"I know that," Stacy said, nearly stomping her foot in annoyance. "But if something is wrong here, it happened quick. Fast enough that no one got off the island to report it. That rules out slow-working viruses or bacterial agents. Otherwise, we'd have reports from people who left the island before the event. So if there's a bio weapon at work, it's fast acting. That means it's more likely to have affected the environment in a manner we would see. I mean seriously, there are birds, bugs, and critters all around. No sign of a problem."
"Like the bird I saw," Wells added, as if hoping for credit.
Gant waited several seconds before replying, "I am not convinced yet. Masks on for a while longer."
"Look, it's the middle of the night. Everyone is probably sound asleep in their beds," Stacy said, voicing what sounded like wishful thinking.
Gant wondered if the realization of their situation had hit home with the young woman. She had just jumped from thirty thousand feet and now was sneaking about in the dark on an isolated strip of land that held the promise of unconventional dangers. Perhaps she was having second thoughts about joining the Archangel team.
If so, she is even smarter than I thought.
Of course, if her wishful thinking led her to make mistakes — like assuming the all-clear and removing their MOPP gear because she hoped everything was okay — then that would put the team at risk.
He shoved aside such considerations, something he found himself doing more often on missions. No matter how well he portrayed the image of a stalwart soldier focused only on the task at hand, Major Thom Gant had come to know in recent months that he was not nearly as focused as he liked to think.
As he had admitted to a friend in the dark bowels of the Red Rock Mountain Research Facility in Pennsylvania, he had questions about everything Archangel did and held no trust for his superiors. But he had been programmed well, and following orders — marching to whatever tune the brass played — was the path of least resistance.
Gant sighed again but quietly this time. He did not want Stacy to hear his exasperation. He then moved them away from the administration building through the growth of ferns and wildflowers.
"This is a party island," he told her in response to her theory that everyone on the island was tucked away safe in their beds. "There should be stoned diplomats stumbling around, drunken businessmen chasing girls half their age, and all other kinds of debauchery."
Wells mumbled, "My kind of place."
"So where are they?"
Gant told Stacy, "Let's start from the beginning. Our best information places Senator Kendal at one of the VIP bungalows. The call came from his security detail. We will go there."
The trio moved through the forest of palm trees and brush, occasionally slipping onto an isolated path. All the way they saw no movement and heard no sounds other than the occasional bird and a tiny marmot that scampered across their path. Stacy's detector did not register any indications of chemical agents or airborne toxins. The heat, however, took its toll in the form of exhaustion, heavy perspiration, and difficulty breathing inside the protective gear. Even Major Gant felt his energy tapped to the point that he ordered a ten-minute rest stop.
The further they moved away from the village center, the more they relied on night vision equipment. The goggles illuminated short stretches of jungle, just enough to avoid a bench here or a toppled tree there. Yet the inhibited, grainy view made Gant feel limited, and the reduction in peripheral vision created a sense of vulnerability. On top of that, the night vision did not marry well with the gas mask and required continual adjustment.
They reached the rim of a clearing marked by a band of well-maintained flowers. In the center of the clearing sat a bungalow with a small front porch. He saw no lights, but they had come across the first sign of trouble.
Maybe this is not a wild goose chase after all.
While the night vision did limit his field of view, Gant spied two vehicles. A crumpled hood and broken windows suggested one of the Jeeps had recently rolled.
Gant dared to stick his shoulders out from cover for a better view. At first, he thought he saw bundles of rags lying around the cars, as if someone's laundry bag had exploded. However, it took only a moment to realize that those bundles were, in fact, dead bodies.
As usually happened on missions such as this, Thom realized he had arrived at the turning point. Dr. Stacy was not the only one who had hoped this trip would be a waste of time. The sight of a wrecked car and dead bodies on an island that should have been packed with visitors yet was silent meant he had reached that moment of realization. Yes, something was terribly wrong on Tioga Island.
