Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 11a

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 11a

By Phil Miller

Chapter 11

Mika established an end to end secure link to Moscow via a Russian communications satellite. It had been a long time coming for Colonel Yassarevitch, since his superiors had ordered the shut down of the Russian embassies in Dublin and London; time was running out. 

The Colonel sat alongside other high ranking officials of the Russian military elite, within the impregnable fortress that was the newly built, high tech, Russian Defence Data Centre.  The huge war room was filled to capacity. The Russian defence system (EKS) and China’s CRC were at their highest levels. The colonel excused himself and retired to a restroom; he wished he could smoke one of his favourite Cohiba Esplendido cigar’s, washed down with a nice large Beluga Noble or Cherry Varenya, like the old days, but that would have to wait, until it was over.

After a short, thirty-second loss of connection, Mika was back. Yassarevitch tapped his earpiece, “At last! Where have you been?”

“It doesn’t matter. I lost you for a moment, but we are all good now.”

“You have him then?”

“Soon!”

“We are going to take Okhrana down but we must be sure we are in position?”

“I need one, maybe two hours more, that is all.”

“No games Mika.  Just do your job. We are at the point of no return. Our comrades in China are ready and waiting.”

Mika disconnected the call and watched the live news footage on rewind again of a possible terrorist attack on the streets of East London. The footage was perfectly clear and so was the man holding the gun. She knew Peter Donyevsky.  She knew he had turned, that he had killed her brother Pepe and Micheal Kaspersky, the man who had given her purpose. She focused on his targets, scanning into the motorbike. The registration was clear. She froze the image, copied and cropped it, then uploaded it to the Russian Secret Service database. 10 minutes later she had the information she needed. Local ANPR had caught them heading East.

Mika dressed in her combat clothing and prepared her weapons. She was meticulous to a fault; always be prepared, trust no-one, strike first. The time had come. 

Cody had ridden like a bat out of hell until she reached Standford-le-hope.  It was almost 7:30pm, when the weather had turned against them. Visibility was down to around thirty yards, causing her to slow down to what seemed a snail’s pace, as the torrential rain made riding almost impossible. The fuel gauge was on empty. An old roadwork’s port-a-cabin gave them the shelter they needed. They were clear; for the moment. The A13 had been undergoing major works which proved a blessing in disguise as it was partially blocked off by concrete blocks and plastic cones. The Kawasaki stalled in the deep excavator tracks that had been churned up by a monster digger, during the day. Craig slid off, into the cold wet mud. He lay there shivering, eyes half open. Cody leant over him then grabbed his ankles and, holding one leg under each of her arms, she dragged him towards the workmen’s hut, the adrenalin nulling the pain in her hand and nose.  Craig came back to life just as they neared the entrance. Cody tried the door, which was unlocked, and reached in for a light switch; good, electricity. The unit was around fifteen by twelve feet. Half a dozen Hi-Viz polyester rain suits hung on hooks along the prefab walls along with safety helmets. Two tables in the middle of the hut gave it a cramped feel. A hot water heater sat alongside a Baby Belling and microwave and benches sat fixed to each wall.

Cody checked the door before sitting down. Craig lay on a bench, staring at the ceiling. Both were exhausted. Cody walked over and sat down next to Craig, lifting his head onto her lap, wiping clumps of blackened mud from his hair. Craig looked up at her, his eyes were bloodshot and his body and head ached. He had a compulsion to scratch at his feet so kicked off his muddied trainers.

“I didn’t ask for this,” whispered Craig.

“None of us did,” said Cody, delicately removing some mud from his face.

“I should hate you for what you did, or rather, what you didn’t do,” still shivering.

“We couldn’t tell you, it may have jeopardized everything. You and everyone you knew would be in danger,” the pain was intensifying in her broken thumb.

“So what changed? Why save me now, and what the fuck happened to Tom?”

“He obeys orders. He’s a soldier. It’s what he is supposed to do.”

“And you! What happened back there?”

“I already made my decision when I saw the data.”

“What data?”

“We knew you would lead us to her Craig,” her voice was calm.

“What data Cody?” he asked again, “I know about Flamingo. I know about the Okhrana and I know about the plan for radical change in Russia. What else is there?” his anger rising. He started to scratch his feet against each other. It felt good, but he just wanted to tear at his flesh; If he could, he would cut his foot off, such was the irritation.

Cody didn’t answer him immediately but instead started to remove her sodden clothes. She stood in her underwear before quickly grabbing at the workmen’s waterproof clothing.

“Well! Talk!” shouted Craig, making Cody jump, knocking her hand against the side of the table.

She screamed, “alright, all right,” before throwing the protective clothing to the floor, and sat on the table staring out of the only window in the cabin, flashing lights from the motorway causing shadows to dance across her tanned body, “In the early 70’s the greatest scientific mind in the world discovered a way of using DNA to build a human clone. That man was the geneticist, Micheal Pitulko. You were that clone. But you know that already, thanks to your friend Kayse Matrix, right?” She looked over at him.

