The Ares Decision (34 page)

“Farrokh. The lock. Can you get it to retract?”

The Iranian knelt to examine it. “No. It’s electronic. Controlled centrally, probably.”

“Incoming!” Howell shouted, grabbing a rifle and slipping the barrel through the narrow gap between the door and the jamb.

There were at least ten of them, coats so wet with blood that they were leaving streaks on the floor and walls as they charged. Smith dropped beneath the Brit, aiming his .45 into the corridor and trying futilely to track individual targets.

“Farrokh! Hold the door.”

The Iranian shoved his back against it and waved his men over to help him. Their prayers were just barely audible over the howls.

T
HE ARM APPEARED AGAIN,
flicking around the crack in the door and grasping desperately at darkness. Sarie jerked back, tangling herself in the coats hanging in the crowded closet but keeping a death grip on the leather belt looped over the knob.

She stabbed at the arm with the sharp end of a broken broom handle, connecting with the blood-soaked biceps on her fifth try. The man gave no indication that he even noticed, adjusting his strategy from groping blindly for her to trying to pry open the door.

All she wanted to do was cover her ears to block out his enraged screams. And maybe she should. There was no way out of the facility, and she would eventually get tired, while he would just keep coming until his heart failed. If she let him in, it would be over in a minute. Maybe less.

He managed to get a shoulder through, and she could see his face in the dim light—the saliva hanging in long, pink strands across his beard, the wide eyes trying to catch a glimpse of his prey.

She swung the broom handle at his face, and it tore a deep gash beneath his eye. Other than making him even more grotesque, though, it accomplished nothing. Dropping her useless weapon, she put a foot against the wall and gripped the belt with both hands, trying to use her superior leverage to trap him between the door and the jamb.

Her forearms felt like they were on fire and her palms were slick with sweat, causing the leather to slip slowly but irretrievably through her fingers. The door opened another few centimeters, and the man’s head intruded a little farther, the gash in his face flowing with parasite-infested blood. She felt the heat of it splash across her hands, but it didn’t matter. In a few seconds she wouldn’t be able to fight anymore—she’d lose her grip, the door would fly open…

And then he was gone.

The extended deadbolt clanged loudly as she pulled it into the metal jamb, her mind unable to process the meaning of the muffled shouts and gunfire outside.

A few moments later, fingers curled around the edge of the door and began trying to pry it open again.

“Get away from me!” she screamed, grabbing the broom handle and narrowly missing the hand when it was jerked away at the last moment.

“Sarie! Is that you?”

The hand reappeared and she slashed at it again.

“Let go of the door, Sarie! And for God’s sake, stop trying to stab me!”

The accent wasn’t Iranian. It was American. And there was something familiar about it.

“Sarie. Listen to me. Open the door, okay?”

The belt fell from her hands and she squinted into the light as Jon Smith lifted her from the closet.

“Are you all right?” he said, looking her over for cuts that the parasite could have invaded, finally settling on her leg. “What happened? Is it from an attack? Did it—”

She shook her head and threw her arms around him, sobbing uncontrollably. The man who had been trying to get to her was lying on the floor fifteen meters away with most of the top of his head missing. Peter Howell was standing next to the body, keeping watch over the empty hallway with three armed Iranians.

“I’m sorry, but there’s not much time,” Smith said, gently pushing her away.

“Less than you think,” Sarie said, wiping at her eyes. “Omidi’s people made the parasite transportable. I tried to stop him, but he’s gone. And he took it with him.”

Smith looked up the hallway as the howls of monkeys started echoing along it. Luck had played a significant role in their surviving their last encounter—the fact that none of the animals had been small enough to get through the crack in the door or large enough to push it open, combined with a one-in-a-thousand shot that he still couldn’t believe he’d made. The gods wouldn’t be as kind the next time around.

“What do you mean
gone
, Sarie?”

“I mean he got in a truck and drove away.”

M
EHRAK OMIDI SQUINTED THROUGH
the dusty windshield at the road disappearing into the horizon. The rutted surface and the insecure position of the guard manning the machine gun in back was limiting them to eighty kilometers per hour—a speed that seemed impossibly slow.

