“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 wanted 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.”
Oshakati, Namibia, 17 June
“Sir, we have the follow-on contingency plan.”
General Nystroom had come awake the moment the back hatch on his command vehicle had been opened. He swung his feet, boots still on, to the metal floor and flipped on the overhead red light so he wouldn’t lose his night vision.
He took the message from his operations officer without a comment. Pulling his reading glasses on, he quickly read. When he was done, he slowly handed the order back.
“What is the latest on the Americans? Is their deployment still halted?”
“Yes, sir. There is word on the international news media that there is some sort of outbreak of a viral infection in northeastern Angola and that is the reason the Americans have stopped sending troops.”
“Northeastern Angola?” Nystroom repeated. He pointed at the contingency plan. “But that plan calls for us to seize that particular area in the American sector.”
“Yes, sir,” the operations officer said. “But we are on hold for execution. I assume this,” he added, holding up the plan, “is for implementation in case the Americans withdraw.”
Nystroom held out his hand and the officer gave him the plan back. “Good assumption,” the general said, “except for one slight detail. When did the Americans halt their deployment?”
“Yesterday—the sixteenth—around noon our time.”
Nystroom’s finger tapped the heading on the order. “We might have just received this plan, but it was drafted on the fourteenth of this month.” He looked up. “What was the date-time-group of our hold message on the invasion where we were to await this contingency plan?”
The operations officer flipped open his message log. “Fifteen June, nineteen fifteen local time.”
“Two days ago,” Nystroom noted. “And this plan was done even before we got that. So your assumption is false.”
“Which means, sir?”
General Nystroom sighed. “Which means there is much more going on here than you and I probably care to know about, but we’re stuck with it.”
Cacolo, Angola, 17 June
“This is the latest,” Kieling said, holding out a batch of faxes. “We have approval to take whatever action we deem necessary.”
Riley took them and began reading, while Kieling briefed the others gathered in the tent. The glow of the Coleman lamps reflected against haggard faces, drawn with fatigue—several showing signs of their sickness, with red eyes and sweat dripping off of foreheads.
They were almost all here—Comsky, Lome, and the other members of the team that had been on the helicopter; Vickers and the helicopter crew; Conner—Mike Seeger was in another tent, handcuffed to the center pole; and Major Lindsay, looking very uncomfortable in his gas mask, representing the AOB.
Right now, Lindsay didn’t look so foolish to Riley, and he would gladly trade the major’s discomfort for his own physical situation. Riley had a pounding headache, which the Tylenol 3’s that Comsky had given him had done little to alleviate. He was also beginning to feel nauseated. He’d tried very hard the last several hours not to think about the virus that was spreading throughout his body, multiplying and feeding off his own cells, but he had not been very successful. It was hard to ignore the body’s signals that something very wrong was happening. And Riley knew that the mind was amplifying and multiplying whatever symptoms he was experiencing.
“Still nothing from Fort Detrick on this disease’s vector,” Kieling continued. “My theory on the blisters won’t get tested until they get blisters on the monkeys.
“They’ve isolated it and are trying everything they can think of to kill it, at the cellular level, but no luck. I got Tyron to suit up and head over to the hospital to take a look at how things are going there.”
Riley held up a sheet of paper. “NSA picked up another SATCOM transmission and they pinpointed the location.” He went to the map tacked to the plywood table and looked. “It’s here, right between these rivers.”
“What now?” Conner asked.
“We go visiting,” Riley said. He looked at Major Lindsay. “What about it, sir?”
Lindsay’s voice was muffled by the mask. “You all have authorization from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. The only problem is getting you there.”
“Why’s that a problem?” Sergeant Lome demanded.
“We have a no-fly rule that supersedes the chairman’s authorization. To keep the disease from spreading.”
“Can you get us a helicopter?” Lieutenant Vickers asked.
“We’ve got three Black Hawks parked at the AOB,” Lindsay said, “but I just told you—”
“But nothing.” Vickers turned to the Black Hawk pilot. “You are already in this,” she said. “Can you take us out there?”
“I can fly,” CW2 O’Malley said, “but there’s one little problem. The Black Hawk requires two pilots to fly it.”
“I’m rotary wing-qualified,” Lieutenant Vickers said.
