“I don’t like it, either, but that’s how it’s done, my friend.” Neither man owned a fur coat.
“When do you expect results?”
“Oh, five to seven days for the ‘A’ group. Nine to fourteen for the control group. And the ‘B’ group-well, we have hopes for them, of course. How’s it going on your side of the house?”
“Lost one today.”
“This fast?” Berg asked, finding it disturbing.
“His liver was off the chart to begin with. That’s something we haven’t considered fully enough. There will be people out there with an unusually high degree of vulnerability to our little friend.”
“They could be canaries, man,” Berg worried, thinking of the songbirds used to warn miners about bad air. “And we learned how to deal with that two years ago, remember?”
“I know.” In a real sense, that was where the entire idea had come from. But they could do it better than the foreigners had. “What’s the difference in time between humans and our little furry friends?”
“Well, I didn’t aerosol any of these, remember. This is a vaccine test, not an infection test.”
“Okay, I think you need to set up an aerosol control test. I hear you have an improved packing method.”
“Maggie wants me to do that. Okay. We have plenty of monkeys. I can set it up in two days, a full-up test of the notional delivery system.”
“With and without vaccines?”
“I can do that.” Berg nodded. You should have set it up already, idiot, Killgore didn’t say to his colleague. Berg was smart, but he couldn’t see very far beyond the limits of his microscopes. Well, nobody was perfect, even here. “I don’t go out of my way to kill things, John,” Berg wanted to make clear to his physician colleague.
“I understand, Steve, but for every one we kill in proofing Shiva, we’ll save a few hundred thousand in the wild, remember? And you take good care of them while they’re here,” he added. The test animals here lived an idyllic life, in comfortable cages, or even in large communal areas where the food was abundant and the water clear. The monkeys had a lot of room, with pseudotrees to climb, air temperature like that of their native Africa, and no predators to threaten them. As in human prisons, the condemned ate hearty meals to go along with their constitutional rights. But people like Steve Berg still didn’t like it, important and indispensable as it was to the overall goal. Killgore wondered if his friend wept at night for the cute little brown-eyed creatures. Certainly Berg wasn’t all that concerned with Chester-except that he might represent a canary, of course: That could indeed ruin anything, but that was also why Berg was developing “A” vaccine.
“Yeah,” Berg admitted. “I still feel shitty about it, though.”
“You should see my side of the house,” Killgore observed.
“I suppose,” Steve Berg responded diffidently.
The overnight flight had come out of Raleigh-Durham International Airport in North Carolina, an hour’s drive from Fort Bragg. The Boeing 757 touched down in an overcast drizzle to begin a taxi process almost as long as the flight itself, or so it often seemed to the passengers, as they finally came to the US Airways gate in Heathrow’s Terminal 3.
Chavez and Clark had come up together to meet him. They were dressed in civilian clothes, and Domingo held card with “MALLOY” printed on it. The fourth man was dressed in Marine Class-As, complete to his Sam Browne belt, gold wings, and four and a half rows of ribbons on the olive-colored uniform blouse. His blue-grayes saw the card and came to it as he half-dragged his canvas bag with him.
“Nice to be met,” Lieutenant Colonel Daniel Malloy observed. “Who are you guys?”
“John Clark.”
“Domingo Chavez.” Handshakes were exchanged.
“Any more bags?” Ding asked.
“This is all I had time to pack. Lead on, people,” Colonel Malloy replied.
“Need a hand with that?” Chavez asked a man about six inches taller and forty pounds heavier than himself.
“I got it,” the Marine assured him. “Where we going?”
“Chopper is waiting for us. Car’s this way.” Clark headed through a side door, then down some steps to a waiting car. The driver took Malloy’s bag and tossed it in the “boot” for the half-mile drive to a waiting British army Puma helicopter.
