The Judas Strain sf-4

by James Rollins

  “Mom, I’ll finish up,” he said as he entered the kitchen. “Go rest.”

  His mother turned from the sink. She wore navy cotton slacks, a white silk blouse, and a damp checkered apron. At moments like this, harried as she was from an evening of entertaining, his mother’s advancing age suddenly struck him. Who was this gray-haired old woman in his mother’s kitchen?

  Then she snapped a wet towel at him and broke the delusion.

  “Just get the trash. I’m almost finished here. And tell your father to get inside. The Edelmanns do not appreciate his nocturnal woodworking. Oh, and I’ve wrapped up the leftover barbecued chicken. Could you take that to the refrigerator in the garage?”

  “I’ll have to make a second trip.” He hauled up the two plastic sacks of garbage in one hand and cradled the bin of empty bottles under his arm. “Be right back.”

  He used his hip to push through the rear door and out into the shadowy backyard. Carefully climbing down the two back steps, he crossed toward the garage and the line of garbage cans along its flank. He found himself moving with a soft tread, attempting to keep the clink of bottles silenced. A Rainbird water sprinkler betrayed him.

  He tripped and the bin of bottles rattled as he caught his balance. The back neighbor’s Scottish terrier barked a complaint.

  Crap…

  His father swore sharply from the garage. “Gray? If that’s you…gimme a goddamn hand in here!”

  Gray hesitated. After one near shouting match with his father this evening, he didn’t want a midnight encore. Over the past couple years, the two had been getting along fairly well, finding common ground after a lifetime of estrangement. But the past month, as some of his father’s cognitive tests began to slide downward again, an all-too-familiar and unwelcome brittle edge had returned to the taciturn man.

  “Gray!”

  “Hold on!” He dropped the garbage into one of the open cans and settled the bottle bin next to it. Girding himself, Gray crossed into the light flowing from the open garage.

  The scent of sawdust and shop oil struck him, reminding him of worse days. Get the goddamn strap, you piece of…I’ll make you think twice about using one of my tools…get your head out of your ass before I knock you clear to…

  His father knelt on the floor beside a spilled coffee can of sixpenny nails. He was brushing them up. Gray noted the streak of blood on the floor, from his father’s left hand.

  His father craned up as Gray stepped inside. Under the fluorescent lights, there was no denying their familial ties. His father’s blue eyes held the same steel as Gray’s. Their faces were both carved into the sharp angles and clefts, marking their Welsh heritage. There was no escaping it. He was becoming his father. And though Gray’s hair was still coal black, he had a few gray hairs to prove it.

  Spotting the bloodied hand, Gray crossed and motioned his father to the back sink. “Go wash that up.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  Gray opened his mouth to argue, thought better, and bent down to help his father. “What happened?”

  “Was looking for wood screws.” His father waved his cut hand toward the workbench.

  “But these are nails.”

  His father’s eyes lit upon him. “No shit, Sherlock.” There was a well of anger in his gaze, barely constrained, but Gray knew it wasn’t directed at him for once.

  Recognizing this, he remained silent and simply gathered the nails back into the coffee can. His father stared down at his hands, one bloody, one not.

  “Dad?”

  The large man shook his head, then finally said softly, “Goddamn it…”

  Gray offered no argument.

  When Gray was young, his father had worked the Texas oil fields until an industrial accident had disabled him, taking a leg off at the knee, turning an oilman into a housewife. Gray had found himself bearing the brunt of his frustration, always found wanting, never able to be the man his father wanted him to be.

  Gray watched his father stare at his hands and recognized a hard truth. Maybe all along his old man’s anger had been directed inward. Like now. Not so much frustration with a son as a father’s anger at failing to be the man he wanted to be. And now once again, disability was slowly taking even that away.

  Gray sought some words.

  As he searched, the roar of a motorcycle sliced through any further contemplation. Down the street, tires squealed, vandalizing asphalt with rubber.

  Gray straightened and placed the coffee can atop the bench. His father cursed the rude driver, probably a drunken reveler. Still, Gray swept an arm and doused the garage lights.

