ARES Virus: Arctic Storm (28 page)

“Sir. Just to clarify. We are
not
dropping the normal rabies virus in advance of ARES, correct?” Koenig queries.

“That’s correct, Colonel. We will proceed immediately with the ARES drop and make it look like a spill of the same virus that infected Pineville. This will actually simplify the operation, as it won’t require the elaborate inclusion of the WHO or CDC. We simply have the CDC verify that it’s the same virus, and we deploy. It won’t be difficult to have the host nation grant us authority to take over operations once they realize what has happened. The NSA will also prepare documents and video that will loosely claim that Pineville was just a test, just the beginning. If this goes well from the public relations end, we’ll have a firmer hold in the Middle East and will bring some of our reluctant allies back to our side. Pictures that we’ll release from Pineville coupled with the thought of terror groups possessing something as terrifying as ARES should bring them around…win-win,”

“We’ll begin readying ARES, sir. I assume we’ll receive a delivery location soon,” Koenig says.

“Good. The president has already okayed our changes, but I’ll get our firmed-up document in front of him tonight. You’ll receive the operational plan for Arctic Storm sometime tomorrow. The notice for deployments will also go out tonight, along with an operational order tasking the 11
^th
bomber wing for delivery. A public statement will be issued within the coming days that will imply a possible link to terrorist organizations. Colonel, I know that you’ll continue to have your hands full with Pineville. Will you be able to have ARES ready for deployment within the scheduled time?”

“Yes, sir. We’ll begin working on it immediately,” Koenig states. “Pineville seems to be winding down from an operational perspective. We should be able to hand most of it off to the CDC.”

“I want you to keep tabs on it, though. This has to flow perfectly.”

“I will, sir.”

“Very well. We’ll be busy in the coming days, so if there aren’t any questions, I suggest we get on with it,’ the SecDef states.

The screens darken one by one. Koenig turns off his camera, but continues to stare at the screen. Part of his mind is still reeling from the discussion. Frankly, he expected to have his ass chewed, or at the very least, be relegated to a lesser role. He certainly didn’t expect to still be included in planning sessions. He also didn’t expect the timetable for Arctic Storm to be accelerated because of the Pineville contamination. He knew the operation was on the horizon, but to advance the schedule this drastically may be asking for trouble.

Koenig has no qualms with the operation itself. Yes, there will be civilian casualties, but ridding the world of these extremist groups overrides any his concerns. There’s also the added benefit of firming up alliances. One of his worries is ARES itself. It’s his baby, yet the incomplete testing has him feeling uncertain. ARES is nasty, and the thought of it mutating in any capacity scares the shit out of him. Testing so far hasn’t indicated that it will, but they’ve only conducted short-term tests. All viruses seek to live and will mutate in order to do so.

Fuck it. It won’t be active long enough or spread far enough for it to do anything,
he thinks, turning his screen off.

He picks up his phone and dials Skier. Without any preamble, he says, “Turn it over to someone else there. I need you back here pronto. Things just became a lot more interesting.”

His next call is to the labs.

Indian Ocean

September 13

Captain Mike Williams stares out over the seeming endless expanse of water. Having grown up in Kansas, the vastness of the world’s oceans never ceases to amaze him. Like his visits to the desert, it is a world of contrasts. Empty, yet full of life; stark with its minimal detail, yet beautiful all the same. The sheer size of even the smallest ocean makes him feel small. He knows that he’s seeing something very few get to fully witness.

Having been stationed at Andersen Air Force Base in Guam for the past three years, he’s seen more water than land and has come to look at the oceans as one large basin of emotion. There are times when the waters are calm and serene, the rays of the sun reflecting off their mirrored surface. And he’s witnessed them become angry: a relentless force of nature. Most of the time, though, he looks upon the endless waters as being lonely, the unbroken seascape stretching from horizon to horizon.

Looking through the window of the B-52, the Indian Ocean reflects the beams of a near full moon about to set on the horizon. A wide ribbon of light shimmers on the waters in a dance of perpetual motion. He missed passing over the jungles of the Philippines, Indonesia, and Malaysia, having been assigned to crew rest. However, he’s seen those many times before; it’s the wide stretches of water that fascinate him.

