RAGE (Descendants Saga (Crisis Sequence One)), Page 3

  What he learned from Kurst before his demise was both remarkable and untraceable. Because the doctor was not executed inside some rundown tenement room tied to a chair, Vladimir’s interrogation was never suspected. After all, he did not leave a mark on the man’s body, during their talk. The doctor died in public, just as his superiors ordered.

  Vladimir did not know what they did to him during his youth, but it worked in conjunction with his pituitary gland coming to life at the beginning of adolescence. The way Kurst explained it; the pituitary turns on like an engine and begins to run all of the transformational processes that turn a young boy or girl into an adult. Hair growth, muscle growth and skeletal changes to increase height, etc.

  The scientists working within the eugenics program Kurst was attached to, and that Vladimir was a product of, used the pituitary as the engine to drive their protocols. Enhanced muscle growth, enhanced brain function and the ability to heal faster. If a normal person spent six weeks in a cast for a broken bone, he would only sacrifice one third of that time.

  The old scientist was even willing to tell Vladimir their research stemmed from a program in place while Adolf Hitler was in power in Germany. He nodded with interest, when the doctor told him. Now, he isn’t sure if he believes that much of it. In truth, while he was curious then. It doesn’t make much difference to him now.

  Vladimir isn’t bitter about the program but grateful for it. Otherwise, he would not be the successful man he is today. He would be a poor factory worker at best, or possibly would be sold in the slave trade. He smiles, thankful for his good fortune.

  The elevator pauses with only the slightest vibration. The door opens to an armed guard post and a single corridor beyond. He steps out and greets the two men by name. Vladimir is well known in this building. Still, that does not prevent Ivan and Danko from stepping between him and the x-ray scanner beyond.

  They are friendly, even chummy, watching as he steps to the retina scanner. The ID chip in his hip scans simultaneously. The light becomes green, and he is allowed to step through.

  Vladimir walks through the scanner. It shows Ivan a live view of the assassin and everything on his person. He sees the two Sig Sauers resting snugly in their harness, but neither guard says anything. As long as he is who he is supposed to be, they expect him to be armed.

  A set of double doors open upon his approach, allowing him into the Kill Box. Another set of identical doors stand on the opposite side. This small vestibule serves as a last layer of defense against intruders. The room is bare to look at, but Vladimir knows almost every sort of sensor imaginable is scanning him from beyond the walls. Facial recognition, approximate weight and height, even body odor and his heat pattern displayed on thermal imaging are on file and compared with what is found here.

  If the variations are too far out of range, backup scans are conducted. If the subject still doesn’t qualify, then the intruder finds out why this small, bare vestibule had been named the Kill Box. In this one room, you can be gassed with hydrogen cyanide, electrocuted, shot, or burned alive, depending upon the one controlling the system.

  It is the director’s call as to whether you leave this box alive, in the event the computer dings your scans. There are a few who never got out alive. However, to Vladimir’s knowledge, they never used any of the more extreme countermeasures. There are no scorch marks upon the walls or floor. That sort of thing is meant to handle an armed incursion, and no one has been that stupid, yet.

  Vladimir waits the customary thirty-two seconds it takes for the computers to conduct scans and send a report to the controller in charge of the doors. This person then follows up with a look at the scheduled arrivals. If he isn’t expected then he won’t getting in. A person doesn’t just show up at Operational Planning, or anywhere on the SVR compound, without being expected.

  The doors part before him without so much as the click of a lock. Immediately the bustle of Operational Planning’s nerve center filters through to him. A great ring of computers fills the space ahead. Pods, each consisting of no less than six network specialists, make up the outer ring around a central nucleus. Here the Operations Chief and his advisory committee are seated.

  Data coming in to the specialist pods from all over the world is filtered and then sent inward to the Operations Chief, as necessary. At the moment, most of the pods appear to be sending in data regarding the same situation. That means something huge is going on somewhere in the world.