  “What are you—?”

  “Stay down,” Gray ordered.

  Something was wrong…

  The cycle appeared, a black and muscular Yamaha V-max. It roared into view, skidding sideways. Its headlamp was off. That’s what had set Gray’s nerves jangling. No spear of light had blazed up the street, fleeing ahead of the engine’s growl. The cycle was running dark.

  Without slowing, it skidded sideways. Rear tires smoked as it tried to make the sharp turn into their driveway. It hesitated, balanced, then ripped forward.

  “What the hell!” his father barked.

  The rider overcompensated for the turn. The bike bobbled, then the bump of the curb sent the vehicle careening to the side. The rider fought for control, but the rear fender caught the edge of the porch step.

  The bike went down in a showering skid of red sparks, becoming yet another Fourth of July display. Thrown, the rider shoulder-rolled end over end, landing in a sprawl not far from the open garage.

  Farther down the drive, the bike’s engine choked and died.

  Sparks blew out.

  Darkness descended.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” his father exclaimed.

  Gray held a hand back for his father to stay in the garage. His other hand pulled a 9mm Glock from an ankle holster. He crossed toward the prone figure, all dressed in black: leather, scarf, and helmet.

  A soft groan revealed two things: The rider was still alive, and it was a woman. She lay curled on her side, leathers ripped.

  Gray’s mother appeared at the back door to the house, standing in the porchlight, drawn by the noise. “Gray…?”

  “Stay there!” he called to her.

  As Gray approached the downed rider, he noticed something lying steps away from the bike, its black shape crisp against the white cement of the driveway. It looked like some stubby pillar of black stone, cracked from the impact. From its dark interior, the glint of a metallic core reflected the moonlight.

  But it was the glint of another bit of silver that caught his eye as he stepped to the rider’s side.

  A small pendant around the woman’s neck.

  In the shape of a dragon.

  Gray recognized it immediately. He wore the same around his own neck, a gift from an old enemy, a warning and a promise when next their paths crossed.

  His grip on his pistol tightened.

  She rolled from her shoulder to her back with another small groan. Blood streamed across the white cement, a black river forging toward the mowed back lawn. Gray recognized a raw exit wound.

  Shot from behind.

  A hand reached up and pulled back the helmet. A familiar face, tight with agony, stared up at him, framed in black hair. Tanned skin and almond eyes revealed her Eurasian descent and her identity.

  “Seichan…” he said.

  A hand reached to him, scrabbling. “Commander Pierce…help me…”

  He heard the pain in her words — but also something he’d thought he’d never hear from this cold enemy.

  Terror.

  2

  Bloody Christmas

  JULY 5, 11:02 A.M.

  Christmas Island

  Just another lazy day at the beach…

  Monk Kokkalis followed his guide along the narrow strand. Both men wore identical Bio-3 contamination suits. Not the best choice of apparel for strolling along a tropical beach.
Under his suit, Monk had stripped to a pair of boxer trunks. Still, he felt overdressed as he slowly baked inside the sealed plastic. Shading his eyes against the midday glare, he stared out at the nearby horror.

  The western bay of Christmas Island frothed and churned with the dead, as if hell itself had washed up out of the deep. Mounds of fish carcasses marked last night’s high tide. Larger hillocks of shark, dolphin, turtle, even a pygmy whale, dotted the beach — though it remained hard to tell where one began and the other ended, flesh and scale melted into a reeking mass of bone and rotting tissue. There were also scores of seabirds, contorted and dead, on the beach and in the water, perhaps attracted by the slaughter only to succumb to the same poisoning.

  A nearby blowhole in the rock spewed a fountain of sludgy seawater with a ringing bellow, as if the ocean itself were gasping its last breath.

  Ducking under the spray, the pair of men worked north along the beach, traversing a narrow trail of clear sand between the foulness of the tidal zone and steep jungle-shrouded cliffs.

