Cobra

by David E. Meadows

  Unfortunately, it won’t protect you from it.”

  “Please tell your Al Maadi that I extend my personal invitation for him to visit inside with us at any time.”

  Adib tossed the microphone to Vasilev.

  “Where are the other scientists?”

  “They are coming.”

  As if hearing Vasilev’s answer, two of the scientists who were inside the laboratory walked around the corner.

  “Welcome, Sergeant,” Popov said. “And I see that you have had your morning supply of razor blades for breakfast?”

  Adib glared at the communist, but before he could respond, Popov continued. “I suppose you are here to escort us to our quarters. For that, we thank you. We need a chance to rest, a nice shower, and at least to change our underwear before we leave. Vasilev, is that a spore I see on your collar?” Popov reached up and flicked an imaginary speck from Malenkomoff’s collar.

  Adib raised one eyebrow. Vasilev saw the Libyan sergeant’s lips curl in disgust. In that instant, he knew only orders from Alqahiray stopped this man from killing them. Adib wanted to hurt them, he could tell.

  What orders had Alqahiray given him?

  “We must go below,” Adib said contemptuously. He reached out and pressed the button on the elevator. He started to step inside, stopped, and turned to Vasilev.

  “Professor, where is the scientist who was inside the laboratory?”

  “It will take Alexei a few minutes to sanitize himself and change out of the decontamination suit, Sergeant. If you would like him to come with us, then we will have to wait a few minutes.”

  Adib shook his head. “No, that is all right.” He turned to one of the soldiers. “Mamud, go back to the laboratory and wait for the scientist in there to clean up.”

  The young soldier ran down the hallway, his steel-toed boots scuffing the tile floor, his AK-47 held against his chest. How much younger they seem with the passing years, thought Vasilev, as the elevator doors closed. Where would Adib do the dirty deed? Down below? If so, not before the missiles disappeared onto the tracks in the tunnel that connected the room to the vast underground complex running the length and breadth of Libya. He had no idea where the missiles would go, but he knew that once they were aboveground, their presence would soon be discovered.

  “What are you thinking, Professor?” Adib asked as they stepped out of the elevator.

  The smile disappeared. “Oh, sorry, Sergeant. I was taking pride in what we have accomplished in the six months we have been here. I do not think anyone else could have done what we seven have done … God rest Karol’s soul,” he said.

  “You should be proud to be a part of this moment,” Adib said, agreeing.

  Vasilev estimated a hundred soldiers swarming over the missiles now. He watched as they hooked up one after the other to a small tractor and pulled them toward the huge hangar doors leading to railroad tracks farther down the corridor. Three soldiers, one with a clipboard, stood at the doors, crossing off numbers from the side of the missiles.

  Vasilev knew each missile was predestined for a specific missile site.

  Which one, he had no idea, but eventually they must go aboveground to fire.

  He saw missile number twelve roll toward the door. Death departed on this one. He glanced around the room but failed to see number two. It had already gone. Those two missiles were still functional. It was in God’s hands now; there was nothing he could do. His focus now turned toward saving their lives. The hangar doors could be opened from inside or outside, but you had to know the combination to the keypad to open them. Around midnight, when they began the slow process of disarming the warheads, Vasilev had spread a light coating of talcum powder on each of the keys.

  Four keys controlled the door, and with the substance on the keys, they could tell what four were used. Of course, what they couldn’t tell was the order in which the keys were pressed. They could escape, if they remained free.

  Six hours passed with Adib moving constantly around the hangar while the guards — and Vasilev thought of them as guards — watched the seven scientists. Vasilev also noticed that the thin pretension that they were part of the event had faded during that time. The guards’ weapons never wavered from pointing at them. Popov’s weak bladder earned a few derisive comments from the guards as they continually escorted the aging scientist to and from the bathroom. One of the soldiers at the hangar door reached over and pressed the buttons of the keypad when the last missile being towed out of the hanger passed the doorway. Vasilev couldn’t see the numbers the soldier pushed, but he noticed the fingers went up, then down, then up twice. The screech of the hinges and the hydraulic mechanism drowned out the whispered conversations. What if the cipher lock had two combinations? One for opening the door and another for closing it? He shook his head. If it required two combinations, then they would never hit the right one to escape. That is, if they were permitted to live long enough to escape.

