by Dick Couch
Reaching the truck, he leaned through the driver’s side window, releasing the brake and taking it out of gear. He braced his shoulder against the window post, and the Toyota began to move. He had hoped to leave the Makondo in the comfort of his Land Rover at the head of a column of his scouts—the Renaud Scouts—but obviously that was not to be. At least he would be leaving with his life, perhaps the only one of his force to do so. Then his head seemed to explode, and he was thrown to the dirt and scrub of the valley floor. Dazed, he managed to raise his head and watched helplessly as the Toyota rolled across the road and slowly nosed into a deep ditch on the far side. He felt the pistol in his belt holster being jerked away. Then he was aware of a tall form standing over him.
“W-what the hell is going on? Who are you?” The waning moon was full on the man’s face, and his features were vaguely familiar. It must be one of his blacks—or was it? The blow he had taken to the side of his head was now beginning to swell, threatening to close one eye. Then the man squatted and looked him full in the face.
“You do not remember me?” Renaud looked at him, fighting through the throbbing pain in his head to try and bring the man into focus. Yes, he did know this man, but he could not quite recall the time or place.
“Think back to your last day as a Selous Scout.”
The realization exploded over him. “You!” he exclaimed.
A cold hatred instantly overtook him. He had not thought it possible after so long a time. It had been over twenty years. But squatting there beside him was the same Selous Scout warrant officer who had beaten him in front of the other men and then watched as he was dismissed from the Scouts. His hate for this man knew no bounds; it now overwhelmed his pain and his judgment.
“You black bastard! Go ahead and do whatever it is you’re going to do! You were a bloody kaffir then, and you’re still a bloody kaffir.” Renaud immediately regretted the words, but they had come from deep within his soul.
Tomba regarded Renaud for a long moment. “I will not only do with you what I please, but I will tell you about it.” He paused while he took a length of duct tape and wrapped it around Renaud’s mouth and head to effectively gag him. “I’m going to drag you back into that thicket of blackthorn trees, far enough so no one can see or hear you from the road. I’m going to tie you to a tree and hamstring you. Then I’m going to castrate you. You will bleed to death, but probably not before the hyenas and bushpigs find you.”
And that’s what he did.
Garrett struggled out of his anti-exposure suit as the Jet Ranger sped over the Mavuradonha Mountains toward the Zambezi and Lusaka.
“What’s up?” he yelled over the whine of the turbine. He could tell from experience that the helo was making its best speed, which was close to 140 knots.
Steven helped him pull the suit from his legs. Garrett was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers underneath the chem-bio suit.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it appears that Judy Burks was kidnapped from her hotel room.”
“What! When?”
“Two nights ago. It seems that she was abducted in the early-morning hours and taken to a private residence outside Lusaka. The good news is that we have the home under surveillance.”
“Under surveillance! And nothing’s been done! How long have you known about this?”
Steven placed a hand on his arm. “I just found out. Now sit back, and I’ll bring you up-to-date. As you know, Judy was waiting out the operation in Lusaka in the event she was needed in a liaison capacity. She briefed our ambassador that an operation was being launched from Zambia, but gave no specifics. Nor was State brought into the picture with any detail. Fortunately, the ambassador put her under surveillance as a precaution. Once she was taken, he really had no option but to report the event back up the chain of command. It took two days for it to get from State to the CIA. Once the Director was made aware of what had taken place, Jim Watson called me direct. That was about an hour ago.”
“So what are we going to do?”
Steven grinned. “Get her back, of course. Our embassy in Lusaka is thinly staffed, and there is no station or CIA presence in Zambia. But I’m given to believe that they can and will help us.”
“Help us how?”
Again, Steven grinned. “You’re not going to believe this, but they’re going to provide some muscle.”
