G.I. Joe: The Shadow Warriors >> Finis!

[tammer]

**The version of the story posted here is the original, raw, unpolished draft. For the final, definitive version, check out the official website at http://gijoe.firedrakecreative.com. There, you can download the uncensored eBook in PDF format, as well as view other ancillary materials under the Extras section.**



This story is a darker, alternate-take "reboot" of the G.I. Joe universe, viewed through the lense of how I might have written the film version to introduce the characters and backstory, etc. I decided to start this topic after seeing Rise of Cobra and reading some threads asking "What would you change?" The more I thought about it, the more compelled I felt to do a complete re-write that included everything I would have done differently. I consider myself a casual Joe fan, so I'm not as steeped in the lore and mythology as others. This is what made Rise of Cobra an okay movie in my eyes. I was satisfied enough with the name-dropping and the wink-and-a-nod lines, sure. However, I am a hardcore film fanatic and the story and characterization I found somewhat lacking.

This story is less sci-fi, near future and more real-world, present day. This means no nanomites, but instead things like biological warfare and genetics manipulation take its place. Also, one thing that really bothered me was the liberal use of codenames. Sure, it's an integral part of A Real American Hero, but it's so overdone and taken too far in my opinion. It's all like "Duke, we weren't expecting them to notice us so quickly! What do we do?" "Sit tight, Scarlett. We'll figure something out. Breaker, Stalker and Short-Fuze, see if you can't find a way to take out that flak gun!" People don't talk that way. Thus, in this universe, while the codenames/nicknames still exist, they are used much more sparingly.

I'll be writing this in a novel-like format with separate chapters, instead of like a script which would be a pain to read. I'll post the prologue first and if there's enough (read: any) interest, I may continue posting more chapters as I write them.

Also important to note is that I may incorporate running changes into previous posts if new ideas contradict older events. Writing is a dynamic exercise, in any case, so if something comes out of left field and totally doesn't make sense, you may want to check back to see if I changed something in an earlier draft.

Comments and constructive criticism are most welcome!

[tammer]

PROLOGUE

Somewhere on the Horn of Africa
0357 Hours Charlie

When you’re short on everything but the enemy, you’re in a combat zone.

The unbidden snippet of military gallows humor crossed Staff Sergeant Conrad Hauser’s mind as he hit the dirt; the sharp, distinctive cracks of AK-47 rifle fire thundering all around him. Mere minutes ago, he and his squad mates had been doing their job – training the ethnic East-African Membezi resistance forces how to fight and overthrow the military junta currently in control of Kukuanabwe’s government. Now, at least half his squad was dead, the rebels were scattering like cockroaches from light, and he was alone with no cover and only a half mag in his rifle.

Belly-crawling over to the body of Lieutenant Keith Drover, whose head had been reduced to a wet, bloody smear on the desert sand, he turned the body over and grabbed the last two full magazines from the dead man’s chest rig. He did some quick mental math.
Seventy-three rounds divided by the entire Kukuanabwan Army… Yeah, I’m screwed.
He strained to try and hear if any of his people were getting off return shots, but if they were, it was drowned out by the unrelenting wave of fire boxing them in.

Bullets tore up the ground in front of his face and he felt a warm, wet sting as something grazed his right cheek. He cursed and wished he had a helmet. And a Kevlar vest. And camouflage fatigues. As it was, he and the rest of his Special Forces Operational Detachment were dressed like locals in garish, ill-fitting shirts and slacks to better maintain their cover.
Fat lot of good that did, he thought bitterly in hindsight.

Digging himself in behind the Lieutenant’s body and bringing his rifle up, he peered through the thermal weapon sight mounted on the top rail and scanned for targets. He came upon a slightly pot-bellied man of seemingly average height, crouched behind an armored fighting vehicle, dressed in faded camouflage fatigues with a beret perched on his head. The pistol in his hand gave him away as an officer.

Taking careful aim, Hauser centered the sight’s reticle over the officer’s chest. He squeezed the trigger and the rifle bucked, sending the man sprawling in the wake of a three-round burst. Without waiting for the man’s fellow soldiers to get a fix on his position, Hauser pushed up and sprinted to a new position, dropping down again belly-first a few seconds later. Scanning the killing field once again, he saw no sign of the rebels or his squad mates, just bodies in the sand and several hundred Kukuanabwan soldiers closing in.
Great.
He turned and ran.

* * *

The next afternoon, Hauser was beginning to wonder if he’d have been better off letting the Kukuanabwan’s kill him. Wandering alone through the African desert with no food or water and no idea which way he was heading… Well, his rifle, with its full magazine, was starting to look mighty friendly. Exhausted, he collapsed in the partial shade of a sand dune, spread-eagle on his back, welcoming the embrace of death.

It was then that he felt the wind begin to stir as if from the downwash of a chopper overhead. Seeing and hearing nothing, he dismissed it as merely a figment of his dehydrated imagination, until the sand around him began to swirl, assaulting his eyes with a flurry of blinding grit. He brought one hand up to shield them, the other covering his mouth. When the dust subsided, he looked and found himself at the eye of the storm, a matte-black silhouette hovering directly overhead where the sun should have been. His brow creased slightly in puzzlement but at this point, he would have accepted Lucifer himself with open arms if it meant an end to his earthly suffering.

A hatch slid open on the side of the sleek, black carapace and a line was tossed out, followed by a khaki-clad figure fast-roping down towards him. Hitting the loose sand, the figure doffed its helmet to reveal a long frock of red hair. As the newcomer drew nearer, Hauser made out the face of a young woman – Caucasian and fiercely beautiful. An angel.
But why would an angel look so worried?
“Hey, you still with me?” She called, coming to a stop and dropping to her knees beside him.
American accent. He parted his lips, his parched throat struggling for words.
“Hold on,” she said, reaching for something on her belt.
Cool water washed over his lips and down his throat. Grabbing greedily for the canteen, the woman pulled it away before his fingers could reach.
“Not so fast,” she said. “You’re severely dehydrated. Too much water now could send you into shock. Drink it slowly.” She handed the canteen to him and he took it gratefully and had another sip.
“Who are you?” He managed finally in a dry croak.
“A friend,” she said. “Let’s get you home.”

He lay weakly in the sand and watched as a tubular metal basket was lowered from the chopper which, after he was safely strapped in, brought him aboard. Inside was windowless and dark, lit only by the glow from several flat panel computer monitors and instrument panels. Two other figures sat inside, opposite one another on folding bench-style seats. One, a black man with close-cropped hair and a thin moustache dressed similarly to the woman in khaki and olive drab, grinned over at his companion who, strangely, wore all black and had a full-face mask with an odd visor-like contraption over his eyes.
“Told ya we’d find him if we went this way,” the first man said.
His companion said nothing, offering a noncommittal shrug.
“How ya doin’, champ?” The man continued, turning to Hauser. “To be honest, I wasn’t so sure if you were gonna make it out this far.”
“That makes two of us,” Hauser said.
“You’re lucky we found you when we did,” the woman chimed in. “Dehydration aside, you were headed straight towards a Kukuanabwan Army outpost.”
“So, I take it you’re not with them, then?” Hauser asked cautiously.
She smiled. “Like I said, we’re friends.”
“U.S. military?” He tried again.
Again, the patient smile. “That’s classified, sorry.”
Hauser managed a grin of his own. “Definitely U.S. military, then.”
She laughed. “Either way, no need to worry. You’re in good hands and we’re taking you home.”

* * *

[tammer]

CHAPTER ONE

Arkhangelsk, Russia
2030 Hours Delta

“Are you sure this is safe?” Captain John Westmeyer asked nervously, eyeing the loading crew as they maneuvered a supposedly shock-proof crate marked with various biohazard symbols into the bay of his C-17, locking it down and cinching the straps tight.
Lieutenant Jason Keppler, his co-pilot, laughed. “It’s a former Soviet bioweapon. What could possibly go wrong?”
Ever the superstitious type, Westmeyer shot him a baleful stare.
“Hey, I said it ironically,” Keppler said, putting up his hands, “C’mon. This is a milk-run.”
“I know,” Westmeyer sighed, “But still. You have any idea how much of this stuff the Reds made, or how much of it’s still out there maybe in a forgotten bunker or something?”
Keppler shrugged, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder in the same motion. “Whatever. As soon as this one’s been decommissioned, it’ll be one less crate, or dose, or however you call it.”
“Yeah,” Westmeyer agreed.

“Sir, I need you to sign this,” the loadmaster said as he approached, handing Westmeyer a pen and a clipboard with a hardcopy of the cargo manifest.
He scribbled on the dotted line and handed the clipboard back to the loadmaster.
“Thanks, sir. We’re good to go,” the man said, heading back towards the aircraft.
“Okay, I’m gonna go warm ‘er up,” Keppler said.
“Sure,” Westmeyer said, “I’ll join you in a sec.”

As Keppler jogged towards the plane, Westmeyer walked over to confer with the platoon sergeant in charge of the squad who’d be providing their escort during the flight. Dressed in civilian multi-environment camouflage fatigues and cradling an assault rifle, his face hidden behind dark sunglasses and a full beard, the man looked every inch the mercenary he was. In fact, his entire squad, similarly equipped and attired, had been contracted by the Department of Defense from COBRA LCC to ensure the plane took off safely and made it unhindered out to the northern coast, after which they’d be able to continue on to the continental United States unescorted. Basically, if anyone tried to shoot them down between the airfield and the coast, it was COBRA’s job to swarm in and stop them before they could. The sergeant turned as Westmeyer approached.
“We rollin’ out?” He asked.
“Yeah,” Westmeyer said. “You guys got a copy of our flight plan, right?”
The sergeant patted the map pocket mounted front and center on his chest rig. “Right here where I won’t lose it.”
Westmeyer nodded. “Perfect. Get your birds spooled up. We’ll be out of here in five.”

