by Dave Edlund
Peter recalled the photo on Dmitri’s desk. Helena was his wife.
“Dmitri! Hang on! Please! I can stop the bleeding,” he lied. Peter’s mind was racing, a chaotic mix of thoughts—even if he had a first aid kit, there was no treatment that could be rendered to save Dmitri. Even if he were in a hospital at this very moment, his chances of survival we slim. Peter was completely powerless to prevent the inevitable, just as he had been when Maggie passed. The image of Maggie in her final minutes of life flashed in his mind, replacing his sadness with a raging anger.
Dmitri’s eyelids closed. “It is good, I want to be with Helena again.” As the words escaped his lips, the breath exited his bullet-riddled body for the last time.
The rage was building in Peter, and with it a clarity of purpose. He was no stranger to death. First his wife, and later, at his own hands on a cold rocky outcrop in the Aleutian Island chain, and again in a desolate desert in Sudan.
Yet, he still found the wanton taking of life deeply disturbing. “Why?” Peter stammered.
Gorev shrugged. “Why not?”
Peter stood. “I will see you in Hell.”
Gorev chuckled and was joined by his guards. “Really? And you think you have that power? You are one unarmed man. My soldiers can shoot you anytime I please.”
“Then do it—shoot me.” Peter was no longer afraid. He was overwhelmed with a drive to do what was right, at any price. It was a familiar feeling, one that replaced fear and uncertainty with a demanding call to action.
“Perhaps… at a later time. It seems you have some information, some knowledge, about how to design and manufacture very quiet guns. I am told you call it a magnetic impulse gun, yes?”
Peter glared back in defiance.
“You have lost, Peter Savage.”
“Let me ask you a question, Gorev. What is the most dangerous and deadly animal on Earth?”
Gorev forced out a short laugh. “A lion or tiger? Is that how I am to answer?”
“What you answer is up to you.”
“You speak in riddles my comedian friend, but you are entertaining.” Gorev waved his hands to both sides, silent reference to the five rifles pointed at Peter’s heart. He raised his eyebrows, his lips twisted in a nauseating smirk, begging a reply to the rhetorical question.
“A man—who has lost everything. He is the most dangerous animal. You see, with nothing left to cherish, nothing left to live for, a man becomes the most deadly predator. Without fear of death, he will do anything to achieve his ultimate objective and destroy his adversary.
“I have met men like you before, Gorev. I have fought against them. And I have learned that, among other despicable traits, you all share a drive to lord over others through fear and intimidation. You’re nothing but a bully.”
General Gorev tilted his head slightly, conveying both curiosity and amusement, inviting Peter to continue.
“You threaten to kill to get your way. All those people you’re holding against their will, that’s only possible because you’ve terrified them.”
“Yes, we agree, they are like sheep. So, what is your point?”
“It’s very simple. Without their fear, you are powerless.”
“Powerless? I don’t think so.” He extended his arm to the side again in a grandiose gesture.
“If your plan was to kill all of us, you’d have done so by now. No, that’s not what you want. You want—need—our cooperation. And as long as you are allowed to intimidate and coerce those people, reluctant cooperation is what you’ll get. But not from me. I’m not afraid of your threats.”
“I can kill you now, just as I did that filthy pig Kaspar.”
“Death is inevitable. It can be a means to an end—your end. A man who accepts his mortality and fears neither death nor destruction, that man has already defeated his enemies.”
Gorev forced a laugh. “And you are this man?”
“Your first mistake was allowing my children to escape.” Peter’s face was firm, devoid of any expression.
Gorev’s mind flashed back to their first encounter in the hallway when the young man and woman escaped into the stairwell.
“Your second mistake was allowing my father and my best friend to get away.” Peter was gambling that they were still safe in the storeroom, and that Gorev knew nothing of their whereabouts.
“And your third mistake was murdering my friend.”
Gorev’s demeanor was stern, but he remained silent.
