by A. G. Riddle
“Maybe not while he was alive, but what… what if Chang had already killed Martin? You said he gave him a therapy on the plague barge. What if that therapy killed him, and Chang broke his neck after the fact to hide it?”
“We can’t test that theory. There’s no way to do an autopsy here. Kamau is a better suspect. He’s a trained killer.”
“So am I. So is Shaw.”
“You haven’t mentioned Janus.”
“I just… don’t think it’s him. I don’t know why.”
“Shaw saved my life in Marbella,” Kate said.
“That could have been his mission—”
“That is his mission—”
“His Immari mission,” David said. “There’s another motive. Forget the cure. What if Martin knew who the SAS operatives were, and he knew that Shaw wasn’t one of them?”
David’s words silenced Kate.
“You said Shaw sure knew his way around that Immari camp.”
“From the sounds of it, you got up to speed pretty quickly too.”
David shook his head. “Touché.”
There was something Kate wanted to say before the discussion, or argument, or whatever it had become, went any further. “Look, I don’t know who killed Martin or what we should do. But I know this: whatever you decide, I will go along with it.”
David kissed her burning forehead. “That’s all I need.”
Everyone was assembled on the yacht’s upper deck. David handed Kamau an automatic rifle and a sidearm. A matching automatic rifle hung from David’s shoulder.
Shaw looked from David to Kamau. “You’re not arming me—”
“Shut up,” David said. “We’ll arrive at Isla de Alborán in twenty-five minutes. This is what we’re going to do.”
When David had finished relating his plan, Shaw shook his head. “You’ll get us all killed. Kate—”
“This is what we’re doing,” she said flatly.
In the ship’s cockpit, David nodded to Kamau, who then activated the radio. “To the outpost at Isla de Alborán, we are Immari officers, survivors from the battle of Ceuta. We request permission to dock.”
The outpost responded, asking for Kamau’s rank and Immari officer code. He called it out quickly and calmly, his back to David.
“They’ve cleared us to dock,” Kamau said.
“Good. Let’s proceed.”
73
Isla de Alborán
David adjusted the binoculars. From the ship’s cockpit, Isla de Alborán was coming into view. The rising sun illuminated the tiny rock platform that rose out of the Mediterranean. It was smaller than a city block. At the far end, stood a simple two-story stone and concrete building. It looked almost like a medieval jail. A lighthouse rose at the center, looming over the plain building.
On the other end of the island, the helipad held three helicopters that waited silently.
A dock spread out at the base of the twenty-foot-high cliff where the stone island met the sea. David adjusted the boat’s course for the dock.
“Do they usually keep a complement of three Eurocopter X3s?”
Kamau shook his head. “No. Usually only one. They have received reinforcements. They could be from the primary Immari fleet or the invasion force in southern Spain.”
David considered the development. Each helicopter could carry a dozen people. There could be over forty armed soldiers in the building, waiting to attack. Too many.
He made a mental adjustment to his plan.
Kamau tied the boat off at the dock and began climbing the staircase that led out of the cliff, up to the surface.
There had been no soldiers on the dock, and at the top of the stairs, he stopped, surveying the bare rock-and-sand landscape that spread out before him. There were no soldiers here either, just dust blowing in the wind. The lighthouse waited fifty yards ahead. The tower cut a dark shadow out of the rising sun, like a pathway of darkness leading into the unknown.
Kamau stepped out of the shadow. He wanted them to see that he was unarmed—that might save his life. He held his hands out at his sides.
Approaching an armed installation without a single weapon made him uneasy, but there were no alternatives.
A shot rang out and dust flew up from the ground three feet beside him.
Kamau stopped and raised his hands.
On the roof of the building, three snipers emerged.
Seven soldiers ran out of the building and surrounded Kamau.
“Identify yourself!” one of the soldiers barked.
Kamau kept his hands up and his voice calm. “I take it you received my message. You need to arm me, and we need to storm the boat now. They’re onto me.”
The soldier hesitated. “How many on the boat?”
“Two soldiers, well armed and well trained. They’re on the upper deck, waiting for me to return. Three scientists belowdecks, each locked in a separate cabin. Unarmed. The female is the package. We need her unharmed.”
The Immari soldier spoke into his radio, and three more soldiers exited the building and joined the seven standing around Kamau.
“You need to arm me—”
“Shut up. Stay here,” the soldier said. “We’ll sort you out after.” He motioned for his men to follow him. He set off with seven of them, leaving two to guard Kamau. There were only two men on the roof now; one of the snipers must have joined the raiding party.
Kamau stood there, his hands still slightly raised, and watched as the troops reached the end of the rock platform, stormed the stairs, and descended toward the dock below.
He focused intently on the boat.
Five seconds, ten seconds, fifteen seconds, twenty—
A massive explosion erupted from the dock, sending a wave of fire up the rock cliff. The blow sent Kamau and the two soldiers beside him to the ground. He rolled and punched the closest one, knocking him out. The other was on his knees now, and Kamau lunged for him. The man tried to land a blow, but Kamau pulled him in close. He slammed the man’s head into the ground and felt his body go limp.