The training/operations order arrived out of the blue, which lead to a hasty yet grinding mission planning session. The orders stipulate that he and the other three aircraft, spread out in formation behind, will simulate a low level attack against the seventh fleet operating in the Arabian Sea. After the simulated attack, while still flying at low level, they will launch three cruise missiles against targets in the Middle East—each launching a single missile with a fourth on reserve in case one fails. Aside from the orders marked Top Secret, he’s flown enough missions to know that the simulated attack is just a cover to fire the missiles without the launch being observed. In other words, something is going to be blown up and we didn’t do it.

He’s launched missiles into other nations before, but it’s been a rare occurrence. Most of the cruise missiles are usually fired from submarines or fleet ships. However, he’s never flown one shrouded in this much secrecy. He doesn’t even know the payload of the one missile onboard, and that’s never happened before. None of the crew knows, and that kind of intrigue, well, intrigues him.

The payload was loaded behind the closed doors of the hangars and the B-52s were wheeled out to the secured parking locations with armed security police stationed around them. You don’t step over the red line without being identified as approved personnel. Otherwise, there won’t be any questions coming at you—just high speed projectiles and an introduction into the next life.

He took the controls of the BUFF (Big Ugly Fat Fellow) just after they crossed into the Indian Ocean. Their flight is planned to the southwest over Indonesia and then, after dropping low, to turn to the northwest directly south of the tip of India. It’s a long mission requiring two crews for each aircraft and hooking up with tankers en route.

Williams looks to the side and behind, attempting to locate one of the other bombers against the dark velvet of the night sky. The leading edge of his bomber’s wing and the nacelles of the four engines are faintly revealed in the moonlight. He sees nothing else except for the pinpoints of light shining brightly against the dark background of the heavens where the horizon is only marked by the absence of light. Ahead, the tip of the moon sits just above the horizon, momentarily revealing the presence of one of his companion aircraft as the last ray of moonlight reflects off the windshield. The four bombers slip through the darkness alone.

Turning his gaze inside, his copilot’s helmeted face is dimly lit by the glow of the cockpit instruments. These long missions involve lengthy conversations followed by equally lengthy silences. With nothing to do at the moment and with nothing to share, this is one of the latter moments. That will change soon, but for now, each of the crew members at their station is lost in their own thoughts.

“Approaching checkpoint Charlie,” Williams announces over the intercom. “Time to earn our pay.”

He doesn’t radio the other aircraft as their mission is being conducted in radio silence. Besides, the aircraft know where they are and what the flight plan entails. Williams muses about conducting a mission in a BUFF (nickname for the B-52) with radio silence. Their radar signature is so large that anyone with a sheet of tinfoil can pick them up. The entire world knows where they are at the moment. However, when they drop down low, they’ll be lost in the ocean clutter. They’ll still have a heat signature, but when they launch in the middle of the fleet at that altitude, it will hopefully go unnoticed.

With a double-click over the flight frequency, Williams pulls each of the eight throttles back and begins a descent toward the waters below. They’ll conduct their simulated attack coming in from different angles while the fleet enacts their countermeasures. The computers will decide the outcome. The exercise will be conducted without air support, testing the fleet’s shipborne defenses only. After the exercise, the B-52s will fly through the screening ships and release their cruise missiles in conjunction with live missile launches from several of the escorts. Although live fire launches aren’t normally conducted with aircraft in the vicinity, this will disguise the heat signature from the cruise missile launches.

At a hundred feet above the waves, the formation makes their turn to the northwest and each of the other aircraft split off for their individual approaches. With the moon’s disappearance, the world outside has turned into total darkness with the horizon indistinguishable from the heavens. The only thing keeping them from slamming into the sea is their radar altimeter and navigation system.

“Checkpoint Echo,” Williams calls over the intercom, sending a flash coded signal to the fleet.

From here on out, everything will be choreographed and perfectly timed. Williams knows that at this altitude, they won’t be able to pick out any of the ships on radar until they’re much closer. At Checkpoint Foxtrot, with their computers in sync with those of the fleets via satellite, they begin their individual attack profile. They close in toward the outer ring of escorts, their target being the USS Ronald Reagan. They picked up its signature during their descent and have the approximate coordinates programmed into the computer, along with the radar signature of the large aircraft carrier. They’ll simulate a launch whereby the missile will track into the midst of the fleet searching for that signature. Once found, it will home in and detonate—provided it doesn’t get intercepted first. It’s fascinating to Williams how this battle will be fought entirely with computers, without any real missile or countermeasure launches, including their possible destruction. They won’t know the results until they land, many hours from now.

“We have a ping from one of the escort’s radars,” the EWO (Electronic Warfare Operator) calls. “Wait, it’s locked on.”

