“Bravo-leader, this is Bravo-three. Our fuel is down to forty percent. Request permission to put down and acquire fuel—”
“Negative, Bravo-three,” Dorian barked into the helmet.
“Sir?” The pilot in his own helicopter turned to face him. “We’re at less than fifty percent as well—”
“Bravo formation: maintain your distance from the outpost. Bravo-three, light up the closest helicopter.”
The adjacent helicopter launched a missile that decimated one of the two remaining helicopters on the island’s helipad. A split second after the impact, a second, more violent eruption spewed from the island.
“They booby-trapped the helicopters?” the pilot said.
“Yes. Hit the other one too,” Dorian said. “What’s our closest fuel source?”
“Marbella or Grenada. The invasion force reports both areas are secured—”
“They’re going east.”
“How do you—”
“Because they know we’re behind them, and they have nowhere else to go.” Dorian focused on Kosta, his assistant, who sat across from him. “Do we have a plague barge in the area—to the east?”
Kosta typed feverishly on his laptop. “Yes, but it’s almost to port in Cartagena.”
“Turn it around. Tell them to head south on an intercept course with us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any word from him?” Dorian asked. The last message had said Isla de Alborán. Hurry. Was he in danger?
“No, sir.” Kosta glanced out the window, down at the burning island. “He could be KIA—”
“Don’t ever say that to me, Kosta.”
Dr. Paul Brenner was sleeping on the couch in his office when the door burst open, slamming into the wall, practically scaring him to death.
Paul pushed up from the couch and fumbled for his glasses on the coffee table. He was groggy, disoriented. The hours of sleep were the best he had had in… quite some time.
“What—”
“You need to see this, sir.” The lab tech’s voice was shaky.
Excitement? Fear? By the time Paul got his glasses on, the man had fled the room.
Paul raced out after him, down the hall of the CDC bunker, to the infirmary. Rows of beds surrounded by plastic tents spread out before him. Paul could see only blurry glimpses of what lay inside each plastic box. What he didn’t see scared him most. No motion, no lights, no rhythmic “beep, beep, beep.”
He walked deeper into the room. He pulled the plastic back at the closest bed. The cardiac monitor was silent, dead, turned off. The patient that lay below it was still. Blood flowed from her mouth, staining the white sheets.
Paul slowly walked over to his sister’s bed. The same.
“Survival rate?” he asked the technician in a lifeless tone.
“Zero percent.”
Paul trudged out of the wing, dreading every step, forcing himself to go on. He was hollow, truly hopeless, for the first time since the outbreak had begun, since Martin Grey had invited him to Geneva twenty years ago and told him that he needed his help with a project that could save humanity in its darkest hour.
At the Orchid Ops room, the glass doors parted again. The screens that had displayed the Symphony algorithm result a few hours earlier had been replaced with a map of the world. It bled red with the casualty statistics from around the globe.
The faces around the room reflected the quiet horror of the image on the screen. Solemn stares greeted Paul as he stepped inside. There were fewer faces peering at him than there had been. Some members of the team were plague survivors, immune, just as Paul was. But for most, Orchid was their key to survival, and it had finally failed them. Those team members were in the infirmary. Or the morgue.
The remaining men and women, who usually hovered around the tables pacing and arguing, all sat silently now, dark black bags under their eyes. Full Styrofoam cups of coffee littered the tables.
The team leader stood and cleared his throat. He began speaking as Paul advanced into the room, but Paul didn’t hear a word. He focused on the map, as if in a trance, as if it were drawing him in.
Boston Orchid District: 22% of total population confirmed dead.
Chicago Orchid District: 18% of total population confirmed dead.
He scanned the statistics.
In the Mediterranean, just south of Italy, a single island glowed green, like a single pixel that had burned out or malfunctioned.
Paul pressed the interactive screen and the map zoomed.
Malta
Valletta Orchid District: 0% confirmed dead.
Victoria Orchid District: 0% confirmed dead.
“What is this?” Paul asked.
“A ruse,” one of the analysts shouted.
“We don’t know that!” another put in.
The standing team leader held his hands up. “We’re getting mounting casualty reports around the world, sir.”
“Malta hasn’t reported?” Paul asked.
“No. They have. They report no casualties.”
Another analyst spoke up. “The Knights of Malta have issued a statement saying they ‘provide shelter, care, and solace in this dark time of crisis and war as they have before.’”
Paul glanced back at the map, unsure what to say.
“We think,” the team leader began, “that they’re simply trying to perpetuate the myth of the Knights Hospitaller, or worse, to attract any able-bodied individuals to help them hold the island.”
“Interesting…” Paul mumbled.
“Everyone else is reporting anywhere from fifteen to thirty percent casualty rates at this point. We think the numbers in some places are a little off. The Vatican Orchid District is claiming twelve percent; Shanghai-Alpha District is thirty-four percent, while Shanghai-Beta is roughly half that…”
Paul wandered toward the door, his mind racing.
“Sir? Is there another therapy?”
Paul turned to the analyst. He wondered if the White House had put a man on the team, someone who could report back to his superiors with a firm up or down on the latest treatment, an informant that could tell Washington whether to proceed with the takeover of Continuity and then the Euthanasia Protocol.
