The operator zoomed out, the ghost pattern turning into a tiny red dot on the map.
“It’s in Russia, 200 miles inland from the Sea of Japan coastline, near a small town called Mayak. It’s an abandoned airbase. Has an airstrip too.”
“Get me high-resolution angular shots,” Alex asked the operator. “Let’s see who and what’s down there. Prepare for a long night.”
…40
Dr. Adenauer finished injecting the third rat with the compound, then picked up a second syringe, and gave the squirming little animal a second shot.
“This is the antidote,” he explained to the small group in attendance.
The group included Gary Davis, Marie-Elise Chevalier, Klaas Fortuin, and Wu Shen Teng. One-Eye was also observing, any attempt to keep him away or distracted having failed miserably, yielding only angry grunts from the taciturn gorilla.
Dr. Adenauer finished injecting the antidote, then marked the rat with a touch of methylene blue on its white coat, making it easy to identify from the others. Then he placed the rat in the same cage with the other two he had injected earlier.
Minutes passed in silence, while nothing remarkable happened in the rat cage. The test subjects behaved like normal rats, sniffing, chewing on the occasional speck of dirt, moving around in the cage, but ignoring one another.
Then suddenly one rat jumped at another, making a barely audible growl. It attacked the other animal fiercely, plunging its teeth in the other’s throat, while its front claws tore at the victim’s belly. The other rat fought back as hard as it could, tearing pieces of the attacker’s coat with its claws, gurgling sounds coming out of its throat as the attacker squeezed its jaws tighter, killing it. The rat bearing a blue mark on the back of its neck stood trembling in the corner of the cage, watching the fight with big, round, beady eyes.
Within seconds, the fight was over, leaving one dead rat in a pool of blood, another one heaving and dying from a deep laceration that had cut open its abdomen, and a third, alive, unharmed, but paralyzed with fear.
“May God forgive us all,” Dr. Chevalier said quietly, holding her hand over her mouth, as if to smother a scream of horror.
“He won’t,” Dr. Adenauer replied through clenched teeth.
“Great job,” One-Eye spoke. “I will tell my boss,” he added, then left the room.
They stared at the scene in front of them, unable to move or react. Dr. Adenauer picked up some gauze, soaked it in alcohol, and began cleaning the spray of blood that had stained the table around the cage.
“The dose was too concentrated,” Bogdanov spoke, startling everyone. He had entered the lab unheard and unseen, while they were only paying attention to the horrible aftermath of their test. “We want them aggressive, but not like this. We want control. We want the rage to appear natural; I’ve told you that. What are you going to do?”
He was actually waiting for an answer, making sure they understood they had to deliver.
Theo Adenauer cleared his throat, still choked after he’d watched the experiment, and offered a plan.
“We could try slow-release capsules next, to see if it’s the strength of the compound, or the delivery mechanism that allows the best control.”
“We need the compound aerosolized,” Bogdanov replied. “How are slow-release capsules going to help with that? Reduce the concentration and try again. What are you using?”
“SSREs,” Adenauer replied, surprised. It was the first time Bogdanov had asked any technical question about their work.
“Decrease the strength, but add some steroids, maybe it will help,” Bogdanov replied. “You’re supposed to know that. Is this rat the one injected with the antidote?” he asked, pointing at the survivor.
“Y — yes,” Adenauer hesitated, unsure where he was going with that.
“They need to attack the non-violent test subjects, not each other. Fix that.”
“How?” Adenauer asked, surprised at the request.
“You world-famous researchers figure it out. You have 24 hours, or else he starts dying,” Bogdanov replied, pointing toward the cot where Declan Mallory lay on his back. “I think I have already taken care of a few ribs, yes? Only 24 hours, that’s it. Then I continue breaking his bones, one at a time.”
…41
Alex stormed out of the DigiWorld building followed closely by Blake and Lou. They had gathered all possible imagery about the plane’s location, and she felt the exhilaration that only hope can give. Hope that she’d been right, that they’d make it in time to save all those people. Hope that they’d found the right plane.
She stopped abruptly and asked, “Blake, does your plane fly that far?”
“Yes, it does. It will take us about fifteen hours to get there, including refueling stops.”
“All right, let’s get ready. Wheels up in two hours.”
“I need to make a quick detour,” Lou said. “Boss, can you please pack me an overnight bag? I’ll meet you on the tarmac.”
“Where are you going?” Alex asked.
“Shopping.”
…42
The annoying voice of Dr. Bogdanov filled the room as Myatlev took his call hands-free. He was going on and on about what they were doing over there, giving too few specifics, and wasting his time.
“So, you don’t have it yet, that’s what I’m hearing, right?” Myatlev interrupted him. “After two weeks, you have nothing?”
“Sir, if you allow me, progress is being made,” Bogdanov replied with a little more insecurity seeping into his voice. “They are adjusting the levels of active compound to get the desired results. There is a precise dosage that will work, requiring many rounds of testing and fine-tuning.”
Myatlev restrained himself with difficulty. This moron wasn’t going to get him what he wanted. But it was too late to turn back now.
“I want them controllable, you hear me?” Myatlev told Bogdanov for the fifth time. “What we need to do will not work without precise control, and calculated levels of aggression. Do you understand?”
“Y — yes, sir.”
Myatlev hung up, letting out a long sigh of frustration. Bogdanov was probably going to fail; he had heard the uncertainty in his voice. Maybe what he wanted couldn’t be achieved after all. He wanted a level of precision and control over the aggression of his test subjects that could enable him to play them like puppets on a string. After all, it would be a disaster if a business opponent started killing people instead of signing the wrong paperwork, bidding too high, or taking too much risk. However, having the test subjects turn homicidal lined up well with his other motivation, the official one. He wanted to seed violence in the heart of the enemy’s law enforcement, making them turn against the people they were sworn to protect. Such senseless, apparently random violence would be ripping through America from within its own structures, like a cancer destroying the body it had invaded.
But it might have been the time to consider plan B. Abramovich was not going to settle for another failure, if this plan wasn’t going to work. He walked slowly to the office next to his, and entered after a quick tap on the door.