The Zulu Virus Chronicles Boxset (Books 1-3)

by Steven Konkoly

  “You up?” said David. “I have to start cooking the pancakes in a few minutes.”

  His son mumbled something a little closer to modern English.

  “Give me a sign of life. At least get your head out of the sleeping bag.”

  “I’m up,” said Josh. “Sort of.”

  “I’ll get some coffee brewing, too,” said David. “We’ll need to filter enough water for the hike back. If you could get that going, I’ll have the pancakes ready by the time you fill the CamelBaks.”

  Josh unzipped the bag partway, lifting his head out of the sack. He brushed the unruly mop of hair from his face, squinting at David.

  “I’m up. Sort of. What time is it?”

  “A little before seven,” said David. “If we start out of here by eight or so, that should put us back in the parking lot by noon. Grab some lunch on the way through Bloomington. Maybe check out the campus. Then home.”

  “I’m still joining the Marines, Dad,” said Josh, lowering his head.

  “Then I suggest you report for water-filtering duty ASAP, or I’ll wake you up drill-instructor style. Trust me. You don’t want that.”

  “I’m up. Seriously.”

  “See you in a few,” said David, backing out of the tent.

  David knew better than to directly engage in the Marines versus college battle. Having enlisted in the Marines right out of high school, he didn’t occupy the high ground—and he saw nothing wrong with Josh enlisting. He just wanted to be certain that his son had adequately researched all of his options before making a decision—especially since the kid had the grades for college.

  Actually, he had the kind of grades that made a kid competitive for an ROTC scholarship and other options that gave him a college degree first. Then again, Josh could enlist and go to school on the G.I. Bill later, if he decided to get out of the Marines.

  That was how David had done it. Got out as a corporal after four years at Camp Pendleton, then got his associate’s degree in criminal justice. After a few years with the Westfield PD, he’d started night school to get a bachelor’s degree in the same major. Presto. It wasn’t the traditional route to getting a college degree, but the end result was the same—plus he’d dodged student loans.

  On top of that, he’d seen a bit of the world and earned a steady paycheck since graduating from high school. Not a bad deal at all. Still, David wanted his son to give each opportunity serious consideration. His own mediocre high school academic performance had left him with far fewer prospects.

  If Josh followed in his father’s footsteps and enlisted in the Marines, it would be based on a well-explored decision. At the very least, it needed to look like one. His ex-wife would kill him otherwise. She was already convinced that their son’s stubborn interest in the Marines was David’s idea. It wouldn’t hurt to have Josh mention a university visit or two when he returned to his mother after this trip.

  David walked back to the fire pit to tend the small blaze he had created. It would be short lived, but hopefully enough to ignite the larger pieces of deadwood—or at least start them smoldering. If they didn’t catch right away, he’d use them to prop the frying pan he’d lugged into the wilderness. There wouldn’t be a lot of time to fuss around if that was the case.

  He had the dry and wet components for the pancakes in separate containers, requiring little more than a transfer of contents from one to the other. A quick shake of the bag, and he’d have the batter they’d need to cook the pancakes—a breaking-camp ceremony they’d shared every summer since the divorce. Eight years, and they’d only run into trouble twice getting the fire right.

  He really wanted this morning to be perfect. If Josh enlisted, this could be their last summer camping trip in the Hoosier National Forest. He’d start his senior year this fall, and the Marine Corps liked to ship high school graduates away right after graduation. Especially graduates with high SAT scores, who might have second thoughts about spending the next four years in a barracks instead of a college dorm.

  With that somber thought, he rearranged the rapidly burning logs so he’d have a flat enough surface for the pan—just in case the dark logs arranged along the fire’s boundary failed him. He didn’t want the end of the trip to be a disappointing memory for his son.

  Chapter 3

  Emma Harper sat across from her husband, skimming the restaurant’s menu—not finding what she wanted. They had a two-and-a-half-hour layover in San Juan’s international airport, and she’d hoped to grab some authentic Puerto Rican food.

