by Basil Sands
In an unexpected burst of energy, the Kosovar smashed the test tube hard against his own forehead as he fell to the ground. Fluid ran across his face and chest. Small droplets of the yellowish substance splashed into the air as the vial burst. The two warriors barely avoided landing on the man.
As they rolled their bodies away, Forester shouted, “The chemical is out! Evacuate the building!”
The chemical reaction was instantaneous. The blood and sweat that covered Adem’s body provided the liquid agent the bacteria needed to replicate, and the cancerous process started within two seconds. Orange lumps visibly rose from the handsome blond man’s face and across his chest. The lumps quickly grew as large as baseballs, disfiguring his flesh into grotesque masses where the fluid had contacted him. They spread rapidly.
The lumps turned red, and then got darker. They replicated across his flesh until his entire body bubbled and seethed like a thick, boiling soup. Wisps of an eerie red-orange smoke rose from Adem’s form. He screamed in horrifying agony as the sores pulsed larger and larger.
Swollen, red cysts burst open and turned black. Sick-looking orange foam expanded from the open wounds on his chest.
Beckwith stood transfixed by the scene in front of him.
“Beckwith!” Forester shouted, “Let’s go!”
Suddenly shaken from his mesmerized stare, Beckwith turned to run out of the room. The chemical reaction team was already coming into the area. Bulky green bio suits swished noisily as they passed Forester and Beckwith. The two commandos ran down the stairs and were met by a MOP-suited bio tech.
“Wait outside the front door!” the hooded man shouted. “Don’t go near anyone not in a suit! We need to detox you right away.”
The two men did as ordered while the bio team rushed to seal off the house. By the time the team reached Adem’s body, it was not recognizably human. Only the lower parts of the legs and feet remained untouched by the cancer. Within minutes, those parts too were completely engulfed.
The remains of Adem Jankovic transformed into a large orange, red, and black mass of slimy, deformed tissue bearing no resemblance at all to the man who had threatened to cut Marcus Johnson’s balls off only two days earlier.
Beckwith and Forester hurriedly stepped out onto the front porch. It was encased in a large, clear, plastic tent.
“Oh, dear Jesus!” Beckwith said in a near panic. “Help me, God! I think he got some of that crap on my clothes!”
“Just calm down and stand still,” replied one of the hooded men nearby.
Beckwith started to take his equipment off, but was stopped by the bio team. “Don’t! Don’t touch your clothes! Just stand still. The Nomex suit will keep you safe while we undress you. Now put your arms straight out sideways.”
Both men did so. One of the hooded detox crew startled with alarm. “Uh oh!” he said, pointing at Beckwith’s leg. “There’s smoke coming up from his trousers!”
A thin wisp of white smoke emanated from a small hole in the left shin of Beckwith’s trousers, just above the top of his boot. Through this, the bacteria had already started to spread through the sweat-soaked material of his thermal long underwear.
The bio techs rushed to get his boots and pants off as fast as they could. With knives, they cut the laces from the boots and pulled them off, placing them quickly into sealed bags. They then removed his belt and pulled off the trousers quickly to reveal the thermal underwear, which was discolored from the effect of the TZ-E on his shin.
“Oh, Jesus! Hurry up! Oh, God! Don’t let me die like that guy!”
They pulled off the long underwear and put it in a bag. The tech turned back toward Beckwith. He gasped as two small orange circles grew from mere dots to the size of silver dollar coins in a matter of seconds.
Beckwith felt a painful sensation on the surface of his skin. He looked down and saw the bacteria growing rapidly across his left shin, visibly spreading up his leg.
“No! No!” he shouted. “Cut it off! Cut my leg off! Hurry up, before it spreads!”
Forester reacted first. He, too, had seen how fast this thing spread and couldn’t let his fellow warrior to die that way. He quickly drew out his fighting knife and pushed the terrified tech aside.
Beckwith dropped to the floor of the tent. “Hurry! Hurry up!” He nearly screamed the words.