Without looking up, he grabbed a grenade from the man’s side and hurled it onto the top of the building, hoping to take out the snipers before they regained their positions. He took another and lobbed it onto the roof—in case he had missed. The two explosions rang out just as Kamau threw a third grenade through a plate glass window on the building’s first floor.
He grabbed the soldier’s automatic rifle and barreled toward the building. He had to make it to the building, get to cover beside the window. If the grenade exploded before then, it would spray shards of glass and debris, shredding him.
David pumped his legs faster. The fins propelled him through the water, and he couldn’t help but take in the reefs surrounding Isla de Alborán. Under different circumstances, he could spend days diving here, taking it all in. But he had to hurry. He pushed on. He tried to form a map in his mind, tried to estimate how far he’d gone. If he came up too soon, near the outpost building, the snipers on the roof could easily pick him off.
Finally, he decided to emerge from the water. He quickly shed the tank and scuba gear. He was unarmed, save for his knife.
He walked to the face of the rock cliff and waited. He wanted to look over, to see how close he had gotten to the helicopters, but he didn’t dare risk it.
He waited.
The booms of the explosions echoed. David instantly sprang into action. He pulled himself up onto the flat dusty platform and ran full-on for the helicopters. They were at least sixty yards away.
From the outpost, he heard two more explosions.
Kate adjusted her grip on the gun. She felt so awkward holding it. The tiny life raft bobbed wildly in the sea.
“For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry about this, guys.”
“I understand completely,” Dr. Janus said.
“I concur,” Dr. Chang agreed. “This was truly the only course.”
Shaw muttered under his breath. Curse words were the
only phrases Kate could discern, and she thought she was probably glad she didn’t hear what he’d said.
In the distance, an explosion rocked the tiny island, and Kate watched pieces of the one-hundred-thirty foot yacht rain down onto the Mediterranean.
To her surprise, she felt a sense of loss as she watched the ship burst into flames. For all the stress and worry during the ship’s voyage, she had treasured her time belowdecks with David. She wondered what the future held.
David had almost reached the three helicopters when he saw Kamau emerge on top of the building.
David stopped in his tracks, turned to the building, and waited.
Kamau shouldered a sniper rifle, pointed it at David and the helicopters, and swept left to right several times.
He relaxed his grip on the rifle and signaled to David: all clear.
David hadn’t expected that. He assumed there would be at least one soldier guarding the helicopters. Sloane wouldn’t have left the helicopters unguarded. He wasn’t there—David was sure of that now.
The base commander had put all his resources into taking the boat. Or…
David reached the first helicopter, quickly looked inside, then darted between the others. All empty. Kamau was right: there was no one here.
Why? Had they booby-trapped the helicopters? David needed to find out which one had the most fuel. He approached the door of the closest helicopter and looked in. There was no trip wire. He gripped the handle and began to turn it.
Kamau raced through the building, searching for spare fuel tanks. He found them in a first-floor storage room. He grabbed two of them and exited the building. David was there waiting for him.
“Any sign of Sloane?”
Kamau shook his head.
“This must be an advance team—a test to see if the rail guns would shoot them down. Sloane would never risk his life. We should hurry; he can’t be far behind.” David considered something. “Did you see any explosives inside?”
“Yes.”
“Bring them. Let’s leave a surprise for Sloane.”
Five minutes later, David sat in the helicopter, calmly watching the ground of Isla de Alborán float away. The view changed to open sea, and Kamau adjusted the helicopter’s path. The life raft that held Kate and the three men had drifted a bit, but it was still easy to find.
They followed the protocol David had laid out on the yacht: Kate and the bag with the guns and computer equipment came up first, followed by Janus, Chang, and Shaw—in that order.
When everyone was aboard, Kamau spoke over the radio in David’s helmet. “Where to?”
In truth, David had no idea. But… they couldn’t go north toward Spain, or south toward Morocco, or west to the Atlantic. “East. Stay low.”
74
Isla de Alborán
Dorian saw the two thick columns of smoke long before the tiny island of Isla de Alborán came into view.
The pilot stopped Dorian’s lead helicopter to hover a half kilometer from the island, allowing everyone in the three-helicopter convoy to survey the outpost.
A massive yacht burned at the dock. A stone and concrete two-story building with an attached lighthouse also burned violently. Dorian hadn’t missed them by much. Maybe an hour.
“Sir,” the pilot said, “it looks like we missed the party.”
The man was clearly suffering from “compulsive state-the-obvious syndrome”—a situation Dorian felt had grown to epidemic proportions among the men surrounding him.
“Very perceptive. You should have been an analyst,” Dorian mumbled, pondering what to do.
“Bravo-leader, this is Bravo-three. Our fuel is down to forty percent. Request permission to put down and acquire fuel—”
“Negative, Bravo-three,” Dorian barked into the helmet.
