The Cannibal Virus

by Anthony DeCosmo

  "Don't let him get to you," Wells said, leaning over and speaking just loud enough to be heard over the rolling roar of jet engines vibrating through the chamber. "He's an ass but he's harmless. You'll do fine. And if it means anything, this shit makes me nervous, too, and I've done it a dozen times."

  She liked Wells and appreciated the light squeeze to her shoulder he added in support.

  He went on, "Hey, how about we run through the checklist one more time? I want to make sure I have everything."

  She nodded.

  He started: "Altimeter?"

  "Yeah. Um, check."

  "AAD?"

  "Ready and set."

  "Oxygen canister?"

  He meant the small tube of air that would become her breathing supply after they unhooked from the console. The changeover between the two was a tricky thing. She did not want any nitrogen slipping back into her bloodstream. That could lead to decompression sickness and that would be very, very bad.

  "Yep, got it …"

  Her ears wandered away from Wells's checklist. She was thankful for the diversion, but she was interested in what Gant had to say on the radio to Lt. Col. Elizabeth Thunder, their "control" contact half a world away back at the Darwin facility in California. The conversation played over a speaker.

  "We are almost on target," Gant reported.

  "Understood. Still no transmission since the original Edelweiss call seventeen hours ago."

  Stacy knew what the Secret Service's "Edelweiss" code word had meant: the detail faced an unconventional situation. Not terrorists. Not a run-of-the-mill assassination attempt. Something different. Something that would require a team trained to deal with unique situations and adversaries. They were fortunate that an otherwise obscure senator had been assigned one veteran agent.

  Gant: "Any other updates?"

  Thunder: "Friez called in from the NRO again. They had a second satellite pass just a little while ago."

  During their brief stop in Hawaii, Gant had informed her and Wells that the first satellite images of Tioga showed people on the island, seemingly going about their business. That had been hours ago. The sun had long since set over the target area.

  Thunder's voice explained, "There are lights on the island, so there's power. Other than the lack of communication and the agent's transmission, there's no reason to believe anything is wrong down there."

  "Great," Gant said. "So we could be risking our lives on this jump for nothing."

  The colonel transmitted, "Captain Campion is en route to Wake Island to coordinate a more comprehensive response. We should have several naval assets and support personnel available, depending on what you find. So far this is all off the radar. Whatever happened is bottled up tight for now."

  Stacy knew that the government was working on an "engine trouble" cover story for Senator Kendal's plane; a story that had already been put into place to some degree as part of the politician's cover for his rendezvous with, no doubt, someone younger than his wife.

  As far as she could tell from the short briefings they had received during the trip, this private island in the South Pacific was built for just such clandestine entertainment. Since it was not sovereign territory of any nation, it lay outside the jurisdiction of any country, which made it a rarity among private islands, which almost always belonged to one nation or another. But in this case, no country cared. If not for Senator Kendal's involvement, the United States would not care, either, and she would not be on a plane right now preparing for a high-altitude low-opening jump.

  A warning of the need for caution came across in Lieutenant Colonel Thunder's voice despite the otherwise monotone sound from the speaker: "Thom, all of that support is at least a couple of days out. He's not going to be able to get anything there quicker without setting off a lot of alarm bells, and the politicos in D.C. don't want that for a bunch of reasons."

  "Same as usual," Major Gant replied. "We will establish a satellite link as soon as we know what we are dealing with. Out."

  Stacy thought, assuming whatever is causing satellite phone interference won't also block our transmitter.

  The connection ended.

  Franco touched the side of his helmet, apparently receiving a transmission in his earpiece from the pilot.

  "Two minutes. Better start switching over."

  * * *

  Stacy stood at the edge of the open ramp to stern, on the precipice. The white clouds below resembled a floor, but she knew they were more of a ceiling.

  The wind rushed around the now depressurized cargo hold. Major Gant and Jupiter Wells stood on her flanks. A soft red light glowed overhead.

  "As soon as we punch through," Gant spoke in a calm but strong voice, "we should see the island below. The only lights for a thousand miles. They mark the center of the resort. We are aiming for the south beach. Remember, you want to hit a little inland where there's nothing but fields. Stray too far east or west and you'll hit jungle or rocks. Too far north and you are either in their downtown or worse. Look, just remember your training, stay cool, and stay on target. Wells and I will end up falling faster, so we will get separated on the way down. Just head for the rendezvous point. Everybody with me?"

  Gant asked them both but looked first at her. She nodded with as much confidence as she could muster.

  The light turned green.

  "Go, go, go!" Gant ordered and then led the trio over the edge.

  A gush of turbulence rolled across her body, nearly causing her to tumble. The feeling reminded her of diving below a strong ocean wave off the Jersey shore back east during a childhood trip to Cape May.

  Then she felt strangely still. No sensation of anything. As if she hovered up there in the highest reaches of the troposphere.

  Above, stars so incredibly clear that they really seemed to sparkle; she could sense the vastness of space; infinity overhead.

  Below, a cotton-white matt. No swirls, no puffs, just a carpet of white glowing in the light of the half moon.

  That moment of stillness passed as her fall gained speed.

