Authors: Douglas Preston
After yet more wrong turns he arrived finally at a long corridor that ended in a glassed-in waiting area with a large exit sign and a crash door at the far end, striped white and red with an Alarm Will Sound label. He ran for the door, only to see a man appear abruptly in the lobby from another approach. It was the captain, Gurulé.
So they’re on to me already. Shit.
The captain turned, saw Gideon, began to draw his weapon.
Gideon charged ahead, ramming into the captain and slamming him back against the crash door, which burst open with a piercing alarm, the pistol flying away. He scrambled for it, acutely aware of the smallpox container in his pocket, shielding it protectively with his body. The captain, sprawled across the threshold but recovering fast, pulled himself up and leapt on Gideon, trying to get a hammerlock around his neck. In doing so he left his face exposed and Gideon punched back fiercely with the palm of one hand; he felt the captain’s nose break under the strike, Gurulé’s grip loosening just enough for Gideon to wrench free, even as the captain landed a vicious punch to his side.
They faced off, the captain shaking his head, trying to recover his senses and fling away the blood spurting from his nose. The smallpox felt like it was burning a hole in Gideon’s pocket. Whatever happened, he couldn’t let that puck break.
Gurulé suddenly turned and unleashed a powerful kick to Gideon’s groin; Gideon twisted to protect the smallpox and the kick slammed into his hip, just missing the puck but knocking him back against the wall. Gideon went into a defensive hunch, still shielding the puck, and the captain took advantage of his defensive hesitation to advance on him, driving a punch straight into the side of his jaw that broke a couple of teeth and sent Gideon to the floor.
“The smallpox!” Gideon gasped through the blood welling into his mouth, “Don’t—!”
The captain was too enraged to hear. He punched him again in the chest, then slammed his foot into Gideon’s side, almost flipping him over, the jarring movement sending the puck flying out of his pocket and skittering into a corner. For a brief, terrible moment both men stopped dead, watching as it bounced against the wall—and then rolled back a few feet, unbroken and unharmed.
Instantly the captain dove for it while Gideon, now free of restraint, let loose a savage roundhouse to the man’s kidneys, laying him on his knees, and following with another kick to his jaw. But the captain, rising, pivoted with lightning speed almost like a breakdancer, lashing out with his legs, knocking Gideon back down just as he was staggering up. With an inarticulate gargle of rage, Gurulé fell on Gideon, sinking his teeth into Gideon’s ear with a crunch of cartilage. Yelling in pain, Gideon slammed his fist into the man’s neck, causing him to release his hold on Gideon’s ear; as he turned to throw a blind punch, which missed, Gideon seized his scalp with both hands and yanked his head back and forth, like a dog shaking a rat, while simultaneously bringing his knee up into the man’s face so hard it almost felt like he had caved it in. The man flipped over backward and Gideon fell on him, seizing his ears and, with them as handles, slamming the back of the captain’s head into the cement floor, once, twice.
Gideon rolled off the now unconscious man. Their struggle had brought them close to Gurulé’s gun, and Gideon grabbed it just as the side door to the lobby burst open and two soldiers rushed in. Gideon shot one immediately, throwing him back against the wall; the second dove for cover in a panic, firing wildly, the bullets raking the glass wall behind Gideon and shattering it.
Gideon dove through the broken glass, then staggered to his feet, bullets snicking past him and ricocheting off the asphalt of the rear parking lot. He reached the closest parked car and fell behind it as a swarm of rounds rammed through the metal. When he returned fire he could see, through the open door of the building, the white puck of smallpox lying against the wall. Even as he stared Blaine appeared, scooped up the puck, and disappeared again into the back hall, with a yell for his men to follow.
“
No!
” Gideon cried out.
He fired again but it was too late; the remaining soldiers vanished into the building with a final, desultory burst of gunfire in his direction.
They had the smallpox.
For a moment, Gideon just leaned against the car, head spinning. He’d been badly beaten, he hurt all over, blood was pouring from his injured mouth—but the surge of adrenaline from the fight, and the loss of the smallpox, managed to sustain him.
