by Brian Nelson
As Sawyer was about to board the second Valor, the rain broke, coming down in heavy sheets. The armor kept a perfect bubble around him, so he turned it off, letting the water hit his skin. It only took a moment until he was drenched. The coolness of it entered his hot body, and he shivered. He took one look back toward the Sān camp, the cooking fires hissing and smoking from the rain, then ducked under the wing and pulled himself on board.
Almost instantly the Valor rose off the ground, gained enough altitude to get over the rock formations, then its twin rotors tilted and it sprinted away from the storm.
Sawyer pulled out his phone and saw the message from Adams.
“Negative.”
In his display, he saw that the last bushman had still not entered the cave. Now he knew why.
Sawyer pulled the trigger of his rifle. The man’s avatar changed from orange to black.
Return to me.
The digital map of the battlefield disappeared from his display. He was about to shut down the program when something occurred to him. He remembered how the boy had picked up the rifle, but he didn’t know the Venger program had rendered it useless.
After a moment, Sawyer nodded to himself.
Enable all battlefield weapons.
Exit Venger Program.
Three minutes later they had caught up with the first Valor.
Sawyer hailed Loc. “How is he?”
“I’ve got the bleeding under control. But it’s hard to know what got damaged inside. I’ll put it this way: I’ve seen guys pull through with a lot worse.”
“Roger. Let me know if anything changes.”
At just that moment, the pilot cut in.
“Chief, you might want to take a look out the port-side door.”
Sawyer stood and went to the open door. Rolling over the night desert he saw the headlights from two Range Rovers.
Sawyer immediately hailed Captain Everett. “Papa Six Four Actual to Viper One Nine, we have visual on Lang Song. Request permission to apprehend and take into custody for the killing of the Sān tribesmen.”
Captain Everett’s reply was instantaneous. “Negative, that’s a job for the Namibians.”
Sawyer had expected that, but he wanted it to be clear to his men that it was Everett who said no. But the dig didn’t satisfy him. In fact, he felt a sudden sense of hopelessness. Killing Strasser and his men might have given the Sān a brief reprieve, but there were plenty more mercenaries out there, ready to kill for the likes of the Ivory Queen or any other corporation or government with the money to hire them.
In another fifteen minutes, the Valors were out over the Atlantic Ocean. A low moon—three-quarters full—made a bright strip of white on the dark water.
Patel tapped him on the shoulder and held up something for him to see. It was the memory stick for the Venger system.
A faint smile broke across Sawyer’s face. Because the Venger system was a prototype, it had not been sending data back to mission control. Each soldier’s memory stick held that individual’s mission data. That meant that if Sawyer and Patel didn’t turn in their sticks, Captain Everett would never know what had really happened in their last five minutes.
Sawyer took Patel’s memory stick, pulled out his own, then tossed them out the bay door and into the ocean.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The Egyptian Raid
December 14, 2026
Egypt
“The helos will be over the target in three minutes, General.”
Twelve hours later and three thousand miles away, at the northern edge of Africa, another military mission was underway.
General Chip Walden was observing the mission from the operation center in Shaw Air Force Base, South Carolina [Air Forces Central Command (USAFCENT)]. The MQ-9 Reaper was already in position and sending back images of the target compound: a collection of six sandstone-and-brick buildings arranged in a rectangle.
At last, Walden thought, you are going to reveal your secrets. Four Black Hawks filled with Egyptian commandos and a Little Bird carrying four of his Intelligence Officers were about to storm the compound. Then, Walden hoped, he would finally have the truth about Curtiss.
“One minute, General.”
On the monitors, the officers’ body cams showed the Egyptian landscape whizzing by. Two agents were strapped onto the running board on either side of the Little Bird chopper, their legs hanging down to the skids. The agents facing the west saw the undulating dunes of the Sahara desert in all its lonely magnificence, while the agents facing the east captured the deep blue—almost purple—water of Lake Nasser. It was a bizarre contrast, and it seemed impossible that the images were being taken from the same helicopter.
Walden knew he was taking a gamble with this raid. But he also felt like he was on a roll. Olivia Rosario’s Global Hologram program was shaping up to be a game changer. The news of Russian meddling in Italy had become front page news and had made the US (and the president who had taken credit for it) look like a hero in the eyes of most of the free world. As a gesture of his appreciation, the president had invited Walden to the White House then given him open access. “If you need to reach me for any reason, Chip, you just pick up the phone.” Yes, he was definitely on a roll.
“Thirty seconds.”
Walden felt a rush of nervous excitement. It was about to happen. There would probably be a fight. The secrecy, the fact that he was dealing with Curtiss, it all pointed toward violence. People were about to die.
The drone footage showed the helicopters as they swarmed around the compound, flaring up and landing near all four corners. The commandos and agents began to stream out of the choppers and quickly formed two distinct packs, one heading for the front of the compound, the other to the back.
The body cams were momentarily washed over with sand but cleared quickly. Walden felt himself as an avatar inside the camera, running within the pack, the tip of the M4 up and ready. He heard the agents panting and the crackle of their radio chatter.