  Panic set in. Reality hit home. She was in free fall, and while she had parachuted many times before, including training runs with the Seals, this was different. She fell from thirty thousand feet in the dead of night with the hope of landing on a tiny chunk of land in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The smallest screwup — from a particle of nitrogen slipping back into her blood to drifting offshore and splashing down in the darkness with the nearest search-and-rescue support a couple thousand miles away — could result in a nasty end.

  Annabelle felt her breath quicken, her heart thump like it might explode, sweat drip on her cheeks inside the helmet, and her limbs shake from something more than the extreme cold. The combination of nerves and speed threatened to twist her body out of what little control she maintained and into a frenzied spin that could steal her consciousness and kill her as surely as the chute not opening.

  Hold it together, girl! Hold it together!

  She rushed toward the white "floor" of clouds. Her mind saw the barrier not as a misty collection of water droplets and aerosols but as a surface as firm as concrete. She instinctively moved her hands toward her face as if to protect from impact … she closed her eyes tight … her mouth opened and a moan turned into a scream …

  A flash of white and then she punched through and the whole world lay open before Dr. Annabelle Stacy.

  Her eyes adjusted. Yes, she did see lights. Tiny specks below surrounded by a sea of black. She tried to concentrate on the target, but the world stretched out all around her. Dark, yes, but she could still spy the horizon from the moon's faint glow shining through the cloud cover. Just enough to see … just enough to take in the enormity of it all.

  In that moment everything changed. The fear turned inside out and became awe. She felt tiny, yes, but tiny against the vastness of existence. And she was not afraid. Knowing how small she stood in comparison to the universe only piqued her curiosity.

 
She saw the Earth's curve bending to the horizon in every direction. She saw the sky curving in tandem and the heavens of clouds and stars and beyond looking down on it all. For maybe the first time in her life she saw the world for what it was: a planet spinning through space around a star that was one of billions in one of a billion galaxies.

  Oh, what a vision!

  Annabelle Stacy took every ounce of it in: everything she could see in the dark plus everything she knew was out there, just beyond her line of sight. The enormity of life and every amazing piece of the puzzle, waiting for her to find and understand. This was why she had accepted General Friez's offer, for this moment and the promise of many more like it.

  Danger? Yes. But danger coupled with discovery.

  Fear? Yes. And exhilaration like few human beings would ever know.

  She thought of her parents back home in New York. What were they doing right now? Her mother was probably teaching at the elementary school, her father on the road for a sales call.

  What if they knew? What if they knew what their daughter was doing right at this very moment?

  Mom would be terrified. She would only see the ground rushing toward her at 126 miles per hour. She would think of everything that could go wrong, from a chute malfunctioning to hitting a tree on final descent. Mom is a worrier; that's her nature.

  But Daddy, oh, Daddy, if you could see me now! Look at the world! It's so huge and there is so much in it and it's all just a tiny little speck in a universe that reaches to infinity!

  Go and find it all, Annie-girl, he had said so many times. Live.

  Miss you, Daddy.

  WHAM!

  The air thickened and a howl of wind surrounded her decent. Buckles and hooks jingled and rattled; the helmet shook and she felt her bundle of gear whip about on its tether.

  Breathe.

  She felt the speed now. Terminal velocity. The Earth pulling. She struggled to keep her belly down and arms spread. There was not much she could do — she was at the mercy of the open sky. Yet she held her posture in check.

  Dr. Stacy turned her head side to side, searching for her compatriots. She thought she saw something … the figure of a man below and to her right. That would be Wells. But she could not be sure. The only background was black, and they all wore suits as dark as the night surrounding them.

  A thin film of condensation formed on the interior of her visor; a fog from her excited, sharp exhales.

  Breathe, you stupid girl!

  In-out-in-out … in …out …. In …

  Out.

  That's it. Okay, okay, I'm good. All good. Easy. No problem. I've … I've got this.

  Annabelle looked for her target. The island stayed out of focus but she easily saw the cluster of lights marking the village center. She knew she had to aim below those lights. The beach and the fields would be there.

  To the north? A volcano.

  Not as good.

  The island's lights grew larger than pinpricks. In their glow she spied a handful of buildings hidden amidst palm trees.

  Stacy glanced at the altimeter on her wrist: ten thousand feet and falling fast.

  She braced herself. In a few moments her chute would open. She had reached the moment when so much could go wrong. Falling came easy. It was the stopping that presented the most opportunities for disaster. Even if everything opened as planned, the jolt could snap her neck or tear her harness free or—

  Shut up!

  The altimeter spun below four thousand feet.

  Suddenly her shoulders were nearly ripped from her body. The straps dug through her suit and grabbed her with leather claws. It felt as if the drag would pull off her entire suit. The tether grew taught as the kit of equipment tried to remain at speed.

  Even through the muffled sound of her helmet she heard the flapping and stretching of the ram-air canopy. She waited to hear a tear … a rip … the snap of a line.

  She slowed.

  No fatal error. No equipment failure. The chute deployed as programmed and her speed lessened. The wind calmed. But the tug of gravity remained.

  The village lights stretched off in the distance as she neared the ground. Below her feet she saw dark … and perhaps the glint of something … yes, the whitecaps of rolling waves.