“Hold him!” Forester shouted to the technicians. “Hold him down!”
Two of the techs grabbed his shoulders and a third his right leg. Forester pulled a tourniquet from an open first aid bag and tightened it around Beckwith’s thigh. He held the limb down with his own body weight and placed the razor-sharp blade of his ten-inch-long SOG fighting knife under Beckwith’s kneecap, careful not to touch the infected surface of the leg six inches lower, where the bacteria was spreading.
The Marine grunted, sucked in a deep breath, and held it as his partner tensed and leaned his body weight onto the blade. In a single, rapid motion, Forester swiftly sliced up under the patella, then down through the knee joint, shearing tendon, cartilage, and bone until the lower part of the leg was amputated at the joint.
The tourniquet held back most of the blood from the severed leg, but did not cut off the sensation in the nerves. Beckwith’s bellow of pain made the hair stand up on the necks of everyone in the yard.
The techs took the leg and put it in a sealed bag, where it was consumed by the foaming reaction as the bacteria contacted even more of Beckwith’s moist, fresh blood. Within two minutes, the leg was reduced to an unrecognizable black lump of deformed cells and orange slime.
The bio team finished stripping Beckwith down and inspected his body for any more signs of the bacteria. He was clean.
The Marine staff sergeant moaned in a state of delirium as the paramedics loaded him onto a gurney and took him to the hospital. Staff Sergeant Nathan Elijah Beckwith, USMC, was naked, cold, and in shock. He had only one leg left. But he was going to live. He passed out of consciousness as the ambulance door closed.
Chapter 35
Wednesday July 1st, 1998
Banks of Shisepi Creek
5 Miles North of Senga Village
Sierra Leone, Africa
09:00 Hours
It had taken nearly four hours to go five miles. Even with the women and children in the group, that was a much slower pace than Marcus had anticipated. He had hoped to be nearly twice as far by now, but reality settled on him as he realized that it simply was not possible. As much as he and Temebe tried to set a fast pace the group just could not keep up.
The band of villagers sat in a shadowy, wooded area beside a shallow stream. Shafts of sunlight cut randomly through the overlapping branches of thick-leafed trees high above their heads. Bright white spots scattered through the deep green foliage, illuminating the forest. Marcus squatted beside the stream to discuss their route with Temebe and Sambako.
The stream, according to Sambako, was called Shisepi Creek. It was about ten feet across and only a foot or two deep. It ran with clear, cool, fast-moving water that gurgled over rocks and fallen branches. It flowed from the north, originating in the mountains of Guinea. If they followed it, they would easily be able to find the border, and then could turn to the refugee camp.
Marcus glanced up and noticed that most of the people were looking to the south, eyes wide and mouths agape. He and Temebe followed their gaze.
A thick column of smoke rose dark and menacing in the distance behind them. Senga Village was being put to the torch. Several villagers wept as their ancestral homeland was reduced to towers of black smoke.
“Let’s move!” Marcus shouted. “They’ll find our trail soon and be after us! We have a head start, but they can move much faster than we can.”
The motley group suddenly discovered a hidden source of energy. The realization that their enemies could catch up to them invigorated their step, and the pace more than doubled with no more prodding.
Temebe knew the area well. He took them through every safe defilade
in the brush, using nature to protect them from searching eyes.
With the renewed energy, in only an hour they had covered nearly three miles. By noon, they were more than halfway to the border. It was still almost eight miles away. If they could maintain this pace for four more hours, they would safely be across, out of reach of the band of murderers chasing them.
As the afternoon sun moved from the center of the sky, Marcus was alone a hundred yards behind the last of the moving group of refugees. He was making sure no stragglers got left behind, and that Sergei’s men did not sneak up behind them. A sudden chill coursed down his spine. He felt eyes gazing at the back his head. Someone was watching him. He took a few more steps. The feeling persisted, behind him, about fifteen yards in the trees. He burst in a run toward to the rear of the group, as if he were in a panic. As he rounded a clump of thick brush, he abruptly dropped to the ground and turned back, facing the direction from which he had just run.
