The Devil’s Noose

by Michael Angel

  “That’s good to know,” he admitted. “But what about the parts at the end? Who’s the ‘man in the tower’, or the ‘storm’ that’s referred to?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. It’s the vaguest thing DiCaprio’s sent me to date.”

  “But the sentences before that are very clear. ‘Treat the unknown with care. Watch your back. Not everything is as it seems.’ Which reminds me, I have something I want to give you.”

  Navarro reached under the table to unsnap a case. He pulled out a strip of nylon fabric and set it between them.

  “That’s a concealed shoulder holster. I’ll get you a weapon for that after we land. Your file said that you’ve had firearms training.”

  “I’ll pass,” she said, with a shake of the head. “You said that you’d be able to keep me safe, and I’m going to hold you to your word.”

  “Never hurts to have a backup. You sure about that?”

  “I’m sure. It’s a professional thing. Guns make holes. People like me, who search for lethal pathogens, don’t like holes. Holes lead to death. Which is funny considering we’re traveling towards the Mother of all Holes right now to search for a lethal pathogen.”

  “How do you feel about that?” Navarro asked, as he gave her a careful look. “I mean, how are your nerves?”

  “I’m coping.” Austen set her hand on the table. Her fingers quivered. “Since you read about my firearms training, I figured you read the rest of the file as well.”

  “I think I figured out the origin of your spot of night. Your experience with Black Nile hemorrhagic fever. How you got thrown into the hot zone with minimal protective equipment. How you had to deal with the bodies, the blood. The darkness. All while getting shot at.”

  “Well, it’s why I have a lot of respect for Mother Nature. That bug wiped out nearly every single team member sent to study it. And because of my experience…” Austen’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “The brass at the CDC felt I couldn’t cope with a mission like this. And with the ‘Seven Angels’ thing…they told me in so many words I didn’t have much of a future there.”

  Navarro placed his hand over hers for a moment, stilling the quiver there.

  “I won’t tell anyone.” He moved his hand from hers and pointed to the scar that ran down the side of his face. “We all need our secrets.”

  “I won’t be poking into yours,” she assured him. “You know, your service file didn’t say anything about your scar. So, I’m going to guess that before you joined up, you had a jealous ex with a violent streak.”

  He laughed. “What’s the pool up to?”

  “Six cases of beer.”

  “Six? Well, I’ll be damned. Someone’s feeling their oats.”

  A chime, and the overhead speakers came on again.

  “This is the captain. Herr Blaine has provided us clearance ahead to Ozrabek airspace. Please return to your seats and belt in for the duration of the flight. We should be on the ground in thirty minutes.”

  Austen paused a moment. “There’s something else you need to know. About my past experience with Ian.”

  “I’m all ears, Leigh.”

  “When I left the CDC, I was hard up for work. Blaine offered me a job at his start-up. They were genetically modifying the mousepox virus to destroy cancer cells. DiCaprio warned me against it, but I joined anyway.”

  “What happened?”

  “The experimental strains they created there…I had them tested. Those strains were too risky, too unstable to use on humans. I confronted Ian with my concerns, and he fired me on the spot. Then he spread the word that I didn’t have the right ‘temperament’ to work in practical research. So, nobody hired me, not until Joe Widerman gave me a shot.”

  “I remember what you said back at Whitespire,” Navarro said. “That Blaine shouldn’t have been able to show his face at the CDC either.”

  “That’s because the mousepox therapy crashed people’s systems, putting them into cardiac arrest. Or worse. But it only came out six months after the company went public.”

  “Blaine weathered the scandal?”

  Austen shook her head. “He’d already resigned and cashed out enough stock to bag a couple million in the process. That’s why I’m curious about what you read from Blaine. He’s made his pile already. Why is he back at the CDC, leading this charge into the unknown?”

  Navarro moved his jaw side-to-side in thought.

  “I’ll tell you what I see when I look at Ian Blaine,” he finally said. “I see a new, young wife. A new, big house on a new, upscale street. And an even bigger debt, held by someone who wants payment in full. Soon.”