He opened his mouth to speak, but his eye caught something moving within the bungalow. It was hard to tell, but either his eyes or his instincts suggested something man-sized creeping inside. Just a glimpse, nothing concrete, possibly a false alarm.
Nonetheless, he said, "Movement in the building."
"I don't see shit," Wells answered softly while looking toward the hut.
Gant told them, "I think we found the senator's place."
"How do you know that?" Stacy asked.
Wells answered for the major: "Looks like the handiwork of the Secret Service out there."
Gant dared to rise tall against a banyan tree for a clearer view.
"I count five bodies. They all look to be dressed like island civvies. Torn up really good, too. Probably armor-piercing rounds. But I do not see any weapons near the deceased."
"Wait a second," Stacy broke in — but quietly—"why would the Secret Service shoot civilians?"
Gant knelt next to the other two and said, "Look at the bodies. It appears they were headed toward the cottage when they were shot."
Wells asked, "Chief, what about that movement?"
Gant stood again to eye the bungalow.
"I saw something moving through the side window. Could be the senator or his escort. I don't see any bodies out front that look like service or a senator."
The major watched the scene for several minutes and said nothing. Even with his eyes facing away he could sense Stacy fidgeting in the dark, no doubt fighting the urge to undo her mask.
Benefits aside, MOPP gear was nothing but a pain in the ass. Suffocating, reduced mobility, horrible sight lines. Throw in the oppressive heat and even Gant felt himself on the verge of going stir-crazy inside what felt like a body bag.
He knelt again.
"You will need this," he said, reaching to her thigh and pulling the M9 pistol there from its holster.
She seemed surprised to see it, as if it were a forgotten accessory on the outfit.
"I understand you have been trained."
"Yes, um, of course."
He provided the added service of cocking the slide and handed it to her grip-first.
"I really don't want it," she protested.
"I do not care what you want. You are coming with me to investigate that cottage," he replied. He turned to the other soldier and said, "Jupiter, cover us from here."
Specialist Wells nodded to the major, then told Stacy, "Stay cool. And don't shoot yourself in the foot, okay?"
She smiled beneath the mask. A little.
Stacy and Gant set aside their kits and other loose equipment. Gant tapped her on the shoulder and signaled her to lower her night vision again, as he did, too. Then they darted into the open, racing to the side of the hut. The major then stretched to glance in the open side window.
He saw nothing, so decided to lead her to the porch.
As they worked their way to the front, they both got a good, up close look at the dead bodies. Gant's theory about armor-piercing bullets seemed to hold true; the bodies had been ripped apart by gunfire. Limbs were blasted off, heads were splintered, and torsos were riddled with holes. Thankfully, the grainy image of the night vision made it all seem less real — almost cartoonish.
Still, it was an awful lot of carnage, as if the shooters had kept firing after putting down their targ
ets.
Those bodies grabbed Stacy's full attention. She hovered over the mess, entranced or sickened or both by the sight. Certainly, she had seen her share of death in the past. Her resume listed assisting in a battlefield hospital in Libya as part of her real-world experience.
That was, however, a different set of circumstances. While she certainly must have found the sight of blown-apart human beings unsettling, Gant figured her mind was doing what his was doing: cycling through all the possible reasons why the Secret Service had felt obliged to slaughter unarmed tourists.
No, not just slaughter them; tear them to pieces.
The difference between Gant and Stacy was that Gant could file away that curiosity and focus on more immediate concerns. If Stacy were to survive with Archangel, she would have to develop a similar means of prioritizing her concerns.
He reached over and tugged on her arm. She jumped, as if his gloves had delivered a shock. She then cast her eyes downward, embarrassed at her reaction.
He wanted to tell her not to worry about it, not to regret a natural human reaction. But in truth that was another part of this job she would have to master to survive; suppression of "normal" human instincts.
Life is much easier when you are a well-programmed robot.