“How far are you from Avass?”

Omidi held the satellite phone with his shoulder and scrolled on a handheld GPS. The village, a crumbling rural outpost with fewer than three thousand residents, was too small to be noted on it, but based on the topography he could make a reasonable estimate.

“Less than an hour, Excellency.”

“And the facility?” Ayatollah Khamenei said. “What is the situation there?”

“The infection is loose inside and the main door has been breached.”

“Was it the Americans?”

“Iranians. Members of the resistance, I suspect. But there can be little doubt that the Americans have a hand in it.”

“Then they know a great deal.”

“Too much, Excellency.”

The alien sensation of fear was slowly working its way to his belly. There was no way to go back—they had burned every bridge behind them. Bahame was almost certainly dead, and according to the international press his guerrilla army had been all but wiped out. Whatever Jon Smith’s fate, it was certain that he had told his superiors everything he’d learned and the Americans would act on that information—with allies if possible, alone if necessary.

“Excellency, I’m sorry. I—”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Mehrak. You have been nothing but a loyal and tireless soldier in the service of God.”

The years seemed to have drained from his voice, which resonated with the certainty and confidence that Omidi remembered from decades before.

“Continue to Avass,” Khamenei said. “I have contacted the police there, and they are gathering others who are loyal to God and the revolution. They will offer protection until the military can reach you.”

“How long?”

“The first transport plane should arrive in less than four hours.”

“Four hours,” he repeated quietly. It seemed like an eternity. The forces that had breached their defenses would almost certainly know by now that he had escaped and would be coming for him.

“Excellency, I—”

The window next to him exploded, showering him with glass as the truck swerved violently. Omidi dropped the phone and slid to the floorboards, protecting the briefcase with his body as bullets pounded the door next to him.

His driver was bleeding from a deep cut in his forehead but managed to regain control of the vehicle. The man in back had been slammed into the cab and was struggling to swing the machine gun in the direction of the riflemen who had appeared on a ridge bordering the east side of the road.

A moment later, the satisfying roar of the mounted gun replaced the ring of bullets on the door, and Omidi rose enough to see over the dashboard while the driver wrung all the speed he could from the engine.

A rusting compact car appeared from behind a low rise in front of them, entering a narrow section of road bordered by a deep ditch on one side and a cliff face on the other. It continued to pick up speed, and Omidi saw unwavering resolve in the hunched position of the man behind the wheel. He was going to ram them.

The sound of the machine gun grew in volume as it turned on the approaching vehicle, ripping through the grille, pockmarking its hood, and finally tearing away most of the roof.

The car skidded left and then careened right, its driver’s head now held on by nothing more than a thin ribbon of skin. The truck’s right fender took most of the impact, slamming the much smaller vehicle into the rock wall and grinding along its length.

The machine gunner’s back was pressed against the cab again, and he was laying down suppressing fire, moving smoothly between the intermittent muzzle flashes fading behind them.

“Mehrak! Are you there? Mehrak!”

Khamenei’s tinny voice was audible again, drifting out from beneath the truck’s seat. Omidi remained on the floorboards, reaching around blindly for a few moments before laying his hand on the phone.

“Yes, Excellency. I’m here.”

“What happened?”

“We were attacked. The resistance is obviously aware that this is the only road leading away from the facility.”

“Are you injured?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“And the parasite?”

Omidi tapped a code into the briefcase’s keypad and popped it open, revealing nine separate vials.

“Intact.”

“Praise be to God.”

“If there are terrorists on the road, Excellency, there may be more in the village.”

“I’ll contact our people in Avass and warn them. They will be waiting to escort you in.”

“Thank you, Excellency.”

“Mehrak, I know I don’t have to impress upon you how important it is that those vials reach Tehran intact. We have seven men with U.S. visas standing by. We must strike quickly and fatally before the Americans can move against us.”

T
HIS IS ALL WE
have?” Smith said, staring down at a single grenade that looked like World War II surplus.

The young man standing in front of him nodded weakly, bending at the waist and trying to slow his ragged breathing.

