ViraVax (29 page)

Chapter 40

The Colonel saw that the kids were hit as soon as they lifted off, as he had expected, but Sonja fought the bird around nicely and pancaked into the jungle almost a kilometer up the valley. It took just a matter of seconds. The Colonel stood, blinking, wishing he could see them. He reassured himself that he saw no smoke from the wreckage, then scanned the little radio for one of the guerrilla frequencies.

“Mariposa, this is Jabalí,” he said.

“I hear you, Jabalí.”

“The plane? Did anyone see. . . ?”

“Blue squad leader. . .
static
. . . three people leaving the plane. . .
static
. . . close by, two minutes to contact.”

The Colonel estimated the distance across the lift pad to the forklift, then to the maintenance access shaft behind the heat exchangers.

“Toss some charges at the north fence line,” he said. “Do not let your people approach the fence.”

“. . .
static
. . .
static
. . . get out!”

Rico shook the radio, but all he got was static. He keyed for voice again.

“Repeat, do not approach the fence. Keep those choppers busy. Go.”

“Charges . . .
static . . . static . . .
at the dam . . .
static . . .
out.”

“Toss them in,” he said.

A rasp of static drowned out the reply, except for the last, “Go with God, Colonel.”

Rico ripped skin off both palms sliding down the carriage of the forklift, then spun the machine around on two wheels and raced for the bunker.

The original access shafts inside the compound were covered with heavy concrete lids that could only be moved with the ten-ton crane. Like the elevator system that they connected with, the access shafts were a weak point in the ViraVax armor. The contractor had felt free to cut a few corners, and someone else had felt free to cut the contractor’s throat while he slept in his retirement mansion in Spain. Still, no one had bothered to upgrade. Existing plans detailed how ViraVax should have been built. Rico’s memory carried the secrets of the real thing.

The Colonel knew that the lower level was sealed successfully, according to the original plans. But a half dozen passageways snaked through the inside, one of them all the way to the dam, and these would not be part of the shutdown sequence. The access tunnel to the dam had been his original goal, since it was the only one with a hatch that opened outside the ViraVax perimeter. But Casey’s guard-plants had stopped him cold.

Mishwe had to come out eventually—maybe months, years from now. Rico wanted him sooner than that.

I
wish I had that Pulse unit of Yolanda’s to send down after him,
Rico thought.

Then he shrugged a Costa Bravan shrug.

But I didn’t have anything else planned today.

The Colonel ripped one of the heat exchangers out of the concrete with his forks to get a purchase on the access shaft lid. The lid was so heavy that it pulled the nose of the forklift down and the back wheels off the ground, and for a moment he was afraid that it had been sealed, after all. With full throttle he bounced his machine and the lid up and down, up and down, finally working it slightly cockeyed on its base.

Rico heard some heavy charges blow, and his pulse picked up its pace. He hoped that Yolanda’s team would be satisfied with blowing the fence for him. There were too many surprises in here to risk any more people.

At least it’ll be easier getting through that fence this time.

The Colonel had to admit that he had come back here, not to corner Mishwe like a rat, but to die.

A high-pitched whistle rode the growl of something big down the valley towards him. All five floors of concrete sandwiched with five layers of bunker material vibrated, shaking down dust from the rafters and drumming the tin roof.

Earthquake!
was his first thought.

Rico looked out the double doors of the warehouse and saw, in the half-moon’s light, several columns of black smoke where the dam used to be. For the first time in this operation, Rico Toledo was perfectly calm. He knew, now, what they had tried to tell him on the radio. He wondered who had dealt him this, his last blow.

El Indio,
he wondered,
or Dajaj Mishwe?

He lowered the forks and pushed the concrete cover further back from its hole. Rico didn’t have the Pulse, but he had a few million tons of water that might do the trick. He gunned the forklift to the far end of the warehouse and located a second access cover.

