The Anthrax Protocol

by James Thompson

  Bear smiled sadly in remembrance of his old friend, a man the entire unit had called Scotch due to his name. He’d been the straightest and most honorable man Bear had ever known, and he remembered how the unit had followed the man into hell and back several times over the course of Bear’s fifteen-year hitch in the Marines.

  He’d heard through the Marine grapevine that Scotch had developed brain cancer and so he’d known the end was near for this brave man, but that did little to alleviate the sadness he felt at the news.

  He turned blurry eyes on his men in the rear of the plane, wondering what Scotch would think of his current five-man team.

  Hoss, a six-foot-six-inch cowboy, with shoulders as wide as an ax handle, a drooping moustache, and sun- and wind-leathered skin; Blade, a dangerous-looking black man with a scar on his cheek that turned parchment white when he smiled or grimaced. He carried no fewer than five knives of various designs and lengths, and he could play them like musical instruments. Fittingly, he was also totally devoid of compassion or conscience; Psycho, a thin, wiry man with bushy, wild hair and electric blue eyes that were always darting around in paranoia. He looked and acted so crazy that even his teammates were a little afraid of him, and these were men who would look Death himself in the face and spit in his eye; Babe, who was movie-star handsome and clean cut and innocent-looking and who got his name from his legendary successes with women of all stripes. A man who looked good enough to bring home to your mother, but if you did he’d probably end up raping her and cutting her throat for no reason at all; Jinx, also wiry and quick as a cobra and just as deadly, who was a master of all things that flew and all machines that shot bullets meant to kill.

  Bear shook his head, feeling a little ashamed for the first time since he’d been court-martialed out of the Marines for using excessive force against civilians in Afghanistan, though he knew there were really no civilians in that godforsaken country, just combatants, either enemy or friend, and damn few of them were friendlies.

  He realized the men he’d handpicked to be his team would never have been accepted by his old friend, Scotch. Walker would have shit-canned the entire group, knowing they were psychopaths and unworthy of his command.

  Oh well, Bear thought, getting to his feet to gather his own equipment together. In the mercenary business, you took what was available and what would get the job done, no matter how flawed or unworthy. In fact, flawed and unworthy was synonymous with the term mercenary.

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and put the sat-phone back on his belt. Time to get down to business and to get on the trail of the doctors and the Indian boy, he thought, wondering if he’d have the guts to pull the trigger on people he knew to be totally innocent of any wrongdoing.

  In all his years as a merc he’d never before stooped to killing innocents. In fact, most of his victims had been men even worse than those he served with now. Oh well, he guessed he’d find out if he had the stomach for the job when the time came.

  * * *

  Mason’s knees were aching and his clothes were soaked through with sweat from trying to keep up with Guatemotzi, who moved through the jungle like a cat through fog and just as silently.

  “Hey, Motzi,” he called, “slow down a little, will ya?

  Guatemotzi grinned over his shoulder. “Sí, Señor Mason.”

  “I thought you were in great shape from all your bicycling, Doctor boss man,” Lauren said playfully from behind him.

  He half turned to give her an argument and his foot caught on a root and he went down, sprawling on his face in the thick humus on the jungle floor.

  “Oh Jesus,” she said, rushing to kneel by his side. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you fall.”

  His face flushing bright red, Mason said, “You didn’t make me fall. My own clumsiness made me fall.”

  He stopped and stared at her flushed, sweaty face and then he grinned. “Aha, I see that you’re a bit out of shape, too, Doctor Sarcastic Lady.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, I’ll admit it. I was just about to ask Motzi to take a break when you beat me to it.”

  She wiped her brow with her shirtsleeve. “I can’t believe this heat and humidity. I thought Austin was bad, but this is ridiculous.”

  Mason nodded and smirked. “Yeah, I keep expecting to see fish swimming in the air it’s so thick with moisture.”

  He glanced at his watch and then at the sun sinking low over the treetops to the west. “In fact, I think that it is about time to make camp and see if we can get some food and some rest before we continue tomorrow.”

