Of all the diseases in history, smallpox was the biggest killer. It had no cure. Only people who worked with it in labs were vaccinated against it. The vaccine wasn't even stockpiled in most countries anymore, which meant the general population had no immunity. It was highly contagious. One infected person would become twenty, twenty would become four hundred, and four hundred would become a pandemic. Bonnie's scalp prickled at the thought.
"Fine. I'll send a helicopter," Ian spat, then hung up.
Bonnie tamped down her frustration as she and John hustled through the infuriatingly slow process of exiting the BSL-4 lab. They sent their tools to the autoclave, passed through the airlock, took a chemical shower, removed their suits and scrubs in the “dirty” change room, took a regular shower, and finally put on street clothes in the clean room. Once they were out, Bonnie hauled the hard black case containing her field instruments out of her locker, and the two of them hurried in silence to the helipad, where a black Atlanta police helicopter idled.
Bonnie turned to her grandfather. That's what I'll look like when I'm old, she thought suddenly. Bright blue eyes clouded, short reddish hair streaked with gray, pale skin studded with liver spots, small frame supported by a cane. If I get old.
"It's probably a false alarm," John said.
Bonnie grinned. "Or maybe...it's not."
John cracked a smile. "There's a first time for everything."
Bonnie ran to the helicopter.
***
The police pilot flew her northwest to Dobbins Air Reserve base in Marietta, where an unmarked Citation jet waited on the runway.
“Where are we headed?” Bonnie asked the pilot as she strapped in, the lone passenger on a plane set up for over a dozen VIPs.
“Scotland,” was all he would say.
Bonnie had guessed it would be somewhere in the UK, given that Ian had been assigned to lead the team. Each mission was different, with experts and operators from dozens of countries standing by to be called away from their regular jobs at any moment.
By the time the jet landed at RAF Leuchars, Bonnie was bursting with impatience. She jumped out and ran across the tarmac to a lumpy, olive-green Puma helicopter. Dr. Shane Wong, a forty-two-year-old Ebola expert who worked out of the Center for Applied Microbiology in Porton Down, leaned out the open door to help her aboard. The pilot lifted off as soon as she was through.
"Bonnie! Welcome!" Shane shouted over the rotor wash. He handed her a set of headphones and waited for her to strap down and plug in.
“So what do we have?” Bonnie asked.
"The patient is Robert MacLeod, twenty-three. Reported missing to Kirriemuir police by fellow hackers after he missed their conference in Glasgow. Evidently he was meant to receive an award for posting a number of Russian mafia financial papers on the Internet. Coppers followed up. They heard him moving about inside but when they caught sight of him through the window, they stopped up the gaps and phoned the Health Protection Agency. HPA sent for us."
"What's the patient's status?"
"Dead. We found him in a pool of blood on the hall floor. Skin black and sloughing. Eyes red. Black blood leaked from his orifices before he died. His mates reported having seen him perfectly healthy less than forty-eight hours previously, and none of them are ill, so BRU thought weaponized Ebola, but once I did the tests I found—"
"Hemorrhagic smallpox."
“Right.”
Hemorrhagic smallpox was the deadliest form of the disease. It was as near to 100 percent fatal as made no difference, but normally cropped up in less than 2 percent of cases and took at least two weeks to kill a patient.
“It's acting way too fast. It must be genetically engineered,” Bonnie said. Their worst nightmare.
Shane nodded. "And there's more. We quarantined and vaccinated the two constables who discovered the body, but they fell ill anyway."
“How long's it been?”
“About fifteen hours, and they're already in a bad way.”
Chills raced along Bonnie's spine. “Regular or hemorrhagic?”
“Hemorrhagic. Both of them.”
“Shit. We're in big trouble.”
Shane didn't respond. His grim face said it all.
The helicopter set down in a cleared area of mountainside near a stone cottage. A hastily erected barricade plastered with biohazard signs blocked the lane leading up to the house. The front door opened into a plastic tent, which was connected to a series of trailers that made up a mobile Biosafety Level 4 lab.
