by Evan Currie
“Stay out!” Joshua yelled, slapping a red button on the wall.
Anselm was moving back toward the lab as the security doors swung back on automatic controls, the lights darkening as red lights and a siren erupted into being around them. Just before the doors slammed shut, Corvine tossed something out and began to turn away.
“Tell my Control what’s going on!” He yelled over his shoulder, and then the big doors slammed shut.
Anselm slammed into the doors, smashing his fists against them when they wouldn’t give. He could see through the thick glass windows in the door that the CIA man was moving back toward the hood, but no sound was escaping from the room.
None that he could hear over the siren at least.
*****
Corvine coughed as he grabbed at the emergency containment system, a semi-portable system used to disinfect biological contaminants in the field. He’d seen earlier that whoever had setup this lab hadn’t bothered with the automatic systems they should have had for this sort of work, and when the hood was perforated he had known instantly that they were sitting on a catastrophe.
The lab wasn’t nearly as secure as it needed to be, not for this level of work. Gorra hadn’t bothered with anything more than the most basic of security precautions against accidental release of the Biological, and if a full canister of it were released even down here in the tunnels, Joshua didn’t want to think of what it would do to the project above them, and the city around it.
One hundred thousand people, including tourists and transients.
That was what the Interpol man said, and Joshua believed him.
The estimated fatality on this vector, in the initial attack, was only about forty percent. Only forty thousand people.
Only.
The CIA man activated the device, spraying industrial disinfectants into the air along with a hiss of superheated steam.
After the initial attack, though, things would get worse.
The greenhouse above them was a breeding ground for a pathogen like this one. Warm, moist, filled with people. Thousands of them at any given time, even in the middle of the night like this. The constant cycle of air would draw the biological up into the greenhouse like a pump, infecting everyone there within minutes if it got out of this room.
From there, forty percent would die.
The other sixty, though, would become carriers. Their bodies growing ill, but surviving for days or weeks with even minimal medical help. They’d be constantly pumping out the damned little bastards though, filling the air of the greenhouse like an invisible marching army.
Marching right up the one kilometer tall air pump, and from there straight into the southern hemisphere’s Jetstream.
A non-stop, constant stream of death feeding into a stream of air that traveled East at over five hundred miles an hour.
Joshua’s hands shook as he kept hosing down the bottle and the air around him, hoping he was getting everything, but knowing that he couldn’t. The best he could hope for was to get enough.
That would be victory, for now.
He sprayed for three minutes, until the portable machine stopped, it’s reservoirs empty. Then he stopped, slumping against the hood as he watched the poison continue to hiss from the canister. He looked over his shoulder, and saw the face of the Interpol man staring at him from the other side of the thick glass.
“Get out of here!” He yelled, waving violently at him, only to lose his balance as his vision blacked out for a moment.
He was on the floor when the light returned, blood starting to run down his face from where he’d bounced his head off the plexiglass of the hood, but he ignored that.
There had to be something…
He cast about, struggling to his feet again, though his head was swimming.
Maybe, maybe if he was lucky, this was everything Gorra had developed. He could stop it permanently, here and now. He stumbled across the room, grabbing at another canister, this one marked ‘flammable’.
He checked the lettering, and nodded.
It would do.
It was a propane tank, likely used to fuel the burners used in the lab. He spun the valve open, then shook his fist at the door again.
“Get the fuc…the fuck out of here!” He gasped, the blood running down his belly feeling cold of a sudden.
He then grabbed an oxygen cylinder from another section of the lap and spun it’s valve all the way open as well. The hard part came next, getting just the right mix in the air to burn the whole place out.
Corvine slumped against the cabinet, sliding down to the ground, and held up his gun, pointed at the canister of oxygen. He looked over at the door, and saw the Interpol man’s eyes widen and the face finally disappear.
“Bout time, you dumb swede.”
*****
Anselm stared in shock as Corvine pointed his gun at the canister of pure Oxygen and finally had to admit that he wasn’t getting to the CIA man. The poison in that room, even if Corvine had destroyed ninety nine percent of what had already escaped, was probably going to kill the CIA man even if he could get him out of there, but what the man was planning was suicidal.
It was also perhaps one of the only ways to ensure that the virus inside the room was truly destroyed.
The Interpol man knelt down quickly to retrieve the item that Corvine had tossed through the doors at the last moment, recognizing it as a Portable, then bolted for the stairs. He took the stairs three at a time as he ran, not looking back.
Anselm was out through the Director’s office and making his way hurriedly out of the administration offices of the Project when the ground rumbled for a moment and he paused in his flight, leaning against the wall for a moment.
He recalled his comments with Inspector Dougal, the jokes they’d shared about the CIA.
He didn’t think he’d be telling anymore of those.
Anselm pushed himself off the wall finally, and headed for the Monorail access.
*****
“What happened here?”
The voice was quiet, not angry or even stressed, but it cut through the confusion and general noise of the area like a razor. Men stopped for a moment, looking back at the dark haired man who had spoken, then looked quickly away for fear of attracting his attention too closely.
