Chapter 13: Infiltration
Umbrella Research Facility
Main Entrance; Sector 1
21 July, 1999
2108 hrs (9:08pm)
The hall – as much of it as they could see past the double set of glass doors – was dark; not even emergency lights were lit. It wasn't unusual, but something was inexplicably foreboding. The very scent of death hung heavy about the place – perhaps not literally, but their imaginations had all run wild.
They were prepared to face Satan himself within those doors.
Barry Burton nodded once sharply at Garett Blake, signaling that the Captain's back would be covered. He rested his right elbow on his knee, leveling the Python at the door ahead, tightening his finger on the trigger.
"Approaching." Blake rose from the bushes were he crouched and boldly approached the front door of the lab.
The rest of the Bravo S.T.A.R.S. stayed where they were, shaded by darkness and swampy undergrowth, each distinctly uncomfortable about Blake being so vulnerable.
They had disposed of all the cameras outside that would possibly give them any trouble, and the next step was actually getting inside. While they had all been leery about destroying cameras they only had fifty-two minutes left to get in and get out with what they needed.
And then there'll be the complication of actually finding what we need and getting it out intact. And we don't know what we'll come up against in there.
Barry growled low in his throat. He wasn't a pessimist, and thinking such thoughts only discouraged him. But at the same time, he knew his were legitimate concerns.
Can it. Save concern for when it's really necessary.
Blake dug in one of the pouches of his black S.T.A.R.S. flak vest and produced the fake I.D. Greg Defkine had made up over the previous afternoon. Barry didn't understand all that fancy computer jazz the newcomer had been talking about, but from what he did gather, the card would get them past the checkpoint.
"Just swipe it," Greg Defkine said, holding out the card to Garett Blake. "It doesn't look pretty, but it'll work."
He had spent the last few hours agonizing over a laptop, studying the codebook David Trapp and his team had procured from the Utah lab, and finally producing the key card he now held.
"That's it? Are you sure?" Blake asked, taking and turning the piece of plastic over in his hands. "It doesn't look very official."
"They're not gonna have a chance to frisk you, Sir. Trust me on this one," Defkine said with a self–confident smile. "I've done some research on Umbrella in the past, so I was already familiar with the dot–code/bar–code system they use. Complex, but predictable."
"Just swipe it?" Blake asked again, still sounding unsure. He mimed swiping the card through a slot in mid–air.
"Just swipe it," Defkine confirmed, smiling.
Barry remembered laughing at Blake's concern, but at the same time, he had been worried too. It just seemed too easy. And on top of that, never had the S.T.A.R.S. willingly entered an Umbrella laboratory under "normal" circumstances.
Going into the lion's den, with a fake I.D., with rookies, in the dark, in a swamp. Doesn't get much better than this.
There was a very audible beep as Blake slid the fake through the swipe slot. There was silence for a moment, and Barry was sure that it hadn't worked –
– and then a green light came on above the access panel, and a clear chime sounded in the still swamp air. Blake turned his back to the panel and put his hand up to the earpiece of his throat mic.
"I owe you one, Greg. Boss, I need the pin – quickly."
"Hold. Okay, it's 8-2-zenith-john-king-king-9-0-3."
Blake slowly punched in the numbers, speaking faster than his fingers moved. "That was eight-two-zenith-john-king-king-nine-zero-three, confirm?"
"Roger that, Captain."
Security at all Umbrella labs was always tight. Codes and passwords changed on regular intervals, and employees were always being moved around to keep maximum secrecy.
But we got 'em all – all in a little black book from God.
Barry grinned as Blake entered the code on the keypad and the glass doors slid open mechanically.
Open fucking sesame, he thought in nervous abandon.
Blake signaled the advance, and the other four members of his team came out of the bushes and advanced upon the gaping mouth of the Umbrella lab. Davis was on–point and the girl, Yaokee, had rear position. The former swept past Blake, through the second set of doors and into the echoing hall.
Barry was second to get inside, and he immediately felt the wash of air conditioning kiss his sweating flesh. The smell of the hall was sterile, and he didn't like it – he fancied he caught the scent of chloroform, and the idea sent a chill down his spine.
Smells like that shit they use to clean up blood and urine. Don't wanna know how many accidents happened here.
He immediately longed for the fresh air of the outdoors – humid though it was.
Davis led the way cautiously into what looked to be a dark, yet innocent waiting room – if it weren't for the Umbrella symbol on the wall behind the secretary's station, it could have fooled them all.
A half–door extending between the counter and wall blocked their path to the hall beyond, but Davis pushed it aside and continued on, sighting down the barrel of his handgun.
Barry heard Jason Cooger moving stealthily behind him in the darkness, knew that the younger man had his back, and followed in Davis' wake. The half–door gave easily, sliding smoothly on oiled hinges, and Barry stepped out of that almost cheerful sitting room and into the real nightmare.
