The Ares Decision

62

“Keep moving, sirs.”

Smith glanced back at the soldier coaxing them forward and then at the armed men in hazmat suits falling in around them. The private jet he and Howell were walking toward seemed to have just come off the assembly line, with nothing that would betray the identity of its owner or suggest any connection with the United States. Smith dutifully climbed the steps to an open hatch, pausing at the threshold before committing to enter.

A thick wall of plastic had been erected to his left, sealing off the front third of the plane. To the right, all the seats had been removed with the exception of the rearmost two, and portable filters had been installed to keep the air supplies separate. A bottle of single-malt scotch gleamed on one of the cushions, and the other contained two glasses and two pairs of handcuffs. The incredibly thorough hand of Fred Klein.

Howell followed him down the aisle and fell into one of the seats, examining the bottle and reclining in the soft leather with a satisfied groan. Smith held out the glasses and the Brit filled them, raising his in salute. “To the fleeting pleasures of the here and now.”

It was as good a sentiment as any, and Smith tipped the glass up, reveling in the smoky sensation of the liquor burning its way down his raw throat. When he leaned back, he spotted a shoebox-sized device set up near the plastic wall. It was topped with a line of green LEDs and, unless he missed his guess, was filled with enough plastique to completely disintegrate the plane should it become necessary.

“How are you gentlemen feeling?”

Smith leaned forward and squinted, trying to put the man emerging from the cockpit with the voice that unmistakably belonged to Fred Klein. His normally medium-length hair was cropped close to his skull, and his glasses had been replaced with blue contacts. The rumpled suit that he seemed to have been born in was gone, too, in favor of a heavily starched U.S. Army uniform that clung to a waist so narrow that it suggested some kind of girdle. An expedient disguise that would shield him from undue attention and prevent Peter Howell from recognizing the old spook.

“Better now, Brigadier,” Howell said, using the scotch bottle to effect an improbably respectful salute.

Klein took a seat facing them through the plastic. “Based on the reports I’ve read, I thought you boys could use a drink.”

“Thank you, sir,” Smith said, playing along.

He gave a short jerk of a nod and then moved on. “It’s my understanding that if you’re infected, you’ll start showing symptoms between seven and fifteen hours from exposure.”

“Yes, sir,” Smith said, calculating for the hundredth time how long it had been since their fight with Dahab: seven hours, thirty-nine minutes. “It appears to start with general disorientation, followed by the bleeding you’re familiar with and then violent insanity.”

The plane started taxiing and Klein pointed in their general direction. “Buckle up.”

The implication was clear, and after fastening their seat belts they each secured one wrist to their seat with the provided handcuffs.

“I also understand, Colonel, that if you start showing symptoms, there’s nothing I can do to help you.”

“That’s correct, sir. But I think I speak for both myself and Peter when I say we’d appreciate it if you didn’t let us die like that.”

“If it becomes necessary, we’re equipped to take care of the situation.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Another curt nod from Klein. “The two of you have left us in a bad way. We’ve talked to a few top people, and they all believe that van Keuren is going to be able to weaponize the parasite and that it’s not going to take her long. Apparently, she wrote the book on transporting live parasites. And I mean that literally — she wrote a text on getting parasites from the field to the lab.”

Smith took a swig of his drink, swishing it painfully over the cuts in his cheek. Again, it was his failure. He’d had multiple opportunities to do what was necessary with regard to Sarie and he’d hesitated. Now it wasn’t just her blood on his hands; it could be the blood of millions.

“I’ve spoken at length with the president,” Klein continued, “and we don’t have many alternatives. Let’s start with the bad news. Diplomacy is a dead end — there’s no point in even starting. The Iranians will deny involvement and we’ve got no cards to play other than the testimony of two men who — and I regret saying this — will probably be dead in a few hours.”

“What about military options?” Howell said.

“Complicated. We don’t have anything convincing enough to get our allies on board, and the Russians and Chinese aren’t going to stand by while we go in with guns blazing. And that’s assuming we even had the troops available. A more surgical strike would be feasible, but we have no idea where Omidi is or where he’s taken the parasite.”

“I already know I screwed up,” Smith snapped. “Do we really have to dwell on the point?”

Klein’s eyebrows rose perceptibly, and Smith went into self-​examination mode. Was his outburst the product of frustration and exhaustion or something more?

“I didn’t intend that as some kind of backhanded reprimand, Colonel. Everyone involved knows that you did everything you could. Now, where was I?”

“I hope getting around to the good news, Brigadier,” Howell said.

“The good news. Yes. The CIA has a number of contingency plans for dealing with bioterror attacks, and one of them was easily adapted to this scenario. We’ve put together a team of experts to refine the plan and we’re quietly rolling out equipment and procedures across the U.S., as well as pulling back some military from abroad to handle implementation.”

“Are there casualty projections?” Smith asked.

“Three hundred thousand is a best-case scenario from the infection. Another twenty to thirty thousand in the general chaos. A more likely number would be in the million range.”

“That’s the good news?” Smith said. “That over a million people could die?”

“Our hope, obviously, is to keep it under that number, and with the body of the infected man you killed on the plane, we might be able to learn something useful. At the very least, though, it’ll help us refine our containment plan.”

“A containment plan? That’s it? The Iranians are creating a weapon that could make people look back fondly on the atomic bomb and we’re working on a containment plan?”

“No, there’s more. We’ve been talking to the Iranian resistance.”

“The resistance? You have a line to Farrokh?”

“Line might be an overstatement. We have tentative communication with people who say they’re linked to him. This is about as back-​channel as you can get, Colonel. You can imagine what would happen if word got out that we’re involved with the leader of the Iranian resistance.”

Howell had abandoned his glass and was now drinking directly from the bottle. “All due respect, sir, but it sounds as though you’re not sure if you are.”

“That’s not entirely unfair. Look, we took the leap of being more or less honest with them about the situation and we asked them to help us get a special forces team into Iran to track down the facility where Omidi’s working on the parasite.”

“What did they say?”

“They flatly refused. However, they may be amenable to a visit from the investigating doctor and his British escort.”

“May be amenable?”

“It’s the best I can do. They’re a very suspicious bunch.”

“So, assuming we don’t die en route, you’re sending us into Iran?”

“I’m afraid so. You’re going to be inserted from Turkey and link up with a resistance force. Get them to trust you and help you find van Keuren. Then contact us with what you’ve learned and stand by.”

Smith just stared at his boss. “Is that all?”

“I know it’s a tall order, Jon. And to be honest, I don’t expect you to succeed. In the unlikely event you actually make contact, there’s a good chance Farrokh will just decide you’re spies and kill you.”

“And then a million people die,” Smith said.

Klein shook his head. “A million Americans. We’ve drawn up plans for a retaliation, and I can tell you that it won’t be pretty.”

“What are you estimating Iranian casualties at?”

“After we take out their entire military capability, we’re looking at destroying all their major cities and annihilating their power grid and freshwater systems. It’s not possible to accurately estimate casualties because there’s honestly no historical precedent. What I can tell you, though, is that the deaths from disease, starvation, and thirst in the aftermath could be more than ten times what they are in the initial assault. If we can’t use the scalpel, Jon, it’s been made clear that we’ll use the hammer.”