  “If you’re asking for a vote, I vote yes,” Lauren said. “What about you, Motzi?”

  Guatemotzi shrugged. “Is okay.”

  Mason struggled to his feet and they moved off the trail until Guatemotzi found a small clearing in the jungle large enough for them to pitch their tents and build a fire.

  While Lauren and Mason put the tents together, Guatemotzi gathered up dead-drop wood and made a small pile in the center of the clearing. Gathering rocks of assorted sizes, he built a circle around the fire and carefully scraped away the inches-thick humus down to bare earth so the fire wouldn’t spread and get out of control.

  Thirty minutes later, beef stew was heating in a small pot over the fire and the three were lying nearby, sipping boiled coffee from tin mugs.

  Lauren slapped at her neck, glanced at her palm to see a mosquito as big as a bumblebee, and said, “Ah, the great outdoors. I just love camping out in a prehistoric jungle.”

  Mason glanced at her. “Hey girl, I thought you did this for a living.”

  She shook her head. “Very few archaeological dig sites are in the middle of a jungle, and if they are, I’ve always had plenty of students to get the camp set up with tents and showers and civilized stuff like that before I got on-site.”

  She pointed at him and said sternly, “Remember, in all of my previous digs I was the boss!”

  Mason grunted and moved to spoon all of them some steaming stew onto tin plates. “Well, try this Mulligan Stew and see if it’s civilized enough for you, Professor Spoiled Girl.”

  Lauren blew on it and then took a tentative bite. Her eyebrows went up and she grinned widely. “Hey Doc, this is the best thing I’ve eaten since I came to this godforsaken jungle.”

  He laughed. “Now that is a testament to just how hungry you are.”

  “No, really. It’s great. Don’t you think so, Motzi?”

  With a full mouth, Guatemotzi nodded. “Is much better than MREs,” he said.

  “Wow, what a glowing compliment,” Mason said. “My Mulligan Stew is better than months-old mass-produced army food.”

  Lauren held out her empty plate. “Quit your grousing and spoon out some more of that wonderful stuff. About the only thing that’d make it better would be some nice hot cornbread slathered with butter.”

  He shook his head as he handed her a plateful of stew. “Don’t push your luck, lady, or it’s back to MREs for you.”

  After they’d finished eating, they cleaned up the campsite and put enough wood on the fire so it would last most of the night, both for warmth and to help keep the bugs at bay.

  Guatemotzi yawned and said good night and crawled into his small pup tent, glancing around at the walls like it was the first time he’d ever used a tent while in the jungle.

  Lauren wrapped her arms around her shoulders and shivered. “It still amazes me how the jungle that is so blazingly hot during the day can get so cold at night.”

  Mason arched an eyebrow. “Uh, Lauren, if you’re really cold, you know these two sleeping bags can be zippered together into one large one?”

  “Oh?”

  He shrugged, he face flaming red with embarrassment. “I’m just saying, we could . . . um . . . keep each other warm.”

  Lauren smiled and moved over toward him. “I’m flattered, Doc,” and she leaned in and kissed him gently on the cheek. “And any other time I would gladly accept your offer.”

&nb
sp; He grimaced, “I sense a but in there.”

  She nodded. “But tonight, after slogging in tropical heat all day, and without a handy shower to use to wash the sweat and grime off, I’m gonna have to decline.”

  “But . . .” he started to say.

  “No, Mason,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “If we ever do get to the point where I share your bed . . . or sleeping bag, I don’t want to do it smelling like a draft horse . . . ,” and she lowered her voice to a whisper, “Or with a teenage boy sleeping ten feet away.”

  He glanced at the nearby tent, and then he grinned and whispered, “Because you might make some noise?”

  As she turned away toward her tent, she looked back over her shoulder and winked. “Of course, ’cause if you’re not going to make me get loud, then it won’t be worth it, will it?”

  Before he could reply, she was inside her tent with the flap snapped shut.