Rico thought it would be an honorable death, rescuing his son and Sonja and the Agency woman. He would not have to face his son’s disapproval again, nor the vagaries of politics, nor another failed relationship.

I
won’t have to quit drinking
,
either,
he thought, trying for some self-amusement.

His ego was short-lived. He had to admit that they had rescued themselves. Harry was using his brains, and their escape plan was working perfectly without him.

Rico jammed the steel prongs against the second concrete lid and revved the little methane engine as high as it would go. Blue smoke from the tires gagged and blinded him, but he felt the lid give and pushed it aside as the first of the water hit.

It was not the crushing wall of rock and mud that he’d expected. A satisfying sucking sound came from the throat of the access shaft. A surf-like tide lifted him out of the forklift seat, outrunning the mud that must be close behind. This warm water, from the surface of the lake, smelled of dirt and crushed leaves, and it tumbled him the length of the bunker before it spat him out the other side and pinned him to the fence.

I
should’ve had them blow the south fence,
he thought.

A tremendous crush of mud and vegetation squeezed air out of Rico’s lungs and ripped the top of his jumpsuit down to his waist. A cold, heavy surge collapsed all three fences and rolled him over and over, slashing his chest, back and thighs with razor wire. A huge root ball slammed him from behind. He grasped the tangle out of reflex and kept from being dragged under, but his searing lungs could not hold. He choked and scrambled up the root ball, gagging foul bile. He got a pocket of air, then another, then for the third time in one day everything faded from brown to black.

Chapter 41

Dajaj Mishwe did not check on his Adam and Eve right away; he had his own security to address. His private access had been a shaft that originated in the Level Two sewage treatment room, just behind the medical students’ dormitory. Mishwe triggered a switch with a flick of his finger. A blast at Level Two released nearly two tons of dry concrete into the shaft. Water from the flood would do the rest. He felt like a pupa inside a concrete cocoon.

Mishwe monitored the shutdown of the top four levels and the pitiful escape attempts of those who had not yet sipped his special waters. Fists and chairs were no match for concrete and steel. In the eyes of the Innocents, he saw only confusion and terror. They did not fight, but huddled together awaiting direction from their missionaries.

The missionaries, he saw, were frightened at first, then angry. Their anger gave way to an exhaustion framed in betrayal, and then fear. By the time he’d shifted to interior power and shut his topside monitors down, he had seen only one person praying, and that person was an Innocent in a surgical gown.

“Hypocrites,” he said, and an Innocent at his elbow repeated the charge.

This Innocent was one of the caretakers for his Adam and Eve. He plucked Mishwe’s sleeve, but from an arm’s reach.

“Don’t be frightened,” Mishwe said. “You are with the Angel of Eden, and no harm will come to you.”

At that moment, Mishwe felt a rumble under his feet, something too big for the bunker to absorb. The maze of caged animals around him set up an unprecedented clamor of shrieks and barks. Mishwe smiled.

“The dam,” he explained to the sad-eyed Innocent. “The dam is gone. We are safe here, forever.”

“People gone,” the Innocent said.

“Yes,” Mishwe replied, and ruffled the man’s scant hair. “The bad people are gone. Only good people are left.”

“No, no,” another Innocent protested. “Adam and Eve people gone.”

Mishwe felt the first icy twist of fear to grip his belly in twenty years.

“Adam and Eve people?”

The first Innocent nodded vigorously.

“Decon people gone. Come see.”

Mishwe pushed them aside with a snarl and sprinted for the Decon elevator two hundred meters across the lab. As he ran, he thought,
They’re here. They’re here. They’re down here somewhere.

He reached the large Decon elevator and shoved through a babbling knot of Innocents. The main room was empty, their bowls in place atop the table. Something didn’t feel right, a smell on the air that he couldn’t place.

Dajaj Mishwe opened the bathroom door and saw what Adam and Eve had done. They had burst the mirror, tried to wall him out. He took a step and fetched a tremendous kick at the desk blocking the shattered mirror. It budged, but only slightly.