“Sir?” The pilot in his own helicopter turned to face him. “We’re at less than fifty percent as well—”
“Bravo formation: maintain your distance from the outpost. Bravo-three, light up the closest helicopter.”
The adjacent helicopter launched a missile that decimated one of the two remaining helicopters on the island’s helipad. A split second after the impact, a second, more violent eruption spewed from the island.
“They booby-trapped the helicopters?” the pilot said.
“Yes. Hit the other one too,” Dorian said. “What’s our closest fuel source?”
“Marbella or Grenada. The invasion force reports both areas are secured—”
“They’re going east.”
“How do you—”
“Because they know we’re behind them, and they have nowhere else to go.” Dorian focused on Kosta, his assistant, who sat across from him. “Do we have a plague barge in the area—to the east?”
Kosta typed feverishly on his laptop. “Yes but it’s almost to port in Cartagena.”
“Turn it around. Tell them to head south on an intercept course with us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any word from him?” Dorian asked. The last message had said Isla de Alborán. Hurry. Was he in danger?
“No, sir.” Kosta glanced out the window, down at the burning island. “He could be KIA—”
“Don’t ever say that to me, Kosta.”
Dr. Paul Brenner was sleeping on the couch in his office when the door burst open, slamming into the wall, practically scaring him to death.
Paul pushed up from the couch and fumbled for his glasses on the coffee table. He was groggy, disoriented. The hours of sleep were the best he had had in… quite some time.
“What—”
“You need to see this, sir.” The lab tech’s voice was shaky.
Excitement? Fear? By the time Paul got his glasses on, the man had fled the room.
Paul raced after him, down the hall of the CDC command center, to the infirmary. Rows of beds surrounded by plastic tents spread out before him. Paul could see only blurry glimpses of what lay inside. What he didn’t see scared him most. No motion, no lights, no rhythmic “beep, beep, beep.”
He walked deeper into the room. He pulled the plastic back at the closest bed. The cardiac monitor was silent, dead, turned off. The patient that lay below it was still. Blood flowed from her mouth, staining the white sheets.
Paul slowly walked over to his sister’s bed. The same.
“Survival rate?” he asked the technician in a lifeless tone.
“Zero percent.”
Paul trudged out of the wing, dreading every step, forcing himself to go on. He was hollow, truly hopeless, for the first time since the outbreak had begun, since Martin Grey had invited him to Geneva twenty years ago and told him that he needed his help with a project that could save humanity in its darkest hour.
At the Orchid Ops room, the glass doors parted again. The screens that had displayed the Symphony algorithm result a few hours earlier had been replaced with a map of the world. It bled red with the casualty statistics from around the globe.
The faces around the room reflected the quiet horror of the image on the screen. Solemn stares greeted Paul as he stepped inside. There were fewer faces peering at him than there had been. Some members of the team were plague survivors, immune, just as Paul was. But for most, Orchid was their key to survival, and it had finally failed them. Those team members were in the infirmary. Or the morgue.
The remaining men and women, who usually hovered around the tables pacing and arguing, all sat silently now, dark black bags under their eyes. Full Styrofoam cups of coffee littered the tables.
The team leader stood and cleared his throat. He began speaking as Paul advanced into the room, but Paul didn’t hear a word. He focused on the map, as if in a trance, as if it were drawing him in.
Boston Orchid District: 22% of total population confirmed dead.
Chicago Orchid District: 18% of total population confirmed dead.
He scanned the statistics.
In the Mediterranean, just south of Italy, a single island glowed green, like a single pixel
that had burned out or malfunctioned.
Paul pressed the interactive screen, and the map zoomed.
Malta
Valletta Orchid District: 0% confirmed dead.
Victoria Orchid District: 0% confirmed dead.
“What is this?” Paul asked.
“A ruse,” one of the analysts shouted.
“We don’t know that!” another put in.
The standing team leader held his hands up. “We’re getting mounting casualty reports around the world, sir.”
“Malta hasn’t reported?” Paul asked.
“No. They have. They report no casualties.”
Another analyst spoke up. “The Knights of Malta have issued a statement saying they ‘provide shelter, care, and solace in this dark time of crisis and war as they have before.’”
Paul glanced back at the map, unsure what to say.
“We think,” the team leader began, “that they’re simply trying to perpetuate the myth of the Knights Hospitaller, or worse, to attract any able-bodied individuals to help them hold the island.”
“Interesting…” Paul mumbled.
“Everyone else is reporting anywhere from fifteen to thirty percent casualty rates at this point. We think the numbers in some places are a little off. The Vatican Orchid District is claiming twelve percent; Shanghai-Alpha District is thirty-four percent, while Shanghai-Beta is roughly half that…”
Paul wandered toward the door, his mind racing.
“Sir? Is there another therapy?”
Paul turned to the analyst. He wondered if the White House had put a man on the team, someone who could report back to his superiors with a firm up or down on the latest treatment, an informant that could tell Washington whether to proceed with the takeover of Continuity and then the Euthanasia Protocol.
