Z: The Final Countdown

by Bob Mayer

  “Do you think the U.S. government could really be behind this?” Conner asked, turning to Kieling.

  “No,” he answered.

  “Why?” Conner asked.

  “Maybe the government is capable of doing such a thing, but I’d know if they did this specific thing,” he said. “There aren’t that many people in the field of epidemiology back in the States—I’d know if someone in the U.S. did this,” he repeated.

  Conner turned to Riley. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t think our government did it. Not because I know anything about the manufacture of something like it, but because it serves no purpose letting it loose here, especially in the middle of this deployment.”

  “How about the rebels?” Conner asked. “Could Savimbi have gotten ahold of some biological weapon and unleashed it? Maybe from the Russians?”

  Kieling considered that. “Maybe, but I doubt it. It’s killing more Angolans than anyone else.”

  “UNITA would have let it loose in Luanda,” Riley noted, “if they wanted to have maximum effect. Not out in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of their own terrain.”

  “It’s not the middle of nowhere,” Conner corrected him. “It’s the middle of one of the largest diamond-mining areas in the world.”

  “And?” Kieling said.

  “And...” Conner bit her lip. “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Wait a second,” Riley said. “There’s something in here.” He grabbed the intelligence summary. He flipped through. “Yeah, here it is. NSA picked up some SATCOM transmissions out of the Lunda Norte region. Top-of-the-line stuff, but it wasn’t ours. And it wasn’t the rebels’. The communication was going out of the country.”

  Riley scattered the photos and uncovered the map underneath. “There’s someone out there. Transmitting and getting messages back.”

  “So what?” Kieling said.

  “Wait a second.” Riley tapped his forehead, trying to conjure up a memory through the throb of pain. There’s something else.” He ran his finger down the page, then the next. “Yeah, here it is. Earlier today at zero seven thirty Zulu time someone piggybacked a GPS—ground-positioning-satellite—signal.”

  “And?” Kieling asked.

  “And someone has to have very good gear to do that and,” Riley continued, looking at the report, “the NSA analyst thinks that the whole thing was designed for whoever broadcast the first signal to find something on the return piggyback.”

  “Find what?” Conner asked.

  “Something out there,” Riley said, tapping the map. The three of them sat silent for a little while, considering the information.

  “You mentioned top-of-the-line equipment,” Conner said.

  “Yeah,” Riley said.

  “That takes money. And this”—she pointed at the area Riley had indicated on the map—“is the center of the diamond area.”

  “What the hell are you two talking about?” Kieling demanded.

  “Just listen to me,” Conner said. “I know it doesn’t make much sense, but none of this does. I never told you one of the main reasons I went along with your idea about coming out to this area, Dave.”

  Kieling rubbed his forehead. “Are we going to play true confession all night?”

  “Got something better to do?” Conner countered. “Can you come up with a cure for this thing in the next couple of days?”

  “Hell, I don’t even know what this thing is,” Kieling admitted. He threw a hand up in the air and settled back on his seat. “Go ahead.”

  “Has either of you ever heard of the Van Wyks cartel?”

  “Yeah,” Riley said. “They’re a diamond cartel.”

  “The diamond cartel,” Conner corrected. “The one and only.”

  “What does—” Kieling began, but halted at Conner’s glare.

  “Let’s put one and one together and come up with two,” Conner said. “Dave says that these transmissions are from expensive equipment. They’re being made in the region of Angola known for its diamond mines. To me that adds up to the Van Wyks cartel.”

  Despite the situation, Riley had to smile. He’d seen Conner in this mode before. When she investigated a subject, she left no stone unturned and she committed facts, and rumors, to memory, to be plucked out when required. Of course, Riley noted—as Conner flipped open the lid—she also had her laptop with the information the researchers in the SNN data bank dredged up for her.

  “Okay, so maybe it is the Van Wyks,” Riley said. “Tell me more about them.”

  “The Van Wyks empire makes OPEC look like a misguided and inept baby, yet it’s managed to stay out of public scrutiny for more than a century. The history of the Van Wyks really starts in 1867, when a boy discovered a diamond on the bank of the Orange River in South Africa. That began the African version of the great gold rush.

  “And one fact that is very rarely mentioned is that the battles between the British and the Afrikaners over the next several decades, and the Boer War, had as much to do with control of this wealth as political freedom. Keep in mind, as I tell you this history, the number of people who have died over the past hundred and thirty years in this area, and then think about the present situation.

  “Pieter Van Wyks the First, the patriarch of the Van Wyks family, was the first person who understood the new development clearly. During the last decades of the nineteenth century, pretty much the only source of diamonds was South Africa. Van Wyks gobbled up all the mines. Some he bought legally, others he just took when the owners wouldn’t sell. Apartheid, besides being a racial instrument, also needs to be looked at through the lens of supplying workers to mines—both diamond and gold.”

  Conner had been working her computer while speaking. She looked down. “The Big Hole at Kimberly, one of the most infamous diamond mines, was the largest man-made excavation in the world—covering over twelve acres and going two hundred and thirty feet deep. It took almost four thousand workers to keep it going. And you don’t have a hefty overhead eating into your profit if you don’t have to pay all those workers. But the most amazing thing Van Wyks did was invent a market that his family has never relinquished.”