François Meno had recovered somewhat, but he was still shaken. He was seated in a lounge chair with his back to a stout wooden post that was there as much for decor as for support. His hands were strapped behind him and around the post. He was now starting to lose the feeling in his arms. Meno had grown up with affluence and privilege. It was the first time in his life that he had been in a situation over which he had no control. And it was also the first time in his life that he had been struck. Typical American ruffians! Not long ago he had paid to have his teeth straightened and whitened. Now his mouth was ruined. The tall man in the chem-bio suit was nothing but a vicious bully. Meno salved his anger and fear with the revenge he would demand for this insult and personal attack. These people, he seethed, clearly did not know who or what they were dealing with.
Bottom line, they needed him. Without the vaccine, perhaps hundreds of thousands would die, and only he had the antidote. These bastards, he vowed, would pay! Thanks to the rough stuff, the price for the vaccine had just gone to $20 million.
Suddenly a man in a chem-bio suit walked briskly into the lounge. A stab of fear gripped Meno until he realized that it was not the one with the rifle who had dealt him the cowardly blow. He had removed the helmet, so Meno had a clear look at his face. His hair was matted with sweat, and he wore clear-framed glasses set slightly askew on his thin face. He looked like another of the faceless lab rats who populated research facilities around the world. One of the nobodies who scurried about it—white coats doing menial tasks.
“So you have inspected the laboratory spaces?” Meno said, trying to control the lisp he now had by virtue of broken teeth and swollen lips. “And as you can see, there is nothing for you to learn there. And if there were, there is nothing that you could do about it. You must do business with me, or many, many thousands will die. Only thanks to your brutal friend, the price of my vaccine is going to be much higher.”
“So you have the vaccine?” Rosenblatt asked.
“I do. I have a small quantity that I manufactured myself, and the detailed process by which more can be made. But it is in a safe place—somewhere known only to me.”
“And you’re sure it is an effective vaccine?”
Meno managed to wipe his mouth on his shoulder and give Rosenblatt a look of pure disdain. “I developed it myself. It’s as effective in managing this pathogen as are the vaccines for variola major smallpox or polio.”
“Well, I certainly hope so, for your own sake,” Rosenblatt replied. He wore surgical rubber gloves and held up a hypodermic syringe at eye level, the needle pointed up. “Because you’re going to need it.”
Rosenblatt shoved a knee into Meno’s groin, pinning him to the chair. Meno tried to resist, but there was little he could do. He watched in horror as Rosenblatt plunged the needle through his jacket and into his arm, feeling the knot of serum disperse into the muscle tissue of his shoulder. When Rosenblatt removed the needle and stepped back, Meno saw Mitchell for the first time.
“Johann?”
“Yes, it’s me, François. And no, not all of the pathogen produced by Lyman was given to you or destroyed. I kept back a small amount, just in case.” Mitchell closed his eyes a moment and took a breath. “This was a terrible thing we did, François. I didn’t realize how wrong until I watched those wretches in the isolation cells suffer from this pox. Now I will do all in my power to undo the damage and prevent a pandemic from taking place.”
“And how long will it be before he becomes contagious?” Rosenblatt said, assuming a clinical tone.
“About forty-eight hours, give or take,” Mitchell replied, standing
well back from Meno. “Then he will be quite contagious, and perhaps beyond help for his vaccine. Once this pathogen takes hold, the outcome is quite irreversible.”
“Then we mustn’t delay,” Rosenblatt said, holding up a vial of amber liquid. “We have an active strain of the virus, Dr. Meno, so that should give us a start on replicating your vaccine. It will probably be too late for you. I doubt even my colleagues at the CDC, even with a total effort, can save you from the fate of those poor devils you put to death here.” He turned from Meno to Mitchell. “We must get him to an isolation facility before he becomes infectious. With your help, using him as a test subject, we will learn something of the progress of this virus as it spreads through a host.”
“No!” Meno screamed. “You can’t do this to me!” He began to struggle wildly, causing the nylon snap-ties to bite into his wrists. The cut on his lip opened and again began to stream blood down his chin.
“What about his blood? Now that he has the virus, is his blood particularly dangerous?”
“I—I really don’t know,” Mitchell managed. “We were interested in the airborne spread of the virus, not the contaminating effects of blood.”
