“I don’t think they all take the hint. Too bad for them.” Reed made a final check of his weapons before tossing the dogs more treats and jumping into a Land Rover, Doc quick on his tail. Reed packed a .270 rifle, two 9mm handguns, extra ammo and plenty of gasoline. Paul stowed his gear and they were off, tires kicking up a storm cloud when Reed slammed the pedal down.
Thirty minutes spent bouncing and jostling at breakneck speeds and Reed jammed on the brakes, sliding to a stop over the dry grass.
Emptiness stretched in all directions. Grass, trees, and blue sky. Reed sighed. This is bullshit. We chase our tails and the poachers are out killing. Not that he could tell Paul. No need to get his mate down on this, too.
“You know the drill,” Reed said in a rote tone. “Call out anything you see. If it moves we need to know.”
“And keep my pistol loaded.” Paul tapped the gun on his hip. “Safety on.”
“Good man.” Air redolent with the earthy scent of tundra and foliage rolled through the vehicle as he drove on, following the outline on Nixon Ereng’s map. A full lap around the perimeter, and then random crosses through it. Same area every time, but always a different path. Unpredictability kept the poachers guessing and kept the wildlife from being slaughtered. In theory, at least.
Two hours later Reed finally circled back around to the spot where they’d started. He unscrewed his canteen and took a long drink. Not the same as a cold beer, but it would do. “Did all the locations stick?” he asked.
“Every one.” Paul held up the iPad they used to track sightings. Assorted letters dotted the screen, denoting when and where they’d spotted animals, along with how many of each. “Now we go inside the circle?”
“Chief Ereng said to check everywhere. Hang on.” The engine roared, tires spun, and they zoomed across the plains, cresting a soft rise fast enough to lift all four wheels off the dirt. It did a number on his suspension, but never failed to get a laugh from Paul. As close to an amusement park ride as he’d get here.
Everything changed a moment later. Paul’s hand shot out and he pointed across Reed’s nose. “Over there. Do you see them?”
Reed hit the brakes, squinting at the horizon. Patches of trees dotted the landscape, as though a giant had walked through tossing them at random. “See what?”
“Drive toward the river. Not fast.”
Reed set off at a more sedate pace. Paul might not have been more than a teenager, but he’d grown up on this land and knew ways of listening to it that Reed never would. A minute later Paul told him to stop.
“They are behind us.”
As Reed stopped, understanding dawned. “You’re not talking about animals.”
Paul nodded as dark figures rose from the bushes to their rear. “The Maasai are here.”
Men materialized from behind several trees, while others rose from waist-high grass like plants sprouting. Reed counted eight in total, each immobile as a statue, staring at their car as the hazy heat waves rolled off the ground.
“Come on,” Reed said. “Say hello.”
“Do you want to talk?” Paul had grown up in Mwanza, so the Maasai tribesmen weren’t a foreign sight.
“Chances are they speak Swahili, so I’ll handle it. Jump in if I mess up the dialect.” With his hands clearly visible, Reed joined Paul in front of the Land Rover, indicating the closest warrior. “He looks like the leader.”
“I agree,” Paul said. “No other man has a beard as white.”
Age was equated with respect in Maasai culture. A nomadic people, Maasai kept to themselves and rarely interacted with locals, living a lifestyle much like their ancestors had thousands of years earlier. They were a people who happily remained in the past and kept modern society like pet fish: in sight, but rarely touched.
A man sporting a bushy white beard stretching halfway down his chest approached them, moving silently through the grasses, his companions trailing like seven shadows in the sun. Muscles stretched like high-tensile rope traversed his bare chest and arms. Like all the warriors, he gripped a spear taller than Reed.
“Good day.” Reed spoke Swahili.
Silence greeted his remark. Paul stepped ahead and opened his mouth, but Reed held up a hand. “Not yet,” he told the youngster.
Half a minute later, patience proved a virtue. “Why are you here?” the old man asked.
