He patted Nadia on the back and gave her a thumbs-up as the helicopter sped up, the rotor’s rhythmic thumps eventually merging into a single engine noise. She returned the gesture without taking her eyes off the horizon. Nobody had decided where to go next and going by the state of the passengers in the rear this was no time for a pow-wow. Nadia checked the gauges.
The fuel tank was almost full. With the UH-1D’s range and at current speed, they could be in Mombasa in two, perhaps two and a half hours. And beyond Mombasa’s beaches lay the Indian Ocean and with it a multitude of options to leave the continent for good. It was their best bet. Nadia turned the aircraft and waited for the compass to reach an East-Southeast heading before again flying in a straight line, this time towards the coast. Initially following the main highway, they soon moved further into the game reserves, a good few miles away from it. If the army or whoever was still in control of the main routes, they would take a dim view of one of their own helicopters being commandeered by a bunch of civilian survivors and, not least having only just escaped calamity at Westgate, taking fire was the last thing they needed.
Tom gazed out over the dry grassland and watched the highway disappear into the distance. Grabbing one of the headphones dangling from a mount above, he keyed the microphone.
“Where are we heading?” He pointed at the highway, by now nothing but a thin line near the horizon.
“Mombasa,” Nadia shrugged. “I figured it’s as good a place as any, plus one with more options than mainland Tanzania.”
“Or Somalia, for that matter!” Amadou chimed in, watching a herd of elephants stomping through the bush and away from the approaching helo.
Tom nodded in agreement. They needed to leave the continent as quickly and as safely as possible, and given the state of highways, and major population centres, based on recent experiences, trying to do so via any of the international airports was tantamount to suicide. With any hope, Mombasa was still ahead of the virus, or at least someone was still functioning, maintaining some level of normality of things there. He smiled at himself at daring to hope. Hope was something most people lived in but which rarely produced the goods. But it also died last. If events of late were anything to go by, the international community so many people put their faith in whenever things went horribly wrong, was the last thing he would pin his hopes on. They had stood idle-by when Ebola 1.0 hit in the Northeast. Yes, they had mounted a massive response in the end, but the bureaucrats back in the Northern hemisphere had sat on their rear ends for so long that the number of casualties had been far greater than it ever should have been. Besides, despite their efforts, the virus was never properly contained.
Then, during the 2.0 outbreak a year later, they again had placed the onus of dealing with it on the African countries affected, knowing full-well that neither the Congo nor its neighbours were equipped to control its spread, let alone eradicate the bug. It was as if someone had designated the Congo as the virus’ official playground, giving it but the occasional slap on the wrist if it threatened to leave its confines. Not only that, but its latest permutation had been by design. The lovechild of corporate pharma and the military, they had let it play in their little sandbox. Now they were scrambling to stop it from ruining everyone’s day.
Tom watched the afternoon sun beat down on the savannah, where life went on the way it had since the beginning of time. Eat and be eaten, the circle of life, whatever cliché one wanted to throw at it. Humankind had elevated itself to the top of the food chain and effectively excused itself from the cruelty that was inherent in nature, and it had worked for the longest of time.
Tom’s train of thought came to a screeching halt as an idea suddenly hit him. Western neo-colonialists, economic chauvinists, and proponents of social Darwinism for many years now had made sure that over-population of certain regions, more specifically sub-Saharan Africa, was to blame for a generally bleak outlook. One of the most popular myths, and one readily eaten up by Western societies, was that population explosions in conveniently-termed third-world countries not only threatened planetary resources and sustainability of food supplies but every other aspect essential to humankind’s very survival. The voices of populism had grown louder and louder in recent years, and eventually, the political pendulum had swung to the extreme right. Tired ideologies about race and evolution once again took hold in the minds of people thoroughly inoculated with fear. Fear of loss of lifestyle, of the comforts they had been told existence was impossible without and for whom a threat to consumerism was as existential as a knife to the throat.
It was no surprise, then, that walls were being built in the United States to keep out the very poor the inscription on its very own statue of liberty claimed it welcomed. It was the same fear that had Southern, Eastern, and even Central Europe close its borders, minds, and hearts towards the refugees escaping the conditions these very same countries had largely been the creators of a mere century prior. The north-south divide had been the subject of geopolitical discussions for decades. For some, it constituted a convenient argument towards the natural order of things as they perceived it. To others, it was a symptomatic manifestation of how the global North’s policies continued to exploit, suppress and perpetuate the stereotype of a third world, creating a divide which in real terms didn’t need to exist. Population migrations on the scale the planet had seen in the first and second decades of the new millennium, at least to the populists in power, posed an existential threat to the status quo and an almost insurmountable obstacle towards maintaining the equilibrium of inequality between the two worlds. In their eyes, the millions of people now drowning in the Mediterranean on route to the Promised Land were as inconvenient and embarrassing as the homeless man knocking on their car windows as they waited in traffic on their way to lunch.
