by Kyle Mills
The ground rose on either side as he ran, funneling him into an inky canyon with vine-covered walls. Despite the obvious terrain trap, he continued, savoring the burning in his legs, the stench of the battlefield, the intermittent gleam of Bahame’s blood. Finally, he forced himself to stop. As much as he didn’t want the intoxicating sensation of hunting Bahame to end, he also didn’t want to be dead. Not yet.
Howell grabbed a sturdy vine and went hand over hand up the slope, turning to move parallel to the deep furrow when he reached the top. Progress was slower than he hoped, but finally he spotted movement.
Unfortunately, the unreliable light made it impossible to discern what was causing it. He got to his knees and crawled forward, trying to clear his mind of the possibility that he was creeping up on an aardvark while Bahame disappeared into a thousand miles of jungle. It didn’t work, though, and he found himself going too fast, the sound of leaves brushing past him carrying into the air.
The crack of the gunshot was quickly followed by a searing pain in his shoulder. He dove behind a tree, his training demanding a strategic retreat to assess Bahame’s position and check the severity of his wound.
Instead, he broke cover, sprinting full bore in the direction the shot had come from. Another sounded but went wide as the person firing tried to run and shoot at the same time. A moment later the outline of his attacker became visible. Not another child. A full-grown man in fatigues. Bahame.
Howell barely noticed the bullets hissing past, a dangerous illusion of invincibility overtaking him as everything else faded away—the jungle, the explosions, the helicopters. And when it was all gone and only Bahame remained, he did seem strangely godlike. The last thing on earth.
They collided near the edge of the shallow ravine and fell into it, locked together as they tumbled through the vines. Bahame swung a knife and Howell was forced to drop his machete in order to deflect the blow. He went for the African’s eyes with his thumbs, but they hit the ground hard and were thrown apart.
Caught up in the emotions of finally having Bahame so close, Howell hadn’t pushed the air from his lungs before the impact and was now completely unable to breathe. Bahame had fared better and managed to stagger to his feet, but instead of finishing off his opponent, he went to the vines and started trying to climb out.
Howell was grateful that the men who had trained him weren’t there to see this pathetic display—the dazed African repeatedly climbing a few feet before sliding back to the ground, and him lying there gulping at the air like a dying fish.
He was getting a little more oxygen in with every breath, though, and his head finally cleared enough for him to crawl to the machete he’d dropped.
“Too… late, Caleb.”
Bahame looked back, losing his grip and slipping to the ground again. He didn’t try to run, instead just standing there dumbfounded that this could be happening to him—to a living god.
He ripped open his camouflage shirt and used one of the bones hanging around his neck to put a gash across his chest. His eyes rolled back in his head, the whites gleaming in the flickering light as he chanted in his native language.
“Are you summoning demons to strike me down?” Howell said, feeling his balance and strength return. He tested his right shoulder by lifting the machete over his head. Fully functional. Bahame’s bullet had only grazed him.
“I think I’m a little old to be afraid of the dark, Caleb.”
53
Washington, DC, USA
November 27—1706 Hours GMT–5
PRESIDENT SAM ADAMS CASTILLA pushed his titanium glasses up and swiped at his exhausted eyes. “I don’t even understand what you’re saying to me, Fred. That Larry Drake—who I’ve known for years—had one of his analysts killed?”
“Sam, we—”
“Wait, I’m not done. He had one of his analysts killed so that he can help Iran get hold of a horrifying biological weapon that they would then use against America?”
“That’s a little oversimplified,” Klein said.
He hated coming to his old friensd with something this speculative—the president of the United States had more than enough concrete disasters to deal with on any given day. At this point, though, the situation was too dangerous to ignore and impossible to pursue without Castilla’s direct involvement.
“What do you want me to do with this, Fred? Call the FBI director and tell him that a man who spent his entire life serving this country is actually some kind of radical Muslim mole? And then when he asks me for evidence—a murder weapon—I could pull out a spare rib that’s a week past its sell-by date?”
Castilla stood suddenly and began pacing back and forth across the Oval Office.
“Sam, are you all right?”
“Hell no, I’m not all right. If anyone but you came to me with this, I’d fire them and then have them committed. But you’re not just anyone and that means I actually have to take this seriously—I have to start worrying about the loyalty of the man running our intelligence network.”
“If it makes any difference, I doubt Larry’s a radical—at least not a Muslim one. And in his own way, I think he believes he’s still serving the country.”
“What in God’s name are you talking about, Fred? By letting what killed those soldiers loose in the streets?”
“He could be trying to force your hand on Iran.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What would you do if this did get out and he could prove the Iranian government was behind it?”
“I’d knock down everything in their country taller than a fire hydrant,” Castilla replied, slowing and finally coming to a stop. “You’re saying Drake is trying to manipulate me? Trying to get me to authorize a military strike?”
“Based on his feelings about the threat Iran poses, I think it’s worth considering.”
Still unable to bring himself to sit, Castilla went back to pacing, muttering unintelligibly.
“Sam?”
