“Yes, my lord,” she answered, confident that Williams could not eavesdrop on their conversation. “He was initially helpful in reconstructing your mother’s bacteria from the original genetic sequence, but we have moved far beyond those early stages now. I do not believe that he has anything more to contribute.”
“I see,” Khan said, stroking his chin contemplatively. “I do not trust a man who would trade such a lethal secret for his own security, nor one who has already abandoned Chrysalis once.” A hard edge entered his voice. “You know what to do, Doctor.”
The dark streaks of Dhasal’s eyes focused on the unsuspecting Englishman. “Yes, Lord Khan. I understand.” Her cool, analytical gaze shifted from Williams to the nearby instrument tray before returning to the screen. “What of the bacteria?”
“I want more of it,” he declared without hesitation. “I want you to devote all your resources, every vat and test tube, to producing the bacteria in large quantities, enough to consume the world if necessary.” Khan’s dark eyes were cold and implacable. “You should also continue your laudable efforts to improve the destructive capacity of the strain.”
She did not bother to wonder why Khan desired carnivorous strep-A in such quantity; that did not fall under her purview. Yet she worried about the toll such an ambitious enterprise might take on other promising fields of research, such as her ongoing attempt to re-create Sarina Kaur’s unprecedented success at cloning genetically engineered human eggs. “Excuse me, my lord,” she said respectfully, “but our work with this particular organism, as remarkable as it is, has already delayed progress on various other fronts. What of, for example, our goal of surpassing the original Chrysalis Project by designing a new generation of superior beings?”
“That must wait,” Khan stated, unswayed by her concerns. “We are at war, Doctor, and war dictates its own priorities. For now, I want you and your able staff to concentrate entirely on the mass production and refinement of the flesh-eating bacteria.” His commanding tone brooked no further discussion. “I will also be in touch with Dr. MacPherson about installing sophisticated bio-warheads on his suborbital rockets.”
“As you command.” She would regret placing her other projects on the back burner, but trusted that Khan knew best. “I will instruct my staff accordingly.”
Khan nodded in approval. “One more thing, Doctor. As we have previously discussed, it is important that awareness of this bacteria remain on a strictly need-to-know basis. You and your people are not to discuss this topic with any unauthorized individuals, including certain members of my executive staff.”
“Understood,” she acknowledged. Khan had already made it clear to her that Ament, his chief domestic advisor, was not to be informed of Dhasal’s research into necrotizing fasciitis. Fortunately, Muroroa’s distance from Chandigarh made it easier to keep the secret away from Ament’s attention. And soon, Dhasal thought, there will be one less person familiar with what we have wrought here.
No doubt occupied with other pressing matters, Khan bid her farewell and ended the transmission. Unhooking her mike from the communications console, she turned to confront an increasingly restive Dr. Williams. “Well?” the flustered Englishman inquired anxiously. “What did he say?”
“He is satisfied with our results,” she told him honestly. Walking over to the equipment cart, she lifted a scalpel from the tray on top of the cart. Her thick butyl-rubber gloves made it difficult to handle the delicate instrument, but she succeeded in getting a firm grip on its handle.
“Thank God!” Williams exclaimed, his overheated breath momentarily fogging part of his faceplate. “Does that mean this wretched experiment is over?”
“Almost,” she answered, crossing the floor toward Williams. Hanging on the gurney, Brother Arcturus stared bleakly into space, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of his imaginary alien forebears. Sensors continued to register his heartbeat, which had finally slowed to a less frenetic tempo. More and more, it appeared that the specimen had been completely unaffected by breathing in the airborne bacteria. Most intriguing, she thought.
Williams fumed within his encapsulated yellow suit. “Well, it’s about bloody time!” He tapped an orange rubber boot against the floor restlessly. “I can’t wait to get out of this miserable suit. I’m positively suffocating in here.”
“Permit me to assist you,” Dhasal said calmly. Her face devoid of emotion, she stepped forward and methodically slashed William’s hazmat suit with her scalpel. The razorsharp blade sliced easily through the protective layers of Neoprene, carving out deep gashes across the front of the suit, breaking the skin beneath, so that tiny red droplets of blood flew from the edge of the blade as it came clear, sprinkling like rain upon the pristine linoleum floor.
