Red

by Ted Dekker

  He didn’t have an answer.

  15

  CYCLOPS.

  Stealth was out of the question. They didn’t have a week to sweep the jungle in search of a tunnel that might lead into the mountain. What they did have was infrared technology that would electronically strip Cyclops of enough foliage to reveal any suspicious anomalies, such as heat.

  They’d landed the tactical C-17 at the Sentani airport, refueled, and immediately climbed back into the skies to take on the mountain looming over the coast. The forecast was fair, the winds were down, and the team had slept well on the flight over the Pacific.

  Even so, Thomas couldn’t shake his anxiety. What if he was wrong? What if Rachelle had been mistaken?

  And another piece of information now complicated things: He’d failed to retrieve the Books of Histories in his dream. Qurong still possessed them all except for the one book with blank pages. The only useful information he had from his dreams was Rachelle’s claim that Monique was here, in this mountain.

  The transporter flew low, scanning the trees, covering the backside of the mountain in long sweeps. Captain Keith Johnson approached him from the cockpit looking like something out of a comic book with all of his camouflaged equipment: a helmet with a communications rig that allowed him to view the proximity of each of four team leaders through a visor that hovered over his right eye. Parachute. Jungle pack. Two grenades. A green-handled knife with a shiny blade that Mikil might trade her best horse for.

  The rest looked the same. Only Thomas was dressed down. Camouflaged jumpsuit, knife, radio, an assault rifle he had no intention of using, and a parachute he had no choice but to use. Buddy jump.

  “Just completed the first full sweep,” the captain said, dropping to one knee. “Nothing yet. You sure we shouldn’t cover the other side?”

  “No, this side.”

  “Then the operator wants to go lower. But you know anyone down there’s going to hear us. This thing sounds like a stampede flying over.”

  Thomas removed his helmet and ran his fingers through damp hair. “You have an alternative?”

  They’d been through a dozen scenarios on the flight over. Thomas had offered his thoughts, but when it came to electronic surveillance, he was clearly out of their league. He’d deferred to them.

  “No. Not with your time constraints. But I gotta tell you, if they’re down there, they’re all eyes.”

  “I’m not sure we don’t want them to find us. If we’re lucky, we’ll force their hand. They can’t leave without exposing themselves.”

  The captain eyed him, then nodded. “I don’t mind saying that we’re hanging our rear ends out pretty far. This wouldn’t be my first choice.”

  “I realize the danger, Captain, but if it makes you feel any better, the president might put the entire 101st Airborne in these same shoes if he thought it would speed Monique de Raison’s recovery. Let’s take her down.”

  THE DECISION to use the French secret police to deal with Hunter had been Armand Fortier’s call. The head of the Sûreté had called Carlos directly. They were putting over three hundred agents on the case, each with the order to return Hunter to France immediately or, thus failing, to kill him. They’d already activated a wide network of informants in the United States and learned that the man had flown to Fort Bragg and then disappeared.

  Three possibilities, Carlos thought. One, he was still at Fort Bragg, keeping a very low profile. Two, he was on his way to France to deal directly with Fortier. Or three, he was on his way here, to Indonesia.

  Carlos peered through the binoculars at the approaching transporter and knew that he’d made the right call. No doubt Hunter was in that plane.

  The man now unnerved him in a way not even Svensson could. Three times Hunter had miraculously slipped out of his grasp. No, not entirely correct: Twice he had been mortally wounded and then apparently healed, and once he’d slipped from his grasp—the last time.

  It wasn’t just his nine lives. Hunter seemed to know things that he had no business knowing.

  True, it was from the man’s dreams that they had supposedly first isolated the Raison Strain. But if Carlos was right, the man was still learning things from his dreams. The plane that now approached, undoubtedly with infrared scanners, was proof enough. He’d elected to let the French track Hunter in the United States while he returned here, where he was sure the man would eventually come. He would come for Monique.