“Preparing to breach main door.”
“Setting the charge.”
“Hold on, do you hear that?”
Whatever the agents could hear, it was not making it through to Central Command.
Walden hailed Zimmer, the lead officer. “Status report please.”
But Lt. Colonel Cortez, the man in the room running the op, cut Walden short.
“Belay that order.”
Cortez turned sharply on Walden. “When you’re in my AO, you let my men do their job, General. Don’t distract them again.”
Cowed, Walden turned back to the monitors. Two commandos were still working on the door, but before the charge was blown, the door suddenly swung open revealing an elderly woman in a sebleh, her hands up, supplicating the men in Arabic.
She was roughly pushed aside, and the commandos streamed in. For a moment the images went black as the cameras tried to adjust from the scorching brightness of the desert to the shaded interior.
For the first time, Walden could make out the sound. The laughter and screaming of children. Many, many children.
The cameras began coming into focus.
He saw a wide open space with a basketball court in the foreground and the green grass of a soccer field behind. At least seventy-five children of different ages were running and playing. Walden felt a sudden cold sweat break out all over his body. How could this be? The mysterious netting over the buildings was to shade a soccer field?
Some of the children had stopped and looked frightened, but the majority of them hadn’t even noticed the men entering.
An Egyptian man wearing a jalabiya and a skull cap rushed up to the commandos, scolding them in Arabic. Then he began talking to one of the Americans.
“What is the meaning of this? You can’t come barging in here and scaring the children!”
&
nbsp; Some of the Egyptian commandos seemed dumbfounded, even embarrassed, but Zimmer stayed on task.
“Sir, you need to assemble your entire staff here in the courtyard, right now.”
“You have no right to do this. We are a sanctioned school.”
“Do it now, sir.”
The next few minutes were pandemonium. Walden had never expected this. How could he have been so wrong? His mind skipped ahead: God, he was going to get crucified for this, an illegal raid on an Egyptian school. If one of the kids got hurt, his career was over.
He kept watching the monitors, his mind numb as to what to do. But why the secrecy, why the isolated location?
Some of the kids had now come up to the agents, curious about who these strange soldiers were. One boy, perhaps ten or eleven with thick black hair, began asking questions about their weapons in broken English. Walden noticed that there were three fingers missing from his right hand.
On another monitor, he noticed a girl whose arm had been amputated at the elbow.
Walden called to Cortez and whispered in his ear. The man nodded.
“Blackburn, take a step back and let us see the children one at a time.”
The agent complied, letting his webcam focus on each one. As Walden had suspected, many of the children had been maimed in some way. Many were missing fingers, while some were missing hands or whole limbs. But none of the wounds were recent and there were no bandages.
“Who the hell are these kids?” Walden said aloud. “Cortez, can we scan their faces and see if we get any hits?”
“Why don’t you just ask them?” he replied.
There were two boys standing nearby, each with an arm draped over the other’s shoulder. They were confident and handsome and unafraid of the soldiers.
Blackburn started up a conversation with them. “Can you tell me your names?” he asked.
“My name is Abdul,” the taller one said.
“I’m Yousef,” said the other.
“Pleased to meet you,” Blackburn said. “My name is Philip.” The three of them shook hands. “And what are your last names?”
“Al-Shar’a,” said Abdul.
“Al-Assad,” said Yousef.
Oh my God, Walden thought, as understanding finally washed over him.
He hadn’t been wrong.
Olivia Rosario sat by Emma’s bedside and caressed her cheek. Her daughter looked so beautiful and peaceful while she slept. It gave Olivia the illusion that she was still a perfectly healthy girl and that when the sun came up in a few hours, she would wake up like all the other ten-year-old girls in the world, fussing and complaining about school, saying she didn’t have anything to wear, and eating too little for breakfast.
Olivia didn’t want to face the fact that the normal years might be gone. That Emma was going to die and all Olivia would be left with was her memories of the good years. The soccer games, the horseback riding lessons, the day she taught her to ride a bike. She’d be left with only snapshots and old videos: Emma blowing out her candles on her birthday, holding up three blue ribbons after her last equestrian competition, mounting the steps of the yellow school bus for the first time . . . All the way back to the memory of nursing her, the way that Emma had looked up at her with her wide baby eyes filled with complete innocence and trust.
She shook her head to clear the memories away and looked down at the vial in her hand.
When can we give her more?
Not until we are a hundred percent sure it has failed.
But Ryan didn’t understand that time was running out. Clearly something was wrong. They should have seen some changes by now. Nanotechnology worked in nanoseconds, not in hours or days. If it had worked, she’d be showing some improvement by now.
She looked again at the vial.
It couldn’t hurt to try.
She sucked in a deep breath, pulled out the stopper, and gently waved it under her daughter’s nose.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Reunion
December 16, 2026
Washington, DC
Eric woke to the beeping of a heart monitor. He blinked and shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Slowly the room came into focus: white walls, a hospital placard with safety guidelines (Clean Hands Save Lives), an IV line going into the back of his right hand, his left hand a ball of bandages. The smell of pine disinfectant cleaner.