“Oh my God!” Williams gasped, shocked and surprised by Dhasal’s unexpected attack. His gloved fingers frantically probed the gaps in his suit, confirming the awful truth that his airtight protection had been compromised. “What have you done?”
“Finished the test.” Dhasal stepped backward, raising the scalpel defensively, in the event that Williams reacted violently. A rapid glance upward at the observation gallery revealed a row of startled faces staring down at the unforeseen drama playing out in the test chamber. “Do not be alarmed,” she informed her staff via microphone. “Everything is under control and proceeding as it should.”
“What!” Williams lunged toward her awkwardly, reaching out with his black rubber gloves, but, reacting with quantitatively faster reflexes, she retreated behind the equipment cart, keeping the stainless steel wagon safely between them. “You streak-eyed witch, you’ve killed me!”
Dhasal suspected that she could easily evade or overpower the decrepit old man even if she wasn’t blessed with superior DNA. As it was, his pathetic lunge turned out to be the last gasp of his fading physical reserves. She watched with interest as the infection took hold.
Sweating profusely, Williams fumbled clumsily with the seal of his hood, finally succeeding in ripping the gear from his head. “It’s so hot!” he gasped, clutching his throat while reeling unsteadily. “I can’t breathe.” He staggered across the floor, grabbing onto the metal cart for support, but the wheeled conveyance slid out from beneath him, causing him to topple forward, almost losing his balance entirely. His grasping fingers dislodged the instrument tray, causing it to tip over onto the floor, landing with an enormous clang. Scalpels, syringes, stethoscope, and excruciator spilled onto the blood-stained tiles, adding to the clatter. “Water!” he pleaded, doubled over in agony. His red-rimmed eyes bulged from their watery sockets. “I need water!”
Fever and dehydration, Dhasal noted with clinical dispassion. Interesting.
His symptoms developed at a vastly accelerated rate, exceeding even the characteristically rapid progression of necrotizing fasciitis. He dropped to the floor, unable to stand, and rolled over onto his back. His black-gloved hands groped uselessly in the air above him. A purplish rash appeared on his face and throat, which also began to swell grotesquely.
Astounding, Dhasal thought, impressed with the speed of the attacking pathogen. Ordinarily, such advanced symptoms would take three to four days to develop.
Blisters broke out upon Williams’s flesh, leaking a foul black fluid. The same dark effluvia oozed from the gashes in the dying man’s chest. Dhasal regretted that there wasn’t time to strip the shredded hazmat suit from Williams’s body entirely, the better to observe the progress of the infection elsewhere on his anatomy, but consoled herself with the thought of performing a full postmortem on the Englishman later on.
As a survivor of Bhopal, and a researcher of biological warfare, she had a strong stomach. Even still, as the voracious bacteria attacked Williams from within, she grew highly appreciative of the plastic faceplate sparing her from the stench of living tissue necrotizing before her very eyes.
“Celestial starfathers!” Arcturus shrieked from the gurney, distracting Dhasal, who had almost forgotten that the earlier specim
en was still present. The hairless superman strained futilely against his bonds, horror-struck eyes locked on the writhing form of the infected scientist. “What malignant, terrestrial blasphemy is this?”
“Quiet!” she shushed him impatiently. “You and I are perfectly safe.” If not for the undoubtedly nauseating odors emanating from the rotting tissue, in fact, she would have discarded her own hood by now, so confident was she that the modified strep-A posed zero threat to her and her kind. Yet one way, she reflected, in which we surpass the common herd of humanity.
The end came quickly, if probably not speedily enough from Donald Williams’s perspective. Much of his swollen, mottled flesh died before he did, turning a pale necrotic blue, but toxic shock finally stopped his heart only minutes after his exposure to the contaminated air. Dhasal made a mental note to check the exact duration later.
It had all happened so fast, she marveled. Almost too fast to observe properly. Thankfully, the chamber was fully equipped with video cameras, so she would be able to review the entire process at her leisure, preferably in slow motion.