The sergeant headed off and he and his men climbed aboard their three MD-530F helicopters, each one painted black with a single red stripe running the length of the body, while Westmeyer went to join Keppler in the C-17’s cockpit. Settling into his seat and strapping in, he goosed the throttle when he got the green light from the tower and they roared into the rapidly darkening sky.

* * *

Klaxons blared and warning lights flashed in the cockpit as Westmeyer threw all his weight against the controls, initiating a tight, evasive turn.
“Viper, Viper, this is Mailman!” He called over the radio to their helicopter escorts. “We’ve got a missile lock on us! Can you see anything down there, over?”
Silence.
“Viper, Viper, come in, over!” He tried again.
They had been only a few kilometers away from the coast, almost home free when all hell broke loose. The g-forces from the turn flattened him against his seat and he gritted his teeth as he tried to shake the lock.
“Crap.” Maybe the escort choppers had been shot down already. He turned to Keppler. “We may be on our own up here. Get the countermeasures ready.”

The airframe jarred violently just as Keppler was reaching for the controls to deploy their flares. More alarms went off and Westmeyer flicked his eyes to the readout in front of him.
“We’ve lost an engine,” he reported, surprised by the calm in his own voice while fighting the diminished response from his flight controls. The words were barely out of his mouth when the missile lock alarm went off again. He swore. “I don’t know if we can take another hit. Get those flares out!”
There was a rumble, felt more than heard, as the flares launched and Westmeyer held his breath praying for a reprieve. He didn’t get one. The next hit slammed his head against the instrument panel hard enough that he blacked out.

* * *

The COBRA helicopters set down next to the scorched furrow in the ground that the C-17’s plummeting fuselage had raked, mowing down trees and undergrowth in its path while it plowed to a stop. Emerging from the chopper in full Level A hazmat gear, the platoon sergeant felt a grim smile tug at his lips as he surveyed the wreckage. The tracking beacon they’d surreptitiously planted on the plane had worked perfectly, leading the missiles straight to their target without any interference from the aircraft’s countermeasures. Now, as his squad closed in on the remains of the cargo bay, clad in the same self-contained protective gear and toting cutting torches, he felt a sense of elation stemming from a perfectly-executed op.

Still strapped securely to its pallet, the olive drab crate sat waiting for them in the cavernous cargo bay – a treasure chest filled with limitless potential. It didn’t appear to be damaged in any way but they still handled it with infinite care, then undid the latches and opened the lid to check on its contents. Inside, nestled in rows among the gray foam padding were twenty-four plastic powder-filled vials, each one containing a variant of the deadly Marburg virus as a dried, inhalable dust. When they were sure none of the vials had cracked, shattered or otherwise been compromised, they closed the lid and latched it securely before taking off their suits. As they loaded the crate onto one of the helicopters, the sergeant pulled out a scrambled radio handset and thumbed the transmit button.
“Viper to Chimera, the package is secure.”

* * *

[tammer]

CHAPTER TWO

Location Unknown
1506 Hours Tango

The stealth-modified helicopter touched down smoothly on a dark earth colored concrete platform, its sound-dampened rotors not making so much as a whirr as they spun down to a stop. After ten hours in the air and at least two in-flight refuelings, Hauser was nearly blinded by the harsh sunlight as he emerged from the chopper’s hatch and sank his boots into the scrub brush encrusted sand. Looking around, he was slightly dismayed to find himself still in the desert, though one that looked different enough that he was sure they hadn’t just been circling the same spot for the better part of a day. The red-haired woman, who’d told him her name was O’Hara, bounded out the hatch and landed lithely a few feet away, stretching to work the kinks out of her legs and back.
“Can I ask where we are?” Hauser said, “Or is that–”
“Classified,” she finished for him with an apologetic smile. “But not for long if the General decides to bring you into the fold. C’mon.”
She waved for him to follow and they set off in the direction of a low sand-colored building just barely visible a few hundred meters away.

As he walked, a low rumble coming from behind made him turn around. He saw that the ground in front of the helicopter and landing pad had tilted upward about thirty degrees and where there had been nothing but sand and Joshua trees just a few moments earlier, there now lay a cavernous ramp, framed at the lower end by a pair of heavy-looking steel blast doors which lumbered open slowly. Hauser watched in rapt fascination as the doors opened fully and their chopper rolled down into the waiting maw. Then, the doors closed behind it and the cover was lowered, trundling shut to conceal all evidence of its presence. Even the dark earth color of the landing pad was fading in uneven and splotchy sections, as though water was evaporating from its surface to return it to its natural sand-colored state.
“You coming, or what?” O’Hara called from further up ahead. Hauser turned back to her.
“Uh, yeah!” He called after her, jogging to catch up.

A blessed wave of air conditioning met them as O’Hara led him into what appeared to be an administration and support building of some kind. They walked down a maze of pristine, white-painted corridors, each one more or less identical to the last. O’Hara finally stopped in front of a navy blue metal door with a frosted glass window inset into the upper half and knocked smartly on the glass.
“Come in,” came a voice from the other side.
Grabbing the pewter handle, O’Hara pushed the door open and led him into an office.

Inside, it was tastefully furnished in dark wood and leather, framed photographs and medals decorating the walls. It emanated a sense of warmth and comfort that belied the bleak monotony of the corridors. Behind a large wooden desk, seated in front of a computer screen and keyboard sat a middle-aged man dressed in crisp Army Class As. Hauser snapped to attention and saluted when he noted the pair of polished silver stars on the man’s shoulder straps. O’Hara assumed a parade rest stance.
“Agent O’Hara reporting with Staff Sergeant Hauser as ordered, General,” she said.
The General nodded to O’Hara. “Thank you. You’re dismissed.”
O’Hara took her leave and the General turned his attention to Hauser, still holding his salute.
“As you were, Sergeant,” the General said, returning the salute. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, sir,” Hauser replied. “Any word from my unit, sir?”
The General smiled grimly. “Right to business, I see. I like that. You’d better take a seat, Sergeant. I’ll fill you in.”

Hauser seated himself in one of the chairs opposite the General’s desk and eyed him expectantly.
“My name is General Abernathy,” the General said, “And it’s my sad duty to inform you that you are the only survivor of Task Force Resolute.” He paused for a moment to let that sink in. “Frankly, I’m amazed that you survived at all. We received reports nineteen hours ago that the Kukuanabwan Army had mobilized towards some remote location in the middle of nowhere. By the time the Army was ready to admit that yes, there were Special Operations Forces operating in the area, it was all over but the shouting.”
Hauser swallowed, hard. “I see.”
Abernathy nodded. “When Team Two radioed in saying they’d found a survivor, I asked them to bring you here so that maybe you could help confirm the identities of the bodies we recovered. You think you can do that, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Alright then,” Abernathy said, levering himself out of his chair. “Follow me.”

The General led Hauser down another series of corridors until they stopped in front of an elevator. Abernathy bent forward and put his face up to an iris scanner, then swiped a keycard and punched a series of numbers into the pad under the iris scanner. A few moments later, the doors opened and the two of them stepped into the elevator. They went down.

They emerged into a brightly-lit concrete hallway, the bottom three feet or so painted in navy blue while the top half was left in its natural utilitarian gray. The floor was tiled in black rubber with a pattern of raised discs embossed into the surface that dampened the sound of their footsteps as they made their way along.
“What is this place?” Hauser asked as they emerged into the main hangar where an entire fleet of unmarked aircraft were being serviced. Four massive elevator platforms, one nestled in each corner of the hangar deck, towered high above their heads, no doubt leading up to the hidden ramp where Hauser had disembarked his chopper, and possibly others like it.
“We call it the Pit,” Abernathy said, leading Hauser across the hangar towards another corridor on the opposite side.
“And who’s ‘we,’ sir? I’ve been asking but nobody’ll give me an answer.”
Abernathy smiled. “We’re nobody, Sergeant. Officially, we don’t exist. You won’t find us in anyone’s books, but if you did, we’d be listed under JSOC’s Special Mission Units as Special Counter-Terrorist Group Delta.”
“Quite a mouthful for a unit that doesn’t exist,” Hauser said.
“That’s true,” Abernathy agreed, “So we call ourselves ‘G.I. Joe’ for short.”

A separate elevator took them down even further into the bowels of the Pit and along the way, they passed locker rooms, living quarters, briefing rooms, rifle ranges and training facilities – a complete self-sustaining city, according to General Abernathy. By the time they arrived at the morgue, Hauser had almost forgotten why he’d been brought down to begin with. He sobered up, putting a lid on his awe as Abernathy walked over to the multi-door cold chamber and pulled out eleven drawers, one after the other. A blanket-draped form lay atop each of the metal racks and Hauser pulled back the cloth over each face in turn.
“Conway. Acharya. Perez. Oldfield. Wong. Stojanovic. Drover. Payne. Lewis. Ingram. Kashmiri.” He turned to Abernathy. “All present and accounted for, sir.”
Abernathy nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
“What’ll happen to them now, sir?” Hauser asked, swallowing a lump in his throat.
“Their next of kin will be notified and their bodies released if they’re claimed, of course.” Abernathy said. “Now, let me escort you back up to the hangar. A chopper’s waiting to take you back to Fort Campbell.”
Hauser blinked. “That’s it, sir? You’re kicking me out?”
Abernathy shrugged. “Your work here’s done, Sergeant.”
“But… all the things I saw. Aren’t you afraid I might tell someone about it?”
The General smiled and shook his head. “I have a feeling you can keep a secret. Besides, uttering a word of this to anyone is tantamount to treason. You’re not a traitor, are you, Sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.” Abernathy headed for the door.
“But I still want in, sir.”
He stopped and turned back to Hauser. “You don’t even know what it is we do, Sergeant.”
“You help people, sir,” Hauser said. “In a way I never could as a Green Beret. So, I want in.”
The General fought back a snort. “What makes you think we’ll take you? You’re just overcoming a bout of dehydration, probably heat stroke as well. You’ve got severe sunburns all over your upper body. It could take a month or more before you’re back to anywhere near fighting condition. We’re the blackest of black ops with a global reach and presidential sanction to do whatever is necessary to protect this country. We live in the shadows and get no recognition. We’re America’s attack dog that’s kept half-starved in its cage. What makes you think you can hack it?”
Hauser grinned. “Try me, sir.”