“Weapon status?” Williams asks.

“Armed and ready,” the EWO returns.

Williams ponders whether to wait until they are closer. That would give their simulated missiles more of a chance of hitting.

We’re in a BUFF, for God’s sake. There’s no way to get closer without being blown out of the sky
.

“Launch,” he orders.

“Weapons away. Countermeasures launched,” the EWO confirms.

With that, their part of the battle is complete. Williams eases the B-52 into a gentle turn away. That’s all he can do. Evasive maneuvers are near impossible at this altitude. With their wingspan, anything other than a gentle turn could dip a wing into the waves. Williams chuckles at the thought of the BUFF conducting evasive maneuvers to begin with. Any evasive maneuver the large bomber might attempt would take the entire state of Kansas to finish. He circles the aircraft at a distance, waiting for the computer generated call that the exercise is concluded. At that point, the five-minute countdown to their real launch will commence.

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Williams pushes the throttles up and aims toward a gap between the fleet’s escorts. The countdown began some minutes ago, and he adjusts his airspeed to be in position once the timer hits zero.

“Confirm weapon armed,” he calls.

“Confirmed,” the EWO responds

Even though they all have the timer depicted, it will be his call to launch.

“Standby to fire,” Williams calls.

The ships, invisible off to the side and a hundred feet below, slide by on the radar. Each tick of the counter seems like an eternity, yet too short at the same time. This close to the sea, he has to keep his eyes outside while the copilot focuses on the radar altimeter; he only knows the countdown sequence by the EWO announcing it. At ten seconds, the EWO counts each tick. He hears “zero.”

“Fire,” he orders.

The BUFF rocks slightly as the cruise missile is dropped. Seconds later, a streak of light appears off the nose as the jet engines propel the missile along its programmed path. At the same time, off to the side, another streak of light brightens the night sky. In the distance, he sees other missiles being fired from the escorting ships.

Well, that’s done, whatever it was
, he thinks, banking the aircraft and beginning a climb.

Once at altitude, he’ll wake the others and settle in for his crew rest.

At least I won’t have to fly the night refueling leg
.

Middle East

September 13

Abzari bolts upright, drawn from a deep sleep by an instinctual awareness earned through years of playing cat and mouse with the Western world. His heart madly thumps from his quick awakening and he frantically searches around the darkened room. Nothing springs out of the gloom. He listens carefully for footsteps creeping toward his door—for the telltale sound of a floorboard creaking. Even though everything appears quiet within the three-story abode, Abzari carries an uneasy feeling. After all, something woke him from a deep slumber, and he’s learned to pay heed to those feelings. That lesson has come at the cost of too many friends and colleagues, and nearly his own life on many occasions.

Quietly peeling back the single coverlet, he quickly dons his sandals and heads toward the window, taking care not to silhouette himself. Outside, stars shine brightly from a moonless sky. The view from the third-story window overlooks the small town—more of a village, really. A few dim lights show from other windows, but otherwise everything is dark, still, and quiet.

He looks down into the courtyard of the small compound, searching for furtive movements within the shadows. Nothing, which somehow worsens his anxiety. The compound is the property of a spice and fragrant oil merchant who is sympathetic to their cause. The house and other small buildings are offered to the upper echelon of freedom fighters while they are passing through, or as a meeting location for planning purposes. Abzari is not considered an upper echelon member, but as a messenger, he’s ingratiated himself enough with those who are, and is allowed to use the facility.

The village itself is neither sympathetic nor against their cause. They are just trying to eke out whatever living this valley in the mountains affords. However, with the training facilities nearby, they are certainly aware of what goes on, yet turn a blind eye. Having this compound and the training grounds in and near the village provides a sanctuary, as the Western nations do not bomb what they determine to be innocent civilians. If that weren’t the case, the fight for freedom would be inherently worse—most likely impossible. In Abzari’s mind, biased as it is, there are no innocents in this struggle for freedom. These civilians are whom he is fighting for…or against, in some cases.

The press of the Western nations has condemned freedom members to hide behind civilians. Even Abzari will admit the truth of that statement, but he doesn’t view it as hiding. It’s more like a survival solution. They don’t have the capabilities of the Western nations, so they have to utilize anything and everything they have available. The deaths the various freedom fighters have caused by their operations across the world aren’t necessarily targeted against the civilians themselves. Yes, they are meant to cause as many deaths as possible, but they need their message to be heard: Get out of our countries. The destruction is an attempt to make the price of continued interference too costly. The Western nations are too impatient to wage war for years and years. They haven’t yet learned the lesson that they can’t win a guerilla war—they just aren’t geared for it. Places like this one make the war survivable and able to sustain operations for generations.

