Red Dot Protocol: Survival of the Logistics Officer

Chapter 4: The Bukit Timah Heist

The plume of smoke on the horizon was a jagged black needle stitching the sky to the shipping lanes. Wei Xian watched it for three seconds before his HUD flickered with a tactical overlay, pinpointing the source of the heat-signature at the base of his car.

"Clever, Gabe," Wei Xian muttered, his jaw tightening. "You never were one for half-measures."

He grabbed his keys and headed for the lift, his mind already partitioning the mission. He needed that bunker. He didn't need the Major breathing down his neck while he tried to break into a subterranean vault.

"Okay, let's see how much you want to play tag," he whispered.

He pulled his car into the basement of the Bukit Timah Plaza. The mall was crowded, a hive of Saturday afternoon shoppers. He parked, ripped the magnetic tracker off the wheel, and taped it to the back of a delivery truck headed for the city center.

"Enjoy the scenic route to Jurong, Major," he muttered, checking his watch.

He didn't take the main road. He ditched his car in the basement and vaulted the concrete wall into the dense, encroaching green of the Bukit Timah Nature Reserve. His clothes were damp with sweat within minutes. The jungle was a thick wall of humidity, the insects screaming in a chorus that mirrored the screeching of the implant in his skull.

"Focus, Wei Xian," he hissed to himself, his breath coming in jagged bursts. "The entrance is a ventilation shaft hidden behind a decommissioned secondary water pipe. Stay on the trail. Don't die before you even start."

He scrambled up a muddy ridge, his boots sliding on the wet foliage. He pulled himself over a limestone ledge, his muscles burning.

"Almost there," he wheezed. "Two more miles of this and I’m a king."

He reached the coordinates. There, hidden beneath a curtain of strangler figs, was a rusted iron grate. He knelt, his hands trembling as he pulled a small diagnostic scanner from his pocket—a makeshift tool he’d cobbled together from parts he’d bought at a Geylang electronics stall.

"Come on, talk to me," he said, plugging into the rusted keypad.

The implant chirped, a series of rapid-fire pulses hitting his brain. A moment later, the electronic lock clicked—a heavy, metallic sound that echoed through the trees.

"Finally."

He heaved the grate open and slid into the cool, stagnant air of the tunnel. It smelled of ozone and ancient, rotting paper. He flicked on his tactical light. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating walls reinforced with Cold War-era concrete.

"Looks like the records were right," he whispered. "This place hasn't been touched in forty years. Or so I thought."

He rounded the corner and froze.

A bright, high-intensity LED lamp sat on a folding table. Beside it, a stack of modern, military-grade supply crates were stacked high against the wall.

"What the hell?" Wei Xian stepped into the light, his hand reaching for his blade. "Who’s here?"

"You're early, or you're lost. Either way, you're trespassing," a voice rasped.

Wei Xian spun around. A man in a dark, tactical windbreaker stepped out from the shadows, a suppressed handgun leveled at Wei Xian’s chest. He looked like private security, but his eyes were those of a career soldier.

"I’m here for the inventory," Wei Xian said, his voice cold and steady. "And you’re standing in the way of a national health crisis."

The guard laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "A crisis? Buddy, you’re in the middle of a private stash. Who sent you? The Minister’s office?"

"I don't work for politicians," Wei Xian said, his eyes darting to the crates behind the man. "I work for the people who are going to be dead if those boxes stay here."

"You're a weird guy," the guard said, shifting his grip on the gun. "Most people who break in here see the guns and run. You look like you're looking for a pharmacy."

"I am," Wei Xian replied. He took a slow, calculated step forward. "Listen, I know who owns this place. You’re guarding a tomb, not a gold mine. You want to survive the next month, or you want to keep collecting a paycheck that won't be worth the paper it’s printed on in thirty days?"

The guard hesitated, his brow furrowing. "What are you talking about? Money is money."

"Look at the labels on those crates," Wei Xian commanded, pointing his flashlight at a side container. "Does that look like medical equipment? Or does it look like viral containment protocols?"

The guard glanced at the crate. "It says 'Class-A Biohazard'. So what? That's just for the big shots if there's a spill."

"There is no spill," Wei Xian snapped. "There’s a launch. You think the 'Merlion Flu' is a myth? You’re guarding the samples, man. You’re literally guarding the end of the world."

The guard’s finger tightened on the trigger. "You're full of it. I'm just here to make sure nobody touches the Minister's 'insurance policy'."

"Insurance?" Wei Xian chuckled, though his eyes were frantic. "You think you’re in on the plan? Look at the ventilation system. You see those vents? They’re rigged to dump the contents of these crates into the central AC unit if the door is forced from the outside. You’re the first one to die, not the last."

The guard looked up at the ceiling, his face paling. "You're lying. The boss said it was a fail-safe."

"He lied to you," Wei Xian said, closing the distance. "I can deactivate the trigger. I can get us both out of here before this hole becomes a coffin. But you have to drop the gun."

"How do I know you're not the one who's going to kill me?"

"Because I need you," Wei Xian said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I have the knowledge, but I don't have the muscle. We team up, we take the supplies, and we survive. You stay here, you’re just part of the inventory."

A loud, jarring siren erupted from deep within the bunker, followed by the sound of heavy metal doors sliding shut.

"Too late!" the guard yelled, dropping his gun to cover his ears.

Wei Xian lunged forward, grabbing the guard’s arm just as the air in the bunker shifted. The scent of sweet, rotting fruit—the hallmark of the Merlion Flu—began to leak from a vent in the ceiling.

"They triggered the system!" Wei Xian roared. "Grab the crate! The one marked 'Antiviral Prototype'! If we don't get it and get out, we're already ghosts!"

"The door is locked!" the guard screamed.

"Not if we go through the drainage pipes!" Wei Xian sprinted toward the back of the vault, his heart hammering in a frantic, uneven rhythm. "Move, or die!"

The guard stumbled after him, both men lunging for the heavy crates as the sound of hissing gas filled the chamber. Wei Xian’s hand closed over the handle of the metal case, but as he turned, he saw a flickering security monitor on the wall.

It wasn't a politician watching them. It was a live feed of the entire island, and every single sector was blinking red.

"It started," Wei Xian whispered, a cold dread washing over him. "It started everywhere."