The short hall into which he emerged was lit only by a pencil–thin stretch of white light, which slid out from the crack beneath the door before them. Stamped on the white paint of the door was the orange and black specter of doom: the biohazard symbol.
Barry held up his hand to alert the others behind him that they were halting, and waited as Davis nosed the door open with his Beretta.
The hall beyond was white – floor, walls, ceiling, fluorescent lights. They emerged into a t–junction, the short hall they had emerged from being the short vertical jot of the letter. Their footsteps echoed in the long corridor, and they fanned out quickly to cover each other.
"What a big white hall," Barry muttered, and found that even a whisper carried, so he shut his mouth again.
The vacant corridor was silent, save for the empty hum of air conditioning somewhere above their heads. The white linoleum was spotless, and there was literally nothing before or behind them but seemingly endless stretches of hallway extending forever in two directions.
There were doors, however – at least ten – leading off from the hall. These too were white, and only a few had windows in them, but there were plaques on the walls to the right of each door telling them what each room beyond held.
According to the painted orange letters on a large expanse of wall, they were in sector 1A. So far so good: at least their dated blueprints had been accurate.
Claire Redfield was moving silently in Barry's wake. Her dark, intelligent eyes were tracing each door they passed – ready, in case any one of them should burst open.
Barry felt a familiar surge of anxiety fill his chest, making it harder to breathe. It was the same sensation he had felt when he'd first learned that Claire would be part of Garrett's team.
Chris's little sister – Chris, Barry's buddy, longtime friend and companion. From the moment Marco had given out the squad rosters, Barry had made it his personal duty to see to it that Claire made it out alive. He knew that – if she were to find out his silent creed – she would be resentful, independent type as she was, but that would not discourage him.
If you don't leave here tonight, little Redfield, then neither do I. He grimaced, refrained from nervously glancing over at her again, and quickened his pace.
"Where to, Boss?" Blake asked into his throat mic, somewhere behind Barry. The Captain's voice echoed so loudly that Barry was sure someone had heard. He winced internally, but another part of him – the fighter in him – snarled in appreciation.
Let 'em come.
Marco, in their ears: "Sector 1A is clean according to these building plans. You want to get to level 3 – the lowest level. According to Captain Alpha's research, sector 3C should be where the good stuff is."
"How hard will it be to get in?" Blake asked in an undertone.
"You'll need to find a key card. When you get to sector 3B, there will be a dead-end hall near the security station. There will be a statue on a pedestal, and somewhere in that base will be a card slot."
Barry snorted, distracted from his lookout momentarily. Umbrella architects always had nurtured a taste for melodrama.
Blake was standing in the alcove in front of one of the doors. "Any idea where to look for the card, Boss?" he asked.
"Card carriers could be any of the janitorial staff or higher–up executives. Search lockers and detain anyone you meet so you can search them thoroughly. That's our best bet, Captain."
Barry grimaced. So we're off on a wild goose chase.
During the seemingly endless months of reconnaissance, Barry and Chris had attempted to get names of staff and faculty, but had been afraid to pry into anything really restricted. They hadn't wanted to alert Umbrella to the fact that their files were being hacked, or the S.T.A.R.S. would have lost whatever edge their codebook bible would allow.
Well, now it all came down to getting dirty.
"Affirmative, sir. We'll begin the search right now." Blake looked up Barry and nodded at him once. The captain's eyes were calm, despite this new complication.
"Let's go," he said.
Quarantine Bay; Sector 2
2110 hrs (9:10pm)
--
Chris Redfield took a glance at the luminous face of his watch in the dark. Ten minutes of their allotted hour had slipped by already, leaving them barely fifty minutes to accomplish the mission.
Time's going too fast.
Hydraulics hissed as the small elevator slid to a halt across from him. The doors split and Leon's black body stepped out, blinking in the dim quarantine bay.
Chris held up a hand, stopping his comrade in his tracks. "Hold," he whispered into the mic.
The quarantine room was laid out as a regular square, ten feet across. The elevator was situated in the center of the room, its doors conveniently facing a blank concrete wall overlaid with metal caging. Behind the elevator's cylindrical shape was the door into the facility. There was no admittance panel or even a doorknob, however: it only opened from inside.
Security measures.
Chris leaned cautiously around the elevator shaft and peered through the small square window inset into the door. He couldn't see much from his angle, but what he could see revealed no watchful eyes. Leaning back, he nodded once at Leon.
"Stay low," he ordered.
Leon nodded and dropped into a crouch beside his brother–in–arms. "Guards?" he asked in a whisper as the elevator doors closed and they heard it slide back up into the ceiling.
Chris shrugged, shifted his position on the metal grating that was the floor. "Can't tell. We'll need to blow the door though – no access panel."
