State of Emergency jq-3

by Marc Cameron

  He stopped, turning to catch his breath.

  “My mother used to read me the Bible when I was a child. I was particularly fond of the Old Testament because it contained wonderful stories of violent men.” His eyes gleamed with the memory. “Do you know of David and Saul?”

  Nazif nodded. “Of course. The writings of Moses and David were once pure, but corrupted by men.”

  “Ah, I see,” the Colombian said. “Well, they say Saul killed his thousands and David his ten thousands. Unlike Saul, I am happy with my thousands. I find the reputation of a narcotics dealer makes me less of a target for government manhunts than that of a terrorist.” He pointed the tip of his machete at the footlocker. A sinister smile crept slowly across his face. “Though I must admit, it does not displease me that you plan to use this to kill your ten thousands. Despair, after all, turns out to be very good for business.”

  “Oh,” Nazif said. “There will be plenty of despair. I can assure you.”

  Borregos turned and nodded at the lead man, who began to hack away at the wall of jungle before them. The lush rainforest had all but obliterated the vague trail, but thanks to the swinging machetes, they moved quickly, stepping over mossy deadfall and skirting stands of bamboo packed as tight as the bars of a prison.

  The leader stopped abruptly by a moss-covered log. Resting on the jungle floor, it was even with the man’s waist. He stooped to study something on the ground. Bin Ali, the youngest of Nazif’s men at twenty-three, moved up the trail to investigate. His white shirt was stained as if he’d been wearing it for months. His machete hung limply at his side as he stooped in the green gloom to study the five-inch track of a jaguar pressed deep in the jungle floor beside a steaming pile of scat.

  “Relax,” Borregos roared with a great belly laugh. “Jaguars rarely develop a taste for human flesh. On the other hand, there are dozens of venomous snakes and spiders that will kill you very dead.”

  Branches snapped and groaned in the gloom behind them, causing the entire group to spin, searching their back trail.

  “Probably a tapir,” Borregos chuckled. “Fleeing the scent of the cat.”

  “Maybe.” Nazif nodded. Fear was contagious, especially when a bomb worth nearly a half a billion dollars was at stake. “Or perhaps someone is following us. We should pick up our speed.”

  The Colombian scratched the back of his neck with the dull side of his machete, thinking. “Our load is heavy and the jungle is full of surprises to trip us up if we do not move carefully.” He pulled a length of twine from his pocket, then plucked a M67 hand grenade, green and roughly the size of a baseball, from a camouflage pouch on his belt. “We could go faster — or we could leave behind us a nasty surprise.”

  CHAPTER 64

  Quinn’s survival instructors had called it “Jungle Eye”—the ability to see the various details of the undergrowth and pick out a safe trail without being overwhelmed by the dense tangle of it all. It was much like the Magic Eye books Mattie liked so much. If he stared at it too hard, the way before melted into a glob of shadowed green.

  They’d been moving through the gloom of thick undergrowth for over two hours, following fresh tracks and cut vegetation. Any actual hacking with Severance might have alerted Borregos of their presence, so Quinn used the blade for little more than pushing aside vines and limbs. He’d given Aleksandra a broken length of oar from the boat so she could do the same and keep from coming into contact with the many ants and stinging insects that used the jungle plants as a highway.

  “I hate snakes,” she said from a few paces behind him. “I wish to shoot every one I see in the face.”

  “We don’t have snakes in Alaska,” Quinn said.

  “I would very much like to visit Alaska,” Aleksandra said.

  “You would love—”

  A gossamer tug along the front of his khakis, just above his ankle, caused Quinn to freeze in his tracks.

  Aleksandra sensed his change in mood and stood still as well.

  “What?” she said. “A snake?”

  Quinn shook his head. Backing up slowly, he used Severance to point at a length of green parachute cord, almost invisible in the gathering darkness. Tied to a gnarled root, it ran directly across the scuffed path to disappear into a cut piece of bamboo the diameter of his forearm. Quinn took a small LED flashlight and shined it into the open end of the bamboo.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “A half step more and I’d have pulled this out of its tube right at our feet.”