The peculiar odor was stronger here and accompanied by a strong breeze that whistled through the shattered glass.

Positive pressure pulls the air
out
of this room, not into it!

The whistle developed into a howl. Mishwe stood atop the toilet and peered through a gap between the top of the barricade and the window. The other door was blocked off as well, but there was no sign of his precious couple anywhere in the small room.

Where . . . ?

Then he saw the open hatch above the far door and understood what they had done. In that instant, Dajaj Mishwe also understood the origin of the strange smell, the increasing howl and force of the wind.

Before he could step down from the toilet or shout a warning to the Innocents crowded behind him, an explosion of muck and water punched through the ceiling and crushed his fragile skull like a bug against the bathroom floor.

Chapter 42

Major Scholz shut down the viewer and everyone in their separate isolettes watched Red Bartlett fade to black. The major had previewed Bartlett’s incredible block of data the night before with Trenton Solaris, the DIA chief, who had flown in from Cairo specifically for the occasion. Solaris, the albino, had gone from white to whiter to nearly transparent during Bartlett’s display.

Major Scholz gave Marte Chang, Harry Toledo and Sonja Bartlett a moment to compose themselves, then gradually brought the lights up. Harry, Sonja and Marte each occupied a separate, double-lined plexiglass cage that command had the nerve to call a “habitat” or “isolette.” They were cages, pure and simple, allowing complete monitoring of their biology and psychology. A gray plastic shower curtain surrounded each tiny lavatory for privacy, and the cubes themselves measured three meters on a side.

Self-contained, they stood in an unmarked warehouse in the industrial section of La Libertad’s airport. This warehouse also held the secondary quarantine subjects—a SEAL team, a guerrilla squad and a squad of transportation specialists. Their vehicles, where the subjects had been held pending construction of the isolettes, had already been buried in concrete well out of town, along with every sliver of the remains of the B/M-3.

Marte Chang’s face was impassive behind the glass. Her fingers flicked over the toggles in her gloveware as she poured notes into her Sidekick. She pored over the data block that Harry had snatched from ViraVax, in hopes of finding out what the enemy was, and how to fight it. The major had been horrified three times since sunrise at the information Marte was culling from that block.

ViraVax is buried, but is it dead?
she wondered.

Sonja sobbed with her forehead resting on her arms. The last of the block contained a personal statement by Red Bartlett, recorded the day before his death. The Bartlett girl took it hard, but the major was glad to see it for personal reasons. At least she wouldn’t have to remember Red Bartlett as a smoking pool of waste fouling the carpets.

Sonja’s face was swollen and bruised from its impact with the B/M-3’s control panel, and the fresh dressing across her forehead had begun to unravel. The major wished she could put an arm around the girl, tuck in the loose ends and make everything all right.

Everything will never be all right.

Harry lay on his back on his bunk with his forearm over his eyes, unmoving, as he had lain since entering the cubicle twelve hours ago. He was sullen and uncooperative, unresponsive to everyone except Sonja Bartlett and Marte Chang.

A small group of visitors, including Major Scholz, sat in a Plexiglas enclosure about five meters from the isolettes. This enclosure served as an observation post and briefing room, with data channels, voice and visuals piped into each isolette.

Solaris, Ambassador Simpson, President Garcia and his four bodyguards—all looked straight ahead and shifted in their seats.

President Garcia spoke first, addressing the major.

“It is my understanding that you have captured that traitor, Rico Toledo, is that correct?”

“My dad is alive?” Harry asked. “My dad is alive and you didn’t tell me? You bastards are as bad as those Gardener bastards. . . .”

The major felt her face flush with anger. She raised a hand to Harry, asking him to wait. Her anger was an uncharacteristic loss of composure, and that discomfort made her flush all the more. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Harry fist the wall of his isolette. The major glanced at Solaris, and he nodded his approval.

