Chapter One, The Great Plague

The Great Plague
A Novella
By Paavo Longshanks


Chapter One
The security guard got up, stretched, and yawned.

It was two in the morning--the hardest time to stay awake. He looked at the cup of coffee on the desk, but shook his head; he couldn't stomach another drop of the stuff.

Not that he'd need it. He was guarding a research lab that Riesner Industries had deliberately put out in the countryside, away from the crime centers of the big cities. Some of the other medical research labs had been hit over the past year by the animal rights crowd, but they'd never hit this place. It would take them a day's drive just to get here.

His two partners hadn't made it in tonight. That made it twice as tough to stay awake. No one to talk to. Some sort of flu bug or other. Or maybe they'd just had a little too much fun partying the previous night. The guard smiled to himself; he wasn't the partying type. He'd just as soon spend the nights watching videos and collecting an unusually high salary from Riesner Industries.

Riesner, he thought. Always paid more than the competition. Always got the best people. That was Markus Riesner's policy: hire the best at everything, and let the competition make due with what was left. Riesner was a throwback, the guard thought. A throwback to the old days when businessmen didn't give a damn about their press agents. But the press loved him anyway-- because he was such an easy target.

My boss, thought the guard. Couldn't be popular if his life depended on it. But as long as he makes the money, I'll be glad to take my measly little cut of it. He kicked his feet up onto the desk, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

He started slightly when he heard a heavy thud, followed by the whine of the intrusion alert. He looked up at the clock, wondering if he was still asleep. Three o'clock. Must be a dream. No--the alarm's still going. What the hell?   

As he began to unholster his pistol, a door flew open. He ducked behind a computer terminal and peered around to assess the situation.

Ten people had burst through the door, brandishing automatic weapons.

"Toss your gun on the floor and stand up with your hands behind your head, and we'll let you live." A slender young man with glossy blond hair moved forward, holding his rifle in front of him. The guard thought he recognized the guy--Wolfe, or something. Environmental terrorist. Popular with the press.

The guard tossed the gun and stood up. Twenty minutes, he thought, and help would be here. Just cool it and let 'em do what they want. They'll never get away.

Wolfe came around a computer station, pointed his gun at the guard's knee, and fired. The guard fell with a scream, gripping his knee. Blood seeped out between his fingers.

"Okay, task force," Wolfe shouted. "Ten minutes. Release all the animals in the cages. Then we torch the place."

"What'd you shoot him for?" one of the intruders asked. "If we get caught, that'll add to the penalty."

"Just wanted to see if it hurts as bad as they say it does. Judging by the way this pig is squirming, I'd say it does."

The guard took a breath and managed to muffle his screams. "What in hell are you guys doing? There's nothing valuable here."

"Nothing valuable?" Wolfe answered. "How about a thousand animals that you've been conducting experiments on? They have a right to live, just like you. More than you, actually."

The guard looked up at him. Wolfe had the looks that won promotions. His long, blond hair would have been the envy of any supermodel. His body, though small, was wiry and strong. His eyes were movie-star blue, his cheeks and chin showing just the right amount of stubbly beard so favored by the fashion models.

“Why would a guy with all that going for him throw it all away for terrorism?” the guard thought. And how the hell did they manage to get through the perimeter defenses, the cameras, the other guards?

"You can't let these animals out," the guard hissed through clenched teeth. "They're lab animals. Most of 'em will die of starvation in a day or two. Besides, don't you know about the disease research?"

"You're testing out vaccines and antibiotics on these poor creatures," Wolfe said, fingering the trigger. "You pump 'em full of all kinds of crap, you let 'em get sick, then you pump 'em full of antibiotics to see if they work. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't. The animals don't get a choice. Either way, they go through torture."

The guard became even more agitated. "Don't you see? You're releasing animals that are infected with disease. Some of 'em have plague, anthrax--all kinds of crap. Riesner's labs are under contract with the government, you know--working on defense against biological weapons. You know what could happen if they get out in the open and start infecting people?"

Hundreds of rats came scurrying across the floor. From other rooms, rhesus monkeys were let free. The rats, bred to be docile, ambled about, curiously sniffing at the furniture, unafraid of their human captors.

"An epidemic?" Wolfe asked. "Wouldn't that be great? It'd teach you guys a lesson about mistreating lab animals. I know you guys have been under contract with Defense to figure out antidotes to biological weapons. Real nasty stuff you've played around with. If it gets out in the open, so what? A few thousand humans die. It'll be better for the planet, anyway."

