Covert Action

by Dick Couch

  CAPC employees and any foreigners working with CAPC enjoyed privileged status in Zambia. Revenue from the copper mines and tourism came and went, depending on metal prices, exchange rates, and the world economy. Hydroelectric power generation was a constant. Zambia exported close to two billion kilowatts of electricity, primarily to South Africa. It was an important source of revenue, and since this was Africa, it was also a source of under-the-table payoffs to key members of the government. Currently, the name not withstanding, those members belonged to the ruling Movement for Multiparty Democracy, which held a slim majority in the Zambian National Assembly and controlled the presidency. Steve Fagan, aka Herman Schultz, sported a pair of clear-rimmed glasses and a white plastic shirt-pocket protector that, along with his mild, inoffensive manner, said he was a man who was interested in technical matters and the transmission of electricity.

  Steven also carried papers that identified him as a regional director for the Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation. For what he needed to do in support of the operation, he had to be two people in Zambia. Once outside the terminal, he hit a redial number on his satellite phone.

  “Garrett.”

  “Hello, Garrett. I’m on the ground and heading for the hangar. It’s on the civil aviation side of the airport, hangar B-5, as in bravo, five.”

  “Hangar B-5, got it. See you there in about an hour.”

  “In an hour, then,” Steven replied and snapped his phone shut.

  He caught a cab that took him to the civil aviation complex, which was far more utilitarian than the main passenger terminal. He was anxious to see the hangar and to ensure that it was suitable for their needs. Things were going to begin to happen fast. An employee of the Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation had made the arrangements through an intermediary—a hangar between eight and ten thousand square feet, suitable for general aviation purposes, with shop space, power, and water—a tall order in southern Africa. He had also asked that the facility be remote, if possible, and secure. Steven handed the guard at the gate to the complex a 50,000-kwacha note, about $10 U.S. He checked Steven’s Simpson Foundation ID and gave him a ring of keys and directions to hangar B-5. After a short drive down a dusty road, they came to a hangar served by two smaller outbuildings. From the outside, it looked perfect. He paid off the cab and began a careful inspection of the facility. Close to an hour later, another cab delivered Garrett Walker. He found Steven inside, and they greeted each other warmly.

  “What is that god-awful smell?”

  “Chemical residue. Apparently the hangar was once used to support a crop-dusting operation. They grow a lot of corn and sorghum north of here. It probably wouldn’t meet OSHA criteria, but I think it will do nicely for our purposes. There’s a head and shower facility in one of the outbuildings, and some crude office space in the other. No matter, we won’t be here all that long.”

  “When do the others arrive?” Garrett asked

  “Just after dark. We’ll unload and get set up. Janet wants to get them across the Zambezi as soon as possible, but no later than dawn day after tomorrow. Have you heard from Benjamin?”

  “We talked by phone this morning, and I plan to see him this afternoon. He says everything is in order. How soon will you be moving from here?”

  Steven paused to consider this. “If we can manage it, I’d like to see the equipment and main group move at first light, but that will be Janet’s call. We both agree we’ll be a lot safer when we are dispersed and away from the capital. I know she wants the assault element out of Zambia as soon as possible.”

  “How about Tomba and AKR?”

  “They will be here sometime late this afternoon or this evening. Can you get back here before dawn tomorrow morning for a jump-off briefing?”

  “No problem,” Garrett replied. “I’ve got a cabdriver on retainer until we leave. You want the doctor here?”

  Again, Steven was not quick to answer. “I don’t think so. We’ll probably talk about a lot of things that he has no need to know about. We don’t want to scare him, but then again, I don’t want him too surprised at what may be taking place. My sense from our meeting in Hawaii is that he’s a pretty solid man. How do you feel about him?”

  “I think he’s good to go—physically, for sure. We got up this morning and went for a run. When I left him, he was heading for the hotel health club to lift some weights. On the flight over we talked at length about what might be happening at the hotel in Zimbabwe, and it’s some pretty scary stuff. You don’t have to worry about Rosenblatt not taking this seriously. He’s pretty keyed up. Judy still due in tonight?”

  “She’ll call you as soon as she gets to the hotel. I understand her appointment at the embassy is for sometime late tomorrow morning.”

  Steven showed Garrett quickly around the hangar complex, and they shook hands before Garrett climbed back into the waiting cab. He rode up front with the driver, and they maintained a running conversation all the way back to Lusaka. They spoke mostly in English, but the driver was astonished at how easily this white man picked up on the few words he used in his native Kaonda.

  While Garrett Walker made his way back into Lusaka, Claude Renaud was sitting in Helmut Klan’s office, slouched in a chair across the desk from him.

  “So, Herr Doktor, your research is about finished. I’m sure you and your colleagues will be happy to return to the comforts of Europe.”

  Klan smiled tightly. He couldn’t wait to be out of Africa, but he was not going to admit that to Renaud. “Actually, Claude, it’s been an interesting experience. Perhaps,” he lied, “I can return at some point for a visit that is purely pleasure. At any rate, I’ve asked to meet with you, as my principals have informed me that there may be a dedicated threat to our work here. What I’m saying is that someone or some force may attempt to intervene.”

