Containment Failure (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #2)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  He pulled his weapon and cranked off several rounds into pavement rather than the air, since bullets must come down somewhere. The crowd halted, then tentatively moved forward again.

  “He can’t get us all!” yelled someone, and the crowd surged forward again, confirming the man’s point. There were dozens, and there was no way Kane could take them all out, nor did he intend to take even one of them out. These were innocent people, desperate people.

  Scared people.

  This could be happening anywhere, including his home town. It could be his family rushing someone like him in anger and fear, and he wouldn’t want them shot unless it were completely necessary.

  He fired a few more rounds, slowing them down, but the next volley did nothing.

  They knew he wasn’t trying to hit them.

  The vehicle was rolling now as the last of the FBI personnel climbed aboard. Kane ran for the door. The door that closed behind the last man, the engine kicking it up a notch as the vehicle picked up speed.

  Shit!

  “Whatever happened to no man left behind?” he asked himself as he sprinted beside the vehicle, jumping on the running board and grabbing a hand hold. As the vehicle rushed toward the parking lot exit he heard pounding on the other side of the vehicle. He spotted footholds and shifted himself toward them, then quickly climbed to the roof.

  Dozens of people were still chasing the vehicle, but they were quickly falling off in ones and twos, America’s waistline saving the day, but several of those not spread out by takeout and high fructose corn syrup had managed to get on the very runners he had been wondering about earlier and were now pounding on the sides of the vehicle.

  He flattened himself on the roof, spread eagle, then moved to the side, trying to keep his hand gripping something at all times. Fortunately there was a chrome rail that trimmed the entire top of the vehicle. He pushed himself to the other side, grabbing the railing just as the vehicle made a hard right, sending his body flinging over the side, much to the surprise of the civilians occupying it.

  He grabbed the man he was staring at face to face by the shirt with his free hand and ripped him off the side of the vehicle, sending him tumbling to the pavement, as he twisted and planted a kick on another man’s stomach, sending him doubled over in pain, his hands now gripping his stomach, then flailing in the air as he tipped toward the ground. Kane’s feet found the running board, and he pulled his weapon on the final man who decided to jump before waiting to see whether or not Kane might actually shoot somebody this time.

  The side cleared, he pulled himself to the roof, then slid to check the rear and found it clear as well. The vehicle was racing down the nearly empty streets now, the driver seeming to be in a panic as they were now clear of the danger. Kane dragged himself toward the front, the wind whipping at his body as it tried to pry him loose. He managed to reach the side with the door, then, slipping his right leg over the side, he pushed his head over the edge and spotted a handhold. He grabbed it with his right hand, then swung the rest of his body over the side, it flapping against the side with the wind for several seconds, causing the driver to speed up even more.

  Another right turn had Kane firmly pressed against the side of the vehicle, the wind negated, and he managed to grab a second handhold on the side and get his feet on the running board. Stepping toward the door as quickly as he could, he reached out with his right hand as the driver began to pick up speed again, and knocked out a “shave and a haircut” as best he could, with the requisite “two bits” taps at the end.

  Nothing.

  He repeated it, then suddenly it felt as if the foot had been taken off the gas and the Mobile HQ began to slow rapidly. Before it came to a halt the door was pushed open slightly, Isabelle sticking her head out.

  “Thank God!” she cried, pushing the door fully open, steps below it extending automatically. She reached out for Kane’s hand who took it, then stepped onto the mini doorstep, grabbing the frame of the door opening with his left hand, finally stepping inside with a pull from Isabelle.

  The door shut and the driver hit the gas.

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you hadn’t gotten on!” cried Isabelle, hugging him.

  “No worries. It gave me a chance to get rid of some hangers-on.” He gave her a pat on the back and she suddenly released him, apparently realizing what she was doing. Kane turned to the driver. “You can take it easy now, they’re long gone.”

  The man seemed visibly relieved and slowed to a regular speed.

  “Where should we go?” he asked.

  Kane looked for Special Agent Hewlett, who was still gripping hand rails, looking slightly pale.

  “I’d suggest we go to the CDC setup at the LSU Hospital. There will be lots of security there, and we need these people to be looked at regardless,” said Kane, motioning toward the plane crash survivors.

  “Do it,” ordered Hewlett.

  Kane took a seat at one of the vacant terminals and pulled a Snickers bar from his pocket. Tearing it open, he broke off a piece and handed it to the smallest boy who immediately brightened, attacking the treat as if he had never eaten chocolate before. Another piece for the brother was devoured as well, leaving a small piece for Kane. He motioned to Isabelle, who waved it off.

  “You have it; I think you’ve earned it.”

  Kane pursed his lips, his head bobbing in agreement.

  “All in a day’s work.”

  He popped the bite-sized piece in his mouth, savoring the peanut, nougat and chocolate concoction as he slowly chewed, drawing the experience out.

  “If what you just did is a typical day’s work, I don’t want to know what an exciting day is.”