  “Remind me to skip the seafood buffet back on the ship,” Monk mumbled through the rasp of his respirator. He was glad for his suit’s canned air. He could only imagine the reek that must accompany this tidal graveyard.

  He was also relieved his partner, Dr. Lisa Cummings, had remained back aboard the cruise ship on the other side of the island. The Mistress of the Seas floated in Flying Fish Cove, safely upwind of the sickening pall that wafted across the island from the toxic soup on its western side.

  But others had not been as lucky.

  Upon arriving at daybreak, Monk had witnessed the hundreds of men, women, and children being evacuated from the island, all in various states of contamination: some blind, others merely blistered, the worst with skin dying off in pustulant slides. And though the toxic readings were rapidly declining, the entire island was being cleared as a safety precaution.

  The Mistress of the Seas, a giant luxury cruise ship out on its maiden voyage among the Indonesian islands, had been evacuated and diverted, turned into an emergency medical ship. It also served as the operations center for the World Health Organization’s team, called in to discover the cause and source for the sudden poisoning of the surrounding seas.

  It was also why Monk was out here this morning, seeking some answers in the aftermath of the tragedy. Back aboard the ship, Lisa’s skill as a medical doctor was being put to hard use while Monk’s training had him tromping through this cesspool. Because of his expertise in forensics — medical and biological — he had been handpicked for this particular Sigma assignment. The op had been classified as low risk — survey only — an operation to ease him back after taking three months off for family leave.

  He shied away from that last thought. He didn’t want to think of his little baby girl while slogging through the filth here. Still, it couldn’t be helped. He flashed back to Penelope’s blue eyes, pudding cheeks, and impossible corona of blond hair, so unlike her father’s shaved head and craggy features. How could something so beautiful share his genes? Then again, his wife may have stacked the deck in that department. Even here, he could not dismiss the ache in his chest, a physical longing for them, as if a tether bound him as surely as any umbilical cord, a sharing of blood between the three of them. It seemed impossible he could be this happy.

  Up ahead, his guide, Dr. Richard Graff, a salt-hardened oceanic researcher out of the University of Queensland, had dropped to one knee. He knew nothing of Monk’s true identity, only that Monk had been recruited by the WHO for his expertise. Graff settled his plastic sample case atop a flat shelf of rock. Through the face shield, the man’s bearded countenance was tight with worry and concentration.

  It was time to get to work.

  The pair had been dropped off in an inflatable rubber Zodiac. The pilot, a sailor from the Royal Australian Navy, remained at the boat, beached beyond the kill zone. An Australian Coast Guard cutter had arrived to oversee the island’s evacuation.

  The remote island, resting fifteen hundred miles northwest of Perth, was still Australian territory. First discovered on Christmas Day in 1643, the uninhabited island was eventually colonized by the British to take advantage of its phosphate deposits, setting up a major mine here, employing indentured workers from throughout the Indonesian islands. And though the mines were still in operation, the tropical island’s main industry had turned to tourism. Three-quarters of the island’s highlands, thick with rain forests, had been declared national parklands.

  But no tourists would be flocking here anytime soon.

  Monk joined Dr. Richard Graff.

  The marine researcher noted his arrival and waved a gloved hand to encompass the massive die-off here. “It started a little over four weeks ago, according to reports of some local fishermen,” explained Graff. “Lobster traps were found full of empty crustacean shells, the flesh dissolved away inside. Trawling nets blistered hands when pulled from the sea. And it only grew worse.”

  “What do you think happened here? A toxic spill of some sort?”

  “No doubt it was a toxic assault, but it was no spill.”

  The scientist unfolded a black collection bag, emblazoned with a hazardous chemical warning, then pointed to the nearby surf. The waters frothed with a foamy yellowish slurry, a poisonous stew thick with meat and bones.