“My name is Reed. My friend and I are here to help protect this land from poachers.” Considering Maasai revered the lion as sacred, it seemed a good way to start.
“To help?” he asked, and Reed nodded. “Then you are welcome.” The old man hopped to Reed, covering the distance in two long strides. “I am Olekina.” Gnarled fingers gripped Reed’s hand in a bone-crushing grip. “Poachers are not the problem here. Other men hurt them.”
“What other men?” Reed asked.
“Pale men, like you. Come in machines like yours.” He pointed to the Land Rover. “Each brings a tool, one I have not seen.” Here he snapped his fingers, and two other warriors darted to his side. Reed suppressed an urge to back up, but Paul did not. “It is like this.” Olekina took the other two men’s spears, leaning them against his own to form a tripod. “The top is a shining circle.”
Glass. Must reflect the light.
“What do the men do?”
Olekina shrugged. “Nothing but walk in circles.”
“Sounds like…surveying equipment,” Reed said to Paul. He didn’t know the Swahili word for survey, causing Olekina to frown at the English word. “They are measuring the land,” Reed said. “Making a map.”
Olekina laughed. “It is easy to see the land.” One of the other Maasai leaned forward, speaking to the elder warrior in a low voice. “There is another tool,” Olekina said. “It takes pieces of the ground.” This time the elder tribesman made a circular motion with his hand, moving it up and down.
“Core samples,” Reed said. “Makes sense. They’re testing the soil.”
Olekina stared at him. “It is dirt.” He bent down and grabbed a handful, letting it slide through his fingers. “All dirt.”
“Right,” Reed said. “Except I think these men wanted to see what’s under the dirt. Far below.” He didn’t know the Swahili word for minerals. “Thank you. I’ll see what I can learn about it.” Birds floated overhead, their shadows racing between Reed and Olekina. “We will come back. I don’t think surveyors are poaching.” At least not overtly. In all his time hunting poachers, he’d never seen a white man poaching in Africa. Why would they? No reason to risk their freedom when you could pay native Tanzanians a pittance to do it for you. A handful of shillings went a long way for men whose homes had dirt floors and mud walls.
“If they disturb the animals who live here, they will face the Maasai.”
Reed didn’t doubt spears would fly if Olekina caught the poachers. He glanced at his watch. If he and Paul were going to cover all the ground Nixon wanted them to, they needed to move.
“Thanks again.” Reed stuck his hand out and received another crushing shake. “Do you know where my camp is?” Olekina nodded. “Come by if you’re ever in trouble. I’ll do anything I can to help.”
The warrior’s grin lit up an already brilliant day. “The Maasai will survive.” With that, he and the other warriors turned and took off, loping across the plains toward their village. Watching them go, Reed could only shake his head. History was still right in front of your face here, living and breathing the same as it always had.
Reed’s phone trilled as he climbed back into the Land Rover. “Hello, Chief Ereng.”
“I am checking that you are alive,” Nixon said. “Have you run into any trouble?”
“Not the kind you’re thinking of.” Reed recounted his run-in with Tanzania’s oldest human residents, including the information about possible surveying activity and the chief’s warning. “Did you know any of this was going on out here?”
Nixon did not. “It is possible they are with the government. The police are not cons
ulted on these matters, even though it can be dangerous to bother the native tribes.”
“Seems like they’d want you to know they’re around,” Reed said. “Bad things can happen out here, even if you know what you’re doing.”
“Often this knowledge is gained too late, delivered from the mouth of a wild animal.”
“Or from a poacher’s gun. They don’t just kill animals.”
“You are correct,” Nixon said. “Do you have any idea why these men would be surveying?”
“Could be a lot of things. I used to work out west in America. Some of the land we hunted was tested to see if there could be oil or natural gas underground. Energy companies sent out surveyors, took samples, and did a bunch of other testing.”
“Tanzania is not known for oil,” Nixon said. “I will speak with my official contacts about this. Until I learn what is happening, be alert. Those men may not be what they seem.”