  “Invent?” Riley asked.

  “If the Van Wyks cartel did not control eighty percent of the world’s diamond market and fix the price by regulating supply, diamonds would probably cost one fifth what they currently do,” Conner said.

  “I thought that diamonds were rare,” Kieling said, “and that’s why they cost so much.”

  “Certainly diamonds aren’t plentiful,” Conner said, “but they aren’t that rare. If you controlled eighty percent of the supply of anything, you could control the price on the international market. Particularly if you’d been doing so for over a century.

  “This is an organization that doesn’t care about borders or the international situation. It cares only about profit and propagating itself. Estimated sales of Van Wyks’s diamonds last year was three point two billion in U.S. dollars. It controls, at least as far has been uncovered so far, at least six hundred various corporations and employs almost a million people around the world.”

  “Jesus,” Kieling muttered. “That’s bigger than many countries.”

  “And the Van Wyks don’t like competition,” Conner added. “Here in Angola—since it concerns our present situation—it’s estimated that they’ve spent fifty million dollars a year buying black market diamonds to keep them from hitting the outside world. It is also claimed that they hire mercenaries to try and block UNITA from getting the diamonds across the border to Zaire, paying a bounty for every dead rebel.”

  “Maybe these transmissions are coming from one of those mercenary groups,” Riley said. “I talked to some people in the know before we came over here, and the word on the international merk market is that there’s good money to be made in Angola, either working for Van Wyks, the MPLA government, or UNITA.”

  “Right,” Conner said. “The Van Wyks will use any means to further their cause. In W
orld War II, the United States placed a large order with Van Wyks for industrial diamonds. Afraid that those diamonds would create a glut after the war and cause prices to go down, Van Wyks refused. The company claimed that its London vaults had been bombed shut. Despite the greatest pressure from the Allies, the Van Wyks cartel only released a low percentage of what had been requested. There were also rumors—never proved—that at the same time the Van Wyks were supplying the Nazis with industrial diamonds at highly inflated prices through intermediaries in Switzerland.

  “But it was after the Second World War that the most interesting alliance occurred. For over fifty years, it has been a poorly kept secret that the Van Wyks cartel has been buying out the Siberian diamond mines. This despite the South African government banning the Communist party and the Russians training ANC guerrillas.

  “During all this, Van Wyks people moved in and out of Moscow, buying up tens of billions of dollars’ worth of Soviet diamonds. All to control the supply and thus control the price.”

  “So what if these signals are being made by mercenaries in the employ of the Van Wyks cartel,” Kieling asked, “and they’re out there killing diamond smugglers? What does that have to do with this virus?”

  Conner’s brief burst of energy came to a halt. “I don’t know. But it’s—it’s...” She looked at Riley.

  “It’s a direction to look,” Riley said. “Sister Angelina asked you if we had started this virus. Turn the question. Maybe the Van Wyks cartel started it.”

  “Why?” Kieling asked.

  “I don’t know,” Riley replied. “Who is the Van Wyks cartel now? I assume Pieter died long ago.”

  “His grandson by the same name,” Conner said. “Pieter Van Wyks the Third.”

  “We’re grasping at straws here,” Kieling said.

  “You got any better ideas?” Conner demanded.

  Kieling slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I have nothing better. In fact, I have nothing at all.”

  Riley looked at the various satellite and Aurora photos. “This thing started out there to the east. Those transmissions came out of the east. The diamond fields are to the east. It’s weak, but it’s all we have.” He stood. “I’m going to talk to Major Tyron at the habitat and have him see if we can get some more intelligence.”

  Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland, 16 June

  “That’s Savimbi. Or what’s left of him,” the chief coroner said, pointing at a crushed head that wasn’t recognizable, a torso with one arm still attached, and a severed leg.

  The coroner stripped off his bloodied gloves and threw them in the trash. Tell them they got their man.”

  Pentagon, 16 June

  Colonel Martin walked through the secure vault door into the War Room. General Cummings was at the head of the conference table.

  Martin took the seat to his left. As he sat down an aide walked to Cummings and whispered in his ear.

  “At least that plan worked,” Cummings commented as the aide walked away. He turned to Martin. “Listen to this.” He hit the control and the volume on the television was turned up, overriding the murmur of activity inside. Although there were TV sets hung all around the walls, Cummings was watching one inset right into the conference table at an angle, three feet from his seat.

  “A Pentagon spokesman denies any knowledge of a viral outbreak in Cacolo, Angola. This despite reports from the World Health Organization that they have received requests for help from an aid foundation in that city to help quell an outbreak of an unknown virus. There are unconfirmed reports of dozens of deaths in the town.

  “SNN has been unable to contact any of its representatives in Angola due to a news blackout imposed by military authorities that was implemented last night—at approximately the same time the World Health Organization released information concerning the request from Angola.

