by Bob Mayer
“The third option is to pursue a diplomatic solution to this problem. To approach President Mandela and see if he can get the Van Wyks to give up the Anslum four.”
The vice president shook his head. “That won’t work. Van Wyks is a separate entity over there. There’s no way they’ll give up the cure. That would be an admission to the entire world that they invented the disease. There’s no way anyone would ever admit to that.
“Mandela’s got his hands full with his own military right now. This whole thing seems to be tied in with an attempt by right-wingers to set up a separate state. Conveniently they picked Namibia and its diamond mines for that state. We’re not even sure who’s in charge of the SADF.”
“Contacting Mandela would also lose us any surprise,” General Cummings added.
The vice president was looking down at his legal pad on which he had made notes. “You say you have a little over four hundred troops infected. Is that number likely to get higher?”
General Cummings looked at Colonel Martin, who stood up. “Our best estimate is that perhaps another hundred soldiers are infected. We believe that Z has been contained at this point. At least among our forces. In Angola the disease is still spreading, although at a slower rate as people become more aware of the problem.”
“So we’re talking five hundred Americans?” the vice president asked.
“Yes, sir,” Martin said.
The vice president sighed. “Gentlemen, we must consider the possibility that we cannot change this situation. That it will run its course.”
“What?” the army chief demanded. “Excuse me, sir, but these are—”
The national security adviser raised his hand, silencing the general. “The vice president and I understand the situation, gentlemen. But the options you have laid out do not have a very good chance of succeeding, do they?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “As a matter of fact, from what I have heard, many more American soldiers will die. So tell me, what do you expect me to recommend to the president?”
The vice president stood, the national security adviser joining him. “We will be back this evening with the president. Please have some better options, or else we will be forced to let this thing run its course and pursue international sanctions on the Van Wyks.” The two walked over to the elevator and the door shut.
General Cummings turned to the others in the room. “I don’t like it, either, but we do need a better option. Work on it.”
The men and women scattered back to their jobs. Colonel Martin walked over and sat down next to General Cummings. “Sir, there’s something else that has to be considered here.”
“And that is?” Cummings asked.
“Z. The virus itself. If the Van Wyks have a cure and a vaccine, once they find out that they are suspected, it is likely they will destroy any evidence that would prove that they are behind it.”
Cummings was reading a report handed him by his G-2 “Yes? And?”
“And we won’t have the cure.”
“I know that, Colonel,” Cummings’s patience was in short supply since the national security adviser’s words.
“But, sir, this virus will not just go away,” Martin said. “We can contain it among our forces and after sufficient quarantine redeploy those who have survived and are not infected. It will burn out in Angola eventually. But that doesn’t mean it disappears. It will go to ground in some reservoir and will rear its head again and again.”
Cummings put the report down. “A reservoir?”
“There’s no doubt that Z has gone into other life-forms besides humans,” Martin said. “We have not been able to do a thorough study—given the gravity of the situation and the speed with which it has developed—but Z will not kill everything it infects. And it is highly likely that in at least one of the life-forms it will survive and go into a kind of hibernation. And when that life-form comes into contact with a human again, then we will see Z again. And again.”
“So you’re telling me we’re damned if we do, damned if we don’t. Correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
Abraham Lincoln, 17 June
“If the destruct control is in Van Wyks’s office on the top floor—” Colonel Rogers turned his gas mask toward Bentley—“as he says, then we have to go in from the top. Clear down.”
Riley tried to concentrate on the imagery. The Van Wyks building was twelve stories high. It did have a helipad on the roof, but there were guards clearly visible in the satellite picture. There were three sandbagged machine-gun positions and they could also make out several men with shoulder fired missiles on the roof.
Riley had not yet thrown up, but it was not easy keeping his stomach from spasming beyond his control. He had bloody diarrhea, and the two Porta Potti’s that the navy had wheeled out onto the flight deck for them were utilized often. He felt terrible, and his interest in Colonel Rogers and the Van Wyks compound was waning. Pain was one thing—Riley could handle pain. Being sick was something entirely different. He wanted nothing more than to just curl up in a ball and detach from his body and reality.
He knew things were getting critical when Conner no longer showed any interest in what was going on. She was lying underneath the helicopter, wrapped in a poncho liner, a bucket near her head.
Riley blinked sweat out of his eyes. Comsky slowly walked up. “Trent is dead.”
“Wrap the body,” Riley ordered. He looked at Rogers. No words were necessary.
Quinn walked over. “I want in on this assault.”
Rogers folded up the imagery. “I hate to tell you this, but we haven’t heard anything from the Pentagon other than intelligence. No strike options, nothing. At the rate things are going, I don’t think anyone is going anywhere tomorrow.”
“We’re going,” Riley said.
“Your pilots won’t be in any condition to fly in the morning,” Rogers said.
Riley looked. Chief O’Malley and Lieutenant Vickers were in the same shape he was.
“We’re going,” Riley said.