  Vasilev wiped the sweat from his brow. Without the missiles, the facility brought to mind the stories of underground execution rooms beneath the KGB buildings in the old Soviet Union. He glanced over at Popov and saw fear there. He nodded at the elderly communist, who raised his eyebrows in response and winked back. They both probably had the same thoughts. Vasilev wondered to whom a communist prays when he is about to die.

  Sergeant Adib and four more soldiers came over to Vasilev and the others.

  “Congratulations, Sergeant Adib. A most smooth and professionally run operation. How long will it take the missiles to reach their deployment site? And when do you think we can expect to see them fired?” Sometimes, an offense is better than a defense. Pretend we are still on the team, Vasilev said to himself.

  “I think those are questions for which you have no need to know, Professor.”

  Popov stepped forward. “Come on, Adib. We are not fools. Do you intend to shoot us?”

  Hova stepped behind the four scientists in front.

  Adib laughed. “Of course not. You have been instrumental in helping Barbary achieve greatness. Colonel Alqahiray has asked that we confine you until after we have completed the operation.” “See! I told you they would honor their part of the bargain,” said Yuri, his words trailing off as he tried to rein in his unexpected outburst.

  Don’t say anything about the vaccine, prayed Vasilev.

  “Of course, the colonel is interested in how the test subjects progress as the anthrax works.”

  The gods are smiling on us.

  “Well, of course, comrade,” Popov said. “We are taking copious notes and observations. This morning, the smaller of the two shit himself. Later, we will pull his pants down to determine how much.”

  Adib pointed to the elevator. “Shall we go see the two officers who volunteered for this experiment?”

  Minutes later, group stood outside the closed testing compartment.

  Alexei joined them from the other side of the room, where he had waited for their return. Vasilev and Alexei’s eyes met for a fraction of a second, acknowledging that the scientist had completed his disposal of the anthrax warheads. The two prisoners were in the same spot they were six hours earlier.

  “There is no known cure for this strain of anthrax, is there?” Adib asked, looking directly at Vasilev.

  Vasilev met the man’s stare and looked directly into his eyes. He had read somewhere that when people lie, they are unable to meet your eyes or return your stare. “No, Sergeant, there is none,” he said, meeting the man’s eyes. “Those men are dead in there. Already the one curled up has lost control of his bowels. The disease has reached the point where it is causing internal hemorrhaging. This is a very virulent strain of anthrax.”

  Adib looked inside the testing chamber.

  “I pity those who are exposed to it,” Vasilev continued as he moved up beside the Libyan sergeant. ‘ brave one, as Colonel Alqahiray called him, has been spitting up blood since early morning,” he lied. “So far, he seems to be fighting the disease,
but even that fight will ebb away as the anthrax spreads, taking control, flooding his lungs with blood and sending pain racking through his body with each breath.” Maybe the antidote was effective in such a short time.

  “That is good news, Professor. The colonel believes that observations can be better kept if you are with the men.”

  “What!” Popov shouted. “That is outrageous. We will die if we are put into the testing chamber.”

  Don’t overdo the theatrics, Popov, Vasilev thought, shutting his eyes briefly.

  Hova fell to his knees. “No, don’t do that. I don’t want to die. Please, shoot us instead.” “But, you promised!” Yuri shouted, ignoring the pleading Hungarian.

  Adib laughed. “Are you so naive you think we would let you go? However, I am a merciful man, so I will give you a choice. You can go into the testing chamber walking, or I can have my men shoot you in the knees and then shove you into the chamber. Either way, you are going.” He waved the new Beretta pistol in front of them and looked at it. “I have been wanting to see how this weapon works. It belonged to the one whom you call courageous,” he said, pointing the weapon at the intelligence officer, who was watching the proceedings from the edge of his bed.

  Pistols symbolize authority, Vasilev thought. Adib is very proud of how much he has grown in importance since yesterday.