“Yes, I know that already,” his feet were getting worse.

“They also managed to create a virus. Not just any virus. This virus was built to adapt to the human body, grow with it, learn from it, building a symbiotic relationship with it. They then fused this with a mutant form of the bacterium that causes Necrotizing Fascitis. Intelligent triggers were built into the first picocells, which duplicated as you grew, but lay dormant.  You are a human biological bomb Craig. You have the capacity, if triggered, to annihilate every living thing on this planet. You are deadlier than SARS, COVID and EBOLA combined tenfold. If they activate you then god help us. Your touch alone will infect. A single expelled breath from your lungs has the capacity to kill millions. If you cough, then trillions of particles ride the airwaves looking for living organisms. Flesh blisters and bursts. Lungs are destroyed in minutes, then the liver, the heart and finally the brain. You are eaten alive from the inside out. You were supposed to be activated in Russia, during the uprising and rebellion of the Okhrana, should the coup d’etat fail. The Kremlin had been looking for Ruberov for a long time and when they found him, well! I don’t need to tell you what happened to him, do I?"

Craig sat unblinking, the words smacking him hard in the face. He had accepted the fact he was a clone, but to be a living biological weapon turned the colours of his world grey.

He felt a pain in his head and his feet were driving him insane. He noticed a foot grate by the door and trudged over to it, scraping the soles of his feet roughly over the old iron spikes, turning away from Cody as he tried to blink back the tears that were welling up inside him.

He felt sick, and he felt tired and hopeless. He felt isolated and alone but above all, he felt angry; angry with Cody, with Tom and Inspector Moreau; angry with everyone. He started punching the walls of the cabin, releasing the tsunami of emotions within, before falling to the floor in despair: a broken man.

He was distraught and flinched as he felt the warmth of her hands as she slid them under his soaked shirt. He wiped his eyes and turned slightly. Cody pressed herself gently against him and kissed his head. Craig started to sob as Cody cupped and kissed his face. They sat staring at each other for a tender moment before she helped him to remove his clothing and then her underwear. Her tanned, moist body glistened in the subdued light. Craig shook his head. He was just about to talk when Cody hushed his lips and placed his hands on her breasts. His fingers slowly and softly ran the lines of her sleek body. The urge to hold her, be with her, enter her, felt right. Cody took control. She lay him on his back, straddled him and gently eased him inside her, moving slowly back and forth before Craig rolled her over. They lay entwined as one. There was a tenderness between them. They lay side by side, gasping for breath until, finally exhausted.  They slept.

Craig woke up to find Cody had gone. He checked his watch; fifty-seven minutes, where is she?

He stood up quickly and dressed in one of the orange PVC suits, slipping on his old trainers. He looked out of the port-a-cabin window but saw nothing but the occasional red and white lights of a speeding vehicle. He felt scared. For the first time in his life, he felt real fear. He jumped down onto the muddied floor and called out for Cody, the silence deafening. He could sense something was wrong and stepped back towards the cabin, feeling for the safety of the door. The whooshing sound of helicopter blades could be heard in the distance. Craig panned around to fix its location. Somehow, he knew they were coming for him. He screamed, “Cody! Cody!”

The chopper honed in on the small prefabricated hut and landed no more than twenty metres from it. Peter Donyevsky jumped out, cursing quietly at the state of the ground that he now stood ankle deep in.

“Craig,” he shouted, “I know you are in there. It is ok! KC has told me everything. I’m on your side Craig. We have to go. I can get you to a safe place. You have to trust me.”

He started to walk towards the light of the workmen’s cabin. It was eerily quiet since the blades of the helicopter had ceased. The door was ajar. Peter Donyevsky drew his PP2 and gently pushed it open. He looked inside but could see no-one. “Craig, I can help get you out of here and away from Moreau and Singha and everyone else.” He stepped up onto the floor but was forced off-balance as Craig pulled at his grounded ankle from beneath the unit. Donyevsky fell backwards into the mud, his gun flung from his grip. Craig scrambled out and made a run for it, towards the giant one hundred metre stack of iron piling grids where it was slightly lit; just enough to shine light onto the deep foundation holes dug for the new bridge. Donyevsky was fitter, stronger than the young officer.

The mud sucked at Craig’s ankles, his thighs were burning and his legs felt cramped. He collapsed onto his knees, puffing and panting, like an animal waiting to be slain. Peter Donyevsky knelt down beside him.

“You really are a pain in the arse, you know that!”

“Just fucking kill me, please!”

“I would love to, what with all the trouble you have put me through, shithead!”

“Do it then, the world will be a safer place, believe me,” panted Craig, before spitting into the mud.

Copyright Phillip Miller