“I have you at a distinct disadvantage. You need me alive.”
“True, I’ve been ordered to deliver you for interrogation.” He paused to choose his words carefully before continuing. “But––do you know how many times I can shoot you and still leave you sufficiently alive for interrogation?”
“Something tells me I’m about to learn,” Peter mumbled.
Gorev raised his rifle.
“Get down!” Peter immediately recognized the voice and threw himself to the floor. An instant later he was greeted by the roar of automatic fire as Gary leveled the machine gun and fired a long burst. Two guards to the left of Gorev were killed immediately. Gorev and the remaining guards dove around the corner, out of the line of fire.
Wasting no time, Peter held one of the chemical grenades in his hand and lit the fuse before throwing it where Gorev had stood only moments earlier. The glass sphere shattered, the burning fuse igniting the flammable liquid. He threw a second one at the same spot for good measure. Within seconds a sickening odor drifted to Peter. He forced back the urge to vomit.
Picking up the rifle, he stood and ran to Gary, who was holding the door open at the stairwell. “Let’s go!” Gary urged.
“Where’s Dad?” Peter said upon reaching his friend.
“Left him in the storeroom when I came looking for you. I heard two shots. Is Dmitri dead?”
Peter nodded. “Gorev murdered him.”
The door closed behind them as they descended two steps at a time. On the ground floor, they ran to the storeroom. Opening the door, Peter greeted his father. “Dad, we have to go.”
“Go where?” Ian asked.
“Back to the roof. I think that’s where we’ll be rescued.”
Chapter 25
Minsk
JIM WAS LISTENING TO THE PILOT’S update over the intercom. “Russian Flankers challenged our aircraft as they crossed into Belarussian airspace. We have to expect there will be more, and probably robust SAM and AA defenses in Minsk.”
“Are you picking up any hostile radar?” Jim asked.
“Nothing at the moment. Assuming we’re not shot out of the sky, we’ll get you to the coordinates for your jump. Have your team plug into the nav computer and upload our GPS coordinates. With most of our fuel burned, I’ll see if we can gain another 1,000 feet.”
The SGIT team each wore a powerful navigational computer strapped to their wrist. By uploading their present position, the computer would have a precise starting point from which to calculate their descent to the landing point. A simple touch screen interface and four-color display made the navigational device easy to manipulate, even with gloved hands. The computer would plot a glide path ending at the roof of the chemistry building on the BSU campus, constantly updating for prevailing wind, glide speed, altitude, and other factors. Each team member simply flew his parachute by pulling cords attached to each end of the canopy, adjusting the form of the air-foil-shaped parachute and, thus, the glide path.
Ten minutes later the interior lights of the cavernous Combat King were extinguished, replaced with a dim red glow. The pilot’s voice sounded in Jim’s headset. “Secure satellite com, says it’s urgent.”
“It better, be,” Jim complained. “Put it through.”
“Sir, it’s Lacey.”
“This better be important Lieutenant, I’ve got work to do.”
“It is sir. The smallpox virus is definitely ours. Identical to a sample that went missing from the CDC and is presumed to have been sold to a Russian
agent.”
“Are you certain this is not some stupid scheme concocted by the CIA?”
“No, sir. I’ve checked my contacts in the Agency. They understand fully that bioweapons is a line not to be crossed.”
“You better be right, Lieutenant.”
“I’d stake my career on it, sir.”
“Good, you already have. We’ll get physical evidence, if there is any.”
“Roger, sir. Good luck.”
Commander Nicolaou led the men of Alpha Team to the open loading ramp at the tail of the aircraft. A cold wind whipped and swirled through the open cabin. With goggles over their eyes and weapons hanging from straps in front of their legs, the six warriors leapt into the black void nearly seven miles above and 20 miles west of the BSU campus.
While still in free fall, seconds before his chute opened, Jim saw four bright flashes streak across the ebony sky.