  Renaud leaned forward, suddenly very alert. “You don’t mean that someone would attack us here, at the Makondo? But that is impossible. You yourself said that the authorities in Harare had been well paid to leave us alone as well as to alert us if someone comes nosing around. Who could get to us without someone sounding the alarm?”

  “I really don’t know,” Klan said patiently. “All I know is that I was told to complete our work as soon as is practical, and that I was to instruct you to have your men be extra vigilant. Apparently there may be a small American unit that has the ability to project force globally. It seems that they can move with great speed and striking power. I think we can be finished with our work in five days, perhaps less. Your job is to keep us safe until that time.”

  “I know my job, Herr Doktor. I’d like to see someone try to interfere. I’ve trained these men myself, and they are the best group of fighters on the continent. No, Doktor, you go about your business; we will see that you are not bothered.” Renaud was now slouched back in his chair. “And if someone does come nosing around, we will see that they get a warm reception.”

  Klan started to warn him about complacency and overconfidence, but he knew it would be a waste of time—better to flatter. “Very well, Claude; I have complete confidence in you and your fighters. But we have come a long way, and we are very close to finishing our mission here. If we are not successful, neither of us will collect our completion bonus. Think about that as you go about your duties.”

  Renaud had no intention of losing out on his bonus. As soon as he left the hotel, he went to find his team leaders to discuss additional security measures. Renaud would have liked the project to go on a little longer. He was enjoying the power of heading his own mercenary band, not to mention the weekly sums that were deposited to his account in Maputo. He had never had such a financial cushion. But he knew it would have to end sometime, and there was the bonus—three hundred thousand American dollars. With that kind of money he could return to Johannesburg, find himself a comfortable apartment, and buy a new car—perhaps a new Land Rover. And when he went back into the Broken Tusk, he would be a man with a mercenary contract under his belt—a man who
had led his own commando. While he was sure that their position at the Makondo was unassailable, he again walked the grounds to inspect their perimeter security. Since there was no longer any need to procure test subjects, he was free to concentrate all his men on security. He doubted that any American force could suddenly appear in the heart of southern Africa. The Americans could not move without jet transport and a huge logistics train. True, the Makondo had a helo pad, but it was only suitable for light-duty helicopters, not troop transports. Still, he would locate a machine gun to cover the pad. If an uninvited helo did try to land, he would cut it to pieces. But this was all conjecture. If there were such a force, he would hear of it long before they got to the Makondo. That’s why he kept two men in the town of Kariba, and had paid the constables in the villages along the road that led to the hotel complex to alert him if anyone approached.

  As Claude Renaud was walking the security perimeter of the facility, stopping occasionally to chat with the men in their security outposts, François Meno inspected the final group of test subjects held in the basement of the Makondo. That’s how he and the others referred to them—test subjects, or hosts. They were in small rooms—cells actually, two to a room. Most of them were men, but there needed to be a few women to ensure that the pox was not somehow gender-selective. When the genetic composition of a virus was altered, almost anything could happen, and any number of unintended side effects could accompany the modified organism. Meno would have liked a more even ratio of men to women, but the teams that procured his subjects brought in mostly men, even though he and the others on his team repeatedly asked for more women. Meno was aware that African men have a low regard for women. Perhaps, he thought, they felt that taking women captive was beneath them, or they wished to leave women behind because they performed virtually all the manual labor around the home. No matter, the pathogen they had developed was aggressive and lethal beyond their expectations to either man or woman.

  “Which one do you want to examine, Johann? And this is the last, right?”

  “It is. I think we need only see the man in this room.”

  Johann Mitchell was a pathologist with a great deal of experience in internal medicine. It was his job to gauge the progress of the disease and the intervening time between exposure and death. He was also tasked with the critical issue of contagion—how long did it take an individual, once infected, to become contagious? How long was an infected person contagious before they became ill and exhibited symptoms? With the more common variola major smallpox, a victim was not contagious until the onset of symptoms, when he or she was too sick to move around. The Makondo strain of hemorrhagic smallpox they had developed acted very differently.

  The man they were about to examine was ambulatory and appeared healthy. Only the drugs that were administered with their meals kept him quiet and semi-catatonic. Meno and Mitchell entered the room and locked the door behind them. During the initial testing, before the use of sedatives, they would not be able to work like this without guards present. Still, Meno carried a pistol. The man was sitting docilely on his cot. Mitchell asked him to lie down, and he quietly obeyed. Meno remained standing while Mitchell pulled a stool alongside the man’s bunk. He talked to the man in reassuring tones while he drew blood and thoroughly examined him. Bedside manners, even in this macabre setting, were a matter of reflex for most physicians. Then, with wooden-handled swabs, Mitchell took cultures from the man’s nose and throat, sealing them carefully in special ziplock bags. If the man thought it strange that two men encapsulated in yellow spacesuits were visiting him in this way, he didn’t show it. He merely smiled vacantly up at them through a drug-induced haze.

  “No symptoms yet?” Meno asked.