  Aleksandra started to move up next to him, but he raised his hand. “See one, think two,” he said, scanning the jungle for signs of anything out of the norm. Straight lines in particular were rarely found in nature.

  “Ahh,” he said at length. He held his hand out behind him. “Can I borrow your oar?”

  She handed it forward.

  “Think two,” he said again before tossing the short piece of wood at a second hidden tripwire.

  The foliage to the right of the trail gave a sudden whoosh as a thick piece of bamboo sprang horizontally at chest height directly across the trial. Five sharpened spikes of smaller bamboo had been lashed to it — a whip stick. Quinn had heard his father and uncles talk about such booby traps from Vietnam. He’d never seen one himself, but had long since stopped being surprised at the various methods men could devise to maim and kill other men. In fact, he marveled at the simplicity of both the traps.

  “I doubt they took the time to set any more,” he said, moving slowly up the trail. “Still, it will be night soon and we can’t move safely in the dark. If a booby trap doesn’t kill us some venomous spider likely will… ”

  Aleksandra swatted a mosquito on her forehead, looking uncomfortably at the surrounding jungle. She pointed in disgust at the forest floor that seemed to roil beneath their feet with ants and other roving insects. “I’d rather take my chances than stay out here. We’ll be eaten alive if we sit down to rest.”

  Quinn smiled. “I grew up in the mountains,” he said. “But I’ve watched my share of jungle movies. Can’t do anything about the mosquitos, but I think I may have a solution to get us off the ground.”

  * * *

  Aleksandra stood on the trail behind Quinn, watching him through a buzzing cloud of mosquitos in the gathering gloom. He’d turned his head to listen, standing motionless amid fronds of elephant ear and giant fern. A dark line of sweat ran down the spine of his shirt, which hung untucked at his waist.

  “They’re far enough ahead we can’t hear them,” he said, studying a thick stand of bamboo that stood like a green fence off the path to his right. “That’s good, because they won’t hear us either.”

  He picked a fat stalk of bamboo roughly four inches in diameter and well over twelve feet tall. Two quick blows with his curved blade felled it neatly a few inches above the ground. Aleksandra marveled at how fluidly he moved, as if he chopped bamboo as an occupation and the steaming heat of the jungle was his home. He stopped every few seconds to listen. She imagined he had the ability to filter the natural noises of the rain forest, coaxing out any made by man — like the ping of a machete against wood.

  “Bring the water bottle,” he said, dragging the length of bamboo to rest the cut end in the crook of a low sapling that stood even with his belt. He’d retrieved the piece of wooden oar and, using it as a baton to pound on Severance’s hilt, punched a square hole just above the last node ring. He rolled the bamboo and clean water poured from the hollow core.

  “Interesting,” she said, filling the bottle.

  “They don’t all have water in them,” Quinn said. “But there’s a good chance we’ll find enough to keep us alive without getting some parasite from the river.”

  Once they’d drained all the water, he punched another square hole opposite the first. Through this, he shoved a sturdy piece of vine to form a short-topped T. He repeated the process at the other end, wedging the entire length between two trees so it ran parallel to the ground. He wiped the sweat fr
om his face with the sleeve of his shirt and looked up.

  “What do you think?”

  Before she could answer, a wide grin spread across his face. “I know, it’s still a little narrow for the two of us. But just watch.”

  Using the parachute cord from the two booby traps, he took half a dozen turns around each end of the bamboo trunk. Then, using the oar as a baton again, he drove the point of his blade completely through the trunk so it came out the bottom side. Tapping on the spine of the blade, he split the stem from one end to the other, stopping just before he reached the last reinforced ring and wraps of parachute cord. He repeated the process over and over until he had the entire length of the bamboo split into one-inch shreds down the center but still intact at both ends. He spread the pieces with both hands and, as if by magic, they fanned open to form a sort of hammock.