Colonel Rogers stood up. “I was told you’re ex-Special Forces.” He tapped the tab sewn on the left shoulder of his fatigues. “You Ranger qualified?”
“Yes.”
“Then I guess you are going.”
Pentagon, 17 June
“Good evening, gentlemen.” The president took the seat that the chairman normally occupied and sat down. The rest of the room took their places. “I apologize for not being able to get here any sooner, but as you know I was in Denver this morning and headed back as soon as the gravity of the situation was relayed to me.”
The president turned to General Cummings, who was seated to his right. “I’ve been briefed by the vice president. Have you come up with any better options since this morning?”
General Cummings stood up. “Yes, sir, we have. It’s not perfect, but it’s the best we can do.”
“Go ahead,” the president said.
Colonel Martin watched as Cummings briefed the plan they had pulled together that afternoon. The chairman used maps and a mock-up of the Van Wyks compound to emphasize the plan.
While the briefing was still going on, a sergeant entered the room and looked about. He spotted Colonel Martin and as unobtrusively as possible made his way over. He handed him a folder marked ‘Top Secret,” then exited the room. Martin flipped open the cover and read. By the time he was finished reading, an icy hand had gripped his heart.
Martin looked up. General Cummings was done with his briefing. He remained standing, waiting for the president’s reaction.
“It sounds very risky.”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“The mission by General Scott,” the president said. “Is that necessary?”
“Yes, sir, we believe it is.”
“Do you have a probability of success for the actual assault?”
Colonel Martin was impressed that the chairman’s face remained expressionless. “We estimate a forty percent chance of success.”
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sp; “How do you define success?” the president asked.
“Successful recovery of the vaccine and the Anslum four.”
“So even if—by your terms—the mission is a success, the assault force is going to take losses.”
“It is inevitable, sir.”
“How many losses?”
Cummings didn’t blink. “We estimate fifty to seventy-five percent casualties in the initial assault force.”
The president shook his head. “I’m not sure I can order men to go on such a mission, General.”
“Suppose you ask them, sir,” General Cummings said.
The president was surprised at that response. “What?”
“I have the men of the First Ranger Battalion and the Second Battalion, Hundred and sixtieth Aviation Regiment on board the Abraham Lincoln standing by in one of the hangars. We have a live satellite feed to that hangar. The men have all been briefed on this plan. They know the risks.” Cummings pointed at a video camera and a TV next to it. “Not exactly your standard video conference, sir, but it will work.”
The president steepled his fingers and considered General Cummings for a long minute, then he nodded slightly. “All right. Put me on.”
Cummings pointed at the technician in charge of the rig. The television screen came alive and it showed a cluster of men gathered in a large metal hangar, painted gray. Navy jets could be seen parked in the background. The majority of the men wore camouflage fatigues and had high and tight haircuts—the traditional cut of the Rangers. A smaller group was dressed in one-piece green flight suits and their hair was at the limits allowed by army regulations.
Apparently a screen on their end went live also, showing the president, because the men all jumped to their feet and stood at rigid attention.
“They can hear you, sir,” General Cummings said.
“At ease, gentlemen,” the president said.
The Rangers merely spread their feet shoulder width apart and snapped their hands to the small of their back—eyes and heads were locked forward. The task force men became more relaxed, but everyone’s attention was riveted.
“I understand you have been briefed on the risk of the mission to recover the cure for this virus and to punish those who unleashed it. I just told General Cummings that I have reservations about ordering you on such a high-risk mission. He suggested that I”—Martin could swear he saw the slightest trace of a smile on the president’s face—“ask you. It is rather unprecedented, but this situation is rather unprecedented.
“Gentlemen, I would understand if you do not desire to go on such a hazardous operation. There are other diplomatic options that I am prepared to undertake to resolve this issue. The problem is that time is of the essence. Over four hundred members of the Eighty-second Airborne Division are afflicted with this disease and will most likely die unless we recover the cure very quickly.”
The president seemed to catch himself. “You know the situation. No one will think less of you for not wanting to go. All those who volunteer, please hold your hand up.”
As one, the entire group of men raised their hands. The president glanced at Cummings, then returned his attention to the screen. “Very well. You will hear my decision shortly.” The president indicated cut and the screen went dead. He focused on Cummings. “Was that a setup?”
“No, sir.”
“Every single man?”
“They’re Rangers, sir.”
“What about the pilots?”
Despite the severity of the situation, Cummings smiled. “Oh, the task force? They’re just crazy, sir.”
The president stood. “When do you need to have a decision?”
“To allow the people on the carrier sufficient time to prepare and launch on time, by midnight.” Cummings hesitated. “But I have to tell General Scott what to do right away. He has a long way to travel.”
The president sighed. “Tell General Scott to do what he has to do. As far as the rest of the plan—I’ll have to get back to you after I do some more thinking.”
Colonel Martin saw the opening and took it, standing up and catching everyone by surprise. “Sir, there’s something you need to know.”