The rest of the task force was now dumping gasoline throughout the building. Wolfe tied a bandanna over his mouth and nose, unable to take the smell.

"It's time, Gus," the other intruder said, checking his watch.  

"Tape his mouth shut," Wolfe said, pointing at the guard.

"Huh?"

"You heard me. Tape his mouth, Dave. And bind his hands behind his back."

Dave MacBride obediently bent over, pulling duct tape over the guard's mouth and around his hands. The guard had begun to slip into a coma.  

"He's gonna go up with the lab," Wolfe said.

“Haven’t we killed enough already?”

"No. We can't let sentimentality interfere with the cause." Wolfe's eyes told MacBride to carry the subject no further.

They gathered outside while Wolfe poured a last gallon of gasoline onto a computer console. He stepped outside, turned, and tossed in a lighted match.

The explosion broke out several of the windows. The task force ran for their cars.

MacBride looked back for a moment, catching a glimpse of the flames. He thought he could see the figure of a man struggling to stand up before falling over into the flames, but he couldn't be sure. He jumped into his car with Wolfe, jammed it in gear, and sped off.

"Five minutes ahead of schedule," Wolfe said, smiling and looking at his watch. "This is our best operation to date."

MacBride pulled over five miles down the road, rolled his window down, and threw up on the pavement. Wolfe reached over and patted his comrade on the shoulder.

"I know it's hard for you at first. But operations like this get routine after a while. We're gonna keep going until we've put the human species in its place."
MacBride leaned back, cold sweat trickling down his forehead. "The guard was right, you know. Those animals might just get those biologicals out in the open. We better get a few hundred miles away from here."

"Biologicals," Wolfe whispered to himself. MacBride took the wheel and began driving again. "Biological weapons. What if we could equip nature to take action against the human race? Nature wants us to fight against man, doesn’t she?"

"What are you talking about?" MacBride said, wanting to spit the foul taste out of his mouth. His stomach was still queasy.

Wolfe thought quietly for a moment before answering. "We'll talk about it with Miriam. The ultimate project. Dave, you just gave me one hell of an idea. The whole damned ecosystem is spinning out of balance, and it’s gonna hit mankind square in the face. Maybe we can just help nature along a bit."

***

The MIG's engine roared and whined as it shot down the runway, lifting easily into a thirty-degree climb over the steep mountains of northern Iraq.

"The MIG-17 was a great fighter in its day," said Ivan Yurievich Stetsko, pulling off his woolen cap in the winter chill. He ran his fingers through his close-cropped, graying hair, watching the fighter disappear into a bank of clouds. "The MIG gave the Americans a run for their money back in Vietnam days. Couldn't maneuver like the Phantoms, though. And the pilots were never trained as well as the Americans."

"But the Great Satan was defeated anyway," the Iraqi general said with a smirk. "Their first of many defeats. Not that I had much sympathy with the Vietnamese. Godless infidels. But any defeat for America advances our cause. We pushed them out of Iraq. Now we need to keep pushing. For God and His Prophet."

Stetsko paused to light a small cigar, squinting through the haze of smoke. "I wouldn't know anything about that," he said, smiling. "I'm not in this for your cause, my good general. I'm just a capitalist opportunist. You know, the type who would sell the rope to hang himself with."

"Huh?"

"An old saying back in Russia. Lenin, I think--but no one talks about him any more."

"Enough of your talk, Stetsko," the general said, growing impatient. "You think the payload will be effective?"

"I'm not going to stick around, if that makes you feel more assured," Stetsko said, enjoying a puff of the cigar. "Anthrax is particularly nasty as a biological agent. Your pilot will release it as a fine powder that will settle over the enemy. They'll breathe it in. In two days, they'll have pneumonic anthrax. In three days, they'll be dead. The stuff eats lung tissue like we eat a steak.

"We had a nasty outbreak of the stuff in Sverdlovsk many years ago. I was just a lieutenant at the time. Accidental outbreak--damned lab people didn't follow safety procedures. We're lucky we didn't have a full-blown epidemic. As it was, several hundred died, but we were able to keep it quiet. The western press never pushed us too hard on that one. Of course, they thought we were the good guys, deep down inside."

"Unholy weapons you Russians devise. We must use them against you someday, when we take back your southern provinces in the name of Allah."

Stetsko laughed heartily; a rough, tobacco-laced guffaw. "Yes, it seems your gambit is working. We Russians are losing the chess match, at the moment. Still, I’d place bets on Mother Russia--only I'm not in the game. I'm just the ticket taker, charging admission. I win every time."