And sitting in a chair at his bedside, a sleeping woman, her unmistakable mass of blond hair near his lap, one arm flung over his waist.
He couldn’t help but smile. This is a good woman, he thought, and he felt a tinge of guilt for ever doubting the fact. He began gently touching her hair. “My beautiful Jane,” he whispered. “I’ve put you through hell again, haven’t I?”
She didn’t stir, so he continued to play with her hair, remembering the feel of it, the smell . . . Just the touch of it and the heat of her scalp on his fingertips proved to him that he was home and safe. That made the horrors that were still so fresh in his mind seem a little more bearable. “My beautiful Jane,” he repeated, remembering the stasis foam and medic’s words. “You brought me back from the dark . . .” He laid his head back on the pillow a moment and looked at the ceiling. “Now I have to figure out why.” He felt so hollow inside, like he had lost more than he could ever hope to replace. Thank God he hadn’t lost her, too.
“My beautiful Jane,” he whispered again, and this time she stirred. She lifted her head and looked at him through drowsy eyes and smiled. Then she let out a long, lazy sigh, almost like the purr of a cat. She stretched her arms a moment then slid into bed with him, her head on his chest, one leg across his thighs. The warmth of her seemed too rich to be real, as if her love and ardor—all the pieces of her, the girl, the woman, the mother—were burning inside her and seeping into him and giving him strength.
They lay silently for a long time, unmoving, breathing as one. She touched the scar on his chest and cheek where the horn of the gemsbok had cut him. Her fingertips storing questions that she would ask . . . but later. She closed her eyes.
An hour passed.
Finally she spoke. “I oughta kill you.”
Eric looked down at his dinner—a soft-diet smorgasbord of applesauce, mashed potatoes, pudding, and cottage cheese. He sighed and dipped his spoon into the pudding.
“Sawyer told me a little,” Jane said. “How this tribe was protecting you. But how did you get a hundred and sixty miles from the crash site? And why the hell did you take your boots off?”
“Yes, I want to hear all about it.”
They both looked up to see Bill Eastman in the doorway, a warm smile on his face. “Bill!” Eric said.
Bill came in and put his hand on Eric’s shoulder. “You gave us quite a scare,” he said, then glanced at Jane. “You know she’s been here for three days straight. This is my fifth visit to check on you, and she’s been here every time.”
Jane shh’d him quiet. “He doesn’t need to hear that.” She held her hands to the sides of her head and made an inflating sound.
Bill and Eric laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
The three of them looked up—Mei, Lili, and Xiao-ping stood in the doorway.
As soon as Mei caught sight of Eric, she rushed in and hugged him. “Thank God you’re okay.” Eric savored the girl’s embrace. Ever since their escape from China, he’d felt a special connection to her, and her touch told him that, despite the arrival of her uncle, nothing had changed.
He looked up at Xiao-ping. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had escaped the laogai eight weeks ago. The stress and fear that had lined his face when he was in prison were gone. His eyes were bright, and he’d gained at least twenty pounds.
He smiled at Eric and clasped his hands together, inclining his head in a Buddhist bow.
Eric clos
ed his eyes and bowed his head in return, then noticed how Lili squeezed his hand tighter.
“So what took you so long?” Jane said to Lili.
“Sorry,” Hwe Lili said, her face reddening, “I failed my driving test.”
“For the third time,” Mei said, rolling her eyes. “Luckily we got a ride.”
As if on cue Admiral Curtiss and a handsome teenage boy appeared in the doorway. The boy immediately crossed to Mei and took her hand. Eric’s right eyebrow went up, but he said nothing.
Admiral Curtiss, dressed in his service blues, moved to the foot of the bed and looked Eric over, appraising him like a piece of military equipment.
No, that wasn’t quite right. Suddenly, perhaps for the first time in his life, Eric saw past Curtiss’s cold exterior. He realized that Curtiss knew full well the importance of every person in the room, and perhaps more importantly, that they were more than the sum of their parts. Curtiss had fought hard to keep them together, beyond what was necessary for the good of the lab. The raid in Namibia proved it. Yes, Eric knew that Curtiss had wanted Lili to get her clearance, but that wasn’t the only reason he’d done it. Even if Curtiss wouldn’t admit it himself, he’d put his career on the line because he’d wanted to reunite an American operative with her imprisoned husband. And when the mission had faltered and Eric was MIA, Curtiss had remained steadfast. It was clear that Eric owed his life to Sawyer and Jane, but also to Curtiss, who never let Captain Everett give up on him.
As Eric looked at them standing around his bed, he seemed to see the connections between them like filaments in the air. Father to son. Mentor to student. Aunt to niece. Lover to lover. Soldier to civilian.
And for some reason it seemed that the bond between Mei and Curtiss’s son was the most important. In those two hands the future seemed to rest.
“You’re not dead,” Curtiss said. “That’s good.”
“Enough already,” Jane said, “tell us what happened.”
Eric nodded slowly, suddenly feeling self-conscious. He wanted to tell the story, but he was worried that he might not tell it right. But he began nonetheless.
