Cellular Activity- The Djinn

by Francesco Mazzotta

  Those few words, however, let him understand the situation: they are what Mohamed called mavericks with weapons.

  The old man's words resonate in the minds of Ahmed: «... they are people without understanding. They only believe to the nonsense of those who sell them weapons, and they go around killing in the name of a God they don't know anything about. A man can kill for his land, for his family, but not for God. What kind of God may ever be the one who needs men to kill other men?»

  Ahmed shakes his head, to wipe away that memory and focus on the present.

  He seems to understand that the newcomers want to take away the survivor, but Wahid and Yidir refuse to deliver him. The discussion degenerates. There are some long and critical moments. Ahmed hears sudden shouts, immediately followed by the terrible sound of automatic weapons. The boy lowers his head behind the dune, torn between the will to see what is happening, concerned about the fate of his brother and his friends, and the fear and the survival instinct that makes him keep his head down.

  The dog is gone, rushed forward, fading into the glare of the headlights on the cars.

  The gunfire ceases as quickly as it started. Nobody screams anymore. The men talk rapidly, their voice is too low and far away to be understood by Ahmed. Hidden behind the small dune, the boy sees the light beams rotating in the air, while the noise of the jeeps begins to fade, along with the barking of the dog.

  Only then, trembling and with his skin wet with cold sweat, Ahmed finds the courage to stand up and walk.

  The two cars are already small light spots that move quickly away into the night.

  The boy walks unsteadily at first, then his pace become quicker with every step, as a terrible feeling makes its way into his heart due to the sudden and total silence. He runs toward some dark figures that stand motionless on the lighter sand, under the light of dusk. Without him realizing it, tears begin to slip on his face, sticking to the fabric of his targui. After a seemingly endless run, short of breath and still in tears, Ahmed reaches the small group of friends on the ground.

  Nobody moves, nobody speaks. The stench left by the unknown firearms, mixed with the sweet smell of blood and the sickening stench of the feces of dead humans and animals floats around in the air.

  The dromedaries are on ground too, lifeless. Ahmed kneels beside the still warm body of Yidir. His wide open eyes stare at the sky. The boy shakes his older brother to awaken him, screaming, crying...

  His sobs are lost in the infinite indifference of an unknown desert.

  Military jet XT 3015

  Emily Moore looks at the endless darkness outside the window with a worried stare, without actually seeing anything. She's nervous, everything happened too fast, like an ocean wave that catches you and scrambles you when you don't expect it. She closes her eyes, the last events' sequence plays in her mind as a high-speed film.

  A helicopter hasted to pick her up only few hours earlier, landing on the heliport on the roof of the headquarter of the government agency where she is employed as a researcher for emergency threats where biological weapons are involved.

  The section was established in the wake of the measures undertaken by the Biological Weapons Anti-Terrorism Act of 1989, which became operational with President H.W. Bush in May 1990. Despite her young age, she is currently directing the operating units of one entire section. She has humble origins, and she has always worked hard, since she was barely more than a child, often forgetting about sleeping, eating, or having true social relations. She graduated two years ahead of the average of her faculty mates and she has always received the highest ratings, also in the many subsequent post-graduate courses she attended.

  Sometimes, in the rare moments when she tries to have a break, her thoughts take her in flights of fancy.

  Meeting a man, raising a family or just hanging out with friends...

  Yes, but which ones?

  She simply doesn't have any, except for some former classmates with whom she exchanges banal phone calls once a year. Job and research are everything to her and, when she's busy in her laboratory to sequence long DNA chains, time stops flowing normally.

  «It's not really a great sight at this hour, isn't it?»

  John Ironside's voice sneaks into her thoughts, pulling her away from fantasies that she has already forgotten, and setting her back to the present. The woman opens her eyes and turns to look, while the words of the man are assimilated, becoming awareness. Ironside smiles, nodding with a movement of his face to the window in which she was absorbed.

