by Ted Dekker
“You sound like you know that destination,” the president said.
“If I were them, I would choose a European country, for a list of reasons I could give you if you want. France would be ideal.”
The president frowned. “Continue.”
“If we still have no solution by the time the weapons reach their destination, then pull back. You’ll have to persuade other nuclear powers that are closer to France, if I’m right, like England and Israel, to actually send their weapons. If they don’t at least appear to cooperate, then we’ll have a nuclear war on our hands, and more than the virus will kill people by the millions.”
Robert Blair glanced at Ron Kreet. The chief of staff turned his head skeptically. “Israel won’t go for it.”
“Which is why you begin building the coalition immediately, starting with Israel,” Thomas said. “I mean today. You have to commit to this now.”
“I still don’t hear a plan, Thomas,” Clarice said.
Thomas looked at all three. They were lost, he realized. Not that he wasn’t, but he did have a slight advantage.
“My plan is for you to delay them by all possible means of trickery and diplomacy and hope that I can find a way to stop them.”
For a long time they were either too embarrassed or too impressed to respond. Surely the former.
“Let me take a team to Cyclops,” he said. “If I’m right, we’ll find her. If I’m wrong, I can still relay information from the Books of Histories back to you when I get my hands on them. My remaining here is pointless.”
“Even if we do send a team,” Kreet said, “I don’t see how you’re qualified to lead our Rangers. How far do you expect us to go with this . . . dreaming of yours?”
“I think he may be on to something,” the president said. “Finish.”
“Maybe I could show you something,” Thomas said, walking to the center of the room. He glanced at the ceiling. “If you check, you’ll find that I have no acrobatics training. I did learn martial arts in the Philippines, but trust me, I could never move like I’ve learned to move in my dreams while leading the Guard. Stand back.”
They glanced at each other, then cautiously stepped back.
Thomas took a single step and launched himself into the air, flipped through one and a half rotations with a full twist, landed on his hands, and held the stand for a count of three before reversing the entire move.
They stared at him, gawking like schoolchildren who had just seen a magic show.
“Maybe one more,” Thomas said, “just so you’re sure. Pick up that letter opener”—he nodded at a brass blade on the desk—“and throw it at me. As hard as you can.”
“No, it’s quite all right.” The president looked a little embarrassed. “I’d hate to miss and stick the wall.”
“I won’t let you.”
“You’ve made your point.”
“Go ahead, Bob,” Clarice said. She eyed Thomas with a new kind of interest. “Why not?”
“Just hurl it at you?”
“As hard as you possibly can. Trust me, there’s no way you can hurt me with it. This isn’t a ten-foot sickle or a bronze sword. It’s hardly a toy.”
The president picked up the letter opener, glanced at a grinning Clarice, and hurled the blade. Blair had been an athlete and this blade wasn’t traveling slowly.
Thomas caught it by its hilt, an inch from his chest. He held it steady.
“You see, the skills I learn in my dreams are real.” He tossed the letter opener back. “The information I learn is as real. I need to lead the team because there’s a possibility I may be the only one alive who can get to Monique. I should be on my way already.”
The door opened. Phil Grant entered, face drawn.
“We have twenty-four hours to show movement of our arms. The destination is now the Brest naval base in northern France. The government claims they are cooperating with Svensson only because they have no choice. All communications to the matter must be held in strictest confidence. The media must not be alerted. They are working on a solution, but until they come up with one, they insist we must cooperate. In a nutshell that’s it.”
“They’re lying,” Thomas said. The others looked at him.
The president faced his chief of staff. “Ron?”
“They probably are lying. But it really doesn’t matter either way. Even if Svensson is holding hands with Gaetan himself, we can’t very well drop nukes on France, can we?”
The president walked around his desk and dropped into his chair. “Okay, Thomas. I’m authorizing the removal and transportation of the weapons they’ve demanded. I have a meeting with the joint chiefs in an hour. Until someone offers a reasonable argument to the contrary, we do it your way.”
He set his elbows on the desk and nervously tapped his fingers together. “Not a word about any of this dream stuff to anyone. Clear? That includes you, Thomas. No more tricks. You go on assignment from this office and you go with my clearance; that’s all anyone needs to know.”
“Agreed,” Thomas said.
“Phil, get him a clearance. I want him in Fort Bragg by chopper as soon as possible. I’ll make sure they give you whatever you need. It’s a long haul to Indonesia—make the plans you need in the air if you have to. And if you’re right about Svensson being in Cyclops, I just may turn the White House over to you.” He winked.
Thomas extended his hand. “I wouldn’t know what to do with the White House. Thank you for your confidence, Mr. President.”
Robert Blair took his hand. “I’m not sure I’m offering any confidence. As you pointed out, we’re just a little short on alternatives at the moment. I just got off the phone with the Israeli prime minister. Their cabinet has already met with the opposition. The hard-liners are insisting the only way they’ll deliver any of their weapons is on the end of a missile. He’s not inclined to disagree.”
