Rainbow Six (1997) (39 page)

“It’s a medical test,” Barbara replied, filling out the form. “You volunteered for it, remember? We’re paying you for this, and after it’s over you can go back home.”

“When did I do that?”

“Last week,” Dr. Archer told her.

“I don’t remember.”

“Well, you did. We have your signature on the consent form. And we’re taking good care of you, aren’t we?”

“I feel dopey all the time.”

“That’s normal,” Dr. Archer assured her. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

She—Subject F4—was a legal secretary. Three of the women subjects were that, which was mildly troubling to Dr. Archer. What if the lawyers they worked for called the police? Letters of resignation had been sent, with the signatures expertly forged, and plausible explanations for the supposed event included in the text of the letters. Maybe it would hold up. In any case, the kidnappings had been expertly done, and nobody here would talk to anybody about it, would they?

Subject F4 was nude, and sitting in a comfortable cloth-covered chair. Fairly attractive, though she needed to lose about ten pounds, Archer thought. The physical examination had revealed nothing unusual. Blood pressure was normal. Blood chemistry showed slightly elevated cholesterol, but nothing to worry about. She appeared to be a normal, healthy, twenty-six-year-old female. The interview for her medical history was similarly unremarkable. She was not a virgin, of course, having had twelve lovers over the nine years of her sexual activity. One abortion carried out at age twenty by her gynecologist, after which she’d practiced safe sex. She had a current love interest, but he was out of town for a few weeks on business, and she suspected that he had another woman in his life anyway.

“Okay, that about does it, Mary.” Archer stood and smiled. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Can I get dressed now?”

“First there’s something we want you to do. Please walk through the green door. There’s a fogging system in there. You’ll find it feels nice and cool. Your clothes will be on the other side. You can get dressed there.”

“Okay.” Subject F4 rose and did as she was told. Inside the sealed room was—nothing, really. She stood there in drugged puzzlement for a few seconds, noting that it was hot in there, over ninety degrees, but then invisible spray ports in the wall sent out a mist . . . fog, something like that, which cooled her down instantly and comfortably for about ten seconds. Then the fog stopped, and the far door clicked open. As promised, there was a dressing room there, and she donned her green jamms, then walked out into the corridor, where a security guard waved her to the door at the far end—he never got closer than ten feet—back to the dormitory, where lunch was waiting. Meals were pretty good here, and after meals she always felt like a nap.

 

 

“Feeling bad, Pete?” Dr. Killgore asked in a different part of the building.

“Must be the flu or something. I feel beat-up all over, and I can’t keep anything down.” Even the booze, he didn’t say, though that was especially disconcerting for the alcoholic. Booze was the one thing he could always keep down.

“Okay, let’s give it a look, then.” Killgore stood, donning a mask and putting on latex gloves for his examination. “Gotta take a blood sample, okay?”

“Sure, doc.”

Killgore did that very carefully indeed, giving him the usual stick inside the elbow, and filling four five-cc test tubes. Next he checked Pete’s eyes, mouth, and did the normal prodding, which drew a reaction over the subject’s liver—

“Ouch! That hurts, doc.”

“Oh? Doesn’t feel very different from before, Pete. How’s it hurt?” he asked, feeling the liver, which, as in most alcoholics, felt like a soft brick.

“Like you just stabbed me with a knife, doc. Real sore there.”

“Sorry, Pete. How about here?” the physician asked, probing lower with both hands.

“Not as sharp, but it hurts a little. Somethin’ I ate, maybe?”

“Could be. I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Killgore replied. Okay, this one was symptomatic, a few days earlier than expected, but small irregularities were to be expected. Pete was one of the healthier subjects, but alcoholics were never really what one could call healthy. So, Pete would be Number 2.
Bad luck, Pete,
Killgore thought. “Let me give you something to take the edge off.”

The doctor turned and pulled open a drawer on the wall cabinet. Five milligrams, he thought, filling the plastic syringe to the right line, then turning and sticking the vein on the back of the hand.