  “None,” Mitchell replied. There was a rubber diaphragm in the airtight suits that allowed them to communicate with only slight distortion. “It’s been nine days since he became contagious, and if it were not for the sedatives, he would be up and about with no abnormalities. It’s incredible.”

  As they left the room, they passed the cot of a woman who was moaning softly. Her symptoms had begun the day before. She was drenched in sweat from fever. A few lesions were beginning to appear on her forehead. The sedatives that had been administered to keep her quiet and passive would alleviate some of her suffering, but only for a while.

  The decontamination process took longer than the examination. Those tasked with developing and refining this deadly strain of smallpox were able to cut corners that would have been unthinkable in a normal clinical setting. Decontamination, however, was not one of them. First they passed through a shower of a sodium hypochlorite solution to thoroughly wash and disinfect their suits. Then they passed into an ultraviolet-lighted room with heating elements to dry the suits and remove moisture from the air. From the drying room, they moved to a disrobing area, where they carefully removed the suits and pulled on respirators. They kept the respirators on until they got into the shower room, where they could fully scrub down. The whole process took close to half an hour.

  The blood samples and swabs they had taken were then sent to the lab, where a masked and gowned lab tech handled them in a Plexiglas isolation chamber with holes in the glass for rubber-gloved access to the sealed and sterile environment. An examination of the cultures would ensure that the few seemingly healthy subjects were still infected and contagious. An hour’s work by the lab tech confirmed that the swabs contained hemorrhagic smallpox, still virile and very deadly. He called Meno in his office with the results.

  “It’s confirmed, Johann,” Meno said as he hung up the phone. “The healthy-appearing ones are just as contagious as those manifesting the advanced symptoms. So it would appear from the last infected group of subjects that we can expect a victim to be a contagious carrier seven to nine days before he becomes sick—perhaps longer. And our carrier, depending on his health and level of activity, will become contagious about forty-eight hours after becoming infected. Very impressive, Johann. Very impressive indeed. I think we’re there.”

  Mitchell nodded. With this last strain, a carrier would have a week, perhaps more, to move about and contaminate those with whom he came into contact. He would still be contagious after he fell ill, but those with the outward symptoms of smallpox—fever, malaise, vomiting, and body aches—were seldom ambulatory. The symptoms of smallpox were reasonably well known, and those with symptoms could expect to be quarantined.

  “With these last cultures, we can expect them all to be showing overt symptoms within forty-eight hours,” Mitchell said. “I, uh, prepared some lethal injections should we want to help them along. It’s probably best all around, don’t you think?”

  Meno considered this. The final stages of this strain of smallpox were not pretty. It usually began with a fever, followed quickly by the first lesions. Then it was a quick progression from lesions to pustules, with the fever causing the pustules to scab over. Most of their test subjects experienced several days of fever, dehydration, internal bleeding, and a great deal of pain. Death was welcome. There are few more painful ways to die than from hemorrhagic smallpox.

  “I don’t think so,” Meno replied. “I’d like some more data on the average length of time between the onset of symptoms and death. Let’s let the disease run its course. It will give us a better idea of the length of time between the first symptoms and death. We know that they will still be highly contagious when they’re sick, and that they will have to be cared for. Even when quarantined, they will be dangerous, and they will clog up any health-care system. A lot of resources will be consumed trying to put off the inevitable.”

  Mitchell nodded. “If that’s the way you want it.” He promptly left Meno’s office, trying to hide his displeasure.

  By noon the next day, all of the eight subjects, five men and three women, three Shona and five Ndebele, were racked with fevers ranging to as high as 105 degrees. Most of them had begun to throw up, and all but two had lesions. It took them about two days to die once the symptoms appeared. T
he entry in Dr. Meno’s medical diary recorded it as two days, four hours, and thirty-seven minutes—on average.

  As the sun slipped behind the horizon on the broad Zambian plain, a Lockheed C-130J Hercules crabbed in toward the Lusaka airport, fighting a strong crosswind. The pilot skillfully touched down and taxied to the general aviation area, pausing some fifty yards from hangar B-5. The plane was met by a jeep with two uniformed officials. With two of the four engines still turning over, a tall, commanding woman stepped down from the hatch just behind the flight deck and walked a short distance from the nose of the plane to the jeep. She towered over the one official who slid from the open jeep’s passenger seat. They talked for a few moments, then she handed him a manila folder. The man began to inspect the paperwork inside. From the shadows next to the hangar, three men tensely watched this mini-drama unfold.

  “We have already paid the senior customs official and the airport manager,” Steven Fagan observed. “She should only have to present loading documentation and the forged manifest.”

  “Perhaps this official was not a party to that which was paid to his superiors,” Tomba said. “It would seem that he is awaiting what he feels is his due.”

  “That guy better clear that aircraft and do it soon, or he’s going to get his ass kicked,” AKR offered. They watched as she handed him a letter-sized package. The official touched his cap with a riding crop and climbed back into the jeep. “The man doesn’t know it,” AKR continued, “but he just survived a near-death experience.”

  The three stepped from the shadows and into the dull glare of the bare bulb over the single sliding door of the hangar. Janet Brisco immediately saw them and began walking toward the hangar. The big Hercules pivoted and followed her.