Energized by the highly satisfying results of the experiment, she promptly moved onto the next stage. “Flush the atmosphere in the test chamber,” she ordered the onlooking technicians, dictating instructions into the microphone at a rapid clip. “I want complete bloodwork and X rays on both specimens, followed by immediate dissection and analysis of Dr. Williams’s remains.”
A blood-curdling howl emerged from Brother Arcturus as his questionable sanity snapped completely, but Phoolan Dhasal was in too good of a mood to care. She looked forward to updating Khan on the outcome of the experiment.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WATERLOO INTERNATIONAL TRAIN TERMINAL
LONDON
UNITED KINGDOM
NOVEMBER 14, 1994
WAITING JUST PAST THE AUTOMATED ENTRANCE GATES, ON THE INTERnational concourse, Gary Seven could only hope that today would indeed mark General Morrison’s Waterloo. The impressive new terminal sported a high glass ceiling and walls. Four full levels offered convenient electronic signboards, cozy departure lounges, a cafeteria, information counter, newsstand, shops, telephones, and even a bureau de change for exchanging pounds for francs and vice versa. A palpable aura of excitement suffused the crowded terminal on this, the Eurotunnel’s first real day of operation. Although the Chunnel had officially opened several months earlier, at a gala event attended by both Queen Elizabeth and French President Mitterrand, commercial train service from London to Paris had not actually begun until today. TV news crews were on hand to broadcast the event, just as General Morrison no doubt intended. The eyes of the world were on Waterloo Station; it was Seven’s job to make sure they weren’t forced to witness a massacre.
Frankly, he would have preferred the terminal to be not quite so spacious; it was going to be hard enough to spot Porter or Connors in this mob scene. To play it safe, he was keeping careful watch over the front entrance, hoping to spot either of the militiamen before they disappeared into the swarm of eager passengers waiting for the 8:23 departure for Paris. If he gets past me here, he admitted grimly, I’ll have a devil of a time locating him before he can release the nerve gas.
The mainstream media had done a pretty good job of covering up what had really happened in Geneva two months ago, but a careful analysis of the unofficial reports had convinced Seven that sarin gas had been the weapon of choice in that attack. That was definitely cause for concern; the barbaric concoction was over twenty times more deadly than cyanide gas, and easily transportable in liquid form. “Could be worse,” he murmured quietly to himself; at least humanity hadn’t invented biogenic weapons yet.
Wearing a conservative gray suit, he scoured the faces of the new arrivals making their way through the security and passport controls. The screening process appeared relatively well-managed, but hardly equipped to catch a seemingly ordinary American smuggling a small quantity of nerve gas. Fortunately for him, however, it was fairly easy to identify the Americans in the line, almost all of whom wore some variation of the standard uniform of a U.S. tourist traveling abroad: baseball cap, souvenir T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers.
By these criteria, he had successfully isolated several likely prospects, but, regrettably, none of them had matched the photos of Clayton Porter and Butch Connors with which the Beta 6 had managed to provide him. He frowned pensively, worried that his target had already slipped by him in the crush of new arrivals.
He was also concerned that one of the men may have targeted the Paris station as well. Suppose Morrison wanted to strike at both ends of the Chunnel simultaneously? Even Seven couldn’t be in two places at once, at least not without seriously warping the space-time continuum.
He glanced apprehensively at his wristwatch. It was already 7:55 A.M. Sunlight shone through the smudge-free glass walls and ceiling as the concourse rapidly filled with travelers. “Excuse me, sir,” a helpful voice accosted him, distracting him from his all-important surveillance of the terminal’s entrance. A youthful Eurostar employee, wearing a navy-blue uniform accented by a yellow scarf and tie, stepped between Seven and the front gate. “Can I help you?”
“No, thank you,” Seven replied, trying to remain casual while maintaining his lookout for the American terrorists. His worried expression, he feared, had attracted the young woman. “I’m just waiting for a friend.”
“If you’d like, we can have them paged,” the overly solicitous railways worker volunteered. Seven found himself longing for less attentive customer service.