  Kane gave Isabelle a wink, then began to check his body for injuries, Isabelle seeming to be a little too eager to help him.

  He smiled as he swallowed his bite.

  Quarantine Zone, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Command Sergeant Major Burt “BD” Dawson waited for the call to be connected, the red tape having been fairly slow to work its way through. It wasn’t every day the American government called to talk to a Russian Special Forces unit.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Chernov,” he heard, the Russian accent thick, but Dawson knew the man spoke perfect English, it normal officer training in the former Soviet Union, and still in our so-called ally’s army, to teach their men English for infiltration and interrogation purposes.

  “Sir, is this line secure?”

  There was a clicking sound and Dawson could see from the phone he was sitting at that the line had been secured from the other end, lines such as this used by the two countries to keep in contact when they didn’t want any eavesdropping from third parties.

  “It is now,” came the reply in perfect English.

  New England accent?

  “I’m Sergeant Major White. I need to talk to you about one of your men.”

  “What do you need to know, Command Sergeant Major Dawson?”

  Dawson chuckled.

  “It’s good to see your FSB is as effective as your KGB was.”

  “Perhaps too effective at times,” said Chernov.

  “Then down to business. You’re aware of the situation we’re facing here?”

  “It would appear it is a situation we are all facing what with the failure of your President to contain the virus.”

  Dawson decided to give the Russian his jab.

  “Our people have been tracking down every lead, and we have found that a former member of your team, a Major Anton Koslov, is involved. He murdered the suspect who planted the canisters of virus and then rigged a bomb to go off when the body was discovered.”

  There was a pause.

  “Do you have proof of this?”

  “We have video of him entering the apartment building of the suspect, and the trigger design is old Soviet style. Still used by your teams, I believe.”

  “If it is not broke…”

  Dawson waited for a response, which
seemed long in coming.

  “I do not know where the Major is. I don’t think I can help you.”

  “Sir, please wait. You know what we’re facing here, and as you put it, what we’re all facing. Finding your Major is critical. He could hold the key to finding the actual man behind this, who may have a cure, or at least be able to provide us with additional information that could speed up the process in finding a cure.

  “Now, one soldier to another, I know if one of my men that used to be under my command were to be involved in something like this, I’d want to do everything I could to find him, and bring him in. I’ve read your file, sir. I know you’re that type of commanding officer. You trained this man, you fought with this man at your side. I know you want to find out if what is being said about him now could be true.”

  Another pause. Dawson’s heart was beating rapidly, knowing that he had either reached the man, or pissed him off. Either way, finding this Major Koslov would come down to the words about to come from Lieutenant Colonel Chernov’s mouth.

  “Da, you are right. I will call you when I know something.”

  “Thank you, sir, you have the number.”

  “Do svidaniya, Sergeant Major.”

  “Do svidaniya, sir.”

  The line went dead and Dawson sat quietly, calming his heart that was racing faster than it did on most missions. Then again, he had never been involved in anything that could end the world as he knew it.

  The door on the other side of the glass flew open and the young CIA analyst Leroux burst in.

  “Well?”

  “He’ll get back to us.”

  Leroux jumped up and down in his hazmat suit.

  “I’ve gotta call Kane!”

  “You do that. I’m gonna get some rack time. I have a funny feeling when the Colonel calls back, all hell’s gonna break loose.”

  It better. Because if it doesn’t, we’re screwed.

  Decontamination Zone, Interim LSU Public Hospital, New Orleans, Louisiana

  “Mr. President, we have some good news.”

  It was Dr. Hermann Kapp from BioDyne who was speaking, and Katherine had to agree, it was good news. Great news. Fantastic news.

  If it were true.

  If it worked.

  If! If! If!

  “What is it, Doctor?”

  “Well, when we first heard from Dr. Urban about the attack on the theatre in Los Angeles a year ago, we immediately began planning for a worst case scenario. We were able to design a compound that neutralizes the antiviral without killing the patient. It had already been under development from the beginning of the research just in case something went wrong and we needed to neutralize it in a patient, but once the attacks began, we realized we needed an aerosolized version as well.

  “That research was completed over six months ago, but we had no way to test it. With the amount of antiviral recovered from the blood of the Superdome victims, we were able to quickly grow more, then contaminate an entire test facility. We then used our compound to decontaminate it. It worked. All antiviral on surfaces was neutralized within hours. Antiviral not accessible, such as inside closed compartments, etc., was not, however we have determined that the antiviral will die within twenty-four hours itself. As well, all of the animals we infected with the antiviral, from mice to primates, were cured by breathing in the aerosolized compound.

  “Bottom line, Mr. President, is this: we have a way of stopping this. It’s expensive, but it works, and we can go into production almost immediately. All we need to know is what genetic sequence is being targeted.”

  “And when will you know that?”

  “With nothing to narrow it down, days, perhaps weeks, maybe longer.”

  “By then millions, or billions, could be dead,” muttered one of the advisors over the live feed of the videoconference.

