Pandemic (The Extinction Files Book 1)

by A. G. Riddle

  “You really want to do this the hard way?”

  “I thought we already were.”

  The soldier set the case on the ground, opened it, and prepped something. Desmond rose, ready to throw the rock and charge the iron bars, but the soldier was quick: he drew a pistol from the case and fired once, striking Desmond in the chest.

  Chapter 35

  Millen came to with a start. His torso ached, but it was a sensation at his leg that caught his attention: something slithering around his left calf. He lay still, waiting to see if whatever it was would move on. Instead, it closed tightly, squeezing like a vise. He thought it was no larger than an inch around, but it was strong, and with each passing second, it cut off more of his circulation.

  He had fallen down a vertical shaft; he wasn’t sure how far. He was surrounded by absolute darkness, except for a single point of light in the distance, like a penlight in a train tunnel.

  The thing closed more tightly around his leg. To Millen’s surprise, it pulled with incredible force, dragging him across the rock, into the wall.

  The light shone brighter, raked across his body. He saw what had ensnared him: a rope, tied in a loop, lassoed around his leg.

  “Stop!” he yelled.

  The rope continued pulling at him, lifting him into the air. The pressure on his left ankle, where the rope had settled, was excruciating. His shoulders were still on the ground, but with each passing second, he rose.

  They couldn’t hear him. He still had his suit on, and it was muffling his voice.

  He had no choice. He knew it might end his life, but he tore his helmet off and shouted as loud as he could, “Stop!”

  The reaction, unfortunately, was instantaneous. He fell immediately back to the jagged rock floor. A shock of pain swept through his body. He rolled over, but it made the hurt even worse. He lay still, wishing it would end. For a moment, he thought he would throw up. The nausea passed, and slowly the voice calling down from above came into focus. “Dr. Thomas! Are you all right?”

  “Not really,” he mumbled.

  “What?” It was Kito, his local guide and interpreter.

  “Just… give me a minute,” Millen yelled.

  By degrees, he sat up and took stock. The fall had banged him up pretty badly. He had what felt like a bruised rib, and he doubted there was a single part of his body that wasn’t either skinned up or bruised. On the whole, however, he was okay. He would live. He could hike out. He counted himself very, very lucky. The bulky suit had provided some padding.

  But the shaft he had fallen into was at least twenty feet deep, and the bruised rib would make it difficult for him to climb.

  Thankfully, Kito had called the camp for backup. He had four men with him, and together, they were able to pull Millen up—though the process was far from pain-free.

  As soon as he caught his breath, Millen thanked the men at length. They had brought food and water into the cave, and Millen was glad. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he took the first bite. When the MRE was half gone, an idea came to him. He placed his helmet back on and stood.

  “Can you hike out?” Kito asked.

  “I won’t set any land speed records, but I can manage,” Millen said. “But first, I’m going to finish what I came here for.”

  Twenty minutes later, Millen watched the bat land near the open MRE and begin nibbling at it. He took aim, pulled the trigger, and tranquilized the animal. It jerked for a moment or two, then fell limp. Millen scooped it up and placed it in the sack.

  “Now we can go.”

  When the six men reached the green chemlight, they made radio contact with two more Kenyan soldiers waiting by the SUVs at the entrance to the cave. Kito informed Millen that the two soldiers that had originally driven them here had gone missing—along with the SUV.

  “Probably deserted,” Kito said. “They have families too. They’re no doubt worried about the virus reaching them.”

  The men at the SUVs relayed more troubling news: as soon as they had arrived at the caves, they had attempted to check in with the camp at the village, but no one had responded.

  Millen’s mind instantly went to Hannah, and the memory of her sleeping peacefully on the cot that morning. Despite the pain in his ribs and legs, he picked up his pace. The five Africans matched him easily, and less than fifteen minutes later, they cleared the cave.

  Millen tore his helmet off.

  “Let’s hurry,” he said.

  The drive back to the camp was a red-line, grueling affair. In the back seat, Millen held the handle on the roof and gritted his teeth.

  When the SUV’s headlights caught sight of the white tents, the vehicles screeched to a halt, sending a plume of dust forward like a ghost wandering from the car toward the camp. When the cloud cleared, Millen’s worst fears were confirmed: there was no movement anywhere. He had hoped the communication blackout was only an equipment failure.

  The eight men exited the vehicles. Kito called in to the Ministry of Health to apprise them of the situation. One of the Kenyan army officers updated their command post at the Mandera airport. The remaining six men, including Millen, approached the camp cautiously. The Kenyan soldiers held their semi-automatic rifles out, their fingers on the triggers.

  The camp was a horror show. Dead bodies were everywhere: soldiers, WHO staff, CDC employees, and Kenyan Ministry of Health workers. Whoever had invaded the camp had left no survivors. There was no sign of Hannah—yet. If by some miracle she was still alive, she wasn’t crying out.

  The men spread out, searching the camp, but found only more death. Millen’s fear mounted with every step. Still, he clung to the hope that she was alive, that Hannah had somehow escaped. He held his breath when he drew the flaps back on their tent.

  Empty.