Could this then have been the reason resources deployed to Ebola 2.0 were so limited? Could it be that it was much more conducive to resolving the world’s problems, at least as these people saw them, to have the trouble-makers, in this case, the entire continent of Africa, destroy itself from within? Not only that, but to ensure a 100% success rate by helping a virus like Ebola evolve to new heights of efficiency? At the end of the day, the West, as it were, was dominated by two primary drivers of industry: the military and big pharma. Have the continent’s populations wipe themselves out, gain unhindered access to the wealth of its natural resources, obtain a new bio-weapon of unrivalled potential, and assure profits through potential vaccine sales for centuries to come. What was not to like? The possibility that he was actually witnessing the theory turn into reality was as frightening as it was probable.
His thoughts wandered back to the research facility and what he had seen there, then to his initial deployment to assist with the Ebola response and the quick retreat the UN and other agencies had embarked on as soon as the first cases of the evolved viral infection had been reported. Tom was no stranger to conspiracy theories and had seen his fair share of lunatics with tinfoil hats predicting anything from government-initiated global catastrophes to imminent alien invasions.
The problem with this theory was that it made sense from every angle. Biological warfare was an ancient concept. As far back as 400 BC, Scythian archers infected their arrows by dipping them in decomposing bodies or in blood mixed with manure. The Romans used of dead animals used to contaminate wells and other sources of water. In 1763 the British eliminated swathes of Native Americans through the distribution of smallpox contaminated blankets, and in 1797 even Napoleon flooded the plains around Mantua, Italy, to enhance the spread of malaria. During World War I, the German Army developed anthrax and cholera for use as biological weapons, spread plague in St. Petersburg, infected Mesopotamian mules with glanders, and attempted to do the same with the horses of the French Cavalry. The list went on. The idea of decimating entire populations by way of introduction of naturally occurring diseases was certainly not new.
But it had taken the deviant creativity of the populists in power
to drive fear into the heart of Western societies to the point where they could now commit murder on an astronomical scale to preserve the world they knew and the lifestyle they were accustomed to; and get away with it, no less, by letting a small but widely-known virus do its lethal work, all the while pointing fingers at the ineptitude of regional governments as principal owners of their own demise.
Nadia now kept the helicopter flying low to avoid being spotted by other aircraft. Tom watched dense bush give way to grasslands and again to rock formations looming over wide plains. He couldn’t help but wonder what role his organization and by that virtue he himself had played in all of this.
Were aid organizations like the one who had hired him nothing but a benevolent faceplate funded by the very same powers responsible for much of the misery in this world? Was the entire humanitarian apparatus of agencies merely a facade to mask the abhorrent machinery at work underneath its guise of philanthropy? Tom felt used, felt suckered into believing a lie that was so profound, it should have been obvious from the outset. A lie that had cost Julie her life and had Anna and him fighting for their lives, with millions dead already and many more joining the ranks by the minute. He closed his eyes and let the sound of the rotors take him away to a happier past when all this would have seemed like science fiction at best and a nightmare at worst.
He felt Anna stretching out on the vacant seat next to him. Placing her head into his lap, she wrapped her arms around him. He felt soothed by her warmth, and sleep took them both on a journey far away from this place and the horrors they had witnessed. It was a deep, almost comatose sleep, and Tom’s body finally relaxed, the helicopter swaying gently as it carried them across the savannah.
CHAPTER 10
“To the Bravo Uniform Hotel rotary wing aircraft bearing figures Niner Zero One. Land immediately as directed…”
The air controller’s voice broke the silence as the thunder of two jet engines overhead threatened to shatter the Bell Huey’s windows. The helicopter dove sharply as the F-35 came in for another fly-by, this one even closer than the previous. Nadia pulled hard to the left and began weaving in and out clearings in the tree line and in between any and all tall obstacles she could find.
“What is going on?” Tom yelled.
Barely awake, he quickly buckled in Anna and, holding on to the webbing above, stumbled to the front just aft of the pilot seat.
“Land now, or we will shoot you down!” The radio crackled back to life with the controller’s voice.
The F-35 was now directly above them, keeping a comfortable altitude from which it could monitor their movements without much effort. Whether it would let its 25mm Equalizer canon do its work or fire one of its Sidewinders, to the passengers of the helicopter, it would make little difference. If they failed to respond or comply, it would soon drop in behind them and shoot them clean out of the sky. Nadia, Amadou, and Tom looked up through the windscreen at the gunmetal-grey belly of the jetfighter cruising along above them. Confidently, almost lazily, like the mechanical apex predator that it was.
“No choice in the matter,” Tom shrugged. He was unsure what the fighter’s sudden appearance meant, but in no doubt, their questions would be answered whether they liked it or not.
Nadia keyed the microphone and advised the controller of their intent to comply.
“Roger Niner-Zero-One. Follow your lead until advised to hold position.”
The F-35 briefly tilted its wings and took the lead just slightly above them, safely out of reach of their own onboard cannon.
“How far to Mombasa?” Tom tried to get his bearings. Nadia looked at her watch.
