Bioterror

by Tim Curran

  It had begun with a phone call from her puppet masters. “The Defense Department is seeking exotic technologies to be employed in the Middle East. They’ll want something inexpensive and nearly impossible to trace. DARPA, ARO, the NSA, the ONR…all of them will be submitting their proposals. As will CBT. You will find research on a project called BioGenesis in the S5 files. You will pitch it to the DoD and win the contract.”

  That’s how it began. Project BioGenesis was born. Once the final stages of R & D were complete, it was field tested in Iraq at a small agricultural village called Nkudbkah. The results were nearly instantaneous and devastating. Within three days of aerosol dispersal, 98% of the village was infected. BioGenesis was effective and field-tested. It was not used again. At least, that’s what the word was.

  But that wasn’t exactly true.

  Elizabeth hadn’t understood completely at the time what was going on. It was only now that it made sense. The Collective used the DoD to create a situation they could later exploit. Even the Old Man, who supervised the research on BioGenesis, wasn’t privy to the big picture. He didn’t know that a new generation of parasites had been engineered from the ones he and his team had created. The original breed had wiped out Nkudbkah, but weeks later a new and improved strain was sprayed over the area to test its survivability and adaptability.

  And through this zone of contamination—which had absolutely no strategic value—a variety of U.S. troops were marched. Once again, The Collective had manipulated things. Marine and Army units passed through the area, many of them sent far afield from their theater of operations. And nearly all of them were infected by a particularly nasty parasite which was designed to go dormant inside them for several years. As far as anyone was concerned, BioGenesis was over with. Meanwhile, The Collective sat back and bided their time, watching for a sign of resurgence.

  And now that had happened.

  Now the parasites were active and spreading across the nation and soon, the globe.

  But that had been The Collective’s intention from the very beginning. It was part of their overall plan. They had used the war in Iraq and the Department of Defense to create a situation that would seed a greater, more ambitious scenario.

  Other such scenarios had been played out in the country more than once.

  To meet the objectives of certain clandestine agendas which would be in direct conflict with the needs and lives of the general population, a conflict was created. The ruling class—The Collective—engineered an artificial crisis that both enraged and numbed the public, who would then throw their civil rights and common sense to the wind and beg the powers that be to intercede on their behalf. The ruling class was then given a free hand to manipulate events and crush personal freedoms with absolutely no fear of repercussion. The public became dazed, wide-eyed children triggered by fear and uncertainty, begging adults for intervention—help us please, do what you need to do but save us from our enemies.

  Herd instinct was a simple animal stimulus response and humans were hardly exempt. The Collective was so good at such things that they regularly influenced the public’s perception. They knew their patsies and how to play them. The public’s Pavlovian response was typically simple-minded and predictable to the extreme.

  This scenario had been historically very effective. It had been used at Pearl Harbor to draw the country into World War II, in the Gulf of Tonkin to escalate U.S. involvement in Vietnam, and, more recently, on 9/11 to throw the military-industrial might of the country into the so-called War on Terror.

  And the one that was going on now would be the biggest, most ambitious scenario ever attempted. BioGen would weaken the country and horrify the populace. The Collective would use this to advance their agenda of full spectrum dominance via a military coup played out by puppets like Bob Pershing at the CIA, General Mason at the JCS, and Admiral Paulus at ONI.

  What came after that was the question that Elizabeth could not answer. She only knew one thing—BioGen and the resulting coup would only be the first phase of something much larger, something that was closely guarded by The Collective. What that was, she did not know. But as Pershing and his crew of traitors were being played, she was certain that she was, too. Another puppet dangling on strings held tightly by the shadowy fingers of the masters of this world.

  Whatever it was, it was beginning to take shape and that’s what really scared her.

  LOUISVILLE, KY:

  SHAWNEE PARK, 8:49 P.M.

  "That’s it,” McKenna said. “Down there.”

  The pilot took them closer, flying directly over the park and the hive of activity below. As far as the police and emergency crews below were concerned, they were just another TV news chopper.