The bait worked. Within moments, a young man dressed in a stained Royal Marines tunic and armed with a folding stock AK-47 emerged at a jog from the brush. Marcus let him pass by, keeping an eye out for followers. Once the man was about three yards past, the Marine leaped from his cover and thrust at the back of the man’s head with the butt of his AK-47. The heavy wooden stock of the weapon cracked against the man’s skull, sending him to the ground without a sound.
Marcus turned him over and removed his web belt. Hanging on the belt were a knife, a pistol, several ammo magazines for the rifle and pistol, two hand grenades, and a canteen. He slung the extra rifle over his shoulder and took the weapons and ammo, but left the canteen. Marcus had no desire to contract a disease from this unknown fellow.
As he fell, the man had dropped something near his feet. Feeling around in the undergrowth, Marcus found a small black walkie-talkie radio. He picked it up, made sure it was on, then made his way back to the main body of the group.
When he came upon the villagers, they were sitting on the bank of the stream, drinking water and trying to catch their breath. Sambako moved up and down the line of weary refugees, tending to their needs. Marcus found Temebe at the head of the line and signaled to him that they needed to talk quietly.
The two men stepped away from the rest of the group and squatted next to the bubbling water. Marcus spoke to him in French. “The bad guys are tracking us hard. I just killed a scout about half a mile back from our group.”
Temebe looked up at him. “I knew it could not be long before they caught up to us..”
“I got this off the scout.” Marcus held up the small radio. “If these hills don’t block the reception, we’ll be able to hear them coming.”
“If their scout was that close behind us, then the main party will be within a mile or less behind him.” Temebe looked back toward the women, children, and elderly huddled in small groups along the banks of the stream. “I am not sure we can make it. Our twenty gunmen are brave, but they are not skilled.”
Marcus was silent for a moment, his eyes hard and serious. “You take them to the border, Temebe,” he finally said. “I will hang back and slow Sergei’s men as they approach. There are some decent laying-up positions back there from which I should be able to hold them off for a good amount of time.”
“Are you sure?” Temebe asked, his voice grave.
“It’s the only way I can think of right now,” Marcus replied. “Unless you have a phone that can reach the Legion or the Royal Marines for an air strike in the next few minutes.”
“Okay,” Temebe answered. “We’d better get moving. There are still another three miles to the border, and they may try to follow us beyond that.”
Marcus stood and tightened on the web gear he had taken from the rebel scout. He had six magazines for the rifles, and two more for the dead man’s 9 mm pistol, which he now carried. He also kept the two hand grenades and the radio, and jogged south toward the approaching enemy.
As he passed the line, Sambako rose and faced him.
“My brother, where are you going?” the minister asked.
“I will be right behind you,” Marcus replied. “Just follow Temebe up the stream. Whatever happens, don’t worry about me. Thanks for everything you have done.”
He started down the trail, then stopped and turned back to his friend. “I have thought about what you said yesterday, and have made my peace with God, as best I can. I hope He smiles on me like He did for David.”
Marcus nodded at Sambako and moved out.
Chapter 36
House on Panorama Drive
Fairbanks, Alaska
20 December
03:40 Hours
It was more than an hour before the biohazard team allowed the crime scene unit to enter the house. They too donned protective suits against the threat of contamination by the deadly bacteria.
Adem’s remains had been taken out, wrapped in several layers of protective material, and placed in a hermetically sealed vehicle that backed up to the door of the house. The biotechs took every precaution to ensure that no trace of the infectious substance was left behind, and had scoured the room and all of the places past which his body went with a heavy-duty bleach solution to decontaminate the house. To ensure the complete encapsulation of the substance, they removed everything from that room in tightly sealed wrappings, even the floorboards.
Trooper Wyatt was among the crime scene team members, along with two FBI agents and two Alaska Bureau of Investigations agents. Typically, a chem/biohazard scene would not be entered so soon. Johnson convinced the powers that be that they had to get the remaining operatives fast or there would be a lot more trouble.
