by Jeff Rovin
A tall man in a black keffiyeh appeared from a doorway on the left. In his hands, pointed down, was the unmistakable outline of an M16A2 carbine.
Lieutenant Lee—who carried no firearms, only an eight-inch camo knife—jumped at the man with a high forward kick. The toe of her boot caught him just under the jaw and knocked him against the doorjamb. She came down beside him, crouching. With her left hand she grabbed the hand holding the gun while with her right hand she swung the knife up and buried it deep in his gut. The Afghani moaned as she rose, still holding his hand and pulling the blade toward his sternum.
He dropped without another sound. While Grace extricated herself from his chest, Rivette had moved ahead, toward the kitchen.
“Bathroom!” Grace hissed into the helmet comm.
Rivette spun. They had already noted that the bathroom door was closed and the marksman knew just where to look. His Colt .45 automatic pistol was up and aimed even as the TDS identified a Russian AS Val assault rifle being raised in the marine’s direction.
Rivette fired once, putting a bullet between the man’s eyes. The enemy went back and then dropped, the gun falling to the carpet.
Now that Black Wasp had announced itself, it was time to move.
“Target A!” ordered Lee, who was in command of the incursion.
Grace took the lead so she would have a clear path to whoever came from that direction. Rivette moved ahead while covering their rear.
Suddenly, a text message appeared in both heads-up displays and on Breen’s monitors:
Report to Briefing Room A
Both combatants swore. Breen pressed a red button on Lee’s screen. The dead men vanished. So did the citizens of Little Afghanistan who had been milling around him. The Afghanis were all holograms programmed into the heads-up displays. The simulation in the small training village built north of the Tulley Gate was over.
“I liked the last one better,” Rivette said as he and Grace walked from the house. “Pulling out the wounded marine made me feel connected, y’know what I’m saying?”
“Sikhs were not part of your experience growing up,” said the five-foot-two Lee.
“Maybe … yeah,” the San Pedro, California, native replied. “Neither was rock climbing and gymnastics, but I like that too. And SCUBA.”
The pressure of a body, simulated weight, was provided by sensors in the fine, wireless gloves the two wore. The fabric did not interfere with dexterity or the operation of their weapons. Shoulder pads and boots with shifting gel in the lining simulated physical hits. The guns were real, firing blanks.
Major Breen wasn’t convinced this setup was more effective than the cardboard cutouts that used to spring up suddenly for quick-shoot, no-shoot calls. But he had to admit that, inconsiderate of the cost, there were only two places where bleeding-edge technology like this was being fielded, and that was the U.S. military and Disneyland.
Breen emerged from the van. He was wearing fatigues and a leather jacket, which comprised the bulk of his wardrobe since he got here. Grace and Rivette emerged from the structure as they always did: helmets tucked protectively under their arms as they critiqued themselves and each other. It was necessary, he knew, but Grace and Rivette had taken on a sibling quality that turned every discussion into a debate.
“… should maybe have hung back at the bathroom,” Rivette was saying. “Instead of shooting long, I could’ve pushed him back inside and muffled the report in his gut.”
“And if his accomplices heard anyway, I might have faced two or more kidnappers while you were still in the loo,” Grace pointed out.
“Nah, I’d’ve been out,” Rivette insisted. “That Colt’s got a back kick, helpful if you use it right.”
Breen remained silent while the two entered the van, secured their quasi-VR helmets in a foam-padded footlocker, then plopped into the two seats that hadn’t been removed for Breen’s equipment. It wasn’t just the back-and-forth between his teammates that caused him to withdraw. The major was not quite sure how he felt right now. As much as this drilling had gotten familiar, even old, and as curious as he was about why the meeting had been called, he was not the same kind of warrior as these two. He did not need to see action.
Rivette had already pivoted to the next topic as he fell into one of the seats. “I’ll bet it’s that plane crash,” he said.