Shane and Bonnie ducked under the rotors and ran for the last trailer, where they donned their specially designed BRU space suits. Standard suits were white, yellow, or light blue. Theirs were black. They were tougher, tighter fitting, and had high tech filters that eliminated the need for air tanks. They were designed so that you could eat, eliminate waste, and even draw your own blood without taking the suit off. BRU missions sometimes lasted for days.
They entered the house through the plastic tunnel. Bonnie maneuvered carefully, wary of brushing against anything that might compromise her suit. One breath of infected air was sometimes all it took.
"It took us ages just to get through the door," Shane reported over the team's private channel. "Coppers said his digital security system was impenetrable. Even our computer bloke couldn't crack his password. We had to borrow an EMP generator from the air force and shut the whole place down."
Robert MacLeod, his wide, staring eyes filled with red blood, lay on his back in the entryway where he’d died. Sheets of mottled purple-black skin had sloughed off into the congealing pools of tar-like blood on the stone floor. Four black-suited figures rustled around the cottage, poking into Robert MacLeod's life. The BRU team.
"You took your time," Ian said, his craggy, mustached face pulled down in its usual frown.
"I got here as fast as I could," Bonnie replied, not mentioning that she wasn't the one who wasted half a day bringing in the wrong expert.
"Nathan Douglas, Delta Force. Petter Solverson, Forsvarets Spesialkommando. Reiner Ebersbach, Kommando Spezialkräfte," Ian said by way of introduction, pointing at each man in turn. The BRU didn't bother with rank. Its members came from an eclectic array of armed forces units that all used different systems.
"Nathan's our explosives expert. Petter does languages and computers. Reiner's on navigation, surveillance, and comms."
Bonnie peered through their plastic faceplates as Ian introduced them. Nathan was in his late twenties, a little older than she was, black, and built like a football linebacker. The American regarded her with cold dark eyes and didn't offer to shake hands.
Petter was Norwegian, a little older than Nathan. He was very tall, very blond, and very lean. He gave Bonnie a perfunctory nod.
Bonnie put Reiner's age somewhere in the mid-thirties. Apart from herself, the German was the shortest, but where Bonnie was a waif, Reiner was stocky and strong. He had light brown hair and gray eyes.
"Fräulein Brymer," Reiner said in his heavy accent.
Doctor, Bonnie wanted to remind him, but it was no use. She wouldn't get a warmer welcome until she'd earned it.
"Any luck figuring out where he contracted it?" Bonnie asked.
Petter held open an A4 envelope covered in packing tape. Bonnie peered inside. What she saw made her stomach drop. There was a small quantity of pink powder in the bottom—an aerosolizing agent of the type that was often used to send anthrax through the mail.
"The envelope also contained a letter."
Petter showed her a piece of white computer paper which was blank except for three words.
“Is that Russian?” Bonnie asked.
"Poshel na huy," Petter confirmed. "It means 'fuck you.'"
"This was a hit," Shane realized.
"I think we got lucky. He was probably supposed to make it to that conference. He would have taken out the whole hacking community, along with half of Scotland," Bonnie added.
"We know," Ian said impatiently. "Now could we
possibly trouble you for some assistance in tracking down these arseholes?"
Bonnie ignored his hostility and set her field case next to Shane's. “What did your analysis turn up?”
Shane pointed to a full-color microscope image on the screen set into the lid. It showed typical smallpox “bricks,” huge lumps of proteins twisted around each other to protect the virus DNA at the center. They floated among destroyed cell fragments, waiting to burrow inside the next human cell that came their way.
“I know enough to recognize the bricks, but I haven't got a clue what these are,” Shane said, indicating an opaque oval approximately four times the size of a smallpox brick with little bristles around the edge. It wasn't moving.
Bonnie felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature in her suit. “I've never seen them before. Could it be a second pathogen?”
“If it is, the constables didn't contract it. All they've got in their blood is smallpox.”
Shane tapped the screen, bringing up another image, almost identical to the first except missing the black ovals.
“What do the DNA results say?”
Shane expanded a sidebar of text data into the middle of the screen. Dread crawled up Bonnie's spine as she looked at the string of letters.