  «Well, yes, it's really pitch dark outside», she answers, realizing the blush on her cheeks and turning back to the window, to prevent him from noticing. The man doesn't insist, turning back to read a business magazine. Previous attempts to have a conversation that could alleviate the boredom of the night flight did not give the best results.

  «Anyway, it won't take any much longer, I presume...»

  This time she has taken up the speech. John Ironside looks up, happy to talk to someone. The other passengers of the flight, a silent team of marines, dressed in light-colored camouflage tactic suits, are sitting in the tail of the passenger compartment that, if not for the occasional jolts due to the vagaries of air currents, might seem a modern luxury living room.

  «No, not really, we should be almost there» is the affable man's reply. He's going to add something else, when a beep in his ear-set warns him of an incoming communication. «Sir, an incoming call, Secretary Thompson on line.»

  Ironside has no time to reply, for the operator has already switched the communication, and Thompson's voice breaks into the flight's monotony.

  Emily Moore looks at the man, sitting near one of the windows on the other side. His face hardens, his eyes take on a serious stare, while a veil of concern draws tiny wrinkles on his forehead. The man opens a small laptop, quickly typing his access credentials, then he keeps his eyes on the screen for a long time, looking at a downloading picture that appears slowly, line by line. Ironside's face takes a veil of disgust, then he lowers the screen with a sharp gesture, putting aside the small computer.

  «Roger Richard, I'm gonna update Dr. Moore, right now.»

  Hearing her name, the woman has the feeling that an invisible hand is squeezing her stomach, aware that the communication has not brought good news. Her intuition is confirmed when Ironside turns to face her. The man gets up and comes near her, sitting down in the opposite seat. «I'm afraid I don't have good news, Dr. Moore.»

  The man awaits, as if to choose the right words, then continues. «There is the real possibility that Ebola isn't the subject of our concerns.»

  The woman's look is not affected. She's no longer a shy nerd, but Dr. Moore, the scientist, in her more congenial environment. «If it's not Ebola, then what is it?», she says dryly.

  Ironside notices the change in his interlocutor, and this partially mitigates his concerns: in situations like the current one it's far better to have sharp and determined people around. «We'll know soon. The Russian government is sending an expert. His plane has already landed at Algiers airport. A helicopter is taking him to the same place where we are heading, in the Algerian Sahara. Have you ever heard the name of Alexander Ivanov?»

  Reading the perplexity in the look of the woman, Ironside keeps talking, sharing with her the little information found about the Russian scientist. «In the early 80's, Alexander Ivanov was absolutely the best Russian researcher in the field of biological warfare. According to our information, at that time he was able to create a modified versions of the smallpox virus that aroused quite a stir and concern, both in Russia and in other countries. A genius like few, a real promise in the scientific world, although his research was towards the production of lethal weapons.»

  Ironside changes position in the seat, approaching Moore as to emphasize how important the information is, and he keeps saying how, about Alexander Ivanov, there are no more records since 1983.

  The woman listens carefully and after Ironside e
nds she takes a moment before formulating the questions implied in that revelation. «A Russian biotechnological weapons expert... American intelligence services lose his tracks for about thirty years... After all that time the Russians pull him out of the hat, after someone has stolen a dangerous pathogen, bringing it into other nations. Why Ivanov, except that he is probably the one who has created this weapon? Why risking to deliver his knowledge and his creations to the nation that has always been their main antagonist?»

  «Good points, Dr. Moore», replies Ironside with a half-worried smile. «Perhaps because his creation is so dangerous to put into serious doubt the future existence of the nations themselves. Of all nations... However, I believe that we will have some answers soon. We've started a descending loop right now.»

  Hearing those words, Moore realizes that the plane is slightly tilted, and has started to fly into a spiral descent to the runway. She turns instinctively to look out the window on her left.

  Somewhere below them, there are two barely visible parallel strips of lights placed at regular intervals.

  «First time in the field?»