“Okay,” the president said. “Let’s say this is true—and I’m not convinced it is by a long shot—what do you propose we do about it? Drake has a lot of allies—hell, I’m one of them. And taking down a man who’s familiar with every skeleton America has in its closet isn’t exactly trivial.”
Klein nodded and reached for the steaming cup of tea on the table in front of him. “Not trivial at all. But we have someone I trust on the inside—”
“Randi Russell took you up on your offer.”
“Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. But I can tell you that she isn’t buying into Gazenga’s food poisoning and she’s never going to turn her back on Jon Smith.”
“Any word from him?”
Klein shook his head. “And I’m not hopeful there will be. The farm he visited has been burned to the ground and the Ugandan government seems to be bombing the area around his last known position. Reports are that they found Caleb Bahame’s camp.”
“If Bahame’s gone…”
“The threat from the parasite could be too,” Klein said. “But I wouldn’t count on it. It’s a little suspicious that after decades of searching, the Ugandans finally manage to find him this week. More likely the Iranians got what they were after and betrayed him.”
The strength seemed to drain from Castilla and he collapsed into a chair. “I assume you have a recommendation?”
“If Randi will agree to help, I think we have a chance of controlling Drake.”
“If you think he’s guilty, why not just take him down?”
“Because, frankly, I’m not sure I’m right. And because our problems with Drake—if they exist at all—are secondary.”
“The Iranians,” Castilla said, and Klein nodded.
“I’m in the process of inserting a backup team into Uganda, and I’m working through our contacts in Iran to see what we can find out there.”
Castilla leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. “So to sum up: you’re sending a second-string team to deal with somethi
ng that most likely killed your top operative and you’re trying to learn about a beyond top secret bioweapons program in a country where we can barely figure out what day they pick up the garbage.”
The image of Smith and Howell flashed across Klein’s mind, but he pushed it away. There would be time to mourn later. “And that’s what we need to talk about, Sam. Covert-One’s resources are limited, but yours aren’t. I need your authorization to bring more personnel in on this—CDC, USAMRIID, and some university people. Also, I think it’s time you start considering what we’re going to do in the very likely event that my people fail.”
“You’re talking about a military option.”
Again, Klein nodded. “We have to start preparing for that eventuality, and you need to decide what threshold of intel you need in order to head down that road.”
54
Northern Uganda
November 28—0143 Hours GMT+3
JON SMITH’S FOOT HOVERED over the brake for a moment and then slammed back down on the accelerator as he approached a washed-out section in the dirt road. It was a good ten feet wide, but the Land Cruiser lofted obediently into the air and landed on its reinforced suspension without so much as a creak.
It was impossible to know for certain which way Omidi had gone, but a good bet was toward Kampala, where he would find the modern airstrips necessary to bring in a jet. Another benefit of chasing in the direction of the city was that the wind was with him, carrying enough smoke to make the Land Cruiser invisible from the air for the first twenty miles. By the time Smith had broken out of the haze, he’d been well away from the area Sembutu’s forces were concentrating on.
He came around a bend, the halogen-loaded light bar making it possible to creep up to ninety on the straightaway that followed. Where was that Iranian bastard? Had he guessed wrong? Was there an airstrip to the north? Was Omidi planning on escaping by another means?
Thoughts of Sarie encroached on his mind, and he tried to limit them to the ramifications of letting her fall into Omidi’s hands. Soon, though, he found himself sinking into vague fantasies of a teaching job at the University of Cape Town. About Saturdays working on her old farmhouse followed by grilled kudu and beer with the neighbors. But most of all, about never again picking up the phone and hearing Fred Klein’s voice on the other end.
He shook his head violently. Where the hell had that come from? Concentrate!
He drifted the vehicle around another corner and leaned forward over the steering wheel, squinting at two pinpricks of red light barely visible ahead. When he made it to within two hundred yards of the beat-up military truck, its gentle sway turned violent and confirmed that it was the vehicle he was looking for. Omidi had spotted him and was making a run for it.
The road was far too narrow to pass, leaving few options. Ramming the back of the heavy vehicle seemed pointless—most likely it would just destroy the front of the Land Cruiser. Hanging a gun out the window and trying to aim with one hand seemed equally low percentage. And that left him with one last possibility that was only marginally better.
He selected the best maintained of the AK-47s he’d found on his way out of the jungle, set the cruise control, and stood up through the open sunroof.
Before he could line up on the left rear tire, though, the flap on the back of the truck was thrown open. His position wedged into the sunroof was surprisingly stable, and he swung the barrel in the direction of the movement, filling his sights with the battered, dirty form of Sarie van Keuren. She was on her knees and Dahab was behind her, a bandaged arm around her throat and a machine gun resting on a crate next to her.
The motion of the vehicles made it pointless to try anything more ambitious than going for Sarie’s center of mass and hoping the bullet passed through into the man holding her.
Smith hesitated for only a fraction of a second before tightening his finger on the trigger, but it was all the jihadist needed. He opened up on full automatic, punching through the Land Cruiser’s grille and then moving up to shatter the windshield.