  The last blue hints of light faded and the jungle closed in around them by the time Quinn wedged the ends of the makeshift bed into the crooks of two sturdy trees three feet off the wriggling ground.

  Quinn lay down first, testing it slowly with his full weight. Satisfied, he situated himself diagonally, then motioned for Aleksandra to climb in beside him.

  “It won’t do anything against bloodsucking bats,” he said, one arm outstretched, presumably for her to use as a pillow, the other thrown over his forehead. “But it’ll keep us off the ground.”

  Aleksandra settled in next to him, choosing the sticky heat of his closeness over the open vulnerability of rolling away. The smells of La Paz, the Altiplano, and the high mountains of the cloud forest still lingered next to his skin. She marveled at how far they’d come in two days.

  Each was silent for a time, moving this way and that, nestling their way into the best sleeping position they could find. Both were completely exhausted, but the urgency of their mission kept them on edge, fighting back against sleep.

  “You are in love then?” Aleksandra said at length, seeing no reason not to be forward since she was sharing a bed and would, in all likelihood, die with this dark man. They’d raced, ridden, fought, and killed together. Apart from Mikhail, she would have long since slept with any other man she’d known under such stressful circumstances. It was the way of things, her method of forgetting her own mortality. But this one, he had a wall.

  Quinn raised his arm as if to study her.

  “I am,” he said.

  “But for some reason, you struggle with it?”

  He shrugged, saying nothing.

  She turned slightly, feeling the bamboo slats creak beneath her. Her face was just inches from his. “You are in love enough that you have me here, alone, and do not even make a flirtation.”

  Quinn chuckled. “Our bed isn’t strong enough for that sort of thing. Anyway, ‘making flirtations’ is more Bo’s department.”

  “I’m sorry about him,” Aleksandra offered, snuggling closer, drawing on the comfort of muscle and strength of bone.

  “He’s too tough to die,” Quinn said, a catch of worry in his voice. “If he was here, I’m sure he’d be flirting, bullet wound or not.”

  “You are a b’elaya vorona, Jericho Quinn,” she whispered.

  “What’s that?”

  “A white crow,” she said. “In Russian it would be like your black sheep — one who stands apart from the rest. Some say a white crow is bad, but I believe it is a good thing to stand apart.”

  For a short moment Aleksandra allowed herself to be comfortable. The shriek of a monkey somewhere deep in the blackness of the jungle reminded her that comfort was a fleeting thing. Baba Yaga, the Bone Mother, was out there, nearby. She could feel it in her teeth. And they shared a secret she could no longer hold inside.

  “I should have told you this before,” she said before Quinn had a chance to doze. “Please understand, I could be executed for divulging such information.”

  “Okay…” Quinn’s voice was muffled against his arm.

  “Do you remember the second North Korean nuclear test in 2009?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  Aleksandra took a deep breath, and then plowed ahead. If she could not trust this man, she could trust no one.

  “The arming unit on that device was an older Soviet model. Thought to be much the same as the one used on Baba Yaga.” She raised her head, her face close enough to smell the sweet odor of cunape on his breath. “The North Korean detonation wasn’t a test at all. It was an accident.”

  “You’re saying the bomb detonated on its own?” Quinn was now wide awake.

  “Not quite,” she said. “The Korean bomb was indeed armed, as part of a testing procedure, but there was no delay with this particular detonation. We believe the Bone Mother will malfunction the same way. There will be no final countdown, no last-second clipping of the red wire to save the world. The moment the arming sequence is entered into the Permissive Access Lock, the Baba Yaga will detonate with immediate effect… ”

  DETONATION

  A zest for living must include a willingness to die.

  — ROBERT A. HEINLEIN

  CHAPTER 65

  January 11

  0625 Hours

  Quinn lay flat on his belly in the shadowy haze of a jungle morning. He ignored a beetle half the size of his hand that scuttled through the dead leaves in front of him. They’d risen well before dawn, braving possible booby traps and venomous creatures, knowing Borregos would want a pickup as close to daybreak as possible. Clouds of steamy fog hung here and there among the various layers of canopy. Two troops of monkeys, apparently angry at the intruding airplane, screamed from opposite ends of a grass runway. Night birds gave their last few shrieks before sunup. Egrets and other early birds squawked and flitted in the branches.