* * *

[tammer]

CHAPTER THREE

The Pit
1648 Hours Tango

Hauser felt wonderful. He’d been offered a shower and a clean training uniform to wear, which he had taken full advantage of. The olive drab moisture-wicking t-shirt and khaki BDU pants fit comfortably without restricting his movement or aggravating his sunburns. The boots still had to be broken in, but he was working on that. Abernathy had left him in the care of one First Sergeant Lonzo Wilkinson, whom Hauser recognized from the chopper ride over, to see to some other urgent business. Given instructions to show Hauser the ropes, Wilkinson had administered a few oral and written evaluations, had him run through a timed obstacle course, then led him to the live-fire range and gotten him set up with a rifle and a handgun.

“You want to be a part of this outfit, you gotta show us what you’re made of,” Wilkinson said. “This here’s the easy part. I know you can shoot, but can an SF boy like you shoot like an Army Ranger?”
Hauser laughed. “Just you wait and see, Sergeant.”
Wilkinson smirked. “Alright then, here’s your SCAR,” he said, handing Hauser a sand-colored rifle. “This mag’s only got five rounds of 5.56mm in it. You need to score at least four one-inch bullseyes at three hundred meters with iron sights and the last one must stay within the black rings. Then, you’ll transition to your sidearm and place one round in the center mass of a target at ten meters, one in the center mass of a target at twenty-five meters, two in the center mass of a target at fifty meters, then work your way back with one each again in the twenty-five and ten meter targets. Then you’ll reload your rifle and try to score a three-inch grouping of ten rounds at four hundred meters. Par time is thirty-five seconds. Think you can do that?”
“Absolutely, Sergeant.”
Wilkinson shrugged. “We’ll see about that. Go ahead. Clock starts as soon as you fire your first round.”

Settling himself on the carpet-covered shooting bench, Hauser braced the rifle against his shoulder and sighted in, releasing the safety. Breathing evenly, he exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger.
Sight. Acquire. Fire.
Sight. Acquire. Fire.
When the magazine ran dry, he dropped the rifle, snatched his sidearm off the bench in front of him and stood, cupping the grip in both hands. The slide bucked as he sent bullets downrange, tearing through the man-sized paper targets set up at ten, twenty-five and fifty meter intervals.
Dropping the pistol, he reached for the SCAR and tapped the magazine release in a single motion as he grabbed the full mag off the bench and rammed it home. Racking the charging handle, he resumed his firing stance and…
Sight. Acquire. Fire.
… drilled a respectable group of holes in the target four hundred meters away. Wilkinson clicked the stopwatch as soon as Hauser set down the rifle upon scoring his final hit.
“Thirty-four point nine five seconds,” Wilkinson said. “You like to keep it down to the wire, don’t you?”
Hauser shrugged. “Hey, I still did it, didn’t I?”
“Just barely,” Wilkinson scoffed. “I’m almost impressed. You want to try it again?”

Before he could answer, the PA system pinged twice, an amplified voice blaring over speakers throughout the base.
“Attention! Attention! All field team operatives report to Ops Center on the double. Repeat, all field team operatives report to Ops Center on the double.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Wilkinson turned and sprinted out the door with Hauser following close behind.

They jogged through the corridors and up a flight of perforated metal stairs to a large circular glass-walled room that overlooked the main hangar. Computer displays covered every available surface and a ring of technicians sat monitoring each one. At the center of the room, General Abernathy stood below a giant, metal framework suspended from the ceiling with screens mounted all around it for 360° visibility. O’Hara, the black-masked guy and several others who Hauser didn’t know were already present. Abernathy turned as he and Wilkinson entered, catching his eye before turning to Wilkinson.
“Is he cleared?” Abernathy asked, pointing at Hauser.
“Your call, sir,” Wilkinson said. “I haven’t had a chance to run him through the full gauntlet yet, but so far he’s doing alright.”
Abernathy considered that for a moment.
“Okay, he can stay,” he said finally before turning back to face the others.

“Roughly eight hours ago, the Air Mobility Command lost contact with one of their C-17 Globemasters, callsign Mailman,” Abernathy began. “Their mission was to transport a crate of Soviet-era weaponized bioagent for decommissioning and disposal stateside.”
Abernathy picked up a remote control and pressed a button. The screens overhead blinked to life and displayed a map of Russia, a bright red line depicting the plane’s aborted path.
“They took off from Arkhangelsk at 2045 hours local time,” the General continued, “En route to Eielson Air Force Base in Alaska. However, they failed to even make it as far as the northeastern shore of the White Sea. From overhead satellite imaging, we managed to locate the wreckage of the plane and a team was sent in to recover the crate.”
“Let me guess,” someone piped up, “No sign of it.”
“Got it in one,” Abernathy answered. “Nor is there any sign of the three-bird helicopter escort assigned to the mission. Worse, whatever happened to that plane occurred during a satellite changeover, so we have no visuals, infrared or otherwise.”
He looked around at all those assembled. “Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t have to tell you that we are facing a global crisis of epic proportions. The President has authorized me to assemble a team to locate and recover the bioagent. We’re free to employ whatever methods we deem necessary to secure it and return it to U.S. military control. Are there any volunteers?”
There wasn’t a man or woman in the room whose hand wasn’t raised.
“That’s what I thought,” Abernathy said, smiling proudly. “Alright, people, let’s get to work!”

* * *

[tammer]

CHAPTER FOUR

M.A.R.S. Industries High-Security Research Facility
2355 Hours Zulu

As President and CEO of an arms manufacturing company, James McCullen had seen plenty of weapons in his time – from rifles and grenades to missiles and tanks, but never anything such as the likes of this. Gripping the plastic vial between thumb and forefinger, he held it up to the light as though trying to see for himself the microscopic killers that lurked within.
“Are you certain it is a good idea to handle that without protective gear?”
McCullen turned to favor the speaker with a smile. For as long as he had known her, Anastasia Cisarovna had always been fearless, cunning and ruthless. It was a necessary survival mechanic when one was the head of a Russian mob syndicate and was also one of the many things that he loved about her. However, her nervousness now and the way she shrank away from the crate, open on the table before them, made her look both innocent and vulnerable in a way that McCullen found irresistible.

Replacing the vial in its foam cradle, he cupped her cheek in his hand and brushed a few stray strands of obsidian hair away from her face.
“You needn’t worry yourself, Ana,” he said. “The Marburg virus only spreads through direct contact with bodily fluids.”
Then, he leaned forward and kissed her.
“Svoloch’!” She spat and pushed him away, wiping her lips with the back of her sleeve. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Sorry, love,” McCullen said, laughing, “I couldn’t resist. But trust me, there’s no risk of exposure. As long as it’s sealed inside that vial, it’s perfectly harmless.”
“That is what I am afraid of,” she countered, regaining her composure. “Military hardware is always made by lowest bidder.”

McCullen frowned, wondering if he ought to take offense at that, but before anything more could come of it, echoing footsteps approaching from down the hall heralded the arrival of their comrade-in-arms. Certainly as mysterious a man as McCullen had ever met, he kept to himself most of the time and only gave his name as John Smith, undoubtedly a pseudonym. He was a frequent and loyal customer, though, so McCullen didn’t ask questions.

“Good evening, Mr. McCullen, Ms. Cisarovna,” Smith said as he came into view, stopping a few steps in front of the table across from them. His rigid, almost military bearing contrasted awkwardly with the manic energy in his eyes, looking as though it might burst out without warning. “Admiring the fruits of my labor, I see.”
“A most extraordinary feat indeed,” McCullen agreed. “Clearly, I hired the right man for the job. How are you finding the accommodations?”
“Most satisfactory, I must say,” Smith said. “This is a very impressive facility.”
“It certainly is,” McCullen smiled smugly. “Have you, by any chance, given any more thought as to our earlier discussion?”
“But of course,” Smith said, arching his eyebrows. “We are, after all, partners in this endeavor.”
McCullen nodded. “So how about it, then? In exchange for weapons and harboring you and your men, you’ll bring me the doctor?”
Smith smiled a predatory smile. “By hook or by crook, we will.”
“Fantastic.”
“Of course,” he added hesitantly, “There are a few essential items that we’ll need for our… outing. Shall I compile a list?”
McCullen blinked. “Ah, yes, certainly,” he recovered. “Whatever you need, I’ll see to it personally that you get it.”
“Excellent,” Smith said, satisfied. “I know you are a busy man, Mr. McCullen, so I’ll be sure to pass that list on to you posthaste.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Perhaps I’ll go see to that now. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave of you. Good night.”

“What a curious man,” Cisarovna said as Smith’s retreating form left the range of earshot.
“Don’t let his melodramatic speech patterns fool you,” McCullen smirked. “He’s just eccentric, that’s all.”
“But can he be trusted?”
“Trust is a luxury we can’t afford in this day and age,” he reminded her. “What we have is a mutually beneficial business agreement, which is the next best thing.”

* * *

[tammer]

CHAPTER FIVE

The Pit
1704 Hours Tango

“Okay, here’s what we know,” General Abernathy said from the podium where he addressed the assembled troops. They had moved out of the Ops Center to the main briefing room that was better equipped to accommodate both of the unit’s twelve-man field teams. Hauser sat between O’Hara and Wilkinson with the rest of Team Two, listening with rapt attention. Behind the General, projected on the whitewashed wall, was the now-familiar map of northwestern Russia upon which Abernathy had scribbled handwritten notes and diagrams with his tablet PC.
“From Arkhangelsk, Mailman had less than five hundred clicks to travel before they were feet wet over the Arctic Ocean. They crashed maybe a hundred and fifty clicks from their take-off point. That’s roughly ten, fifteen minutes into their flight, if my math is right. I don’t need to tell you that fifteen minutes is a very slim window in which to take down a military aircraft, which means this was not a target of opportunity, but rather a methodically planned and executed operation.”

