Biowar (23 page)

“You know what? You’re making me nervous. Did you take control of the Crow?”

“We have it.”

“Then come on yourself.”

“It wasn’t built for precision flying and we’re controlling it from here, rather than Space Command.”

Lia waited until the Crow fluttered toward the camera, heading directly for the lens. Just as it seemed as if it would poke into the box, Lia moved the glasslike device quickly over the opening. The pseudo-tumbler was actually a sophisticated video screen, at the moment transparently projecting the fence. In twelve seconds Rockman would flick a switch that would substitute a loop of that image for a real feed.

“We still have the Crow,” said Telach.

Lia trotted down the fence line. Once on the other side, she had to cross about twenty feet of open area before reaching the two vehicles parked at the side of the garage; this was by far the best spot to use to get inside the complex, but there was no cover from the fence to the buildings.

She tucked her gear into the small ruck attached to her belly. Except for her small hideaway pistols, her only weapons were a pair of tear gas grenades, flash-bangs, and a heavily customized Ingram Mac 11. The gun, which was loaded with 9mm slugs, had a carbon-fiber stock in place of the standard metal, and some of the metal in the body had been replaced with plastic or titanium for extra strength as well as lightness; a good number of water pistols were heavier. The modified Mac 11 retained the original’s excellent balance and light kick; it could be fired adequately with one hand. Lia had several magazines in her bag, as well as a noise suppressor that worked considerably better than the standard “muffler,” a scope, and a standard stock. The gun slipped as she started to climb; she nearly lost it and had to pull the strap awkwardly over her neck to get over.

She had just gotten down on the other side and pulled her computer back out for an update on where everyone was when Rockman hissed a warning in her ear.

“Two guards, with guns, coming from around the comer on your left.”

As Lia turned to look, she saw a gun barrel and boot turning the comer and realized she’d never bring her own weapon to bear in time.

34

“Stinking Air Force is never on time,” said Karr, glancing at his watch.

“First thing you said since you got here that I agree with.”

“You know what your problem is, Foster? You look at a glass and you see it’s half-full.”

“I look at a glass and I wonder who was drinking out of it,” said the Marine, who was sitting on the rocks next to the stream.

Karr laughed.

“What do we do if they don’t come?” asked Gidrey. “These guys are going to roast us after all your promises.”

“Wait.... Listen—”

“You talking to yourself again?”

“No, listen.” Karr put his hand to his ear. The drone of an MC-130 could be heard in the distance.

Foster and Gidrey didn’t react until the Special Forces cargo plane was nearly overhead. Guided solely by an onboard GPS system—Karr had fed the coordinates to them via the Art Room—the four-engined transport rode practically into the jungle canopy before rolling its load out the ramp at the rear of the plane. By the time the plane roared away, Karr and the Marines were hustling toward the crackling trees where the large skids of gear had come down. Six members of the Thai Army followed. One of the skids had landed at the edge of the water; the other leaned against a tree.

“Come on, let’s get going,” said Karr. “There’s supposed to be steak in here somewhere.”

Karr walked to one of the skids, taking out his knife to hack away the netting and plastic protecting the gear. Foster went to the other, and soon the Thai soldiers were donning body armor and passing out new weapons—Minimi machine guns and enough new M4s for everybody in the squad. The M4s were essentially short-barreled M16s, and the Thais had no trouble exchanging their older, worn-down rifles for them; the shorter length and lighter weight made them easier to handle and carry. The Minimis added firepower to the squads; though theoretically the weapons could be fired from the hip, as a practical matter the lightweight machine guns demanded either prone firing positions with the attached bipod or the use of a heavier tripod for accuracy. Gidrey gave a quick demonstration that emphasized the loading of the boxes that slapped into the underside of the gun; they held 200-round belts and were clear enough so a shooter could get an idea of how much ammunition he had left. Magazines from M16s could also be used in a pinch.

Meanwhile, Fisher and Karr continued sorting through the dropped supplies. There were several crates of M72 antitank missiles, night-vision gear, grenades, and radios.

And one sixteen-ounce porterhouse, packed in ice.