“Hmmm.” Rosenblatt carefully turned the matter over. “He’s a little smaller than me, but we can put him in my suit while we’re en route, to be on the safe side. With any luck at all we can have him in an isolation facility in fifteen hours. And the sooner, the better. We want to prolong his life as long as possible to study the evolution of the virus.”
“No!” Meno screamed as Rosenblatt and Mitchell left the lounge. “NOOOOOO!”
Rosenblatt found AKR and gave him some very specific instructions, making the point that there was no time to lose. Meno continued to scream, but the screams soon dissolved into sobs and pleas for mercy. His voice grew hoarse and barely intelligible, what with the broken teeth, and he spoke in French, so Rosenblatt could catch only a word here and there. He continued with his pleas until he passed out from exhaustion.
11
The Settling
of Accounts
There was little time for Steven and Garrett to talk during the flight. Once the Jet Ranger had cleared the mountains and began the descent into the Zambezi basin, the pilot raced along at no more than a hundred feet to stay under the Lusaka airport radar. A lot of smuggling went on between the two countries, which meant that a lot of bribes were paid to customs officials—and to air traffic controllers. They were making a border crossing without the benefit of having greased the right palm. The Bell helo had no terrain-following radar, but the pilot had a great deal of stick time with the 1st Special Operations Wing. He wore night vision goggles, which enabled him to race along, dodging the occasional structure or acacia tree, but it made for a very rough ride in the back. Both Steven and Garrett were tightly belted in. As they began to pick up the lights of Lusaka, the pilot straightened out and did his best to appear like a helicopter on a routine mission for some NGO.
“We’re going to set down at a small hospital. It’s not far from where we need to be, and they are accustomed to helos coming and going. But the helo will drop us and go. I need to get this bird back to the Jeki airstrip, refueled and ready to support AKR. They should be just about ready to come out of there.”
Garrett listened, but he was on the edge of his seat. He had all but forgotten about the events at the Makondo Hotel. When they did come to mind, he knew that AKR could handle them. And after all, AKR was in fact the ground commander. Right now, he wanted to be out of the helo and on the ground. “Who did you say was going to meet us?”
Steven put a hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t say. I was just told that two men would be meeting us, and that they would take us to where they were holding Judy.”
“But who are they; how much do they know?”
“Relax,” Steven said in a reassuring tone. “From what I’ve been led to believe, they know enough to be able to help and not ask too many questions. Here.” He handed Garrett a Sig Sauer .45 and several loaded magazines. “Better leave the rifle on the helo.” Garrett pulled the slide of the pistol to chamber a round and thumbed the hammer drop to safe the weapon, all in a single fluid motion. He pushed the pistol into his belt at the small of his back and pulled his T-shirt over it.
The Jet Ranger came in hot, flared quickly, and neatly settled onto the pad. Garrett was off running to the sedan that was parked between the helo pad and the hospital. Steven, after a word with one of the pilots, was right behind him. There were two men in the sedan. The one in the passenger side was black; the man at the wheel, white. Large, serious-looking men, they both emerged from the car when the helo landed. As Garrett and Steven reached the car, the helo rose, and for a moment the area was enveloped in blowing dust. The aircraft cleared off very quickly and headed back, low and fast, to the east. In the silence of the retreating helo, Steven held out his hand to the black man.
“Ambassador, thank you for meeting us like this. I’m Steven Fagan. I’d like you to meet my colleague, Garrett Walker. Garrett, this is Ambassador Conrad.”
“Ambassador?” Garrett said dubiously.
“Mr. Fagan, Mr. Walker, my pleasure. And I’d like you to meet Luther Hallasey.”
Garrett noticed that both of them wore body armor vests, and both had sidearms. “Shall we get to the business at hand?” Conrad asked.
“Whoa, what’s going on here?” Garrett demanded. “This is not a diplomatic mission. This is a kidnapping. What do you think you’re doing?”
