BIG SMOKE
The Apocalypse Virus Trilogy Book 1
R.F. Blackstone
Copyright 2018 R.F. Blackstone
This is for Mapi, always a believer.
CHAPTER ONE
It’s not the wind that makes it cold. Nor the snow. But a combination of both. Then add the altitude. Blowing at well over eighty kilometers an hour, kicking up snow and small pebbles, the sort that at that speed hit one with the force of a punch.
Christine Moore winced at each tiny hit. It hurt but kept her mind from wondering. Plus the view helped.
Snow as far as the eye could see. Desolate and yet gorgeous.
The wind made Christine shift her feet. Digging into the snow further. Behind her goggles, her eyes scanned the horizon. She was starting to get nervous. A quick look at her watch forced her to take a deep breath.
“They’re late,” she said to no-one in particular.
“Calm your tits,” a voice crackled in her ear. “They’ll be there.”
Christine shook her head. Her gloved hands pulled a scarf away from her mouth. She took another breath, held it for a moment, and then slowly exhaled.
Her breath formed a veil of steam and as it faded into the ether Christine’s eyes locked onto four dots speeding towards her.
Eventually, the sound reached her. Snowmobiles. All being revved to the point of no return.
Amateurs, she thought as the mechanical roar of the mobiles echoed around her.
They came to a sliding halt, kicking up snow. Christine smiled, ignoring the cold dampness which splattered all over her legs.
“Sorry ‘bout that, luv,” the leader said as he galloped off his vehicle. Removing thick goggles, a silly beanie and a ski mask revealed a scoundrelly handsome face.
“Don! Fucking great,” Christine muttered to herself.
“C’mon then, show us your face.”
She forced a fake smile as she removed her own facial gear. Thick luscious lips, long blonde cascading hair and smoldering eyes that burned deep into him. Don smiled broadly as his men looked her up and down, admiring her curves.
“Hello, Christine! Been a while,” he said instantly turning on the charm. “I’m surprised they sent you on suc—”
“—Got it?”
Don laughed and gestured to one of the other men who held up a small metal case.
“Open it.”
Another gesture and the goon opened it, reached inside, and pulled out a small thumb drive.
“There,” Don said, “happy now? I mean, the last time we met, you were nowhere near as bossy… Well, except for at that bar in—”
“Here.” She threw a small sports backpack to him.
Don caught it easily, then lazily handed it to another goon.
Taking the drive, he looked at it. “Such a fuss over this? Amazing.”
“Hand it over. Now,” Christine ordered with the air of someone needing to get the hell out of there.
“Not just yet,” Don said as another gust of wind whipped up even more snow. He coughed as some hit his face. Christine laughed slightly then shifted her feet, loosening the snow around her legs.
“Check it,” Don said casually to the man with the backpack who nodded then slowly unzipped it. As he did, the line attached to the zipper triggered the claymore.
The man exploded in a shower of snow and blood, spraying everyone with the vile mixture.
Christine used that moment of confusion to grab the drive and then haul ass.
The explosion had knocked the remaining men to the ground. They all sat up, slightly dazed, staring at the crater and the smoking wreckage. Surrounding the perimeter was a halo of blood.
Don looked around, coughing and wiping the entrails of the dead man off of his clothes. His eyes flashed as he turned to the remaining goons. One pointed and his eyes followed; there was Christine, blowing a kiss as she skied away.
“Get after her!”
#
Christine stared at the thumb drive then casually pocketed it. Don was right; so much fuss. She chuckled, dodging the trees with ease. Her skiing was always good, but since the incident, it had improved. Free time does that. She laughed victoriously as the wind kicked her hair up around her face.
“Rank fucking amateurs,” she said to herself.
But, Christine had to admit it to herself, the operation had gone off without a glitch. Station Master would be proud.
A tree became riddled with bullet holes as she passed, shattering her thought.
A quick glance behind her and the smile disappeared.
There were the three snowmobiles, and the men all had Uzi Pros aimed at her. Each one squeezed the trigger of their weapon.
Christine dodged the bullets easily.
She raised a hand, giving them the finger with a grin.
The men were amazed at how easily she spun, turned, and then disappeared down a pass.
“Follow her,” Don screamed as his snowmobile veered away.
Down the mountain pass, swerving this way and that, bullets whizzed past her head. Christine was having a blast. The danger aroused her in such a way that reminded her of Havana.
The trees were coming up fast. Good, she thought. Now she had the advantage. The snowmobiles would have to split up. Perfect.
She leaned forward, speeding up, then just as she passed the tree-line, one of the goons squeezed off a few rounds. A smattering of small dead animals fell from the trees, littering the way.
“Damn animals,” the goon said as he scanned for the woman.
Unfortunately, he missed the low-hanging tree branch that smacked him in the face. His head snapped backward, body following until the snow-covered ground caught the now limp body.
The snowmobile came to a halt, bumping a tree. Snow fell, covering it with a light dusting. She slid to a halt, kicking up more snow. Then quickly she turned and then headed back to the snowmobile. Christine grabbed the weapon and spare clips from the body, then went over to the vehicle. She kicked off her skis, glided onto the seat, checked the starter, and then before taking off, she put her hair in a pony-tail and hit the throttle.