Grace was still thinking about the drill and seemed to have no opinion; Breen had not thought about it until the lance corporal had mentioned it. He could be right. The matter was South African, and the U.S. was impatient when it came to potential terrorists.
Not that I blame them, Breen thought as he shut the door behind Lieutenant Lee. Even if Washington weren’t obsessive about combatting its enemies, Pretoria had limited resources to apply to an investigation of this type.
Their destination was Building 247, the Army Force Management School off Mount Vernon Road. The drive took ten minutes, during which Breen remained silent, Rivette ranged over a variety of topics that included monologues about the firearms the Afghanis had been carrying, and Grace sat mostly watching a replay of the drill from Rivette’s head cam. The woman liked to know what she had missed, just off to one side, because she was so present during a confrontation.
The three-story brick building had an appropriate collegiate look and feel.
There was no insignia, no indication of rank, and no name patch on the uniforms of the three Black Wasp members. They had the focus and demeanor of MPs on a mission and the three received—but did not return—only brief looks from the personnel they encountered. The glances were largely because Grace and Rivette carried weapons on their hips. Typically, the only guns and knives in the building were used for instruction or security.
They had never been to this building before. A security guard was seated behind a desk, facing the doors. Before her was a sign that said VISITORS. After sternly eying the Colt and eight-inch blade, the corporal rose, asked for ID, and demanded that the weapons be surrendered.
Her hand was on the butt of her own sidearm, a Sig Sauer 9mm XM17. When he saw it, Rivette nodded approvingly.
“Helluva pistol, especially with the extended-capacity magazine,” the lance corporal remarked.
“Mister, I gave you instructions—”
The radio looped to her belt crackled. “Corporal Franklin, they’re cleared as-is,” a voice said. “Please direct them to Briefing Room A.”
“Yes, sir,” the woman replied.
The corporal’s hand came off her gun. Sitting, she tapped a button on her laptop then removed three visitors’ passes from a credit-card-sized printer. She handed one to each guest and watched while they put them on.
“Make a right turn behind me and continue to the end,” the corporal said. “You will know Briefing Room A by the black letter on the door.”
Breen could not tell, and did not care, if she was being sarcastic. It was not unknown for soldiers entrusted with localized commands—like a gate or parking garage—to turn into generals.
Grace and Rivette walked ahead of Breen. Whatever this was about, they were both going to be itchy today. Grace followed the morning drills with breakfast and then a ninety-minute martial arts workout. She trained in the gym just a short walk from Little Afghanistan. Her targets were practice dummies, heavy bags, and leather pads on the walls. She used bo staffs, katanas, throwing stars, escrima sticks, nunchucks, and her knife to attack imaginary foes. Occasionally, someone who did not know her kung fu skills challenged her to spar. Whatever was thrown at her in the gymnasium ring invariably failed to land. Whoever threw it was invariably thrown.
After breakfast, Rivette went to either the indoor or outdoor shooting range. Regardless of whatever outfit was at the gunnery, a thumbprint scan gave Rivette unlimited access to the field and arsenal. His first words to the officer in charge were always the same: “Surprise me.” The young man always preferred to be alone, since the only competition he cared about was with himself. If others were there, th
ey invariably struck up a rivalry—typically announced without words but with looks and then pops of a handgun or rifle.
Just as inevitably, the challenger was bested.
In their time here, both Grace and Rivette had found more admirers than fist- or gunslingers who were looking to take them down. The military was also quick to appreciate skill. Especially when your life might depend on it one day.
They arrived at Briefing Room A and Grace knocked.
“Enter.”
She opened the door and the three stepped in. The shades were drawn and the fluorescent lights had a dull, ivory tinge. The room was neither as spacious nor as welcoming as the first place they had met the man inside, the Officer’s Club not far from here.
But the man was the same. And so was the serious set of his expression. He was standing beside a round conference table and waited until Breen had shut the door before addressing the team.