“We had a break in, Amir.”
Abdallah Amir frowned, tilting his head slightly. “Pardon? A break in? Jacob, we are not based in downtown Brooklyn.”
“No Sir.”
“Then what happened?”
Director Jacob took a breath, looking tired, “What I said, Amir. A break in. We haven’t yet figured out who it was, but he made entry into the lab. One of our men surprised him, and there were shots fired.”
“I see.” Amir walked to the edge of the lab, holding a portable gas mask over his face as he did.
He looked over the threshold of the broken doors, eyeing the destroyed equipment with a critical eye. The small lab was in shambles, equipment torn and twisted into barely recognizable shreds of its previous forms, and his computer work station utterly destroyed.
No matter.
He had a complete backup of all pertinent data on a secured folder located in an encrypted Grid node. It was disguised as research made by a noted, though second rate, pharmaceutical company whose owners would be quite surprised if they knew what research ‘they’ were actually involved in.
The destruction of the sealed hood that contained the test canister was somewhat more concerning, but again it seemed to be contained. The fact that none of the men who had blindly responded to the fire were ill boded well for that at least. Initial symptoms were very quick, even in the irradiated nanotube delivery systems.
Within ten minutes a man would begin to cough, partially from the initial delivery of the virus, and partially from the alpha and beta radiation the nano-tubes delivered to keep the virus partially dormant. That prevented initial fatalities from occurring too soon, prolonging the period of contagion in the patient zero group.
So the flames must have destroyed the virus before the men arrived.
That much was good.
There were nowhere near enough people in the facility above to reach the critical mass that Abdallah had projected in his initial plans. He needed at least five thousand people for that, though the more the better, of course.
With the nearly eighty thousand he’d projected to take advantage of during the anniversary festival three days away, the numbers indicated that virus concentrations would be enough to literally encircle the world.
A global act of terrorism.
Unlike many of his ‘peers’, though Amir didn’t feel he had any, he liked the word terrorist. He didn’t hide from it, neither to others or to himself. He was a terrorist, and a very good one. It had started with rage, as so many things in life do, but the death of his mother no longer drove him.
Amir found his calling.
And it was Death.
“Clean this mess up,” He said, turning away and removing the mask. “Find out what happened, and identify the dead man.”
“Yes Amir.”
*****
Gwendolyn Dougal tightened the robe around her as she stumbled out of her bedroom, heading toward the door as the home computer spoke again.
“There is a visitor at the front door,” The faintly electronic voice said pleasantly, “Should I instruct them to leave?”
“No. I’m coming,” She growled.
The second part of her sentence was pointless, the computer AI wasn’t smart enough to know what she was saying, but the word ‘No’ was programmed in to its database so it shut up and stopped telling her about the person at the door.
She reached the door and looked out, then immediately pulled away and flipped open the mechanical lock before yanking the door open. As a cop, one of the first things she’d done when she bought her place was to install a quality mechanical lock. She had seen how easy the electronic ones were to open.
On the other side, Anselm Gunnar was leaning heavily against the side of the porch, looking like he’d just been through a grinder.
“God, Gunnar!” She blurted, “What happened to you?”
There were times when you just knew something bad had happened to someone, not because they looked bad exactly, but because they had this aura around them that cloaked them in some sense of horror or tragedy.
Anselm didn’t say anything at first, he just stumbled through the door, “Close the door.”
She pushed it shut firmly behind him, engaging the electronic lock and twisting the knob on the dead bolt. When she turned around, the Interpol agent was back to the hallway wall and sliding down it.
“Are you hurt!?”
He shook his head, “No. Don’t think so.”
He chuckled mirthlessly, “Honestly didn’t think to check.”
“What?” She moved to look him over.
Everything looked in place. Four major limbs, all his fingers, and no sign of blood soaking through his clothes. He was sitting on her floor by now, leaning back against the wall, and starting to shake.
Anselm held up his hand, looking at it as it shook, and let out a long breath. “Took longer this time.”
“What are you talking about?” Gwen hissed, sinking to her knees as she grabbed his coat and patted his shoulders, arms, and torso down with enough pressure to locate any injuries he might be hiding, if only via the pain the motions would cause him.
“I’ll be fine,” He said, pushing her hands away. “I just need a minute now…Coming down.”
“From what!?”
“Fire fight.” He told her, his eyes coming up and locking with her, “I found out what they’re doing here.”
Her eyes widened and she didn’t need to ask who ‘they’ were. The instant question that came to her lips was to ask what he’d learned, but something drive that away as she started to think about what might happen as a result of what he’d learned.
“Are they following you?”
He shook his head, “No. Don’t think so.”
“Are you sure??” She pressed.
“Yeah. I think I got out clean.”
“You think!” She hissed, “That’s twice you said ‘think’. Do you know??”
He glared at her, “I’m pretty god damned sure, alright!? No one saw me, I know that…If my Portable was able to spoof their security then I got away clean. If not, then they might know about me by now. But no one’s following me. Yet.”
“Yet??”
