Instinct

by Jeremy Robinson

  The pirates’ sources put the nearest warship, a Chinese destroyer, roughly thirty minutes away. But with the Volgaeft now making a beeline for the destroyer and the destroyer for the Volgaeft, that half hour would be cut in half. And it had taken five minutes to pull up alongside the freighter.

  Ten minutes left.

  Typically, once a cargo vessel was boarded and the crew rounded up, there was nothing a destroyer could do. The ransom would be paid. And after returning to port as hostages, the ship and crew would be free to go. But this was no ordinary pirate raid. They were after something specific, and they needed to be gone by the time the Chinese arrived.

  As the freighter crew watched the small pirate ship far below, preparing to cut grappling hook lines, they saw something they’d never seen a pirate do before. All five of the pirates raised what looked like handguns, but were tipped with solid black cylinders. Pirates typically fired warning shots at the crew, forcing them away from the rail while they scaled the side, but these devices weren’t weapons at all. All five fired as one. The black cylinders arced up over the rail, trailing thin black wires. They landed atop a large metal container and snapped up into standing positions as their magnetic bases engaged.

  One of the Russians armed with a machete tried to cut through the thin black wires, which were already taut with weight, but his blade could do no more to the wire than a plastic knife could. Before the crew could discuss what to do next, the pirates were pulled up and over the rail, landing on their feet and drawing pistols. The stunned crew stared for a moment. Then ran.

  Ignoring the fleeing crew, the pirates entered the maze of metal containers covering the deck of the massive ship. They were looking for one container in particular. Its contents were worth more than the bounty received from all previous pirate attacks in the last year combined.

  They wove their way through aisles created by the looming towers of containers, scanning the variety of labels, serial numbers, and I.D. codes. They knew what they were looking for. ID-432 out of Vladivostok.

  Three minutes later, they found it.

  A pair of bolt cutters emerged from beneath one of the loose robes worn by the pirates. The lock fell to the deck a moment later and the large metal doors opened. Flashlights rose to meet the darkness within, illuminating a single metal carrying case.

  “Over there,” one of the large men said, his English perfect, though tinged with a New Hampshire accent.

  “I’m on it,” the shortest replied, her voice feminine. The cheap black ski mask she wore covered her face and the black face paint beneath concealed her skin color. The only aberration in her pirate disguise was her indigo eyes.

  The man—Stanly Tremblay, call sign: Rook—stepped inside the container, flashlight up, followed by the woman—Zelda Baker, call sign: Queen.

  Queen knelt down by the silver case and inspected the area around it. “No traps. Looks clear, King.”

  Jack Sigler, call sign: King, stepped around Rook and unwrapped his face mask. His hard jaw was covered in stubble. His eyes glimmered with what his mother called mischief, but what the U.S. military called intensity.

  Outside the container, the last two “pirates” kept watch. Erik Somers, call sign: Bishop, brimming with muscles, and the smaller man, Shin Dae-jung, call sign: Knight, kept their silenced pistols aimed down either end of the hallway formed by walls of shipping containers.

  King pulled the case free from the bungee cords that held it securely to the back wall of the container. A digital touch screen and ten numbered buttons, zero through nine, were inlaid on the side of the case. Low-tech travel and storage, meet high-tech security. The case could not be opened without the correct code, and though there were no traps guarding the case itself, no one wanted to test a last-recourse defense mechanism by opening the case without the right code. “Deep Blue, you there?”

  “Right beside you.” In fact, the Delta team’s handler, Deep Blue, was half a world away, watching them via satellite. Named for the chess-playing supercomputer that trounced world champion Garry Kasparov in 1997, Deep Blue was the only member of the team whose identity was unknown. The man was an enigma, but he had access to U.S. military resources that were unparalleled, an impressive strategic thought process, and an understanding of military tactics that only someone who had previously seen combat could have. “I can see Bishop and Knight outside the container. Are you in?”