  “SNN has learned that the deployment of forces from the United States to Angola was halted sometime during the night. Fort Bragg and adjacent Pope Air Force Base have been placed off limits to the media, but sources in nearby Fayetteville confirm that not only has the deployment of the 82d Airborne Division been stopped, but that troops en route that had not yet landed in Angola were diverted and returned to the United States.

  “Despite the denials from the Pentagon, Zaire and Zambia have closed their borders with Angola. Both countries have experienced deadly viral outbreaks in the past and their governments are reacting with swiftness to even a rumor of disease.

  “In other news, the Japanese—”

  Cummings hit the mute button and turned to Martin. “This is going to be blown wide open.”

  Martin remained silent. That wasn’t his concern.

  “Do you have anything new?” Cummings finally asked him.

  “The first symptoms of Z occur—”

  “Z?” Cummings interrupted.

  “That’s what we’re calling it, sir. Z.”

  “All right, go ahead.”

  “The first symptoms—fever, headache—occur within twenty-four hours of exposure. Within forty-eight hours some of the victims begin experiencing further symptoms of nausea and vomiting. Between seventy-two and ninety-six hours, bleeding, both internal and external, begins. We do not have much data, but it appears that death occurs six to seven days after infection.”

  “Mortality rate?” Cummings asked.

  “Unknown, sir, but imagery shows no survivors in some of the infected villages. That doesn’t necessarily correlate to a one hundred percent fatality rate, though, because survivors would most likely have fled long before the disease reached the critical stage in those it killed.

  “We still do not know the way the disease is transmitted, but we hope to have something on that in the next three or four days. We have a few theories that—”

  “Three or four days!” Cummings exclaimed. “I don’t have three or four days.”

  Martin put a piece of paper down on the tabletop. “Sir, we don’t have any choice.”

  “I want options,” Cummings said. “I don’t care how outrageous. I don’t want to leave my soldiers sitting there with their thumb up their ass doing nothing, waiting for this thing to come kill them.”

  “My people have sent instructions to all deployed units,” Martin said, “as to how best to guard themselves against this disease.” He tapped the paper. “Sir, my people in Cacolo have a ... well, the best way to put it is that they have a pretty farfetched theory. But since you—”

  “Give it to me, Martin,” Cummings snapped. “I’ll take farfetched right now. I’ve got the president drilling me a new asshole every two hours. He acts like this is my fault. Like I should have known this was going to happen.”

  “One of my men,” Martin said, distancing himself from the words to come, “thinks there is a very slight possibility this virus is man-made.”

  That caught the attention of everyone in the room. Papers stopped shuffling and voices stilled.

  “Biological warfare,” Cummings whispered.

  “It’s only a slight possibility, sir, and there is no proof,” Martin was quick to say. He quickly outlined the SATCOM and GPS information that Riley had lifted from the intelligence summary. When he was done, Cummings steepled his fingers.

  “It is slim. But it is something. There has to be someone making these messages and moving around out there.” The chairman turned to one of his flunkies. “Get on the horn to the NSA and have them give us—and forward—everything they can pick up. Also, get the NRO to put the big eyeball on the areas NSA gives you. If a fucking rabbit farts out there, I want to hear it and see the grimace on its face.”

  Luia River, Angola, 16 June

  Quinn pulled the small earplug out and slowly coiled it before replacing the radio in its place on his combat vest. He glanced across their small campsite at the sleeping form of Bentley. They had made good time and were less than five kilometers from their destination, when Quinn had called the halt and they’d settled in for the night. He want
ed to approach the place in daylight.

  Quinn reached a hand up and wiped sweat off his forehead. The headache wasn’t quite as bad, but Quinn had been in the tropics long enough to tell the difference between being warm and running a fever and he knew he was doing the latter. “Fuck,” Quinn muttered.

  “What’s up?” Trent asked, sensing his partner’s mood change.

  “There’s a fucking plague going on around here. That’s why we haven’t seen any planes or run into anybody.”

  “A plague?”

  “Some fucking bug. It’s killing people all over eastern Angola. That’s why the U.S. has stopped its deployment of troops. Everybody’s quarantined.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Trent muttered. “We need to get the hell out of here.”

  “A million dollars,” Quinn said.

  “What?” Trent was confused by the sudden switch.

  “What’s worth a million dollars out here that this fellow is looking for with his high-speed direction finder?”

  Trent was still uncertain where Quinn was going with his thinking, so he remained silent.

  “Get the SATCOM rig up,” Quinn said. “I want to send a message to Skeleton.”

  National Security Agency, Fort Meade, Maryland, 16 June

  Another look at eastern Angola. No problem, Waker thought. He still had the program he’d run for the first request. He had begun setting it up, when he was distracted by a small star flashing in the upper left corner of his computer screen. He quickly switched programs.

  “Bingo!” Waker exclaimed. Another transmission by the same SATCOM rig off the same commercial satellite. This time he—and the billions of dollars’ worth of equipment at his command—were ready.

  “I may not be able to read your mail,” he muttered as his fingers issued commands, “but I sure can get your address down to within ten feet.”

  Chapter 15

  Oshakati, Namibia, 17 June

  “Sir, we have the follow-on contingency plan.”