The Pandora Deception--A Novel

by David Bruns

  Field offices like his struggled to maintain a professional reputation beside better-funded establishments in Europe or the US, where things like stable utilities were taken for granted, or backup power generators were funded without a second thought.

  Talia was right. A mistake like this would mean embarrassment and possible dismissal for the responsible employee.

  “I can call down to Brazzaville and see what we can do to help,” he said.

  “I was hoping we could take care of this quietly,” Talia said with a shy smile. She put her hand on his knee. Her touch was electric.

  “We have extra samples here,” she said. “I’ve prepared a list. If we could spare a few, that might be enough to get them on their feet.” She held out the manila folder to him.

  “I just need your signature,” she said. “The samples are packed. I can take them myself, tonight.”

  “But the job?” he said. “What about the regional director position?”

  Talia unleashed a dazzling smile. “Well, I suppose, if I was the regional director, I could just sign over the samples myself, right?” She laughed as she poured him another cup of coffee. “I’d be honored, Sven, really.”

  Sven opened the folder and scanned the contents. Ebola Zaire, Nipah, Lassa fever, smallpox, SARS, some of the worst epidemic diseases in the world.

  Talia handed him his refilled coffee cup, her smile still brilliant.

  Sven scribbled his name at the bottom of the paper and handed the folder back.

  * * *

  When Sven got to the office the next morning, Shani was not at her desk.

  But even that inconvenience was not enough to dampen his mood. In a burst of enthusiasm, he had written and sent his resignation letter last night, along with an email recommending Dr. Talia Tahir as his replacement.

  He hummed to himself as he made his own coffee and walked back to his office. Shani was behind her desk, but instead of her normal sunny smile, her face was chalk white.

  Sven stopped in the doorway. “What’s the matter?”

  Shani opened her mouth, then closed it again and began to cry. “Talia—” she began. Sobs took over.

  Sven set his cup on her desk. “What about Dr. Tahir?”

  Shani gathered herself.

  “There was a plane crash. She’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 14

  USS Michael Murphy (DDG-112), Pearl Harbor, Hawaii

  Andrea Ramirez held an ice-cold can of Diet Coke against her forehead and closed her eyes. She could feel her eyeballs quiver every time her heart beat.

  The wardroom celebration at the Reef Bar had gone into the wee hours, and Dre had stayed for the duration. The XO was over the moon about capturing the squadron Battle E, and he showed his appreciation by buying round after round of drinks for his officers. She was happy for the XO and proud of her ship. Everyone had done their part and they all deserved the praise that was coming. A ribbon, a note in their service jackets, and the upcoming ceremony to unveil the “E” painted on the side of the bridge.

  With a sigh, she removed the cold can from her forehead and cracked open the soda. She took a long drink and sat down at the SIPRnet terminal, the secret IP router network that handled all the ship’s secret message traffic.

  She let out a tremendous burp in the empty radio room. “Excuse me,” she said to no one.

  There were at least a hundred messages in the queue, quite a load for a Saturday morning, but Dre was an experienced hand. She scanned the messages, culling out the ones the CO, the XO, and Ops needed to see right away.

  Dre chuckled to herself. The XO would be in no shape to spend much time in front of a screen this morning.

  She polished off the rest of the soda and tossed the empty container into the nearby recycling bin, which rang with a loud clang in the empty room. Strangely enough, she wasn’t even tired. She decided to do her morning walk-through of the ship before breakfast.

  The Murphy was nearly deserted on a weekend in port. As usual, the weather in Hawaii was fabulous, a pleasant seventy degrees, with a soft breeze coming off the water. On the fantail, she raised her face to the sunshine. The gentle heat felt good after the chill of the air-conditioning in the radio room. When she had soaked up enough sun, Dre walked the interior spaces of the ship from the lowest levels of the engine room up to Combat and finally the bridge. She reviewed the quartermaster’s logs and then made her way to the wardroom.

  To her surprise, the XO was there, dressed in civilian clothes, a plate of bacon and eggs resting on the table next to the message boards.

  “Ramirez, top of the morning to you, young lady,” he said. Lieutenant Commander Minto flashed her a wide grin. “Pretty great time last night, huh?”

  Dre laughed. How could this guy not have a raging hangover?

  “Yes, sir. You do know how to celebrate, XO.”

  He attacked his breakfast. “Work hard, play hard, Ramirez. Of those from whom much is demanded, the beer shall be free.”

  “Which philosopher said that one, sir?”

  Minto’s face sobered. He put down his fork and hoisted his coffee cup. “I don’t normally tell this story, Ramirez, but you caught me in a good mood, I guess. When I graduated from the Academy, I service-selected as a SEAL.”

  “I didn’t know that, sir.”

  Minto grimaced. “Yeah, the captain knows because it’s in my service record, but that’s it. I was one week from finishing BUDS and blew out my knee big-time. I cried like a little baby when they told me I was medically disqualified. They sent me to the surface fleet. Didn’t even have a choice, the orders just showed up.”

  He sipped his coffee. “The guys in my class gave me a huge send-off party. A year later, my best friend—Academy roommate since plebe year—was dead, killed in a raid in Afghanistan. Don’t even know where exactly, but I know he went down swinging wherever it was.”