  Stepkolov stepped forward. “I, for one, would rather be shot out here than go in there. I have seen what this strain will do.” Good, thought Vasilev. Make it seem we are not eager to go in there. Be careful, Stepkolov, don’t get yourself shot.

  “We can accommodate you, Russian.” He pointed the pistol at the Russian, his finger beginning to tighten on the trigger.

  Vasilev stepped in front. “There is no need, Sergeant. We will go.

  Stepkolov, help Hova to his feet.”

  Adib lowered the pistol to his side and snapped his fingers. The barrels of the AK-47s pointed at the seven men. “It is time, gentlemen,” he said, pointing to the entry door. “Enjoy your observations.” He chuckled.

  Vasilev touched Popov on the arm. “Come on.” He tugged open the door and led the way inside.

  “But why? Why are they doing this?” cried Hova Vaitsay.

  Moments later, Adib and the guards watched as the scientists joined the two intelligence officers. Adib bent over the intercom. “Professor, I will leave a couple of soldiers to oversee your welfare. If you need anything, be sure to call. Tea, milk, bread. Anything.” They saw him laughing, but the perverse sergeant hung the microphone up, thankfully releasing the button.

  “What do we do now?” Alexei asked Vasilev.

  “We wait. The guards will tire of watching us, and when they do, then we go.”

  “We are going to die. The vaccine will not work,” the petrified Hungarian said softly.

  “Be brave, my coward,” Popov said, pulling Hova Vaitsay to him and engulfing the Hungarian within his gigantic arms. “Besides, it is me who may kill you if you keep whining. What would your mother say if she heard you now?”

  Hova buried his face in the man’s chest. The closeness muffled the whimpering.

  The intelligence officer rose from his cot. He reached out and put his hand on Fedorov to steady himself. “There is a way out of here?” He asked, his voice coming in gasps.

  The vaccine had failed to work on the officer, Vasilev knew without having to examine the man. The small blood vessels around his eyes had burst, flooding the orbs with a solid wall of red. Blood outlined his gums, staining his teeth with red smears that reddened his lips.

  “Hey,” hissed Popov. “This one is dead.”

  “It works faster than we thought,” Yuri added, as they inhaled the spores floating around the room.

  “Do you think the vaccine will be effective?” “Of course,” said Vasilev with as much conviction as he could muster. If it weren’t, then by the time they reached the tunnel, they would all be in the same shape as the remaining survivor from yesterday. Fedorov helped the surviving Libyan lie down on the cot.

  Vasilev looked out the window. Two Libyan guards stood watching them. He knew the Libyans well enough to know the two young men would soon tire of the spectacle and wander off to see what else this floor held. With luck, they might even enter the laboratory.

  * * *

  “It’s one up, one down. Then two up,” Vasilev mumbled to himself as he searched the keys on the combination door lock.

  His head was inches away from the keys aligned with the first five numbers along the top row and numbers six through zero along the second.

  Behind him, the other scientists watched nervously, frequently glancing toward the elevator leading down from the platform above to the missile chamber where they stood. The windows on the platform above remained empty.

  “It’s three o’clock,” Yuri said softly, his whisper echoing in the room.

  “They are probably sleeping.”

  “What if they follow?”

  “They won’t, Alexei,” Popov answered. “Even if they did, do you think any of them are going to get in the elevator with the Libyan soldier who is dying in it?”

  “We should have left him in the facility,” Hova Vaitsay said. “And the dead man we should have left where he died.”

  “Why? The one in the elevator is going to die anyway, comrade. And the dead man in the hallway will keep those guards away like nothing we could have done. I doubt they know that anthrax is not a communicable disease. They will come charging around the corner when they hear this door open. When they see their former comrade dead in the middle of the hallway, they will slip and slide, fighting to turn around rather than stumble across the man. Their lives will flash across their minds as they fight each other to be the first off this floor. As for the one in the elevator, what if one of those Libyan guards is brave enough to follow us? Do you think he will get in the elevator with a dying anthrax victim who is moaning, blood spitting out of his mouth, and shitting all over himself? No, comrade, this way his death will be our freedom.