  “You want to try another place?” said Jack. “Looks more like traditional Spanish fare than local stuff.”

  He’d read her mind, or the look on her face. One and the same much of the time. She wore her heart on her sleeve, so to speak, making it easy for him.

  “This is the only place that didn’t look or sound like some kind of chain restaurant,” she said. “Paella might be nice. Are you good with the menu?”

  “As long as you’re good with it,” he said. “I don’t see chips and salsa.”

  “I never thought I’d say this, but I don’t think I could eat chips and salsa again for a month,” said Emma.

  “You did put a considerable dent in the cruise ship’s tortilla chip inventory,” said Jack.

  “Are you saying I ate too much?” she joked.

  “I’m not saying another word,” said her husband, closing his menu. “This looks good.”

  Emma turned the menu toward him and pointed at the first page. “We can order the grown-up version of chips and salsa. Tapas.”

  “Are you saying I’m not a grown-up?” said Jack.

  “I’m pleading the Fifth, too,” she said, putting her menu down. “I can’t believe this vacation is over.”

  “It’s not over until I say it’s over. Last mojito in paradise?” he said, squeezing her hand.

  “Why not?” said Emma, checking her watch. “We still have another ten and a half hours until one of us has to drive.”

  “It’s going to be a long day,” said Jack. “I might have two.”

  “Or three,” she added.

  Their waitress appeared, taking their drink and tapas order.

  “Do you think your territory survived without you?” said Emma.

  “Sales probably improved,” he said. “It certainly has little to do with my effort. More like luck of the draw.”

  It was an old joke between them. Jack worked a local sales territory for NevoTech, a top international pharmaceutical and biotechnology company based in Indianapolis. Three years ago, a territory on the south side of Indianapolis ranked number three out of sixty for sales in the region, a feat that would have earned the territory manager an all-expense-paid trip to Mexico or the Caribbean—if it had one. In this case, the territory had gone without a sales representative for more than half of the year and had become the tongue-in-cheek rally cry for more vacation days. The longer the reps stayed away from their territories, the better the sales!

  “Maybe Nevo will pay for next year’s trip?” she said.

  “And maybe they’ll select you to represent headquarters at one of the trips,” said Jack.

  She worked as a financial analyst for NevoTech’s Benefit Plan Investment team, a promotion she’d landed after spending five years in various finance positions within the company. Occasionally, they selected high-performing employees from the various departments to attend division sales awards trips. Kind of a spread-the-goodwill program designed to keep the corporate drones from complaining too loudly about the lavish rewards and bonuses heaped on the sales force.

  “That would definitely fall under the luck-of-the-draw category.”

  “Then unless we both get lucky, looks like we need to start saving again. Or settle for an inside cabin next year,” said Jack.

  “Once you go balcony, you can’t go back,” said Emma.

  “We could always do one of those third-rate all inclusives,” said Jack. “Might need to get a series of shots before we go.�
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  “As long as they have chips and salsa.”

  “You and your chips and salsa,” he said, taking her hand again. “I’ll go anywhere—as long as it’s with you.”

  She stared into his bluish-gray eyes, seeing that he’d shifted gears from jokester to devoted husband in the blink of an eye.

  “I love you, Jack.”

  “I love you more,” he said, suddenly breaking the serious gaze. “You heading up with me to grab Rudy?”

  “I hadn’t planned on it,” she said hesitantly. “Thought I’d grocery shop and get the house back in order. I’d go Saturday, if your mom doesn’t mind holding on to him for another day.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, though I hate to make him wait.”

  “He has no concept of time. We could have driven around the block or gone on a nine-day cruise,” she said. “Why don’t you take off early, have breakfast with your mom and get back by the early afternoon. We can grab dinner somewhere outside in Broad Ripple, with our boy.”

  “Sounds like a capital plan, my love,” he said before moving his menu off the table to accommodate their inbound drinks.

