Chapter 12
The Island of Nuevo Gerona,
Eight Days before the Pandemic
Pavel was sitting on a thinly padded
bench seat in the tugboat as it approached the black sand beach of the island ahead.
He studied the natural features of the wild region which showed several small
mountain ranges cloaked in palm trees. These formed the backdrop that lay
beyond the aqua-blue lagoon near the boat dock which was flanked on either side
by crude beachside huts made of bark sheets.
He looked back at the boat’s other occupants.
Besides himself and Viktor there were two agency operators sitting at the rear.
Jack, the tallest man, had a shaved head and pock-marked face. Martin was the
second man, who bore low-cropped black hair and a wispy goatee that made him
look like a pirate. While both lithe figures were dressed as tourists, they
bore the expression of two perched hawks. Viktor said they were security
contractors that would handle logistics and ensure their safety. Their icy
demeanor reminded Pavel of Spetsnaz soldiers from the old regime he had left
behind.
The portly captain of the boat was a
local who kept his attention solely fixed upon the ocean and never glanced back
at the rest of them. He had a deep tan and his rotund figure resembled a
bowling pin with legs.
Though the circumstances were unlike
anything Pavel had done before with NATO, there was a certain odd comfort in
working with Viktor again. They had labored alongside each other in the
bioweapons research facility north of Kiev what seemed like a lifetime ago when
Field Marshal Sergei Mirinov lorded over the program. When the Soviet Union
collapsed in ’91, Pavel defected to Germany while Viktor fled to the United
States. With his square jaw and flattened nose, Viktor looked more like a pit-bull
in a Hawaiian shirt than a cutting-edge scientist working for the CIA.
They had both sworn that if they could
ever escape from the clutches of the Soviet facility, they would turn their
skills towards doing something to help humanity instead of trying to expose its
weak spots. He had heard rumors that Viktor was acquired by an American agency
but never knew to what extent he was involved. All Pavel cared about now was
eliminating this one last threat associated with a darker time. Maybe it would
allow him to finally sleep through the night and not awaken with memories from
his tortured past.
With the fumes from the boat’s engine
shifting, Pavel got up and moved to the other side of the deck across from his
old colleague, who was staring out at a massive freighter situated at a port in
the distance. “Wishing you were on that boat instead of this one?” Pavel said.
“No, thanks. I’m right where I need to
be. Besides, that frigate is headed back to the United States in a few days along
with a dozen others to their respective countries—a nice political gesture of
goodwill to the residents of the region after that last hurricane destroyed the
mainland.”
“So tell me again how this is going to
work,” Pavel said. “We’re just going to go in, collect any existing brain
tissue samples, incinerate the bodies, and then we’re done?”
“Exactly. The agency doesn’t want any
footprints of our presence here or on the books back home. Our primary
objective is to establish the nature of the pathogen and confirm that it is
indeed KAD97, then torch the site. This whole thing shouldn’t take more than a
day or two. These gentlemen here,” Viktor said, pointing to the two wiry
operators, “will take care of everything else not related to our research.
Stick close to them if anything happens and you’ll be fine.”
“And how are we going to blend in
walking around the site wearing orange biohazard suits?”
“This island has a small population to
begin with and the location is way, way out there in a remote strip of jungle
only used by a handful of smugglers. They were the ones who found it in the
first place when they were expanding their underground network of storage
facilities.”
“And none of them are infected that we
know of?”
“So far, there’s no indication, which
leads me to believe that the aerosolized properties of the virus are inert. The
interesting thing is that their transmission indicated how perfectly preserved
the corpses are.”
“How is that even possible given the
humid climate here where things rot in mere months?”
“The pathogen must have been responsible
for preserving the cell structure longer than normal in the hopes of passing on
the virus to another host in the weeks that follow initial infection. The scary
thing is that a few of the corpses looked like they thrashed around in their
graves for some time after they were buried—perhaps even months.”
“That tells me that the central lobes of
the brain were dead and only the limbic system—the reptilian segment of our
neocortex—was operating on sheer impulse,” Pavel said, muttering to himself.
“Preparan,” said the rotund boat captain
as he steered the small vessel alongside the bleached white dock.
Pavel stood up and grabbed his two
duffle bags full of scientific equipment, his biohazard suit, laptop, and a few
personal affects. He followed Viktor and the operators along the narrow planks
and onto the beach where two olive-drab jeeps had just pulled up. Each vehicle
was filled with wooden crates, one side of which was covered with screening.
Inside were parrots and parakeets stuffed beyond capacity as the frantic birds
climbed over each other looking for a way out. The drivers motioned to the boat
captain to unload the crates.
“Are we taking home some pets with us?”
said Pavel.
“These guys smuggle exotic birds and
even endangered ones to collectors all over the world. It apparently makes up a
fifth of their operation.”
The driver in the lead vehicle was a short
fellow with a dark complexion and wearing a lime-green t-shirt, shorts, and
flip-flops. He waddled over to them and quickly scrutinized each man then
walked up to Viktor.