Sacrificing silence for speed, the trio ran to the stairwell clutching their odd assortment of homemade weapons and modern firearms. Peter let the door swing close behind them. They continued their rapid pace ascending the stairs to the roof.
Emerging into the cool pre-dawn air, Professor Savage sat beside the sturdy steel door with his back to the wall. He was breathing deeply, winded from the sprint.
Peter searched the flat roof for anything that could be used to barricade the door. All he found was a rusted length of one-inch pipe. He wedged one end against the door knob and the other into the hard surface of the roof. It was better than nothing, but he doubted it would keep a determined enemy at bay for long.
“Dmitri was a good man; he was my friend,” Ian said.
“I know Dad. I’m sorry.”
“He was married to his wife for 43 years. She died a few years ago, I think. Dmitri didn’t speak of her much, but when he did I could hear in his voice how much he missed her.”
Professor Savage leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “It never ends, does it?” he asked, his voice low.
Gary was at the edge of the roof looking over the commons, machine gun resting on the short wall, ready for action. The only problem was he had just 15 rounds in the belt feeding the gun, enough for only two brief pulls of the trigger.
“What never ends?” Peter said, addressing his father’s cryptic remark.
Ian opened his eyes and looked upon his son, wanting to drink in the innocence of youth. And yet innocence is not what he saw, and he knew that time had long passed. “The senseless killing of one another. It never ends. Governments the world over say it will. We all individually commit to it. And yet here we are. Killing, always killing.”
Peter saw before him a withered shadow of the father he remembered. The spark of joy was extinguished from his eyes; hope for salvation absent in his heart. He was suddenly an old man, one who had completed his journey, his mission. And now, there was nothing more.
Peter shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe humans are just hardwired to destroy one another.”
“We’re a failed species,” Ian said.
Peter had always looked up to his father. He was a strong figure and never tolerated poor behavior from Peter as a child. Yet Peter never questioned his father’s love for him. As a teenager, Peter admired his accomplishments. Professor Ian Savage was well respected by his colleagues and had amounted an impressive record of scientific publications.
There was no mistaking the disappointment his father felt when Peter chose a career in business and product development rather than academic research—a disappointment that often gave rise to heated arguments. As so often happens, pride and stubbornness trumped logic and understanding. Since neither father nor son wanted to accept the validity of the other’s path, preferring to think in terms of superior and inferior, a silent truce slowly developed, resulting in a wedge of indifference driven into their relationship.
It didn’t help that Ian Savage was a professor of chemical engineering at Oregon State University and Peter opted to study chemistry at the University of Oregon. The two universities, the premier hard-science institutions in Oregon, were perpetual rivals.
With the passage of time, wisdom had eventually prevailed, and over the past several years Peter and Ian had regained the closeness that was absent ever since Peter had founded EJ Enterprises and embarked on a successful career developing magnetic impulse technology.
Seeing his father’s shattered spirit, Peter decided he had one more reason to end Gorev’s life.
A low woosh caught Peter’s attention. It sounded like a large bird of prey—perhaps an owl—had glided low and swiftly over the roof. As suddenly as the sound appeared, it was gone, leaving Peter to wonder if he had really heard the sound or just imagined it.
There was no reaction from Gary; he was motionless, vigilantly overlooking the commons, alert to new threats. Sensing something was wrong, Peter unlimbered the AK-74 rifle from his shoulder.
He turned slowly, straining his eyes while searching the deep shadows on the roof and beyond. He stopped when his eyes passed over the machine in the distance next to the far air intakes, and a chill ran down his neck and spine. He shivered, but not from the cool temperature.
Then Peter heard the woosh again, but it was louder than before. Abruptly, a dark figure dropped directly in front of him, followed a second later by another, and another. Soon, six wraiths were busily disconnecting their black parachutes and readying weapons. No words were spoken, each figure singularly focused on completing essential tasks with expediency. Although he couldn’t make out the detailed movements, Peter had the clear impression they each knew exactly what to do.
