translucent, his lips looking like his meals consisted of grape popsicles.
He made it to day five before he began to weep blood from his eyes and nose, his body drowning in the excretions created by the battle raging within.
Doctors from the laboratory hovered around him in pressurized biohazard suits, but they could do little to help him. It had been almost one hundred years since the great influenza pandemic of 1918, when the very existence of viruses was still unknown, yet the doctors from the lab were just as powerless as their predecessors. They might as well have put leeches on his body for all the good the leaps of modern medical knowledge did them.
On day six, at 0436 local time, his heart stopped beating. The cadaver sat inside the quarantine room for an additional eighteen hours while his employer decided what to do with it, the virus boiling away inside, desperate to find another host.
At 2230 three men entered his room dressed like they were about to walk on the surface of the moon. One carried a roll of thick plastic sheeting. Two sported cordless bone saws.
At 0100 local time his body was fed into the incinerator in ferret-sized chunks.
At 0800, Golf Seventeen and Sandy Nine were inoculated.
2
Dressed all in black, the man blended in completely with the masonry on top of the wall. Someone would be able to see him if they were interested enough to look closely, but there was little fear of the caretaker guard’s doing that without a reason. Movement was the killer at this point, so the man simply lay atop the wall, waiting.
The guard continued on his route, no longer in sight, but his footfalls echoed on the pave stones. The man looked at his watch, waiting until the sound was overshadowed by the tooting horns of the endless Bangkok traffic.
Seven minutes to get inside.
He pulled up the knotted rope and set the grappling hook on the opposite side of the wall, the rubberized cleats making not a sound as it gripped the ledge. He dropped the rope on the near side, then rolled off himself, hitting the soft grass fifteen feet below.
He remained crouched where he had landed, not moving a muscle, all his senses straining for a break in the rhythm of the night. He saw no movement and heard nothing but the traffic from Luk Luang Road. Convinced he was safe, he slowly rose to get his bearings.
He had been inside the compound on four different occasions, but each one had been during daylight, coming through the front gate on official business. It was a little bit different at night, climbing up an outside wall between two buildings.
Orienting himself, the man took one step before his earpiece came alive. “Freeze, freeze, freeze. Knuckles, you got a four-man element headed across the lawn toward the front gate.”
Knuckles faded back into the shrubbery. What the hell was someone doing working this late? His watch told him he had five minutes before another guard came back through on this route.
“Decoy, I’m running out of time. What are they doing? Coming or going?”
“Going. They just came out of the secretariat building and are now standing around talking on the lawn.”
“I can’t wait. Give me a clear path.”
“Stand by.”
Knuckles scanned the night sky, straining to see if he could detect the Wasp drone overhead. He came up empty, as he knew he would. The thing weighed less than three pounds and had a minuscule three-and-a-half-foot wingspan. With an electric motor, it was damn near soundless. Invisible—especially at night.
“Knuckles, this is Brett. You want to roll over? Try again tomorrow night?”
Brett was his exfil, sitting in a van on the corner of Luk Luang and Ratchadamnoen Nok Roads, right outside the United Nations offices. Knuckles considered, but ultimately decided against it. Just getting inside the compound had been a chore.
He said, “Maybe. Give it a couple more minutes. If I abort, I’ll be coming over the same way. Pick me up on Luk Luang, canal
He made it to day five before he began to weep blood from his eyes and nose, his body drowning in the excretions created by the battle raging within.
Doctors from the laboratory hovered around him in pressurized biohazard suits, but they could do little to help him. It had been almost one hundred years since the great influenza pandemic of 1918, when the very existence of viruses was still unknown, yet the doctors from the lab were just as powerless as their predecessors. They might as well have put leeches on his body for all the good the leaps of modern medical knowledge did them.
On day six, at 0436 local time, his heart stopped beating. The cadaver sat inside the quarantine room for an additional eighteen hours while his employer decided what to do with it, the virus boiling away inside, desperate to find another host.
At 2230 three men entered his room dressed like they were about to walk on the surface of the moon. One carried a roll of thick plastic sheeting. Two sported cordless bone saws.
At 0100 local time his body was fed into the incinerator in ferret-sized chunks.
At 0800, Golf Seventeen and Sandy Nine were inoculated.
2
Dressed all in black, the man blended in completely with the masonry on top of the wall. Someone would be able to see him if they were interested enough to look closely, but there was little fear of the caretaker guard’s doing that without a reason. Movement was the killer at this point, so the man simply lay atop the wall, waiting.
The guard continued on his route, no longer in sight, but his footfalls echoed on the pave stones. The man looked at his watch, waiting until the sound was overshadowed by the tooting horns of the endless Bangkok traffic.
Seven minutes to get inside.
He pulled up the knotted rope and set the grappling hook on the opposite side of the wall, the rubberized cleats making not a sound as it gripped the ledge. He dropped the rope on the near side, then rolled off himself, hitting the soft grass fifteen feet below.
He remained crouched where he had landed, not moving a muscle, all his senses straining for a break in the rhythm of the night. He saw no movement and heard nothing but the traffic from Luk Luang Road. Convinced he was safe, he slowly rose to get his bearings.
He had been inside the compound on four different occasions, but each one had been during daylight, coming through the front gate on official business. It was a little bit different at night, climbing up an outside wall between two buildings.
Orienting himself, the man took one step before his earpiece came alive. “Freeze, freeze, freeze. Knuckles, you got a four-man element headed across the lawn toward the front gate.”
Knuckles faded back into the shrubbery. What the hell was someone doing working this late? His watch told him he had five minutes before another guard came back through on this route.
“Decoy, I’m running out of time. What are they doing? Coming or going?”
“Going. They just came out of the secretariat building and are now standing around talking on the lawn.”
“I can’t wait. Give me a clear path.”
“Stand by.”
Knuckles scanned the night sky, straining to see if he could detect the Wasp drone overhead. He came up empty, as he knew he would. The thing weighed less than three pounds and had a minuscule three-and-a-half-foot wingspan. With an electric motor, it was damn near soundless. Invisible—especially at night.
“Knuckles, this is Brett. You want to roll over? Try again tomorrow night?”
Brett was his exfil, sitting in a van on the corner of Luk Luang and Ratchadamnoen Nok Roads, right outside the United Nations offices. Knuckles considered, but ultimately decided against it. Just getting inside the compound had been a chore.
He said, “Maybe. Give it a couple more minutes. If I abort, I’ll be coming over the same way. Pick me up on Luk Luang, canal
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