  Aleksandra lay beside him, green eyes burning a hole in the foliage. Dense cover had allowed them to get within a few meters of a wooden supply shack off the side of the dirt runway hacked out of the jungle.

  His initial assessment of eight men looked correct. Borregos stood at the aft of a Cessna Caravan supervising two younger men as they struggled to get a long green footlocker into the swinging cargo door. An older man, bald and much thinner than the drug lord, stood at the tail of the plane.

  “The Bone Mother,” Aleksandra whispered. “We cannot let them leave.”

  “I don’t intend to,” Quinn said, eyes darting around the narrow clearing.

  The professor’s face was visible leaning against a forward window in the aircraft. Apart from the four at the aircraft, four more of Borregos’s men stood guard, each taking a corner and facing outbound into the jungle. The one nearest Quinn was less than thirty meters away, to his right. A Kalashnikov clutched in his hand, he looked capable enough, peering into the wall of foliage in front of him. He wore sunglasses, so it was difficult to see which way he was looking. On his belt was a Glock pistol with a set of extra magazines, much like a police officer would wear on duty. A rectangular pouch on his left hip, opposite his pistol, held extra magazines for the rifle. The long sleeves of his camouflage uniform blouse were rolled neatly over muscled forearms.

  Quinn took a quick moment to study the other three. All were similarly armed; two looked much younger and one had a full beard with black hair that stuck out from under a green Castro-style cap. None were as squared-away as the professional soldier to Quinn’s right. This one was the type to clean his weapon every night and practice weekly because he enjoyed the smell of gunfire.

  Quinn didn’t want a man like this shooting at him while he worked and the only way to see that didn’t happen was to take him out at the beginning.

  He cocked his head toward Aleksandra, keeping his eye on the soldier. “Five rounds against a squad of eight well-armed men,” he said. “I’ll need two for what I have in mind. You take the other three along with this.” He gingerly slid the grenade from the booby trap out of the length of bamboo, keeping his hand around the compressed spoon. “We need to get this under the plane. I’ll get into place and cover you. You count t
o sixty and start shoot—”

  The Caravan’s single Pratt & Whitney engine began to whine to life, the prop slowly catching up to the spinning turbine until whirred contentedly.

  “Better make that twenty,” Quinn said, already scuttling backwards.

  Her mouth hung open. “You only have two bullets.”

  “And I hope that’s one more than I need.”

  * * *

  Quinn moved quickly through the brush, thankful now for the rising whine of the aircraft engine. The three other guards looked back and forth at each other in the orange light, eager to give up their posts and make a run for the plane. But the professional soldier stood fast, manning his station until properly relieved.

  In order for this to work Quinn needed the soldier DRT — dead right there. He’d seen too many fighters on both sides of a battle absorb a great deal of lead only to keep fighting long past the time they should go down. He needed a target that would ensure that didn’t happen.

  The moment Aleksandra fired her first shot Quinn rose up from the vines and bushes, approaching from the side, moving obliquely. The soldier spun toward the racket, bringing his rifle to bear and firing as Quinn moved up behind him less than five yards away.

  Intent on firing his weapon at the threat to the aircraft, the soldier never heard the real danger padding up behind him. Ten feet out, Quinn let the front sight of his pistol float over a spot at the base of the man’s skull. He squeezed the trigger twice, using both rounds.

  Borregos’s soldier fell in the peculiar corkscrew motion of someone shot in the brainstem, one leg folding before the other did. Quinn dropped the empty 1911 and was on him before he hit the ground. He scooped up the rifle and let the soldier fall away, leaving himself clear to engage the other guards. He was relieved to see one of Aleksandra’s shots drop the guard with the beard and Fidel Castro hat.