  “We need to find Dr. Urban in order to target the compound properly, otherwise we’re shooting proverbial blanks.”

  “We’re doing everything—”

  The President was cutoff when someone leaned into the camera view, whispering something in his ear.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a situation I need to deal with immediately. Continue what you’re doing, and may God have mercy on us all.”

  His feed went immediately dead, the other camera views snapping off, leaving a grid of black. Katherine was about to stand up when a commotion started in the back of the room.

  “You guys have to see this!”

  “Put it on the big screen!”

  The screen snapped to life with a CNN feed, the harsh red Breaking News bar across the top, with the text below indicating it was live footage from Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, France. A large jet was on a runway, its front landing gear collapsed, one engine smoking dark black.

  And it was surrounded by dozens of armed troops.

  “Turn it up!”

  Suddenly the audio feed came in loud and clear, and Katherine forgot all of her problems as what was truly going on beyond her little bubble hit home.

  “—the plane was ordered back to the United States, however the pilot indicated there was insufficient fuel. Company officials say they tried to find an alternate landing site, but were refused at every turn. Even countries with American Air Force Bases were refused by order of the local governments. The plane was left circling Paris for hours, until finally the pilot declared an emergency, and put the aircraft down. There are reports that the French tried to block the runway with vehicles, and that is what collapsed the landing gear when the plane hit a truck. The plane has been surrounded by ground troops, and no assistance has been provided by the French authorities to put out the now worsening fire in one of the engines.

  “Our sources are indicating that airport authorities are under orders by the French government to not let anyone off the plane, nor to let anyone approach it. We’ll switch now to our White House correspondent, Henry Powel. Henry, what’s the latest?”

  “Cooper, I’ve just been informed that the President left an important conference on the current antiviral outbreak to personally call the French President to try and resolve this situation. We’re not certain if he’s been able to reach him, however we hope to know more soon. There has been no official reaction yet from the White House, however this scene is being repeated around the world, with American flights being ordered back, or allowed to land so they can be refueled, then sent back with no one allowed to disembark. We—”

  “Sorry to interrupt you, Henry, but something’s happening…”

  Katherine stopped listening, the feed itself absorbing all her senses. The engine was now fully engulfed in flames, and the one next to it appeared to be smoking now as well. The front door of the plane had just opened and one of the evacuation slides had inflated. A close up showed troops aiming their weapons, but not firing. A flight attendant jumped out and slid down the slide, stopping at the bottom as a second attendant followed. They took up positions on either side as passengers began to slide down the ramp, one after another, the flames growing on the other side of the plane.

  A second door opened at the rear, and another slide deployed. More passengers began to slide down, and soon there were dozens running toward the troops, close ups showing the panicked women and children trying to distance themselves from the flaming aircraft.

  Then the unthinkable happened.

  At first she didn’t know what had happened. It looked like a woman had tripped and fallen, then as if someone else had tripped trying to help her.

  “Oh my God! They’re shooting the passengers. Ladies and gentlemen, you may not be able to hear this, but our reports from the ground are that shots are being fired at the escaping passengers. At least one of the soldiers has opened fire on the escaping passengers!”

  Katherine tried to block her ears with her hands, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the horror she was witnessing. At least a dozen bodies were scattered along the runway. Passengers were now running away from the troop
s, some even trying to climb back up the slide they had just come down, while others still were evacuating the plane.

  “It’s not clear if the soldier is acting under orders, but the passengers are now running back toward the plane they just fled. Wait, something’s happening now. The soldier who was firing has just been shot by his own troops. Ladies and gentlemen, from what we’re seeing it’s sheer chaos on the scene, we just don’t know what is happening.”

  The camera began to zoom in on the bodies. Women, children, the odd man, lay on the ground, their bodies oozing blood onto the runway, some still alive, writhing in pain as they tried to drag themselves away from the soldiers.

  Then there was a ripping sound caught on one of the audio feeds as the image flashed, the remaining jet fuel igniting, the entire plane erupting into a black and orange ball of rage, shrapnel bursting out in every direction, the flame and heat consuming everything within its path, the shrapnel the passengers’ retaliation for the horror they had been put through, it tearing apart many of the surrounding troops.

  Someone turned off the TV and Katherine removed her hands from her ears and looked about the room, her eyes a blur from the tears that now streaked her cheeks. She felt a pair of arms over her shoulders, and she realized it was Dr. Johnston. Turning her head in to rest on his chest, she let herself go, her sobs racking her body with heaves of remorse and frustration, as she cried not only for the passengers that had just died, but for the dozens who had died in this very hospital, and the millions or billions who would soon be dead.

  Khamovniki District, Moscow, Russia

  Lieutenant Colonel Chernov was careful not to touch the walls. He didn’t even want to touch the floors. The place was a disgrace. An old Soviet era apartment block that like most things in Russia today had been left to rot and decay. It was disgusting. The rich got richer, and the average poor bastard, who was already very poor compared to Western standards, lived in squalor while million dollar condominiums were built on prime real estate.