Abernathy tapped a key and the image changed to show photos of the wreckage taken by the first recovery team. “The damage done to the aircraft is consistent with man-portable shoulder launched surface-to-air missiles. If that’s the case, we’ve got our work cut out for us. That region is pretty sparsely populated and there are an assload of forests and small lakes that the shooters could easily disappear into.”
He cleared his throat. “Incidentally, the PMC that was hired to escort the flight seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. There isn’t even anyone answering the phone at their world headquarters. Keep in mind, this is all circumstantial evidence right now, but things aren’t looking too great for them from where I’m standing. See, Mailman’s flight data recorder clearly indicates that there was no air cover being provided at the time of the attack.”
Tapping another control, an audio clip crackled over the room’s speakers. The fear in the pilot’s voice was all too clear to Hauser and to most of the others as well, judging by their reactions.
“Plus,” Abernathy continued, “They were the only non-military personnel who could have possibly known what Mailman was delivering. What they’d want with a biological weapon I dare not think about, but ladies and gentlemen, one thing is clear. We need to get it back.”

Stepping away from the podium and off the small raised stage, Abernathy walked over to Team One’s side of the room.
“Team One has point on this mission,” he said to groans from everyone on the other side of the aisle. “Coordinate with intel to narrow down some likely hiding places for our shooters. If COBRA was involved, we know they were flying three MD-530F helicopters which have a range of just over six hundred clicks. That’s your starting search radius. Grab your gear and be ready to go in forty-five mikes.”
He turned to face Team Two. “Team Two, you’ll be on standby. God knows, whoever has that bioagent hasn’t come forward with any demands and that means there’s a good chance they plan to use it. If the spit hits the fan, you guys had better be ready to roll.”
Coming to a stop in the center aisle, Abernathy clasped his hands behind his back and studied his troops. “This could very well be the greatest threat we’ve ever faced. But, I want to make it clear that I have the utmost faith in each and every one of you. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t the best of the best, so God speed and good hunting. Dismissed!”

* * *

“Anything I can do?” Hauser asked.
He was feeling quite useless watching O’Hara, Wilkinson and the other members of Team Two loading supplies and equipment into their waiting MV-22B Osprey on standby atop one of the hangar’s massive elevator platforms.
Without looking up, O’Hara grabbed several cases of 5.56mm ammunition off a cargo pallet and began hauling them towards the open ramp at the craft’s tail end. “Right now, no, unless you want to lend us a hand with the gear.”

Hauser shrugged and walked over to pitch in, struggling with a molded impact-resistant plastic case containing twelve SCAR rifles and their accessories. The black-masked guy came over to help and together, they shuffled the case aboard and secured it in the hold.
“Thanks, man,” Hauser said.
The other man said nothing, offering a simple bow of the head before heading back out for more gear.

“What’s his story?” Hauser asked O’Hara as she entered with two boxes of MREs stacked one atop the other in her arms. “He doesn’t seem to be much for words.”
O’Hara looked back over her shoulder. “Who? Snake-Eyes? Oh, don’t worry about him. He doesn’t talk.”
Hauser raised a quizzical eyebrow. “His parents actually named him ‘Snake Eyes?’”
O’Hara set down the MREs and wiped her hands on her pants before turning to look at him. “Probably not, but you wanna be the one to ask him? We usually just let him out at the start of a mission and he comes back a few hours later with a couple of skulls in a bag.”
“Okay, now you’re just messing with me,” Hauser said, following her as she stepped lightly off the edge of the ramp.
“Only slightly,” she said, grinning back over her shoulder at him.

When all their gear was stowed away, the team retired to the chow hall for supper. Hauser’s nostrils twitched as they neared the entrance and his stomach rumbled at the thought of his first real meal in weeks. During his time in Africa, they had subsisted mainly on flat breads and beans, supplemented by the occasional MRE. Now, the smell of cooked meat was enough to drive him mad but even so, he let O’Hara cut in front of him in line as they entered.
“Smells great, Marv,” she said to the towering man behind the counter. “What’ve you got for us today?”
“Well, you’ve got a choice,” he drawled, pointing to the food warmers in front of him with a pair of steel tongs. “This here’s herb and garlic grilled chicken breast. Goes well with the green bean casserole and roast potatoes. Or, if you’re feeling a little naughty, you can try the country fried steak and baked beans, topped with my own momma’s country gravy.”
“Wow, that sounds great, but I think I’d better stick to the chicken,” O’Hara said.
“Aw, c’mon Scarlett, live a little!” He jabbed, but gave her the chicken anyway. “And who’s this new guy?” He asked as Hauser pushed his tray along. “I’m Marvin.”
“Marv’s actually our heavy machine gunner,” O’Hara explained, “But he’s also a damn good cook. We sure don’t complain and the government saves a bit of money on catering.”
“Nice. Well, I’m Conrad,” Hauser said, shaking the man’s proffered hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s mine. Now, what can I get you?”
“Jeez,” Hauser said, scratching his head, “It all looks great!”
“How ‘bout a little of everything then?” Marvin grinned, loading up his plate. “Welcome aboard.”
“Thanks,” Hauser laughed, wiping some spilled gravy off the edge of the plate with his finger and licking it off.

The rest of the team got their food and drifted over to the tables to eat, Hauser sharing one with O’Hara and Wilkinson. As the line dwindled down to nothing, Marvin came over to their table and joined them with his own plate of food.
“So, what unit are you from?” He asked Hauser.
“First Battalion, Fifth Special Forces Group,” Hauser said.
Marvin canted his head to one side. “No way, for real? Just like that movie with the Duke!”
Hauser grinned. “The Green Berets? Yeah, my dad was big on John Wayne. That movie and Sands of Iwo Jima are what made me want to enlist.”
“Right on!”

From there, the meal went quickly and by the end of it, Hauser was beginning to feel less like an outsider and more like a member of the team.

* * *

[tammer]

CHAPTER SIX

Prague, Czech Republic
0730 Hours Bravo

Jack Colborne, formerly of the United States Marines, never had such awesome toys to play with during his time in the Corps. If he had, it might have been worth his while to stay. However, like many of his fellow COBRA employees, Colborne had been suckered by the military. Specifically, he’d been screwed out of his pension on a technicality and with his limited set of skills had turned to the private sector in order to pay the bills. One of the upsides of that arrangement, not counting the more relaxed dress code and fatter paycheck, was being among the first to handle the latest weaponry and equipment.

True to his word, the boss had managed to outfit them each with a brand new M68A1 carbine, still with their factory-oiled smell. The weapon which he’d affectionately dubbed ‘Jolene’ was well-balanced and accurate, shooting like a dream, and his trigger finger itched to try it out for real. Along with the rifles, new body armor had also been added to their arsenal, replacing their aging Interceptor vests. Those, however, Colborne was not quite as eager to try out. In any case, their mission today would require neither of those things, so he and his team were dressed in civvies as they climbed out of their black SUV.

Their mark was one Elise Sinnesbieger, twenty-two years old and a student at the Academy of Arts, Architecture and Design in Prague. Tasked with retrieving her and escorting her back to the facility where the boss was waiting, to Colborne the whole thing sounded a lot like kidnapping. He didn’t like the idea much, but the boss had instructed them not to let any harm come to her under any circumstances, which assuaged his concerns somewhat. At this hour, Miss Sinnesbieger would be awake and at home, preparing to head to class. The plan was to grab her before she managed to get into the Metro system, hustle her into their SUV, then hightail it out to where one of their company’s private planes would be waiting to fly them all back to base.

The streets were quiet, with very few pedestrians or cars, and Old World European architecture basked in the gentle light of the morning sun. It was a scene right out of a quaint postcard, perfect and pristine. Colborne didn’t have time to take it in for long, though, as he spotted their mark stepping out of her house and pausing to lock the door. He signaled the other members of his team.
Let’s go.

They approached her from behind, just as she descended her front steps and turned onto the sidewalk.
“Excuse me, Miss Sinnesbieger?” Colborne said.
“Yes?” She answered hesitantly in accented English, starting to turn in their direction.
“Don’t turn around,” Colborne instructed. “I need you to come with us, please.”
“What for?” She asked, puzzled, a hint of worry creeping into her voice. “Please, I have to get to school.”
“I said, don’t turn around!” Colborne repeated firmly as her head swiveled to try and look over her shoulder at them. “We don’t want to hurt you, but you’d be smart to do as I say. Come with us, please. Now.”

She tried to scream and run, but Colborne managed to grab her, wrapping a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. One of the other men produced a roll of duct tape and they smoothed a piece securely over her mouth before forcing a black hood over her head and wrestling her kicking form into the car.

* * *

“I trust everything went according to plan?” Mr. Smith asked.
After several hours of non-stop travel, Colborne and his team had brought the girl back to base. She was seated in a folding metal chair, wrists taped together behind her back and ankles secured to the chair’s front legs. She also wore a blindfold and the strip of duct tape still covered her mouth, but a small centimeter-long slit had been cut in it, allowing her to drink water through a straw.
“Not a hitch, sir,” Colborne said.
“Excellent,” Smith replied. “You and your team have earned yourselves a well-deserved raise.”
“Thank you, sir,” Colborne said. “May I ask what happens to her now?”
“That is none of your concern,” Smith told him. “But rest assured knowing that she will be taken care of. You are dismissed, Mr. Colborne.”
“Yes, sir,” Colborne said, and walked away.