However, that’s neither here nor there
, Abzari thinks, again looking out over the city.

He picks up the faint sound of helicopters, their rotor wash echoing off the surrounding mountainsides. The presence of helicopters is a familiar one in these parts. They’ve been a part of this valley for generations. First from the Soviets, and now from the United States and the devil’s allies. As a matter of fact, he would be worried if he didn’t hear at least one during the day. If the skies were silent, the odds are that an attack in the area was planned. The Western nations tend to avoid places they’re going to attack beforehand so that they don’t alert those in the area. What they don’t understand is that the very nature of their avoidance is signal enough. Of course, the freedom fighters have eyes and ears everywhere, so most operations are known beforehand.

“During the day is fine. It’s the ones flying at night that worry me. Those are flown by only one group of people,” Abzari mumbles, attempting to locate the sound’s direction.

The mountains make that difficult, as noises reverberate from every side. He concentrates on whether the rotors are fading, staying the same, or getting louder. The latter two would worry him.

He focuses and it appears that the noise generated from the rotor wash is remaining nearly constant; faint, but still there. He hastens out of his room, his robe swishing from his hurried movements. At a window on the other side of house, he picks up the same reverberations. Through the echoes, he’s able to determine that he’s not hearing just one helicopter, but several, if not more. They are distant, but there. And the fact that the sound is constant…

“Oh shit,” he mutters. “Not good…not good.”

He hasn’t stayed alive this long without jumping to immediate conclusions and running at the first indication of trouble. If he notices helicopters loitering in the area, he’s out. Although the Western nations won’t indiscriminately bomb a village unless they’re fired upon, and maybe not even then, there are drones and special forces that don’t abide by the same rules. With them, no place is safe.

Abzari hurries away from the window. Being the only one in the house, aside from those who live here permanently, there aren’t any high priority members to warn. Gathering a few meager possessions from his room, including a flagon of water, he gathers his robe in one hand and dashes down the stairs. He wakes the merchant’s son and tells him to find a place for the family to hide before scuttling outside.

The chilled air wraps around him as he races out of the back door. The compound is surrounded by tall adobe walls. Abzari pauses, peering into the darkened areas of the sandy lot, expecting to see the painted faces of Special Forces soldiers emerge from the shadows. There’s nothing but the bright twinkling of the stars overhead and the distant sound of helicopters.

Maybe I’m in time
, he thinks, locating one of several wells scattered throughout.

The one he has in mind is near one of the corners. It’s a brick dry well with the sides of the bottom carved out. It was specifically made to shelter VIPs in the event of an attack on the compound; they could lower themselves down the rope and crawl into the protective shelter. Anyone looking into the well won’t see the space, and as long as a stray leg or arm isn’t protruding, it will just look like an empty well.

Well, I’m the only one here at the moment
, Abzari thinks, starting across the open compound.

If he weren’t so anxious, his subtle pun would amuse him endlessly. If he makes it through the night, he’ll recount his thought many times around a campfire. “It’s like I was addressing the well directly,” he’ll say.

A sudden flash in the nighttime sky draws his attention. It was there and then gone, close to the outskirts of the village. The quick burst of light was nearly soundless, but the following roar of a jet engine passing quickly overhead isn’t. Abzari’s thought of
Oh fuck
is interrupted by a multitude of sparkling flashes over the city. Seconds later, there is a larger explosion on the opposite end of the city. Abzari barely registers the last one as he nears the speed of light racing toward the well.

Nearing the well, he feels the splash of minute droplets.

Oh fuck, oh fuck
, the thinks in a panic, wiping his face.
What in the fuck is that?

Grabbing a large stone from the side of the well, he drops it into a bucket attached to a rope. The rope unwinds quickly as the bucket plummets into the well and hits the bottom with a muted thump. Wiping his face again with the hem of his robe, Abzari climbs over the short wall surrounding the well, takes hold of the rope, and begins descending.

Reaching the bottom, he scrambles into the carved alcove. In total darkness, he can’t see if any part of him or his robe is protruding from the shelter, but he gathers everything he can feel and presses against the cool wall. He listens, knowing that he won’t hear distant sounds, but nearby ones will echo down to his enclosure. There’s nothing but a still silence.

That will change
, he thinks, feeling that an attack on the village is either underway, or about to begin.