“Are you Alonso?” said Viktor.
“Si,” he said, offering his hand.
Viktor responded by extending his own
only to have the man smirk and pull away.
“Dineros…do you have the dineros I
requested from your contacts on the mainland?”
Viktor raised an eyebrow and then
reached into his waistline where a hidden moneybelt was concealed. He pulled
out an envelope stuffed with cash and handed it to Alonso, who peered inside
and then jammed it into his back pocket.
“This way,” the smuggler said, motioning
for them to get in the jeeps.
For ninety minutes the two jeeps bobbed along
the rutted, muddy road. Pavel was astounded at the bird life in the lush canopy.
They had passed everything from flamingos to pelicans and spoonbills near the
coast to migratory birds such as thrushes, cardinals, tanagers, and finches.
But Alonso, who bore the tattoo of a red stingray on his inner forearm, only
kept pointing out the parrots and parakeets, describing what each would fetch
on the black market. Alonso was the gatekeeper for all of the exotic and
endangered birds coming not only out of the Cuban jungle, but from Central and
South America. Every smuggler’s ship that passed his way paid him for his
connections abroad to move their illegal wildlife. The man had built a small
fortune from his illicit trade and kept boasting about how he had managed to
harvest just what was needed on his homeland to keep up the demand. “Take too
many birds today…then no dineros tomorrow,” he kept saying as if Pavel should
be impressed by his attempt at stewardship.
As the jeeps pulled into the smugglers’
remote encampment, Pavel saw a narrow airstrip that had been hacked out of the
jungle. Alongside it was a small cinder-block building with aerial antennas
adjacent to a three-story observation tower that just hung above the verdant
canopy of trees. Opposite their location was a cluster of six dilapidated
shacks that were the smugglers’ living quarters. These were all painted in camouflage
and each had hammocks swinging off the porches along with water catchment
barrels attached to the roofs. There were around thirty men milling about the
area, each toting an AK off their shoulders. The smugglers were busy loading
crates onto trucks or hacking down vegetation that had sprung up on the
airstrip beside a hangar made of corrugated tin.
As they neared the end of the airstrip,
the two jeeps came to an abrupt halt. “Thees as far as we go,” said Alonso in
broken English. “Site over der,” he said, pointing a tan finger to a gap in the
trees a hundred yards distant.
Pavel and the other two men hopped out
of the vehicles and grabbed their gear. A half hour later, he and Viktor were
suited up in their biohazard suits and double-checked each other. Each man
grabbed their portable inspection kits and laptop then headed towards the
treeline. Jack and Martin, the two operators, stayed behind by the treeline
entrance.
Walking along the trail through the
dense foliage, Pavel could see the area open up to a large field that had recently
been cleared of trees. In the center were mounds of dirt surrounded by a
tractor and bulldozer. As they approached, he saw a rectangular pit that was
twenty feet across by forty feet long. A wooden ladder was propped against the
edge nearest them.
Stopping at the edge of crumbling clay,
both men stood frozen, gazing at the corpses below. The sound from their
respirators increased as they studied the time capsule of figures beneath them.
A blue tarp had blown off the bodies and was lying crumpled in a heap opposite
them. At the sight of the two men, dozens of ravens took flight, leaving behind
clouds of black flies and other insects that were crawling over the mummified
remains.
“All these years,” Viktor said, looking
at Pavel. “We’ve finally found the last site.”
“Those uniforms are very old. The type
issued in the ’60s.”
“Alright, let’s get down to the dirty
work. I don’t want to linger here any longer than we have to.”
“My God, their flesh is still shrink-wrapped
to the bones and perfectly preserved,” Pavel said, scrunching his eyes together
and staring at the skin. “But why is their complexion yellow?”
After descending they began extracting
brain tissue samples from the craniums using a handheld bone saw to open the
skulls. Each of them cursed repeatedly at the constant barrage of flies and
mosquitos that swarmed upon the open cavities.
Chapter 13
The flight on the C-17 cargo plane from
White Sands to Barksdale Air Force Base in northern Louisiana took just over
three hours. The small military base was the only operational facility in the south-central
United States and was being held by close to forty-eight assorted military
personnel who had managed to secure the site. Upon landing, a Blackhawk
helicopter was waiting and they quickly hopped rides and flew south for ninety
minutes before arriving over the burnt-out city of what was once New Orleans.
As they headed towards the coast, the
familiar scent of ocean air mingled with the rich organic aroma of the bayou
below flooded through Jared, bringing back a montage of images from his
boyhood.
The untarnished memories of when life
was good, before he was eleven, when his mom was still alive. The carefree days
of canoeing in the bayous with his friends; of nights sleeping on the boat dock
being serenaded by cicadas; and Sunday dinners once a month in the French
Quarter at Arnaud’s historic restaurant with its antique light fixtures and
lacy ferns.