  He glanced up sharply as he heard a startled curse.

  “Hot damn! Would you look at that!” Redhawk exclaimed, as he stared out one of the plane’s windows.

  “Bozhe moi!” October breathed, as he peered out next to him.

  Austen and Navarro moved to the window closest to them. Their plane flew through bright blue morning skies. Clear skies, except for what lay directly before them.

  A single vast cloud, taller than it was wide, hovered over a great brown scar or crater in the earth. It cast an aerial skyscraper of a shadow across the rugged terrain. And it terminated at the top in a roiling puffball like the deadly mushroom-headed cloud from a nuclear explosion.

  “It’s coming from the Karakul,” Navarro said, his voice full of awe. “That mine’s big enough to generate its own weather.”

  Austen couldn’t tear herself away from the sight. The plane drew closer, banking around to the left. The morning sun shone directly through the cloud at one point, illuminating it.

  Bright grays and oranges glimmered like poison-studded lava flows. As the jet passed through the formation, she glimpsed vast networks of reddish veins shot through with ash. Those veins passed on either side of the wings, a pair of curtains being drawn back to reveal the smoldering entrance to Hell itself.

  Chapter Twelve

  Breakaway Region of Ozrabek

  Central Asia

  A spine-tingling rumble filled the room as boot-clad feet stamped upon the metal bleachers. The scents of burnt tobacco, stale alcohol, and body sweat made a heady mix. The soldiers were familiar with the ritual, but they still grew excited at the prospect of seeing blood spilt.

  Below the rows of bleacher, the dogs paced their cages. They too heard the sounds, smelled the scents. They snapped idly at the air.

  They knew what was to come.

  The men’s commanding officer sat in the equivalent to an opera box, a lit cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. He was accompanied by the comely woman with lustrous black hair. She watched with expressionless eyes as two men worked below to rake an oval of sand clean.

  The oval made up a small arena, no bigger than an average-sized bedroom. No more room was needed for the fighters. The sand had been bleached sugar-white. It cost more to truck in. But the salty whiteness made the blood stand out better, and that made the men happier.

  Sacrifices had to be made.

  Once the men were done, the stamping and the metallic rumble increased in volume.

  The crash of a gong signaled the start. With a clatter, the doors to three cages rattled open. The men were on their feet now.

  Shouts of ubiystvo, ubiystvo! and attilik tileymin! filled the air as the men cheered.

  A gray-furred wolf fresh from the wild slunk out of one cage. A feral look of fear and aggression gleamed in its eyes. Another cage disgorged a Siberian husky, driven to ferocity by its keepers’ beatings. The last to enter was a Tibetan mastiff, an ebony-furred female who wore the commander’s golden collar around her neck.

  Threatening growls echoed off the roof as the animals circled each other. Slowly, the three drew close enough to bring their razor-sharp teeth to bear. Egged on by the crowd and forced together by the tiny arena, the canines turned on each other.

  Sinew and fur and muscle blurred. Crimson watered the salt-colored sand. The men stamped and che
ered as the animals tore at each other. When it was blessedly over, the snarls and yowls of pain faded away. It was replaced by the sound of coins changing hands.

  Eventually, the crowd broke up and returned to their duties. The air hung thick with the scents of spattered blood and spilled entrails.

  “I don’t understand the attraction of this sport,” the black-haired woman finally said. “Why do this?”

  “Why?” her companion replied, with a chuckle. “It should be obvious.”

  He paused for a moment as the mastiff, the sole survivor of the morning’s entertainment, was brought by the box by its keeper. The dog panted heavily at the end of a loop of iron chain, and her tongue lolled, dripping red-tinged lather. Wounds ran the length of her body, matting her fur and turning it dark brown.

  The Commander stood. He smiled and found an unmarked spot on the animal’s neck to pat. Generously, he pressed a sum of money into the keeper’s hands. The man bowed before leading the dog out to where he could once again stitch up her injuries.

