof was oppressive, but they were invisible to anyone either inside or outside the embassy. And there was always someone watching.
As Mike climbed out of the Nissan, an imposing figure approached and held out his hand. ‘Gordon Kappes, Station Chief.’
‘Mike Savage, SOG. This is my XO, Don Tapper, and Senior Chief Billy Finch, DEVGRU.’
Hands were shaken all round. Kappes was a big guy, over six feet, with red hair and pale, freckled skin. The sweltering Indian city was probably not his favourite posting.
‘This way,’ Kappes said, leading them down a flight of steps into an underground tunnel. The narrow passage led to a sub-level of the main building. He took them straight to the consulate armoury where they were met by a Gunnery Sergeant from the Marine Security Guard.
‘Gunny Warren will take care of you,’ Kappes told them. ‘I need to hit the phones. Get back to you soon.’
As Kappes headed out, Warren escorted Mike and his team into a well-stocked armoury. Warren had a nose that looked like it’d been broken several times, and wore a dark green combat utility uniform. He invited his guests to peruse his well-stocked gun racks.
‘Best I have are Sig sidearms and M27 rifles,’ Warren told them as they inspected the hardware. ‘Optics and suppressors are standard issue. You need any specialised gear?’
‘Combat shot gun for Flynn here.’
‘Ah, a connoisseur,’ Warren said, smiling. He lifted a black Benelli M4 off the rack and cleared the action, handing it to Flynn.
The Bostonian turned it over in his hands. ‘That’ll work. Ammunition?’
‘Double-oh buckshot and breaching rounds.’
‘Nice,’ Flynn said.
‘We’ll need flash-bangs and smoke,’ Mike told the Gunny.
‘I got M84 stun grenades and M18 smoke. You need any HE?’
Mike shook his head. ‘Not expecting that kind of trouble. This is supposed to be friendly territory.’
‘So you’d think,’ the Gunny said, and winked.
Mike cocked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘This is Senior Chief Billy Finch, DEVGRU. His guys might have additional requirements.’
Finch shook his hand and they talked weapons, with Finch making a couple of tactical hardware changes. Gunny Warren escorted them into an empty training room next door where Mike and his Task Force geared up. As they discussed comms and scenarios with the CIA team and Defence Attache, Kappes entered the room.
‘The taxi driver’s been picked up.’
Mike raised an eyebrow. ’Is he cooperating?’
‘He wants ten grand, plus Green Cards for him and his family, so put him to work, Mike. Make sure he delivers.’
‘Roger that.’
‘ETA five minutes. Take the tunnel back to the vehicle shed and wait for him there. You got comms?’
‘We’re set,’ Mike told him, tapping the earpiece in his left ear.
‘Good luck.’
As Kappes turned to leave, Mike called after him. ‘What’s the plan? If the virus is released before we can get to him?’
Kappes shrugged. ‘If it all goes to hell we hunker down, ride it out. Too many people here for an orderly evac. I doubt most of us would make it.’ The CIA man smiled and wagged a finger at them. ‘Hey, I’ve spent too goddamn long in this sweatbox, so don’t let me down, got it?’
Kappes left the room. Mike followed a minute later, leading the Task Force through the tunnel and up into the vehicle shed.
Two battered-looking Toyota HiAce minivans with local plates and authentic dents and scratches waited for them. Kappes had also organised a similarly banged-up Isuzu pickup with two Latino Marines aboard. They wore civvies and passed for locals at a glance, aside from the M4 carbines at their feet.
A female CIA liaison waited with the vehicles. She shook Mike’s hand as his team climbed aboard the Toyotas.
‘The drivers know the roads. They’ll get you where you need to go to.’
‘We may need to move fast.’
‘Can’t guarantee speed unless you use the local cops, and that might spook your target,’ she told him. ‘Best we can do, given the circumstances.’
‘Understood.’
A moment later a small Ford saloon swept into the shed. A bemused-looking Indian climbed out, escorted by a couple of embassy personnel. Mike threw open the side door of the Toyota and gestured the guy inside. He shook the Indian’s hand.
‘My name’s Mike,’ he said, sliding the door closed. The man was in his thirties, had a well-trimmed beard and sported thick glasses. He wore a baggy cotton shirt and pants, and his taxi ID badge was still clipped to his breast pocket.
‘It’s Sanjay, right?’
The man wobbled his head in that way that Indians do. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘You got kids, right?’
‘Two,’ the taxi driver told him, stroking his beard nervously.
‘That’s good, because I want you to think about them while you’re working with us, okay? If you do everything we ask, help us catch this guy, this might just work out for your family. Am I clear?’
Mike saw it in his eyes, the glimmer of hope, a sudden vision of a better life on the other side of the world. Sanjay pointed off into the distance.
‘I took him to the Hotel Manama. To the south of the city.’
‘That was almost three days ago,’ Finch warned. ‘He might’ve flown the nest by now.’
Sanjay shook his head several times. ‘No, no, no,’ he said. ‘I called the hotel before your people picked me up. Mister Visser has been very sick. Food poisoning. He is still there, still in his room.’
Mike shared a hopeful look with Finch. He slapped the back of the driver’s seat. ‘Let’s go.’
The convoy swung around the shed and headed for the main gate.
Philip sat on the bed, his eyes glued to the television.