The last goon spun around, listening for any other gunshots, or man-made sounds… Nothing.
There!
Christine sped towards him, Uzi Pro raised, steady arm.
Shit!
He followed her, constantly firing, forcing her to the left. No matter what Christine did, she had no way to go except left.
“Need an escape route,” she yelled into the air.
Her earpiece crackled with slight radio static. She ducked then quickly rubbed her ear. That did it!
“South!”
“No go. They’re driving me left.”
“Give me a mo’.”
More bullets whizzed past Christine’s head. The thug was close now. No more tree cover. In fact, there was hardly any cover left.
“Give me a route!”
“There’s a cliff coming up.” No apology, just a matter-of-fact statement.
Christine grunted as a bullet grazed her arm. “Thanks.”
“See you soon.”
The radio static ended just as a barrage of bullets destroyed the chassis of Christine’s snowmobile. It sputtered then spun out.
Her timing was impeccable, waiting for the moment, squeezing the trigger. The man’s head snapped back, the left eye exploded as the bullets shredded the bone and brain, leaving nothing but a bloody pulp.
The snowmobile rolled, hit a rock, then flipped. The body was flung away as Christine smiled.
Her vehicle though kept on spinning. There was a boulder straight ahead. She muttered an
oath under her breath and then leaped just as both collided. Christine rolled as the snowmobile exploded, showering her in debris.
“Bugger,” she said, dusting herself down and wincing. Her shoulder stung and instinctively Christine knew there would be more bruises and most likely scratches and grazes. Great, she thought as she rubbed her shoulders gently.
“Christine, we’ve got a Harrier inbound.”
“Lovely. ETA?”
“Ten. Best we can do.”
Christine chuckled nervously, thanking her dumb-fucking luck, as she looked at the carnage surrounding her.
The snow got kicked up. Her hair blew around her face in a tempest. This was not from natural weather. She spun around, looking for the source of the disturbance.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding!”
The Apache helicopter hovered above the wreckage, Don waving at her happily inside. Christine stared at him, dumbfounded. Don pressed a button and a loudspeaker crackled, coming to life.
“Hand it over, Christine. You’ve got nowhere to go.”
Christine slowly started to back up, inch by inch. Her eyes darted this way and that, looking for any escape. The Apache dipped forward ever so slightly, the rotor blades dangerously close to the ground. The death machine started to approach her. Don smiled and it seemed as if he was humming a tune.
Christine Moore raised her arm, the Uzi pointing straight ahead. Slowly, her finger squeezed the trigger.
She emptied the clip at the helicopter. Don reacted without thinking, flinching as the Apache darted to the left, the blades hitting the snow.
That’s what she was waiting for. It was now or never.
As the helicopter straightened itself, she ran full speed directly at it, her hands moving fast, reloading the Uzi.
Christine dived under the aircraft, unloading the clip into the belly of the metal beast. The clanging echoed around the mountains. Some of the bullets ricocheted back into the snow around her. She continued to run under and out, behind it.
The Uzi did nothing to the metal underside.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Don’s voice sounded as the Apache turned to face her.
The Gatling on the snout started to rotate.
Christine waited, watched, made ready for the only move she had left.
The .50mm caliber bullets spewed forth, tearing the landscape a new one. She stood there, her training paying off.
A lovely trail of bullet holes spattered around her, but she did not flinch one inch. Then as the weapon slowed to a halt, Christine ran, back towards it and the cliff.
She threw the gun to the ground and grabbed the only thing she had: A pickax.
Don stared in amazement. Did she really think that that would do anything against an Apache? She must be crazy.
But Christine knew exactly what she was doing. As the helicopter dipped again, ready to lop her head off, she dropped onto her back, sliding towards the edge.
Over she went.
Plummeting into the abyss.
She slammed the tool into the rocky cliff-face. It scrapped and slipped as gravity and her weight pulled her down towards oblivion.
Then it bit, catching a small outcropping.
The sudden stop flung her out and then her body slammed into the rock wall, hard. So hard in fact that Christine almost lost her grip. Her other hand snapped up, grabbing the handle, then using her legs, she supported herself while figuring out the next move.
“Now what, sweetheart?”
Christine sighed, not even bothering to look at the helicopter hovering in front of the cliff and her helpless self.
“Give it up. Tell you what,” Don said into the loudspeaker, “you climb back up, hand it over, we call it even. I’m sure Station Master would appreciate another chance.”
Christine chuckled and then held out one hand, flipping Don the bird as she relaxed her grip. As she slid, she muttered, “Awwww fuck it!”
Don’s smug look disappeared as Christine Moore plummeted into the bottomless emptiness.
CHAPTER TWO
“Come,” Station Master’s voice bellowed.