  “Why do I do this?” the Commander mused aloud, between drags on his cigarette. “For one, I love dogs.”

  “You have a strange way of showing it,” the woman replied.

  “Perhaps. Yet it is also strange to hear disapproval from you. A woman who has condemned entire villages to death in order to test out her little pets.”

  “That is not the same thing. I don’t claim to love human beings.”

  “Is that so? In that, we are indeed different.” He turned and leaned back against the wall of their box next to her. “My men and I follow the code of Daichin Tengri. If you accepted it too, you would know that it extols the love of fellow humans.”

  “The Mongol god of death and war? Where does that deity promote the love of one’s fellow man?”

  “My god loves those who are worthy of surviving and carrying on. When a storm comes and knocks down a forest’s trees, the ones that grow back are stronger. Better. They may be dormant for a time, but they – like we of the Daichin – shall and will return to make a place in the world.”

  “You may consider yourselves descendants of those people. But you’ve been dormant a long time.”

  “Not for much longer. With the help of our smallest allies, we shall carve out our place in the world yet. You shall see the glory of it.”

  Her reply was sharp, too sharp for the man’s taste.

  “I’m not one of your cultists.”

  “Then remember your place, Westerner.” The Commander exhaled a lungful of smoke and leaned forward to rest a hand high up on the woman’s leg. His thumb made a lewd, lingering circle on the inside of her thigh.

  “My place–” she gasped, but he cut her off.

  “You are very good. Good at playing a warm, eager companion on a cold night. But you serve only one purpose in the greater plan. Find me the thread within the skein of yarn before us. The hidden strain that will carry my people to glory. Or you will find I am not so forgiving over your continued attempts to influence me.”

  “Commander! Commander!” came a cry. One of the man’s subordinates dashed up to the box, quickly dipping his eyes in submission before reporting. “The tower has reported in. Two more planes are on approach. One is definitely a military transport aircraft.”

  “Interesting,” came the reply. “And I thought all of the West would be asleep at the switch. Perhaps we should blow them out of the sky on approach. It would make things simpler.”

  “We can’t risk that,” the woman said quickly. “There are people on those planes that I need. We won’t find the thread you seek without them.”

  A twitch of the lip. Finally, the Commander bowed to the inevitable.

  “Very well. But we’ve been waiting too long as it is. Someone will tumble to what I am doing, sooner or later. I want to be ready to move within the next forty-eight hours.”

  “A pathogen will not give up its secrets to fit your timetable,” the woman warned. “We need to know more. We need to test more.”

  “You have tested many things,” came the reply, and the man’s voice dropped to a chillier tone than she’d heard before. “But above all, you have tested my patience to its limits. Leave now. Hide what work you have done before they arrive.”

  “And you?”

  “I will make sure that our visitors see what they are supposed to see.”

  She considered arguing further but thought better of it. Instead, she got up stiffly and left the arena without another word.

  The subordinate lingered a moment longer. “Your orders, sir?”

  “My orders?” He took a last pull from his cigarette and tossed the butt onto the stained sand below. “First, we need to round up a squad of men. Ones we can trust.”

  “And after?”

  “What else?” Teeth gleamed from a cold smile. “Let’s go play host to the Westerners. If any of them see too much, we kill them all.”

  PART TWO: THE PIT

  Chapter Thirteen

  The airstrip at the Karakul’s compound left much to be desired.

  Long strips of tarmac lay cracked from neglect and moon-cratered by mortar fire. The Falcon and the Antonov had to taxi around potholes that could have easily swallowed and broken landing gear struts. The airfield’s condition matched the dilapidated gray buildings and streets that surrounded it.

  The area around the Karakul had sunken slightly, creating a shallow bowl. This bowl had been crammed tight with the mining facility, landing strip, and military outpost right next to each other. From the air, the compound looked like a dull gray agate set amidst a sea of rolling plains, remote forest and desolate hills.

