At a gesture from Ironside, Macready calls the two guards who waited next the door. The two soldiers escort Ivanov out.
Left alone, the three exchange questioning looks.
Macready breaks the silence, turning to Ironside. “With all due respect, are we really going to buy all the crap that that man told us? Did you see the light of madness in his eyes? I think that he is completely insane and, in my humble opinion, we wouldn’t fail if we sent him back to the Kremlin with a stars and stripes footprint tattooed on his ass.”
The other man seems to evaluate what to say. “I don’t know what to think, Major. I appreciate your candor, and I must say that this story is too implausible for me too. I’m afraid that there was more to hear. But… basically he has no alternative but to cooperate. His immunity is only temporary. If he proves successful, Uncle Sam might find his expertise undoubtedly useful in the field of biological warfare. In addition, if there wasn’t at least some truth in all his story, why would the Russians haste to warn us and send him here?”
“And what if it’s just a sham? He may be a double crosser, sent here just to spy on us or distract us. After all we still don’t know for sure why that plane has crashed.”
“If we assume for a moment that the history of an organism able to clone a human being is true, we should take into account the fact that he himself may not be who he claims to be”, says the scientist. “Not at all…”
For a few silent moments the two men watch her with skeptical expressions.
“We can’t rule out any hypothesis, until proven otherwise. Personally, I don’t think the stuff he told us, but until we know more, we’d better keep our guest under close surveillance”, says Ironside, then he turns to Macready. “Major, I have a question. I think I noticed a certain… interest on your part, when Ivanov spoke of the two destroyed outposts…”
The soldier is a stone mask, and he stares firmly at John Ironside. Suddenly his expression changes, the features of his face relax. “I was just curious. I knew someone who served in the American outpost that the Russian brainiac was talking about.”
Ironside nods, although he doesn’t seem entirely convinced by that explanation.
Right at that moment a young soldier enters the room, snapping to attention. “Sir, one of the helicopters has just came back, they caught a guy who was wandering around the containment perimeter.”
“A survivor?”, asks Ironside.
“Negative, sir, he’s a native of the place, he belongs to one of the tribes living in the rocky hills around the southwestern area from the base.”
Ironside and Macready exchange a worried look.
“Just what we need”, whispers Macready. “I don’t want troubles with the local tribes. Blindfold him and escort him into one of the rooms in the first basement floor. I want two men watching the door. Call Delgado, she knows the dialects of this region, she will be our interpreter.”
The soldier hastens to follow the orders.
Ironside takes a deep breath before hinting a tired smile. “Well, Dr. Moore, you have carte blanche to better manage the medical and scientific aspect. The Major Macready will provide all the help you’ll need. Set up an analysis laboratory and, if necessary, some containment chambers. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, but it’s better to get ready for any eventuality.”
Macready knocks three times on the table, and a new soldier faces in the doorway waiting for orders.
“Vasquez, take Dr. Moore to the laboratory, and follow her instructions as if they came from me.”
The soldier looks for a moment at the small figure of the woman, as if uncertain that he understood, but Macready quickly dismisses him. “It’s all, Vasquez.”
BOEING CRASH SITE
“Dr. Waters, the uh… the object has been loaded onto the helicopter, along with most of the bags with the remains of the people from the Boeing. We are ready to take off.”
The man nods, his face concealed by a dark Plexiglas bio hazard suit. “Excellent, Matt, I’m going back to the base to run some test. You stay here and make sure that the job is done properly.”
That said, the medical officer, Nick Waters, walks towards the helicopter, instinctively lowering his head when the wind generated by the rotating blades begins to lash his suit.
Once aboard he heads to the passenger compartment, taking quick glances to the soldiers lined up on the side benches. The horrible trunk taken from the disaster scene occupies three adjacent stretchers. The soldiers covered it coarsely with a semi-transparent plastic sheet, securing it with elastic straps, similar to those used to hold the truck roof sheeting. Beyond it, there are several bags of yellow plastic fabric, piled and marked with the symbol of biological contamination hazard. They contain part of the remains of the unfortunate passengers of the Boeing.
The man puts his gloved hand on the plastic that covers the deformed mass, and further ties one of the strings. For a moment he feels like something moving, under the sheet, so he stops suddenly, waiting frozen with alert senses.
It must have been an impression…
Making sure that everything is okay, he turns and heads to the cockpit, sitting next to the pilot. “Let’s go, Jay, get us out of here.”
The pilot nods, maneuvering with extreme skill the controls of the aircraft. The blade rotation speed increases more and more, forming tiny sand tornadoes all around the helicopter, which takes off slowly from the ground raising into the black sky. The horizon is barely illuminated by the imminent dawn.
Waters and the pilot look at the scene of the disaster. The fires have been extinguished, but there are still faint pillars of gray smoke popping out from some scrap. No one talks, the two men sitting in the cockpit wear headphones that muffle the roar of the rotor, and they turn their back to the passenger compartment and the thing wrapped up a few meters behind them.
It’s impossible to hear the low moan coming from the mass of deformed flesh, and none of the military notices the plastic sheet movement, shifting down almost imperceptibly. While something inside seems to writhe, a reddish stain slowly spreads on the floor, forming a rivulet that meanders slowly and undisturbed among the military boots, heading for the cockpit.
USA BASE CNT222
Ironside, Macready and Moore look at the scene behind a thick glass window. Two armed guards watch the only entrance of the tiny room. A small figure sits motionless inside, his hands locked behind his back with zip cuffs. His head, hooded by a black canvas, stoops forward.
A soldier updates them about the circumstances of his capture: “He was hiding behind a small dune, outside the perimeter. We don’t know why he was there, neither for how long. The pilot of the helicopter patrolling the area noticed him, and some of our boys surrounded him quickly.”
“Any resistance?”, Macready.
“Affirmative, sir. Although he seemed weak, tired and visibly under-shock, he did not hesitate to fight the first men who approached him. The boys immobilized him, but he managed to bite one of the men of the support team during the scuffle, wounding him in the hand. The name of the soldier is Foster, sir.”
“Wasn’t he wearing protective gloves?”
“Yes, he was, sir, but despite this that guy has almost severed two fingers. He’s just a boy but better not to underestimate him.”
“Where is now the bitten soldier?”, asks Moore.
Ironside gives her a quick look of understanding, hearing her question.
“He’s in the infirmary. Waters and Serum are busy at the crash site but there’s another doctor in the support team.”
“We should take a sample of his blood and put the man under lock down until we can analyze it”, Moore suggests, earning an uncertain look by Macready.