“Another half-hour or so. If that is where we are going because right now, we are headed north instead of southeast.”
Flying low over the coastal landscape of palm trees and native forest, the first settlements became visible. Farms on the outskirts of the city quickly gave way to sun-drenched residential compounds, tin-roofed markets, low-income areas, junkyards, luxury hotels, and shopping malls. Mombasa was an eclectic mix of the old and new, the poor, the rich, and anything in between. It was the charm of the old and the preposterously outlandish of the new. It was the place where 18th century Swahili architecture mingled with Arab and Portuguese influences, as did Chinese construction projects with incongruously same-ish tourist condos along its long white beaches. It was exclusivity, and abject poverty all rolled into one steaming pile of tropical heat. Flying along the outskirts of Mombasa county, something else became visible.
Here and there, along the main roads, barriers had been erected and military contingents had setup checkpoints and fortified posts, effectively sealing off the area from the outside. Heading north, the area became increasingly militarized and began to look more like a battlefield than a town that derived its income from tourism and trade via its large port, the gateway to East Africa for many goods destined for Kenya’s neighbours.
There were large patches of scorched earth. Remnants of farmhouses and plantations, ruins of bombed-out apartment blocks and entire areas pock-marked with large craters. It was obvious that they had halted the advancing virus more or less in its tracks, just as it was apparent that the effort had come at a cost. Up ahead, along the northern suburbs of Mombasa, a hive of activity, ground and air, appeared in the distance. Helicopters and other small aircraft filled the sky, either landing or taking off from an improvised airstrip among a new settlement of container housing and offices, military tents and impromptu hangars. Like a feudal castle within a city, the containers and barracks covered a wide expanse, extending for miles into the county, until a bulwark of steel plates and a deep mote separated it from what lay further inland. They flew along the fortified perimeter now. Looking down into the mote, they could easily see the reason for its existence. Burned corpses littered its bottom and here and there army units were busy extracting bodies or digging mass graves using giant bulldozers. Inside the contained area vehicles, both military and civilian, travelled freely and life for all intents and purposes bore some semblance of normality. At least if the new normal was having to protect oneself against hordes of walking corpses.
There were tennis courts and soccer pitches and even children running around in schoolyards, while helicopter gunships circled above. They reached the most-northern part of what clearly was a controlled zone and the relatively organized layout further south gave way to more informal settlements, slums even, if the tin roofs were anything to go by. Still within the containment area, they were separated by cyclone fencing, heavily guarded and accessible by less than a handful of service roads. Beyond them, a sea of white tents and air conditioned shipping containers bearing the Red Cross logo stretched out towards the coast. Lab-coats and even Hazmat suits abounded as medical personnel moved between them.
Nadia nodded ahead as the F-35 once again tipped its wings before beginning to hover over their designated landing zone. This was a smaller area, perhaps a quarter-mile across, just outside the reinforced perimeter and directly adjacent to the medical facilities. Going by the type of inbound traffic from the heavily guarded access road, this part of the city now functioned as a receiving area for new arrivals. Tanks lined wire mesh gates separating two fence lines, between them a no man’s land patrolled by armed sentries and dog-handlers. Boom gates and anti-ram barriers completed the protective ensemble at this entrance, while several hundred yards further up troops were erecting watchtowers and additional checkpoints. The forest that had previously covered a belt several miles wide along the inside of the northern coast was all but gone, cut down and torched to increase visibility.
Nadia manoeuvred the Huey to where the F-35 had indicated. Two large landing pads marked “H” had been constructed just outside the main gate. Lowering the machine slowly in an effort not to repeat her mistake on take-off, Nadia lined up its skids above the pad. The Huey’s downdraft only added to the cyclones of dust and debris that swept across the receiving area and bathed everything around them in a yellow
hue. A flurry of activity erupted as army personnel, medical staff, gear, and vehicles converged on their location.
The helicopter finally touched down - to Tom’s surprise much more gently than expected – and Nadia cut the engine. The F-35 turned on the spot and blasted off back toward the horizon. For better or worse, they had arrived in New Mombasa.
“Put down your weapons and wait for us to open the doors. Weka silaha zako! Tutafungua Mlango!”
First in English, then in Swahili, the voice from a loudspeaker repeated itself over and over. Tom and the others looked at each other with raised eyebrows but complied. Reluctantly they placed their weapons in a neat pile inside the bed of the cabin.
“I hate doing this as much as you do, but it’s their rules now.” Tom tried to appease a disgruntled-looking Amadou.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Amadou grumbled, dropping his pistol and spare magazine onto the pile.
The inside of the helicopter was now eerily silent, all of them looking out the side window, waiting for someone to approach. Upon landing, they had immediately been surrounded by troops. All of them donning gas masks and armed to their teeth, they had formed a circle and taken up positions with an ease that only comes with repetition.
The Virophage Chronicles (Book 2): Dead Hemisphere [Keres Rising] Page 22