“There's no extra data that might give us a clue as to what the ovals are. It's like they're inorganic. But the rest...I've seen this strain before. We call it Chernaya 91. The only known sample is in the WHO freezer in Atlanta. It was brought to the West in the pockets of a Russian bioweapons factory technician after the Soviet Union collapsed."
Ian stepped forward, a sharp look in his eyes. "Is there a cure?"
“No.”
“A vaccine?”
“We haven't found one, but there must be one where the strain came from. Only an idiot would unleash a bioweapon he couldn't protect himself from.”
“If we retrieve it, can we save those constables?”
Bonnie shook her head sadly. “Even if we had it right now we couldn't. In order for the vaccine to work, you have to take it before you feel sick.”
“We have to try, in any case. Where did the strain originate?”
Bonnie swallowed. "Chernaya Dira.”
"Black hole," Petter translated.
"The nightmare factory," Shane said with a shudder.
"Of this place I have not heard," Reiner admitted.
"It was an ultra-secret facility for developing and testing biological weapons during the Soviet era," Bonnie replied. "When the Soviet Union collapsed, the bioweapons division was privatized. According to the rumors, Chernaya Dira was taken over by the mafia."
Nathan whistled. "They bought a bioweapons factory just to make fuck-you gifts for their enemies?"
"This operation is sounding very amateur," Reiner said.
"Where is this place?" Ian asked. "We've got to get in there and shut it down before these bloody idiots wipe out half of Europe."
"It's in the wilderness someplace north of Saint Petersburg," Bonnie replied. "But if we want to get in, we'll need help."
***
The Russian defector, Yuri Akulov, was hastily flown in from his home outside Washington—under duress, if his face was any indication. His pale, bald head dripped with sweat and his gloved fingers twisted together nervously. Yuri had once worked in biosafety suits, but had never done a parachute jump. Reiner, their resident expert, had the Russian strapped to his chest.
The six of them stood alone in the cavernous cargo hold of a Royal Air Force C-130. The red interior lighting created menacing shadows of their biosuited figures. Bonnie had done jumps in training, but real life was a thousand times scarier. The roar of the freezing wind added to the drone of the propellers as the ramp dropped open. Stars studded the black sky. She could only tell the ground below because no lights twinkled. Not a light anywhere. The mission was a black op, so they would have to jump from a high altitude and float over the Finnish border to Chernaya Dira.
"Drei...two...eins....YOU JUMP!" Reiner yelled over their private channel, and flung himself off the ramp.
Bonnie dove into the night, eyes glued to Reiner. She was terrified of getting separated. The wind outside her helmet drowned out everything and her stomach leapt into her throat. As soon as she cleared the plane, she yanked the ripcord. With a WHUMP and a spine-jangling yank, a darkened ram-air parachute expanded above her. The wind noise died to a dull roar. Below, she could see a rectangle of dark gray—almost white compared to the environs—Reiner's parachute.
Bonnie tugged on the risers, pulling herself into line behind him. Craning her neck, she made out the shadowy figures of the other three as they moved into place behind and above her. She breathed a sigh of relief.
The drop seemed to take forever. As they ate up the nearly fifty miles they had to cover, a cluster of lights appeared ahead of them in the blackness. The angle got shallower and shallower. 2000 feet. 1500. 1000. 500. Her nerves wound up as the altimeter on her wrist wound down. Still nothing but trees below. Finally, at 300 feet, an open space appeared in front of them. They dropped the last few hundred feet into a wheat field. Her feet hit the ground and the shock reverberated through her body. She rolled through the high stalks to soften the impact.
They hid their parachutes and gathered on the crest of a hill. Bonnie fitted night vision goggles over her helmet as Reiner used infrared to observe the farmhouse that blocked their access to town.
"No one is at home," he reported.
Ian and Nathan led the way down the dirt road, rifles ready in case any mafia goons had seen them arrive. Every shadow looked like a threat to Bonnie, but as they patrolled into town, which was just a collection of worker houses, not a soul challenged them. Bonnie peered down each street as they passed, the green buildings swimming in her night vision. Everything was eerily quiet, even for the middle of the night. No dogs. No lights. No people. It only made the tension worse.