When he was gone, Smith turned his attention to a computer monitor which displayed the webpage for the Innsbruck Institute of Applied Genetics. More specifically, it was the employee profile page for Dr. Tobias Sinnesbieger, featuring his photo, a brief description of his life and work, and listing a daytime office phone number. Picking up a cordless handset, Smith dialed the number, then set the phone on speaker.
It rang once… twice…

“Sinnesbieger, guten Tag,” a voice answered in German.
“Herr Doktor, if you can understand me, you would be well advised to listen carefully,” Smith said, affecting a raspy growl of a voice, like metal shards being raked over gravel. “Do you understand English?”
“Yes,” Sinnesbieger came back, somewhat bewildered. “Who is calling, please?”
“That is not important,” Smith said. “What matters is that I have your daughter, and if you ever want to see her alive again, you will do exactly as I say. Is that clear?”
“Elise?” Rising panic in his voice quickly replaced the confusion. “Elise, can you hear me?”

Smith removed the tape from the girl’s mouth and a small glob of spittle dribbled out, dotting the fabric of her pants.
“Papa!” She wailed in her native German. “Where are you? What’s happening? I’m scared!”
“Elise! Be brave, sweetheart!” Sinnesbieger told her. “I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise!”
Smith stepped in and replaced the tape over her mouth. “I believe that should be enough to convince you that I am not bluffing.”
“What have you done with her?” Sinnesbieger demanded sternly, but the waver in his voice betrayed him.
“Nothing at the moment,” Smith answered casually. “I assure you that as of right now, your daughter is unharmed, but any wrong moves on your part will change that quite quickly.”
“Mein Gott,” Sinnesbieger moaned, the seeds of despair taking root. “What do you want?”
“I want you to get on the next available flight bound for Murmansk. You will receive further instructions when you arrive. I shouldn’t have to remind you that any attempts to contact the police or other authorities will compromise your daughter’s life.”
Sinnesbieger took a deep breath. “If I do this, what guarantees do I have that you will not harm my daughter?”
“You have my word as a gentleman,” Smith said, and severed the connection.

* * *

[tammer]

CHAPTER SEVEN

Innsbruck, Austria
0522 Hours Bravo

Gripping the carry-on bag in his lap tight enough that his knuckles had turned white, Dr. Sinnesbieger sat in the Lufthansa departure lounge at Innsbruck Kranebitten Airport, waiting anxiously for his 6:05 AM flight. The night before had been the longest of his life and he hadn’t slept a wink. Mentally, he tried to steel himself for what was to come in the next eleven hours.

Try as he might, he simply couldn’t fathom what his daughter’s kidnapper might want with him. As a senior research fellow at the Innsbruck Institute of Applied Genetics, he had no concrete authority. All he did was work in a lab all day, studying the human genome and the effects of diseases on it. His ultimate aim, of course, was to modify human DNA to the point where the body would become totally immune to disease and infection, but for someone who was willing to resort to kidnapping, he doubted his daughter’s captor had such noble goals in mind.

Checking his watch for the third time is as many minutes, he blew out his cheeks and forced himself to picture a calm, blue ocean. He’d need to maintain his composure if he was going to make it to Murmansk with his faculties intact. His travel itinerary was long and arduous, but it wasn’t like he’d had much choice. From Innsbruck, he would fly to Frankfurt, catching a connecting flight to St. Petersburg. Only then, after two layovers, would he finally be on his way to Murmansk. He had followed the kidnapper’s instructions to the letter, taking the first available flight and not alerting the authorities, so he hoped that their agreement would be honored and his daughter left unharmed. Otherwise, he didn’t know what he might do.

* * *

The Pit
0200 Hours Tango

“Sir? I think I’ve got something!”
General Abernathy turned and made his way over to the Ops tech who’d spoken.
“What’ve you got, Specialist?” he asked, leaning over her shoulder with his hands planted firmly on the backrest of her seat.
“One of the people Intelligence flagged as a potential expert on Marburg Variant U didn’t show up for work this morning. Dr. Tobias Sinnesbieger. He didn’t request any vacation time and didn’t call in sick either. A quick check shows that last night he booked a flight out of Innsbruck first thing this morning to Murmansk, with stopovers in Frankfurt and St. Petersburg.”
Abernathy’s brow furrowed. “Wonder where he’s off to in such a hurry…”
“It could be nothing, sir,” the Specialist said.
“Or it could be the break we’ve been looking for,” Abernathy finished. “Where’s Team One now?”
She did some quick keyboard work. “A town called Severodvinsk, maybe thirty-five clicks from Arkhangelsk. It’s the main Russian naval base for nuclear subs and they’ve got extensive construction and repair yards in that area too.”
“Have they reported anything interesting or noteworthy?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Okay, then have them divert as many people as they can spare to St. Petersburg. I want them to intercept this doctor before he reaches Murmansk.”
“Yes, sir,” the Specialist said, getting to work.

* * *

St. Petersburg, Russia
1612 Hours Delta

Sinnesbieger chewed listlessly at the prepackaged ham and cheese sandwich he’d bought from a kiosk near the gate where he waited in Pulkovo Airport. He didn’t feel much like eating, but after eight solid hours in planes and airports, he needed something in his stomach for the final stretch. As he ate, he thought bitterly about how he’d always wanted to visit Russia, but never had the chance.
Be careful what you wish for.
His reverie was interrupted as a large, imposing man wearing khaki trousers and an abhorrently loud Hawaiian shirt sat down on the bench beside him, reading a newspaper. Sinnesbieger rolled his eyes.
American tourists…

“Are you Doctor Tobias Sinnesbieger?” The man asked suddenly, newspaper still held up in front of his face as if reading it. Sinnesbieger flinched involuntarily.
“You told me to meet you in Murmansk!” He hissed desperately. “I have done everything you asked! Please, do not hurt my daughter!”
The man lowered the newspaper a fraction of an inch and turned to look at him, confusion crossing his face. “Whoa, hold on. What are you talking about?”
Sinnesbieger frowned. “You are not with the man who took my daughter?”
“No,” the man said earnestly. “What happened?”

Sinnesbieger opened his mouth to speak but quickly shut it again, realizing this might be a test designed to see if he would blab to strangers or the police. He looked away. “I cannot say. I have said too much already.”
“Listen, I can help you,” the man said. “Just tell me what happened.”
Sinnesbieger shook his head adamantly. “Go away, please!”
The man’s mouth opened and closed mutely a few times, then he stood and walked off, disappearing into the crowd. Sinnesbieger breathed a sigh of relief and prayed his little slip had not cost Elise her life. Looking down at his hands, he noticed that they wouldn’t stop shaking.

* * *

Sergeant Phillip Provost walked away from his encounter with the doctor somewhat ruffled. In his line of work, it was always prudent to expect the unexpected, but this was unlike anything he’d ever witnessed before. He made his way over to a bank of payphones and not long after, a woman joined him.
“Did you tag him?” He asked.
“I got his bag,” Sergeant Courtney Krieger replied. “You didn’t give me enough time to get any closer.”
“Sorry,” Provost said. “I guess I was a bit rattled.”
“Yeah, well, let’s just hope he doesn’t lose that bag.”

Provost didn’t answer, instead pulling a secure satellite phone out of his pocket and punching in a complex series of numbers. It rang once, then General Abernathy’s voice answered as clear as if he were standing just across the hall.
“Abernathy. Speak.”
“It’s Provost,” he said. “We found the good doctor, but wait’ll you hear what he had to say.”

“Kidnapping, huh?” Abernathy said after Provost had spun his tale. “Well, I guess he does work with contagious diseases. Maybe they need him to refine the Marburg they stole.”
“I thought it already was a weaponized variant,” Provost said.
“That’s the part I don’t understand, but everything else seems to fit,” Abernathy said. “I mean, there can’t be that many people out there interested in the services of a disease and genetics expert.”
“So, what do you want us to do?” Provost asked.
“Make sure he gets on that plane,” Abernathy instructed, “And have some of our guys there to observe him when he gets to Murmansk.”
“Alright, wilco,” Provost said. “Anything else?”
“No, that should cover it. You regroup with your team and we’ll monitor the tracking beacon from here.”
“Got it, boss. Out,” Provost said, and hung up.

* * *

[tammer]

CHAPTER EIGHT

M.A.R.S. Industries High-Security Research Facility
1343 Hours Zulu

Elise couldn’t see her captor for the blindfold she wore, but she could hear him as he paced restlessly around the room. Each step clanged noisily as he moved but every so often he would stop for a few minutes and she’d lose track of him, making her jump when he started up again. He must have noticed this because at one point, she lost him again, only to recoil violently when she felt his breath on the back of her neck. He laughed, the sound of a man deeply amused by a game he was playing.
“You know,” he said, “It may surprise you to hear this, but I really have no desire to hurt you. I would much rather your father be cooperative and spare us the trouble.”
“What do you want with Papa?” She asked in a quiet voice. The tape over her mouth had been removed sometime before, after she’d had trouble breathing. She’d tried to be brave for her father’s sake, but the anxiety had proven to be too much.
The man chuckled. “If I told you that, then I’d surely have to kill you. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
She shut up, biting her bottom lip. The clang, clang of his footsteps resumed.

* * *

Murmansk, Russia
2009 Hours Delta

“There he is,” Sergeant Alison Burnett murmured, the throat mic hidden under her collar transmitting her heads-up to her partner’s earpiece where he stood on the other side of the arrivals gate.
The doctor had just emerged from the gate, clutching his bag in front of him like a shield. He walked tentatively, scanning side to side as though afraid someone might leap out and sap him.
“I see him,” Warrant Officer Dashiell Fairborn confirmed. “Stick close, but let this play out on its own.”

Detaching themselves from their respective vantage points, they followed the doctor from a discreet distance and watched as he was approached by another man wearing faded blue jeans and a dark polo shirt under a navy windbreaker. The two of them exchanged some brief words, then the other man produced an electronic wand-like device from his coat pocket and began to wave it around the doctor.
Uh oh, Burnett thought.

Technically, the GPS tracker that the St. Petersburg team had planted was a passive device, meaning it wouldn’t transmit unless queried from an external location. However, the tracker circuitry still gave off RF emissions when connecting to the satellites to determine its position, and if the bug sweeper the man was using was advanced enough, it might be able to pick them up. She flicked a worried glance over at Fairborn, caught his eye. He flashed her a ‘calm down’ gesture and headed over.