  Walter Ivanovich, the current Operations Chief, spots Vladimir coming through the door and motions him over with a hand gesture. Ivanovich reports directly to Mikhail Fradkov. Even now, he is busy attempting to explain the data to someone on the phone—probably to Fradkov himself.

  The entire chamber is sealed behind transparent bulletproof Plexiglas called the membrane. Vladimir takes five steps forward from the Killing Box. The clear doors part and he strides through the membrane. The entire chamber has been dubbed the Cell. A well-oiled machine, functioning just like the cells in a body.

  It’s geeky, but appropriate. Vladimir has no idea where the metaphor comes from. Probably some doe-eyed intern coined the phrase years ago. It stuck. Everybody calls it the Cell from Fradkov on down the chain.

  Hanging above, at effective angles, sixty inch plasma screens encircle the nucleus. On each screen, different news broadcasts display. Vladimir notices, as he approaches Ivanovich and his team, scenes of violence and terror covered on every network.

  Vladimir might assume the images on the screen are from somewhere in the Middle East. People run through the streets. Panicked faces sweep past the reporters’ cameras. No one stands around to pose for their relatives and friends watching at home. None of these people want their fifteen seconds of fame in front of a news camera. They are too busy running for their lives.

  A giant Ferris wheel appears in the background now. The cameraman isn’t looking at it on purpose. The Millennium Wheel is just there, seen rising above what looks like an escalating conflict in the streets. On another screen, a news reporter stands with Big Ben towering behind him.

  Ivanovich places the telephone receiver back on its base. All of the network lines are lit up with calls to the Cell. The Operations Chief looks like he has not slept in three days.

  Vladimir glances up at the monitors again and then back to Ivanovich. “London?” he asks.

  The Operations Chief nods grimly.

  Vladimir doesn’t ask the obvious. He is here to get the explanation, so he waits.

  “We have a pathogen—” Ivanovich begins.

  “Lethal?”

  “Unclear,” he continues. “At least, not directly at this point. The public is unaware of the cause, but our agent inside MI6 has given us information as to its nature. A viral pathogen that destroys normal cognitive function, ramps up metabolic rate exponentially and produces a nearly constant rage state. The infected become ravenous and fearless. They attack, kill and even consume the uninfected. Victims who survive become infected carriers themselves.”

  “How long is the gestation period,” Vladimir asks, his eyes sweeping the screens again, taking in the panicked crowds.

  “The pathogen appears to be spread through fluid transmission. Bites, meaning mucus to blood, or blood to blood contact. Victims become fully turned within twenty four hours. That was almost two weeks ago. The latest data places most victims changing much earlier now, a few hours, or less in some cases.”

  Vladimir swallows hard. This is something out of science fiction nightmares. The assassin fears nothing. That instinct was driven from him long ago during his training. Still, this doesn’t mean he is completely detached from reality either. This is bad any way you look at it.

  He keeps his tone hard, unconcerned. “And my mission, sir?”

  Ivanovich watches him for a moment longer. That resolve, even in the face of something like this horrifying scenario, is exactly the reason why Nesky remains his number one asset in the field. Curiosity aside, the assassin di
dn’t even flinch at the news in London. If any man alive can get this job done, it is Vladimir Nesky.

  “Our agent in MI6 has informed us the Brits are holding a number of youths as part of their experimental research division in the Tombs,” Ivanovich explains. “One of these, a boy, was recently taken into custody following a brawl in which he was involved. He and the other party were admitted for fractures, lacerations and contusions. The other boy became one of these things while admitted to St Mary’s Hospital on their med-surg floor.”

  “So the boy held by MI6 is a carrier?” Vladimir asks.

  “Carrier, possibly, but apparently not infected.”

  “Are they waiting to see if he will turn?”

  “No,” Ivanovich says. “They suspect he carries the pathogen, and he may be the key to a cure. In fact, I’d say they’re desperate at this point.”