  “How many times?” Svensson’s voice crackled on the radio.

  Carlos keyed his mike. “Seven. They’re coming in lower this time.”

  Static.

  “How did they find us?”

  “As I said. He knew about the virus, he knew about the antivirus, now he knows where we are. He’s a ghost.”

  “Then it’s time to bring your ghost in for a talk. You don’t think a crash will kill him?”

  “I don’t. The rest maybe, but not Hunter.”

  “Then bring them down. No other survivors.”

  “We’ll evacuate?”

  “Tonight, by dark. Fortier wants this man in France.”

  “Understood.”

  Carlos stepped from the shielded netting that had kept his heat signature to a minimum, shouldered the modified Stinger launcher, and armed the missile. A direct hit would cut the transporter in half. He wasn’t certain that Hunter would survive, of course, but it was a gamble he was gladly willing, even eager, to take. More than a small part of him wanted to be wrong about Hunter’s impossible gift. Better for him to die.

  He waited for the plane to turn at the far end of the valley and head back toward him. Svensson had dug into the mountain at its center, and the plane was now approaching him at eye level. They would see him this time. He would have one good shot.

  It was all that he needed.

  “CONTACT BEARING, two-nine-zero.”

  Thomas heard the electronics operator above the aircraft’s din. He twisted and looked out of his window.

  “Contact, one—”

  “Incoming! Incoming!”

  The warning came from the cockpit, and Thomas immediately saw the streaking missile through the window.

  He was right then. Monique was here.

  He was also staring death head-on.

  He grabbed the rail by his seat. The C-17 rolled sharply away from the incoming missile.

  “Countermeasures, deployed.” The pilot’s voice was drowned out by the sudden roar of the four Pratt and Whitney engines as the jet pitched up and groaned for altitude.

  “It’s gonna hit!” someone yelled.

  For a brief moment panic fired the eyes of twenty men who’d faced death before but not in these circumstances. This fight could be over before it started.

  Whomp!

  The fuselage imploded with a huge flash of fire just behind the cockpit. A ball of heat rolled back through the cabin, hot enough to burn bared skin.

  Thomas got his head down before the heat hit him. A roar swallowed him. Hot air. Then cool air. Someone was screaming.

  It all happened so quickly that he didn’t have to react. He knew they’d been hit by a missile, but he had no understanding of what that meant.

  His eyes sprang open. The C-17 floated lazily to his right, cut into three pieces just in front of the wings and at the tail. The middle section was still under full power and now roared past the nose and tail sections.

  Thomas was suspended in the air, still strapped to his seat. He didn’t seem to be falling, not yet. He’d been thrown from the aircraft, maybe through the exposed tail, and now floated free.

  But the trees were less than three thousand feet below him, and this buoyancy wouldn’t last more than—

  It occurred to him that he was already falling. Like a rock.

  Panic immobilized him for a full three count. Thunder to his right jerked him out of it. An oily tower of fire rose from where the main fuselage slammed into the valley under full power. No one could have possibly survived an impact like t
hat.

  Thomas twisted in his seat, but the chair just turned with him. He grabbed the harness release, flipped it open, and rolled to his right, fighting his instinct to stay in the relative safety of the metal frame.

  Two thousand feet.

  The chair caught wind and flipped past him. Now he was free-falling without a seat. He’d jumped from a bungee tower once, but he’d never even worn a parachute before today, much less made a jump.

  The nose and tail sections plowed through trees on the opposite mountain slope. No explosions.

  One thousand feet.

  He grabbed the rip cord and jerked. With a pop the chute deployed, streamed skyward, and snapped open. The harness tugged at him. He gasped, sucked in a lungful of blasting air. His helmet had flown off at some point.

  The green canopy rushed up to his feet. Something cracked loudly, and at first he thought it might be his leg, but a branch was crashing down beside him. He’d broken a branch off.