“You’ve also got a broken ankle, ma’am,” Comsky said.
“I’m rotary wing-qualified,” Vickers said again. “With the splint, I can handle the pedals if I have to.”
“But—” Comsky began.
“End of discussion, Sergeant,” Vickers said.
Comsky smiled for the first time in hours. “Yes, ma’am.”
A rumbling noise came from outside and everyone’s head snapped up. “Artillery?” Vickers asked.
Major Lindsay shook his head. “Thunderstorms are coming in from the east.”
“So what’s the plan?” Conner asked.
* * *
In the city, Tyron tried to conquer his fear. The streets were deserted, but he could sense eyes watching him from the darker shadows of the shacks along the road. The rebreather sounded abnormally loud in his ears and, despite the temperature drop at night, he was hot. The sky was overcast and he could see lightning flashing to the east.
Ever since the shock of seeing Kieling thrown into the wire and his suit breached, Tyron had hidden in the shelter. That is, until Kieling had come by an hour ago and picked up the latest faxes from Fort Detrick. The conversation had been brief and to the point.
“You’re a fucking doctor, Tyron,” Kieling had said from the entryway, the inner door separating them. “You took an oath. This is what it’s all about. We need you working this like you’re supposed to, not sitting on your ass in there, hiding.”
“I can’t,” Tyron had answered honestly.
“You will,” Kieling had responded. “Or else I’ll have Sergeant Lome open fire on this shelter and fill it full of little holes. Then you’ll have no choice. And the way Sergeant Lome seems to be feeling, he might not make much of an attempt to miss you.”
Fear versus fear. If it had simply come down to that, Tyron knew he would have stayed in the habitat and taken his chances. But Kieling’s first words had touched a chord. Tyron was a doctor and he knew he had a duty. Besides the fact that there was no way out of this place until Z had finished burning. Going to the hospital would give him an idea of how long that might be.
Not long, was Tyron’s first impression as he stepped into the entryway to the main ward. It was dark inside. No power, Tyron remembered. But the lamps weren’t lit either. There was someone sitting behind the old desk: a nun. Tyron reached out his gloved hand and touched her on the shoulder. “Sister?”
She fell over onto the floor, and Tyron stepped back in disgust at the mass of black bile that was all over the front of her habit.
Tyron jumped as a low voice spoke behind him. “I didn’t think anyone would come back.”
He turned around. “Sister Angelina!”
“I have been trying to move the living to A wing,” Angelina said.
Her white robe was caked with blood and other material that Tyron didn’t want to identify. She was moving very slowly. “How many are dead?”
“Thirty-three.” Sister Angelina stepped around him and pulled the dead nun’s habit over her face. “Thirty-four.” She knelt and crossed herself, her lips moving in prayer.
Tyron moved past her and looked into the main ward. There were bodies on the beds. Some on the floor where death spasms had thrown them. Tyron knew better, but he could swear he could smell the odor of death. He forced himself to look. They were all bled out. Blood had exploded out of every orifice of the body, including their eyes and ears. That was the virus looking for a new host, having finished with this one. He forced himself to look more closely. The blisters in the red streaks had broken open on all of them. Maybe Kieling had something.
Tyron turned and moved as quickly as his suit allowed. Sister Angelina was still kneeling, praying. She didn’t even look up as Tyron shuffled past, out the door into the street. He had a crazy desire to tear off his helmet and breathe fresh air, but he knew the air was tinged with death. Or maybe it wasn’t. “Keep moving,” he said to himself. “Keep moving.”
Vicinity Luia River, Angola, 17 June
“We have a reply,” Trent said, holding out the message flimsy.
Quinn put a poncho over his head and used his red-lens flashlight to see the letters. Quickly he decoded it.
TO QUINN FROM SKELETON
PAY UPPED TO A MILLION A MAN U.S. DOLLARS ALREADY IN YOUR ACCOUNT—TIME IS OF ESSENCE—DO NOT HALT FOR ANYTHING—CALL FOR AIR EVACUATION WHEN BENTLEY CONFIRMS ARTICLE RECOVERED—AIRCRAFT REQUIRES RUNWAY—MINIMUM LENGTH THREE HUNDRED METERS—SIDE TO SIDE CLEARANCE FIFTY METERS—MONITOR FM FREQUENCY 32.30—YOUR CALL SIGN HORSEMAN—AIRCRAFT CALL SIGN GULL END
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” Quinn ordered Trent. “We’re moving now.”