  Austen pulled on a thicker jacket in preparation for the cooler weather as she peered through one of the jet’s windows. At first glance, it was hard for her to pick out any boundaries at all. All of the buildings had been constructed in the Soviet-era style of piling cinder blocks into long, shabby rectangles.

  Eventually, she was able to tell that the mining operations had been run out of a cluster of houses covered in rust-colored paint. The more recently erected military buildings were a faded drab olive.

  “You’re on to something,” Navarro agreed, as she pointed this out. “The base of that huge cloud rises from just beyond those older houses, so that’s where the Karakul’s drop-off begins. It makes sense to put the processing centers close to the pit.”

  “Everything’s clustered together tightly out there,” Redhawk observed, from the window next to theirs. “That’ll make it easier for me to set up the drone patrols at least. Helps that it’s all one or two-story buildings and narrow streets out there.”

  October considered the same view. “Bad for snipers. Good for ambush.”

  “Works both ways,” Navarro noted, as he pointed to the location’s main thoroughfare. “I want to establish defensive positions along that road between here and the airstrip. We can pull out quickly if things go to pot.”

  “Looks like they’re rolling out the iron carpet for us, at least,” Austen said, as a pair of men pushed a set of wheeled airport steps up to the side of the plane.

  “And a reception party,” Navarro added, nodding towards an olive and khaki colored group of officers waiting patiently for them at the edge of the runway. “Let’s see what kind of welcome we get before offloading our men from the Antonov. The last thing we want is to look like an invading horde.”

  Austen’s first impression, once she’d descended the creaky steps, was one of bleakness. The predominant color of the surroundings, even with the faded paint, was monotonous gray. The smell of dust dried her lips and left a sour taste in her mouth.

  She did her best to ignore these sensations as she and Blaine led the way across the tarmac, backed up by Navarro, Redhawk, and October’s imposing bulk. The delegation awaiting them consisted of two Kazakh officers flanked by a half-dozen armed soldiers.

  The senior officer wore the shoulder boards of a general across a pair of broad shoulders. That same broadness c
ontinued down the body, giving him the appearance of a fireplug. His subordinate was built in the same manner, though taller and more compactly.

  Both men had a similar mixture of European and Asiatic features. Pronounced jawlines, slightly dished noses, and almond-shaped eyes dominated their faces. A set of heavy pouches under the general’s eyes hinted at too little sleep and too much vodka. His fellow officer simply looked bored.

  “Greetings,” Blaine began, as they came to a halt before the men. “My name is Ian Blaine, and I am here under the auspices of the WHO’s International Health Accord–”

  The general let out a dismissive snort.

  “Vy govorite po-russki?” he asked.

  Blaine hesitated. Navarro looked up and nodded to October.

  “Ya delayu. Oni ne,” the big man rumbled.

  The older officer’s mouth twitched before speaking again.

  “So be it. I am General Yevgeni Votorov. People’s Army of Kazakhstan.” He gestured to his subordinate with a careless wave. “This is Colonel Aleksey Chelovik. Who is commander here?”

  Again, Blaine tried to step up. “Sir, I believe that I am in–”

  “You? You are diplomat. Wait your turn.” The man’s tired eyes scanned the rest of the group. “Which of you is lead doctor?”

  Austen took a deep breath before plunging ahead. Hostile microbes frightened her. Hostile men just gave her pause.

  “My name is Doctor Leigh Austen,” she stated calmly. “I’m the lead doctor here. I’ll be taking charge of the mobile field epidemiological lab. I hope to be able to save some of your people from the sickness here.”

  “You are hopeful like child, then.” Votorov said dismissively, then asked, “Which leads troops?”

  “That would be me,” Navarro said. “Nicholas Navarro, of Motte and Bailey private security.”

  “Then you can answer: why do you bring armed men into my base?”

  “I don’t bring armed men into anyone’s operational area,” Navarro said firmly, as he took a step forward. Chelovik raised an eyebrow as he took note. “That only causes problems. I am only here to protect Doctor Austen and those working under her.”