The Ares Decision c-8

by Robert Ludlum

  Farrokh came through next and Smith grabbed him, making sure he stayed low as his men followed.

  “Hold your—,” he started, but it was too late. The second man through let loose a series of uncontrolled bursts at the red blurs streaking around them, filling the air with even more lead.

  “Peter! The monkeys!” he yelled as the Brit came through.

  The benefit of Omidi’s guards’ being completely preoccupied with the animals on the ceiling was that it made them easy targets. They crumpled unceremoniously to the floor when Smith put a single round into each of their chests.

  “Stop shooting!” Smith yelled as Howell crammed himself into a corner and began tracking a monkey darting across an oblong light fixture hanging on cables. No one seemed to hear, so he threw himself over Farrokh, grabbing the closest man’s rifle and giving it a hard jerk. “Stop!”

  A series of bulbs exploded as Smith went for the next man firing out of turn. In the dark, their chances against these little demons went to precisely zero. He managed to yank the gun from him and was trying to get to the last man shooting when one of the monkeys dropped down and did his job for him.

  The young man screamed and dropped his rifle, clawing at the animal sinking its fangs into the back of his neck.

  It was just the opportunity Howell needed. His bullet shattered the right half of the monkey’s skull and passed through, severing the desperate man’s spinal cord. A quick and humane end for both.

  The last monkey was smaller and faster but obviously confused by the shadows created by the swinging of the last light fixture. Farrokh and his men tracked it with their guns but to their credit managed to control their fear and not fire.

  The animal leapt for the wall and missed the hole in the concrete it was going for, causing it to somersault to the floor. The impact dazed it, slowing its chaotic movements enough to make it a viable target. Howell’s first shot spun it around and his second tore away most of its chest.

  Suddenly, all that was audible in the room was their ragged breathing and the creaking of the light. Smith was the first to stand, feeling a little disoriented in the stillness. He pulled Farrokh to his feet and then held a hand out to the other three men. They just stared blankly at him as Howell started toward a steep ramp leading into the earth.

  “Look on the bright side,” the Brit said as he disappeared around the corner. “How much worse could it possibly get?”

  By the time they reached the main level, Smith’s heart had slowed to what still felt like twice its normal rate. He was on point as he came around a blind corner, rifle thrust out in front of him.

  Nothing.

  “Clear!” he said, aware of the cameras looking down at them but unable to do much about it.

  Halfway down the passage they came upon three corpses wearing lab coats, each with a neat bullet hole in the back of the head.

  “Nobody touch anything.”

  When he got no response, he turned back to Farrokh. “Are you going to translate?”

  The Iranian gave him a quizzical look and thumbed back at his men. “Do you really think it’s necessary?”

  He was right. They were clearly petrified. It was unlikely that there was enough money in the world to get them to come into contact with those bodies.

  They continued on, clearing every room in sequence, finding some empty and others strewn with corpses. None had been attacked by the animals they’d run into when they entered, though. They’d been executed.

  Smith backed out of a room containing two people slumped over their desks, once again feeling a sense of relief at not finding Sarie. In truth, though, it would be better if he had. His problems were bad enough without her in the hands of Iranian Intelligence.

  A dull whine started in the distance, and he froze, listening to it separate into a chorus of shrieks as it closed on them.

  “Are you hearing that?” Howell said. “It’s not going to be two of them this time.”

  He was right. It was impossible to pick out individual voices in the screams of the approaching animals. If his team got caught in the confined space of the hallway, they wouldn’t last thirty seconds.

  “Inside!” Smith said, leaping back into the room with the others close behind. He slammed the door behind them only to find that the deadbolt was extended far enough to prevent it from fully closing.

  “Farrokh. The lock. Can you get it to retract?”

  The Iranian knelt to examine it. “No. It’s electronic. Controlled centrally, probably.”

  “Incoming!” Howell shouted, grabbing a rifle and slipping the barrel through the narrow gap between the door and the jamb.

  There were at least ten of them, coats so wet with blood that they were leaving streaks on the floor and walls as they charged. Smith dropped beneath the Brit, aiming his.45 into the corridor and trying futilely to track individual targets.

  “Farrokh! Hold the door.”

  The Iranian shoved his back against it and waved his men over to help him. Their prayers were just barely audible over the howls.

  81

  Central Iran

  December 5—1102 Hours GMT+3:30

  The arm appeared again, flicking around the crack in the door and grasping desperately at darkness. Sarie jerked back, tangling herself in the coats hanging in the crowded closet but keeping a death grip on the leather belt looped over the knob.

  She stabbed at the arm with the sharp end of a broken broom handle, connecting with the blood-soaked biceps on her fifth try. The man gave no indication that he even noticed, adjusting his strategy from groping blindly for her to trying to pry open the door.

  All she wanted to do was cover her ears to block out his enraged screams. And maybe she should. There was no way out of the facility, and she would eventually get tired, while he would just keep coming until his heart failed. If she let him in, it would be over in a minute. Maybe less.