“Yet.” He nodded, grimly, his hand starting to steady a bit. “If they find out I was there, they’ll be looking for me as soon as they clean up the fire that probably started in the explosion.”
Gwen choked.
“Fire? Explosion?” She yelped, face falling, “Christ, Gunnar! What are you, crazy?”
He chuckled dryly, “Wasn’t me, but that doesn’t matter now. We’ve got bigger problems.”
“Bigger than an explosion?”
“Much bigger.” He said grimly, reaching up and grabbing her shoulder to help hoist himself to his feet. “I’ve got to contact the Director…then we need to go over some files I’ve got.”
“Files? What kind of files??”
“I scanned the Tower personnel database into my portable,” He told her, “I have to start running a database search to get an idea of how badly screwed we are.”
“Oh that’s just plain lovely.” Gwen muttered sarcastically. “I don’t know about you, Gunnar, but I prefer a dinner and maybe a little wine before I get to that part of the evening.”
“We’ll be lucky if we get a shot of vodka laced with rohypnol this time, Gwen,” Anselm smirked sarcastically in return, “something tells me that these boys aren’t the wine and cheese type.”
“Figures.”
*****
Abdallah Amir didn’t look up when the large figure entered his rooms, instead he remained with his head down in a sheaf of papers that covered his desk, leaving almost no empty space to be seen.
“Yes, Jacob?” He said quietly, making a notation in a leather bound book, “Have you determined the identity of the intruder?”
“No, Amir,” Jacob shook his head, “There was no identification on him. Nothing at all, in fact.”
That brought Amir’s head up, and he frowned. “Nothing? No weapon?”
“He was using one of our guard’s pistols when the shootout occurred,” Jacob explained.
Amir sighed, setting his pen down, and stood up from the desk, pushing his chair back in the process. “I assume that you have compared the body to the pictures of the Interpol agent in Tower City? The Swede?”
“Of course,” Jacob replied instantly, “It was not him. The body is too heavy, and this man is considerably older.”
“Intelligence then,” Amir frowned. “CIA most probably, though perhaps MI6 or ASIS had the local advantage.”
Jacob’s glower deepened, “How do you know that?”
“Because no cop would come in without carrying a weapon, not if he suspected what was down here,” Amir replied, “Hell, no cop would come in alone unless he was…exceptionally strange. They aren’t trained that way. No, Jacob, this was an Intelligence agent. If not the Americans, then certainly the British or the Australians. Did you find his computer?”
Jacob froze, then slowly shook his head. “There was no computer, Amir.”
Abdallah snarled now, turning on the larger man, “Don’t be a fool! Of course there was a computer. Find it. We need to know what he learned and sent back to his superiors before he was located…We may still have time.”
“Amir…We searched everything. The only computer in the lab was yours…I swear it!”
The terrorist fell silent, staring at the wall for a moment. "That’s not possible, Jacob. No gun, yes, that is how a good agent would come in. He’d play slow, fat, and dumb…try to bluff his way out if he were caught. But he would need a computer, would need one for this sort of job."
Jacob shook his
head, “It may have been destroyed in the explosion, if it was close to the source of the blast.”
“Yes…Yes, that’s possible,” Amir admitted, but his voice was doubtful and he was shaking his head. Finally he looked up, “Audit our security system.”
“Amir?”
“Look for any evidence that someone left the lab last night, Jacob.”
*****
Gwen Dougal came back into her living room, straightening the fit of her blouse as she finished the last button, to find Anselm frowning and tapping at his portable like it had done something wrong.
“Damn it!” He exclaimed, tossing it down in annoyance.
“What’s wrong?”
Anselm jumped, startled. “Jeez, Gwen! I didn’t hear you come in!”
She half smirked at him, “Yelling at electronics tends to make a man deaf.”
He chuffed in amusement, nodding. “Yeah, I guess.”
“What’s wrong with it?” She nodded to the offending electronics.
“Nothing.” He sighed, pulling out another portable and flipping it open.
Gwen’s features became perplexed, “You have two?”
“What? No…” Anselm shook his head, hefting the one in his hands, “This one’s mine. That piece of junk belonged to the CIA agent.”
Gwen blinked.
“CIA!? What CIA Agent!?”
“The one who set off the explosion.” Anselm replied, picking up the offending portable again and trying to access it.
“Set off…!? Bloody Americans!”
“Not like he had a lot of choice,” Anselm sighed, again tapping at the resisting portable. “I think this has advanced biometric security…”
Gwen rubbed her temple, trying to follow both tangents of the conversation. “What do you mean, he didn’t have a lot of choice?? And, so? Most portables come equipped with biometrics.”
Anselm had to concede that point, biometric scanners, including fingerprint and retinal systems were standard on most off the shelf portable computers and had been for years. The problem was he didn’t see any of those scanners on the device, and he wasn’t even certain that the device was even powered up.
“Gunnar? Gunnar!”
“Huh? What?” he looked up, surprised.
“What did you mean, he didn’t have a lot of choice about setting off that explosion??” Gwen ground out.