  Leaves obscured his view of the ground. The moment his boots struck a solid surface below him, he rolled hard. Too hard. He slammed into a thick tree and collapsed by its long exposed roots, winded and barely aware.

  Birds screeched. A macaw. No, a year bird; he’d know the distinctive call anywhere. The long-beaked black bird was sitting atop one of the trees nearby, protesting this sudden intrusion.

  I’m alive.

  He groaned and forced a breath. Moved his legs. They seemed to be in one piece. What if he was actually unconscious and back in the desert?

  He pushed himself up. Slowly his head cleared. The foliage was a mix of reed grass and bushes, thanks to a creek that gurgled thirty yards off. A huge fallen log rested on the bank to his right.

  Thomas stood, released the parachute harness, and quickly checked his bones. Bruised, but otherwise intact. His only weapon was the bowie knife strapped to his waist.

  Smoke boiled to the sky several miles up the valley. He grabbed the radio at his hip, twisted the volume switch.

  “Come in, come in. Anybody, come in.”

  The speaker hissed. He tried again, got nothing. The transmitter could be dead. But from what he’d seen, he thought it was more likely that the people on the other end were dead. His gut turned. Maybe a few had survived by getting clear like he had, although he couldn’t remember seeing any other falling bodies.

  Thomas turned, ran up the riverbank, vaulted the log, and landed ankle-deep in sucking mud.

  Slow down, slow down. Think!

  He scanned the jungle again. If he remembered right, the missile had been fired from a point halfway up the eastern slope. He had to get to the C-17 wreckage. Survivors. A weapon. Radio. Anything that might help him. And before nightfall if he could. He didn’t have the same body as Thomas of Hunter in the desert, but he had the same mind, right? He’d been in worse situations. He’d been in one far worse, a hundred Horde assassins within striking distance of his throat, just last night.

  Thomas cut back into the jungle, where the canopy shielded the sun and slowed the undergrowth, and headed for the boiling smoke several miles up-valley. His mission took precedence over any survivors, regardless of how inhumane that felt. His purpose here was to find Monique at any cost, even if that cost included the death of twenty soldiers.

  He gritted his teeth and grunted.

  Several times he resisted the temptation to cut to his right and angle for the source of the missile. But he ran on. They’d surely seen his parachute deploy. They would be ready for him this time.

  And this time he wouldn’t bounce back from a bullet to his head. He needed more than a knife.

  CARLOS LIFTED the radio. “How far?”

  “A hundred meters. Running up the river,” the voice said softly. “Take the shot?”

  “Only if you know you can hit him below the neck. Are you sure it’s him?”

  A pause.

  “It’s him.”

  “Remember, I need him alive.” A tranquilizer dart could kill if it hit a man in the head.

  Carlos waited. They’d tracked Hunter since his landing, three miles down the valley. Four others had survived the crash: two in similar manner as Hunter, two others broken and bleeding but alive near the crash site. Their survival had been temporary.

  If his man didn’t take the shot now, they would take him at the wreckage. Better now. The last thing Carlos needed was another of Hunter’s escapes.

  “Status?”

  It was Svensson on the other radio.

  Carlos keyed the transmitter. “We have him in our sights.”

  “So he did survive.”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s healthy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep him that way.”

  Come out here and keep him healthy yourself, you impossible sloth. Of course he would keep him healthy. As long as the man didn’t try anything.

  “Target down,” his other radio crackled.

  He waited, sure that a reversal would immediately follow the report. Target back up and running.

  But no such report came.

  “He’s still down?”

  “Down.”

  “Handcuffs tight. And I suggest you hurry. He may not be down for long.”

  MONIQUE LAY on the mattress only half-aware. She’d dreamed of thunder. A loud peal from the crashing skies announcing the end of the world. The people cried out to a huge face in the clouds, which presumably belonged to God. They begged for a hero to save them all from this terrible and unfair turn of events. They wanted a fix. So God had pity. He pointed to a woman with long dark hair named Monique. This was the one who’d first made the Raison Vaccine. This was the one who could now tame it.