Smith dropped back inside, letting the AK skitter across the roof and land in the road behind him. Rounds continued to hiss past as he grabbed the wheel, trying to get control. The tires on the passenger side dropped into a ditch, and he felt himself being thrown around the interior as the vehicle rolled.
A tree finally stopped it on its roof, Dahab’s bullets pummeling the underside in an attempt to ignite the gas tank. Fortunately, they bounced harmlessly off the protective plating that Sarie had been so impressed with, and soon the gun went silent.
Dazed, Smith managed to crawl through the broken passenger window and stagger into the road with one of the remaining AKs, but by that time, the truck had disappeared into the darkness.
55
Langley, Virginia, USA
November 27—1902 Hours GMT–5
RANDI RUSSELL SLID A half-eaten sandwich into the trash can next to her desk and looked around at the temporary office she’d been assigned. The only other things in it were a computer, the chair she was sitting in, and a framed poster by the door. It depicted four rowers in a boat, and the caption read “Teamwork.” Someone’s idea of a joke, no doubt.
What she really wanted at this moment was to be back in Afghanistan. To hear the wind against the cliffs, to see the shocking color of the poppy fields, to get swallowed up by the emptiness. She longed for the simplicity of knowing the Taliban would do everything in their power to kill her and that her men would do everything in their power to make sure that didn’t happen.
In many ways she’d spent her life trying to prolong the game of cops and robbers that she’d abandoned her dolls for as a child. Black hats. White hats. And a whole lot of guns.
But those days were gone. The grown-ups were playing now.
She’d spent the last two days using both legal and illegal means to dig into every aspect of Nathaniel Frederick Klein’s life. His work record was sterling, respect for him was almost universal, and even his enemies begrudgingly used words like “brilliant” and “patriot” to describe him. Still more interesting was that her vague memory of his personal relationship with President Castilla turned out to be right—they’d been friends since college.
The obvious implication was that Castilla was the “people high up in our government” Klein had referred to and the White House was behind Covert-One’s funding and power. But implications weren’t proof.
She’d contacted Marty Zellerbach because he was the first person she’d have gone to if someone had given her a copy of that Uganda video. The hunch had paid off and he’d shown her his analysis after making her swear that she wouldn’t tell anyone he’d kept a copy.
So everything Klein had said checked out. But did that mean he was on the up-and-up or just that he was as smart as everyone said he was? Could he be working as a private contractor? His modest lifestyle didn’t suggest a highest-bidder scenario, but that didn’t prove anything either. Even if he was raking in serious cash, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to make it obvious.
And finally, there was the irritatingly enigmatic Jon Smith. Klein knew the name would be a powerful motivator—both because of her desire to make sure he didn’t end up dead and because she would tend to give the benefit of the doubt to anyone he’d already vetted. But how could she be sure that Jon actually worked for Covert-One? Hell, for all she knew, he was working against the organization and Klein wanted to use her to track him down and get him to lower his guard.
The bottom line, though, was that Klein’s story wasn’t something she could turn her back on. If he was on the level and she didn’t help, countless people could die. On the other hand, if she let herself be played, even more people could die.
Randi sat in silence for a few more minutes, finally reaching for the phone and dialing Charles Mayfield, the CIA’s deputy director.
“Don’t tell me you’re backing out of lunch tomorrow,” he said by way of greeting.
They’d been friends for a long ti
me and Mayfield had always watched her back—even when it wasn’t in the best interest of his career. But how far was he willing to go?
“We need to talk, Chuck. Now.”
“I don’t like the sound of that. About what?”
She propped an elbow on the desk and rested her head in her hand. Good question.
56
Northern Uganda
November 28—0402 Hours GMT+3
PETER HOWELL SKIDDED THE stolen jeep to a stop and jumped out, running through the dust cloud he’d created to the Land Cruiser resting on its roof. The front and side, dimly lit by his one working headlight, were full of bullet holes and he hesitated before looking inside.
No blood to speak of and, thank God, no body. Just a couple of rusting AK-47s with missing clips.
He’d lost friends on ops before—in fact, Jon Smith was one of his last comrades in arms still aboveground. But the circumstances of the others’ deaths had been very different.
Now that the fog of vengeance had lifted, he could see clearly what he’d done. He’d jeopardized a mission that he’d given his word to carry out, he’d turned his back on the millions of people who could be victimized by the parasite, and, worst of all, he’d abandoned a man who wouldn’t have done the same to him.
Howell pulled back and searched for tracks, finally finding footprints in the dust at the edge of the road. He followed them for a few feet, seeing the stride lengthen. Smith was not only alive but in good enough condition to run. No thanks to him.
He jumped back into the idling jeep and floored it up the road. Its top speed wasn’t much more than forty—something he couldn’t confirm with any precision because there were only loose wires where the speedometer had once been. Fortunately, the one piece of electronics the vehicle’s late owner hadn’t pawned was the temperature gauge, and Howell managed his speed to keep it just below redline.