  “Cave said we got at least two- or three-hundred down there,” McKenna told Stein over the headset. “This is a farce. There’s no way to contain this now. Just no way. I don’t know why we’re bothering.”

  Stein sat in the rear cabin with McKenna, staring down on the mess below. He said nothing. A few hours before, Cave had gotten the both of them on a Learjet 85 to Fort Knox where they hopped on a chopper for air surveillance of the scene. They’d been buzzing it for the past ten minutes.

  “It was bound to happen,” he said over the set, dejected and spent. “And now it has. So the shit hits the fan.”

  Stein grunted. “It’s hitting everywhere. Don’t you read the papers? Surf the net?”

  “Nah. I don’t like to have opinions. It gets in the way.”

  The pilot made pass after pass with the chopper. It was a Gazelle, a stripped-down civilian version of the military helicopter. It was fast, dependable, and could carry a good load.

  “Cave’s contact on the Metro Police says they’re skinheads or neo-Nazis or some shit,” McKenna explained. “Cops were called in and this is what they found. A couple hundred people, totally comatose. Spooky.”

  “In more ways than one.”

  McKenna nodded. His mouth was dry.

  “Oh boy,” Stein said. “They’re loading them all up, taking them to the hospital. You know what’s going to happen then?”

  McKenna did.

  “The whole place’ll be infested by tomorrow or the next day. I want to see the Old Man cover this one up.”

  The chopper flew off and brought them back to Knox. There was very little they could do. The skinheads were in the hands of the local authorities now and things were about to go raging out of control.

  After they touched down, they stood around on the tarmac and brooded. They did not speak for some time. They avoided looking at each other.

  Finally, McKenna said, “What now?”

  “Maybe it’s time we bail,” Stein told him. “Remember what I said? That we’d know when the time was right? Well, it’s getting real close.”

  “Where would we go?” McKenna asked. “I mean, we’d have to go somewhere, right?”

  “We’ll worry about that when we get there. Just to be out of this mess will be enough for the time being.”

  “What about Cave? The Old Man?”

  “What about them?”

  “I don’t know. I feel like I’m letting ‘em down.”

  “Fuck them all. Fuck the Section. Fuck the Agency. Fuck Blackpool. Don’t go getting all patriotic on me, McKenna. That flag waving business has a time and a place. And, believe me, this isn’t it.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “Of course I am.”

  McKenna lit a cigarette. “You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you, Stein?”

  “No, I don’t. I’m going purely on instinct here. You with me?”

  “I’m with you. You know that.”

  Stein watched him very closely for a time like he wasn’t so sure he believed that at all. McKenna could not meet his gaze and he wondered if Stein was aware of that.

  “I’ll go see about our flight back to Chi,” Stein said. “We’re out of options here.”

  McKenna nodded, watched him walk away. When
he was gone he sighed deeply. He just hoped the wire had picked up all that.

  After this, there’d be no question of his loyalty.

  CHICAGO, NORTH SHORE:

  KENILWORTH, 9:51 P.M.

  Shawna was alone at Gabe’s house.

  Harry was off doing a little legwork, as he’d called it, and Gabe had a late dinner engagement. The staff were gone. Gabe thought that wise for the time being. So it was just Shawna in that big, rambling Tudor with too much time on her hands. There was a pool. Horses. Footpaths through the woods. A trout pond. An immense library. Plenty of ways to pass time.

  But when you didn’t exist... it just wasn’t fun anymore.

  And why start reading a book or watching an old movie when there was the nasty possibility you might not live to finish it?

  Why didn’t you just look the other way, Shawna?

  Because I couldn’t. Maybe some people could, but there was no way I could do that. I had to find out. I had to know. I had to see what the hell they were doing with that poor guy in the park.

  So, why didn’t you call the cops and let it go at that?

  Good questions. No good answers. She’d put her life on the line now and what had she gotten for any of it? More questions. Many more questions. That and a mystery she probably wouldn’t live to solve. But if she had to die, was it too much to ask that she be told the truth before they pulled the trigger?

