Time of Attack (2 page)

“Quite so, Dear Colonel,” Khong nodded. “Pigs and other animals play a vital role. The exact host from which it sprang is still a mystery. In some ways it resembles smallpox. In other ways, it is closer to respiratory flu. The boils are interesting. Most such sores are full of bacterium from an infected hair follicle or minor cut. These teem with virus. Think of each and every boil as a swollen pocket of extremely potent influenza.” Dark eyes flitted over the lab tables. “No one has ever identified the particular disease that caused the plague of boils in the Judeo-Christian Bible. Perhaps this could be it.”

“What do you know of the Bible, Doctor?” the colonel snapped.

“Nothing more than scientific perusal, Colonel,” Khong said. “I assure you.”

“I am curious, Doctor.” Ranjhani took another long, thinking breath behind the surgical mask. “How much of the virus needs to enter the bloodstream in order to affect the host?”

Khong raised his forefinger, grinning. “That, sir, is the most wonderful thing. I have personally induced it with dirty needles, a small nick with an infected razor, even a dentist’s drill—all with a hundred percent success. Both these women contracted the disease through sexual contact with infected men.”

“Still.” Colonel Pak stared at the prisoners, his lip nearly touching the glass partition. “It proves useless as a biological weapon if it cannot be transmitted more easily. An infestation of boils would even thwart a rutting American’s desire for sex.”

“It may still prove useful,” Ranjhani said, his mind racing with ideas. Envisioning the possible had always been his strong suit.

“Whatever you say,” the colonel grunted. “You know better than I. Rest assured, my country is an ally in whatever you decide . . . as long as it is used against the West.”

“And I can
assure
you, Colonel,” Ranjhani said, “that will be the endgame.” He turned again to the doctor. “I would require a sample for transport as early as possible.”

“Of course.” Doctor Khong sighed. The look of relief on his face said he knew that this deal would not only bring valuable cash to his country but might also avert the possibility of his getting shot in the back of the head.

The colonel had grown twitchy from loitering so long among the moaning patients. He motioned for everyone to follow him out of the room and back down the hall. Ranjhani stopped at the door, turning before he left the lab.

He cleared his throat to summon Khong’s attention.

“There was a female prisoner sweeping when we first arrived—”

“Why?” Khong’s face pinched in a look of worry and guilt. “What did she tell you? One cannot trust the word of a prisoner. Really . . .”

“She said nothing.” Ranjhani shook his head. “But I wonder if you might know what caused the wound on her hand.”

“Oh, that.” Khong breathed easier. “She came in contact with some mold . . . in one of the storerooms.”

Ranjhani nodded toward Khong’s right hand, which showed similar signs of burning, though not nearly so severe. “Did you also find yourself in that storeroom?”

Khong shot a worried glance at Colonel Pak. “I merely cleaned the prisoner’s wound so she could complete her chores. Some of the mold must have gotten on me.”

Ranjhani narrowed his eyes, studying Khong’s blistered hand. “A potent mycotoxin to cause so much damage in its natural form. Would it be possible to get a sample of this mold? I will add fifty percent to our agreed-upon price.” He looked at the colonel. “Off the books.”

 

 

Ten minutes later, Qasim Ranjhani and his assistant stood in the colonel’s office, sipping weak coffee while they waited for the truck to be brought around. Ever attentive for listening devices, Ranjhani leaned sideways, whispering the basics of his plan in Ali’s ear.

Ali turned up his nose. “If the sickness does not jump from one person to another, how can it do us any good? Would we not do better to focus on attaining a significant bomb to blast away the American swagger?”

“With a little orchestration and the will of Allah, this will prove better than any bomb.” Ranjhani inhaled deeply, a smile slowly infecting his face. He put a hand on Ali’s shoulder. “Surely you have seen how a brood of small chicks will peck and peck at a bit of red fuzz on a fellow chick, thinking it to be blood? Over and over they collectively worry the spot until it soon becomes an open sore. The wounded chick is eventually pecked to death over nothing more than a misunderstanding . . .”