“There is… something else,” Paul said. “Something I’m working on. It’s related to Malta. I want you to contact the directors of Victoria and Valletta Districts. Find out whatever you can.”
Paul’s assistant ran into the room. “Sir, the president’s on the line.”
CHAPTER 76
Over the Mediterranean Sea
It was quiet in the large helicopter, and David credited the slight vibration for helping Kate fall fast asleep shortly after boarding. He sat straight up against the seat, staring out the window. Kamau and Shaw were up front, in the cockpit, with Kamau flying; Janus and Chang sat across from him. Both wore exhausted, impassive looks on their faces, like kids on a family vacation who had played too long and were well past their nap times.
Kate had slumped into him, her head resting on his shoulder. David didn’t dare move. He held his sidearm under his right leg, ready to use it at a moment’s notice.
With Kate sleeping on his shoulder, his gun in his hand, and all four suspects straight ahead, David felt better than he had since they’d found Martin dead. Knowing they had delivered a cure didn’t hurt either.
Kate’s breathing was even and calm, unlike the sweaty, torturous dreams she had endured on the yacht. David wondered where she was, what she was dreaming… or remembering.
Janus spoke softly, careful not to wake Kate. “I want to commend you, Mr. Vale. I am rarely so impressed with anyone as I was with your performance on the boat. Your grasp of history was… remarkable. I had taken you for a simple soldier.”
“Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.” David suspected Janus was working up to something, priming him like a suspect that had valuable information, but he couldn’t imagine where the scientist was going with it.
“For me, one mystery remains, however.”
David raised his eyebrows. Extraneous words ran the risk of waking Kate. He wouldn’t waste them.
Janus held Martin’s code out, letting David take it in once again.
PIE = Immaru?
535…1257 = Second Toba? New Delivery System?
Adam => Flood/A$ Falls => Toba 2 => KBW
Alpha => Missed Delta? => Delta => Omega
70K YA => 12.5K YA => 535…1257 => 1918…1979
Missing Alpha Leads to Treasure of Atlantis?
“The last line of Martin’s code: ‘Missing Alpha Leads to Treasure of Atlantis.’ What do you think it means?” Janus folded the note back up. “I am also curious why Martin included the note about PIE at the top. It seems… unnecessary—if our theory is that the cure lies in the genome of Kate and the survivors of the two bubonic plague outbreaks in the past.”
David had to admit: the man had a point. “Could be camouflage, or a false path to throw off anyone who found the notes.”
“Yes, perhaps. But I have another theory. What if we have missed a piece—another genetic turning point. Alpha. Adam. The introduction of the Atlantis Gene.”
David considered the theory. “Maybe… but plague bodies from the sixth and thirteenth centuries aren’t exactly easy to find, and there are millions of them buried throughout Europe. You’re talking about a single body, buried somewhere in Africa, seventy thousand years ago… It would be beyond impossible to find.”
“That is true,” Janus said with a sigh. “I only mention it because you seemed to have most of the insight into the notes. Your history background appears to be more relevant than my science, strangely.” He glanced out the helicopter’s window. “I wonder if Martin found it. If he somehow located the remains of Adam, if he left a clue somewhere in this note.”
David considered his words. Was there something else there? He studied the page, wondering. It couldn’t be. There was nothing else there.
“Another consideration,” Janus said, “is Martin’s intention. He obviously knew Kate was part of the genetic puzzle, but his primary goal was to trade the cure for her safety. If he had identified all the pieces, perhaps he designed the final clue—the location of Adam—just for her.”
“Except there’s no clue, no dates, no locations. Just ‘Missing Alpha Leads to Treasure of Atlantis.’ We don’t even know what the treasure is.”
“Yes. I have a theory, however. If we consider the Tibetan tapestry, which we all agree is the key to Martin’s code and chronology, there is a very clear piece of treasure in the depiction: the ark the primitives carry into the highlands at the time of the flood and the fall of Atlantis.”
David nodded, almost involuntarily. Why hadn’t he seen it before? And what did it mean? How could Adam lead to this treasure? And what was inside the box—the Ark? “Yes… that’s interesting…” David mumbled.
“One last point, Mr. Vale. The first line in the code: ‘PIE = Immaru?’ Why do you think Martin put it in there?”
“To direct us to the tapestry?”
“Yes, but clearly Kate already knew about that. Might it be a trail to something? It seems… extraneous. It could be taken away, and the chronology would be intact. It adds no further practical information, nor does the last line that references treasure. Unless, of course, they are actual clues, leading us to Adam and this treasure, somehow unlocking the secrets of this ‘Atlantis Experiment.’”
Chang looked over, as if he had awoken from a dream. “You think—”
“I think,” Janus said, “that there is still more to this. I wonder if we could wake Kate to get her opinion. It seems the entire mystery hinges upon her.”
David involuntarily pulled Kate closer to him. “We’re not waking her.”
Janus swept his eyes over her quickly. “Is she not well?”
“She’s fine,” David said, in the loudest tone he’d managed since the conversation began. “She needs her rest. Let’s all take a break.”