“No thanks,” he insisted. Was that another baseball cap coming through the gate? He tried to peer past the chirpy young Brit, but the woman’s shoulder got in the way.“I’ll be fine,” he declared, as firmly as he could without attracting the attention of station security.
“Very well, sir.” His unwanted helper finally seemed to get the message. “Thank you for riding Eurostar.”
She moved on to another lost-looking customer, but Seven could not spare a moment to breathe a sigh of relief. What had happened to that red baseball cap? A large Pakistani family was now making its way through the gate, and Seven looked around the terminal anxiously, terrified that his quarry had evaded him while his attention was elsewhere. What if Porter or Connors had already entered the terminal?
Wait! Seven spied the cap in question bobbling along above the heads of the crowd, just a few yards beyond where Seven was now standing. Seen from behind, the cap’s wearer fitted Roberta’s general description of Porter: a tall, rangy man with a somewhat military bearing. Unfortunately, Seven could not manage to get a glimpse of the man’s face.
The alien-raised supervisor had only a moment to decide whether to continue his stakeout or take off after the suspect. If he gambled wrong, and pursued the wrong man while the real terrorist proceeded unobstructed, the consequences would be dire. The lives of hundreds of travelers, journalists, and Eurostar employees depended on him. I have to take a chance, he realized, and hope for the best.
He looked again at his watch. It was 8:06. If the attack was indeed scheduled for 8:23, and the militiamen had yet to arrive at the terminal, then they were calling it pretty close. Seven guessed that the real terrorists would be more cautious than that. If I were responsible for this operation, I would already be here.
His decision made, although not without some trepidation, he hurried after the tall man in the red cap. The servo in his pocket had mercifully made it past the metal detectors, and he fingered it in anticipation as he followed the other man (Porter?) deeper into the terminal. Now what? he pondered. Would the terrorist actually board the waiting train, or would he release the nerve gas inside the crowded terminal, now temptingly packed with humanity?
Seven predicted the latter. According to his research, the passenger cars on Eurostar’s deluxe high-speed bullet trains carried only forty-plus travelers apiece and, for purposes of safety, had sealed fire doors between the individual cars. Morrison’s assassin could more easily
achieve maximum carnage by deploying the sarin in the comparatively wide-open spaces of the cathedral-like terminal.
A public-address system announced, in English and French, that the 8:23 train would be leaving in ten minutes. The announcement caught the attention of the baseball-capped stranger, who turned to look up at one of the electronic signboards, finally giving Seven a glimpse of his profile. A very human surge of relief went through the gaunt, gray-haired older man as he gladly recognized the leathery, tight-lipped features of “Freeman” Clayton Porter, late of Arizona’s ignominious Fort Cochise.
Thank the Aegis! Seven thought with feeling. I made the right choice, after all.
All doubt removed as to the suspect’ s identity, he endeavored to get closer to the roaming militiaman. The milling throng, now heading for the escalators that would take them up to the loading platform, impeded his progress, but Seven steadily shouldered his way toward Porter, who had paused in the middle of the wide concourse, showing little interest in boarding the train. Seven kept the other man in his sights, grateful that they were both relatively tall.
It was now 8:19.
Porter wore a checked wool hunting jacket unzipped to reveal a buttoned-down flannel shirt. Reaching into the front pocket of the coat, he drew out a small package that Seven recognized as a miniature juice box, of the sort American children packed in their school lunch boxes. Squinting his eyes to read the label on the box, Seven saw a photo of a succulent red apple.
What name had Roberta said was written on that file in Morrison’s office? Operation . . . Applejack? In liquid form, he recalled, sarin was a greasy fluid roughly the color of beer—or apple juice.
Between the sun shining down through the glass ceiling, and the accumulated body heat of several hundred unsuspecting men, women, and children, the temperature within the terminal was uncomfortably toasty, yet Seven severely doubted that Porter was worried about dehydration. He watched in alarm as Porter, looking about furtively, dropped the juice box onto the floor, then raised his foot to stomp on the tiny cardboard container. Grasping his intention, Seven immediately visualized the so-called “juice” spurting all over the station floor.