“Good to see you,” he said, the hint of a smile cracking his strong, resistant jaw. “We have business.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Prince Edward Island, South Africa
November 11, 4:18 P.M.
The distant flash on the sea, and the rumble that followed a few seconds later, was not lightning. The fact that he could not hear anything caused van Tonder to put the distance at forty or fifty miles to the northeast. Possibly farther, depending on the size of the blast.
Another plane? he wondered. It might be, though he had not seen anything in the sky, heard the shriek of a nose-diving descent.
Lord, he hated this utter sense of helplessness.
Mabuza was still on the oxygen tank, which was nearly depleted. So was the pilot. He seemed to have chills and a fever, and van Tonder had turned up the heat. But he was not considerably worse—or better—than he had been when they touched down.
Sisula had managed to get the situation booted up to Lieutenant Colonel Gray Raeburn, commander of the South African Navy’s Military Health Service based in Simon’s Town. Through whatever tricks the atmosphere enjoyed playing in these parts, van Tonder was finally able to communicate directly with the sixty-three-year-old pulmonary specialist.
Through Sisula, Commander van Tonder had already recounted what happened and where. He also described what they had briefly seen in the wreckage of the jetliner.
“There is a report from the American FBI that a passenger onboard was reported to have been seized by a possible pathogen,” the doctor said. “Lieutenant Mabuza’s symptoms seem to reflect that, with some unknown connection to Prince Edward.”
“If it helps, I still hear birds … there’s night life moving around outside the helicopter.”
“Cross-species contamination is extremely rare,” the doctor informed him.
“That isn’t what I mean, sir. It seems to support that theory. Radioactivity or chemicals would have killed them.”
“Very good, Commander van Tonder. I’ll try and keep up.”
“Not at all, sir. You’ve got a lot to try and figure out. I’m just sitting here playing nurse and offering recon. Which reminds me, there’s something else,” van Tonder went on. “I saw an explosion of some kind at sea, maybe twenty minutes ago.”
“Approximately where?”
“To the northeast, well into the horizon. There was a yacht out there when we did our evening flyover yesterday. It was north of our jurisdiction and nothing out of the ordinary. It may have nothing to do with the fire.”
“Name?”
“Sorry, sir. We could barely see the boat in the evening fog.”
“Of course. You say you are wearing a surgical mask?”
“Yes. And Lieutenant Mabuza, now.”
“Commander, can you look at his mask, read me the specifications? It will be on a tag on the elastic or tieback.”
Van Tonder turned on the cockpit light and leaned toward the pilot. He found the blue label. “It says EN 149 FFP3.”
“European standard for pandemics,” the doctor said. “Very good.”
Van Tonder sat back. It took him a moment to reply. “Are you saying that’s what we have here?”
“I don’t know.”
That was a heavy thought for a man whose biggest challenge was trying not to slip on bird droppings. “What do we do, sir?”
“I will try to get a quarantine medical team to you at least by morning.”
“What about the aviation investigators? They’ll be headed to Marion Island, surely—”
“They are preparing an expedition,” Lieutenant Colonel Raeburn said. “There was some debate, I’m told, about going by sea instead of risking an approach that tracked the doomed flight. But they feel it is worth the risk, especially with sensors trying to ascertain what caused this.”
“Can they help us?” van Tonder asked.
“As civilians, I believe their priority will be the crash. I’m sorry.”
It made sense, van Tonder had to admit. It stank to have resources on the way that couldn’t help them—but he couldn’t dispute the caution.
“Doctor, we only have the water and medical supplies we brought, which isn’t much,” van Tonder said.
“I know and I’m sorry, Commander. This is not, you know, something for which we are properly or even improperly prepared.”
Van Tonder looked around. It seemed not just desolate out here but ancient, as though human existence was either a blip or a fantasy. He might just as easily have been a time traveler, the helicopter his ship, visiting some antediluvian era.