“Hi! Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but do you speak English by any chance?” Fairborn asked the man with the wand, putting on the air of a confused tourist.
“Yes,” the man answered hesitantly.
“Oh, you’re American? Thank God!” Fairborn said. “I am so lost. I’m supposed to be meeting a friend at the taxi stand, but I got totally turned around coming out of the gate. Think you can help me out?”
Wordlessly, the man pointed to an overhead sign that said ‘такси/TAXI’ underneath a large pictogram of a taxicab.
Fairborn blushed and chuckled. “Ah, right, of course. Thanks!”
“No prob.”

The man turned back to his wand as Fairborn retreated in the direction the sign indicated. Burnett followed and when they were out of sight of the doctor and his escort, Fairborn slipped her the tracker which he’d managed to surreptitiously nick from the doctor’s bag.
“Nicely done,” Burnett said, impressed.
“Now it’s up to you to put it back,” he grinned.
She poked her head around the corner and when she saw that the man had put the wand away, she made her move.

Approaching briskly from an oblique angle, she pretended to be rummaging through her handbag when she walked right into the doctor, dropping the tracker into his trouser pocket as she did so.
“Prasti,” she apologized brusquely in Russian, then flipped her hair back casually with the back of her hand before continuing on her way.

* * *

[tammer]

CHAPTER NINE

Location Unknown
1648 Hours Zulu

Sinnesbieger wasn’t particularly claustrophobic but the size of the current transport he shared with his escort was enough to make him consider it. After a short, twenty minute car ride from the airport, the two of them had boarded a small submarine in an industrial-looking port area. When the hatches had been sealed and they submerged, that was when the claustrophobia set in. If he stood with his arms held straight out to his sides, Sinnesbieger would probably have been able to touch both sides of the hull at the same time. However, the sub’s size wasn’t to suggest that it lacked luxury.

Furnished like a posh private business jet, the plush swiveling seats were upholstered in tan leather while the walls were covered with a tasteful combination of cream-colored molded vinyl and high-gloss lacquered mahogany. Small rounded rectangular portholes looked out into the murky depths.
“You may as well try and get some sleep,” his escort, who’d told him his name was Jack, said. “We’ve still got quite a few hours to go before we get there.”
“How can I sleep when my daughter is being held captive by a man who won’t even tell me what he wants?” Sinnesbieger asked despondently.
A flicker of sympathy flashed behind Jack’s eyes. “Well, for what it’s worth, your daughter’s fine. She’s being fed and isn’t in any immediate danger. When we arrive, you and she’ll be given your own stateroom. The two of you will be under constant guard, of course, but as long as everyone does what they’re told, there won’t be any problems.”
Sinnesbieger sighed. “Well, I am thankful that she is unharmed, but you can be sure I will not soon forget this.”
Jack looked away. “No, I imagine you won’t.”

* * *

“Papa!” Elise squealed as she ran over to her father and buried her face in his shirt.
“Elise, thank God!” Sinnesbieger said, almost fainting with relief. “Are you alright? Did they hurt you?”
She shook her head against his chest, her words muffled. “No, but I was scared I wouldn’t see you again!”
He pulled her closer as she began to sob. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Papa’s here.”

Partway during the ride over, Sinnesbieger had finally succumbed to sleep out of pure exhaustion, only to be roused half an hour prior to their arrival. The last thing he had expected to see when he climbed through the hatch was for his daughter to be waiting for him. He had fully expected to have to demand to see his daughter, or worse, to demand it and be shown her corpse. After all, they had him now, whoever ‘they’ were, and her usefulness to them was ended. Tears began to well up in his own eyes.

“Dr. Sinnesbieger, I presume?” A voice said from behind him, the same grating voice that he remembered over the telephone.
Sinnesbieger stood, still clutching his daughter possessively as he turned to face the man. He wore a black hood over his face, only his manic eyes showing through two symmetrical holes cut in the fabric. The look reminded Sinnesbieger of an executioner, and perhaps that was the idea. Behind him stood a pair of armed guards.
“As you can see,” the stranger continued. “I am a man of my word. Your daughter is alive and well and will remain so as long as you cooperate.”
“Cooperate how?” Sinnesbieger asked.
“Come with me,” the man said. “I’ll show you.”

Leading them down a flight of stairs and through several identical-looking metal hallways, they emerged into a fully-stocked lab that rivaled even Sinnesbieger’s own back in Innsbruck. Their captor pointed to an electron microscope set up in a corner of the room.
“Take a look in there and tell me what you see,” he said.
Sinnesbieger walked over and turned his attention to the flat panel monitor it was hooked up to. Removing his glasses, he leaned in for a closer look. “It appears to be a sample of some form of filovirus. Either Ebola or Marburg.”
The masked man clapped softly. “Very good, Doctor. It is, in fact, a highly potent airborne variant of the Marburg virus. Variant U, to be precise.”
The color drained from Sinnesbieger’s face. “But that is not possible! Variant U never entered full-scale production!”
“Nevertheless, we managed to find some,” the man rasped.
“But… why do you need it?” Sinnesbieger asked quietly.

“Are you a patriot, Doctor?” The man asked instead, sidestepping the question.
Sinnesbieger’s brow furrowed, blindsided by the sudden shift in the conversation’s direction. “Yes?”
“Then let me ask you this. Does patriotism mean blindly accepting everything the so-called elected leaders do as being for the benefit of the country and in the interest of its people?”
It was a loaded question and Sinnesbieger chose his words carefully. “I’m assuming that you do not believe so.”
“Quite right. Patriotism means believing in and being ready to uphold the values on which your country was founded. If that belief leads to the violent overthrow of a corrupt established government, then as a patriot, you must be prepared to do your part.”
The man grew more animated as he got into his lecture. “My country is a mess. Civil liberties guaranteed by the Constitution are being treated as mere suggestions. The people who fight to defend that Constitution are being deemed expendable. The poor and the downtrodden are being marginalized in favor of the rich and famous. This is not why my ancestors fought a revolutionary war, a civil war and two world wars. Granted, most people in my country are not true patriots and are not in a position where they can do anything about it, but I am and I can.”
Sinnesbieger blinked. “But why with such a devastating weapon?”
“Who would you take more seriously, Doctor? A man with an open palm who threatens to slap you across the face, or a man with an axe who threatens to cut off your head?”

“If you do what I think you’re planning to do,” Sinnesbieger said carefully, “Tens of millions of innocent people will die!”
“Not with your help, Doctor,” the man replied coolly.
Sinnesbieger stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“You study infectious diseases and how to combat them through genetic manipulation. What I want from you is the exact opposite. I want you to design a way for the disease to be carried benignly among a given population and only become active when it infects a person that fits a specific genetic profile.”
“I will do no such thing!” Sinnesbieger said.
The man drew a large, silver handgun from a holster on his belt and thumbed the hammer back while keeping its barrel pointed at the floor. Sinnesbieger got the point.
He swallowed a lump in his throat. “When do you need it by?”

* * *

[tammer]

CHAPTER TEN

The Pit
0021 Hours Tango

An oft-quoted adage described war as vast stretches of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. It was certainly one of the former, Hauser mused, as he sat alone in the Pit’s library doing some research on the unit’s history. So far, Team Two had been on continuous standby for the past two days, sleeping in eight-hour shifts and spending the next four on duty. More or less confirming his team status officially, he’d been asked what shift he wanted and had chosen to keep watch with O’Hara, Wilkinson and Snake-Eyes – the three he knew best.

Their shift had ended at midnight and the others had decided to turn in, but Hauser wasn’t able to sleep. Itching for some action, he’d spent most of his downtime lately in Ops, waiting for something – anything – to happen. General Abernathy had been nice about it when he’d asked him to leave, suggesting he visit the library, and Hauser knew well enough to take the hint that he was getting in the way.

As far as make-work went, this job wasn’t all bad and he was learning quite a lot. For instance, he discovered that the unit traced its lineage back to the joint U.S.-Canadian 1st Special Service Force, also known as the Devil’s Brigade, as well as to the Jedburgh teams of the Office of Strategic Services, the CIA’s precursor during the Second World War. That, Hauser found out, was also where the unit’s informal ‘G.I. Joe’ moniker came from, being a slang term for American soldiers of the time.

When the war ended, it would be nearly a decade before the torch was passed on, and in 1952, the Special Operations Command was formed under the U.S. Army Psychological Warfare Center. From there, the cooperation between the Army and the CIA evolved into MACV-SOG, the Military Assistance Command, Vietnam – Studies and Observations Group, which performed strategic reconnaissance, covert action and psychological warfare operations during the Vietnam War. When MACV-SOG was formally disbanded in May of 1972, a handful of its best people were retained and became a shadowy entity known only as Group Delta.

By the 1980s, as the number of fundamentalist religious groups turning to violence to further their aims increased, Group Delta began to take on a more focused role as a counter-terrorist unit and its name was changed accordingly. Soon after, the unit was stricken from the books entirely, its members listed as either killed in action or dishonorably discharged while they continued to work in secret. From then on, they answered only to the President himself and their actions and operations were permanently sealed. The only other people aware of the unit’s existence were the Joint Chiefs of Staff, although they held no direct authority. In short, Hauser was just the latest in a long line of soldiers volunteering to do the impossible and then be forgotten.

“How’s it coming?” A voice asked from the doorway.
Hauser turned to look and nearly destroyed his knee on the table as he leapt to his feet to salute General Abernathy.
“Fine, sir,” he said, biting his lip against the pain.
Abernathy chuckled. “You can dispense with the formalities,” he said, returning the salute anyway. “You’re one of us now, and I find they only get in the way.”
“Right. Thanks,” Hauser said, bending over to rub the wounded joint.
“Take a seat,” Abernathy continued. “I need to talk to you about something important.”