The two separated and moved to either side of the open front door. Gant counted down from three with a free hand while holding his carbine with the other. After "one" he raised his weapon and led them inside. Stacy followed with the pistol in two shaky hands.
They entered an empty room. Through the grainy image projected by his night vision goggles Gant saw bloodstains splattered across the carpet and dripping from the sides of a wicker sofa. He stumbled and found that he had nearly slipped on dozens of shell casings.
Again, his well-trained mind prioritized: movement from the other side of a half-open closet door made him focus on a potential threat. Gant snapped against the inside wall and drew Annabelle's attention to the door. Despite a foggy gas mask, he saw her eyes grow wide. He thought he could hear her heart thumping through the layers of bio warfare protection but then realized that, no, the thumping belonged to his own heart.
As he watched her raise her pistol and point it toward the closet, he hoped she remembered the most basic rule of using a firearm: know what you are shooting at. That's how little kids get shot by jittery homeowners who think there's a burglar in the house. Never shoot at a shadow, or movement. Know your target.
Gant could only hope she had listened to her trainers. Fear, unfortunately, could easily crowd out training.
Except for me, he thought. Training always trumps fear … or compassion.
He held his breath and swung the door open.
Something jumped from the closet. In his night vision, it seemed like a blurry blob, accompanied by a shriek that might have been one part fear and another part battle cry.
His experience and instincts sorted out the vision as fast as any battle computer. The blob held the silhouette of a man. Gant's eyes searched for and found his arms, and at the end of one of those arms in a hand was—
Gun. He's got a gun!
In a flash, he brought around the stock of his M4 with a side helping of elbow for extra measure, striking for the chin. A split second later his left hand pulled free of the horizontal grip and slammed down on the stranger's wrist, easily dislodging a handgun, with both weapon and person hitting the floor at about the same time.
At that point, Major Gant drove his left knee into the man's chest, pinning him to the floor with the business end of the M4 in his face.
"Identify yourself!"
Words came from the pinned fellow's mouth one after another in a series of incomprehensible sounds. For a moment, Thom thought the man spoke a language with which he was not familiar. After listening for a moment he realized the stranger spoke English, but English through a filter of exhaustion and fear.
Gant took his measure. Broad shoulders and, given the pain in Gant's elbow, he figured a relatively sturdy jaw. As for clothes, the stranger wore a windbreaker that had been clawed and torn by something, maybe an animal. Regardless, any type of jacket in this hot and humid environment seemed out of place.
He then retrieved the man's handgun and examined it, mumbling, "SIG Sauer 226. Looks like you ran out of ammunition."
At that point, Major Gant released him, feeling an ache in his left knee as he stood. Only a few months ago that knee had suffered a bullet wound. The joint worked, but did not feel quite right.
The man stopped blabbing and put a hand to his jaw.
While they waited for him to gather himself, Thom turned to Stacy and said, "I believe we have found a member of the senator's Secret Service detachment." He held the gun for her to see. "Standard issue U.S. government. Also empty."
Dr. Stacy relaxed. Sort of. At least her pistol dropped from ready to standby.
Thom replayed the last minute in his mind.
"You did good," he admitted to his companion.
"I didn't do anything. Except nearly pee my pants."
"That is what I mean," he explained. "You did not shoot when our friend here jumped out. You remained in control."
"Yeah, well, I can't decide if it was the training or if I just froze."
Major Gant then turned to the stranger and told him, "I am Major Thom Gant of the United States Army," and then, with each syllable enunciated clearly and with emphasis, he ordered, "Situation report, Agent."
That commander's voice seemed to jolt the guy into some semblance of control. The Secret Service agent moved to a sitting position. He spotted Dr. Stacy and trembled as if expecting her to lunge at him. When she did not, he calmed. A little.
Thom saw professionalism in the man; it had merely been chased away by the events — whatever they had been — on the island.
"Agent Costa, Senator Kendal's security team." He wiped a hand over his brow and a splatter of sweat went flying. "Jesus."