“Oooh!” Pete said a few seconds later. “Oooh . . . that feels okay. Lot better, doc. Thanks.” The rheumy eyes went wide, then relaxed.

Heroin was a superb analgesic, and best of all, it gave its recipient a dazzling rush in the first few seconds, then reduced him to a comfortable stupor for the next few hours. So, Pete would feel just fine for a while. Killgore helped him stand, then sent him back. Next he took the blood samples off for testing. In thirty minutes, he was sure. The antibody tests still showed positive, and microscopic examination showed what the antibodies were fighting against . . . and losing to.

Only two years earlier, people had tried to infect America with the natural version of this bug, this “shepherd’s crook,” some called it. It had been somewhat modified in the genetic-engineering lab with the addition of cancer DNA to make this negative-strand RNA virus more robust, but that was really like putting a raincoat on the bug. The best news of all was that the genetic engineering had more than tripled the latency period. Once thought to be four to ten days, now it was almost a month. Maggie really knew her stuff, and she’d even picked the right name for it. Shiva was one nasty little son of a bitch. It had killed Chester—well, the potassium had done that, but Chester had been doomed—and it was now starting to kill Pete. There would be no merciful help for this one. Pete would be allowed to live until the disease took his life. His physical condition was close enough to normal that they’d work to see what good supportive care could do to fight off the effects of the Ebola-Shiva. Probably nothing, but they had to establish that. Nine remaining primary test subjects, and then eleven more on the other side of the building—they would be the real test. They were all healthy, or so the company thought. They’d be testing both the method of primary transmission and the viability of Shiva as a plague agent, plus the utility of the vaccines Steve Berg had isolated the previous week.

That concluded Killgore’s work for the day. He made his way outside. The evening air was chilly and clean and pure—well, as pure as it could be in this part of the world. There were a hundred million cars in the country, all spewing their complex hydrocarbons into the atmosphere. Killgore wondered if he’d be able to tell the difference in two or three years, when all that stopped. In the glow of the building lights, he saw the flapping of bats. Cool, he thought, one rarely saw bats. They must be chasing insects, and he wished his ears could hear the ultrasonic sounds they projected like radar to locate the bugs and intercept them.

There would be birds up there, too. Owls especially, magnificent raptors of the night, flying with soft, quiet feathers, finding their way into barns, where they’d catch mice, eat and digest them, and then regurgitate the bones of their prey in compact little capsules. Killgore felt far more kinship for the wild predators than he did for the prey animals. But that was to be expected, wasn’t it? He
did
have kinship with the predators, those wild, magnificent things that killed without conscience, because Mother Nature had no conscience at all. It gave life with one hand, and took it back with the other. The ageless process of life, that had made the earth what it was. Men had tried so hard and so long to change it, but other men now would change it back, quickly and dramatically, and he’d be there to see it. He wouldn’t see all the scars fade from the land, and that was too bad, but, he judged, he’d live long enough to see the important things change. Pollution would stop almost completely. The animals would no longer be fettered and poisoned. The sky would clear, and the land would soon be covered with life, as Nature intended, with him and his colleagues to see the magnificence of the transformation. And if the price was high, then the prize it earned was worth it. The earth belonged to those who appreciated and understood her. He was even using one of Nature’s methods to take possession—albeit with a little human help. If humans could use their science and arts to harm the world, then other humans could use them to fix it. Chester and Pete would not have understood, but then, they’d never understood much of anything, had they?

“There will be thousands of Frenchmen there,” Juan said. “And half of them will be children. If we wish to liberate our colleagues, the impact must be a strong one. This should be strong enough.”

“Where will we go afterwards?” René asked.

“The Bekaa Valley is still available, and from there, wherever we wish. I have good contacts in Syria, still, and there are always options.”

“It’s a four-hour flight, and there is always an American aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean.”