  He stood there for a moment, watching her silhouette on the tent wall as she undressed for bed, and then he made himself turn away. He knew if he didn’t get into his tent quickly he’d soon be testing the strength of the snaps on her tent door.

  As he crawled into his sleeping bag, he heard a low giggle coming from Guatemotzi’s tent next to his.

  “Motzi, did you hear all of that?” he asked quietly.

  “Sí, señor,” Guatemotzi answered with a low chuckle. “I think the señorita is muy bueno.”

  “Me, too, Motzi, muy bueno indeed!”

  Chapter 27

  Lauren startled awake as a hand holding a steaming cup of coffee slipped through her tent door. The hand slowly waved the cup back and forth, sending the tantalizing aroma of fresh-brewed coffee spreading throughout the small space.

  She rubbed her eyes and sat up. “Oh my God, can it be my Prince Charming bringing me coffee in bed?” she said groggily.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” Mason said, “We’re burnin’ daylight.”

  She sat up, grabbed the cup, and took a deep drink, sighing at the wonderful flavor. She leaned forward, squinted her eyes to peek out the tent door, and then she snorted. “Burning daylight my ass! The sun isn’t even up yet.”

  Mason stuck his head into the tent, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of her wearing only a T-shirt with nothing on under it. He coughed and then croaked, “Nevertheless, breakfast is served in five minutes. You snooze . . . you lose!”

  She blushed momentarily when she saw where his eyes were glued, and then she grinned slightly until she opened her compact and saw that her hair was as tangled and messy as a bird’s nest.

  Got to find a stream or waterfall to wash up in, she thought. Another day sweating in the jungle heat and humidity and even the wild animals wouldn’t want to eat her.

  It took her seven minutes to get dressed, fight her hair into some semblance of order, and crawl out of the tent.

  She stood and stretched the kinks out and then looked around. “Ummm,” she said diffidently, “any suggestions on where I might . . . ummm?”

  Mason and Motzi both grinned, and Mason pointed off to the left of the trail. “The restroom facilities are over that way. I left a roll of toilet paper hanging on a stub of a branch and a collapsible shovel to bury the . . . leavings with.”

  She blushed again and made her way into the brush. Damn, she thought, another couple of days like this and they would have no secrets from one another left.

  When she returned, she found sliced bananas and powdered eggs were cooking in the skillet.

  “Not exactly Cordon Bleu,” Mason said, stirring the eggs, “but it’s guaranteed to fill you up.”

  “It smells wonderful,” she said, grabbing a tin plate and scooping a banana and some eggs onto it.

  Motzi grinned and took her cup and refilled it with fresh coffee. “I find bananas,” he said proudly.

  She grinned around a mouthful. “Thanks, Motzi, you did good.”

  After they’d finished eating and had cleaned and packed the dishes away, Mason spread a map out on the ground. He oriented it with a compass, and then he asked Motzi to point in the direction of the curandera’s village.

  After fussing with the map and lining up a line of sight of distant mountain peaks, he turned to Lauren. “As best I can tell from Motzi’s directions and the map, it looks like the village is somewhere in the middle of the Tuxtla mountain range, probably near Santiago Tuxtla or even Tuxtla Gutierrez.

  “Are we equipped to climb mountains?” Lauren asked.

  “Well, the Tuxtla mountains are only about six hundred meters high,” he said, shrugging. “Still, climbing six hundred meters through thick jungle isn’t going to be a picnic.”

  “Motzi find many good trails through mountains. Make it easy for you,” Motzi said, puffing out his chest a little.

  Lauren grinned and ruffled his hair. “I’m sure you will, Motzi.”

  * * *

  It was late on the third day of their journey when Lauren noticed Motzi acting strangely.

  The young man kept glancing from side to side as he led them through the jungle, and even occasionally stopping to peer back down the trail the way they had come.

  Finally, Lauren asked, “Motzi, what’s wrong?”

  Motzi blushed and shrugged, but his eyes had a worried look in them.

  Mason could feel the boy’s fear and he slipped his rifle off his shoulder and held it in his hands, ready to fire. He followed Motzi’s gaze back down the trail and asked, “Is someone following us, Motzi?”