  “Affirmative. I’m about to access the locking mechanism,” King said as he used his KA-BAR knife to pry off the touch screen. He plucked the cable free from the back of the screen, removed a small touch screen of his own, and attached it. Once connected the screen lit up, a similar light blue to the ocean outside, and scrolled through a series of numbers. Unlike other mechanisms that tried a myriad of codes, looking for the right one, this device actually rewrote the software so that a new code could be added.

  “Once you confirm the contents, you need to bug out,” Deep Blue said. “The Chinese destroyer will be at your doorstep in five minutes and it looks like they’re warming up a chopper.”

  King shook his head. It was never easy. “Armed or transport?”

  “Gunship.”

  “Shit.”

  “Bishop, Knight, the crew is getting brave,” Deep Blue added. “Looks like they’re armed.”

  “Just let us know where to aim,” Knight said.

  Bishop, as usual, remained silent at his post. Watching and waiting. Unlike the others, he had nothing to fear from bullets, not physically anyway. Thanks to an unrefined serum created by Manifold Genetics, Bishop’s body could regenerate from almost any physical injury short of decapitation. The downside was that every injury, from a paper cut to a bullet wound, pushed his mind farther to the brink. The test subjects before him all became what the team called “regens”—mindless killing machines. It was only Bishop’s history of anger management and a regimen of mood-enhancing drugs that kept him stable. It had been almost a year since their run-in with Manifold and the regenerated mythical Hydra, but this mission was Bishop’s return to active duty. He’d been deemed fit for duty only a week ago.

  The numbers on the display stopped, and a blank screen with ten empty spaces appeared.

  “Ready for the code,” King said.

  “Hey guys, Lew here.” The new voice in their ear belonged to Lewis Aleman, their tech-wizard who was not only hardened on the digital battlefield, but also on the physical battlefield as a Delta operator. “The legendary CD Key for Office 97 is the code.”

  “Lew,” King said, “this really isn’t a time for—”

  “All zeros,” Rook said.

  “And the winner is . . .”

  King didn’t hear the rest. He was already typing in the ten zeros. Upon finishing the code, the screen went black. “Uh, Lew . . .”

  The locks clicked open. They were in.

  “Knight, now would be a good time for a warning shot.” Deep Blue’s voice was cool, but the speed with which he spoke conveyed urgency. The crew of more than thirty men were closing in on what they believed were five Somali pirates.

  Hoping the noise would intimidate, Knight removed his silencer from his .45-caliber Sig Sauer 220 handgun and fired off a round. It pinged off the deck where a crewman’s shoe was poking out from behind a container. The man shouted and they heard the sound of feet shuffling away.

  “That did it,” Deep Blue said. “But they haven’t given up. Chinese heli is in the air. ETA, two minutes. The destroyer will be right behind it.”

  King ignored the time line. It would only make him nervous and slow him down. He opened the case. Steam hissed from inside, rolling over the edge and out across the floor of the roiling hot case. When the steam cleared, twenty small vials were exposed. King removed a small kit from his cargo pants, which were hidden beneath his robe, and opened it. Moving with extreme care, he then untwisted the cap of one of the vials, inserted a Q-tip, and soaked up a small amount of the clear liquid within. He rolled the Q-tip across the white
surface of a small device that absorbed and analyzed the liquid. Normally, to identify a mystery liquid would require more processing power and equipment, but they were looking for one specific liquid, or rather, what was contained within the liquid medium. A small light on the device flashed green.

  “Confirmed,” King said. “We’ve got ourselves enough Russian-made smallpox to wipe out the populations of ten major cities.”

  “Great,” Rook said. “All headed for our buddies in Iran.”

  Cases of smallpox could be traced back two thousand years in human history, emerging in China. The virus moved across the Asian continent to Africa, claiming the lives of thousands, including Pharaoh Ramses V. After arriving in Europe in 720 B.C. it crossed the Atlantic to the New World along with Hernando Cortez and an army of conquistadors. Contrary to popular belief, it was not the brutal tactics of the conquistadors that wiped out the Aztec civilization, it was smallpox. Nearly four million Aztecs died from the virus. The last case of smallpox was recorded, ironically, in Somalia circa 1977. Since then the world has been smallpox free . . . and more susceptible than ever. There is no cure for the virus and though the mortality rate of the infected is ten to thirty percent, ten percent of the population of New York City is eight hundred thousand people. In the wrong hands, these small vials could be weaponized and kill millions.