“Then you have to convince them that any nuclear exchange would be suicide,” Thomas said.
“In their minds, disarming would be suicide. Submitting has landed them in a world of hurt before—they’re not going to be easy, and frankly I’m not sure they should be. I doubt Svensson has any plans of giving the Israelis the antivirus, regardless of what they do.”
“If the virus doesn’t finish us off, a war just might,” Thomas said. “A leak to the press might do the same. But then you already know that.”
“Unfortunately. We’re spinning a story about an outbreak of the Raison Strain on an island near Java. It’ll make enough noise to distract anything for a few days. The other governments involved understand the critical nature of keeping this under wraps. But there’s no way to hide this for long. Not with so many people involved. Keeping Olsen in line will be a full-time job in itself.”
The president drew a deep breath and let it out, eyes closed.
“Let’s pray you’re right about Monique.”
THOMAS CHANGED back into clothing he felt more comfortable wearing—cargo pants, Vans, and a black button-down shirt. Phil Grant sent three assistants along who had marching orders to coordinate whatever intelligence Thomas needed. He asked for and received a ream of data on the target area, which he’d already gone over once with the CIA. He browsed through the thick folder again.
He knew of the Indonesian island called Papua through a friend of his in Manila, David Lunlow, who attended Faith Academy. David had grown up on the remote island, the son of missionaries. At the time it was called Irian Jaya, but had recently changed its name to Papua because of some misguided political notion that doing so might further its quest for independence from Indonesia.
Papua was unique among the hundreds of Indonesian Islands. The largest, by far. The least populated, and mostly by tribes, scattered across mountains and swamps and coastal regions that had swallowed countless explorers over the centuries. More than seven hundred languages were spoken on the island. Largest city, Jayapura. Fifty miles down the coast, a small airport was attached to a sprawling commun
ity of misfits and adventurers. It wasn’t unlike the Old West. There was a strong expatriate community whose primary purpose was to give the downtrodden and lost seekers new direction. Missionaries.
It was there, a fifteen-minute Jeep haul from Sentani, that Cyclops waited.
Thomas studied the maps and satellite images of the jungle-covered mountain. How Svensson had ever managed to build a lab in such a remote, inaccessible place, Thomas could hardly guess, but the strategy of it made perfect sense. There was no true military or police threat within a thousand miles. There were no villages or known inhabitants above the base of the mountain. A helicopter approach from the far side would go virtually unnoticed accept by the odd bushman, who had no reason to report such a thing and no one to report it to.
Thomas set the map down and stared through a portal at a long stretch of clouds below them. Serene, oblivious. From thirty thousand feet up, the idea that a virus was ravaging the earth below seemed preposterous.
“Sir? Do you need anything else?” She was CIA and her name was Becky Masters.
“No. Thank you.”
He returned his attention to the data on his lap, and slowly he began to draw up plans.
They landed and led him into a briefing room two hours later. The Ranger team that he would accompany was commanded by a Captain Keith Johnson, a dark-skinned man dressed in black dungarees who looked like he could take the head off any man with a word or two. He snapped off a salute and called Thomas “sir,” but his skittering eyes betrayed him.
Thomas stuck out his hand. “Good to meet you, Captain.”
The man took his hand with some hesitation. There were about twenty others in the room, all clean-cut, a far cry from his Forest Guard. But he’d seen enough of the Discovery Channel to know that these men could do serious damage in most situations.
“Men, I’d like you to meet Mr. Hunter. He’s been given carte blanche on this mission. Please remember who signs your paychecks.” Meaning, You work for the government, so even if this bozo looks like someone off a movie set, follow orders, Thomas thought.
“Thank you,” Thomas said.
The captain sat without acknowledging him. A map of Papua and Cyclops was already on the overhead projector as he’d requested. He scanned the room.
“I know you’ve been given the general parameters of the mission, but let me add a few details.” He walked to the map and ran through his plan to approach six primary points on the mountain that he and two CIA map readers thought Svensson might have used.
The mission was to rescue Monique de Raison, not to take out the lab or to kill Svensson or any other lab technician who might be at the location. On the contrary, keeping these targets alive was crucial. No explosives could be used. Nothing that might endanger the integrity of the data held in the lab or by those who worked there.
“I have to catch some sleep on the flight,” he said, “but we’ll have plenty of time to rehearse the rest over the Pacific. Captain, you may want to suggest some modifications. You know your men best, and you’ll be leading your men, not me.”
None of them, not even the captain, moved a muscle. They don’t know how to respond to me, Thomas thought. No blame. He wasn’t the kind of person people know how to take. These fighters would do what they’d been trained to do, starting with following orders, but in this situation he needed more.
He couldn’t keep doing these stupid tricks for doubters. Look, fellers, look at what I can do. Soon enough, word would get out and his reputation would speak for itself, but at the moment these fighters had no benefit of the knowledge they should have, given the situation. They didn’t know the fate of billions could rest on their shoulders. They didn’t know about the virus. They didn’t know that the man who stood before them was from a different world. In a manner of speaking.