“Very well,” Janus said. “May I ask our destination?”
“I’ll tell you when we get there.”
CHAPTER 77
Kate thought this dream was far more vivid than the others. Not a dream… a memory. She stepped into the ship’s decompression chamber and waited. Alpha Lander, that was the ship’s name.
The suit she wore moved slightly as the air swirled around it.
The massive doors parted, revealing the beach and rocky cliff she had seen before. The blanket of black ash that had covered the land before was gone.
The voice in her helmet was crisp, and Kate jumped slightly at the sound. “Recommend you take a chariot. It’s a long walk.”
“Copy,” Kate said. Her voice sounded different, mechanical, emotionless.
She walked to the wall and held her hand to the panel. A cloud of blue light emerged, and she worked her fingers to manipulate it. The wall opened, and a hovering alloy chariot moved out into the room and waited for her.
Kate stepped onto it and worked the control panel. The chariot rotated and zoomed out of the room, but Kate barely felt any motion—the device created some sort of bubble that kept the inertia from swaying her.
The chariot moved over the beach, and Kate looked up. The sky was clear—no traces of ash. The sun burned brightly, and Kate saw green vegetation looming beyond the rock cliff that bordered the beach.
The world was healing. Life was returning everywhere.
How long had it been since she had administered the therapy—the genetic technology the humans would come to call the Atlantis Gene? Years? Decades?
The chariot rose to clear the rock ridge.
Kate marveled at the green, untouched landscape. The jungle was returning, rising from the ashes like a new world that had been created from scratch—a vast garden built as a sanctuary for these early humans.
In the distance, a column of black smoke rose into the air. The chariot charged on, and the settlement emerged on the horizon. They had built it at the base of a high rock wall, to better protect them from predators in the night. The camp was arranged so that there would be only one way into it, and that entrance was heavily guarded. Shanties and lean-tos formed a circle, the largest structures built directly into the wall at the rear of the camp. The blazing communal fire at the center of the camp also helped ward off predators.
Kate knew the humans would learn to make fire later, but at this point in their development, they could only keep fires that had already been created by sources like lightning. And keeping the fire burning was imperative to the camp—for the protection it offered and for cooking the food that would help their brains develop.
Four males stood around the fire, feeding it, tending it, ensuring it never went out. The fire rose from a square stone pit. Large boulders ringed the towering blaze, forming a wall that kept the children from the inferno. And there were so many children, maybe even a hundred of them, scurrying about, playing, and motioning to one another.
“Their population is exploding,” her partner said. “We must do something. We have to limit the tribe’s size.”
“No.”
“Unchecked, they will—”
“We don’t know what will happen,” Kate insisted.
“We will make it worse for them—”
“I’m going to inspect the alphas,” Kate said, changing the subject. The issue of their rapid population expansion was a concern, but it didn’t have to be a problem. This world was small, but it was big enough for a much, much larger population—if they were peaceful. That would be her focus.
The chariot set down, and she stepped out. The kids around the camp stopped and stared. Many wandered toward her, but their parents rushed forward and shoved them to the ground. They fell down as well, placing their face to the ground and extending their arms.
Her partner’s voice was even more solemn. “This is very bad. They take you for a god—”
Kate ignored him. “Proceeding into the camp.”
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Kate motioned for the humans to stand, but they remained face-down. She walked to the closest one, a woman, and stood her up. She helped the next person up, and then everyone was standing, rushing to her. They mobbed her as she waded past the crackling fire at the center of the camp.
She spotted the chief’s hovel instantly. It was larger and adorned with ivory tusks. Two muscled men stood guard at the entrance. They stepped aside as she approached.
Inside, an elderly man and woman sat in a corner. The alphas. They looked so old, so withered. They had never fully recovered from their near-starvation in the cave. Three males sat around a square stone platform in the center of the hut, discussing what looked like a map or some sort of drawing. They all rose. The taller male stepped toward Kate, but the elderly man stood on shaky limbs and waved him back. He bowed to Kate, then turned and pointed at the wall. A series of primitive drawings were spread out in a line. The helmet translated them:
Before the Sky God, there was only darkness. The Sky God remade man in his image and created a new world, lush and fertile for him. The Sky God brought back the sun and promised that it would shine so long as man lived in the image of God and protected his kingdom.
It was a creation myth. A surprisingly accurate one. Their minds had advanced in a great leap forward, achieving self-awareness and problem-solving abilities they had never before known. They had focused their newfound intellect on the greatest questions of all: How did we get here? What are we? Who created us? What is our purpose?
For the first time, they realized the mysteries surrounding their existence, and they groped for answers, as all emerging species do. In the absence of absolute answers, they had recorded their interpretations of what they believed had happened.
Her partner sounded nervous now. “This is extremely dangerous.”
“Maybe not—”
“They are not ready for this,” her partner declared with finality.
They were too young for mythology, but if their minds had already come this far, the religion that followed could be a powerful tool. “We can fix this. This… could save them.”
The Atlantis Plague: A Thriller (The Origin Mystery, Book 2) Page 28