  Quickly, Millen counted the SUVs. One was missing. There was still a chance she had gotten out.

  One of the soldiers yelled from beyond the camp. Millen was at his side a minute later, staring in horror.

  Dr. Jonas Becker’s body lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of an overturned SUV.

  He died fighting, Millen thought. But whom had he been fighting? Al-Shabaab?

  “Dr. Thomas,” the soldier called from the back of the SUV.

  The vehicle’s rear door was open, and the ground behind it was covered in a massive pool of blood. Shattered glass was everywhere.

  Millen got out his satphone and dialed a number in Atlanta. During the flight in, Dr. Shaw had been adamant that if the worst happened, the EIS members should bypass the EOC and call Elliott Shapiro directly.

  It was five thirty p.m. in Atlanta, and the call connected on the first ring.

  “Shapiro.”

  “Dr. Shapiro, my name is Millen Thomas. I’m a first-year EIS agent deployed in Mandera.”

  “Sure,” Elliott said. Millen could hear him walking in the background, a cacophony of voices and people typing on keyboards. “What can I do for you, Millen?”

  “Sir, we have a problem.”

  Chapter 36

  The call had rattled Elliott. He had been doing his final rounds before leaving for the day, but now he sat at his desk, thinking through his next moves. What he did now could well determine whether his people in Kenya lived or died—including one young woman in particular who was very special to him.

  Elliott and his wife, Rose, had been blessed with two sons. One had died at the age of three in their pool. They had filled it in and planted a garden in its place as a memorial. The other son was an anesthesiologist in Austin, and they saw him a few times a year. Peyton was a regular at their home, however, and over the years, both Elliott and Rose had begun to think of her—to treat her—as if she were the daughter they’d never had.

  He knew that the hours immediately after her abduction were the most crucial to ensuring her safe return, that acting quickly and decisively was the only way to protect her, to prevent any truly evil act from occurring.

  His first call was to the Natio
nal Reconnaissance Office, where his request was met with immediate resistance.

  “We need that sat telemetry right now, you understand?” he said. “I’m going to hang up now and call State and people way above your pay grade. I’m going to mention your name. If telemetry isn’t available by the time I call you back, it will go badly for you.”

  He wasn’t bluffing; he called the State Department next, and right after, his contact at the CIA.

  The moment he hung up, his office phone rang. It was the director of the CDC. Elliott had instructed Millen to call the EOC and update them immediately after their call; apparently word of the crisis had now reached the top of the food chain.

  “Did you call State, Elliott?”

  “Yeah.” Elliott was typing on his computer, sending an email to Joe Ruto, head of CDC in Kenya, urging him to contact the Kenyans about any assets they had in the area.

  “Did you threaten them, Elliott?”

  “Uh, yeah. Maybe, I don’t know. Why?”

  Elliott shifted the phone to his other shoulder so he could type faster.

  “Because they just called me. They’re not happy.”

  “Uh-huh. Is the White House going to approve the RDF?”

  Elliott believed a Rapid Deployment Force scouring the area for Peyton and the other hostages was their best shot at getting them back; he had been working to make that exact scenario happen.

  “They don’t even have a target yet,” the director said.

  “Sure they do: the al-Shabaab camps in Somalia.”

  “Be realistic, Elliott.”

  “I am. Realistically, who do you think did this? There’s one terror network in the region: al-Shabaab. They hate America. We’ve got extremely high-value targets in the area. It’s them. They’ve got her.”

  “Her?”

  “Our people.”

  The director exhaled. “Our people could be at any number of camps.”

  “I agree. We hit them all at the same time. It’s the only way.”

  “Jesus, Elliott. You want to start a ground war in southern Somalia?”

  “I want to raid known terrorist camps in search of American hostages. Since when did this become a tough sell?”

  A pause, then the director said, “Hang on a second.” Elliott heard mouse clicks. “All right, there’s a White House conference call in fifteen minutes—”

  “I want to be on the call—”

  “No, Elliott. It’s invite-only. The president and national security advisor are going to be there. Please don’t make any more calls. I know you’re worried. I am too. I’ll call you as soon as the conference ends, okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  Elliott slammed the phone down and sat, listening to his breathing for a long moment. A text popped up on his cell phone, which lay on his desk:

  From: Rose

  Message: Thinking of switching from Miller Union to Kyma. Okay with you?

  Elliott tapped the phone and dialed his wife.

  “We’re going to have to cancel dinner.”

  Rose instantly read the tone of his voice. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s Peyton.”

  “Oh my God.”

  Elliott avoided giving his wife all the details; he merely told her that Peyton and her team were out of contact, and they were trying to determine if it was a technical problem or something else. White lies had become a routine part of his job, especially during his time in the field, but they had been less common since his promotion and years at CDC HQ. He far preferred being honest with Rose, but now wasn’t the time for it.

  Ten minutes later, an email appeared in Elliott’s inbox. The NRO had made the sat footage available.

  Elliott clicked the link and watched as black-suited soldiers attacked the camp at dusk. The footage ended with soldiers hauling two women out of the back of an overturned SUV. They placed black bags over their heads and dragged them to a clearing, where a helicopter landed and took them away.