  “So much for Putin’s assurance that their smallpox cache was secure,” Queen said.

  “I believe that as much as I believe Putin saved a film crew from a Siberian tiger,” Rook said. “If the guy had been born and raised in the U.S. he’d probably be on Broadway by now. What I don’t get is why this is still kicking around.”

  “Human nature,” Queen replied. “We’ve been dousing the world in chemical and biowarfare for thousands of years before we even understood what the stuff was. And the U.S. is just as guilty as any other nation. Just because we don’t use chemical and biowarfare now doesn’t mean we never did. It’s only because we have better tech and bigger bombs that we no longer need to fight dirty.”

  “Amen to that.” King nodded as he placed the Q-tip and small device on the floor. He took out a long cylinder that had been strapped to his leg, opened it, and doused the Q-tip and device with Thermate-TH3, a ruddy brown powder made from an iron oxide variant of thermite, barium nitrate, sulfur, and PBAN as a binder. The powder would burn at 2500°C, incinerating all traces of the smallpox and melting a hole in the container and a portion of the decks beneath. He closed the case as another shot rang out from outside the container.

  “Another warning shot,” Knight said. “No worries. Scratch that. Big worries, incoming.”

  The whup, whup, whup of an approaching helicopter rose in volume. The Chinese had arrived. King stood and shook the remaining Thermate onto the open case. Though more than a few science boys in the United States would like to examine the old smallpox plague contained in the vials, Deep Blue’s orders were clear: destroy it. The world would be a better place without another smallpox strain floating around, even in U.S. hands.

  As King wrapped his scarf over his face once more, he headed for the exit with Queen and Rook. He popped a flare and tossed it into the container, then quickly closed and latched the metal doors. The Thermate would quickly suck the oxygen out of the small container space, but the flames would not be smothered. The powdered hell contained its own oxygen source and could burn just as easily at the bottom of the ocean or in the vacuum of space. Once lit, nothing could put it out.

  Outside the container, Knight pointed to the sky. A black Zhi-11 gunship was approaching low over the sea, headed straight for them. As bursts of yellow flashed from the helicopter’s twin 12.7mm machine guns, King shouted, “Go! Go! Go!”

  The Chess Team darted down a side alley, hiding them from view as rounds chewed up the deck where they had stood only moments before. Hidden from the chopper, they ran without fear of being cut down from the sky, but they ran with weapons out in case the crew still lingered about. As they reached the port rail it was clear that the crew had hid with the chopper’s arrival. They knew enough to not get caught in the cross fire.

  The gunship roared above and out to sea, turning in a tight circle. It would be back in seconds.

  The team hitched themselves onto their cables, still tethered to the cargo container, holstered their guns, and slid over the side of the ship, rappelling with large leaps down to the small, white, and defenseless motor boat. Once aboard the craft, they disengaged the magnets, which automatically reeled in. Without looking up, King gunned the engine, which looked old, but was actually top-of-the-line U.S. military. The small boat shot forward just as a line of 12.7mm rounds traced across the waves and ripped into the side of the Volgaeft.

  King steered the small boat out and away from the cargo ship as the helicopter swung around for another pass. But the helicopter didn’t return. It just circled at a distance.

  Too easy, King thought.

  “King,” Deep Blue’s voice returned. “Cut hard to starboard.”

  King glanced to port. Closing in was an ominous Chinese destroyer, its cannons swinging toward them. “They can’t be serious.”

  “The Chinese have been in the Gulf of Aden for a year without any major conflicts,” Deep Blue said. “They’re eager to test their mettle. I think they—”

  BOOM!