Having spent most of his life fighting for freedom, he’s witnessed many things that never make the news. He knows that the Western nations can and will do things that wouldn’t exactly merit a popular opinion from the rest of the world when they think they can get away with it.

Given his attitude toward thinking the worst and what he’s witnessed so far, his fear is that some kind of nerve agent or poison was dropped. If it was something else, there wouldn’t be subtle explosions, but either a large one or a series of them. That’s his only explanation for the droplets he felt; he expects the pain to begin shortly. His panting breath is the only sound within the darkness. He’s not afraid of death as he knows that Jannah awaits. It’s a lingering, painful death that haunts him. If he’s to go, he wants it to be quick.

After all that I’ve been through, this is how it’s going to go down?
he thinks, trying to calm his racing and panicked thoughts.

He braces his mind for the first onset of pain or a twitch that indicates the agent is beginning to do its thing, but nothing comes. He removes the stopper from his flask and takes a sip.

An echoing scream penetrates his sanctuary, followed by another. Several others join in, a chorus of them.

That’s coming from the house. The nerve agent is starting in
.

He feels a moment of compassion for the merchant’s family. He’s witnessed the aftereffects of several agents in his time, and it’s never been pretty. The pain and intense agony one goes through before succumbing is said to be horrific. A cold sweat breaks out on his forehead, though he’s not sure if it’s from fear or the agent beginning to work on his system. His heart races and he’s barely able to breathe. Expecting pain to follow, he’s a little surprised by the lack of it.

He thinks that perhaps the agent that was dropped works differently, but the screams coming from above indicate otherwise. Taking out a dagger that never leaves his side, he takes another sip and settles his mind, accepting what is to come.

Not now, but if the pain becomes too great
, he thinks, rubbing the keen edge.

Screams from above fade in and out. Hours seem to pass, but the pain he keeps expecting never arrives. From the extent of the shrieks overhead, it must be a lingering, painful death. He’s never heard of such a long-lasting agent, but the evidence he hears says otherwise.

The Western armies don’t usually use nerve agents in their attacks
, he thinks, pondering whether perhaps the attack is from some rival group exacting revenge for something.

The duration of the effects would indicate some faulty agent, or one designed to enact a long, painful death. However, in this region, the numerous helicopters he heard could only come from a Western country. He lies under the ledge, perplexed.

The cold at the bottom of the well penetrates his robe, but Abzari remains still. Even though it would take someone staring straight into the well to see him if he stood, he’s not willing to take any chances on that kind of timing. Allah has seen fit to protect him from what is happening above and he’s not going to throw that good will to the wind. He stretches his legs and moves within the confines of the alcove to keep his blood flowing and to ease the cramping, but he doesn’t move out from under the protection.

After some time—how long, he’s not sure—the screams halt altogether. He isn’t certain exactly when that occurs, as his mind has been alternatively pondering the situation and thanking Allah. He knows that he’s meant to get through this if he is patient and holds true. What he’ll do afterward depends on what he finds once he feels that it’s safe to scale the rope.

After a while, the bottom of the well begins to lighten, indicating daybreak is well under way. He hasn’t heard anything since the last of the screams, but he knows those helicopters could have held foreigners that are merely waiting for the agent to wear off. He’s nearly certain they’ll come in, although he’s still confused about why they’ve used a nerve agent. He wonders if they were after someone, but no one was in the compound at the time of the attack. Nor was there anyone of importance here in the days prior or scheduled for some time after. Western intel is usually pretty good about those captures and assassinations.

With his thoughts turning in circles, Abzari concludes that it really doesn’t matter. He’s alive and he intends to stay that way. That will mean staying at the bottom of the well until he is absolutely sure that he can safely emerge. If he conserves his one flask of water, he can make it last for several days. He will have to mentally force himself to ration it. As for having to go to the bathroom, he’ll just have to trust that his timing is right and move the offal underneath the shelter to the other side.

Crap! Footprints
, he thinks, reaching out a hand to smooth the sandy floor in the dim light.

Late in what he determines to be afternoon, he hears the sounds of gunfire echo off the brick walls of the well, along with accompanying shrieks. He expected as much, but the onset of it startles him from his semi-slumber. He looks to the floor of the well to assure himself that there isn’t any trace of his inhabitance. Tucking his robe firmly around him, he crams himself tightly against the wall. Like the screams of the prior night, the gunfire fades in and out as the action draws nearer and farther from his redoubt. Then, it also disappears and silence again descends.