“Colonel Toledo has been
rescued’’
she said, “that is correct. Fortunately for the Colonel, and for us, a SEAL team was laying over at the airport on its way to Tegucigalpa when we intercepted that SOS sent out by Harry and Sonja. Your people, though on the scene, chose to shoot these three down rather than assist them in their escape attempt. The SEALs found Colonel Toledo entangled in a logjam five kilometers from the site.”

“Will your government be prosecuting Mr. Toledo?” President Garcia interrupted.

Solaris, seeing the major’s difficulty controlling her emotional state, stood to reply for her. The four bodyguards shifted and the one nearest Solaris unbuttoned his coat and reached inside.

“I do not need to harm this man,” Solaris told the bodyguard. “Besides, by the time the day’s over, you’ll probably kill him yourself.”

Solaris turned his attention to an indignant President Garcia.

“We will not prosecute Colonel Toledo,” Solaris announced. “As of this morning he has been reinstated with full rank and privileges. If this man survives he will receive a commendation, sir, for his persistence in this most timely, most horrifying matter and I promise you that you will not prosecute him, either.”

“This is not the United States,” Garcia said, performing his famous sneer. “You have no authority here.”

“Obviously, Mr. Garcia, you have learned nothing this morning,” Solaris said. “Bartlett set up his computer to automatically intercept every communication between Dajaj Mishwe and Joshua Casey. Thanks to the quick thinking of Colonel Toledo’s son, here, you saw a few of those memos for yourself—including Casey’s reprimand of Mishwe for ‘engineering that embassy incident.’ I can’t imagine what charges you could bring against the Colonel, even if you remained in office long enough to do it. I brought you here, sir, to show you what we are about to disclose around the world. I suggest you listen carefully, then return to your office and pack your bags.”

Solaris accepted Garcia’s glare with a curt nod, then returned to his seat. All four bodyguards had begun to sweat profusely, in spite of the air-conditioning.

“You have nothing,” Garcia said. “Anyone could write those memos and place them on a screen. The boy himself could have written them. My people say that Toledo bombed the embassy, trying to kill his ex-wife, then conspired with the guerrillas to destroy ViraVax to execute an old vendetta against the Children of Eden. Mr. Toledo is a Catholic. The bomb was in his car. . . .”

“And nearly killed Toledo himself,” Ambassador Simpson said.

She dismissed the President’s accusations with a wave of her hand.

“Surely an experienced agent could do better than that, without threat to himself.”

“An experienced agent in his right mind, perhaps,” Garcia countered. “Your people have had to clean up after him for years. You did not let him go because of his domestic problems. You let him go because he was worthless.”

A tone sounded from Marte’s Sidekick, then a gasp from Marte herself caught everyone’s attention.

“Major,” she said, “I think we have a problem.”

Marte’s voice was soft, deathly serious.

Sonja had stopped crying and Harry, his face pasty with anger, snapped, “What is it?”

“Sonja told us in last night’s debriefing that Mishwe had bragged about them being his Adam and Eve. He also bragged that the Angel of the Lord would purify the Garden, readying it for their use.”

“Yes. Go on.”

“Well, the monthly shipment of vaccines went out yesterday, just before the Sabbath shutdown.”

The major felt the uneasy prickle of fear on her arms and the back of her neck.

“Yes?”

“They are shipped to the World Health Organization, signed out by Mishwe himself,” Marte said. “Enough vaccine for a half million infants, to be distributed in every country of the world. I think his Meltdown agent is in that shipment.”

“A half
million
. . . ?”

“What makes you think it’s there?” Solaris asked.

Marte continued to scan the readout on her Sidekick. She made another entry, then leaned back in her chair.

“He’s altered the artificial viral agent,” she said. “The structural change shows up in Mishwe’s log. An earlier version was included in one of the bursts I sent your Agency. I didn’t have time to analyze everything I sent. I don’t know what that particular alteration will do without a lot more equipment than this, but I can guess.”