Hauser sat back in his chair and Abernathy took the one across the table from him.
“How much have you read up on about us?” The General asked.
“Everything I could find,” Hauser said.
Abernathy nodded. “Then you know that all of us here have had our names officially expunged from the record.”
“Yes, sir,” Hauser said.
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’m just about ready to send your name through the shredder, but before I do, I wanted to ask you if you had any preference as to whether you want to be listed as KIA or a DD.”
Hauser shook his head. “Makes no difference to me, sir.”
“Do you have any family?” Abernathy persisted. “If you’re listed as a dishonorable discharge, you forfeit all benefits, but if you’re KIA, at least your family’ll get something. Besides, with the rest of your Africa team down, nobody’s going to ask questions if your name is suddenly added to the list. We can just say we found your body shot full of holes a few miles from the engagement.”
Hauser thought about that. He was estranged from his parents and his only sibling was a half-brother whom he never really got along with. He shrugged. “Again, makes no difference to me. Whatever’s easier for you, sir.”
“Okay,” Abernathy nodded. “And one other thing. Since you’re now nameless, officially anyway, we have a tradition where we bestow you with a new one that’s the only identifying piece of information about you in our books. I polled the other members of your team and they came to the consensus that from now on, your name is Duke.”
Hauser cracked a grin. That explained the conversation in the chow hall. “I can live with that.”
“I had a feeling you might,” Abernathy said. “Anyway, I’d better get back to Ops. You should try and get some sleep while you can. No telling when everything might come crashing down.”

After Abernathy left and Hauser returned to his quarters, he lay on his bunk staring up at the naked, gray walls. Nobody could ever have accused him of being the existential type, but he felt that he ought to be more affected by having his every tie with the outside world severed. Being a Green Beret was one thing, where even though you couldn’t talk about what you did, you could at least still go on dates or have drinks with a friend. What did it say about him to be willing to give that all up so casually? He was still idly pondering that when sleep finally claimed him.

* * *

[tammer]

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Pit
0030 Hours Tango

General Abernathy had just returned to Ops when one of the techs flagged him down.
“Sir, that tracker we planted on the doctor hasn’t moved for the past few hours. I think it’s safe to say he’s reached his final destination.”
“Jeez, you didn’t have to wait so long before telling me,” he said, walking over for a look, “But don’t hold back now. Where is he?”
“Somewhere in the northern part of the Barents Sea,” the tech said.
“Bring it up on the big screen,” Abernathy said and turned as the image appeared on the room’s central bank of monitors. The bright red dot of the tracking beacon sat atop a smudge on the blue of the water.
“What’s that?” Abernathy asked, pointing at the smudge. “Can you bring it up higher?”
The tech complied. “Looks like an oil rig, sir. Abandoned, as far as our records show.”
“Sounds like the perfect hiding spot,” Abernathy said. “Get me Team One on the horn!”

* * *

The Barents Sea
0142 Hours Zulu

Team One’s MH-60K Black Hawk thundered over the pitch black waves and, growing steadily larger on the horizon, Fairborn could just barely make out the looming superstructure of the abandoned oil rig through his night-vision goggles. It thrust defiantly out of the frigid waters, dark and silent, waiting for them. They had received the call from General Abernathy just over eighteen hours ago as the sun was rising, too late to mount a clandestine mission. So, they had been forced to sit on their hands until well after nightfall before moving out.

Tonight’s mission would be anything but simple. Resting atop four massive pilings that drove deep into the seabed, the platform itself was a twisting morass of steel and concrete with at least three separate levels for them to clear. Each of these levels were also rife with plenty of hiding spots and sniper perches where defenders could take cover. The plan they had developed saw them splitting into three fireteams of four men each. Fireteam Alpha, consisting of himself, Burnett, Provost and Krieger would secure the landing pad and its adjacent level while the chopper provided them with covering fire if need be. Then, when the deck was cleared, Fireteam Bravo led by Lieutenant Falcone would sweep the lower level. At the same time, Sergeant Major Sneeden’s Fireteam Charlie would make their way up and secure the living quarters and main tower. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was the best they could come up with given the resources they had.

As they approached, the pilot circled the rig once, giving them a chance to study the platform and check for any resistance. Seeing none, the pilot brought them to a steady hover just above the helipad and Fireteam Alpha jumped off. As soon as his boots touched the deck and he was clear of the rotors, Fairborn snapped his weapon up, scanning for threats through his NVGs. The other three spread out to each corner of the pad and gave him thumbs-up when they spotted nothing. He waved them forward onto the platform proper.

* * *

M.A.R.S. Industries High-Security Research Facility
0156 Hours Zulu

The phone by McCullen’s bedside bleated softly. Groggily, he reached for it in the darkness and brought it into bed with him.
“This had better be important,” he warned whoever was on the line.
“Sir, sorry to wake you, but I thought you might want to know. There’s activity on the oil rig.”
McCullen’s sleep-addled brain took a few moments to analyze that information, then he sighed. “It’s not those birds again, is it?
“Um, no, sir. You might want to see this for yourself.”
Again, the sigh. “Alright, I’ll be right there.”
Beside him, Cisarovna stirred and rolled over to look up at him. “Trouble?”
“Hard to say at this point,” he told her, swinging his legs out of bed. “But it’s probably nothing we need to worry about. Go back to sleep, I’ll be back soon.”
He kissed her on the forehead, shrugged on a silk dressing gown and left.

When he reached the command center, McCullen made a beeline for the security station.
“Well?” He asked, his arms crossed in front of his chest.
The operator hit a control and one of the security feeds expanded to fit the whole screen, a thermal image showing four orange human-shaped figures prowling along the main deck. On the helipad, a faint purplish-blue blob glowed which might have been an IR-dampened helicopter.
Without taking his eyes off the screen, McCullen tapped the operator of the adjacent station twice on his shoulder and the man gave up his seat without contest. Pulling it closer, McCullen sat down and studied the security feed intently.
“Let’s see where this leads,” he said.

Several minutes later, two more groups of four emerged from the presumed-helicopter, each heading in a different direction. They moved purposefully… precisely… professionally. McCullen felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, not so much from fear as from excitement. His teeth bared themselves in a feral grin as he spoke.
“Bring it down.”

* * *

The Pit
1908 Hours Tango

Neither the real-time satellite feed nor the infrared were showing very much of anything. The former was mostly dark blue superimposed on black and the latter was dark blue with a few tiny orange spots superimposed on black. Thankfully, Abernathy was tied in to Team One’s radio frequency, it narrating the otherwise boring picture.
Fairborn’s voice. “This is Alpha Actual. The main deck is clear. Anyone else found anything?”
Sneeden’s voice. “Charlie Actual, here. That’s a negative.”
Falcone next. “Bravo Actual. Same down here. Nada.”
“I’m standing right over the beacon,” Fairborn came back, puzzled. “What–”

Without warning, the infrared image whited out, signaling a sudden and intense heat discharge. As the image slowly returned to normal, large, flickering orange blobs dotted the screen where once had been a single cluster of dark blue.
“What was that?” Abernathy snapped. “What the hell just happened?”
But he already knew the answer.

* * *

M.A.R.S. Industries High-Security Research Facility
0217 Hours Zulu

After the initial shockwave from the explosion had thock-ed against the facility’s hull, things settled down quite quickly with only the occasional gong as pieces of the sinking oil rig struck on their way down.
“Damage report,” McCullen demanded.
“The rig is completely destroyed, sinking rapidly,” the SONAR operator reported.
“Our hull is intact, no damage,” said another. “But we may have to send out some divers to buff out the scratches, though.”
McCullen smiled grimly. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Keep me posted as to any new developments.”
He got up and strolled nonchalantly back to his stateroom.

* * *

[tammer]

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Pit
2100 Hours Tango

Hauser, O’Hara, Wilkinson, Snake-Eyes and every other team member not otherwise engaged in an essential activity were all gathered in the Hall of Heroes. The walls of this quiet and secluded area of the Pit were made of white polished marble and bore the inscription ‘IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THIS UNIT WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE SERVICE OF THEIR COUNTRY’ across the top in gold block letters. Hauser couldn’t help but notice that the wall was already half full.

At the far end of the Hall, one section of marble had been covered with maroon velvet and General Abernathy stood rigidly in front of it, presiding over a brief mourning ceremony.
“We lost fourteen courageous men and women today,” he began, “Fourteen soldiers for whom their war is finally over. We, as the living, have the solemn duty of keeping the faith. Though their names will never be known beyond these walls, we shall keep them in our hearts.”

With that, Abernathy tugged on the end of a braided gold cord and the velvet pall fluttered to the ground. The names of the recently deceased had been stenciled onto the marble, ready to be chiseled in at a more appropriate time. They would also be sprayed black, and over time, would fade to gray. Abernathy read each name aloud, pausing for a moment between each one.
“Fairborn. Burnett. Provost. Krieger. Katzenbogen. Sneeden. Steinberg. Falcone. Tadur. Gambello. Barney. Morris. Sikorski. Smithers.”
The General turned back to face the assembled troops. “These warriors gave their identities, their ranks and their careers to join our family. They gave their lives in the service of freedom. It is a debt we can never repay, but it is with the utmost humility and gratitude that we return their names. Company, fall in!”

As one, they all dropped into formation and snapped to attention, facing the list of names. On the command to present arms, they saluted, holding the gesture without wavering until Abernathy gave the order arms. With the ceremony concluded, they all drifted away in silent contemplation. Hauser lagged behind until he was the only one left in the Hall. Starting at the earliest section, he read each and every name and did his best to remember them all.

* * *

M.A.R.S. Industries High-Security Research Facility
0800 Hours Zulu

McCullen was impressed by the doctor’s diligence, noting as he watched the man through a live security feed, that he was already in the lab and hard at work by the time eight o’clock rolled around. Since the doctor’s arrival the day before, the lab had been designated a Level 4 Biohazard zone. That entire level of the facility had been declared off limits and placed under negative pressure. Entry to the lab itself without Hazmat protection and an external air supply was strictly prohibited and the only access point had a full suite of airlocks, showers, ultraviolet lights and other decontamination measures in place. It was impossible to get in or out without going through them. Then, and only then, were the vials in the crate opened.