  She went into the kitchen. She made herself a sandwich, a bowl of ice cream. Then thought: What the hell? Putting on weight isn’t much of a worry any longer. She raided the refrigerator, eating everything from pickles to pecan pie, smoked trout to frozen lasagna.

  One thing that all of this had accomplished for her was that she’d finally called her mother.

  It was Harry’s idea.

  She used her cell and when the conversation was completed, she tossed the phone into a dumpster. Harry’s idea, again. Cell phones were not much different than the electronic security bracelets or tethers that convicts wore: each had a beacon that constantly transmitted the wearer/user’s exact GPS coordinates. In the case of a cell, even when they were off or the battery was removed, the signal was there. It was simple enough to triangulate someone’s exact position in that way if you had the technology. And their perceived enemies had all kinds of toys.

  Shawna’s mother wasn’t unkind. No more so than any other time. She knew something was bothering her daughter, but Shawna wouldn’t tell her what it was. Her mother started telling her how she should find a man and settle down and how her father would have wanted it that way and did she go to church and why not because accepting Jesus into her life was just what she needed.

  Shawna had grinned through the entire monologue.

  Good old Mom. Same as always, only now she was incapable of getting under her skin. It was all hopelessly amusing and there were times as they chatted when Shawna wanted to laugh out loud and still others when she wanted to break down and cry. In the end, she promised her that she would be coming to visit her soon. Her mother made her swear on the Bible. And don’t you dare take that lightly, Shawny.

  It was, in retrospect, the best thing that had happened in days.

  Shawna wanted to go home… but if she did, would she be endangering her mother?

  CHICAGO: EVANSTON

  10:15 P.M.

  Harry studied the building real close as he approached.

  There were lots of cars on the streets, but none that looked overly suspicious. But he supposed if he was hoping to see a couple guys with silenced machine guns, he would be sadly disappointed. It would be nothing so obvious, he knew. He pulled the FedEx truck to a stop before the main entrance, right in the NO PARKING zone. But it was okay; he was delivering a package.

  He’d borrowed the truck from Dwayne Brown, his first wife’s brother.

  Unlike the rest of the family, Harry had kept in close contact with Dwayne. Dwayne was the kind of guy who could get you a ticket to any pro game in town. Bears were playing the Packers and the box office was sold out? No problem. Dwayne could fix you up. Same went for the Cubbies, White Sox, and Bulls. Oh, it would cost you, but he always had some. Dwayne also managed some very lucrative and very illegal sports lotteries and pools. When it came to pro sports and betting, he was the only guy to trust.

  Harry had borrowed his FedEx truck, jacket, and cap. And it had only cost him a hundred bucks. And this for an hour.

  “I’m making a run over to Rockford at four in the A.M., Harry,” Dwayne had said. “That truck better be in my driveway by then, you dig? And don’t go getting into trouble and having the cops run my plates. That’s a corporate vehicle and I ain’t gonna lose my job for this shit.”

  “No problem.”

  “Got a nice spread on the Lions/Bears game at the dome Sunday. You interested?”

  “How much?”

  “Hundred. Pays ten to one.”

  “Count me in.”

  Dwayne would bleed you dry, but what could you do?

  Harry needed to get into Shawna’s building and for that he needed a good cover. What better than a FedEx guy? Even if it was a little late for deliveries.

  He sat in the truck, his belly filled with tiny wings.

  This was the real thing here. No bullshit about it. The individuals they were dealing with killed people for a living. They arranged suicides. They swept nosy bastards under the carpet like dust bunnies. They buried them so deep the fucking worms couldn’t find them. That’s the kind of people these were.

  And this was why Harry was trembling.

  Maybe they weren’t watching Shawna’s place. And maybe they weren’t necessarily interested in him. But he didn’t believe that. These people were thorough.

  Damn right they’re thorough. You think they haven’t made the connection between you and Shawna yet?

  Maybe. Maybe not. Depended on how desperate they were.