"Shit," Leon replied, craning his neck to see the door. "Completely shaved. There's no panel anywhere?"
"Just a speaker there." Chris pointed in the darkness to where an inset speaker was mounted on the wall with a glowing orange call button beneath it.
Gotta call to get in.
"Fucking doorbell." Leon looked around in the dark. "Jesus, this place is like a cage."
"It is a cage." Chris shivered involuntarily, glancing at the ceiling as the whine of hydraulics signaled the descent of the elevator. "It's in case any of their BOWs get out."
There was an ominous pause, a moment of silence between the two old comrades as the lift continued to descend.
The elevator doors split and Justin Cantori stepped out warily, his body and face cast into complete shadow by the dim grey light from the elevator.
His voice was low: "Clear?"
"Stay low," Chris ordered, and he shifted to the right to glance at the door again.
Justin sank into the shadows again as the elevator hummed out of existence. "Time?" he asked, and his voice was calm.
Good, Chris thought. Jeff, you were right, bro – this one is competent.
The Captain glanced at his watch and swore. "48 minutes. They've got to know we're here by now." Grasping the throat mic beneath his mask, he spoke into it in a low tone. "Who's got the C4 up there?"
A gruff voice filled their ears: the growl of David Peréz, one of Marco's boys; he was also their medic. "I've got it, Captain."
"Get down here ASAP – we've got a door to go through."
"Roger that."
"Captain Alpha? This is Boss."
Chris reached up and put a hand to his earpiece. "Go ahead, Sir," he said in a whisper.
"I want you to be absolutely certain that there's no other possible way to get in. I'd like to minimize the usage of explosives. It's too pricey and dangerous, not to mention it'll alert the Umbrella people."
If they don't already know we're here, Christ thought. Jesus, I'm getting paranoid.
"This wasn't on the blueprints, Boss – there's no other way in." He took a step forward, adjusting his position so as to get another view of the doorway. "No panel or anything."
Palmieri's sigh was static in their ears. "I guess we have no choice. Be careful, Captain."
Blows, but there's nothing I can do. I don't see any other remedy. Chris sank back against the wall. "Understood, Sir," he said.
The mesh floor creaked as Leon shifted position beside him. "Make it fast, Four."
The growling voice of Peréz returned: "Roger that."
"Gotta get this party moving," Chris murmured anxiously.
Security; Sector 1
2111 hrs (9:11pm)
--
Phil Mastox couldn't believe his eyes when he saw the red light flashing on the security display of his monitor. The mug slipped from his numb fingers and smashed on the tile floor, spraying hot coffee everywhere, but Mastox didn't notice.
Oh, shit! Ferbert's going to have my ass –
He was seated in front of the security desk again in an instant, his fingers flying over the console. Someone had tripped the silent alarm – that was what the flashing light indicated – and from what his readout was telling him, it was in the quarantine room.
How did they get that far? The cams should have picked them up long before they got to the elevator, and then they would have to have a valid password –
He scanned the rows of TVs displaying camera feeds, noticed that a good half–dozen of them were displaying naught but static. His suspicion was validated: they knocked some of 'em out. Figures it's during the ten minutes I'm gone to get coffee. But where the hell did Benny get to?
Knowing full well that he and Benny both were likely dead already, Mastox turned back to the security display before him. Eyes glued to the screen showing the camera feed on the quarantine room, he reached for the phone that would link him to the private conference room in President Renault's office.
He hesitated, squinting at the grainy, black–and–white image on the screen. He could barely make out the dark room pictured there, much less any intruder.
Maybe it's a false alarm –
There.
He had distinctly seen movement – a man in a black jumpsuit, blending into the shadows. There was a second one next to him – just as invisible as the first – and as Mastox watched, a third companion stepped out of the elevator.
Who are they, and how in hell did they get in?
Mastox felt a frown growing on his face as he grabbed up the phone.
The best hacker in the world couldn't get into the Umbrella mainframe, so it has to be something valid that they've got. Someone besides Benny and me is getting fired tonight.
And then he thought: if they're lucky they'll only be fired.
Grasping the mic built into the command console, he jammed the call button with a forefinger. "Attention, attention! Security has been breached. We have intruders on level 2 – the quarantine room. Shut down all entrances and close all Sector 3 projects until further notice."
He released the mic and instead reached beneath the desk and slapped the button on the underside of the control panel. Instantly, he could hear the alarm trilling – blaring – in the hall behind him, knew that the lights out there would have gone blood red.
But where the hell is Benny? I need his password to make the call to HQ. Figures he goes and takes a dump when I need him most –
– and the door slammed open behind him, filling the room with bloody highlights.
Mastox turned in his swivel chair and started to stand, ready to vent his anger on his companion. "Benny, where the fuck have you b–?!"