  The ocean in front of the small boat burst skyward as a 100mm cannon round struck the water. The small boat launched off the resulting wave and cut through the mist, landing on the other side. King cut to starboard, but with the Volgaeft moving away they were exposed. If not for the boat’s small size and speed they would be an easy target.

  “You’re looking good,” Deep Blue said. “Keep your current course for thirty seconds.”

  “Easier said than done,” King replied.

  BOOM!

  The second round struck just behind them, pitching the boat up and forward, bringing the engine out of the water. If not for the quick thinking of Rook and Bishop, the team’s two giants, who threw themselves to the stern deck knocking the back end back down, the bow would have caught water and flipped them too soon.

  “Wait for the next round,” King shouted. “Then—”

  BOOM!

  The round struck just off the port side. The small boat became lost in a plume of seawater. When it cleared the boat appeared—capsized and immobilized.

  Rather than apprehend the pirates involved, the Chinese destroyer tested its aim on a still target.

  BOOM!

  The small boat shattered and burst as the massive round, powerful enough to sink the multi-hulled Volgaeft, struck home.

  Thirty feet below the explosion, five bodies descended, unmoving after the shock wave struck. Then a hand flashed up.

  Hold position.

  A dark shape loomed below. Waiting. Listening.

  King gave the crewman monitoring the hydrophone inside the submarine a moment to recover from the impact and explosion above. Then he shouted, expelling the last of his air, “Open the damn door.” The message was garbled by the bubbles escaping King’s mouth, but it was received. The side dry dock of the still-classified HMS Wolverton opened. All five swam inside. The doors closed as the small cabin pressurized and filled with air.

  The Chinese searched for the remains of the pirates they’d wiped out, but found only debris of the small boat. Regardless, the front page of China’s most popular newspaper, the Southern Metropolis Daily, heralded the encounter as a bold Chinese naval victory. And despite the pirates’ best efforts, the only losses were minimal damage to the Volgaeft and the total destruction of one container destined for Iran, reported full of toys donated by a charitable Russian organization.

  FOUR

  Catoctin Mountain—Maryland

  A BRISK PACE.

  That had been his campaign motto. It was catchy, to the point, and reflected the kind of lifestyle led by Tom Duncan, the president of the United States. Not only was he a proponent of whirlwind reform on e
verything from abortion to taxes, but in his foreign policy as well. Some called the ex–Army Ranger and Desert Storm veteran ruthless, and at times he was, but he preferred the term “efficient,” like a surgeon cutting away the world’s cancer. In the three years he’d been president, he’d put massive dents in three terror organizations including Hamas and Hezbollah, which brought the opportunity for establishing peace in the Middle East. But his tactics and in-your-face brute force policy brought criticism from several world leaders who feared the president’s “efficiency” might turn in their direction. But when push came to shove, no one denied that the world was a safer place with Duncan in the Oval Office.

  And his pace never slowed, not even while jogging, which his security team knew all too well.

  Duncan checked his pulse and then the time on his wristwatch. He was thirty seconds faster than his best time and felt far from tired, though his army green T-shirt was soaked through with sweat. He could hear the heavy breathing of the two Secret Service men following behind him as they struggled to keep up with the most physically fit president the United States had ever known. He didn’t drink, never smoked, and ate less sugar than a diabetic. And his good looks reflected his health. His short cropped brown hair, though balding slightly, when combined with his wry smile, drew swoons from the female press corps and graced the covers of very un-presidential magazines. It was theorized that his good looks had helped win the female vote and squelch the notion that a single man could never win the presidency. He was a modern American hero in his prime and a shoo-in for the next election.

  But these things were far from his mind on this summer day. The scenery of the wooded trail that wrapped its way around Camp David had been a favorite walk of Roosevelt, Bush Jr., and occasionally Clinton, but not one of them charged through the scenery like a man on a mission. And all the while he was enjoying the view. The foliage was lush and the woods smelled of wet earth and decaying leaves. The atmosphere was slightly humid, but here in the mountains, eighteen hundred feet above sea level, the air was crisp compared to the near-tropical moisture of Washington, D.C.