The images coming out of Texas were truly remarkable. Much of it was phone footage, grainy and shaky for the most part, but the violence and the noise bordered on the cinematic. The viewpoints were varied and riveting, some taken from high-rise buildings, some from inside people’s homes, others from swerving, speeding vehicles, and in one hair-raising instance, from the lobby of a hotel, which captured a screaming pack of infected charging across the parking lot towards the entrance. CNN was clearly being careful, plastering graphic content warnings everywhere. But for Philip the conclusion was obvious.
H-1 had been released.
He was confused. He’d not been made aware of any operation targeting the United States. He’d been present throughout the planning stages, with Blake, Sorensen, their people, and many countries had been discussed, but never the United States. Was this something organic, or deliberate? Philip googled the town of Lubbock. It was an unremarkable place, known principally for its tech university and for cotton harvesting. He checked its location on the map and saw that it was isolated, with only seven major roads leading in and out of the city. Even the interstate terminated in Lubbock. It was literally in the middle of nowhere.
So, it was planned.
The TV footage was mesmerising. Fires raged in several downtown buildings, and thousands of people ran through the streets, fleeing or infected, it was difficult to tell. The police were swamped, and gunfire could be heard across the city. The talking heads were discussing the outbreak, the shots cutting between the CNN studio, Lubbock and the White House. Philip wanted to continue watching. The footage excited him, and also made him a little apprehensive. Mumbai would go the same way, although that outbreak would be far larger and impossible to control.
He checked his watch and swung his legs off the bed. He stood up slowly, mindful of his weakened state. He’d slept on and off for over twelve hours and yet he still felt groggy. His enforced diet of bottled water and crackers hadn’t triggered any further sickness, but it wasn’t going to sustain him for much longer. He was glad the operation would soon be underway and he would be able to leave this godforsaken place. Then could he relax, eat decent food again and regain his strength.
He took a shower, scrubbing his hands like a man with a disorder. He dressed in lightweight trousers and a cotton T-shirt. He packed his clothes and emptied the safe, putting his passport and money in his pockets. He was ready to leave. The only thing he hadn’t packed were the three pouches of H-1 that were still in the refrigerator.
He walked to the window and looked out over the busy port a couple of hundred yards away. He saw a cruise ship, a few large tankers and half a dozen smaller cargo ships tied against the dock. Other vessels navigated the turquoise waters beyond. He couldn’t see the MV Sea Star, but her captain had acknowledged Philip’s text message and confirmed the ship’s safe arrival in Mumbai. Philip had the necessary papers clipped inside his passport and he was expected aboard soon. The ship would then weigh anchor, sailing with the evening tide as Mumbai descended into hell behind them.
He sat back on the bed and decided to watch the news for a little longer. He’d barely settled when he heard a quiet tap on the door. He got up and peered through the spy viewer, recognising the distorted face. He opened the door.
He was expecting Jamal, but not the two men who hurried into the room behind him. Fool, Philip cursed himself. His illness had weakened him both physically and mentally. One of the men went to the window and pulled the drapes closed, while the other checked the bathroom, sweeping the shower curtain against the wall. Both of them nodded to the third man who stood in the middle of the room.
‘How are you, Philip?’
‘Jamal,’ Philip nodded. ‘I wasn’t expecting company.’
Jamal cocked his head towards the TV. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see that.’
Philip said nothing, unwilling to admit his own ignorance.
’I think we should talk,’ Jamal said.
Philip sensed the borderline belligerence, a precursor to confrontation, something he wasn’t prepared for. Jamal Bashir was a former agent in Pakistan’s premiere intelligence agency, the ISI, but now he was a contractor, just like Philip. Jamal had carried
out many assignments for Northridge over the years, in both Pakistan and across the border in Afghanistan. He’d always been a trusted professional, but more than that, Jamal harboured a passionate hatred for India, something he’d discussed with Philip many times over the course of their relationship. It was why he was stood here, in Philip’s Mumbai hotel room. Technically, this was Jamal’s dream job, a chance to deal a terrible blow to his sworn enemy and get rich in the bargain.
But things had changed, Philip could sense it. Jamal stood in the middle of the room, his thick, muscular forearms crossed defensively across his barrel chest. He wore a baggy shirt, tracksuit pants and Nike trainers, and he reminded Philip of a stereotypical bad guy from a Bollywood movie. His two friends were similarly dressed. One had a shaved head and a religious beard, while the other had collar-length hair and kept his sunglasses on. And they were all armed, Philip’s experienced eye noticed. He also saw the outline of a concealed holster beneath Jamal’s shirt, a tell-tale bulge just above the waistline of the Beard’s jeans. Sunglasses wasn’t giving much away, only that he was an amateur. No serious professional wore shades inside a hotel room.
Philip didn’t deal with amateurs. They were a liability. Jamal was a serious player, always professional, discreet, so why bring these two with him? This was beginning to feel more like a drug deal.
‘You want to talk? Fine, we can do that. Alone,’ he added for emphasis.
Jamal shook his head. ‘No, my friend. We’ll talk now.’
Philip knew he was at a serious disadvantage. In his weakened state, unarmed and physically outnumbered, it was Jamal who held all the cards. ‘Talk about what exactly?’
Jamal tipped his head towards the TV. ‘Mumbai will go pretty much the same way, no? It wasn’t something we discussed.’
‘Yes it was,’ Philip insisted. ‘I’ve briefed you on the mission, proscribed the antiviral, advised on your escape route out of the city. What were you expecting?’
The antiviral that Jamal had been issued was a placebo, nothing more than a course of aspirin. Like most involved with the H-1 program, the man was expendable.