  Ivanovich gestures toward the news feeds around them on the flat screens. “Seventy-two hours ago, this wasn’t even news worthy. It’s just blown up. The infected boy at St. Mary’s broke loose and attacked several members of the hospital staff before they realized what he was. By the time MI6 stepped into the situation, things were already out of control. At least one of these victims must have slipped through the cracks.”

  “And the infection spread after they turned and began to attack others,” Vladimir adds.

  Ivanovich nods. “The boy was taken into custody fourteen days ago. The St. Mary’s attack took place a few hours later. It was treated as a domestic assault incident, at the time, for the public consumption. Our agent informs us MI6 took over at that point and these infected were taken from the hospital. Everyone except the one they missed.”

  “You said MI6 took the boy into custody prior to the other youth turning?”

  Ivanovich allows a trace of a smile on his face. “Yes, they wanted him for something else. Possibly, they identified some unique quality that placed him in the same category as the other youths currently held in the Tombs in their research department.”

  “Anything I should know about?”

  “Nothing our agent has shared, so far,” Ivanovich answers. He stiffens. “This is not a hit, Vlad. We have to have the boy brought back to us alive. If this thing spreads out of control, out of London, then Russia must be kept safe.”

  “Hard to accomplish with international air travel,” Vladimir says.

  “In light of what has happened in London, our government is closing our borders. The military is on high alert, ready to scramble Special Forces teams to any location that shows signs of this outbreak behind our border. All incoming flights are being diverted away. None have been allowed to land since this became known.”

  “Do you think this boy could provide us with a cure?”

  “If it’s possible, we want that option in hand rather than under the control of foreign powers that have already shown their ineptitude,” Ivanovich says, glancing at one of the news monitors. “We don’t want this nightmare to become a reality in Russia.”

  “What’s my way in and out?”

  “Your private jet is fueled and ready,” Ivanovich says. “Our man at Heathrow has you cleared already as a military flight with top priority. He has a vehicle waiting for you in the hangar. Everything you’ll need will be waiting inside. We’ll be ready with a team for the boy when you come back.”

  When you get back. Vladimir likes that certainty in Ivanovich. It is as much a command to come back as it is a statement of confidence that he will get the job done. And what a job it is.

  He is expected to break into one of the most secure buildings in all of Britain. The SIS building in London is the headquarters for MI6. England’s version of the Central Intelligence Agency in the states.

  Vladimir always fancied the fictional MI6 agent, James Bond. He considers himself Russia’s version of 007. He likes the intrigue and the lifestyle.

  However, cracking the MI6 ziggurat isn’t like walking into a shopping mall. They are setup in much the same way as the SVR here in Russia. Still, with their agent in place, he has no doubt getting into the not-so-secret research laboratory, known as the Tombs, will be possible.

  Fortunately, there exists what Vladimir likes to call the human factor. No matter how sophisticated your operating system, or how convoluted your security protocols, the weak link of human nature will always compromise you. Vladimir has a lot of experience in the field and has always found this to be true.

  Either by incompetence, or by corruption, the human factor makes it possible to penetrate the impenetrable, purchase the item that would never be sold, and evade the long arm of the law. And the human factor is present in nearly any scenario. The SIS headquarters for MI6 is a perfect example.

  Just because they have rigorous security clearance protocols in place, does not mean someone like Vladimir cannot get inside. With the right resources, namely money and power, almost anything can be achieved because people are involved. In fact, getting through the door is the least of his worries at the moment. He is counting on walking right through the front door.

  The Soviet era KGB, and later the SVR, has kept operatives working within MI6 for years. In fact, they have operatives in all of the major intelligence services, including the CIA. Vladimir has no doubt, at this very moment, there are agents from Britain or the United States planted within his organization here in Russia. Everyone plays the game and they all understand the stakes. Their lives depend upon it.