  Besides, by the time they discover us gone, he may be dead.”

  “Be quiet, please. Popov, your voice echoes like an opera singer. Try not to talk. Now, the numbers are two, six, five, and four, but I don’t know in what order they go,” Vasilev said to the group.

  “One up, one down, and then two up?” Fedorov asked.

  “That’s what I saw.”

  “That’s not what I saw,” Yuri said.

  “Let me try it. I used to work for … never mind. Let me try it.”

  Fedorov shoved Vasilev out of the way. He looked at the keys, tried twice, and on the third attempt, the sound of the bolts sliding back greeted his attempt. “Child’s play,” he said, smiling at the head scientist. “You see, the second number has to be six. It’s the only number on the second row. Since the human fingers like to dance in rhythm—”

  “Okay, okay, okay. You are one brainy guy, Fedorov. Now move out of the front of the door so we can get the hell out of here,” Popov said.

  Vasilev pressed the Open button above the cipher lock. The loud sounds of hydraulic gears engaging the huge hangar door woke them to the precariousness of their situation. The scientists ran to the center of the doors and edged as close as they could to it as the two sides slowly moved apart.

  “What are we going to do once we get on the other side?” Yuri asked, almost shouting over the noise.

  “Take one of the vehicles parked outside. We drive north until we hit Tripoli.”

  “Sure, Vasilev, but do you think the Libyans are going to allow us to walk right out of the next door? There may be guards.”

  “Stepkolov, you’re right, but there are ventilation shafts along the tunnel. All we have to do is find one leading into Tripoli or near Tripoli and then climb out.” Vasilev reached up and pressed the Stop button. “Come on. It’s wide enough to slip through.” He turned sideways and slid into the huge tunnel on the other side.

  “Right! We are just going to drive
up the middle of the Libyan military tunnel, find a ventilation shaft, climb out of it … and then what?”

  Yuri mumbled as he followed Vasilev through the opening.

  “Why, we hail a taxi and take it to the Russian embassy,” Popov offered as he squeezed his bulky body through the small opening.

  “If we make it,” Hova Vaitsay added. He looked back at the hangar, the glass-enclosed platform above the empty, cavernous room, and waited a second or two to see if the guards appeared. Then he ducked through the door and followed Yuri.

  “Oh, shut up. We’re further along now than we were an hour ago,” Fedorov said as they followed the first four.

  Three open-top six-passenger vans and a small truck were parked about a hundred feet down the tunnel. Yuri scrambled into the driver’s side of one of the vans, grinning from ear to ear as he jingled the keys left in the ignition. “We are lucky, and they are too confident.”

  Within minutes, the van, with the other six crammed into the five remaining seats and watching the open doorway behind them, zoomed off down the lighted tunnel, heading toward Tripoli a hundred miles away.

  Vasilev’s fear that the Libyans would catch them before they reached the Libyan capital was wrong. He had no way of knowing the four Libyan guards discovered the two dead prisoners within minutes of recognizing the sound of the hangar doors opening. The fear of anthrax was only outweighed by fear of what Colonel Alqahiray would do to them for allowing the foreigners to escape. By the time the van was a half mile into its escape, the four frightened Libyan soldiers were racing up the stairs leading to the surface and away from Alqahiray. The disappearance of the scientists was discovered late that afternoon — nearly twelve hours after they drove off — when Sergeant Adib made his rounds. By then, Vasilev and his fellow scientists had already abandoned the van and crawled out of the tunnel through an air vent on the outskirts of the Libyan capital. Just as Popov had predicted, six of them took an early morning taxi to the Russian embassy, while Hova Vaitsay abandoned his fellow scientists for the Hungarian embassy.

  The captain of an Aeroflot airliner, scheduled to depart at noon from Tripoli, angrily confronted the embassy personnel, who escorted six special passengers to the business section, delaying their flight to Moscow by an hour. Fifteen minutes after Vasilev, Alexei, Yuri, Fedorov, Stepkolov, and Popov strapped into their seats, the wide-bodied airliner took off. Popov was already on his third vodka by the time the wheels locked into the undercarriage.