The large oak door opened. Christine entered, nodded curtly to the old man who ran The Station, walked over to the middle of the room, and stood. Station Master had aged since the last time she had met with him. There were more wrinkles and liver spots but less hair. What hair was still there had been styled not in a comb-over, oh no that would be against style, but slicked back in that timeless style. The old eyes were a little glassy, but that comes from age. Station Master was bent over the wooden desk that dwarfed him, both hands on the ink blotter, his eyes darting back and forth across a file.
Christine could not believe that he still used paper files.
“You can stop staring, Miss Moore,” Station Master said without looking up.
“It’s been a while Station Master.”
The old man sighed; it was long, seeming to escape from within him. “Did you get it?”
Christine smiled as she laid the thumb drive on the table. Station Master’s eyes darted up, first to the device, then to his agent.
“Any problems?”
“Ran into an old friend. Nothing I couldn’t handle though.” She allowed herself a small secret smile at that.
Station Master chuckled, “Oh yes, how is Don Hanscomb?”
The smile faded from the blonde’s face. How did the old goat know? she thought to herself.
“It’s my job to know; you should remember that.”
Christine shifted, slightly uncomfortable at the jab. “Naturally, Station Master… Drink?”
He waved to a bar that was perfectly ordained with the proper glasses, a tantalus filled with the golden liquid of ancient and ambrosia-like whisky, which was sitting against one of the walls. Christine went over, bent slightly, and searched for the right bottle.
“Behind the Makers. I’ll have mine without anything sullying it.”
Christine chuckled as she found the bottle, Havana Club, judging from the label it had to be at least pre-Castro. The cork popped, the sound filling her ears with memories, then she poured it, the gold-amber liquid filled the glass. “Two fingers?” Station Master mumbled his answer. Christine poured another glass then took them back over to the table.
“Such a fuss for that little thing, eh?” she said as she handed the glass to her superior, who ignored the remark.
“Christine,” Station Master began, “do you know what it is that The Station does?”
The woman shook her head as she sipped the rum. She held in a little sigh of happiness. “All the jobs that the other agencies don’t want, or can’t do?”
Station Master took a drink from his glass, coughed at the remark, and nearly dropped the glass. He was laughing as he cleaned himself up. “Not exactly. But close. As always. The Station is in the darkest recesses of the clandestine world. The Dark Web is our best friend. The Black Market, an uncle. We go and do what the others will never do…” he looked at the thumb drive then out the window. The view was dank; thunderclouds, sleet. Truly unpleasant. “But now,” he continued, “with the state of the world, our small part is being annexed. So, what must we do?”
Christine’s eyes were now focused on the thumb drive. It was sitting between them, silent yet screaming. “What is on that?”
Station Master reached for it, his old fingers having trouble grasping the device. Christine watched; age is a harsh bitch.
“This?” the old man said, holding the drive up. “This is the next evolutionary step.”
He tapped a button and the ink blotter flipped, revealing a control panel. He inserted the drive into it and a screen appeared behind him.
“What, my dear, can you tell me about President Aaron Sanderson?”
As he spoke, a dossier of Aaron Sanderson appeared on the screen.
“He’s the current president of the USA,” Christine said as she refilled her glass. “On paper, and on-screen, he is perfect.”
Th
e president’s image was that of an old matinee idol. Perfect hair, cleft chin. Everything the voters of the USA wanted.
“Squeaky clean?” Station Master asked.
“Squeaky fucking clean. On paper and screen. But…”
The old man raised an eyebrow; go on, it seemed to say.
“But,” Christine said as she leaned against a wall, her eyes staring at the dossier, “by all accounts, once he is out of the spotlight, the real Aaron Sanderson appears. Bigoted. Misogynistic. Uncouth. Completely barbaric.”
“What about his wife?”
Christine laughed, a harsh bark. “A trophy wife who does exactly what he says or else the money runs out. Ex-strippers tend to be like that.”
Station Master sat there, his eyes sparkling with contained glee; the young and foolish, he thought. “What about his politics?”
“His platform is to make the USA spectacular. And to do that, he plans to fuck everyone over…the world over.” Christine’s eyes narrowed. There was only one reason for this line of questioning. “Spill it, old man,” she said. “What’s all this about?”
“Intel, Miss Moore. We have valuable intel.” He pressed some buttons and a map of a small island appeared. “Surely you recognize this place?”
Christine nodded, her mouth wide open. “Cuba.”
Station Master nodded. “Very good. Tell me about the Habanos Festival.”
For the briefest of instances, Christine’s lip trembled and her mind raced trying to ignore the painful memories. Finally, “It’s five days of nothing other than smoking Cuban cigars, drinking Cuban rum, and partying. Habanos S.A., the governmental body that controls all the cigar industry there, runs it. Apart from being a damn fine party, it provides extra money for the coffers, advertising for tourism in Cuba, and naturally, it reestablishes the age-old idea that Cuban cigars are the best in the world.”
Station Master watched her. “Is it true?”
She shook her head. “I use to think that, but…not since…”
The old spymaster nodded.
They drank in silence, she lost in memory, he studying the woman before him.
“The intel says that there will be an assassination attempt on President Sanderson. In Cuba. During the festival.”
The Apocalypse Virus Trilogy_Book 1_Big Smoke Page 1