The doctor puttered around the lab in his positive-pressurized blue spacesuit, trailing a green coiled hose from the ceiling that pumped in air from a clean location. He seemed fully engrossed in his work and McCullen was grateful that more drastic measures did not have to be employed before he agreed to cooperate. In any case, Mr. Smith and his men had the situation well in hand. As long as there were two guards watching his daughter and another two waiting to escort him back to his stateroom when he left the lab, the doctor didn’t dare try anything clever.

Switching the view to the camera that was positioned just outside the Sinnesbiegers’ shared stateroom door, McCullen was pleased to see that one of two COBRA officers stationed on either side of it was Jack Colborne. To his disgust, McCullen had seen the way some of the COBRA men looked at the young lady and Colborne was the type of man who could keep them in line. After all, if anything happened to the girl, they would lose their upper hand over the doctor. That simply wouldn’t do. Turning away from the monitor, McCullen tugged down on the front of his shirt to straighten it before heading into his own office to work.

* * *

Elise sat alone on her bed in the suite she shared with her father, knees drawn up under her chin. While she wasn’t as scared anymore now that her father was here, it was quite another thing to be kept in a room under guard and never knowing when, or if, you’d be allowed to leave. The room itself was furnished much like one in an upper-class hotel and she guessed it normally would have been used to house visiting business clients. Two beds placed side by side took up most of the space, leaving a small walkway in front of the door. On the other side of the room, a door led to the bathroom while beside that was a closet. Directly opposite the beds, mounted to the wall beside a large round porthole that looked out into blackness, was a bookshelf filled with pamphlets, catalogues and other promotional literature for a company called M.A.R.S. She’d tried to distract herself by reading some of it, but as good as her grasp of English was, they only talked about weapons and military vehicles.

A soft knock at the door brought her head around as it opened. The man who entered was the same man who had been escorting her father when he arrived. He held a tray on which sat a sandwich and a single-serving carton of milk. He brought it over and placed it on the bed by her feet.
“Thank you,” she said with a timid smile as he was turning to leave.
A short pause.
“You’re welcome,” he said finally, and shut the door behind him.

* * *

Sinnesbieger was sweating profusely, and not just from the heat buildup inside his sealed rubber suit. Though he often came across as a meek and absent-minded academic, he wasn’t so naive as to believe that even if he did everything his captor asked of him, the man would ever let him and his daughter go. Even if that weren’t the case, it was morally inconceivable for him to do anything which would cause the death of even one human being, regardless of the risk to Elise and himself. That dilemma made him very nervous.

In spite of the hood and the theatrical voice, the fact remained that Sinnesbieger had seen too much, and knew too much about what his captor planned to do. Thus, he knew that if he ever wanted to see Elise get married, or hold a grandchild in his arms, it was up to him to concoct an escape plan. One beacon of hope shone for Sinnesbieger, and that was knowing that his captor would have to take his word that whatever he delivered was what had been asked for. After all, if the man had another expert who could look over Sinnesbieger’s shoulder and verify whatever he was doing, then there wouldn’t have been a need to kidnap Elise and himself in the first place. Clinging desperately to that hope like the lifeline it was, he set about scouring the lab for inspiration.

* * *

[tammer]

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Montgomery County, Maryland
0532 Hours Quebec

Stalking silently through the forest undergrowth, Zachary Hartigan scanned left and right, searching for his prey. He’d been stalking him for the better part of three hours and wasn’t going to let him slip through his fingers now. As he crept forward, a flicker of movement in his periphery alerted him – his prey’s final, and fatal, mistake. Drawing back the string on his bow, he zeroed in on his prize as the whitetail stag munched contentedly on the grass in the small clearing. The deer was a beautiful specimen, the finest Hartigan had seen since the bow season opened, and he fought a rising tremor of excitement as he steadied his aim.

Just then, the cell phone in his vest buzzed and vibrated. Startled, the stag bolted away in long, graceful strides. Hartigan cursed, but as Vice President of the United States, he had to be reachable whenever, no matter where he was. Releasing the tension in his bow, he plucked the phone out of his vest pocket and glared down at the screen to see who had just cost him his trophy. His eyebrows arched as he recognized the name of a man he hadn’t seen in years, nor heard from in just about as long.
“James!” He answered jovially for the caller’s benefit, “Lovely to hear from you but you really couldn’t have picked a worse time to call me. I had an eight-point buck all lined up until you startled it away!”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Vice President,” James McCullen’s voice answered with undue emphasis on his title. “But here I was sitting and thinking to myself, it’s been so long since I’ve heard me old pal Zach’s voice and I just can’t bear the thought of another second without it.”
Hartigan laughed. “Don’t pull that crap with me, James. It’s been almost a decade since I left M.A.R.S. for Capitol Hill and you’ve never called me since. I only get an obligatory card at Christmas time. No, I know you too well, James. You want something from me, don’t you?”
McCullen laughed too. “Alright, you got me,” he admitted, “But actually, it’s not me who wants something, it’s my niece. She’s doing a project for biology class, something about the role of DNA in screening for hereditary diseases. Anyway, she’s trying to collect hair samples from important people all over the world, and was wondering if maybe you and the President would humor her.”
“Well, okay, I’m game and I’ll see what the Big Man says,” Hartigan agreed, “But I’m still a bit sore about losing that buck.”
“Tell you what,” McCullen said, “If you can talk to the President, I’ll see to it you get a case of Glenfiddich along with that Christmas card this year.”
Hartigan grinned. “Now, that’s more like it! Alright, it’s a deal. Talk soon, James.”
“Thanks, Zach. Take care.”

* * *

The Pit
0600 Hours Tango

The briefing room felt especially empty as Team Two filed in and took their customary seats in preparation for Abernathy’s mission brief. Technically, they were the new Team One, but out of respect for their peers, hadn’t switched over yet. The unspoken rule called for at least a month before anyone could occupy those chairs again, even if it meant having to stand in the aisle until then – not that it mattered much right now. With half of their operational strength suddenly wiped out, there was plenty of room.

Abernathy entered and started the briefing without ceremony.
“This latest attack proves that we’re no longer dealing with just a rogue PMC,” he said. “The money and resources needed to pull off an ambush of that magnitude and complexity is far beyond the reach of COBRA. They’re getting help from someone big and it’s your job to find out who that is.
“I’ve arranged for you to borrow a C-17 Globemaster III from the 21st Airlift Squadron, 60th Air Mobility Wing at Travis Air Force Base. It should be gassed up and ready to go by the time you get there. Our own pilots, Captain Armbruster and Lieutenant Boyajian, will do the flying so you can talk freely once you’re en route.”
He studied the seated soldiers carefully. “One last thing. I know that the pain of losing your comrades still has yet to subside. I know the wounds are still fresh. But one thing we aren’t out for is revenge. Remember that our primary objective is the recovery of the stolen Marburg virus. Now, you’re all professionals, so I feel a little silly for having to even mention this, but even I have trouble staying focused sometimes. So, remember our mission. Remember the world is counting on you. Good luck. Dismissed.”

* * *

M.A.R.S. Industries High-Security Research Facility
1320 Hours Zulu

“I understand you wanted to speak with me, Doctor?” the hooded man rasped.
“Er, yes,” Sinnesbieger stammered nervously. “I have a request. Er, a small request, and it’s most definitely related to the work you have me doing. It’s nothing too extravagant, I assure you, but is quite necessary to the suc–”
“Out with it, Doctor,” the man interrupted.
“Ah, yes, of course,” Sinnesbieger said and cleared his throat. “I need access to a parallelized high-throughput full genome sequencer.”
The man blinked. “To do… What, exactly?”
“Um, well, you see,” Sinnesbieger began, unconsciously shifting into lecture mode, “A virus infects a person by first identifying and bonding with the proteins and sugar molecules which are exposed on the cell surfaces in the person’s blood. Then, through a process known as endocytosis, the virus gets absorbed into the cell itself where it rapidly begins to incorporate its own genetic material into the host cell’s DNA. From there, the cell begins to replicate the virus’ DNA thinking that it is its own and eventually, it gets too busy replicating the virus to tend to any of its own natural processes. That is when the cell dies and bursts open, releasing the virus to infect other surrounding cells. Now, in order for me to do what you want and make a virus that only targets one specific individual, I would have to engineer the virus so that it only integrates its DNA with a certain region of the host cell’s DNA, preferably a region that is found only in the person you wish to target. In order to find a suitable region, I would need to have access to the target’s complete genome – a road map, if you will, of his or her genetic makeup. Unfortunately, genome sequencing is still quite new and very expensive, so very few people have a copy of their own makeup.”

There was a long silence as the hooded man tried to digest the information dump that Sinnesbieger had unloaded on him. Finally, he seemed to give up.
“And that’s why you need this sequencer?” He asked.
“Yes, unless you can provide me with a copy of your victim’s genome,” Sinnesbieger said.
“I see,” the man said. “Well, where can we find such a sequencer?”
Sinnesbieger couldn’t believe this was going as well as it was. “Seine Biosciences SA in Paris has developed one that looks quite promising… Leaps and bounds ahead of their next leading competitor. They are a top contender for the Archon X Prize.”
The man nodded. “Very well. I will arrange to have it brought here.”
He turned to leave.

Sinnesbieger held up a finger. He hadn’t intended to suggest that they steal the sequencer… But on second thought, backing down now would probably raise some questions he didn’t want to answer.
“You must keep in mind that this is an extremely delicate piece of machinery we are talking about,” he said carefully. “Jar it just so and you could easily render the entire device useless!”
Another long silence as the man considered the information.
“Very well,” he said finally, “You’ll come along to supervise the handling. But your daughter remains here as insurance that you won’t try to escape. I hope I don’t need to remind you what happens if you do.”
“No, I believe we have a complete understanding,” Sinnesbieger said.

* * *