transportation unit and closed the container with an airtight latch, measuring the nitrogen level.
There was enough in the container to keep the syringe at 32 degrees Fahrenheit for twelve days. Staring down, she watched the red needle holding steady. Then she had another moment of guilt and wondered if she were truly right, or even responsible, in what she was doing. But as she paused she recalled the horrific videotape of Cain escaping and somehow knew that, in the end, the virus would be their only chance.
Concentrating, she reviewed all the safety factors; the Marburg virus was housed in an unbreakable steel syringe sealed with a safe-locked air tight cap; the syringe was housed in another airtight, almost indestructible niobium-titanium transportation unit that held enough liquid nitrogen to keep the virus frozen for twelve days, and she knew that, if necessary, she could destroy it at any time with an injection of mercury.
With that thought she reached up and lifted a small vial of mercury, another syringe for insertion.
Sweating heavily inside her suit despite the chill of the freezer, she tried not to think about the enormity of the risk. She was not only violating federal laws and ethics and international treaties that prohibited the transportation of Class IV viruses, she was conceivably endangering the entire world. But then the world was already in danger and she was certain that conventional military weapons would never finish Cain.
Yes, she'd been certain of that single horrifying fact since the day they finished rebuilding him and his traumatic incisions had healed without scars within an hour.
And, most of all, there was Amy.
Maggie grimaced: No! Cain could not have her child! He would never have her child!
She was certain that if she could hit Cain for even a tenth of a second with the needle he would be as dead as he'd been before. And in her soul she knew she was more responsible than anyone for starting this; she was willing to give her life to finish it; a penance well deserved.
Face hardening in determination, she lifted the mercury and the nitrogen unit, holding it in a tight fist, and left the laboratory.
***
Soloman hit the deck at the Lear before Chatwell could even stop the Jeep. He saw Ben boarding the hatch of the jet beside a somber Maggie. At his arrival, Ben turned and gave him the thumbs-up.
Soloman was sweating heavily in the night heat and nodded as he moved toward a fiercely armed Delta contingent: twelve men wearing full body armor and bearing an intimidating array of weapons.
He was on top of them in seconds, commanding like the colonel he'd once been and felt himself becoming again—mean, disciplined and advising by sheer attitude that he wouldn't take any crap or excuse for failure. These were men that were best led from the front—and that was where he planned to be.
"School circle on me!" he called out, and the men were instantly around him. "Who's the XO?"
"Here, sir!" A big Mexican stepped up.
Soloman saw that the Mexican was much larger than he was, even larger than Chatwell. He wasn't muscular in the contemporary sense but he held the aura of a deep and natural animal power; something that was hard the day he was born and hardened more by a life of hardship. His bearded face—bearded because Delta commandos were often required to work in foreign countries under civilian cover—made him look like a Cuban drug runner. His eyes were black and implacable with only the faintest crescent moons and Soloman reflexively knew him for what he was: a professional soldier, someone who lived to fight and fought well.
Thoroughly prepared, he was armed with a back -slung eight-shot Remington 870 shotgun and an MP-5—a compact 9-mm submachine gun that had a nine-hundred-round-per-minute cycling rate. A Colt .45 was on his hip with extra ammo and a large bowie knife. He carried the load as if it were weightless.
"What's your name, lieutenant?" Soloman squared off, settling up
There was enough in the container to keep the syringe at 32 degrees Fahrenheit for twelve days. Staring down, she watched the red needle holding steady. Then she had another moment of guilt and wondered if she were truly right, or even responsible, in what she was doing. But as she paused she recalled the horrific videotape of Cain escaping and somehow knew that, in the end, the virus would be their only chance.
Concentrating, she reviewed all the safety factors; the Marburg virus was housed in an unbreakable steel syringe sealed with a safe-locked air tight cap; the syringe was housed in another airtight, almost indestructible niobium-titanium transportation unit that held enough liquid nitrogen to keep the virus frozen for twelve days, and she knew that, if necessary, she could destroy it at any time with an injection of mercury.
With that thought she reached up and lifted a small vial of mercury, another syringe for insertion.
Sweating heavily inside her suit despite the chill of the freezer, she tried not to think about the enormity of the risk. She was not only violating federal laws and ethics and international treaties that prohibited the transportation of Class IV viruses, she was conceivably endangering the entire world. But then the world was already in danger and she was certain that conventional military weapons would never finish Cain.
Yes, she'd been certain of that single horrifying fact since the day they finished rebuilding him and his traumatic incisions had healed without scars within an hour.
And, most of all, there was Amy.
Maggie grimaced: No! Cain could not have her child! He would never have her child!
She was certain that if she could hit Cain for even a tenth of a second with the needle he would be as dead as he'd been before. And in her soul she knew she was more responsible than anyone for starting this; she was willing to give her life to finish it; a penance well deserved.
Face hardening in determination, she lifted the mercury and the nitrogen unit, holding it in a tight fist, and left the laboratory.
***
Soloman hit the deck at the Lear before Chatwell could even stop the Jeep. He saw Ben boarding the hatch of the jet beside a somber Maggie. At his arrival, Ben turned and gave him the thumbs-up.
Soloman was sweating heavily in the night heat and nodded as he moved toward a fiercely armed Delta contingent: twelve men wearing full body armor and bearing an intimidating array of weapons.
He was on top of them in seconds, commanding like the colonel he'd once been and felt himself becoming again—mean, disciplined and advising by sheer attitude that he wouldn't take any crap or excuse for failure. These were men that were best led from the front—and that was where he planned to be.
"School circle on me!" he called out, and the men were instantly around him. "Who's the XO?"
"Here, sir!" A big Mexican stepped up.
Soloman saw that the Mexican was much larger than he was, even larger than Chatwell. He wasn't muscular in the contemporary sense but he held the aura of a deep and natural animal power; something that was hard the day he was born and hardened more by a life of hardship. His bearded face—bearded because Delta commandos were often required to work in foreign countries under civilian cover—made him look like a Cuban drug runner. His eyes were black and implacable with only the faintest crescent moons and Soloman reflexively knew him for what he was: a professional soldier, someone who lived to fight and fought well.
Thoroughly prepared, he was armed with a back -slung eight-shot Remington 870 shotgun and an MP-5—a compact 9-mm submachine gun that had a nine-hundred-round-per-minute cycling rate. A Colt .45 was on his hip with extra ammo and a large bowie knife. He carried the load as if it were weightless.
"What's your name, lieutenant?" Soloman squared off, settling up
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