  Dr. Stacy tugged on the guide wires. A slight course correction. The whitecaps moved behind her. The ground … something moved … yes, the sway of high grass in a gentle breeze.

  After having traveled so fast for so far, the final feet of decent felt deceptively gentle. That gentleness gave way when her boots hit with speed and force. She bent her knees and let her body roll across the moist ground covered in swampy grass. Her chute tried to drag her downwind but Stacy gained control of her person and her equipment.

  Touchdown.

  * * *

  Far overhead above those cotton-white clouds, the C-17 banked as the rear cargo hatch sealed shut with a mechanical hiss. A moment later another hiss: the sound of the interior repressurizing.

  Sergeant Franco moved through the plane, where he had shared eight hours of travel with his now-departed comrades. The pilot's voice crackled in his earpiece: "Radio for you. Patching it back on the speaker."

  "Yeah, yeah, whatever." Franco yanked a tuft of polypropylene from the crack of his ass. "These friggin' suits are too friggin' tight," he complained to no one as he reached the transmitter.

  "Go ahead."

  The calm and steady voice of Captain Campion came over the speaker, yet no matter how calm and steady that voice, it always irritated the sergeant.

  "What's your status there?"

  "They've debarked. Can't confirm insertion so we're just going to hope they hit the mark."

  "Hope?"

  "Well what the hell, Captain? My orders were not to initiate radio contact and to avoid detection. You giving me new orders?"

  "Negative."

  "Then why the call?"

  Campion: "Stay on station and keep your eyes and ears open."

  "Christ, we can't see dick from up here but you still want me to fly around in circles?"

  "Roger that."

  "I'm telling you the Russians could have four battalions and a three-ring circus down there and we wouldn't know it. Besides, we're borderline bingo on fuel as it is. This has been one long haul."

  "Stay on station as long as you can. Anything else?"

  "Yeah," Franco sneered. "Wish you were here."

  5

  Major Gant led the trio of infiltrators through the overgrowth. They hovered just outside a sphere of illumination cast by a spotlight beaming from a white stucco building. The black color of their clothing matched the dark night but the bulkiness of the MOPP protective gear over their standard BDUs created a variety of issues for a stealth mission.

  The lack of information in regard to the threat on the island meant that as soon as they hit the ground, all three switched over to full-blown MOPP 4 protection. That meant gas masks, heavy gloves, boots, and an overgarment that looked something like a hooded poncho.

  The army manual claimed maximum airflow and comfort thanks to state-of-the art fabrics and materials. Gant did not agree with the army manual on this one.

  Jupiter Wells carried a SCAR-H battle rifle while Gant used a standard M4, both with rather thick sound suppressors affixed to the barrels. Dr. Stacy wielded a more complex weapon: a blue and black rectangular contraption slightly larger than a big flashlight.

  Thom surveyed the scene not only with his eyes but with all his senses, as well as the heavy gear allowed. Since rendezvousing on the south side, they had not seen any people but had also found no signs of anything amiss.

  He did find, however, that MOPP gear, tropical islands, and intense heat did not make a good combination. Streams of sweat rolled down his back and along his arms, and conspired to fog the lenses of his gas mask.

  As for smell, his nose sensed only the silicone rubber of the mask, making it the least usable of his senses for the time being. That equipm
ent also muffled his hearing, which had yet to detect anything other than chirping insects singing in the night and their own footfalls, which were, he admitted, much louder than they should be due to the gear and Dr. Stacy's lack of stealth.

  He turned to her and asked, "What's the ECAM say?"

  Stacy consulted her "weapon," waving it back and forth, up and down in the process.

  "Nothing. No airborne contaminants that I can trace. I think there's some ash in the air, though, from the volcano."

  "Yeah," Wells said, "it's been spewing shit since we dropped in."

  Gant turned away and once again surveyed the scene ahead. A blue and gold flag draped from a pole above a small front porch fluttered in a soft, warm wind. A bronze plaque labeled the place "Administration."

  The light of the building shone on nothing. No bodies, no people … nothing. The same nothing they had found outside the clinic and outside the health spa. In each of those places, automatic lights had snapped on.

  "Sooner or later," Gant sighed, "we are going to have to do more than take a peek. I do not like the idea of moving into the open until I have some idea what we are dealing with."

  Stacy said, "This thing will pick up known chemical agents. I think we can rule out any kind of chem-weapons or industrial toxins, but it isn't so hot on the biological stuff."

  Gant said the obvious: "So you're saying we could be in the middle of a biological weapons strike and not know it until we take these masks off?"

  "Yeppers."

  Wells jumped in: "I don't think so, sir."

  The soldier pointed toward the building. It took Gant a moment to see what he meant, but then he spied the flutter of small wings as a tropical bird landed on the flagpole.

  "Just sayin'," Wells finished.

  Gant's frustration resulted in a long exhale that qualified as a sigh.

  Dr. Stacy must have sensed his mood. She told him, "If there was something nasty in the air we'd probably be seeing it by now."

  "I do not subscribe to that theory," Gant replied. "Biological agents do not always follow a particular playbook."