Thomas walked across the room, studying them. The president had said no tricks. Well, this wasn’t really a trick. He stopped near Johnson.
“You look like you might have some reservations, Captain.”
Johnson didn’t commit either way.
“Okay. So then let’s get this out of the way so we can do what we have to do.” He walked down the aisle and started to unbutton his shirt.
“I’m smaller than most of you. I’m not Special Forces. I have no rank. I’m not even part of the military. So then who am I?”
He slipped the last button free.
“I’m someone who’s willing to take on the captain and any five of you right here, right now, with an absolute promise that I will do each one of you some very serious bodily damage.”
He turned at the end of the aisle and headed back up, eying them.
“I don’t want to sound arrogant; I just don’t have the time it typically takes to win the kind of respect needed for a mission like this one. Do I have any takers?”
Nothing. A few awkward smirks.
He peeled his shirt down to his waist and faced them at the front again. Although normal aging and other physical events didn’t transfer between his two realities, blood did. And wounds. And the direct effects of those wounds. Kara had examined them, awed by the graphic change to his body, literally overnight. Twenty-three scars.
He saw them take in the numerous Horde scars that marked his chest. A few of the smirks changed to admiration. Some wanted to try him; he could see it in their eyes, an encouraging sign. If things got hairy, he would depend on these more than the others. He continued before they could speak.
“Good. We wouldn’t want to bloody the walls of this room anyway. The reason I’ve been selected by the president of the United States to lead this mission is because no one else alive qualifies in the same way I do for reasons you’ll never know. But believe this: The success or failure of this mission will send shock waves around the world. We must succeed, and for that you must trust me. Understood? Captain?”
SEVEN HOURS later, Thomas was on a night flight across the Pacific with Captain Johnson and his team and enough high-tech hardware to sink a small yacht. The transport was a Globemaster C-17, flying at mach point seven, loaded with electronic surveillance equipment. Their flight would last ten hours with three in-flight refuelings.
They still weren’t sure what to make of him—big words and a few scars didn’t amount to a hill of beans when you got right down to it. And honestly, he wasn’t sure about them. What he wouldn’t give for Mikil or William at his side.
They would soon find out just who was who.
Thomas reclined in the seat farthest to the back and let the soft roar of the engines lull him into sleep. Into dreams.
14
QURONG STORMED into the dining room, ignoring the pain that flared through his flesh. “Show me his body!”
They’d already pulled the general from the keg of water and laid him on the floor. For a moment Qurong panicked. He’d been with the general just last night, before he’d been killed. The only comfort in this terrible murder was the discovery that a knife, not the water, had ended his life.
“Who did this?” he screamed. “Who!”
The flap snapped open and Woref, head of military intelligence, walked in. “It was the Forest Guard,” he said.
Under any other circumstance, Qurong would have dismissed the claim. The very idea that the Forest Guard had been in his own camp was outrageous. But Woref made the claim as if reporting on a well-known fact.
Still, he couldn’t digest it. “How?”
“We’ve taken a confession from one of the servants. Two of them entered through the wall in their quarters. She said that they came for the Books of Histories.”
The revelation drained blood from his face. Not because he cared so much for the symbolic relics, although he did, but because of where the Books were kept. His religion was one thing; his life was another altogether.
Qurong strode for his bedchamber.
“There’s more, sir.” Woref followed him. “We have just received word from a scout that there is a small camp of Forest Guard just
three miles to the east.”
So then it was true. He walked through the atrium. “Drown the guard on duty last night,” he snapped.
The two chests sat where they always did, encircled by the six candlesticks. “Open it,” he told Woref.
Few had ever entered the small room, and he doubted that Woref had ever been here. But he knew the trunks well enough; he’d been responsible for their construction nearly ten years ago. The rest of the Books—thousands of them—were in hiding, but he kept these two trunks with him at all times for the aura of mystery they lent him, if not for any tangible power.
None of them could read the Books—they seemed to be written in a language that none of his people could read. Rumor had it that the Forest People could read the words easily enough, but this was the wagging of stupid tongues. How could the Forest People read what none of them had set eyes on?
“The leather has been cut,” Woref said, inspecting the straps on either side. “They were in here.”
The moment they opened the lid, Qurong knew that someone had been in his bedchamber. The dust on the Books was smeared.
Qurong swept the curtain aside and walked out. Air. He needed more air.
“But they didn’t kill me.”
“Then they were only after the Books,” Woref said.
“And plan to return now that they know we have them?”
“But why would they come after these relics when they could have . . .” Woref didn’t finish the thought.
“It’s Thomas,” Qurong said. Yes, of course it was! Only Thomas would place such value on the Books.
“We have the tenth division south of the—”
“How many of the Guard are in this camp?”
“A dozen. No more.”
“Send word immediately. To the tenth division south of the canyons. Tell them to cut off any escape. How long before they could be in place?”
“They have to move a thousand men. Two hours.”