“You can take heart about one thing,” Lieutenant Colonel Raeburn said. “It does not sound as if your pilot has gotten any worse. Either the infectious agent cannot survive long in the air, or else did not possess sufficient numbers. These are matters to be investigated further.”
“Then you don’t think Lieutenant Mabuza will get worse?”
“Couldn’t say. From what you’ve described, he sounds like any patient who is fighting pneumonia or a similar malady.”
“Dr. Raeburn, forgive me, but ‘malady’ doesn’t quite seem to fit this. He’s sweating like a footballer and shivering. Yeah, he’s fighting now, but what do I do when the oxygen runs out? I don’t suppose opening the vents is a good idea.”
“If you’re serious, no,” the lieutenant colonel said. “But only because you will suffer hypothermia.”
“I don’t follow, sir.”
“I assume the heater is on?”
“It is.”
“I want you to bundle the lieutenant up as best as possible and turn off the heat,” Raeburn instructed.
“Sir, it’s close to zero outside.”
“I appreciate that, and it’s one reason he may still be alive. This is apparently a bug that prefers a cold environment—permafrost, upper atmosphere. That’s not uncommon. You probably swept it up the same way the airliner did, by flying into it. Give it cold air to go to. As long as your bodies are warmer than the environment, it may not go back. I also want you to keep the lieutenant’s forehead damp so it cools as well.”
“For the same reason?”
“Exactly that. Draw it out with cold. And there’s one thing more,” the doctor said. “How far are you from this glow you saw?”
“I’d say it was about a mile. It was Ship Rock, I know that for sure, though I can’t say exactly where we’ve set down.” Van Tonder had already leapt ahead of the doctor, again. “You want me to go there.”
“Commander, I do not ‘want’ that,” the doctor said. “But I may need you to give me firsthand intelligence. I’m going to consult my superiors. For now, just kill the heat and keep yourself warm as well. We’ll try to get help out to you somehow.”
“How about using a missile?” van Tonder joked.
“Not the worst idea I’ve heard. And Commander, keep the mask on even when the tank runs out.”
“Affirmative,” van Tonder said.
“I’ll get back to you as soon as possible,” Lieutenant Colonel Raeburn assured him.
“T
hanks,” van Tonder said. “I’m glad I apparently got the right man for this call. For once, the navy did something right.”
“For once,” Raeburn agreed.
The officer signed off and van Tonder cut the heat. Within seconds, the temperature had already chilled. And they still had hours of darkness to go. He took the water bottle and—
“Shit.”
He had not asked if he could touch Lieutenant Mabuza. He decided against it. Rather than pour water into his palm he took a shimmy from the toolbox under the seat and folded it across the pilot’s head. Then he dribbled water across it.
The commander killed all the lights so he did not have to look at his own reflection in the glass. The sky was deep and near—but also vast and endless. The sense of timelessness, of eternity was something unique down here.
“Okay, Lieutenant,” van Tonder said. “I want you to fight this. We may just be blips in the cosmos, but two motes are better than one. You hear me?”
“It’s … beautiful,” the officer said in a raw, gravelly voice.
Van Tonder smiled. “You’re awake!”
“Somebody was making a lot of noise, sir.”
“Sorry. You usually sleep through anything. Remember that rockslide?”
Mabuza did not reply. He was shivering, his teeth clacking hard. Van Tonder did not have a blanket but he did have the insulated tarps Mabuza had removed. He dragged them over the seat back and bundled first the pilot, then himself beneath them.
Then he sat back and waited.
A ruddy glow played against the blue sky where the explosion had been. Most likely burning fuel.
As he thought back over the conversation, he found himself less encouraged by what he had heard than unsettled.
Those were some pretty specific instructions from a man who was coming to this cold, van Tonder thought. The lieutenant colonel was either a very good or inordinately intuitive doctor, or there was one other possibility.
He had a very good idea what was going on.
Just then, the stars low on the sky were blotted by something moving along the horizon.