Pushing away from the car and sprinting around the corner, he ran along the blank, windowless side wall of the building, which went on seemingly forever. He finally reached the end and tore around the next corner. The front parking lot came into view, and there on the tarmac was Dart’s chopper, a UH-60 Black Hawk, its rotors spinning up. Through the open cabin door he could see Blaine and Dart already seated, with the last of the soldiers just now climbing in. Lying nearby the chopper, in a pool of blood, was a body all too clearly dead.
Fordyce.
Gideon felt a sudden nausea, a choking rage that closed down his throat. All was now clear.
He drew his pistol and sprinted across the grass toward the helicopter. As it began to rise, gunfire erupted from the cabin door. Gideon veered to another parked car and crouched behind it as rounds buried themselves in the vehicle. Half mad with anger and grief, he rose again and—bracing himself on the hood, ignoring the rounds whining past his head—aimed the captain’s 9mm and squeezed off two carefully placed rounds, aiming for the turboshaft engines. One round hit home with a
thunk
and a spray of paint chips, followed a moment later by a grinding noise. More shots raked the car but Gideon remained in place, easing off a third shot. Now black smoke spurted up from the engines, half obscuring the main rotor blades; the chopper seemed to hesitate as the grinding noise turned into a strident rasp. Then the fuselage began to rotate and tilt, the bird coming back to earth hard, the tail rotor making contact with the ground and shattering, the pieces flying away with a chilling
hummm
.
Three soldiers piled out of the now burning chopper and came at him, firing their M4s on full automatic, followed a moment later by Dart and Blaine. The bullets shredded the car he’d taken cover behind, spraying him with bits of glass and metal as he crouched, only the heavy engine block stopping the high-velocity rounds.
And then the shooting stopped abruptly. He took a deep breath, rose to return fire, but realized it was a waste of ammo—they had veered away and were now out of range for a handgun. And they were no longer concerning themselves with him. Dart, Blaine, and the soldiers were piling into a Humvee, evidently the vehicle Blaine had arrived in. The doors slammed shut and the vehicle laid rubber, fishtailing out of the lot and heading for the long service road out of the base. The chopper was now leaning precariously, making a gruesome grinding sound, the rotors flapping, smoke billowing upward; a moment later it erupted in flames and, with a
thump
that made the air tremble, exploded in a ball of fire.
Gideon shielded his face from the heat with a curse. They were getting away—getting away with the smallpox. He jumped up and pursued them, running past the burning chopper to the far end of the parking lot, pulling the trigger again and again in impotent frustration until the magazine was empty.
Then he stopped and looked around, breathing hard. Blaine’s Jeep was parked in the rear lot, but if he ran back to get it the game would certainly be lost: Dart and Blaine would be so far ahead by that time he’d never catch them.
The base’s main motor pool stood on the opposite side of the road, gate closed. He ran across the street, flung himself onto the fence, scrambled up it and dropped down the far side. A row of Humvees and another row of Jeeps were parked to his right; he ran to the first Humvee, glanced inside. No key. No key in the second or third Humvee, either. Running wildly now, he dashed over to the Jeeps. None of them had keys in the ignition.
He turned left and right in desperation. On the other side of the motor pool were the larger military vehicles: a couple of M1 tanks, MRAPs, and several Stryker armored fighting vehicles, looking like huge, bristling tank turrets mounted on eight massive wheels. One of the Strykers had been moved into an open area and had apparently just been washed down with a hose. Gideon vaguely recalled seeing a mechanic working on the vehicle when he and Fordyce had arrived. Even as the thought occurred to him, the mechanic appeared, wrench in hand, leather holster flapping, running from a distant shed, staring at the burning helicopter. “What’s the hell’s going on?” he cried to Gideon.
Gideon knocked the wrench from his hand, grabbed him by the collar, pushed the empty 9mm pistol into his face, and aimed him at the nearest Stryker. “What’s going on,” he said, “is we’re going to get into this vehicle and you’re going to drive it.”
T
HE MECHANIC OPENED
the door. They climbed in the cave-like interior, the mechanic first, Gideon following with the gun. With the mechanic in the gunner’s seat, Gideon slid into the driver’s seat.
“Give me your gun,” Gideon demanded.
The mechanic opened his holster, passed over his sidearm.