  Elliott grabbed his office phone and dialed the NRO analyst, defying the CDC director’s order. “Where’d the helicopter go?”

  “We don’t know. The area’s huge; we don’t have coverage over the whole thing.”

  “Does the helicopter show up again—on another sat?”

  “We don’t know—”

  “What the hell do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “It’s an unmarked Sikorsky. We can’t be sure it’s the same helicopter.”

  “Do you have satellites over the al-Shabaab terror camps?”

  The analyst hesitated.

  “Do you?”

  “That’s… classified, sir.”

  “Classified? You’re seriously not going to tell me if you can see a similar helicopter landing at a terrorist base?”

  “I could lose my job, sir.”

  “Lose your job? Let me tell you something. Right now, some terrorist thug is torturing and possibly sexually assaulting American citizens—government employees serving our nation, just like you and me, men and women who put themselves in harm’s way to protect our families and our friends so we can go home tonight and sleep in safety. If you care about that at all, I want you to pull that footage from all those terror bases, and if you see that helicopter or anything else going on, please make a call. Let the national security advisor know, or whoever the hell you guys call. Will you do that?”

  “Yes, sir, I will.”

  Another text appeared on Elliott’s phone.

  From: Rose

  Message: Any news?

  Elliott texted back.

  Not yet. Everything will be fine. Don’t worry.

  At six p.m., Elliott’s office phone rang. He snatched it up and listened, surprised at the voice on the other end: the head of watch at the EOC.

  “Elliott, we just got a flood of signals in; this respiratory disease is amplifying. Millions more cases—”

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” Elliott said, interrupting. “Keep an eye on it. I’ll call you back.”

  “But I think—”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  He hung up the phone and briefly considered calling the director to see if he had tried calling him.

  He stood and paced across the room. His blood pressure had to be through the roof. He was glad Rose couldn’t see him. He took a pill bottle from his top desk drawer and swallowed a blood pressure pill.

  After what felt like hours, Elliott’s phone rang again.

  “All right,” the CDC director said. “They’re putting two RDFs on standby and dispatching an aircraft carrier in the Gulf of Aden. The CIA special ops teams at the Mogadishu airport are also on alert. As soon as they have reliable intel about the hostages’ location, they’ll move in.”

  “That’s it?”

  “It’s all we can do until we know where they are.”

  “So, what, we’re going to wait for these kidnappers to webcast their demands? Or maybe force our people to read a statement? Or are we just going to wait and hope somebody gets drunk in a Mogadishu dive bar and mentions some American hostages?”

  “What do you want, Elliott?”

  “I want special ops raiding those camps in Somalia. We ought to be turning that place upside down.”

  “What if they’re not there? What if they’re in Ethiopia, or still in Kenya? Raiding the camps could get American soldiers killed. And it could provoke the kidnappers to kill our people in retribution.”

  “First, those soldiers signed up for that,” Elliott said. “Special operatives know the risk, they know they’re putting themselves in harm’s way to save American lives. That’s their job. And when our people deploy, they go out there with a simple assumption: if they get in trouble, the United States of America will come for them. We’re not keeping our promise. How are we going to ask the next class of EIS agents to put themselves in harm’s way if we aren’t willing to protect this class? Huh?”

  “I’ll keep you posted, Elliott. Go home. Try to relax.”

 
The line went dead. Elliott threw the phone across the room. The gray Ethernet cord that connected it to the wall yanked it back like a yo-yo and slammed it into the desk.

  His door flew open, and Josh, his assistant, peered in. The younger man always stayed until Elliott left for the day. He looked down at the broken IP phone. “I’ll… call IT.”

  When the door closed, Elliott took out his cell phone and dialed an old friend.

  “I’ve got a story for you.”

  “On the record?”

  “Strictly off.”

  “Related to the Kenya outbreak, or this new thing?”

  “Kenya. CDC employees have been abducted. The White House knows. They’re not doing a damn thing.”

  Chapter 37

  When Elliott got home, he poured himself a drink and downed it quickly. Then he had another, and sat in the large chair in the corner of his mahogany-paneled office, staring at nothing in particular. His eyes settled on a picture taken seven years ago, in Haiti. He and Peyton were facing the camera, his arm around her. It had been taken the day they found out there were no new cases in the cholera outbreak. That had been a happy day—one of the few during that grueling deployment.

  He picked up the remote and turned on the flat-screen TV.

  CNN has learned that the abduction took place in eastern Kenya, near the border with Somalia…

  Elliott watched the rest of the segment. It ended with: The White House has issued a statement saying they are “following the situation and considering all options for the safe return of American and Kenyan personnel.”

  He walked to the kitchen, looking for Rose, but instead found a whole, uncooked chicken in a glass dish on the center island, beside a few chopped vegetables. Rose had texted him to tell him she would cook, and he wondered if something had gone wrong.

  Rose had retired from teaching when their first son was born. She had been a wonderful mother. After the death of their youngest son in the pool, she had dedicated much of her time to tending the garden they had created in its place—and to cooking the vegetables she grew there.