  Again the boy shrugged. “I not know, Señor Williams. But I see birds fly after we pass, and I no hear big cats growling like usual. Something back there make them not right.”

  Mason looked at Lauren. “Perhaps it is some narco-traffickers moving on the same trails as us.”

  Lauren glanced at Motzi. “Do you know of these men, Motzi? The ones who carry drugs through the jungle?”

  He nodded. “Sí, but this not them. They no use this trail . . . is why I come this way.”

  “How far until we reach your village, Motzi?” Mason asked.

  The boy looked ahead, glancing from one mountain range in the distance to another. After a moment, he answered, “I think maybe tomorrow if we not sleep too much.”

  “Mason, I think the best thing to do is to have a cold meal tonight without a fire and to get a really early start in the morning,” Lauren said, her eyes reflecting the worry in Motzi’s.

  Motzi nodded, murmuring, “Sí . . .”

  Mason glanced at the darkening sky. “I think we can get another couple of hours in before we make camp, so let’s try to get as close to Motzi’s village as we can before we set up camp.”

  * * *

  After they’d eaten cold sandwiches and washed them down with tepid water from canteens, they pitched their tents and each climbed inside and flopped down exhausted from the long day’s march.

  Lauren was startled when Mason eased his way into her tent, his finger to his lips.

  “What’s going on, Mason?” she whispered, pulling her sleeping bag up to cover her chest.

  “I’m going to backtrack down our trail and see if I can find out what or who is back there,” he answered in a low voice.

  “Are you crazy?” she asked, her eyes wide. “It could be anything from a cougar tracking us to some other wild critter that’s liable to jump you in the dark.”

  He shook his head. “Uh-uh. Just a while ago I backtracked about a mile and I’ll swear I could smell wood smoke on the wind.” He smirked in the low light from Lauren’s lantern. “And last I heard wild animals don’t cook their meat before they eat it.”

  “Did you see any glow from a fire?”

  “No, and that means they’re taking great care to hide their presence from us, which means they are probably up to no good.”

  She reached out and put her hand on his arm. “Mason, I don’t like this. How about I go along with you? After all, two guns are better than one.”

  “Two guns also make twice as mu
ch noise,” he said, shaking his head.”

  “But what if something happens to you?”

  He reached into his coat pocket and handed her his sat-phone. “If you hear anything . . . gunshots, shouting, anything at all, then you grab Motzi and beat feet as fast as you can to his village. Once you’re there, call the camp and have them send the cavalry as fast as they can.”

  She reluctantly took the phone. “Okay, boss man. I’ll do this your way, but only because the stakes for the rest of the world are so high and they are counting on us to get a cure for this plague.”

  “But,” she added, arching a brow, “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  He smiled and leaned forward, kissing her tenderly on the lips. “Good, that means you’ll be so glad to see me when I get back that you’ll jump into my arms and cover me with kisses.”

  She leaned back and punched him in the arm. “In your dreams, Buster. But if you don’t come back, I promise I will kick your bony ass next time I see you.”

  “Bony?” he asked, wrinkling his forehead. “I always thought my ass was one of my better features,” he mumbled as he eased back out of her tent.”

  * * *

  Bear had not survived fifteen years in the Marine Corps and another seven as a hired gun by being unobservant or stupid. He’d sent Jinx up ahead of their team to keep an eye on the camp of their prey. Jinx, being the smallest of the group, was the only man Bear trusted to be able to slip through the dense jungle undergrowth without sounding like a bull in the brush.

  About two hours later Jinx signaled Bear on their handheld radios. “Hey, boss man,” came the whispered voice.

  Bear keyed his own radio. “Yeah?”

  “Something’s wrong here.”

  “Elaborate.”

  “You know how every night so far they’ve made their tents, built a fire to cook on, and then kept the fire going to keep bugs and animals at bay?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, tonight there was no fire. They ate cold sandwiches and then went to their tents without lighting a fire at all.”