35

The Crow saved her. Its path took it back from the direction to the guards’ right, and the two men stopped in their tracks at the comer of the building, watching it.

Lia leaped forward, dashing across the lot toward the cars about twenty feet away. She jerked up the Mac 11 as she ran, then held it close to her body as she spun and dropped down between the cars on her butt. There was barely three feet of clearance between the bumpers, but the close space helped hide her as she sidled to the left, sliding behind the small VW sedan.

The guards watched the Crow flutter away, then resumed walking, checking the fence line and jabbering in Austrian-accented German so quickly that Lia couldn’t make out what they were saying.

“That was close,” said Rockman as the two men turned the far corner, walking by the trailers.

“Why the hell didn’t you warn me?” asked Lia.

“They came up out of the basement entrance at the side. We never saw them.”

“Don’t let that happen again,” she told the runner. “You’re supposed to be watching for me!”

“Really, Lia, recriminations are unnecessary,” said Rubens in her ear. “I’m sure we can all find plenty of areas for improvement.”

“Just make sure they’re improved before I get fried,” said Lia. She pulled out her handheld. She had a sit map but no visual from the Fokker. “Where’s Eyes?” Lia asked.

“The helicopters are too close. We have to keep the Fokker back,” said Telach.

“Yeah, but I’m here, damn it.”

“Your language, Ms. DeFrancesca, is hardly professional,” said Rubens. “Focus on obtaining your objective. Mr. Dean is now entering the compound. Once he’s inside and the helicopters back off, we should have an easier time of things. You’re not in any danger.”

“What sort of guns do the guards have?”

“Excuse me?”

“Those were Steyrs, right?”

“Very possibly.”

“Just wanted to make sure they weren’t cap guns.”

“They’re coming back,” said Rockman.

Dean followed Hercules into the building they had stopped at earlier, walking down the corridor next to him. His head hurt too much now for him to keep track of where he was going, let alone to anticipate what would happen next; he wasn’t quite to the point where he didn’t care anymore, but he was getting close. Sweat poured from his body, and he felt as if he’d been pummeled by a dozen heavyweights.

“Through that door,” said Hercules as they came to the end of the hall. A large metal door with a panic bar stood at his right.

Dean pushed outside. A wave of cold hit him; his teeth began to chatter.

“You really aren’t feeling well, are you?” said Hercules.

“No,” said Dean.

“Well, come then. This will be over quickly. One way or the other.”

36

Rubens paced behind the consoles, suddenly worried about Dean and whether he could pass the test. He thought about ordering his crash team in. Made up of Desk Three paramilitaries—all of them Black Suits specially trained in hostage rescue and terrorist suppression—the team could have Dean safe within eight minutes.

Eight minutes would probably be too late.

Dean had been a Marine sniper in Vietnam; he was used to dealing with uncertainty. Rubens knew intellectually he’d be all right and yet couldn’t shake the sense of dread and worry.

“There are two men in that first trailer, the one that has all the computer gear. That’s where they’ll take Dean,” said Telach. “I think they’re holding off the lab for later, if at all.”

“Have you tapped into the trailer’s computers?”

“Can’t. They’re not connected to anything. The only reason I know they’re there is from the infrared on the Crow.”

“Can Lia get into them?” asked Rubens.

“Not as long as there are other people in the trailer. Best bet is to get her inside the building once the guards complete their circuit. We’ll see what we can do from there.”

“The buildings are just for show, or just temporary,” said Rubens, realizing how the operation was set up. “The trailers are the key. See if you can get registration data, that sort of thing.”

“We’re already working on it.”

“Work harder,” said Rubens. “We have a man under the gun there.”

“And Lia.”

“And Lia, yes,” said Rubens.

37

Dean’s legs wobbled as he went up the steel steps at the back of the large white trailer. From the outside, it looked like a generic trailer, the sort that would be used in the States to transport any number of things, the kind that clogged the nation’s highways and byways. The only hint that it might be something more than a trailer was the second door behind the folded-out rear gate.

“Just turn the handle,” said Hercules, behind him on the steps.

