Sharon Jaxon shifted her attention from Liz’s pale face to the monitors that read out her vital signs. The last lab specimens she had taken indicated that Liz’s immune system was going berzerk, cranking out a wide variety of white blood cells to fight the infection, that her platelet clotting factors were dropping off the chart. Her temperature had been hovering around 103 degrees for the last hour. They were giving her antivirals, antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, steroids, clotting factor, infusions of whole blood…
But she was dying anyway. Hingemann’s strategy had seemed to work, but only briefly. For a short period of time after the introduction of Yersinia, the amount of Chimera M13 present in her blood had fallen. For about an hour Liz had seemed lucid, her temperature had dropped to 99 degrees, her WBC counts, especially her T cell counts, had risen… and then all hell had broken loose.
She had suffered more bleeding, this time her gums and vagina and ears.
Sharon reached out and took Liz’s hand in her own gloved hand, feeling an overarching sadness for this woman who she had decided she liked very much. Liz was alone. Her husband had died, her parents had passed away years before, she had no children. There had been nobody except Hingemann to tell. Afterward, when Liz passed away, there was a short list of friends to be contacted. Most of her friends had worked at U.S. Immuno, now dead as well.
Sharon thought it would be only a matter of hours. They had run out of ideas. She thought it would take a miracle to save Liz Vargas.
56
James Johnston was impressed with Stuart English’s people. Twenty combat-ready men that the retired General vouched for. They were all in their twenties and thirties, the oldest appearing to be in his early forties. All were businesslike and came prepared. English had a conference room set up at a hotel on the outskirts of Alexandria and when Johnston arrived, all the men were ready, wearing jeans, T-shirts and lightweight windbreakers.
Ideally they would have wanted to do this as a commando unit, to suit them up in cammies and full gear and go ahead as an assault. But they were operating in a major U.S. city during a time of crisis and there was no getting around the fact that twenty men fully armed in camouflage gear would get too much attention.
They didn’t want to alert The Fallen Angels and they didn’t want to alert the FBI until it was necessary.
Stuart English was a wiry redhead, though most of his hair had faded to gray. He wore khakis and a white dress shirt and everybody was listening intently as he started his debriefing based on the information Johnston had supplied and, somewhat to his surprise, that he had acquired in the hour since their last telephone call.
On the computer screen English put up an aerial photograph of the section of Alexandria near the Potomac River where the warehouse was located. It was in a warren of similar warehouses with a railroad line running very close by.
“Each of you will be given a palm computer with a detailed map of the area and this photograph. Still, it will be easy to get lost and confused in the area, so stay sharp. In addition, you’ll get print maps. As you can see, there are multiple routes in and out. Our job is to provide surveillance and intelligence. We wish to determine the exact number of individuals inside the warehouse and get an idea of their defenses. General Johnston, what do you have to add?”
Johnston stood up. Twenty pairs of hawk eyes followed him. “We believe this to be the headquarters of a terrorist organization calling itself The Fallen Angels. It is multi-ethnic in makeup and led by a man named Richard Coffee, a former Army Special Forces captain turned CIA rogue. We believe The Fallen Angels to be highly armed, disciplined and well-trained. They are believed to have access to alternative weapons of mass destruction like VX gas. They are believed to have in their control a biological organism called Chimera M13. It is a genetically engineered virus, gentlemen, and it is the purpose of this mission. Inside this warehouse we believe they will have set up a laboratory in which to grow this virus. Once inside this warehouse, it is our top priority to isolate and control this laboratory, to allow no one inside or out.”
He paused. “The Fallen Angels are ruthless, people. They will shoot to kill. They will show no mercy. And if threatened, they will use whatever weapons, traditional or non, in order to complete their mission. They are, in short, fanatics intent on destroying not only the United States of America, but the world. You must be just as ruthless. It is of the utmost importance that this laboratory be controlled, that if any of this group should head toward this facility, they must be stopped at all costs.” He paused. “At all costs, gentlemen. Those are your terms of engagement. Is everyone clear on that?”
A sharp-featured man with an ebony shaved scalp raised a hand. His body looked like it had been carved from granite, even though he was wearing casual clothes. “Biocontainment gear?”
Stuart English stepped forward, giving the impression he was wearing a uniform and still held official rank, despite wearing slacks and a dress shirt. “You will be given a bio suit, but use them only if necessary. They will be too conspicuous. Is everyone here familiar with how to get them on and use them?”
All nods.
“General Johnston? Anything further?”
Johnston nodded, hesitant. He took a deep breath. “This is a very dangerous mission, gentlemen. The United States government does not sanction this action. If your mission is completed satisfactorily, I do not believe there will be negative repercussions to you, though I cannot guarantee this. If your mission does not end satisfactorily, then it will not matter. The Fallen Angels will release this virus on the population and millions will die. Millions. This is your opportunity to back out. I understand your positions as professionals.” He carefully did not use the word mercenaries. “This is a job. It is possible that this job’s scope is beyond what you expected. If you are not up to it, or do not wish to risk the possible repercussions, say so and you may leave.”
He waited. None of the men stepped forward. Johnston nodded to Stuart English. “Back to you, General English.”
English stepped forward. “Here is how we start. Each of you will be provided with a radio set…”
57
Derek was familiar with laboratories. More than familiar. He spent most of his undergraduate years in laboratories. As a soldier, he found he missed the peculiar order and atmosphere of the laboratory. His brother, now a physician with Doctors Without Borders working in Congo, told him to go back to graduate school and combine the two, his love of science and his adrenaline addiction, and work in the field. It had been good advice, but not without its perils. He studied biological and chemical warfare. When he went back to school to pursue his doctorate, his life had once again returned to laboratories. But now he found a particularly vicious and determined form of evil in these laboratories hidden in dark corners of the world.
Laboratories were dangerous places. They were filled with hazardous, flammable and often explosive chemicals. Many laboratories had butane pumped in via Bunsen burner gas lines, though this one did not seem to have that kind of equipment. It did have compressed air tanks. And many bottles of ethyl alcohol.