Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller: Book 3

by Bobby Adair

  “Do you really mean that?”

  Paul’s smile went away, and he looked back at Larry’s face. Paul gave him a certain nod.

  Larry said, “My nieces and nephews got lots of friends from their school that aren’t infected yet. They don’t live in the good part of town, if you know what I mean. They’ll be last in line when the Ebola cures come their way. They’ll all be dead by then.”

  The thought of dead children hit him in the heart where the memory of his son still ached. How could the world be so stupid as to let this happen? “If you’re talking about them taking the plasma preemptively, you know that’s a huge risk, right? Anybody who takes the plasma risks catching Ebola. They might die.”

  “They will die if they catch Ebola and have to go to the hospital and wait in line.”

  Paul shook his head. “Before they locked me in here, I’d heard about higher survival rates, therapies, even vaccines.”

  “C’mon,” said Larry. “You know that’s government bullshit. You seen it with your own eyes. Everybody dies.” Larry coughed up a gob of spit. “Nearly everybody dies. But hey, man, I know you were just talkin’ a minute ago when you was askin’ if we could do something. I know people say things they don’t mean when they get mad, you know.”

  “It wasn’t just talk.” Paul didn’t want to see himself as the kind of person who made empty statements.

  Larry shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No.” Paul was firm even though he was still convincing himself. “I’ll help. If you need my help to save those kids, you can count me in. I don’t know what I can do, but I’ll help. I only have one request.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Be sure those kids and their parents, if they’re still alive, understand the risks. They need to know this could kill them.”

  Nodding emphatically, Larry said, “Everybody understands the risks. We tell ‘em anyway, but everybody understands.”

  Paul stopped. “Who’s we?”

  Larry’s mouth opened for a second but nothing came out.

  Paul’s concern turned to suspicion.

  “I’d prefer not to say.” Larry looked over his shoulder again and shuffled on nervous feet. I guess I can’t ask you to take a risk to help me if I don’t tell you everything.” He heaved a big sigh and bit his lip. “It’s my brother Jimmy. He’s on the outside. We made arrangements with one of the truck drivers. She’s got grandkids to help. We’ve got nephews and nieces to help. I get the plasma and give it to the trucker and she gets it to Jimmy. That’s how we do it.”

  Nodding, Paul looked back at the entrance to the silo complex. He made a guess. “With all the changes in the system, with the Colonel keeping a tighter inventory on everything, you think there’s some way I can get you some plasma that the Colonel can’t track.”

  “Can’t do it alone anymore,” Larry admitted.

  “But every bag is accounted for, from the moment the empty bag arrives, until the moment it leaves. They’re all barcoded. If one disappears, they know when and where. They scan them in at every point in the process. You know that.” Paul scratched his head and put some thought into how to get around the system.

  “That’s why I got a supply of bags from the company that makes ‘em.” Larry grinned. “They’re barcoded and everything. They look just like the ones we use here in camp. You can carry ‘em around, you can fill ‘em, I can take ‘em out, and nobody will ever know the difference as long as they never get scanned into the system.”

  Nodding, Paul said, “That could work except for one thing. They assign me just enough bags each day for that day’s donors. What will they say if I don’t take donations and send the bags back empty? They’ll get suspicious.”

  Larry pointed at the metal door that led into the silos. “You know who you got down there, don’t you?”

  “Marazzi said they’re volunteer convicts.” Paul felt dirty just repeating Marazzi’s story because he knew in his heart it was bullshit. “You know they cuff them when they’re not in their cells. They even strap them down to the beds when I take the donations.”

  “That’s because they are dangerous criminals. Murderers and rapists.”

  Larry leaned in close. “Are those the kind of people you want to see survive this?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Paul.