Conrad turned and face Garrett straight on. “Now you listen to me, Mr. Walker. This is a poor, sleepy African nation. I’m the ambassador here, the President’s representative. A few days ago I get a federal agent on my doorstep, telling me, and no one else, that some private army is going to launch an invasion from my nation into another sleepy African nation. She says it’s a matter of national security. Thinking this could have some negative consequences to my sleepy African nation, I have her discreetly watched by a local policeman I trust. And someone ends up bagging her. So what do I do now? It’s supposedly a national security issue, but I have no one to call but my boss, the Secretary of State. He tells me to mind my own business; he says the people who cooked this up have made their bed—let them lie in it. I’m ordered to tell no one and do nothing. Well, sir, no one kidnaps an American in my nation. I can’t call out the local constabulary, but I can and will do something about it.”
Garrett softened. “Sir, I didn’t know. And I do appreciate what you’ve done, probably more than you can imagine. You see, for me, this is personal. But why don’t you let Steven and me take it from here? This is our job.”
The driver who had come around the car to stand with his ambassador now spoke. “Look pal, maybe it’s personal for us as well.”
The ambassador intervened. “What Sergeant Hallasey means is that we have a personal stake in Agent Burks’s safety as well. And perhaps also in letting those up the line know that they shouldn’t keep those of us here on the country team in the dark. Now, the sergeant and I are going to go get Miss Burks. You may come along or not, as you please.” With that the ambassador climbed back into the front passenger seat.
“And don’t worry about the ambassador,” Hallasey added. “When he was in the Corps, he led the first recon team into Kuwait City. He’s a helluva marine. I know. I was his radioman.” He walked around the car and climbed behind the wheel.
Steven and Garrett looked at each other and shrugged. They climbed into the rear seat, and the car sped off. The African dawn was just making its way across the high Zambian plain to Lusaka.
At the Makondo Hotel, the sun would not clear the mountains for another hour or more, but it was now fully daylight. The Africans now guarding the main hotel building were extra vigilant, as they no longer had the advantage of seeing at night while their enemy couldn’t. Tomba and AKR crouched at the lobby door of the Makondo peering out. Inside, fifteen members of the clinical staff sat on the floor, facing the wall as th
ey had been instructed, while a wary Mohammed Senagal kept an eye on them. A few had chanced a look behind them and received a kick in the kidneys from Senagal. Most sat quietly resigned, awaiting their fate. Many assumed they would be killed, and several were weeping softly. In the lounge, Wilson sat with his weapon on François Meno and Johann Mitchell. Meno, now encased in Rosenblatt’s black chem-bio suit, had his hands bound in front of him. Mitchell sat quietly, waiting for what might come next. Elvis Rosenblatt crossed the lobby under the weight of two packs—the test equipment he had brought, plus what notes and ledgers he could scavenge from the lab. He had also photographed everything with a small digital camera. When he reached AKR and Tomba, he slung the packs to the floor and dropped to one knee beside them.
“All set,” he said without preamble. “I have what I need, and I’ll want to take two of the scientists out with us—those two.” He pointed at Meno and Mitchell. “Will that be a problem?”
AKR looked to Tomba. “The men we lost. Will we take their bodies with us?”
Tomba shook his head. “We will bury them here, where they fell. It is our way. I will need a few minutes to make them ready. We will find a place in the earth for them nearby.”
“How about the guard force? Think they will give us a problem on the way out?”
“I doubt it,” Tomba replied. “Their leader is dead, and they have been scattered by the attack. The few survivors, if there are any, will watch us from well out in the bush. They will come back and scavenge the area and get away as best they can.”
AKR considered this and nodded, glancing at his watch. “Okay, our first bird will be here in a few minutes,” he said. To Tomba, “Start pulling the men back toward the helo pad and get your burying detail to work.” He knew he had fifteen men to extract from the area—that would be three loads by Jet Ranger. “Elvis, I want you to get the two scientists up to the helo pad. Take Wilson with you, and one other man that Tomba will assign to the first lift. The rest of us will finish up here, bury our dead, and be ready to leave as soon as the helos can get back for us.” Tomba and Rosenblatt nodded. “Very well, let’s make it happen.”