“How hard would it be to get back to the main entrance?”

“There were four of us when we entered,” he replied in thickly accented English. “I’m the only one left.”

“Jesus, Sarie. How many of those monkeys are there?”

“Thirty-one. And two people not counting the one you killed.”

“Everybody back!” Howell shouted as the clatter of claws became audible down the hallway.

They’d erected floor-to-ceiling barricades on both sides of the corridor, but the available materials—mostly office furniture—made for a fairly porous barrier. Howell and Smith stood in the middle of the floor with their pistols at eye level as the others retreated behind them. The animal was approaching fast, brief flashes of crimson through the gaps.

Despite its less-than-impressive construction, the barrier did what it was designed to do. The monkey hit hard and immediately went for an obvious hole they’d made sure was large enough to be enticing but not so large that it would be easy to fully pass through. The macaque got its head in but then was stalled when its shoulder got caught. Smith held his fire and let Howell use his superior marksmanship to put a round through the top of the animal’s skull.

“It worked!” Farrokh said, coming up behind them. “I have to admit I had my doubts.”

“We were lucky,” Howell responded, checking his clip. “One is easy to handle. Maybe even two. More than that and they’re going to get through.”

He was right. As bad as infected humans were, they were relatively large, slow targets compared to these little horrors. And according to Sarie, there were six full-grown chimps that wouldn’t be drawn in by the gap left in the barricade. They’d make their own.

“What now?” Farrokh said. He was holding a walkie-talkie in his hand, but after his initial success in getting the grenade brought down to them, all attempts to raise his men had failed. Beyond knowing that their reinforcements had arrived, they were completely in the dark as to what was happening outside the hallway they’d barricaded themselves in.

“Sarie, you’re sure this is the door Omidi went out?” Smith said.

“Positive. The fact that it’s locked means it leads outside,” she said and then pointed to a smear of blood on the floor. “And that’s mine.”

“Then we have to get through.”

“The steel’s too thick,” Farrokh said. “That grenade won’t penetrate.”

He was right. Putting the explosive directly against the door would probably just bend the metal—making it even harder to open.

“Perhaps…,” Farrokh continued hesitantly.

“What? If you have an idea, speak up.”

“I’ve never worked on this type of mechanism specifically, but I used to be an engineer. If you were designing this, how would you make it lock?”

“Sure…,” Smith said, focusing on the wall to the left of the door. “Why make things any more complicated than you have to? All you need is a simple actuator that moves something to block it.”

They worked quickly, tearing down the rear barricade and using the pieces to create a structure that would help direct the blast against the wall next to the door. It left them unprotected, but at this point, there was no choice but to go all-in.

When they were finished, Smith pulled the rusty pin on the grenade. “Everyone back!”

They ducked around the corner and flattened themselves against the wall as the explosive detonated, filling the air with a haze of shattered concrete.

It worked. The mechanism was exposed, but also twisted and charred. Smith used his hands to clear away the debris while Farrokh examined the design.

“This is it,” he said, pointing to a simple steel rod lodged against the main gear.

Smith picked up a piece of concrete and swung it repeatedly at the bar, bending it back while Farrokh and his men pulled on the door. It moved a couple of inches and then stopped.

“Harder! Come on!” Smith said.

They put everything they had into it, but it didn’t budge.

“Again!”

“Jon,” Sarie said, coming up behind him. “What’s that at the top of the hole you made?”

He wasn’t sure how he’d missed it, but there was a blackened wiring harness tangled in the top rail, blocking the door’s movement. He reached up and yanked it out as Farrokh and his men curled their fingers through the small gap they’d made.

It happened a painfully slow quarter-inch at a time, but the door ground its way back. When they’d opened it a little more than a foot, the young man who had brought them the grenade stepped in front of it. “I think it’s large enough!” he said. “I can get through.”

“Stop!” Smith shouted, but it was too late.

The man had barely entered the gap when a gunshot sounded and he went limp, his body suspended between the door and the jamb—a victim of the same trap they’d set for the monkeys.