  “You’ll have the extra plasma bags. Let those guys donate an extra time a week. Plug in two bags instead of one. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “And if we take too much and they get sick—” Paul punctuated with a shrug. Did he care what happened to murderers, rapists? What if Larry’s suggestion did lead to a death of one or two, how many more lives would be saved by their extra sacrifice? In truth, though, would three donations a week be much worse than two? Maybe four? No. That was Paul’s answer. Surely it wasn’t healthy, but he decided it wouldn’t kill them either. Surely the safety margin for donating plasma had to be much higher, maybe five or six donations each week. Maybe more. Three might be fine. Surely the extra donations would weaken the prisoners, but they didn’t do anything except sit in their cells and throw shit at each other all day long anyway. Paul looked Larry in the eye. “I’ll do it.”

  Chapter 20

  “I don’t understand.” Austin walked in the street beside Mitch. He didn’t bother to look for cars coming up the road behind them. Traffic was rare.

  “Olivia can’t get a plane to us,” said Mitch. “The nearest place she can arrange a flight for the samples is a Marine base in Djibouti.”

  “Djibouti?” Austin knew the country by name only, but that was everything he knew about it. He couldn’t even spell it. “Where’s that?”

  “Up on the Horn.”

  “Sailor talk.” Austin chuckled. “Where exactly is that? Is that the nub that sticks out of the side up by Saudi Arabia?”

  “You did know.” Mitch smiled. “It’s unfortunately right next door to Somalia and right across the Red Sea from Yemen. Not a good neighborhood.”

  “So are we going there?”

  “If we do, we can cut across Kenya and head up north through Ethiopia.”

  “How far is that?”

  “About seventeen hundred miles.”

  “That’s a long way.” Mitch let Austin around to the backside of the hospital to where the kitchen door faced the fields. “You hungry?”

  Austin nodded. He never turned food away anymore. “What are you thinking?”

  “You need to decide,” said Mitch. “That’s a long way to go with the way things are right now.”

  “But Dr. Littlefield says things are settling down.”

  Nodding, Mitch said, “Things are settling down around Mbale right now. That might last, it might not. It’s the same way in other places. In Nairobi, when I was there, things were only getting worse. Who knows what it’s like now? I think Dr. Littlefield is hoping all the bad guys killed each other off and we’ll have peace. In my experience, that’s never the case.”

  Austin swung the door open to let Mitch pass into the kitchen. They exchanged greetings with the women who were cooking. Minutes later they were both sitting on the steps outside again, eating porridge.

  “So you want to drive to Djibouti, right? Driving, that’s our only option.”

  “I’ll take the samples there. Whether you come is up to you.”

  “Not Olivia?” Austin laughed.

  Mitch shook his head. “She has her opinions about it, but she’s at Fort Gordon. Let’s be honest, she doesn’t know what things are like here. As long as we’re being honest, neither do you or I. Seventeen hundred miles is a lot of Africa to cross. Anything could happen along the way.”

  “Or nothing could happen,” said Austin. “My biggest worry is how long it’ll take us to get there. I don’t know what the roads look like between here and there, but up around Kapchorwa—and most of the roads I’ve seen around Mt. Elgon—are dirt and mud. Sometimes a swampy mud river. You know, depending on how much rain fell lately
.”

  Mitch nodded, put a spoonful into his mouth, and talked as he chewed. “Once you get an hour or two east of Kapchorwa you’re well into Kenya. The road is paved. It turns into regular highway before you get to Nairobi.”

  “I don’t think we should go through Nairobi,” said Austin.

  “We can skirt Nairobi on paved roads. We’ll be rolling on asphalt all the way to the Ethiopian border.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  Nodding, Mitch said, “I’ve driven a lot of it over the past few months. Olivia put me in contact with Dr. Wheeler at the CDC. He’s had me running all over East Africa gathering information for them.”

  “In Ethiopia?” Austin asked. “What about the roads up there?”

  “The same. Mostly paved.”

  “Hmm.” Austin refocused on his porridge.

  Mitch said, “You need to decide if you want to take the risk.”

  “What would you do?”