If there was one thing Reed had learned about Africa, it was that you couldn’t predict anything. “You know it, Chief.” Reed set the phone down and glanced over at Paul, waiting in the passenger seat. “We’ll do five passes east and five west, a mile between each. Ready to—”
“Do you hear that?” Paul leaned out the window, cupping a hand around his ear. “Turn off the engine.”
The Land Rover fell silent and Reed cocked an ear out his window. At first, nothing. Then he caught it. A faint rattle, softer than the whispering breeze. “It sounds mechanical. Like a motor.”
Paul nodded. Before the sound grew any louder, another noise cut through. One that terrified man and beast alike.
The battle cry of a Maasai warrior.
Chapter 5
Zurich, Switzerland
May 21st
From a thousand feet in the air, Zurich unrolled beneath them like a map moving four hundred miles an hour. The largest city in Switzerland was an international hub of banking, renowned for low tax rates and some of the strictest privacy laws in the world. It also had a reputation as one of the most livable and hospitable cities on the planet, but for Sarah Hall, that would have to wait.
The skin on her arms tingled and her stomach twisted as the jet engines roared. Sarah took a deep breath. She could do this. No doubt about it. Every other scientist on this trip would be on the edge of their seats when she told them about her research, and it didn’t matter if she’d gone to an Ivy League school or not. Her foot tapped rapidly. The research was brand-new, the CRISPR technique a success never seen before. It was good, a way to help people in need. Of course it was.
Her foot tapped faster.
The plane touched down, and after landing and clearing customs she found her driver waiting near the exit doors, holding a sign with her name on it.
“Welcome to Zurich, Dr. Hall. Please follow me.”
He took her luggage and she followed him to a waiting Lincoln Continental, then leaned back to watch the vast grasslands and endless blue skies whip by en route to her new home for the next few weeks.
“Am I the first one here?” she asked as they pulled in front of the gleaming steel-and-glass research facility.
“No.” Her driver spoke flawless English. She, on the other hand, could hardly order a beer in anything other than English. “Several team members have already arrived. You will find them in the laboratory. I believe that man will be able to assist you.” The driver nodded to a beaming man waiting on the front steps. When Sarah looked up, he bustled down to meet her.
“Dr. Hall, welcome to our laboratory. I will be your coordinator for the stay.” Short, with a slight paunch, he looked as bookish as they came. “My name is Geoffrey Milner.”
“Nice to meet you.” She found his hand cool and dry. “Do we have a schedule laid out?”
“Most of your fellow scientists have already arrived. There is a meeting scheduled for this afternoon, after which you may wish to rest in preparation for a laboratory day tomorrow. All of the requested research materials and equipment are ready for you at your workstations.”
“How is the research area organized?” The last thing she needed was people looking over her shoulder.
“It is an open design to encourage discussion and collaboration,” Milner said. “In addition, we are holding the discussion session this afternoon. Each researcher has been allotted thirty minutes to speak about anything they wish to share with the group. Please accept my apologies for the time constraint.” His arms went out wide, and he shrugged. “I did not realize most of you needed hours to speak. We simply don’t have the time.”
Hours? What in the world did they need so long to talk about?
On the flight over, Sarah had drafted a presentation on the breakthrough she’d made. No need to extoll her work in front of men and women with credentials far exceeding her own, and accomplished scientists’ egos to match.
“My material will take twenty minutes at most,” she told him. “Someone else can use the rest of my time.”
Milner lifted an eyebrow. “Are you certain?”
She assured him she was. They walked through the revolving front door into a sterile, efficient facility. Staff buzzed about, and Milner summoned a porter to show Sarah to her quarters, which were twice the size of her New York apartment. After she’d showered and had lunch at the full-service café, Sarah headed down to the conference room for their presentations, where she found a group of her fellow researchers gathered, ten men and women hailing from every corner of the globe, all chatting quietly as they waited for Geoff Milner to take the stage. Each spoke English, though Sarah couldn’t help but laugh when she tried to use her limited Spanish while chatting with the genetic specialist from Madrid. Her bungled question about whether his university offered classes in cheese research was a perfect icebreaker.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Geoff Milner stood on the stage, his head barely visible above the podium. “If you’ll take your seats, please, we will begin.” He waited until they settled in. “Our first presenter is Dr. Hall.”