Farrokh dove for cover, but Smith moved up behind the man. There was no time for regret or respect for the fallen. Omidi was getting farther away with every minute and they couldn’t afford to get pinned down here.

More shots rang out, thudding dully into the dead man’s flesh as Smith grabbed him by the back of the jacket and lifted him fully upright. It sounded like a single gun, semiautomatic, with rounds designed for impact, not penetration.

“Peter! You’re with me!”

The Brit fell in behind as Smith shoved the bleeding corpse through the hole, using it as a shield as he entered a cavernous, intermittently lit parking garage.

The shots kept coming, absorbed by the dead weight of the body, which was getting increasingly awkward to maneuver. He could feel Howell pressed up against him as they moved right, taking cover behind a concrete pillar that looked to be on the verge of collapse.

Howell returned fire, getting close enough to the prone man to spray sand and broken rock into his eyes. He leapt to his feet and ran stumbling toward a van twenty yards behind him, but instead of taking cover behind it, he just kept going.

“I believe he’s had about enough of this day,” Howell said. “Hard to blame him.”

Smith turned back toward the door. “It’s clear. Come on through.”

After Sarie, Farrokh, and his surviving men were safely out, Smith ducked back into the facility and worked a table into the cavern so that he could use it to block the gap.

“You three stay here,” he said, pointing to Farrokh’s men. “Nothing comes out—even if it’s someone you know. Do you understand? If they want out, tell them to go back to the main entrance, where we’ve got people trained to check them for wounds that could indicate infection.”

They nodded and he ran toward a group of vehicles parked on the other side of the cavern with Farrokh in tow. A quick search didn’t turn up any keys, and Smith jabbed a finger in the Iranian’s direction. “You said you’re an engineer, right? Can you hot-wire a car?”

“An engineer is different from a thief, Colonel.”

“Great,” Smith muttered as Howell kept watch in case the guard they’d chased off rediscovered his courage. Sarie, though, had disappeared.

He was about to call to her when the sound of an engine firing up echoed through the enormous chamber. A few moments later, a pickup full of maintenance equipment skidded to a stop in front of him.

“Need a ride?” Sarie said, leaning out the open window.

“Peter! We’re rolling!”

She slid over and let him take the wheel as Farrokh jumped through the passenger door. They were already pulling away when Howell threw himself into the bed, tossing out toolboxes and shovels to make room as they accelerated toward what Smith prayed was an exit.

The cavern was much larger and more complex than he expected, but they followed a set of fresh tire tracks until they passed through the mouth of a meticulously camouflaged cave entrance.

Farrokh immediately got on his phone and Smith squinted into the blinding sunlight, heading toward the road leading north. They were a good half mile outside the facility’s perimeter fence and probably two hundred feet higher in elevation. It looked like all the fighting was inside the building now, and trucks had been used to block the bridge, with supporting gun placements being constructed out of sandbags.

Farrokh spoke urgently into the phone in Persian and then looked over at him. “My men engaged a vehicle with a mounted machine gun on the road to Avass.”

“That’s it,” Sarie said. “That’s the truck Omidi was in. Did they stop him?”

The Iranian shook his head. “We have people in the village, though. They’ve been told what to look for.”

“Can they stop a vehicle like that?” Smith said.

“Given a free hand, yes. But Avass is a conservative place, and the government will have many friends there.”

“What about the lab?”

“We are gaining control. The two remaining infected men are dead, though there are still some animals loose.”

“How many of your men have been exposed?”

“Many more than we anticipated. But that problem is being handled with the procedures you put in place. Everyone understood the risks of volunteering for this. And the consequences.”

Sarie leaned forward and put her head in her hands. “It’s my fault. I infected them—we were going to lock down the facility and set them loose. If I just hadn’t done anything, you’d have only had a few half-dead animals to deal with. Your men would be okay.”

“There was no way for you to know,” Farrokh said. “You had to act. It was my own stupidity for not anticipating the possibility that Omidi would release lab animals to cover his escape.”

“
Our
stupidity,” Smith corrected. “Any word on the Iranian military?”

“I’m afraid so. An elite force is in the air.”