Instinct: A Chess Team Adventure - By Jeremy Robinson Page 0,8
light blue to the ocean outside, and scrolled through a series of numbers. Unlike other mechanisms that tried a myriad of codes, looking for the right one, this device actually rewrote the software so that a new code could be added.
“Once you confirm the contents, you need to bug out,” Deep Blue said. “The Chinese destroyer will be at your doorstep in five minutes and it looks like they’re warming up a chopper.”
King shook his head. It was never easy. “Armed or transport?”
“Gunship.”
“Shit.”
“Bishop, Knight, the crew is getting brave,” Deep Blue added. “Looks like they’re armed.”
“Just let us know where to aim,” Knight said.
Bishop, as usual, remained silent at his post. Watching and waiting. Unlike the others, he had nothing to fear from bullets, not physically anyway. Thanks to an unrefined serum created by Manifold Genetics, Bishop’s body could regenerate from almost any physical injury short of decapitation. The downside was that every injury, from a paper cut to a bullet wound, pushed his mind farther to the brink. The test subjects before him all became what the team called “regens”—mindless killing machines. It was only Bishop’s history of anger management and a regimen of mood-enhancing drugs that kept him stable. It had been almost a year since their run-in with Manifold and the regenerated mythical Hydra, but this mission was Bishop’s return to active duty. He’d been deemed fit for duty only a week ago.
The numbers on the display stopped, and a blank screen with ten empty spaces appeared.
“Ready for the code,” King said.
“Hey guys, Lew here.” The new voice in their ear belonged to Lewis Aleman, their tech-wizard who was not only hardened on the digital battlefield, but also on the physical battlefield as a Delta operator. “The legendary CD Key for Office 97 is the code.”
“Lew,” King said, “this really isn’t a time for—”
“All zeros,” Rook said.
“And the winner is . . .”
King didn’t hear the rest. He was already typing in the ten zeros. Upon finishing the code, the screen went black. “Uh, Lew . . .”
The locks clicked open. They were in.
“Knight, now would be a good time for a warning shot.” Deep Blue’s voice was cool, but the speed with which he spoke conveyed urgency. The crew of more than thirty men were closing in on what they believed were five Somali pirates.
Hoping the noise would intimidate, Knight removed his silencer from his .45-caliber Sig Sauer 220 handgun and fired off a round. It pinged off the deck where a crewman’s shoe was poking out from behind a container. The man shouted and they heard the sound of feet shuffling away.
“That did it,” Deep Blue said. “But they haven’t given up. Chinese heli is in the air. ETA, two minutes. The destroyer will be right behind it.”
King ignored the time line. It would only make him nervous and slow him down. He opened the case. Steam hissed from inside, rolling over the edge and out across the floor of the roiling hot case. When the steam cleared, twenty small vials were exposed. King removed a small kit from his cargo pants, which were hidden beneath his robe, and opened it. Moving with extreme care, he then untwisted the cap of one of the vials, inserted a Q-tip, and soaked up a small amount of the clear liquid within. He rolled the Q-tip across the white surface of a small device that absorbed and analyzed the liquid. Normally, to identify a mystery liquid would require more processing power and equipment, but they were looking for one specific liquid, or rather, what was contained within the liquid medium. A small light on the device flashed green.
“Confirmed,” King said. “We’ve got ourselves enough Russian-made smallpox to wipe out the populations of ten major cities.”
“Great,” Rook said. “All headed for our buddies in Iran.”
Cases of smallpox could be traced back two thousand years in human history, emerging in China. The virus moved across the Asian continent to Africa, claiming the lives of thousands, including Pharaoh Ramses V. After arriving in Europe in 720 B.C. it crossed the Atlantic to the New World along with Hernando Cortez and an army of conquistadors. Contrary to popular belief, it was not the brutal tactics of the conquistadors that wiped out the Aztec civilization, it was smallpox. Nearly four million Aztecs died from the virus. The last case of smallpox was recorded, ironically, in Somalia circa 1977. Since then the world has been smallpox free . . . and more susceptible than