David Houston stood in the cool shade of the tall, snow-capped mountain behind him. He watched as the four sleeping bodies of Jen, Sam, Yuri, and Cardinal were brought out of the Learjet and transferred onto waiting stretchers. A moment later, an electric cart pulling a trailer arrived to move the people inside the open hangar doors.
A broad-chested man with a baldhead dressed in combat fatigues walked over to Houston. “What about the plane? What would you like us to do with it?” The man had a strong Slavic accent.
“Have it moved inside and parked in one of the side tunnels before someone sees it,” replied Houston.
“Yes, sir,” replied the man. He turned around and barked out orders to some men, who quickly ran off to ensure that the plane was moved right away.
“What’s the pilot’s name?” asked Houston.
“Thurman, sir, Major Thurman,”
“I hear he was on fumes when he landed.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“He’s to be commended for his skill and his loyalty. Was he caught on radar coming into Albania?”
“Sir, as far as I can tell, he was not.”
“Please escort him inside and have him placed in one of the spare rooms for now,” ordered Houston. “I’ll decide later how to reward him for his devotion to our cause.”
The baldheaded man nodded his head and called the pilot over to him.
Dug into the side of a mountain, the Hoxa Airfield was named for the Cold War dictator who had ruled Albania with an iron fist for forty years. Capable of holding over one hundred combat-ready aircraft inside the cavernous hangar, the airfield was a state secret until the fall of the communist regime in 1992. Unable to support the aged fighters held inside the mountain base, the planes rusted away until one of Houston’s many shadow corporations bought the base and land around it. Named after the Greek God of healing, the base was now home to Asclepius Pharmaceuticals, a major European company that took its privacy seriously. By special arrangement with the Albanian government, the land was declared out-of-bounds and was guarded on the outside by a detachment of Albanian soldiers and on the inside by a small army of private security guards.
Houston glanced down at his watch; his fellow conspirators were due to arrive in the next couple of hours. He smiled to himself, thinking about the fortune he was going to make when they all signed over half of their respective companies to him. He had no doubt that after the shock of over two billion dead worldwide, his colleagues’ companies would be devastated and vulnerable to hostile takeovers. He intended to swoop down like a vulture on the remains of those corporations making them entirely his. Within months, he would be the richest man on the planet.
The mountain installation, once crumbling and filled with decrepit fighter aircraft, had been completely refurbished with state-of-the-art laboratories, workshops and living quarters. A German company that had once built bombproof shelters for many middle-eastern despots had secretly rebuilt the structure to be resistant to attack by conventional weapons. To ensure security was maintained, no one from the local area was allowed to work at the base. All of the workers, security personnel, and scientists flew in and out on a monthly basis. They were all committed to the cause of restoring balance to the world. The men and women who worked there knew only a small portion of what was going on around them. Most thought their work was to enhance genetically modified crops to help feed the people of the third world. Only Houston and a handful of highly dedicated people knew the truth.
A young woman with short blonde hair and dressed in a blue jumpsuit walked over to Houston. In her hand was a cellphone. “It’s McMasters for you, sir,” said the woman with a slight French accent.
Houston thanked her and took the phone. Without saying hello, he said, “Is the fire out on the oil rig?”
“Yes, sir,” replied McMasters wearily. “Five men died fighting the blaze, and another fourteen had to be evacuated to a hospital on the mainland.”
“Are you sure that it was Mitchell who caused all this damage?”
“Positive; he nearly killed me.”
Houston shook his head. Mitchell may have been a major pain in the ass, but he had to admit that he admired his tenacity. “All right, you’ve done all you can for me out there. Make your way here. There’s plenty of work that still needs to be tidied up in the next thirty-six hours.”
“What about Mitchell? He got away.”
“Don’t you worry about him, I have something he wants. He’ll willingly come to me,” explained Houston. With that, he ended the call.
Thirty-six hours. Houston couldn’t believe that a dream over forty years in the making was going to come to fruition in only a day and a half. Although tired from jetting back and forth across the Atlantic, Houston knew that sleep was out of the question. Accompanied by his blonde assistant, he walked over to an elevator guarded by two men holding small, but futuristic-looking, FN F2000 assault rifles.
Even though the guards knew Houston, they both waited while he, followed by his assistant, swiped their cards to open the elevator doors before stepping aside.
Houston pressed the button for the bottom floor. There were five floors built beneath the main hangar floor. Most were for workshops, labs, dining facilities, a recreation room and living quarters. The fifth floor, however, was restricted.
A couple of moments later, the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Houston and his assistant walked into a room identical to the one on the oil rig and waited to be decontaminated by ultraviolet light before the doors on the other side of the small room slid open.
They walked down a long, brightly lit corridor until they came to another closed door. As before, they swiped their cards. The airtight door slid open. They stepped inside the sterile room. Houston strode over to a large glass window and looked inside. On one side of the room, inside a chamber, was the baby mammoth taken from the dig site in Russia. Its chest was open and several of its organs were being studied by a couple of scientists in hazmat suits. On the other side of the room were four more men in suits, working to improve upon the lethality of the pathogen found in the rock sample brought back to Earth by Luna 15.
Houston pressed a button on the wall. “Doctor Longford, how long until we have enough anthrax to commence with phase one of the operation?”
Hearing Houston’s voice, one of the scientists turned around, walked over to the glass, and pressed a button to speak. “We’re almost there,” replied the man with a strong English accent. “However, I need just a little more time to ensure that everything is ready to go.”
“How much more time?”
“Eight more hours. If you give me that, you have my word that you will have more than enough aerosolized agent to start on schedule.”
“After that?”
“We’ll be able to produce it in any quantity you want now that we have been able to successfully synthesize and augment the agent,” answered the man confidently.
“That’s great news,” replied Houston, smiling from ear to ear. “What’s another eight hours? The world will thank you. I know that you’ve got a lot of work to do, so I won’t bother you again.”
Houston looked over at his assistant. “Sophie, send word back home. I’d like my ladies to meet me in Rome the day after tomorrow.”
“All of them?” asked Sophie.
Houston nodded his head. “Yes, all of them. Put them up at the Grand Hôtel de la Minerve. I want you to rent a whole floor. I don’t want anyone to disturb them before they head home for the holidays.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Sophie.
Houston smiled. There was no stopping him, now. Within days, people all across the globe would begin to fall sick. The purging of the planet would commence. Still, he knew that there was only one last loose end to tie up.