  He managed to get a shoulder through, and she could see his face in the dim light — the saliva hanging in long, pink strands across his beard, the wide eyes trying to catch a glimpse of his prey.

  She swung the broom handle at his face, and it tore a deep gash beneath his eye. Other than making him even more grotesque, though, it accomplished nothing. Dropping her useless weapon, she put a foot against the wall and gripped the belt with both hands, trying to use her superior leverage to trap him between the door and the jamb.

  Her forearms felt like they were on fire and her palms were slick with sweat, causing the leather to slip slowly but irretrievably through her fingers. The door opened another few centimeters, and the man’s head intruded a little farther, the gash in his face flowing with parasite-​infested blood. She felt the heat of it splash across her hands, but it didn’t matter. In a few seconds she wouldn’t be able to fight anymore — she’d lose her grip, the door would fly open…

  And then he was gone.

  The extended deadbolt clanged loudly as she pulled it into the metal jamb, her mind unable to process the meaning of the muffled shouts and gunfire outside.

  A few moments later, fingers curled around the edge of the door and began trying to pry it open again.

  “Get away from me!” she screamed, grabbing the broom handle and narrowly missing the hand when it was jerked away at the last moment.

  “Sarie! Is that you?”

  The hand reappeared and she slashed at it again.

  “Let go of the door, Sarie! And for God’s sake, stop trying to stab me!”

  The accent wasn’t Iranian. It was American. And there was something familiar about it.

  “Sarie. Listen to me. Open the door, okay?”

  The belt fell from her hands and she squinted into the light as Jon Smith lifted her from the closet.

  “Are you all right?” he said, looking her over for cuts that the parasite could have invaded, finally settling on her leg. “What happened? Is it from an attack? Did it—”

  She shook her head and threw her arms around him, sobbing uncon
trollably. The man who had been trying to get to her was lying on the floor fifteen meters away with most of the top of his head missing. Peter Howell was standing next to the body, keeping watch over the empty hallway with three armed Iranians.

  “I’m sorry, but there’s not much time,” Smith said, gently pushing her away.

  “Less than you think,” Sarie said, wiping at her eyes. “Omidi’s people made the parasite transportable. I tried to stop him, but he’s gone. And he took it with him.”

  Smith looked up the hallway as the howls of monkeys started echoing along it. Luck had played a significant role in their surviving their last encounter — the fact that none of the animals had been small enough to get through the crack in the door or large enough to push it open, combined with a one-in-a-thousand shot that he still couldn’t believe he’d made. The gods wouldn’t be as kind the next time around.

  “What do you mean gone, Sarie?”

  “I mean he got in a truck and drove away.”

  82

  Central Iran

  December 5—1123 Hours GMT+3:30

  Mehrak Omidi squinted through the dusty windshield at the road disappearing into the horizon. The rutted surface and the insecure position of the guard manning the machine gun in back was limiting them to eighty kilometers per hour — a speed that seemed impossibly slow.

  “How far are you from Avass?”

  Omidi held the satellite phone with his shoulder and scrolled on a handheld GPS. The village, a crumbling rural outpost with fewer than three thousand residents, was too small to be noted on it, but based on the topography he could make a reasonable estimate.

  “Less than an hour, Excellency.”

  “And the facility?” Ayatollah Khamenei said. “What is the situation there?”

  “The infection is loose inside and the main door has been breached.”

  “Was it the Americans?”

  “Iranians. Members of the resistance, I suspect. But there can be little doubt that the Americans have a hand in it.”

  “Then they know a great deal.”

  “Too much, Excellency.”

  The alien sensation of fear was slowly working its way to his belly. There was no way to go back — they had burned every bridge behind them. Bahame was almost certainly dead, and according to the international press his guerrilla army had been all but wiped out. Whatever Jon Smith’s fate, it was certain that he had told his superiors everything he’d learned and the Americans would act on that information — with allies if possible, alone if necessary.

  “Excellency, I’m sorry. I—”

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Mehrak. You have been nothing but a loyal and tireless soldier in the service of God.”

  The years seemed to have drained from his voice, which resonated with the certainty and confidence that Omidi remembered from decades before.

  “Continue to Avass,” Khamenei said. “I have contacted the police there, and they are gathering others who are loyal to God and the revolution. They will offer protection until the military can reach you.”

  “How long?”

  “The first transport plane should arrive in less than four hours.”

  “Four hours,” he repeated quietly. It seemed like an eternity. The forces that had breached their defenses would almost certainly know by now that he had escaped and would be coming for him.

  “Excellency, I—”

  The window next to him exploded, showering him with glass as the truck swerved violently. Omidi dropped the phone and slid to the floorboards, protecting the briefcase with his body as bullets pounded the door next to him.

  His driver was bleeding from a deep cut in his forehead but managed to regain control of the vehicle. The man in back had been slammed into the cab and was struggling to swing the machine gun in the direction of the riflemen who had appeared on a ridge bordering the east side of the road.