The squeaking military truck rumbled up outside.

Ranjhani walked out a few steps behind Ali.

“Forgive me, my friend, but I must make a call. I will join you shortly.” Ranjhani listened to his cell phone ring, stamping his feet against the cold. He slowed, allowing Ali to get well ahead and out of earshot before he answered.

It was difficult enough to explain the concept for the plague of boils. Ranjhani hadn’t even mentioned the mold. If it was the sort of toxin he believed it to be, it would provide the ultimate weapon. The virus would just be the beginning.

 

 

 

Governor Lee McKeon sat in his assigned seat in the sprawling grandstands, five vacant chairs away and one row below the North Korean president. Two female aides sat on the other side of McKeon, heads bowed in boredom, crunched close together against the chilly air. A retinue of groveling yes-men surrounded the Dear Leader, each in the full uniform of some high-ranking general. There was no shortage of beautiful, immaculately dressed people, ready to bring coffee or answer any other whim of the boyish North Korean president.

Rank after goose-stepping rank of North Korean soldiers marched by, falling boots vibrating the parade ground below. All were gaunt with frowning faces, as if someone had just eaten their favorite pet and hadn’t given them a bite. The governor couldn’t help wondering what the endless row of youth thought of their supreme leader. The look in their angry young eyes reminded him of the old proverb:
When the great lord passes, the wise peasant bows deeply and silently farts.

McKeon had a perfect view of the parade below but had to turn half around in his plastic stadium seat to see if the president happened to be looking at him. Dennis Rodman had warranted a spot next to the Dear Leader on his visit, but the governor of Oregon was an official from the United States—the lowest of pariah in the mind of the North Korean president. A statement had to be made—loud and clear. Even if McKeon wasn’t from the federal government—the Dear Leader’s disgust for all things American earned anyone even remotely connected with Washington, D.C., far less respect than he’d afforded the retired basketball star.

McKeon was a self-proclaimed
Chindian
—of Chinese and Indian descent—with an Scottish surname. What could be more American than that? He was a lanky man, nearly six and a half feet tall, with narrow, somewhat sloping shoulders that drew many to compare him with Abraham Lincoln. These were traits that didn’t hurt him in the election, considering the fact that he was actually Pakistani—not Indian—and Chinese with mahogany skin and thin, horse-like features.

Below, endless ranks of artillery, tanks, and missiles followed the troops—and then, more soldiers. Always, there were more soldiers. North Korea might not have enough food, but it was important for the world to know that they possessed an endless supply of angry-looking young men and women to throw at any threat.

McKeon leaned sideways to rest his back from so much sitting. He turned to smile and let the Dear Leader see how truly impressed he was by this show of force.

The governor’s reasons for even being in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea set his nerves on edge. He jumped when his cell phone began to buzz in the pocket of his jacket.

It would be bad manners to answer, but the Dear Leader seemed enthralled with the spectacle of his own presentation, so McKeon picked up, half-thankful for the break from watching the never-ending river of grumpy young soldiers.

“Yes?” McKeon cupped his hand over his mouth in an effort to mask the blaring parade music pouring from the loudspeakers above. There was, of course, the remote chance that NSA or some other obscure U.S. intelligence agency would be listening in, but both men spoke on disposable devices that had been purchased in North Korea. Far from the smartphones the governor was accustomed to, the piece of junk he held to his ear didn’t even qualify as a dumb phone. It was, however, theoretically untraceable.

“I have it, my friend.” Qasim Ranjhani’s voice clicked with a Pakistani-infused English, thick with Punjabi influence. Both men shared a
Chindian
heritage—among other things.

“There was never any doubt.” McKeon snugged his jacket up around his neck as a chill racked his spine. He’d hoped, but not dared to believe, this could actually happen.

“It will take coordination,” Ranjhani said. “And we are so few.”

McKeon glanced up at the Dear Leader, who thankfully was still watching the spectacle of his might and power. “We are few,” he agreed. “But we have help.”

“If that same help does not murder us,” Ranjhani said.