"Turn it off!" The massive bear of a man standing before him was definitely not Benny Rijjer, and this individual had a gun leveled at Mastox' chest. "Turn the goddamn alarm off now!"
Mastox backed away, his hands in the air. More than just three of them inside –
Gunman advanced a step as two fellows raced into the security room – both male, and they were wearing masks.
"Kill the alarm, Three!" Gunman said to one of his fellows. "Do it fast!"
Mastox made to step forward – to interpose himself between the console and the intruders –
– but before he could even reach for his weapon, the big man with the silenced gun slammed into him, spinning Mastox around and pressing his face into the wall.
"Do you have any key cards?" Gunman demanded in his ear.
In honesty, there was one to Sector 3 in his locker, but these men didn't know that.
They'll never get that far.
"No!" he stammered. "B–Benny had one –"
A voice from behind. "Search him anyway, Two."
Hands began probing his pockets and then inside his vest. A thought occurred to Mastox as the search continued, and it set his heart to pounding even faster, this time out of pure fear.
They can't know about Sector 3 – how could they –?
"I don't have one!" he said again in protest, his lips grazing on the plaster of the wall: a massive elbow held his face pressed firmly against the cold sheetrock. "I'm just with security, man – you'll have to find someone higher up –"
"Shut the hell up and cooperate," the man searching him spat angrily. He loosened his hold on Mastox, but only slightly. "Nothing, Captain."
"Shit. Anything, Three?"
Another voice spoke from somewhere in the direction of the security console. "I can't find the others, but it looks like they're having a firefight in the room off the quarantine bay."
"So much for secrecy," Gunman growled.
Fuck you, Mastox thought, wincing as Gunman leaned into him painfully.
"Can't you disengage the alarm?" Captain's voice called urgently.
"Encrypted," Three responded quickly. "Ask him for the code, Two."
"Nicely?" Gunman snarled nastily, forcibly turning Mastox around and shoving him into Benny's seat. "Give us the password."
In the split second he had to breathe, Mastox saw his attackers clearly. There were three of them, although the security guard was sure that there was at least one more waiting out in the hall. Each was wearing black jumpsuits and flak vests; uneven stitching indicated where patches and badges had been roughly torn off. To top of their ensembles, each wore a facemask, leaving only their eyes visible through eyeholes in the black material.
So who are they? Feds?
Gunman gave him a shake when he didn't respond immediately. "You gonna cooperate, asshole? Tell me the password!"
It was hard to argue with a pistol at the nape of his neck. Mastox swallowed hard, his fear combating with his logic. "It – it's just a number code. Uh, uh, 8-8-9-7-4-3-2-5-6-7-2-3."
The man called Three was a fast typist, and the wailing, raging alarm that was making all of their ears ring died away the moment he struck the "enter" key. The man was sharp: Mastox could tell despite being unable to see the other individual. He didn't like the way the other's eyes glinted smugly as the alarm ceased.
Gunman crouched beside him, the handgun still pressed into Mastox' neck. "Look me in the eye. Look me in the eye. Now, I want you to talk into that microphone and tell everyone that it was just a false alarm. Something's wrong with the security system. Apologize and tell them all to have a good evening."
"I can't do that," Mastox spat angrily.
Either I cooperate or remain loyal. But I'm dead either way.
"I'm very good with constructive criticism." Gunman's weapon was suddenly digging deeper into the base of Mastox' skull. "I think you can. Say it, and say it all, goddammit, or I won't hesitate to kill you right now –"
"Alright, alright." Mastox pulled the chair forward, and the agent called Three moved aside so as to allow Mastox access to the panel.
"Nothing funny," Gunman growled, leaving the threat implied.
I don't think anything is funny right now.
But he said meekly: "Okay." And, picking up the mic, and pressing the call button, he repeated it all. He could hear himself saying the words – somehow his voice wasn't drowned out by the thrumming of his heartbeat – but the dead and apathetic tone wasn't his.
And just like that, he signed his own epitaph: traitor.
The pressure from Gunman's weapon slackened considerably the moment Mastox released the mic and slumped back into his seat.
"Thank you," the big man said, sarcastic yet sincere. To his fellows: "Let's get moving before someone gets wise to this."
Someone would.
Mastox killed a smile, but it was hard not to be smug with a man like Albert Wesker on your side. I never liked you much, but it's good to know that you'll be there to pull Umbrella's fat from the fire.
Wesker would like the idea of being the last one standing. Pride had ever been his vice, and Mastox had gotten that impression at their very first meeting.
"Tie him up, Two," Captain ordered, speaking to Gunman. "We need to keep moving."
"I can do better than that," Gunman said, and in the reflection of the camera screen, Mastox saw the big man raising his weapon high over his head –
And then the world went black.