The Iraqi general cringed at Stetsko's laugh. So irreverent it seemed to be using a godless Russian arms merchant to defeat the Kurds. After all, they too were Muslims. It all seemed so insane. But after the demise of Saddam and the subsequent withdrawal of the Americans and their lackeys, something had to fill the power vacuum.

"You're sure the vaccine will work for our troops?" the Iraqi asked.

"Reasonably sure," Stetsko said. "It worked well in animal trials. And it worked on the political prisoners you gave us for experimentation. But bacterial vaccines are notoriously unreliable. No guarantees."

"This anthrax is the very breath of Satan."

"Not at all. It’s just an annoying disease of sheep and wool handlers. Leave it to my science boys to make it into something more useful. We're working on far worse. Like sleeping sickness. It's a trypanosome, or so my scientists explain it to me. Nasty little bastard. It goes through the bloodstream, wreaking havoc, while the body takes a week to generate antigens to destroy it. Then you know what it does?"

The Iraqi shuddered. "Do I want to know?"

"It develops a new protein coat and sheds the old one. The body's immune system rushes into battle, only to find the enemy has switched to a new armor against which their efforts are ineffective." He chuckled grimly.

"Like a spy taking on a new disguise."

"Exactly. The human body can't figure out how to fight it. The body succumbs in the end. Trouble is, we haven't figured out how to vector it."

"Vector?"

"Yes. How to transmit the disease from victim to victim. It spreads rapidly in Africa through the bite of the tsetse fly. But you'll never have to worry about that here. Tsetse flies are specifically adapted only for portions of Africa. Cold weather like this wipes them out. We've tried vectoring the disease with other insects--mosquitoes, lice--but the sleeping sickness trypanosome only seems to like humans and tsetse flies."

The Iraqi general shook his head in disgust. "How can you do this work? It's not like real war. Your enemy has no chance. It's just spreading disease."

"No glory in that, is there, General?"

"None. It‘s . . . it‘s against the rules. Christian, Jew, or Muslim--it‘s against the rules of all of them. Sometimes I think it‘s better to lose a war than to win it this way."

Stetsko chuckled and drew mouthful of smoke from his cigar before tossing it down, half-consumed, and crushing it under his boot. "You know what I find amusing?"

"Not this, I hope."

"What's amusing to me is you people who talk about rules of war. There are no rules of war, General--none whatsoever. It's just whatever you can get away with. If I kill more of your grunts than you kill of mine, I win. It's simple. Don't talk to me about the glory of armed combat. I know better from my tour in Afghanistan. It makes no difference to the soldier whether he dies of anthrax or a bayonet to the heart. He's just as dead either way. That’s the key to life, my friend: knowing what you can get away with. Either way, the soldier dies, but the leader lives. Those rules you live by are made for the grunts. You and I have reached a higher plane. We get to break the rules, when the time is right. Then, we get to rationalize why we had to break them, in a way the remaining grunts will accept.”

"It makes no difference to the soldier," the Iraqi replied. "But there is a difference in the cause. Iraq will unite the Islamic countries of the Middle East in one superstate, under a single Caliph. Islam will see glory as it has not seen since the days of the Prophet. Our cause begins today with the victory in Kurdistan."

"Causes," Stetsko said, picturing in his mind the MIG, swooping down on the Kurdish villages, opening its tanks to release the fine aerosol on unsuspecting victims. "Causes are very important. Very profitable to men like me. If my enemies delude themselves, they leave themselves open to attack. That’s why we Russians are always the greatest chess players. It’s a game that emphasizes only logic. No delusions, no bluffs, no mercy. Just the logic of the kill. That’s why we’ve been able to build the biggest country on earth. We can be ruthlessly logical. You Muslims are, at heart, mystics. You think by sacrificing yourselves, you help a cause. Ridiculous.”

The Iraqi spat and kicked the earth. “Even in chess, a sacrifice sometimes wins the game.”

Stetsko rolled his head back and laughed, the throaty sound echoing through the foothills. “I had no idea you appreciated the game.”  

“We invented the game, Stetsko.”

The Russian chuckled. “I love the game. Play it all the time. But chess is not like life. In life, you never know the capabilities of all the other pieces, until you test them. Very risky stuff. That’s why I don’t take sides in life. In chess, the pieces are black and white. In life, they are every color; sometimes, they even change color half way through the game. I prefer to just provide the players with pieces, for a modest fee. The way I see it, that means I win every time.”