Gant removed his night vision from overtop the bulky gas mask and squatted next to Costa. He softened his voice as they sat there in the dark. A nocturnal bird called from somewhere outside. Its song sounded more like a cackling frog than a feathered fowl.
"Where is your charge, Costa?"
"The senator? Out there." He nodded toward the night outside the bungalow. "He's dead. When the … when we got overrun he bolted out the back. Before I could … before I could …" Costa took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and then exhaled. "Before I could reach him they had him on the ground. Swarmed … swarmed all over him. Nothing … awe shit, there was nothing I could do."
"I don't understand," Stacy broke in. "You said he was out there, and then you said he was dead. We didn't see his body."
That surprised Costa.
"Wait a sec. You haven't seen them yet? You haven't… You haven't …" he glanced about nervously, grabbed his useless weapon from Gant's hand, and stumbled to his feet.
Major Gant told him, "We received the Edelweiss signal and dropped in a few hours ago. We have conducted a perimeter sweep and seen nothing. What attacked you?"
Costa said, "The, ah, the phone was blocked at first … the satellite phone."
Gant reacted by retrieving a sat-phone from his utility belt. As Costa talked, Gant confirmed "no signal" on his unit.
"We should have gotten a signal. I did get one — just for a second or two. Just enough to get out the mayday. Then, um, then it was jammed again. Yeah, that's what I think; I think it's being jammed. I tried all day while I was hiding out by the airstrip. The senator's plane had come in but they already got the pilot. I can't fly shit, you see? You understand?"
"Who? Who got the pilot?" Gant asked.
Costa rambled on, "They got sight of me around midday … chased me down to the beach but I doubled back and lost them. I could hear some people screaming and some gunshots; yeah, I think the constable's deputy might have put up, you know, a fight. I saw a whole shitload of them rip apart this old couple on the tennis courts. Beat t
hem … clawed them … and especially … especially, they bite …"
"Who? What?"
"Three of them had me boxed in over by the spa. I got them … well, I got two of them and managed to, you know, get away from the last."
Gant grabbed him by the shoulders.
"Agent Costa, what was the nature of your attacker? Who? What?"
Costa cleared his throat and locked his eyes on Gant.
"Major, it's some kind of disease or something. But worse than that. The people on the island here … they're like a mob … you can shoot them, Major, and sometimes they go down and sometimes they don't. I knocked one of the bastards down with one shot in the shoulder. But others didn't go down until their bodies got ripped to shreds. I emptied entire clips from my MP into just one of them and it kept coming. When I switched to my SIG, I actually put one down with just a single shot. It doesn't make any sense. Do you hear what I'm saying? I hope you brought a battalion with you."
Gant let go of his shoulders and eased away, considering what he had just heard.
Costa glanced at Dr. Stacy, then back to Gant.
"Wait a second. You're just a recon team? There's just the two of you? Are you kidding me? I called in Edelweiss! That's what the books says!" The tentative control he had gained over his voice faded. "It says that's what you do when you see some messed up shit that you can't explain and the regular Joes can't handle it and Jesus friggin' Christ please tell me you got the 101st Airborne dropping in here tonight or we are SHIT OUT OF LUCK!"
Movement on the porch stopped his rant.
Specialist Wells came inside.
"Jupiter, I told you to stay outside and cover us."
Costa: "Oh great, three of you? Just three?"
To Gant's surprised, Stacy told the agent to shut up. No doubt, her apprehension had risen exponentially at the man's wild ramblings and seemingly crazed disposition. Again, Thom realized that Stacy would have to learn to keep outside influences from affecting her thinking.
Yeah, Thom, just like you do. Sure nice suit of armor you got there. Keep telling yourself that.
Wells said, "Sorry, sir, but there's movement coming up the main road. Not much, but I heard someone coming. Real quiet like."
The Cannibal Virus Page 5