  Of course, it is the human factor at work. People are corrupt. They like to think they are not, but offer them enough money, or threaten the security of their loved ones, or themselves, and they always cave eventually.

  Their agent in MI6 grew up in London. She attended school there and even garnered some brief military experience before attending Cambridge. Her record is impeccable, making her an ideal candidate for service. Yet, she serves secretly in Russia’s SVR. Vladimir knows her personally, even had a short tryst with the woman.

  Her mother lives abroad in the United States. She suffers with early onset Alzheimer’s disease. Russia approached her while she was still in Cambridge with promises to provide the best care possible for her mother, in addition to a handsome living. They sponsored her education and made arrangements to place her within MI6 through another security specialist who did her interview. He is on the SVR payroll as well.

  This is the way things are done because of the human factor. Vladimir smiles thinking about it. He is not immune to compromise, but he does his very best to make sure he holds to nothing that can be used against him. No loved ones to worry for, no property he’s concerned about, no attachments of any kind.

  He remembers an encounter with an Iranian operative who found the name and location of a former lover of his. The man took the woman hostage because he knew the SVR was gunning for him. When Vladimir arrived at a prearranged meeting with the Iranian, he found the girl standing in front of the man with a gun to her head.

  Of course, Vladimir came out of his car with his silenced Sig Sauer in hand, aimed at them. No attachments. The Iranian was compromised while working in Chechnya.

  “I just want to get out of the business,” the Iranian said, “to disappear with my family. I can give you my contacts, whatever you need.”

  This was his proposed arrangement. The woman would go free. She looked at him with pleading eyes, hoping he remembered the good times they shared almost one year earlier. Vladimir did remember her fondly. Still, he keeps no attachments. No compromise.

  Vladimir was merciful instead. He shot her first through the head, and then killed the Iranian when her body dropped away. The agent died with a horrified expression. Evidently, he assumed Vladimir would succumb to the human factor. Anyone who knows Vladimir Nesky for any length of time will never make that mistake.

  “What about these infected?” Vladimir asks. He isn’t asking if the Operations Chief wants him to bag one and bring it back. He assumes they already have a separate team working on that operation. Russia wi
ll obviously want one or more of the creatures for experimentation.

  “Steer clear of them,” Ivanovich says. “Don’t get bit.”

  Vladimir nods solemnly. “Done,” he says.

  This is his customary way of accepting his mission. In his mind, he is already working his way through the operation and the variables. He can do this. No problem.

  Ivanovich answers this with a nod of his own. Around them the bustle and barely contained chaos continues unabated. Vladimir turns and starts away with a last look at the news feeds. On the screens, every major news organization in the world remains focused upon the situation happening live in London.

  The modern age has given humanity the ability to witness events almost immediately in real time. With the proliferation of cell phones in the hands of would be cameramen all around the world, nothing will sneak up on the global society. However, that doesn’t mean mankind can handle what is coming.

  “God speed,” Ivanovich calls after him. “Russia is counting on you.”

  Vladimir pauses at this, glancing back at the Operations Chief. He looks like a condemned murderer who has all but given up hope of a reprieve—like a man in an electric chair, waiting for an unlikely call from the governor to pardon him. Vladimir saw these images in American movies.

  He realizes then, despite his skill and Ivanovich’s unending confidence in him as an agent, the Operations Chief considers this operation futile. Ivanovich is a man looking at the end of the world, a threat that may already be too late to overcome. Even when he brings the boy back to his homeland, a cure might not be found.

  This infection, only now beginning to grip London by the throat, will spread beyond Britain’s capital like wildfire. In a global society such as this, it might prove impossible to stop. Especially, when accounting for the human factor.

  All it took for this to launch out of control was one hospital worker, bitten and infected, who managed to slip through the cracks. Probably, they did not report their involvement or their injury. Hadn’t wanted to get caught up in the trouble. Now, one of the most prosperous and longstanding cities in the world is on the verge of Armageddon.