The only bright spot belonged to the facility. It loomed above the town from the next hill over, a sprawling complex of low concrete buildings surrounded by chain link and razor wire. Luckily the gate was unlocked and unguarded. Maneuvering through all those sharp barbs in a space suit chilled Bonnie’s blood.
"Where the bloody hell is everyone?" Ian asked.
"There should always be a guard on duty," Yuri said nervously.
"Maybe the mafia didn't get that memo," Nathan suggested.
A keypad controlled the lock on the heavy metal entrance doors. Nathan blew them open with a small shaped charge. While quiet for an explosion, the resounding CLANG should have brought some attention. Yet no alarms went off and nobody came to see what was going on.
"Something is feeling wrong..." Reiner said, voicing what they were all thinking.
Ian was first into the hallway. Red emergency lighting and the occasional flickering fluorescent cast long shadows. All the doors they came to were locked. They passed through the administrative area and into a Biosafety Level 1 zone, which, according to Yuri, took up the largest ring at the edges of the complex. As Yuri silently directed them toward the center, Bonnie found that she was holding her breath. Where was everybody? Had they abandoned the facility...or were they laying an ambush?
They passed into Level 2, which was marked only by a biohazard warning sign. Inside, sliding glass doors opened onto the labs. Bonnie peered into one and saw a body lying on the ground near a lab bench. It wore a stained white coat and rubber gloves.
"There's someone in there," Bonnie whispered.
Ian and Nathan plastered themselves to the wall on either side of the door and took turns peeking in. When no one moved inside, Ian gestured her forward.
Bonnie slid open the door and knelt next to the body, setting her field case down next to its head. The purple-black mottling of her skin and the clothing stained with black blood proved her a victim of hemorrhagic smallpox.
Bonnie's suit had a HEPA filter, but she could imagine the smell—rancid, almost like roadkill in th
e sun.
Bonnie pressed her fingers to the woman's cold, rubbery throat to check for a pulse. The body spasmed.
"She's still alive!" Nathan exclaimed.
Bonnie scuttled backward as the woman continued to seize. Her muscle contractions seemed oddly coordinated. Her forearms pushed against the floor. Her hips lifted. Her head jerked forward. Lab supplies clattered everywhere.
"Is she...trying to stand?" Ian asked.
"Don't be ridiculous," Bonnie retorted, but her heart hammered in her chest. Smallpox didn't cause seizures.
With a Herculean effort, the woman heaved her body to her feet and stalked toward them. Her eyes were wide open, fixed and staring with the whites shot through with red. Her mouth hung open. Foamy threads of blood-laced saliva hung from her lips. Everyone instinctively backed away.
With a liquid squish, a sheet of skin slid off the woman's forehead and slopped down her shirt, leaving a gory mess in its wake. The woman must have been in horrific pain, but her face showed no expression. She made no sound. WRONG, WRONG, WRONG, Bonnie's brain screamed. One of the worst things about smallpox was that it left its victims perfectly lucid and aware of how the disease progressed to the very end.
Everyone stood frozen as the woman shuffled toward them. No one seemed to know what to do. The woman swiped clumsily at Ian, her manicured fingertips zipping across his suit.
“Don't—” Bonnie shouted, but Ian reacted automatically, blasting a hole in the woman's chest with his M-16.
Bonnie jumped as the report echoed loudly. The woman's body jerked at the impact of the bullet, but she didn't fall. Instead she coughed, spewing a cloud of black gore that splattered across Ian's faceplate.
Ian stumbled back, smearing the blood with his gloved hand. The others raised their weapons and Bonnie's heart leapt into her mouth. Her training kicked in and she dropped to the ground as Petter, Nathan, and Reiner emptied their magazines into the unfortunate woman. Yuri cowered in a corner behind them. Bonnie's hands shook as the flashes cleared from her vision. The woman still stood, despite the fact that her blood and brains were splattered across the lab.
Enter the Apocalypse Page 17