Steve Berry - The Venetian Betrayal

“Millions are about to die,” one of the men said in a whisper.

“Millions of problems,” she made clear. “Iran is a harbinger of terrorists. A place governed by fools. That’s what the West says over and over. Time to end that problem, and we have the way. The people who survive will be better off. We will, too. We’ll have their oil and their gratitude. What we do with those will determine our success.”

She listened as troop strengths, contingency plans, and strategies were discussed. Squads of men had been trained in deploying the viruses and were ready to move south. She was pleased. Years of anticipation were finally over. She imagined how Alexander the Great must have felt when he crossed from Greece into Asia and began his global conquest. Like him, she, too, envisioned total success. Once she controlled Iran, Pakistan, and Afghanistan, she’d move on to the rest of the Middle East. That dominance, though, would be more subtle, the viral rampages made to appear as simply a spread of the initial infections. If she’d read the West correctly, Europe, China, Russia, and America would withdraw into themselves. Restrict their borders. Minimize travel. Hope the public health disaster was contained in countries that, by and large, none of them cared about. Their inaction would give her time to claim more links in the chain of nations that stood between the Federation and Africa. Played right, she could conquer the entire Middle East in a matter of months and never fire a shot.

“Do we have control of the antiagents?” her chief of staff finally asked.

She’d been waiting for the question. “We will.” The uneasy peace that connected her and Vincenti was about to end.

“Philogen has not provided stockpiles to treat our population,” one of the men noted. “Nor do we have the quantities needed to stop the viral spread in the target nations, once victory is assured.”

“I’m aware of the problem,” she said.

A chopper was waiting.

She stood. “Gentlemen, we’re about to start the greatest conquest since ancient times. The Greeks came and defeated us, ushering in the Hellenistic Age, which eventually molded Western civilization. We will now begin a new dawn in human development. The Asiatic Age.”

CASSIOPEIA STRAPPED HERSELF ONTO THE STEEL BENCH IN THE rear compartment. The chopper lurched as Viktor began evasive maneuvers to elude their pursuers. She knew Malone was aware that she’d wanted to talk to Ely, but she also saw that now was not the time. She appreciated Malone risking his neck. How would she have escaped from Zovastina without him? Doubtful that she would have, even with Viktor there. Thorvaldsen had told her that Viktor was an ally, but he’d also warned about his limitations. His mission was to remain undetected, but apparently that directive had changed.

“They’re firing,” Viktor said through the headset.

The chopper banked left, knifing through the air. Her harness held her secure against the bulkhead. Her hands gripped the bench. She was fighting a rising nausea since, truth be told, she was prone to motion sickness. Boats she generally avoided and planes, as long as they flew straight, weren’t a problem. This, though, was a problem. Her stomach seemed to roll up into her throat as they constantly changed altitude, like an elevator out of control. Nothing she could do but hold on and hope to heaven Viktor knew what he was doing.

She saw Malone work the firing controls and heard cannon shots from both sides of the fuselage. She gazed ahead into the cockpit, through the windshield, and spotted mountain haunches lurching from the clouds on both sides.

“They still back there?” Malone asked.

“Coming fast,” Viktor said. “And trying to fire.”

“Missiles we don’t need.”

“I agree. But firing those in here would be tricky for us and them.”

They emerged into clearer skies. The helicopter angled right and plummeted in altitude.

“Do we have to do that?” she asked, trying to keep her stomach under control.

“Afraid so,” Malone answered. “We need to use these valleys to avoid them. In and out, like a maze.”

She knew Malone had once flown fighter jets and still held a pilot’s license. “Some of us don’t like this kind of thing.”

“You’re welcome to toss your cookies anytime.”

“I wouldn’t give you the pleasure.” Thank goodness she hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday on Torcello.

More sharp banks as they roared through the afternoon sky. The engine noise seemed deafening. She’d only flown on a few helicopters, never in a combat situation, the ride like a three dimensional roller coaster.

“Two more choppers within radar range,” Viktor said. “But they’re off to our north.”

“Where are we headed?” Malone asked.

The copter veered into another steep turn.

“South,” Viktor said.

MALONE STARED AT THE RADAR MONITOR. THE MOUNTAINS WERE both a shield and a problem that compounded tracking their pursuers. The targets steadily winked in and out. The American military relied more on satellites and AWACS planes to provide a clear picture. Luckily, the Central Asian Federation did not enjoy those high-tech amenities.

The radar screen cleared.

“Nothing behind us,” Malone said.

He had to admit, Viktor could fly. They were winding a path through the Pamirs, rotors dangerously close to steep gray precipices. He’d never learned to fly a helicopter, though he’d always wanted to, and he’d not been behind the controls of a supersonic fighter in ten years. He’d maintained his jet fighter proficiency for a few years after transferring to the Billet, but he’d let the certification slide. At the time he hadn’t minded. Now he wished he’d kept those skills current.

Viktor leveled the chopper off at six thousand feet and asked, “You hit anything?”

“Hard to say. I think we just forced them to keep their distance.”

“Where we’re headed is about a hundred and fifty kilometers south. I know Arima. I’ve been there before, but it’s been a while.”

“Mountains all the way?”

Viktor nodded. “And more valleys. I think I can stay beneath any radar. This area is not a security zone. The border with China has been open for years. Most of Zovastina’s resources are directed to the south, on the Afghan and Pakistani lines.”

Cassiopeia came up behind them. “That over?”

“Looks like it.”

“I’m going to take a roundabout way,” Viktor said, “to avoid any more encounters. It’ll take a little longer, but the farther east I go the safer we’ll be.”

“How long will that slow us up?” Cassiopeia asked.

“Maybe a half hour.”

Malone nodded and Cassiopeia did not offer any objections. Dodging bullets was one thing, but air-to-air missiles were another matter. Soviet offensive equipment, like their missiles, were top-notch. Viktor’s suggestion was a good one.

Malone settled into his seat and watched the naked rush of rounded spurs. In the distance, haze claimed a stadium of white-tipped peaks. A river cleaved purple veins through the foothills in a silty torrent. Both Alexander the Great and Marco Polo had walked that sooty earth-the whole place once a battleground. British dependencies to the south, Russian to the north, and the Chinese and Afghans to the east and west. For most of the twentieth century, Moscow and Peking fought for control, each testing the other, ultimately settling into an uneasy peace, only the Pamirs themselves emerging a victor.

Alexander the Great chose his last resting place wisely.

But he wondered.