The Ares Decision

90

Jon Smith shaded his eyes and watched as more canopies popped into existence above. Frightened voices rose from the fifty or so Avass residents they’d fallen in with and the pace of the group increased perceptibly, sweeping past the edge of town and into the open desert. Twenty yards ahead, Sarie’s blond hair was visible as she and Farrokh pushed their way toward him.

“Seven injured people we could find,” she said when she got within earshot.

“Did you talk to them? Did they have contact with anyone infected?”

Farrokh nodded. “One fell down a set of stairs and another was wounded by a bullet. But the others were attacked.”

“And all five of them have open wounds,” Sarie added. “I’m not sure how the higher parasitic loads are going to affect things, but I think we have to be ready for a faster than normal reaction.”

“How long?”

“A guess would be seven hours before full symptoms. Eight if we’re lucky.”

“Is there any way we can separate them from the group?”

“An American, a Brit, and a South African trying to get families to abandon their injured?” Farrokh said. “I think not.”

“What about you? You’re Iranian and people know you.”

“My position is even weaker, Jon. This is a very conservative, poorly educated part of the country. If these people knew who I was, they would probably kill me. And even if we keep my identity from them, they will still see me as a liberal, urban outsider.”

Smith slowed and finally stopped, watching the haggard refugees flow past. Scared and unsure what was happening, they would do the same thing they had for a thousand years — disappear into terrain that no foreigner had any hope of navigating.

“What is it?” Howell said, making a subtle move for the pistol in his waistband. “What’s wrong?”

What was wrong was that Smith had no idea what they were doing or where they were going. Groups like this, some probably with even more victims, were undoubtedly spreading out in every direction, surrounded by friends and family who had no way of understanding or dealing with what was going to happen. He’d completely lost control of the situation, and the idea that the Iranian military could regain that control might just turn out to be the most deadly delusion in history.

“Farrokh,” Smith said. “Give me your phone.”

The Iranian took a hesitant step back. “To do what? Order your military to destroy my country? To insert another dictator?”

“You want me to be honest?” Smith said, the anger obvious enough in his voice that people passing by began giving them a wider berth. “I don’t know what Castilla will do. But this is going to spread — first through Iran, then through the region. At this point, a new dictator might be your best-case scenario.”

“No!” Farrokh said, but his voice quickly lost its force. “We can…”

“You can do what? Because as near as I can tell, we’re just wandering around in the desert. You want to walk into that line of paratroopers? You want to go into those canyons with a bunch of infected people and wait for it to get dark?”

“No. I—”

“Then what’s our next move, boss?”

A woman wearing a coat soaked with blood collapsed twenty feet away, unable to go any farther. The people around her rushed to her aid, and Sarie immediately began shoving her way toward them. “Stop! Don’t touch her!”

No one spoke English and all she managed was to garner a few startled looks before being completely ignored.

Farrokh watched in silence for a moment, and then entered the PIN into his phone and held it out.

Smith dialed quickly, moving to the edge of the crowd with Howell scanning the faces around them for any hint of threat.

“Hello?”

There was definitely a sense of relief at the sound of Fred Klein’s voice, but not as much as he’d hoped.

“We have a few problems here.”

“Jon? Jesus! Are you all right? Where are you?”

“About a mile outside a town called Avass.”

“Then it was you who attacked the underground facility south of there.”

“You know about that?”

“We have a few satellite photos but that’s about all. We’ve been trying to get U-2s overhead but there’s a lot of Iranian air force activity in the area already and more on the way. What’s your situation?”

“It’s bad, Fred. The parasite was loose in that facility and I’m not sure what the status is there. What I do know is that there are infected people in Avass and people injured by them running for the canyons.”

“This isn’t a perfect connection, Jon, and there can’t be any miscommunications between us. Are you telling me that there are infected, symptomatic people loose in Avass and that it’s spreading into the countryside?”

“That’s correct. Can I assume you’ve planned for this?”

“We’ve spent the last week moving biowarfare equipment and teams to Iran’s borders with Iraq and Afghanistan. Your friends at USAMRIID and the CDC aren’t confident it’s going to be enough, though.”

A well-justified lack of confidence, as far as Smith was concerned. Containment plans generally assumed that victims got sick, lost mobility, and sought help. Contagion vectors were well understood, and some level of treatment was available even for pathogens as devastating as smallpox. None of those things were true in this case.

“We’ve been working more or less blind,” Klein continued. “And I don’t mind telling you that it’s causing some panic. Right now the president is in with the Joint Chiefs and representatives from Europe, China, and Russia. We have a submarine armed with nuclear warheads off the coast and the idea of using it hasn’t been taken off the table. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Smith didn’t respond, instead watching Sarie and Farrokh trying to physically pull people away from the injured woman. He thought of the town and of the residents caring for victims of similar attacks. He thought of the recently infected people who were already losing themselves in the canyons and of the ones who had made it to vehicles that were now carrying them to friends and relatives in surrounding villages.

“Jon? Are you still there?”

“Do it, Fred. Nuke everything. The entire area.”

There was a long silence over the phone. “Again, I want to make sure that I’m not misunderstanding you. As an infectious disease specialist familiar with this particular illness, you are recommending the use of tactical nuclear weapons centered on your position.”

“That’s my recommendation.”

“Is there anyone else there with you? Van Keuren? Peter?”

Smith held the phone out to Howell. He looked a bit confused but accepted it. “Hello? Yes, Brigadier. I recognize your voice.”

Smith bent at the waist and concentrated on not throwing up. In all likelihood, he’d just doomed himself, his friends, and thousands of innocent people to death.

“A grazing shot to the head,” he heard Howell say. “But he seems fine to me. Yes, unfortunately, I think that seems reasonable given the situation on the ground.”

Smith felt a tap on his shoulder and Howell handed back the phone.

“Jon?” Klein said.

“I’m here.”

“Can you give us your current position? I can call our people. There’s a possibility that we could get a helicopter through and—”

“We both know that’s not going to happen, Fred. Just do it, okay?”

Another long pause. “I’m going to pass along your recommendation to the president with my support. Thank you for everything you’ve done, Jon. And good luck to you.”

The line went dead and he slid the phone weakly into his pocket.

“You all right, mate?” Howell said, putting a hand under his arm and helping him upright.

“Not my best day, Peter.”

“I suppose things could have turned out better,” he said, extending his hand. “But even so, I want you to know that it’s been a privilege.”