“They will not attack an aircraft filled with children,” Esteban pointed out. “They might even give us an escort,” he added with a smile.

“It is only twelve kilometers to the airport,” Andre reminded them, “a fine multilane highway.”

“So, then, we must plan the mission in every detail. Esteban, you will get yourself a job there. You, too, Andre. We must pick our places, then select the time and the day.”

“We’ll need more men. At least ten more.”

“That is a problem. Where can we get ten reliable men?” Juan asked.

“Sicarios
can be hired. We need only promise them the right amount of money,” Esteban pointed out.

“They must be faithful men,” René told them forcefully.

“They will be faithful enough,” the Basque told them. “I know where to go for them.”

They were all bearded. It was the easiest disguise to adopt, and though the national police in their countries had pictures of them, the pictures were all of young, shaven men. A passerby might have thought them to be artists, the way they looked, and the way they all leaned inward on the table to speak with intense whispers. They were all dressed moderately well, though not expensively so. Perhaps they were arguing over some political issue, the waiter thought from his station ten meters away, or some confidential business matter. He couldn’t know that he was right on both counts. A few minutes later, he watched them shake hands and depart in different directions, having left cash to pay the bill, and, the waiter discovered, a niggardly tip. Artists, he thought. They were notoriously cheap bastards.

 

 

“But this is an environmental disaster waiting to happen!” Carol Brightling insisted.

“Carol,” the chief of staff replied. “It’s about our balance of payments. It will save America something like fifty billion dollars, and we need that. On the environmental side, I know what your concerns are, but the president of Atlantic Richfield has promised me personally that this will be a clean operation. They’ve learned a lot in the past twenty years, on the engineering side and the public relations side, about cleaning up their act, haven’t they?”

“Have you ever been there?” the President’s science advisor asked.

“Nope.” He shook his head. “I’ve flown over Alaska, but that’s it.”

“You would think differently if you’d ever seen the place, trust me.”

“They strip-mine coal in Ohio. I’ve seen that. And I’ve seen them cover it back up and plant grass and trees. Hell, one of those strip mines—in two years they’re going to have the PGA championship on the golf course that they built there! It’s
cleaned up,
Carol. They know how now, and they know it makes good sense to do it, economically
and
politically. So, no, Carol, the President will
not
withdraw his support for this drilling project. It makes economic sense for the country.”
And who really cares a rat’s ass for land that only a few hundred people have ever seen?
he didn’t add.

“I have to talk to him personally about it,” the science advisor insisted.

“No.” The chief of staff shook his head emphatically. “That’s not going to happen. Not on this issue. All you’d accomplish is to undercut your position, and that isn’t smart, Carol.”

“But I
promised!”

“Promised whom?”

“The Sierra Club.”

“Carol, the Sierra Club isn’t part of this administration. And we get their letters. I’ve read them. They’re turning into an extremist organization on issues like this. Anybody can say ‘do nothing,’ and that’s about all they’re saying since this Mayflower guy took it over.”

“Kevin is a good man and a very smart one.”

“You couldn’t prove that by me, Carol,” the chief of staff snorted. “He’s a Luddite.”

“Goddamnit, Arnie, not everyone who disagrees with you is an extremist, okay?”

“That one is. The Sierra Club’s going to self-destruct if they keep him on top of the masthead. Anyway.” The chief of staff checked his schedule. “I have work to do. Your position on this issue, Dr. Brightling, is to support the Administration. That means
you
personally
support
the drilling bill for AAMP. There is only one position in this building, and that position is what the President says it is. That’s the price you pay for working as an advisor to the President, Carol. You get to influence policy, but once that policy is promulgated, you support it, whether you believe it or not. You will say publicly that you think that drilling that oil is a good thing for America and for the environment. Do you understand that?”

“No, Arnie, I won’t!” Brightling insisted.

“Carol, you will. And you will do it convincingly, in such a way as to make the more moderate environmental groups see the logic of the situation. If, that is, you like working here.”