  She just nods. Her face seems concerned.

  «In the incoming hours we will work together to face this threat, whatever it is. If you notice anything unusual or have just impressions, please, share them with me. Even the smallest detail may be of crucial importance. This matter... well, it's serious, it's damn serious. And... please call me John.»

  The woman looks at the man sitting in front of her and notices the hand he's holding out. A little surprised, she hastens to hold it, cursing inwardly the blush that she feels rising on her nerdy cheeks.

  «Emily», is her reply.

  Boeing crash site

  A short line of military vehicles moves quickly to the site of the disaster, raising a cloud of sand and dust in its wake. The leading vehicle is a Joint Light Tactical Vehicle, JLTV, whose shape resembles an armored SUV. Its color is designed to blend in easily with the shades of the sand dunes. From the rear of the vehicle sprout two long antennae connected with the communication apparatus inside. Its headlights light up the ground for a few hundred meters.

  The inner part of the vehicle is lit by rows of tiny screens. One of them displays the footage taken by an external camera placed on top of the vehicle. The soldiers on board wear bio-hazard suits, but they have their faces uncovered. Their faces look serious and concerned.

  They are men hardened by the ups and downs inherent with their job, they know what to expect on the scene of the crash of a plane that was traveling with about two hundred and fifty people on board.

  The driver is a muscular and broad-shouldered black. His eyes are moving rapidly to observe carefully the terrain that lies ahead of the car. «Lieutenant, why these suits?»

  «I know almost as much as you, Brody. Washington warned us about the possible presence of a contaminant agent on the plane. Our orders are to scout ahead, check the possible presence of survivors and possibly help them. We must secure the area and await for further directives». These words are spoken by the man sitting beside the driver, Lt. Samuel Bishop. This one has a lean physique and chiseled features. A deep scar furrows his face, sneaking on his left cheekbone and venturing above his ear, drawing a white line through his short black hair.

  «Contaminant agent?», echoes the soldier sitting in front of the screen, a young man with red hair that looks like the twin of one of the protagonists of the old TV series Happy Days. «What kind?»

  «Ebola. Brody slow down, we should almost be there.»

  The vehicle is going to circumvent a low dune, no taller than a few meters.

  «Relax lieutenant, I grew up in Detroit, it's not the first time that... Holy Chri...»

  The curse dies in the man's throat, while he stops the vehicle abruptly and steer quickly to avoid a large fuselage piece protruding from the ground near the low dune. The truck that proceeds behind it is suddenly forced to divert to avoid crashing into the JLTV. Its braking digs deep furrows in the sand.

  Lieutenant Bishop looks with a glance of reproach to the driver, while someone else shouts in the intercom from the other cars.

  «Damn you, Brody, wanna kill us all?!?»

  Bishop unlatches the safety harness and leaves the vehicle. The man expects the temperature difference between the air inside the car and the external one, but is not ready for the nauseating smell of fuel, plastic and charred bodies. He hastens to impart guidelines to Brody, telling him to take the vehicle on top of a hill to have a good signal, and to make sure that the camera has a good view of the disaster area. Then he puts a gas mask on, adjusting its filters and checks that everything works properly. He briskly moves toward the other vehicles, imparting orders.

  «Well gentlemen, let's split and inspect the area. Take a quick check to see if there are any survivors, in which case call me immediately. If you see someone still alive, don't touch him, just call me. Uncle Sam wants a containment perimeter all around the crash site, but we don't have enough men to surround the area. We are in the desert, but you never know: don't let anyone get close. Extinguish all the fires, the last thing we want is that they are sighted by any marauders gang, attracting those jackals around here. Then proceed gathering the corpses and any remains. Pack everything and load it on the trucks and the first helicopter heading to the base. I want a clean and quick job: the quicker we fix this mess the sooner we leave. Any questions?»

