lethal cocktail each puck contained: the immense amount of pain, suffering, and death enclosed in every one of those little cylinders.
The captain carefully removed one puck from its rack and examined the numbers etched into its side. Nodding to himself, he then took another, identical puck out of his biosuit pouch and placed it in the empty slot in the rack.
One puck was all that was needed. They were designed to keep the virus sealed, in a deep freeze, for at least seventy-two hours—which allowed more than enough time to accomplish their goal.
The captain shut the safe, locked it, and the beeping stopped. He brought the puck over to one of the stainless-steel tables. Blaine knew what he had to do next, and he held his breath in anticipation. It would be a delicate operation.
Laying the puck on the stage of a stereozoom microscope, the captain examined its surface for at least five minutes before making a small mark on it. Then he took a scalpel from the pouch of his biosuit and, with surgical care, cut a small tile of white plastic from the puck. Contained within that tiny piece of plastic, Blaine knew, was a tracking microchip.
The captain flicked the plastic piece to the floor and kicked it under the yellow biosafe with the side of his shoe.
Blaine shivered again. His fingers were already growing numb from the cold. The captain seemed immune.
“I’ll take that, if you don’t mind,” Blaine said, pointing at the puck.
The captain handed it to him. “Be very, very careful, sir. If you drop it, the world as we know it ends.”
A moment later they emerged from the vault, and were forced to wait once again for their visors to unfog. It took longer this time. Even so, everything was ticking along like clockwork.
They made their way back through the lab until they had reached the decontamination showers and air lock. The shower accommodated only one person at a time, and the captain entered first. The automatic door rumbled shut; Blaine could hear the hissing sound of the chemical decontaminants spraying down the captain. The sounds stopped; the outer door opened with a whoosh of the air lock. A moment later the inner door opened to admit him to the shower. He stepped inside and was momentarily engulfed in a blast of chemicals, while a metallic voice instructed him to raise his arms and turn around. Then the door opened and he stepped into the ready room—to find the barrel of a gun pressed immediately against his visor.
“Give me the smallpox,” said a voice Blaine recognized as that of Gideon Crew.
69
STONE FORDYCE HEARD the chopper before he saw it: a UH-60 Black Hawk, coming in low and fast from the east. He had moved to the far end of the parking lot, near the gates to the motor pool, and he took refuge from the rotor wash behind a Humvee on blocks. The Black Hawk slowed and turned, touching down on the tarmac of the nearly empty lot. Fordyce waited for the craft to settle. As the rotors spun down, the cabin door opened and six SWAT team members hopped out, wearing full body armor and carrying M4 carbines. A moment later a civilian stepped down and Fordyce was startled, and encouraged, to see that Dart himself had come along. More proof that calling Dart had been the right choice.
He watched as they moved out of the backwash and gathered near the doors of the building.
Fordyce straightened up and came out from behind the car, showing himself. Dart saw him and gestured him over.
Fordyce jogged up to the group of soldiers, who fanned out in a semicircle as he arrived—a lieutenant, a warrant officer, and four specialists.
“Are they still inside?” Dart asked, stepping forward.
Fordyce nodded.
“And Crew? Where’s he?”
“Still down in Level Four, as far as I know. As you requested, I’ve initiated no contact.”
“Any sign of activity? Confrontation?”
“No.”
“Any other security involved? Alarms or alerts?”
“Nothing as far as I can tell. It’s been as quiet as a tomb here.”
“Good.” Dart checked his watch. “They’ve been inside for almost fourteen minutes, by my reckoning.” He frowned. “Listen, Agent Fordyce. You’ve done a fine piece of work. But your job is now done and I don’t want anything, and I mean anything, going wrong. We’re going to let the professionals handle it from this point on.” He extended his hand. “Your sidearm, please.”
Fordyce slipped it out of its holster, held it out to Dart butt-first. But even