  “Don’t put this on me.” Mitch laughed. “I’m going. I can take care of myself, and I know there’s a risk if I go. I know there’s a risk if I stay. If the samples help us out back home, then I’ll take the risk. It’s that simple.”

  “Then I’ll go, too. When do we leave?”

  “We’ll get Dr. Littlefield to draw the samples and we’ll go. I’ve got the truck gassed up and the cans are full. I’ve got food and water.”

  “I better say my goodbyes.”

  Chapter 21

  The nicest thing about Fastballer Bellingham’s former house was the main floor. All the exterior walls were constructed of floor-to-ceiling glass panels, fourteen feet tall. Columns supported the upper floors and negated the requirement for interior walls. In any direction Najid looked he saw palms, tropical gardens, the blue sea, and white sand islands. The first floor—and the second, for that matter—covered an area expansive enough that Najid could walk, or hobble, the circumference of the interior space for his exercise. That would change as he became healthier and required a more vigorous exertion.

  Walking outside was off-limits both for him and his men. It was his instruction that the island maintain its illusion of abandonment. As such, he and Hadi lived in the house, as did six of his most trusted men. The rest of his soldiers and the recruits from Firas Hakimi’s group—ones who had come in response to Hadi’s call—were living on an island on the other side of the manufactured archipelago, nearly a mile away. Before the outbreak that island housed construction workers and support staff. Placing the bulk of his men there hid them in plain sight. The American satellites wouldn’t know the difference between a construction worker and a freedom fighter.

  Whether the images those satellites collected were being analyzed by murderous assassins at the CIA was another question, but not one Najid was willing to bet his life on to answer a second time. Until America was dead, he needed to maintain his stealth.

  Walking slowly beside Najid in the air-conditioned shade of the first floor, Hadi said, “I’ve been trying to get information about Israel’s nuclear weapons. Though everyone knows they exist, I can find no credible source who knows where they are located, let alone a person who might have access to them.”

  Najid was surprised by Hadi’s choice to explore Israel as a source for nuclear weapons.

  Hadi continued cautiously, “I had been interested in the possibility of mounting an assault to capture the bombs.”

  “Good that you looked into it. Keep trying.” Najid’s thoughts wandered to other problems. Finding a nuclear weapon was only one that needed to be solved. Getting the weapon from the source to the place where Najid needed to utilize it would present a host of obstacles. Non-military airplanes were all but grounded. Some airplanes crossing international borders were being shot down, putting more strain on international relations. Ships crossing the oceans were becoming rare.

  “I may have a line on the Russian possibility,” said Hadi. “I don’t know how good the source is. I’m working on that. We may be able to purchase them.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “A man who presents himself as a representative for a Russian general says he can acquire as many as ten nuclear weapons, all part of a Soviet-era R-36 missile.”

  “Ten from one missile?” Najid asked.

  “Yes, the missiles were designed to carry multiple warheads. Each is cone-shaped and about the height of a man.”

  Najid didn’t care about such trivia. He liked the idea of sending Russia’s bombs against her old enemies.

  “The quantity of gold they are asking for is more than we have on the island. It is a significant portion of what you have left in the bunkers at the Red Sea compound.”

  Like the decision to come to Dubai and pay too much gold for safe haven and the use of a doctor, Najid didn’t see the Russians’ price as a choice at all. Given the nature of his struggle with America, he’d either win or die. He had to spend all that was necessary. “If you can arrange for the delivery I will pay their price.”

  “They say they can deliver to the Caspian Sea.”

  “Not on the Russian shore,” said Najid. “In the center of the sea. Select a set of GPS coordinates on the water.” Najid paused and looked at Hadi. “Is the GPS system still working?”

  “Yes, for now it is.”

  “Good. Make the arrangements to collect the gold. Make this happen as quickly as you can. See to it personally. Go along on the mission. The next time I see you, I’ll want you to have the weapons.”