The president glanced quizzically at Martin, and General Cummings quickly stepped forward. “This is Colonel Martin. He’s head of the medical team investigating Z.”
“And what do I need to know?” the President asked.
Martin held up the report. “Z is here.”
“Here?”
“In the United States. We have an outbreak at Andrews Air Force Base.”
The president slowly sat back down. He rubbed his forehead. “What’s happened?”
Chapter 20
Luanda, Angola, 17 June
“The helicopter is ready, sir.”
General Scott stuffed his red airborne beret in his pants pocket and ran out to the waiting chopper. He carried no weapon, not even a sidearm. And aside from the pilots and crew members of the Black Hawk, he was going alone.
The aircraft was fitted with extra fuel tanks on pylons. They had a long flight ahead. “Let’s go,” Scott ordered. The helicopter lifted and they headed due south.
Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland, 17 June
The chief coroner looked out his office window and saw the Air Police cars parked outside and the armed guards surrounding the casualty facility.
A man in a full-body bio-contaminant suit drew his attention back inside. “Is this the entire list of everyone you had contact with since you worked on the bodies from Angola?”
“Yes.”
The man turned to leave.
“What are you going to do with that list?” the coroner asked. “We’re isolating everyone.”
Fort Bragg, North Carolina, 17 June
When Delta Force had been formed, it had been stationed on the main post of Fort Bragg, out near the area where ROTC cadets had their billets during their summer training.
A new compound had been built in the early nineties on a more remote part of the post. It included everything they would need, with training areas, ranges, and mock-ups all inside the chain link fence surrounding it.
The guard at the main gate looked up in surprise as a convoy of trucks pulled up and soldiers in gas masks jumped off, weapons at the ready. An officer walked up to the guard. “I’m Colonel Peterson. I need to talk to your commander. Get him on the phone and out here. But in the meanwhile, no one exits this compound.” He shoved a piece of paper under the guard’s nose. “Orders of the president.”
Abraham Lincoln, 17 June
“We’re presently located here.” Colonel Rogers pointed at the large-scale map. He was no longer wearing his gas mask, only a blue surgical mask. The whole situation had changed since the president had given the go for the mission. There wasn’t as much concern that someone might catch Z from the people on the deck. After all, they were going into the center of the hurricane that had formed Z.
Rogers continued. “We were originally going to launch at zero six thirty Zulu, at two hundred kilometers out. That’s been changed. The ship’s captain is pushing his engines to the max, so we’re making better speed than anticipated. Also”—Rogers looked around the room—“that called for enough fuel to remain for all aircraft to make a round trip. We’re going now for a one-way mission fuel-wise. We’re going to launch the first choppers at zero two thirty Zulu, right here. That will be four hundred and fifty kilometers out. That will put our slowest aircraft on target at zero four thirty Zulu. One hour before dawn local time.”
Riley nodded. He was feeling slightly better. Whether it was a slight remission in his fever as Comsky said, or the energy born of hope as Conner had told him a few minutes ago, it didn’t matter to him. He looked across the flight deck. Some of the Rangers were rigging equipment. Others were doing a last cleaning of their weapons; honing knives; smearing camouflage paint onto their faces. Pilots were walking around their aircraft, using red-lens flashlights to do a final visual inspection.
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br /> “There’s no sign that anyone in the Van Wyks compound expects anything,” Rogers continued. “We have repositioned the KH-12 that was overlooking Angola to give us real-time imagery on the target. The SADF column is now only two hundred kilometers away. It is expected that it will arrive at the compound just at dawn, which gives us a window of about one hour.
“An AWACS is in position off the coast. It will control all flight operations. I will be the commander of all ground forces. I will be on board an MH-60 until the first air assault wave lands. At that time, I will reposition to the roof of the primary target. If I am incapacitated or lose communications, my executive officer will command from the C-2 that will drop the initial assault force.”
Rogers folded up the map. “Questions?”
“Who do we go with?” Riley asked.
“Those of you who are up to it can go with one of the air assault Black Hawks.”
Riley pointed at a group of Rangers who were rigging parachutes. “Can I go with them?”
“You HAHO qualified?” Rogers asked.
“Yes.”
Riley could tell that Rogers didn’t want him to go with his recon platoon, which had the most difficult and essential mission. The platoon trained to work together and his addition might disrupt their precision. “I’ll jump last and hang above until they’re all down,” Riley added.
“All right. I’ll take you over to the platoon leader.” Rogers looked out at the ocean, then turned back. “That is all. Good luck and load up.”
Chapter 21
Airspace, South Atlantic, 17 June
The C-2 that Riley was on was the largest aircraft the Lincoln had in its inventory. It was normally used to move personnel and equipment from the vessel to shore and back. Right now the small cargo bay held sixteen heavily armed Rangers in tight proximity to each other, and it was the lead aircraft in the attack procession. Riley adjusted the leg straps on the parachute rig he wore, making sure that they were as tight as he could make them.