Peter and Gary trained their weapons on the unrecognized figures who had literally dropped in. “Who are you?” Peter asked.
“Peter, it’s Jim,” a familiar voice came back.
Lowering his rifle, Peter exhaled silently and relaxed his muscles. “I’m glad you made it. We’ve been waiting for you guys to show up.”
Jim strode up to his friend, only then did Peter discern the details. He was dressed in black fatigues and load harness, carrying black weapons, and donning night vision goggles. No doubt Jim and the rest of the team could see Peter, Gary, and Ian as clearly as if it were mid-day.
“Lieutenant Lacey briefed me on your conversations.” As Jim spoke, the other five shadows dispersed with fluid grace to different strategic locations where they could see the park-like commons below as well as defend against enemy numbers who might attempt to storm their position on the roof.
“Show me this machine you described to Lacey.”
“It’s over there.” Peter led the way, stooped over to reduce his profile in case anyone was looking. He stopped five feet away from the treacherous device, fearful of accidentally touching it.
“Magnum, what do you make of this?”
Sergeant Percival Dexter, call sign Magnum, was SGITs expert on booby traps and IEDs—improvised explosive devices. The suitcase device he was visually examining was totally foreign; he had never before encountered a suspected bioweapon.
Lacey’s description was accurate: vent grill along the top edge and low on one side; lock, three buttons, and a small LCD display. Otherwise, the case looked very much like a hard-plastic packing case of the type used for tools, photographic equipment, scientific instruments, and other fragile goods.
Kneeling, Magnum leaned in close, almost touching the device. The latches were secured with padlocks, and there were no visible restraints to hold the case in place—just as Peter had reported to Lacey.
With few features to focus upon, Magnum was left with only the ventilation grills. He removed a small penlight from a sleeve pocket just below his shoulder before addressing Jim by his nom de guerre. “Boss Man, I need a look inside. Perhaps there’s something I can see through the grills.”
“Red lens?” Jim asked.
“Affirmative.”
“Go ahead.”
Clicking the light on, he first peered down through the ventilati
on grill on the top of the case. There was scant detail, only what appeared to be a plastic air duct, but he couldn’t see beyond a bend in the white plastic. Next, he laid his head down and shined the red light inside the lower side vent, confirming his suspicions.
After a minute he raised up onto his knees and addressed Boss Man. “There’s an air duct connected to the top vent. This one down on the side is the air intake. I was able to make out a large air blower and at least two complex circuit boards. My guess is that it’s powered by an internal battery bank—”
Magnum’s briefing was interrupted by the sharp staccato of bullets striking the metal air intake above their heads. It sounded like a woodpecker rapping its beak against metal flashing.
Everyone ducked as low as possible—everyone, that is, except Homer. More bullets ripped across the low wall at the edge of the roof, just below where Homer was sighting his Barrett rifle. A second later, he squeezed the trigger.
BOOM!
The M107 sniper rifle belched out its .50-caliber bullet. Less than a second later the machine gunner on a rooftop on the far side of the commons—about 1,200 feet away—lay dead, the large bullet having punched through the low cinderblock wall he was using as a protective shield, bullet and debris smashing a ragged hole through his chest.
The gunfire drew the attention of a half dozen NPA on the roof with the deceased machine gunner. They formed a skirmish line along the wall, firing back with automatic rifles and the machine gun. Bullets sizzled through the air over the roof of the chemistry building. Hunched over, Peter scampered back to his father, who remained sitting next to the roof access door. Professor Savage started to rise when he saw his son approaching.
“Stay down Dad!”
The elderly Savage eased back to his resting position, overwhelmed by the firefight developing around him.
Homer was no stranger to being shot at. Ignoring the unseen bullets passing all around him, he spotted his targets and methodically aimed and fired. He was shooting through their cover, the cement-block wall barely slowing the .50 caliber bullets. Within a minute, all of the NPA soldiers were dead, but Homer knew better than to relax his vigilance.