The last time he was back in New Orleans
was five months earlier but it was only a brief stop to place flowers at his
mother’s grave and pick up his leather daypack that was now nestled between his
legs. He had planned to finish his business in Tucson and then head back to New
Orleans before the world fell apart. Now with this deal he had made with
Carlie, he might have a shot at briefly getting back to his uncle’s place on
the river. He only needed a few minutes there.
As the breeze off the bayou seeped in,
he forced the memories of his family and youth away. He was no longer that
person—that little boy. Life had intruded upon that peaceful world, and now, he
thought as he looked out at the familiar city below, it was once again
wrestling to steal his soul.
He clenched the tattered shoulder straps
on his Hilfiger pack and took a deep breath. Normally, he didn’t mind not
knowing what tomorrow would bring but his heart raced as he stared into the
darkness wondering what he would do next in this savage new world.
Time to
go to work,
he thought, staring below at the current of undead mutants
flowing across Bourbon Street.
Only this time it ain’t going to be the marshals
hunting me down or no tender woman’s arms to run to after the deed is done.
Chapter 14
Five Days before the Global
Pandemic
After collecting the tissue samples from
the corpses the smugglers reburied them to cut down on the insects and birds
swarming over the site. Pavel and Viktor set up a temporary lab in a fortified cinder-block
building adjacent to the jungle airstrip. This was a two-level structure used
by the smugglers for securing their contraband prior to shipment. The first
floor was roughly ten by twelve and lacking any windows. Inside was a set of
cement steps led into a subterranean storage area that was twenty by forty feet
and contained food, water, cots, and medical supplies along with several
workbenches for fixing equipment. The entire structure was powered by two large
solar panels outside near the treeline.
Viktor indicated that the tugboat wouldn’t
return until the following morning so both men set to work analyzing the brain
tissue specimens with their portable laboratory equipment. Neither of them had gotten
any sleep since arriving as they pored over their findings and kept reanalyzing
the samples on their microscopes.
“I am shocked that these brain tissue samples
still have dormant virus pathogens in them, albeit on a miniscule level,” said
Viktor.
“So we’ve ruled out aerosol transmission
since none of the smugglers have tested positive after being exposed to the
mass grave,” said Pavel, stopping to adjust his oversized protective glove.
“But that is puzzling since the early research notes on KAD97 indicate that it
was weaponized solely for aerosol transmission.”
“Hmm…this is strange,” said Viktor, who
pulled his head back from his microscope and motioned Pavel to come over. He
glanced down into the eyepiece and then frowned.
“Is this the same tissue sample from the
same corpse I collected from?” Pavel said.
“Yes, but a minute ago the cell
structure was completely globular and now it has changed into a flat ribbon
with spiked protrusions, as you see there. I’ve scanned for all known viral
structures but I’ve never seen anything like this in nature or in the
laboratory-designed specimens. It mutated within seconds which is unheard of,
though that original globular pattern reminds me of the viral structure of
yellow fever.”
Pavel paused, tapping a gloved finger on
the table beside him. “Yellow fever incubates in the body for three to six days,
followed by a more toxic phase where jaundice develops, kidney function
deteriorates, and death occurs within ten days without any organ damage. If
that pathogen combined with the remnant KAD97 virus, then it could have mutated
into this form here which is separate from the viral remains in the corpses.
That would explain the yellow complexions.”
“Yes, but don’t you remember—we tried
that repeatedly back in the Soviet lab and it never worked. Why would it be an
active vector now?” said Viktor.
“The anopheles mosquito here is a
hybrid. It evolved from the species of mosquitos from South America and those
from the Caribbean islands….hmm…we will need to examine that angle more
closely.”
As Pavel bent over to get another look
at the slide, the upstairs door of the building opened and the two operators,
Jack and Martin, entered, with one being held up by the other as they staggered
down the steps.
Pavel and Viktor bounded up the stairs. Martin’s
skin was jaundiced and he had bags under his eyes.
“What happened?” said Viktor.
“I’m not sure. He came down with a high
fever an hour ago and then started declining from there,” said the guard. “Seven
of the smugglers are also afflicted plus there are radio alerts from mainland
Cuba of people going on rampages, mauling each other after coming down with
similar symptoms.”
“Where are Alonso and the rest of his
men?” said Viktor.
“They sealed themselves into their other
storage facility across the airfield,” said the bald operator.
Pavel stepped forward and examined the
man’s face and eyes. He turned back to Viktor. Pavel helped Martin down onto
the floor. He doused a rag with water from a bottle on the table and wet the
man’s forehead.
“If this virus should get off the
island, there will be no way of containing this. There isn’t even an antidote,”
said Viktor.
“Those freighters that are making their
way back to their home countries…you don’t think that they are carrying any
infected on board, do you?”
“We don’t even know what the incubation
time is yet, plus the virus appears to be constantly mutating.”
“God—we need to get a message out to the
rest of the world,” said Pavel, grabbing the mic for the ham radio on the desk.
“No, it’s against protocols to broadcast
what we’re doing here on an open channel. I will send word to my agency contact
back in the States,” said Viktor, reaching into his pack and pulling out a SAT
phone. “The U.S. can’t have any connection to this.”