“I will advise him you have it so he can make the necessary acquisitions.” McKeon felt an electric jolt at the possibilities.

“Very well,” Ranjhani said. “There is something else, but I will tell you about it in person.” He ended the call without another word.

McKeon was used to such abrupt behavior from his friend, especially when he was excited. He returned the phone to his pocket, glad to keep the conversation short. The president of North Korea had decided to look up at that very moment and now stared down from the row above with a dyspeptic frown.

If the Dear Leader had known what McKeon had been talking about, or the havoc he was about to unleash on the United States, that frown would have been a smile—and McKeon would have been given a better seat.

 

 

 

First Sergeant Rick Bedford hung plastic reading glasses on the collar of a gray
ARMY
T-shirt and tossed the tattered copy of
Sports Illustrated
on the seat next to him. He tried to force a pleasant smile as he sat down in the worn barber chair. With high cheekbones and a thick mustache to match his dark hair, he was a known smiler among his men, but the days, weeks, and months in Afghanistan, so far away from his wife, had started to pile up on him. It was easy to see why the Russians always looked so angry during the ’80s.

“Where’s Aina today?” He did his best to grin at the girl who stood wide-eyed behind the barber chair, holding a pair of scissors. She looked so young, from Kyrgyzstan like most of the other barbers. He wondered why she was cutting hair and not in school.

“Aina has taken ill,” the girl said. Her command of English was excellent—probably what got her the job. “My name is Macha. I have not work here for some months, but they call me back because it is so busy. Everyone wants a haircut before they go home to their sweethearts.”

“That is so, Macha.” Rick Bedford sighed, closing his eyes. “Gotta look nice for our sweethearts.”

“You have been in Afghanistan for some time?”

“Long enough.” Bedford knew better than to talk specifics with the hired help. But rather than go secret squirrel, he usually tried to joke his way out of such conversations. “I’ll have to throw a handful of dirt in my sheets when I get home just to be able to go to sleep.”

Macha gave a strained laugh, yammering on about the weather, the dirt, even the horrible Bagram traffic. He could feel her hand tremble as she clipped his hair. She’d probably gap him up something terrible, just in time to go home and see Marta.

“Aina is very pretty, no?” the girl said, adjusting Bedford’s head with both hands. “You know her well over these months, I suppose.”

“She was a good barber, that’s all.” Bedford shrugged. He didn’t have any particular loyalty toward Aina. She just knew how to cut his hair. Some of the soldiers managed to hook up with the Kyrgyz women who worked in many of the service jobs on base. Even absent General Order #1, which prohibited such intimate behavior, Bedford wanted no part of such an affair. He’d lived and worked in this hellhole for nearly a year with his only thought to get back home to his wife. The fact that she was the sheriff’s daughter and a very accurate shot had only a little to do with his fidelity.

“Ah, you work with the Desert Rats,” the girl said, coming to a realization. Her scissors snipped away around his ears. “You all go home tomorrow.”

Bedford groaned. It wasn’t a question. She already knew. He made a mental note to remind his guys about Operational Security. Flagrant disregard for op sec could give the enemy enough intelligence to plant an improvised explosive or set up a sniper. Even so, Bedford found himself in a forgiving mood. The thought of returning home made him feel ten pounds lighter. Images of Marta flooded his mind.

“Tomorrow,” Bedford whispered without thinking. He stifled a yawn. Hell, almost everyone was going home. They shouldn’t talk about it, but by now, it was national news.

“Good for you,” the barber said. “You should be home tomorrow night.”

“Takes a bit longer than that.” Bedford chuckled. Aina had never bothered him with such small talk.

“Still, you are going,” the woman said. In her exuberance, she nicked him with her scissors.

He brought a hand to his ear and came back with a drop of blood.

“Please forgive me,” the girl said, eyes down, glistening with tears. “It is nothing but a tiny scratch, I assure you.”

Sergeant Bedford took a deep breath, biting his tongue. But, if he was anything, he was a nice guy. “Patient to a fault,” his last performance rating had said. He just wanted to get home in one piece and see his wife before some overzealous barber cut his head off.