Colony by Benjamin Cross (best way to read books .TXT) 📕

hand, threw them into his mouth and dry swallowed them. Then he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, fighting to regain his composure. This was a business venture. Business ventures encountered problems. Blips. Granted, this blip was of a greater order of magnitude than usual, but it was not insoluble. All was not lost. He just needed to calm down and think it through.

His mind flitted to the data stick. It was the key. Its recovery was paramount. He was no technology expert, but then he had fiscal involvement with some serious players in the European and Asian technology markets, including systems security. If he could deliver the raw virus to one of them, they could unlock the programme’s base coding just like any other. They could then formulate a solution. An anti-virus. Stuxnet would lie dormant for a period before becoming active, in order to adapt to the specific operating parameters of the host system. With any luck, he could cleanse the entire national delivery system before anybody even knew it was infected.

That just left the small matter of locating the data stick itself.

The obvious first port of call was the submarine. The late Mr Peterson had proven himself an unexpectedly adroit opponent, and while Volkov believed his terrified confession that he had entrusted it to somebody else, he wasted no time ransacking the submarine anyway. Finding nothing, he then disabled its systems with his last two bullets and made his way back to his own vessel.

He seated himself in the leather operator’s chair and began to think. Where would it be? If I were an impudent, Yankee tree-hugger, who would I have entrusted it to?

As a former illegal resident KGB operative, the ability to accurately profile a target had often proven the difference between success and failure. So critical a skill was it, that it had developed into an intuitive, almost mechanical, response that had served Volkov equally well in business. Even now his mind had begun picking apart Mr Peterson’s. What were his weaknesses? He cared about things, people, places. Why did he care about them? Because he ascribed meaning to them. Why? Because they elicited an emotional response from him. Did he cross the fine line between the emotional and the sentimental? Yes. He was clearly sentimental. So how did sentimental people act? They pined and they regretted and they pitied and they loved and they… loved.

Volkov’s lips tightened into a self-satisfied grin. Love. People entrusted their most valuable possessions to loved ones – secrets, dreams, memories, fears – often without even realising. Physical items were only the logical next step. He’d seen it more times than he could remember. Passwords in lockets. Keys on charm bracelets. Was it possible that Mr Peterson had done the same?

His affair with the Canadian, Doctor Lee, was no secret. Indeed, after his source had first brought it to light, Volkov had monitored the romance closely, fearing that it would distract Ptarmigan from his mission. Could the American really have entrusted the virus to his unsuspecting paramour?

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense, until he was quite certain. The data stick was in the possession of Doctor Ava Lee. And where was she? According to his man on the ground, she was stranded on Harmsworth along with an awkward number of other survivors: Doctors Lebedev and Ross, either of whom might also have had the data stick, and a sizeable Spetsnaz contingent. Despite his grin, Volkov felt a genuine sense of remorse that none of them would be making it off the island alive. He wasn’t a monster. He was a businessman.

Newly focussed, he slid his knife from its sheath, flipped it from one hand to the other and back, and then examined his hazy reflection in the blade. He dragged it across the back of his hand to test the sharpness. It was razor.

So the survivors were heading for the old military outpost. He resheathed the blade. If he wanted to be there to meet them, then he would need to move quickly.

Chapter 11 Possum

1

Koikov took one last look into the mouth of the cave. “Rest in peace,” he uttered. Then he turned around, spat on the floor and signalled to the two privates.

Jets of smoke erupted from their RPG housings and the explosive-tipped projectiles streaked forward side by side, scoring their trails into the air. With a roar, they careered into the ceiling of the cave and sent a torrent of rock cascading down.

Back on their feet, Privates Zakrevsky and Orlov fell in at Koikov’s side, and the three men watched together as the rumble of tumbling stone petered out and the smoke gradually cleared. Where the cave mouth had been, there was now an almighty pile of scorched rock.

“Good work,” Koikov said. “That should give those fuckers something to think about.”

He ran his gaze across the faces of the two younger men. He’d never expected them to share his sentiment, but neither had he expected the conflict betrayed in their expressions to cut so deep.

It was understandable. They hadn’t been part of the original rescue team, so they’d seen no evidence of the mysterious creatures that they were supposed to be afraid of. They were going through the motions all the same, accepting what they were told and obeying orders because they were soldiers, highly trained soldiers, and that’s what they were trained to do. But clearly there was still a part of them that wondered whether Koikov had lost his mind.

They’ll learn soon enough, he thought to himself, hoping beyond hope that he was wrong. “Let’s catch up with the others before they get too far ahead. Orlov, you man the tower.”

Koikov wove the Czilim expertly in between the outcrops of rock, and after half a kilometre or so they caught up with the rest of the team. Zakrevsky fell back in. Orlov stuck with the gun, as Koikov continued shadowing the staggered rank of troops at a distance.

As he drove, he