  Taking a deep breath, he hopped out of the truck and waltzed right into the building like he belonged there. Under his arm was tucked a package and a clipboard. It didn’t matter that the package was for some guy in Hickory Hills. Nobody had to know that. He had the brim of his FedEx cap pulled down low so it would obscure his face a bit. He went up the stairs to Shawna’s apartment. He walked right by it like it didn’t mean anything to him. At the end of the corridor, he paused. He looked around and found he was quite alone.

  Get it over with, dipshit.

  He went back to Shawna’s door.

  It was locked.

  His heart pounding, his palms sweaty, he slid the key in the lock. It opened and he stepped in, closing the door quietly behind him.

  The apartment was empty.

  His skin feeling prickly and hot, he went from room to room. Everything had been methodically stripped and carted away. Even the furniture was gone. There wasn’t so much as a spoon or a slice of bread. No glasses in the cupboard. No food in the fridge.

  Somehow, it was worse than finding a couple thugs with guns waiting for him.

  His blood running cold, he left.

  AUGUST 26

  DETROIT: EAST DEARBORN

  12:44 A.M.

  While counterterrorist units hunted the wastelands of Afghanistan for Sheikh Sa’ad al Khalafari, he sat in a small cramped apartment above a furniture store on Warren Avenue drinking Shaymenno feeh, a light tea with milk.

  Sheikh Sa’ad had entered the U.S. illegally aboard a Lebanese tanker, disembarking by the light of the moon in Cleveland before making his way north to Detroit where he was warmly welcomed by al-Qaeda sleeper agents, who, for many years, had been prosperous Dearborn merchants.

  They did not question why it was he had come.

  They did not ask what was in the crates he carried.

  He had come highly recommended and his business was that of God, so why dare question?

  The ten crates Sheikh Sa’ad traveled with each contained three aluminum-shelled biological containment vessels that looked much like briefcases. And in them was
the very thing that would bring the United States and Israel to their knees. The technology had been harvested by the Iranian Pasdaran and then stolen by Sheikh Sa’ad and his confederates of Palestinian Islamic Jihad. Something the Iranians were very angry about.

  That the technology was horrendous beyond belief, Sheikh Sa’ad did not doubt. But in the war against infidels, one often had use such deplorable means. Besides, the technology had been invented by the Americans so why should they not inherit their own horrors and reap what they had sown?

  While his brothers played with incendiary agents and roadside bombs, loaded trucks or vans with fuel oil and fertilizer wired to acetylene tanks, vainly sought radioactive wastes…only Sheikh Sa’ad held the weapon which was the finger of God.

  There was a slight knock at the door and a woman stepped in.

  She did not greet Sheikh Sa’ad and he did not greet her.

  She stood there like some positively striking automaton in her skirted business suit which showed plenty of leg. She was a lovely woman, breathtaking really, with long, lustrous black braids sweeping over one shoulder, her cheekbones high, her face angular, her eyes a slow simmering green. Such a clean, pure, olive-skinned beauty Sheikh Sa’ad had never seen before and he knew, at that moment, that he viewed one of Allah’s finest creations.

  The woman looked very much like the high-priced personal secretary of an auto magnate that she indeed was. Though she had no accent and her English was flawless, she was of Iraqi Shia birth and was a member of Hezbollah. Her people had strong contacts with the Iranian Pasdaran and he wondered if one like her would be the instrument with which they would enact their revenge upon him and his network.

  Yes, she was clean and pure like the room itself. The wudu, the ritual ablution, had already been performed. Sheikh Sa’ad could feel the comforting presence of God and knew that what he would now do was sanctioned by Allah. It was holy work.

  The woman covered her body and head with a dark Hijab, which was draped loosely, leaving only her face uncovered. Standing with her hands at her sides, she faced Mecca and recited the Iqama, the private call to prayer. When she was done, she went down to her knees on a prayer mat and, squeezing her eyes shut, turned her face upward. “Allaahu Akbar! Allaahu Akbar!” she repeated again and again with something quite close to frenzy…and fear. “Ashhadu Allah ilaaha illa-lah!”