  Minto got up suddenly. He filled his cup and poured one for Dre. “You know what the moral of the story is, Dre?”

  He sat down and continued without waiting for an answer.

  “We don’t choose this life, it chooses us. Turns out I’m a pretty damned good ship driver. I thought I wanted to be a SEAL. I thought my life was over when that dream ended, but here I am.” He smiled. “Driving ships, shaping young minds, and buying beer for those to whom I owe so much.”

  Dre sipped her coffee, welcoming the burn of the hot liquid on her lips. “You heard about my new orders.”

  The XO nodded, leaning back in his chair. “CIA. I knew there was something about you that didn’t add up. When an ensign shows up to her new command and part of her service record is classified…”

  He studied her as he sipped his coffee. “We can get the orders turned off, if that’s what you want.”

  Dre didn’t respond.

  “What’s the job?” the XO asked. “The part you can tell me, I mean.”

  “My old boss wants me back in DC. He’s leading a new team. Wants me as his pet computer geek.”

  “Sounds perfect for you, Dre. What’s the issue?”

  Dre felt her face grow hot. “It’s complicated, XO. I was in an op and…”

  Her voice faltered. In her mind’s eye, Janet Everett lay on the deck in the North Korean bunker, pale, bleeding, dying … and the overwhelming feeling of helplessness as Dre’s body froze.

  “I choked,” Dre said finally. “My best friend almost died because I couldn’t handle the pressure.”

  “So you’re ashamed.” Minto’s eyes bored into hers. “You’re afraid it might happen again. You’re afraid next time your friend won’t make it and it’ll be your fault.”

  Dre felt hot pressure behind her eyeballs. She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  The XO placed his hands flat on the table and leaned in, his gaze pinning her in place. “That might happen, but if they’re requesting you by name, then your boss is willing to take that chance.

  “You’re a damned fine officer, Ramirez, and you can come work fo
r me anytime, anyplace—no questions asked. But you’re a Ferrari on a go-cart track out here, girl. And you know it.” He drained his cup and pushed the message boards across the table.

  “You think I should accept the orders,” Dre said.

  Minto shook his head. “Not what I said. I said we don’t choose this life, this life chooses us. If you feel the work calling you to DC, then you should go. You’re welcome here for as long as you want to stay.” He plucked a ball cap off the rack. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a tee time.”

  Dre ordered bacon and eggs for breakfast and ate in silence. Still full of nervous energy, she went down to her stateroom and reorganized her closet, then cracked open her laptop. When she opened her email, at the top of the queue was a message from Michael Goodwin. The subject line read: Please look at this. If you have a chance.

  Intrigued, Dre opened the email. Her friend’s message was short:

  Dear Dre—

  I can’t seem to crack this website. Let me know if you see anything I’m missing.

  Love—M

  Dre sat back in her chair, feeling the aftereffects of the night before catching up with her now.

  She should take a nap, but maybe just a peek first. Her fingers stole to the keyboard and clicked on the link.

  A black webpage opened up with two lines of white text in the center of her screen:

  The Day of Judgment is upon us.

  The Mahdi has returned.

  She stared at the screen. Although this was clearly a site designed for Arabic speakers, the words were in English. That meant the site had to have a smart filter to adapt the site text based on the user’s location. Not your typical jihadi website.

  When she clicked on the link, it opened a video. A man, his identity blurred, spoke as soft music played in the background. The words rolled over her. Subjugate the children of Islam … infidels … the wrath of the Mahdi.

  Dre slapped the lid of the laptop closed, feeling her heart beating faster.

  She would not be drawn back into this. She drove ships. She read radio messages. She fixed fire-control systems. This was her life now.

  Dre paced the room until her heart rate returned to normal.

  But this was Michael asking, the closest thing she had to a sibling in this world. He wouldn’t have asked unless he was stumped.

  She went back to the desk. She watched the video all the way through and forced herself to watch it again. The man in the video was talking about an attack. She did a quick search on the internet and found a link to an attack in Ethiopia.

  She scanned the news accounts of the attack at something called the Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam.

  Dre went back to the Mahdi website and shifted screens to view the code for the website. She tried a simple hacking technique using HTML coding and got nowhere. She tried SQL injection, and that failed as well.

  These were basic tricks that anyone could look up on the internet, but they worked for ninety-nine percent of the sites out there. Michael would have used some of the more advanced tools at his disposal.

  Time raced by as she dug deeper. The more closely she observed the website behavior, the more intrigued Dre became. Not only was this unlike any security she’d seen on a terrorist website, this was unlike any security she’d ever seen on any website.

  The call to colors over the 1MC startled her into awareness. Dre looked at the clock over the door to her stateroom. 1955 … where had the day gone?

  As she closed the lid of her laptop, her gaze caught the picture taped to the inside of her fold-up desk.

  Michael, Janet, Liz Soroush, Don Riley, and Dre in the US Naval Academy cemetery. It had been taken at the funeral for Captain McHugh, not long after they returned from North Korea. Janet’s arm was in a sling and Don Riley was walking on crutches. Everyone in the picture was doing their best to smile, but the shadow of the moment hung over them and no one looked convincing.