  Once the waitress departed with their entrée orders, Jack raised his mojito.

  “To another amazing vacation, with the most amazing woman in the world.”

  “Back at you,” she said, clinking her glass against his.

  “Did you just call me a woman?” said Jack.

  “Probably,” she said before taking a long sip.

  Even inside a bustling airport, her mojito tasted like vacation. Emma considered the sweet rum concoction to be the queen of tropical drinks. Perfect for any warm weather occasion, or non-occasion. She made a mental note to buy the ingredients needed to extend their vacation over the weekend. The weather prediction called for mostly sunny in the high seventies. Perfect for an evening on their backyard patio. Suddenly, the prospect of leaving paradise didn’t sound so bad. Another paradise awaited, until Monday—when they both returned to the real world of jobs, bosses and corporate responsibilities. Until then, she’d take it one mojito at a time.

  Chapter 4

  Eugene Chang eased the Cessna 206H Stationair into a wide left turn, dropping his altitude from two thousand feet to one eight hundred feet during the course adjustment to his upwind leg. With the Indianapolis Executive Airport clearly visible through the pilot’s door window, he passed his approach information over the airfield’s designated common traffic advisory frequency (CTAF) and scanned the sky around him. The airport was a non-towered facility, so he was on his own to determine if it was safe to proceed with the landing.

  Clear skies and a late afternoon sun simplified the task. He didn’t see any nearby aircraft. With the upwind run nearly finished, and the airport roughly at his eight o’clock position, Chang banked the Cessna left and crossed in front of the airfield. He was effectively circling the airport, part of a traffic-pattern ritual determined by wind direction.

  He dropped to four hundred feet on the downwind leg before turning to the base leg and his final approach. Despite the continued lack of competing traffic in the sky or on the runway, he dutifully relayed his actions over CTAF—just in case. The big sky around him could get very crowded, very fast, a bad scenario on final approach.

  With the aircraft’s nose lined up with the runway, he slowly dropped altitude and bled power until he reached the sweet spot where everything got quieter, and the Cessna felt like it was slipping through the air with little resistance. His approach was rewarded with a textbook, minimal-bounce landing at the northern end of the runway. He throttled back after a few seconds on the runway, slowing the aircraft to a safe taxi speed.

  Chang turned the plane onto the nearest taxiway connector and made his way to the main tarmac, where Montgomery Aviation, the field’s sole fixed base operator, would take over. They’d inspect the aircraft and refuel it before moving it into covered storage at the field, where he could access it at any time.

  One of Montgomery Aviation’s service staff guided him into one of the spaces reserved for their signature clients, and chocked the Cessna’s wheels once the aircraft was stationary. When the technician gave him a thumbs-up, he left the engine running and squeezed through the two front seats to get into the rear passenger compartment. A few seconds later, he was on the tarmac with his briefcase and a small carry-on bag.

  “Welcome back, Dr. Chang,” said the technician, offering a hand. “Can I run those to your car?”

  “I got it, Jeff. Thank you,” said Chang. “Hey, whatever you guys did to the engine made a big difference. She didn’t feel sluggish at all.”

  “I figured you might notice, Dr. Chang. We replaced the oldest cylinder with a brand spankin’ new one. No more gunking up after a month or so. On top of that, we cleaned the shit out of the engine. Every nook and cranny we could reach without taking apart the case. The way you run this bird, you might consider a thorough cleaning like that every few months.”

  “Put it on the calendar, and we’ll work around my flying schedule, when it gets closer,” said Chang.

  “Sounds good, Dr. Chang. I’ll have the head shed send you an email with the tentative date.”

  “Thanks, Jeff.”

  He nodded goodbye and started to walk away, not meaning to be rude, but not exactly in the mood for a conversation after the five-hour flight.

  “Dr. Chang?”

  Maintaining what he hoped was a neutral face, Chang spun slowly around to face Jeff.

  “Do you have any flight plans this weekend?” said Jeff.