  Monique opened her eyes and took a deep breath. But there was a problem. Svensson now owned her fix.

  The deadbolt slid open and the door creaked.

  She closed her eyes. The only thing worse than being trapped in this white room was having to face Svensson or the man from the Mediterranean who smelled like a bar of scented soap. Carlos.

  Several sets of feet walked in. Something thudded softly on the concrete floor. What was that? She dared not look now.

  The boots left and the door was once again bolted shut from the outside.

  Monique waited as long as she could before opening her eyes. She moved her head. There in the middle of the floor lay a body with its face down and turned away from her. Camouflaged jumper and muddy black boots. Hands cuffed behind. Dark hair.

  She sat up. Thomas?

  It looked like it could be him, but he was dressed wrong.

  She hurried across the room and walked around the man. Yes, it was a man—his forearms were too well muscled for a woman. Then she saw his face.

  Thomas.

  A hundred thoughts raced through her mind. He’d come for her. He knew where to find her. He had come as a soldier. Were there others?

  To see a man unconscious and handcuffed at her feet would normally turn her stomach, but today was not normal, and today the sight of a friend filled her desperate world with so much joy that she suddenly thought she was going to cry.

  She knelt and nudged his shoulder. “Thomas?” she whispered.

  He was breathing steadily.

  She shook him hard. “Thomas!”

  His cheek was pressed against the clean floor, bunching his lips. A day’s growth of stubble darkened his face. His wavy hair was tangled and knotted.

  “Thomas!”

  This time he moved, but only barely before settling back into oblivion.

  She stood and stared at his prone body. What kind of man was he really? Her thoughts had been drawn to Thomas Hunter a hundred times in the ten days since he’d first burst into her world and kidnapped her for her own safety. To save the world, he’d said. An absurd suggestion to any person not thoroughly intoxicated.

  Now she knew differently. He was special. He knew things he couldn’t possibly know, and he made a habit of risking his life to defend that knowledge.

>   And on a more personal level, to defend her. Save her.

  Monique glanced up at the security camera. They were watching, of course. And listening.

  She walked to the sink, dipped a beaker into the basin of water (the mountain provided no running water, at least not in her quarters), slipped the hand towel from its rack, and returned to him. She wet the towel and gently wiped his face and neck.

  “Wake up,” she whispered. “Come on, Thomas, please, we need you awake.”

  She squeezed more water on his head, his face, his shoulders, and she shook him again. He closed his mouth, swallowed. Finally his eyes fluttered open.

  “It’s me, Monique.”

  His eyes turned up to her face, widened, and then squeezed shut with furrowed brow. He groaned and struggled to rise.

  She grabbed his handcuffed arm and pulled him, but it didn’t seem to help much. He struggled to get his knees under him and his seat in the air. She wasn’t sure how to help him—he was awkward yet determined on his own. Finally he managed to bring his head up and sit back on his haunches, eyes closed.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. It was a dumb question.

  “They shot me,” he said.

  “You’re wounded?” Where? She hadn’t seen any blood!

  “No. They drugged me.”

  He just rolled his neck and swallowed.

  “You should lie down. Here, let me help you.”

  “I just got up.”

  “I have a mattress.”

  “We don’t have time. As soon as they think the drugs have worn off, they’ll come for me. We have to talk now. Can you get these handcuffs off?”

  She looked at them. “How?”

  “Never mind. Man, my head feels like . . .”

  His eyes suddenly widened.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “I didn’t dream!”

  The dreams again. She wasn’t sure what to make of them anymore, but they were certainly more than mere dreams.

  “You were drugged,” she said. “Maybe that affected you.”

  He spoke as if he actually was in a dream. “It’s the first time I haven’t dreamed in two weeks. I mean from this side anyway. There I stopped dreaming for fifteen years by taking the rhambutan fruit.”