National Security Agency, Fort Meade, Maryland, 17 June
“I got you!” Waker yelled out, startling the men and women in the other cubicles in the NSA surveillance room. “I got you!” he repeated, his fingers tapping keys quickly.
On his computer screen the silhouette of the African continent appeared, then grew larger, the edges disappearing, the computer focusing in on the southwest part. It went down south of Angola into Namibia. South of Oshakati where Waker had intercepted messages from the SADF/Pan-African invasion forces that were marshaled there. Still farther south.
The screen halted. The downlink from the surveillance satellite had fixed the location of the origin of the uplink on the return message to the location he had fixed earlier in Angola.
Namibia, along the Atlantic coast. Waker read the name of the region. “The Skeleton Coast.” There was a town there. That was where the signal was coming from. “Luderitz.”
Waker quickly summarized the information and sent out a priority intelligence report. Then he reached over to the bookshelf behind his desk and pulled out an atlas. He looked up Luderitz. There was a red line drawn around the town, extending up the coast one hundred kilometers and south over two hundred and fifty kilometers to the Orange River, the border with South Africa. The red line extended inland about a hundred kilometers. In small red type next to the zone it said prohibited area.
Waker put the atlas down on his desk and stared at the map. Who the hell controlled that strip of land and why was such a large area prohibited? Waker had a feeling the answers to those questions were going to become very important, very soon.
Cacolo, Angola, 17 June
Riley had tried to talk Conner out of coming, but she could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Priorities had changed in the last forty-eight hours, and things that had been of great concern that short time ago were no longer important.
She held an M-16 in her lap. Riley had stuck to that. If she was coming she would be armed. He’d given her a quick lesson in its use. She also wore a flak vest and, over it, a combat vest bristling with extra ammunition clips, a canteen, and a knife.
Riley was leaning between the two pilot seats up front, talking to Lieutenant Vickers on the intercom. The engines had just been started and the whine grew louder, the blades overhead slowly beginning to turn.
Riley sat back down next to Conner. He handed her a headset and she put it on.
“Hear me?” Riley said.
“Loud and clear,” she replied.
The helicopter’s wheels separated from the ground and the aircraft banked forward and to the right.
“The objective is three hundred kilometers away,” Vickers called out over the intercom. “ETA in one hour, twenty minutes.”
“Dave, what do you think is out there?” Conner asked.
“Somebody who might have some answers,” Riley said. She could see that he was looking out.
“And?” Conner pressed.
“Shit, Conner, I don’t know,” Riley replied. His head turned and he looked at her. “Somebody’s out there in the middle of all this death. Using SATCOM radio through a commercial satellite. Encrypting their messages with one-time pads. I don’t have a clue whether that somebody has anything to do with this disease.”
“Well, that’s pretty damn encouraging,” Sergeant Lome’s voice cut in on the intercom.
“I’m not here to encourage you,” Riley snapped.
“Why are you here, then?” Lome asked.
“All I know is that I’d rather be on this helicopter going to do something—anything—than back there inside that wire waiting to die,” Riley said.
“Amen to that,” Comsky said.
“Amen,” Sergeant Oswald’s voice piped, followed by Tiller’s: “Roger that.”
“I didn’t know you Special Forces guys were so religious,” Vickers called out from the front.
“The way Z is burning,” Kieling said, “I might even catch a little of that religion soon.”
Vicinity Luia River, Angola, 17 June
“Wait a second,” Bentley said.
Quinn went down on one knee, Sterling at the ready. Bentley flipped open the lid on one of the cases. He pulled out the GPR into which he had programmed the location of whatever it was he was looking for. “That way,” Bentley said. “Four hundred meters.”
Quinn didn’t have to say a word. He stood, the other three men deploying around in a wedge. They were in relatively open terrain, with small clusters of trees every hundred meters or so. By Quinn’s pace count they had moved three hundred meters when he saw something silhouetted on the top of a ridge ahead.