  She studied Liz’s face. Of all the people in the picture, Liz had lost the most, and yet she still made an attempt to smile.

  Dre hurried to the fantail for the colors ceremony to take down the United States flag for the night. At the precise time of sunset, Dre saluted as the speakers on the naval base played “Retreat.”

  After the ceremony, the enlisted man who had lowered the flag grinned at her. “Heard it was quite a party last night, ma’am. Did you catch up on your sleep this afternoon?”

  “Actually, I was working on a really cool computer program…” She let her voice trail off when she saw the young man’s eyes glaze over in disinterest. “Never mind.”

  Dre stayed on deck for a long time, listening to the sounds of the naval base at night. Shouts of laughter in the distance, the gentle lapping of water against the hull, the slam of a steel hatch.

  The Murphy represented a safe haven for her. Here she could hide. She would do her job and do it well, but she was still hiding.

  Dre marched to the radio room and logged into the SIPRnet terminal. She opened a new email and addressed it to Don Riley.

  Subject: Count me in.

  CHAPTER 15

  Undisclosed location, somewhere in the Sudan

  From the outside, the two-story pole building looked like an agricultural warehouse. With a large roll-up garage door and a few tractors inside, the interior carried the appearance. On the second floor was a barracks built to house and feed thirty men.

  But inside the warehouse, a squat concrete block structure sprouted from the ground, facing the roll-up door. It had two stainless-steel elevator doors and a single call button.

  The elevator was the only access to the underground combination laboratory and living quarters for the newest—and secret—research lab for Recodna Genetics.

  The ultramodern facilities were the best money could buy, and JP was confident everything was in perfect working order. Before he had moved a single spade of soil in Sudan, he’d built and tested every feature in a duplicate site in Switzerland.

  JP liked to think of the site as a labor of love, his love for the woman who paced the carpeted floor of the bedroom they shared deep inside the underground bunker.

  “Talia, calm down,” he said from his perch on the edge of the bed.

  “They should be here by now,” she snapped. “Why haven’t we heard from the pilot?”

  “They’re twenty minutes late,” JP said. “A million things could have delayed the plane.”

  In truth, his internal early-warning system was alarming just as loudly as hers. Today was move-in day for the scientists at the research facility. After two weeks of isolation near Khartoum, the scientists were about to begin two years of self-imposed exile in a state-of-the-art research lab with the promise of a massive payoff at the end. All five of their marks had agreed to the terms of the contract, but had one of them had second thoughts?

  The stress would be worse for Talia. She had faked her own death to be here. For her, there was no going back to her old life as a respected scientist. She had brought with her a full suite of hand-selected virus samples to supplement the few she had in storage at the bunker.

  Kasim, their head of security, appeared in the doorway. He was a mountain of a man with muscles that rippled under his coal-black skin. He dressed in a dark-green paramilitary uniform and carried a MAC-10 machine pistol on a strap around his neck, a Beretta 92X on his hip, and a knife in his boot.

  “They’re ten minutes out,” he said.

  “Bring our guests to the common room, Kasim,” JP said. “We’ll join you there.”

  Kasim nodded and left.

  JP hated having to rely on former Janjaweed militiamen, but it was a compromise he had to make. Every outside person who knew the details of this laboratory was an added security risk. There could be no leaks in this operation.

  Kasim ruled his men with an iron hand, but these were men with bloody, brutal histories that represented the worst of African political violence.

  In his time with the French DGSE, JP had wo
rked with men like Kasim. There was no job too violent for men like him. In fact, the biggest issue was not getting them to do what was necessary, it was getting them to stop.

  “There they are,” Talia said, pointing to the tiny security monitor screen.

  Five passengers disembarked from the jet into the blazing sunshine. Kasim’s men directed them into two cargo vans with blacked-out windows. As JP had instructed the driver, the vehicles moved slowly on the dusty, rutted track to the warehouse, careful not to jostle the occupants behind the tinted windows.

  “Are you ready to get started, my dear?” JP asked.

  As she watched the tiny screen, Talia’s eyes were full of emotion.

  With the arrival of the scientists, the real work began. The empty labs below his feet would finally be put to their ultimate purpose.

  A targeted bioweapon, designed to attack only a specific genetic sequence. A weapon like that could erase political boundaries. If they were successful, war could truly become a precision event. Collateral damage would be a thing of the past.

  These scientists would help Talia develop a weapon so potent and so precise that if it were released on an airplane, it could be programmed to kill only a single person.

  And not just kill them. Destroy them. JP had seen firsthand the effects of deadly viruses like Marburg and Ebola, seen how the viruses turned their hosts into bags of bloody gelatin.…

  Today was Talia’s moment. He knew her well enough to realize the source of the fiery spark that drove her.

  Revenge.

  As a young girl, when her parents were killed in Lebanon by Iranian proxies, she could have shed the loss and gone on with her life.

  But Talia Tahir was not one to forget. Through what remained of her childhood, her education, her career, she bided her time. When JP met Talia for the first time, it was as if a relay switch clicked to the closed position in his head, energizing a circuit that drove him.