“What’s your guess, Dr. Chang?” Ambassador Simpson asked.

“He’s engineered it to spread on its own, without an inoculation or ingestion,” she said.

Marte’s voice trembled on the verge of tears, and the major thought that Marte Chang was one who did not cry easily.

“How would it spread?” Solaris asked.

“Probably by contact with infected tissue or by-products. Based on what he told Harry and Sonja, I think he intends to wipe out every last human being on this planet who is not sealed into the bottom level of ViraVax.”

“Can you be sure?” Solaris asked.

“Only by analyzing a sample, and that would have to be under strictest precautions,” Marte said. “But the risk, the possibility, is too great to waste time. We’ll have to account for every last drop of that shipment. If he’s changed it the way I think he has, even one Meltdown could eventually kill us all.”

“Can we stop it at the airport?” Solaris asked.

“Too late,” Marte said. “It’s already in Mexico City for breakdown and distribution. The Children of Eden has its own facilities there, and a network of meeting places and storage units throughout the city.”

“Notify WHO and Mexico’s airport security,” Solaris ordered Major Scholz. “Get our people out to the airport immediately. Nobody opens anything, nobody lets any part of this shipment move.”

“What if it’s already broken up and shipped?” Harry asked.

Solaris rubbed the back of his neck with his death-white hand, and addressed the major.

“Find it,” he said. “And get it back. I don’t care if it takes a nuclear strike.”

“Yes, sir,” the major said.

She relayed the appropriate orders via her Sidekick. President Garcia rose to leave and his guards took up their escort positions.

“You are making a big mistake,” Garcia said. “Toledo is guilty. The rest is a sham, a persecution of a peaceful, religious people. My administration will not cooperate with what you call a witch-hunt.”

“You won’t have a choice,” Ambassador Simpson said, and smiled. “By this time tomorrow, you and your goons won’t be calling the shots here anymore.”

“What do you mean, threatening the President of the Confederation of Costa Brava? This is my country, not yours.”

“It’s not a threat,” the ambassador said, “and you forget who handed you that presidency. We have released the information about Project Labor to the press, along with details of the millions of involuntary sterilizations you have authorized and the related trade in transplantable organs. That information has been documented. Harry, Sonja and Dr. Chang have documented the spontaneous combustion of the personnel of the ViraVax facility. If ViraVax and the Children of Eden are found guilty of nothing else, if this vaccine turns up untainted, you are still the ex-President of the Confederation of Costa Brava. You will be lucky to escape execution.”

Garcia’s face was livid and his hands trembled at his sides. He clenched and unclenched his fists to gain control, then signaled his men and left without a word.

“What an asshole,” Harry hissed.

“Hear, hear,” the ambassador replied.

A message beep sounded for Major Scholz. She glanced at her Sidekick and bit her lip.

“Your father is conscious,” she told Harry.

“Will he make it?” he asked. “Can I talk to him?”

The major shook her head.

“Still critical,” she said. “Our people are with him now. Perhaps he can help us with this vaccine problem. I’ll find out how soon you can see him.”

“What about Garcia’s men?” Harry asked. “They’ve killed people back home on the White House lawn.”

“You won’t have to worry about Garcia anymore,” the ambassador said. “Besides, we brought in a Night School team to baby-sit your father, just in case.”

“I’ll make preparations so that you can communicate, Harry,” Solaris promised.

The albino’s glance met the major’s, and she felt relieved.

“I’d like to talk privately with you,” he added, “if you don’t mind.”

“What about Sonja?” Harry asked. “We’re kind of a set, if you know what I mean. We won’t give each other anything we don’t already have. And after all this, we don’t have any secrets left, either. No sense starting them now.”

Solaris smiled.

“We will see,” he said. “What I have to say, Sonja should hear as well. Please give us a private channel, Major, and we will let you all be about your business.”