  “Nothing solid,” said Chang. “I need to catch up on things at the lab after my trip.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to lower the left wing’s rear spar. Just a small adjustment. Looked like you’re still flying a little left-wing heavy. Might take a few adjustments and a little trial and error to get the roll tendency out of her, but it’ll be worth it in the long run.”

  “Was it that obvious?”

  Chang’s arm was a little stiff from applying constant pressure to the controls. In fact, he’d engaged the autopilot two hours into the flight to give his arm a rest. It was more an annoyance than a real problem. One he’d put up with since he’d sold his Cessna 172 Skyhawk and upgraded to the Stationair last fall.

  “Been doing this for close to thirty-two years. I’ve been meaning to bring it up, but didn’t want to hit you with too much at once after you bought her—and it’s not a critical fix. I’ve run out of fingers and toes counting the number of pilots I’ve known that flew a crooked plane for years out of habit. It’s an easy fix on a Cessna. I can tackle it in a few hours, honestly. I just can’t guarantee I’ll get it all done at once. Weekends are getting busier.”

  Chang walked back to the aircraft, well aware that he might not get out of here for a while. Jeff could easily tack another hour onto his already long day, if no other aircraft arrived to interrupt. Given the few private flights he’d seen in the air north of Indianapolis on the way in this afternoon, today had the potential to turn into one of those marathon conversations. Still, he couldn’t shrug off the man’s sincere offer to help, and he suspected Jeff could use the opportunity to rack up some paid moonlighting hours.

  “I can stay put for the weekend,” said Chang. “I appreciate you taking care of me, and I’d be happy to pay the shop’s regular hourly rate.”

  “I’ll give you a discounted rate since this is on the side,” said Jeff, producing a business card from one of his pockets. “Give me a call Saturday if you change your mind about taking her up. Sunday is supposed to be a clear, sunny day.”

  He took the card and stuffed it in his wallet, removing one of his own.

  “Thanks again, Jeff. You guys have my personal number, but I’m not the best at keeping track of that phone. There’s a business mobile number on this card that I monitor all the time.”

  “Great. I’ll buzz you when I finish. If you don’t hear from me by close of business Saturday or I don’t
hear from you, it’ll be Sunday. Definitely won’t go longer than the weekend,” said Jeff. “Hey, I’ll let you go. You must be bushed.”

  “Sorry I’m not a little chattier, Jeff,” said Chang. “I feel like I packed three weeks into three days on this trip.”

  “No problem, Dr. Chang. I tend to run my gums a little long from time to time, or every time,” he said, followed by a deep laugh. “You take care.”

  “You too,” said Chang, shaking Jeff’s hand.

  He always felt this way after returning from Edgewood Chemical Biological Center (ECBC), the U.S. Army’s primary chemical and biological weapons defense research facility. Twice a year, a dozen of the top virology researchers in the United States descended on the center to receive classified briefings on current and projected biological threats against the United States. Edgewood shared current intelligence and research insights, hoping to glean direction from the scientists, many of whom worked for or consulted on behalf of massively wealthy companies or universities with far bigger research budgets.

  It was an informal outreach program, with the hope of streamlining some of the desperately needed research and development work in the realm of defending against and preventing the deployment of biological weapons against U.S. and allied populations. Nearly three years ago, a barely thwarted biological attack against multiple targets on the East Coast had turned this mostly ignored threat into a potentially lucrative business, spurring a new era of interest in the field.

  Nearly every major pharmaceutical company devoted significant resources to the development of vaccines, “fixed-spectrum” antibiotics and next-generation biologics to keep Americans safe from the next attack, and university research laboratories across the nation started programs to seize the seemingly unlimited supply of grant money shaken loose from the federal budget by politicians.

  It had taken on the air of a reckless frenzy, but in the end, when the fervor died, like it always did with these things, his field would have benefited—and the core group of virologists that expended vacation days to attend these secretive, off-the-books meetings would be better positioned to make sustainable advances in the fight against weaponized microorganisms.