“Now give me the key.”
The mechanic fumbled in his pocket and handed over the key. Gideon shoved it in the ignition, turned it. The Stryker immediately rumbled to life, the big diesel purring. Weapon trained on the mechanic, he quickly glanced over the instrumentation. It looked straightforward enough: before him was a steering wheel, shift, gas and brake pedals, no different from a truck. But these controls were surrounded by electronics and numerous flat-panel screens of unknown function.
“You know how to operate this thing?” Gideon asked.
“Fuck you,” said the soldier. He had evidently collected his wits and Gideon could see a combination of fear, anger, and growing defiance in his expression. He was young, skinny, with a whiffle-cut; no older than twenty. His name was
JACKMAN
and he carried the insignia of a specialist. But the most important information was written on his face: this was a loyal soldier who was not going to cave at the muzzle of a gun if it was against his country.
With an effort Gideon forced himself to slow down, take a deep breath, push aside the fact that every minute that passed put Blaine and the smallpox farther away. He needed this man’s help—and he had one shot at getting it.
“Specialist Jackman, I’m sorry about pulling a gun on you,” he said. “But we’re in an emergency situation. Those people who tried to take off in the chopper stole a deadly virus from USAMRIID. They’re terrorists. And they’re going to release it.”
“They were soldiers,” said Jackman, defiantly.
“
Dressed
as soldiers.”
“So you say.”
“Look,” said Gideon, “I’m with NEST.” He went to reach for his old ID but realized it was gone, lost at some point during the desperate chase. God, he had to do this fast. “Did you see that body on the tarmac over there?”
Jackman nodded.
“He was my partner. Special Agent Stone Fordyce. The bastards murdered him. They’ve stolen a vial of smallpox and are going to use it to start a war.”
“I’m not buying your bullshit,” the specialist said.
“You’ve
got
to believe me.”
“No way. Take your best shot. I won’t help you.”
Gideon felt close to despair. He tried to pull himself together. He told himself that this was a social engineering situation, no different from any other he’d encountered. It was just that the risks were infinitely greater this time around. It was a question of finding a way in, discovering how to reach this man. And doing it in seconds. He looked into the frightened but absolutely determined face.
“No,
you
take
your
best shot.” He handed Jackman his 9mm, butt-first. “If you think I’m one of the good guys, help me. You think I’m one of the bad guys, take me out. It’s your decision now, not mine.”
Jackman took the proffered weapon. His look turned to one of uncertainty, struggling with a strong sense of duty. He gave it a quick inspection, ejected the magazine. “Nice try. There’s no rounds in here.” He tossed the weapon aside.
Son of a bitch.
An uncertain silence fell. Gideon began to sweat. Then, in an almost impulsive movement, he passed the mechanic’s own handgun back to him. “Put it to my head,” he said.
Jackman made a brusque movement, seizing Gideon in a hammerlock and pressing the gun against his temple.
“Go ahead. Shoot me. Because I’m telling you right now: if they get away, I don’t want to live to see the result.”
Jackman’s finger tightened visibly against the trigger. There was a long, ticking silence.
“Did you hear me? They’re getting away. You’ve got to make up your mind—are you with me or against me?”
“I…I…” Jackman hesitated, flummoxed.
“Look at me, judge me, and damn it,
make your decision.
”
They stared into each other’s eyes. One more hesitation—and then the face cleared, the decision made. He took the gun away, reholstered it. “All right. Shit. I’m with you.”
Gideon peered out through the driver’s periscope. Then he jammed the gearshift of the Stryker forward and released the clutch. The vehicle lurched back and smashed into a Humvee, knocking the heavy vehicle back several yards.
“No, no, the shift works the other way!” Jackman shouted.
Gideon yanked it back and the vehicle lurched. He floored the accelerator but the Stryker only lumbered forward, gaining speed slowly because of its great weight.
“Can’t this damn thing go any faster?” he cried.
“We’ll never catch them,” said Jackman. “We can’t do more than sixty. A Humvee will do eighty, ninety.”
For a moment, Gideon took his foot off the accelerator, almost freezing up in despair. They had too big a lead—it was useless. Then he remembered something.