Dean fumbled with the inset steel ring. The door opened with a slight hitch, and Dean felt a rush of crisp air hit him at the side of the face. The cold air helped, and his legs steadied as he walked inside.

Natural-hue fluorescents filled the interior with a soft light. Dean stepped across the threshold into a paneled room that could have been a waiting area for a dentist. A tall young man with a goatee stood at the door opposite the entrance. He had a smirk on his face and said something to Hercules that Dean didn’t understand.

“They’re going to quiz you,” said Rockman in Dean’s head. “They’re speaking Greek, but it’s not their first language. It may be for Hercules’ benefit, or it may be to cross you up since they know you don’t know it. We’re working on getting IDs here.”

Dean coughed as an acknowledgment. Hercules looked at him with some concern, then led him through the door into a room with computers, through that room, and into another set up like a small classroom or lecture center, with a white board at the front and six student desk-chairs crammed together. Hercules gestured at the front row and Dean sat down. A clean-shaven man in his late twenties came out from a door at the end of the room; he had a large metal detector in one hand and a device to search for bugs in the other.

Hercules started to object, speaking quickly in Greek.

“That’s been done twice,” interpreted the Art Room.

The man continued anyway, ending by directing Dean against the wall and patting him down. Finally satisfied, he directed Dean back to the chair.

“Tell me about your work with viruses,” he said.

“You don’t work with viruses, you work with bacteria,” said the Art Room specialist.

“What really are you looking for?” answered Dean.

“Perhaps you’d like something to drink,” said Hercules. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Water’d be good,” said Dean. “Boil it first, though.” The others laughed.

“Afraid of catching germs?” said the clean-shaven man.

“E. coli’s
everywhere,” said Dean.

The man smirked. “Any strand in particular?”

Dean suddenly felt angry at being jerked around. He was tired, and the fever that had started earlier now burned through him like a barn fired by kerosene on a hot July afternoon. He couldn’t deal with this anymore.

“You want to talk about water, or you want the antidote? What the hell is it that you want? One guy asks me about
E. coli,
the other guy wants me to build him a DNA sequencer.”

“We want to make sure you’re not a spy,” said the clean-shaven man. “We understand Dr. Kegan has already been visited by the FBI.”

“Who says?”

“Don’t act for us.”

Dean held out his hands. “Do I look like the FBI? Would they send someone with a hundred-and-four fever?”

“Is your fever really that high?” asked the voice in Dean’s head.

The clean-shaven man glanced over at Goatee, but neither man said anything.

“Dr. Kegan assured us he would be here himself,” said the clean-shaven man. “And yet he is not. And he has not answered our E-mails.”

“I’m not sure about his plans,” said Dean. “He asked me to come to Europe in his place.”

“Then how do you know about our business?”

“I don’t,” said Dean. “I don’t know anything beyond what I’ve been told.”

The clean-shaven man frowned. The two men started talking. Even before Rockman told him that they were arguing whether it would be better just to get rid of him, Dean realized he was in trouble.

“Let’s take a guess,” said the Art Room scientist, whispering in his ear.
“S. moniliformis.
Rat-bite fever.”

Oh sure, you take a guess and I end up in the sewer, Dean thought.

“My fever’s not part of your problem,” Dean told the two men. “Unless there are a lot of rats running around.”

The two men looked at each other.

“Moniformis?”
said the clean-shaven man.

Dean looked at him, trying to puzzle out what the man expected as the answer.

“The bacteria is
S. moniliformis,”
said the voice in Dean’s head. “He said it wrong. He’s trying to trip you up.”

Or it was an innocent mistake, thought Dean.

“Mon-il-i-form-is,”
said Dean, sounding out the syllables. “You left out il. Ill.” He started to laugh. “Get it? Don’t worry. I have food poisoning, nothing else.”

“Moniliformis or spirillum?” said Goatee, in English.

“Different type, related disease,” said the voice. “Both types of rat-bite fever.”

“Why?” asked Dean, stalling.

“You can identify the type of disease by doing a blood culture,” said the Art Room expert.