  He waved an arm. “That is all Mother Nature’s handiwork.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re looking at slime mold, mate. Composed of cyanobacteria, an ancient predecessor of the modern bacterium and algae. Three billion years ago, such slime flourished throughout the world’s oceans. And now it’s on the rise again. It was why I was called in here. Such organisms are my primary area of expertise. I’ve been studying such blooms out near the Great Barrier Reef, specifically one called fireweed. A mix of algae and cyanobacteria that can cover a soccer field in less time than it would take you to eat lunch. The bloody creature releases ten different biotoxins, potent enough to blister skin. And when dried, it can aerosolize with the burning force of pepper spray.”

  Monk pictured the devastation back at The Settlement, the island’s largest township. It lay not far from the bay here, in the path of the tradewinds. “Are you saying that’s what happened here?”

  “Or something like it. Fireweed and other cyanobacteria are blooming all across our oceans. From fjords of Norway to the Great Barrier Reef. Fish, coral, and marine mammals are dying off, while these ancient slimes, along with venomous jellyfish, are blooming. It’s as if evolution were running in reverse, the oceans devolving into primordial seas. And we’ve only ourselves to blame. Runoff of fertilizers, industrial chemicals, and sewage have been poisoning deltas and estuaries. Overfishing of the past fifty years has driven the population of large fish down by ninety percent. And climate change is acidifying and warming the waters, lessening its ability to hold oxygen, suffocating marine life. We are rapidly killing the seas beyond the ability to heal.”

  With a shake of his head, he stared out at the dead pool. “In its wake, we are seeing the return of seas from a hundred million years ago, teeming with bacteria, toxic algae, and venomous jellyfish. Such dead spots are found all around the world.”

  “But what caused this one?”

  That was the question that drew them all here.

  Graff shook his head. “A new unidentified slime mold. Something we haven’t seen yet. And that’s what scares me. Marine biotoxins and neurotoxins are already the most potent poisons in the world. So nasty that they are beyond even man’s ability to duplicate. Did you know saxitoxin, from bacteria in certain shellfish, has been classified by the United Nations as a weapon of mass destruction?”

  Monk grimaced through his face shield at the seas here. “Mother Nature can be a nasty bitch.”

  “The greatest terrorist of them all, mate. Best not to piss her off.”

  Monk didn’t argue.

  With the biology lecture over, Monk bent down and helped organize the
collection kits. He struggled, fighting the plastic gloves of his suit. He was further compromised by a numb left hand. Maimed after a previous mission, he now wore a five-fingered prosthesis, state-of-the-art, chocked full of the latest in DARPA gadgetry, but synthetics and bioelectronics were not flesh. He cursed a bit as he fumbled a syringe into the sand.

  “Careful with that,” Graff warned. “I don’t think you want to puncture your suit. Not out here. Though the toxic readings are receding, we’d best be cautious.”

  Monk sighed. He would be glad to be out of this monkey suit, back aboard the ship, back to his own suite. En route to the island, Monk had pulled strings to have an entire forensics suite airlifted to the cruise ship. That’s where he’d rather be.

  But first they needed lab samples. And plenty of them. Blood, tissue, and bone. From fish, shark, squid, dolphin.

  “That’s odd,” Graff mumbled. He stood and glanced up and down the beach.

  Monk joined him. “What?”

  “One of the most ubiquitous animals on the island is Geocarcoidea natalis.”

  “And in English, that would be…?”

  Graff stood up and glanced up and down the beach. “I’m referring to the Christmas Island red land crab.”

  Monk studied the fouled coastline. He had read up on the island’s flora and fauna. The terrestrial red crab was the star of the island, growing to the size of dinner plates. Their annual migration was one of the wonders of the natural world. Each November, timed to lunar cycles, a hundred million crabs made a mad dash from jungle to sea, dodging seabirds and attempting to prove their right to mate by surviving this gauntlet.

  Graff continued, “The crabs are notorious scavengers. You’d think all the carcasses out here would attract them. Like the seabirds. But I don’t see a single one here, alive or dead.”

  “Maybe they sensed the toxin and kept to their jungles.”

  “If they did, such a factor might hold some clue to the origin of the toxin or the bacteria that produced it. Maybe they’ve encountered such a deadly bloom before. Maybe they’re resistant. Either way, the faster we can isolate the source, all the better.”