  USA Base CNT222

  The tires of the military jet screech as they impact with the runway, raising puffs of sand and white smoke. The nose of the aircraft, with two white wings that protrudes laterally like mustaches, lowers toward the runaway. The strange mix between a plane and a rocket slows down, although it seems to take an eternity before slowing to a crawl.

  A slow maneuver takes it close to a low building. Not a light, not a soul, just shadows upon shadows.

  The group of soldiers awakes. They stand up before the plane has completely stopped, putting heavy backpacks on their shoulders and checking their equipment.

  «Why more soldiers?», asks Moore. Ironside loosens his seat belt, leaning forward to speak conspiratorially with her.

  «These soldiers are a unit of special forces of the Marines. We are in a foreign country, and we don't know what we're dealing with. It's better to be ready, just in case.»

  The door opens, and the cold night air of the desert quickly enters the cockpit. Moore shivers surprised. She is aware that the desert has a remarkable temperature shift phenomenon, but the impact of cold air is still unexpected. She instinctively puts a hand to her throat, to further seal an already very tight jacket.

  «Is that all?», whispers the woman, now on top of the plane's exit-stairs. She looks around and notices a few scattered, small buildings, almost invisible in the darkness of the night.

  Nobody answers, as they descend the steps to the dusty ground.

  Fantastic...

  Two soldiers wait for them on the ground. Ironside recognizes the ranks of a Major and those of a lieutenant. The first one steps forward, holding out a hand to Ironside, which is the first to touch the ground. «Welcome, I am Major Albert Macready, commander of the base, and this is lieutenant Redmond. It's a pleasure to receive you, sir, although these are not the best circumstances.»

  Ironside shakes the man's hand, feeling a decisive and firm hold.

  «And you are Dr. Moore», exclaims Macready, holding out his hand to the woman.

  Concluded the presentations with the commander of the marine's team that got off the plane, the group splits. Lieutenant Redmond remains with the new soldiers, who quickly wake several crates of equipment out of the plane.

  The Major leads Dr. Moore and Ironside toward the larger building, filling in them about the situation. «My men have reached the crash site, I have ordered them to perform a reconnaissance to detect any possible survivor and to prevent anyone from entering or leaving the area. A Bell UH-1Y Venom helicopter patrols the entire zone.»


  «Good job, Major. What about our guest from the Kremlin? Is he already here?»

  «Yes, sir», replies Macready. «Our helicopter has taken him from the Algiers airport. He arrived about half an hour ago. He currently is in one of the rooms that we use as temporary housing.»

  «What impression did he make?»

  «If you're asking my personal opinion... Well, the whole thing doesn't convince me at all. There is a strange madness in that man's eyes. He refused to discuss with me the reason of his presence here. He wants... assurances.»

  «I'd like to meet him immediately, Major. Please arrange a room, we will handle the situation promptly.»

  In the night silence they hear the sand crack under their feet. Macready seems to guess their thoughts. «The sand here is always everywhere, we can't do too much here, outside the base.»

  The three finally enter the building through a banal and anonymous door. Their path is lit by a series of LED spotlights that light up as they go by, fading away beyond them as they walk past. The interior smells like a workshop, and in the dim light generated by the LED lights they can see some military vehicles. Trucks covered by sheets, fire trucks curiously surmounted by cannons that spray water, foam or powder, another one that looks like a rescue vehicle, a Humvee and other armored cars. No way to see the end of the hangar that seems to be much larger than its external appearance. Their footsteps echo in the silence of the night, until they stop in front of a solid wall from which protrudes a tiny white box. A black longitudinal stripe runs through it, flanked by a red LED. The Major swipe an identification badge. After a few seconds the red lights turn to green with a beep. They hear a hissing sound, then a large sliding door, almost half a meter thick, opens in the seemingly smooth and uniform wall. The interior is white and lit by LED lamps placed at regular intervals. The floor has a slight tilt and, about fifteen meters ahead there's a guard cabin on the right. A little further, they notice the sliding doors of a huge lift.