  “I agree with you on the importance of this mission,” said Hadi, “I agree that without opposing requirements, it should be I who leads it. If I go, how will the arrangements for delivering the nuclear weapons to the capitals of our enemies be made? How will the current physical locations of those government officials be found?”

  “This task is too important to be left to underlings,” said Najid. “Too much wealth is involved. If I put a zealot in charge, he will give his life trying but he will fail. Complications will arise. If I put an intelligent man in charge, he will see the temptation of the gold and rationalize a way to make it his. Hadi, you are the only man both loyal enough and intelligent enough to succeed.”

  Hadi acquiesced with a nod.

  “Leave as soon as possible. Finalize your arrangements with the Russians on the way. Call me daily with reports of your progress.”

  Hadi hurried off.

  Chapter 22

  Olivia walked the deserted hall, weaving back and forth for no reason at all. She listened to her footsteps echo. She thought about all the people who used to be in the hall at this time of morning, hurrying with computers, purses, coffee in hand, serious faces, deadlines to meet, problems to solve. Now there was only her and a shiny floor leading to the elevators.

  She’d been up all night sifting through everything she could find about the conditions along the roads in Kenya and Ethiopia. She wanted to find every spot of danger that might be lurking along the path Mitch was going to drive—or was already driving—if he and Austin had made it out of Uganda yet.

  “Are you all right?”

  Olivia looked up, embarrassed, but only a little. “Good morning, Barry.”

  “You’re headed in the wrong direction.”

  “I need to go home and sleep.”

  Barry looked Olivia up and down as he came closer. “I guess. That’s what you were wearing yesterday.”

  “Does it matter anymore what I wear?”

  “You’re not losing it, are you?”

  Olivia stopped, drew a breath, and leaned against a wall. “I’m not crazy but would it matter if I was?” She smiled.

  Barry laughed. “I suppose not. What was so important that you stayed all night?”

  “I had to beat my head on a wall.”

  Barry looked around to demonstrate the obviousness of that. “That is most of what we do here.”

  “Seems like it,” Olivia agreed. “I was trying to find intelligence on the roads. Mitch and Austin left Mbale. They’re
headed for Djibouti.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Impossible to know.” Olivia shrugged. “One more bump on the roller coaster. I swear to God, Barry. When this is all past, I’m going to buy a farm in the hills and grow organic vegetables and raise rabbits and I’m not going to have a cellphone, and I’m going to throw my computer away. I want a simple life.”

  “That’s the sleep deprivation talking. You wouldn’t last a week. You’d go crazy without something to figure out.”

  Olivia slid her back down the wall and squatted on her heels. She rubbed her sleepy eyes. “But it sounds wonderful.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  After spending a few moments staring at the pattern of light shining on the floor she turned her attention back to Barry. “I’ve been so caught up in my personal crusade I haven’t asked, how’s that thing with Najid Almasi? You’re still in the loop on that one, right?”

  “Have to be,” said Barry with a one-shoulder shrug. “Mortality rate plus absenteeism leaves me in a pretty spot for seniority. I hate to say it, but I think if two more people die, I might be in charge, not just in our office, but of everything.” Barry laughed.

  Olivia laughed, too. “That’s so wrong.”

  Still smiling, Barry said, “I know.”

  “How bad are things now?”

  “I usually ask you these questions.”

  “I’m afraid to look,” said Olivia. “They aren’t numbers to me anymore. They’re real people—an unimaginable number of real people.”

  “Fifty-four percent.”

  “Dead?”

  “In the US,” said Barry. “We’ve lost fifty-four percent.”

  Olivia looked up at Barry. She didn’t know if her eyes were red from the long night or the tragic statistics. “Is it going to be just like Africa?”

  Shaking his head, Barry said, “Our infection rate is declining. Our mortality rate is declining.”

  “Because everybody’s dead?” Olivia tried to make a terrible joke of it, but what came out was a hideous sound that matched exactly the emotion she’d been trying to mask.