According to Sergeant Choi, there were at least two other North Koreans who were unaccounted for. According to the relatively fresh tire tracks in the snow leading from the empty side of the garage, the two missing men had left before the raid.
The CSI team said the tracks belonged to an SUV, probably a Ford Explorer. Choi was brought to the scene and questioned about vehicles by Forester. Choi said he had seen some of the men driving in a brown or dark red SUV, but he didn’t know enough about American vehicle models to be able to tell what kind it was.
The two FBI agents were searching upstairs while ABI took the garage. Wyatt and Edwards scoured the kitchen and main floor for any sign as to where the two men may have been headed.
In the kitchen, Wyatt noticed a phone book on the counter. A pencil stuck out from between its pages in the restaurant section. A blank pad of yellow sticky notes sat next to it.
She didn’t recognize the names of the restaurants. She closed the book again and took a look at the cover. It was not a Fairbanks phone directory. She should have noticed that right away, due to its thickness. This was the city Yellow Pages directory for Anchorage.
She opened it back up and looked at the ads on the page. The pencil had been stuck in the section of Italian restaurants in the Anchorage area. Lonnie glanced over to the note pad beside the book. A faint indentation was barely visible on the top page. She took the pencil and rubbed its graphite tip side to side across the yellow pad.
Emerging from the paper against the dark background of the pencil’s shading was the impression of a seven-digit phone number. Wyatt ran her finger down the long list of numbers on the page. A moment later, she found a match. The Bella Vista Italian Restaurant in Eklutna.
She pressed the talk button on her radio and called for Commander Stark.
“7-4, 7-23.”
“Go ahead, Wyatt.”
“Sir, I think I know where they went.”
“Where?”
“They’re headed to the Anchorage water supply in Eklutna. The whole city is supplied by the Eklutna Reservoir.”
“Get out here. Let’s put a plan together.”
Stark called Johnson and Wasner, along with the FBI and Homeland Security agents at the incident command post.
“All right, folks.” Stark demanded, “How long ago would they have left?”
&nbs
p; Agent Hansen from the FBI answered, “It couldn’t have been less than three hours, or more than four hours ago, according to when they left the site in Salt Jacket. I’d say they probably left less than an hour before we got here.”
“Agreed,” Wyatt answered. “That would put them somewhere between here and Cantwell, but definitely no farther than Willow.”
Stark pointed at the trooper manning the main radio and said, “Close off the road to the Eklutna Reservoir completely. Also, get some sobriety checkpoints every fifty miles from Healy to Wasilla. Put an APB out for a dark-colored SUV with two Korean men in their twenties or thirties.”
Agent Hansen spoke up again. “The Army’s mobile hazmat unit is still on standby.”
Stark wheeled toward Marcus. “Johnson, you and Wasner take a couple of your men and get down there in a helicopter. I want you staged at the town of Sunshine. You’ll be on standby until we find out exactly where they are. I will dispatch more SERT to the area, but we’re running out of usable manpower. Most of these guys have been on duty since we picked up Kim last night. Wyatt, I want you down there with Johnson in case we need a translator.”
“Yes, sir,” Wyatt replied.
Within twenty minutes, Wasner, Johnson, Wyatt, and two of the SEALs, PO2 Clark and PO3 Forth, were standing in a heated room next to the helipad at the public safety building waiting for the state’s new Blackhawk helicopter to warm up.
Once airborne, the pilot brought the craft to its maximum speed and shot through the night like a comet on its way to the trooper post at Sunshine.
Chapter 37
George Parks Highway
Nenana, Alaska
20 December
03:20 Hours
Almost every one of the thousand residents in the small town on the south bank of the Tanana River were fast asleep. The town, known by the name of the smaller river just to the west, had originally been one of the primary trading stops on the riverboat route that carried miners, trappers, and homesteaders, as well as their supplies, between their wilderness homes and the local native villages until the highway bridge was built in the 1968.