Malloy looked around. It was a crummy day to fly, the ceiling about fifteen hundred feet, and the drizzle getting a little harder, but he was not a white-knuckle flyer. They loaded into the back of the helicopter. He watched the flight crew run through the start-up procedure professionally, reading off their printed checklist, just as he did it. With the rotor turning, they got on the radio for clearance to lift off. That took several minutes. It was a busy time at Heathrow, with lots of international flights arriving to deliver business people to their work of the day. Finally, the Puma lifted off, climbed to altitude, and headed off in an undetermined direction to wherever the hell he was going. At that point, Malloy got on the intercom.
“Can anybody tell me what the hell this is all about?”
“What did they tell you?”
“Pack enough underwear for a week,” Malloy replied, with a twinkle in his eye.
“There’s a nice department store a few miles from the base.”
“Hereford?”
“Good guess,” Chavez responded. “Been there?”
“Lots of times. I recognized that crossroads down there from other flights. Okay, what’s the story?”
“You’re going to be working with us, probably,” Clark told him.
“Who’s `us,’ sir?”
“We’re called Rainbow, and we don’t exist.”
“Vienna?” Malloy said through the intercom. The way they both blinked was answer enough. “Okay, that looked a little slick for cops. What’s the makeup of the team?”
“NATO, mainly Americans and Brits, but others, too, plus an Israeli,” John told him.
“And you set this up without any rotorheads?”
“Okay, goddamnit, I blew it, okay?” Clark observed. “I’m new at this command stuff.”
“What’s that on your forearm, Clark? Oh, what rank are you?”
John pulled back on his jacket, exposing the red seal tattoo. “I’m a simulated two-star. Ding here is a simulated major.”
The marine examined the tattoo briefly. “I’ve heard of those, but never seen any. Third Special Operations Group, wasn’t it? I knew a guy who worked with them.”
“Who’s that?”
“Dutch Voort, retired about five-six years ago as a fullbird.”
“Dutch Voort! Shit, haven’t heard that name in a while,” Clark replied at once. “I got shot down with him once.”
“You and a bunch of others. Great aviator, but his luck was kinda uneven.”
“How’s your luck, Colonel?” Chavez asked.
“Excellent, sonny, excellent,” Malloy assured him. “And you can call me Bear.”
It fit, both men decided of their visitor. He was Clark’s height, six-one, and bulky, as though he pumped barbells for fun and drank his share of beer afterward. Chavez thought of his friend Julio Vega, another lover of free weights. Clark read over the medals. The DFC had two repeat clusters on it, as did the Silver Star. The shooting iron also proclaimed that Malloy was an expert marksman. Marines liked to shoot for entertainment and to prove that like all other Marines they were riflemen. In Malloy’s case, a Distinguished Rifleman, which was as high as the awards went. But no Vietnam ribbons, Clark saw. Well, he would have been too young for that, which was another way for Clark to realize how old he’d grown. lie also saw that Malloy was about the right age for a half colonel, whereas someone with all those decorations should have made it younger. Had Malloy been passed over for full-bird colonel? One problem with special operations was that it often put one off the best career track. Special attention was often required to make sure such people got the promotions they merited – which wasn’t a problem for enlisted men, but frequently a big one for commissioned officers.
“I started off in search-and-rescue, then I shipped over to Recon Marines, you know, get ’em in, get ’em out. You gotta have a nice touch. I guess I do.”
“What are you current in?”
“H-60, Hueys, of course, and H-53s. I bet you don’t have any of those, right?”
“‘Fraid not,” Chavez said, immediately and obviously disappointed.
“Air Force 24th Special Operations Squadron at RAF Mildenhall has the MH-60K and MH-53. I am up to speed on both if you ever borrow them. They’re part of Ist Special Operations Wing, and they’re based both here and in Germany, last time I checked.”
“No shit?” Clark asked.
“No shit, Simulated General, sir. I know the wing commander, Stanislas Dubrovnik, Stan the Man. Great helo driver. He’s been around the block a few dozen times if you ever need a friend in a hurry.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. What else you know how to fly?”