  A moment later, the satisfying roar of the mounted gun replaced the ring of bullets on the door, and Omidi rose enough to see over the dashboard while the driver wrung all the speed he could from the engine.

  A rusting compact car appeared from behind a low rise in front of them, entering a narrow section of road bordered by a deep ditch on one side and a cliff face on the other. It continued to pick up speed, and Omidi saw unwavering resolve in the hunched position of the man behind the wheel. He was going to ram them.

  The sound of the machine gun grew in volume as it turned on the approaching vehicle, ripping through the grille, pockmarking its hood, and finally tearing away most of the roof.

  The car skidded left and then careened right, its driver’s head now held on by nothing more than a thin ribbon of skin. The truck’s right fender took most of the impact, slamming the much smaller vehicle into the rock wall and grinding along its length.

  The machine gunner’s back was pressed against the cab again, and he was laying down suppressing fire, moving smoothly between the intermittent muzzle flashes fading behind them.

  “Mehrak! Are you there? Mehrak!”

  Khamenei’s tinny voice was audible again, drifting out from beneath the truck’s seat. Omidi remained on the floorboards, reaching around blindly for a few moments before laying his hand on the phone.

  “Yes, Excellency. I’m here.”

  “What happened?”

  “We were attacked. The resistance is obviously aware that this is the only road leading away from the facility.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “And the parasite?”

  Omidi tapped a code into the briefcase’s keypad and popped it open, revealing nine separate vials.

  “Intact.”

  “Praise be to God.”

  “If there are terrorists on the road, Excellency, there may be more in the village.”

  “I’ll contact our people in Avass and warn them. They will be waiting to escort you in.”

  “Thank you, Excellency.”

  “Mehrak, I know I don’t have to impress upon you how important it is that those vials reach Tehran intact. We have seven men with U.S. visas standing by. We must strike quickly and fatally before the Americans can move against us.”

  83

  Central Iran

  December 5—1141 Hours GMT+3:30

  “This is all we have?” Smith said, staring down at a single grenade that looked like World War II surplus.

  The young man standing in front of him nodded weakly, bending at the waist and trying to slow his ragged breathing.

  “How hard would it be to get back to the main entrance?”

  “There were four of us when we entered,” he replied in thickly accented English. “I’m the only one left.”

  “Jesus, Sarie. How many of those monkeys are there?”

  “Thirty-one. And two people not counting the one you killed.”

  “Everybody back!” Howell shouted as the clatter of claws became audible down the hallway.

  They’d erected floor-to-ceiling barricades on both sides of the corridor, but the available materials — mostly office furniture — made for a fairly porous barrier. Howell and Smith stood in the middle of the floor with their pistols at eye level as the others retreated behind them. The animal was approaching fast, brief flashes of crimson through the gaps.

  Despite its less-than-impressive construction, the barrier did what it was designed to do. The monkey hit hard and immediately went for an obvious hole they’d made sure was large enough to be enticing but not so large that it would be easy to fully pass through. The macaque got its head in but then was stalled when its shoulder got caught. Smith held his fire and let Howell use his superior marksmanship to put a round through the top of the animal’s skull.

  “It worked!” Farrokh said, coming up behind them. “I have to admit I had my doubts.”

  “We were lucky,” Howell responded, checking his clip. “One is easy to handle. Maybe even two. More than that and they’re going to get through.”


  He was right. As bad as infected humans were, they were relatively large, slow targets compared to these little horrors. And according to Sarie, there were six full-grown chimps that wouldn’t be drawn in by the gap left in the barricade. They’d make their own.

  “What now?” Farrokh said. He was holding a walkie-talkie in his hand, but after his initial success in getting the grenade brought down to them, all attempts to raise his men had failed. Beyond knowing that their reinforcements had arrived, they were completely in the dark as to what was happening outside the hallway they’d barricaded themselves in.

  “Sarie, you’re sure this is the door Omidi went out?” Smith said.

  “Positive. The fact that it’s locked means it leads outside,” she said and then pointed to a smear of blood on the floor. “And that’s mine.”

  “Then we have to get through.”

  “The steel’s too thick,” Farrokh said. “That grenade won’t penetrate.”

  He was right. Putting the explosive directly against the door would probably just bend the metal — making it even harder to open.

  “Perhaps…,” Farrokh continued hesitantly.

  “What? If you have an idea, speak up.”

  “I’ve never worked on this type of mechanism specifically, but I used to be an engineer. If you were designing this, how would you make it lock?”

  “Sure…,” Smith said, focusing on the wall to the left of the door. “Why make things any more complicated than you have to? All you need is a simple actuator that moves something to block it.”

  They worked quickly, tearing down the rear barricade and using the pieces to create a structure that would help direct the blast against the wall next to the door. It left them unprotected, but at this point, there was no choice but to go all-in.

  When they were finished, Smith pulled the rusty pin on the grenade. “Everyone back!”

  They ducked around the corner and flattened themselves against the wall as the explosive detonated, filling the air with a haze of shattered concrete.