Damn. She felt every eye following her as she walked up and shook Milner’s hand. Hopefully she hadn’t left too much sweat on his palm.
“It is a pleasure to be here,” she said. “First, I need to thank Geoff Milner and his staff for making us welcome, and also the scientific bodies from each of our countries, whose financial support made this possible.” Polite applause, but for some reason she found it comforting. Deep breath. This is like any other talk you’ve given. They’re scientists, same as you.
“In the past week there has been a recent development in my research with the Clustered Regularly Interspaced Short Palindromic Repeats technique, or CRISPR. Earlier this week I succeeded in altering a specific portion of a mouse’s genome responsible for speed.” She clicked a button, and a screen behind her flashed to life. “As you can see on the chart behind me, the time needed for this mouse to complete a familiar, standard maze decreased by fifty percent post-implementation.”
A hand shot up in the crowd. Sarah pointed to the man, a researcher from Tanzania. “Yes?”
“You were able to utilize the ribonucleic acid guide molecule to remove the genome portion associated with speed in the mouse?”
“Yes. I replaced the RNA with a more efficient portion, which in essence created a faster mouse.”
Another hand shot up. “How long did this procedure take?”
Sarah took a deep breath. “Less than three hours from start to finish.”
“How many test subjects expired before you were successful?”
“None.” A murmur swept through the crowd. “The first test succeeded. Those are his results on the screen behind you. He’s still running around the lab in New York, much the same as before I edited his genome. Other than an exponential increase in speed, that is.” Her slide show rolled on as the gathered scientists fell silent. “I used the standard CRISPR technique of Cas9 enzymes created by bacteria to target a specific portion of the mouse’s genome. By attaching altered RNA, which the enzyme
s carry while searching for viral infections, I was able to convince the enzyme that the altered RNA needed to be replaced.”
Sarah paused to take a sip of water, then set her glass down and found every eye in the room on her. “As you know, the Cas9 enzyme would believe the attached RNA to be an infection and would seek out the genome portion to be replaced, a portion which in this case determines how fast a mouse can run. It cut out this portion and inserted the enhanced portion, creating a much faster mouse. It actually altered the mouse’s genome for the better.”
No reason to belabor the point. Sarah wasn’t in love with the sound of her own voice. “There is a great deal more research needed, and I am hopeful others will be able to replicate these results.” She called up a final slide. “As the saying goes, ‘If you build a better mousetrap, the world will beat a path to your door.’ I propose we take this a step further. Let’s build a better mouse.”
Applause filled the room, sharp and brief. Heat bloomed on Sarah’s cheeks as she headed back to her seat. “Dr. Hall, a question.”
She stopped at the stage’s edge. “Yes?”
A Scottish scientist stood, waving her pen in the air. “A thought strikes me regarding your discovery. Do you believe genetic alterations such as you made are responsible? The possibility of a gene drive is quite unnerving.”
“Driving changes through an entire species is not my goal,” Sarah said. “Take a best-case scenario. One well-discussed example of a gene drive is altering mosquitoes to produce only male offspring, with the goal of eradicating a specific mosquito-borne disease. An admirable goal, but one carrying great risk. What unknown impacts will this have? Will these new mosquitoes upset the delicate balance of an ecosystem? I don’t know, and we are not here to play dice with the universe.”
“Insects are not the only lifeform potentially affected by genome alteration.” The Scottish scientist sat down, hands folded on her lap. Sarah recalled her name was Bonnie.
“Agreed. Attempting this method on a human would be unconscionable,” Sarah said. “We have not yet begun to fully understand the potential outcomes, and I do not believe it is wise to move ahead with more advanced testing until we as a community have a better understanding of the risks.”
The Turn Series Box Set Page 14
