James Rouch - Plague Bomb

‘Well if a fairy story like that gives you peace of mind, then you think that. I suppose there’s no way I can make you believe that’s not a US chemical weapon?’

‘That’s correct, none at all.’ Webb succeeded in injecting sneering condescension into his words, but even to him it was not entirely convincing.

‘Pity. I thought I might have been doing you a favour by telling you I’ve seen one of those before, not as big though. It’s a free fall munition the Russians developed for the Vietnamese to use in Cambodia, and used themselves in Afghanistan. They’re supposed to make a retarded fall and scatter their contents at a predetermined altitude as they come down. Looks like the ‘chute failed on this one and the dispersal mechanism was activated.’

‘So? Of what interest can this be to me.’ There was a tight dryness in Webb’s throat, and something of his affected composure was evaporating.

‘Like I said, it’s not a chemical weapon. It’s actually designed to deliver lots and lots of nasty little beasties called bacteria. From them you can get any one of a hundred very unpleasant diseases, most of which you haven’t even heard of, and certainly wouldn’t like to contract. We call them plague bombs.’

‘I demand that you treat me… for… for whatever I may have caught… immediately.’

‘Of course we will, soon as we get back. Have to wait and see what you develop before we can start pumping anything into you.’

There was no way that Revell was going to tell the terrified man that in all probability either dehydration or ultra-violet light from the sun had rendered the biological agent harmless, and that the cleaner had been its first and last victim. He couldn’t touch the civilian, but he could terrify him and let him inflict the torment of abject fear upon himself at least for a while.

Revell was a realist. He knew there would be no jail sentence for Webb or such of the others as should survive, when they finally got back to England or the States. Most likely Webb would be allowed to go quietly into early retirement, kept in comfort by an inflation proofed state pension. None of this would ever surface in the press. The many agents of influence the communists still had deeply implanted in the British civil service would see to that. Neat cover stories would be furnished to explain away the death of the others, under the guiding hand of KGB controllers the whole affair would be smoothed over and hidden away forever.

As a pale faced Webb was herded toward the entrance, Revell was tempted into serious consideration of Andrea’s solution to any unsatisfactory situation. For her life was much more simple. She saw everything as either good or bad, and what she thought of as bad she swept away in a hail of automatic fire. But he had his orders, and knew that the extent of the retribution he could inflict on the traitor was to let him hold for as long as possible the mistaken belief that he had been contaminated.

‘We can’t take these three with us.’ Thorne surveyed the line of sick in the porch. ‘They’re all stretcher cases, we haven’t got the room.’

‘I wouldn’t fancy having them as company even if they were fit, with all of them screaming, scratching, sweating, puking and shitting I’m even less keen.’

Dooley moved upwind of Gross. The fat man’s bowels were open all the time and a thin trickle of sluggish fluid ran along a time worn groove in the porch and down the stone steps.

‘Put them in their own transport then…’

‘Won’t work, Major.’ Hyde had anticipated that. ‘I’ve checked, and they’ve not enough fuel for the return journey. The Marder uses diesel so we can’t even siphon some into the Range Rover.’

‘They want to meet their friends the Russians,’ unable to stay away any longer, Andrea pushed through the men to stand threateningly over the prisoners, ‘let me see to it that they are still here when the communists arrive.’ She levelled her rifle at the civilians.

It would be close, uncomfortably close, but his men would get there first. Rozenkov could enjoy a j degree of satisfaction at knowing how great Morkov’s anger and frustration would be at having his men just beaten in the race to intercept the delegation.

The liaison officer had almost caught him. From the very start of the operation he’d been deliberately misinforming him by incorrectly positioning the pins marking the GRU units. It was not by much, not sufficient to be immediately detectable in the satellite pictures, but enough to make a difference in the last lap, if the trick hadn’t been spotted.

Again he read Morkov’s intercepted radio message. It was simple, brutal, uncompromising. The closest GRU company was ordered to contact the civilians before the KGB, or else. There was no time for games any more, the manoeuvring, the intrigue, had ceased.

Only by being able to do both well had Rozenkov worked his way to his present position, but as important to him had been knowing when to replace the velvet glove with the spiked knuckle duster.

There was something he had almost forgotten to do. Picking up the phone, he was put through to the duty room. ‘Rozenkov… Advise the building’s security staff that Major Morkov is to be arrested the moment he returns. Also, have a section keep watch on his apartment should he go there instead, the same action to be taken. Inform me immediately, oh yes, and there is no need for restraint. I would like the major to be made aware of my displeasure.’

Strangely he could almost feel, not sympathy, rather an understanding of the man. In a way Morkov was much as he had been twenty years before, but he’d learned a lesson the major would now never get the opportunity to, of knowing when to let a chance go, of balancing risk against reward.

In all probability Rozenkov could have got this far five years earlier, if he’d been prepared to gamble once or twice, but instead he’d chosen to take the slower but more certain safe way to the top. In fact, thinking back he could recall others who, accepting risks he’d declined had paid dearly for their impetuous ambition.

A check of his watch and a simple calculation told him that the helicopters would be making their rendezvous shortly. Sure as he was of success, he would still feel better when those civilians were safely aboard and on their way to a reception by the gathering representatives of the world’s media. Reaching to turn on the radio, he felt he could already begin composing his announcement to the Central Committee…

It was the second-in-command of the unit who came on the air, and that immediately brought Rozenkov’s full attention back to the operation. If all had been as it should be then his senior would have answered. In the communist system seconds-in-command were used to do the dirty work, break bad news, accept blame.

‘Give me your position.’ The coldness in Rozenkov’s tone reflected the sensation in the pit of his stomach, and then he knew it was justified, when the map references he received showed the gunships to be sixty kilometres short of where they should have been.

‘Why has there been a delay?’ Ice filled his belly. ‘… I do not want to hear about mechanical failures, I want to hear nothing but that you have made the interception and have the civilian delegation on board… I do not care… use your best speed regardless… If the other falls behind, if it falls apart in midair, I do not care. You must make that interception, keep this channel open, I shall be listening.’

Fools, idiots. He would kill them with his bare hands and his teeth if they failed. There was nothing more he could have done to stress the importance of their mission, and they had reduced speed when a fault had developed aboard the second gunship. It was unbelievable, after everything, to have it all put at risk by an overcautious pilot worrying about vibration from a gearbox.