by Jeff Rovin
“Probably SOP,” Rivette said.
“Wouldn’t bet my life on them being standard,” she said. “I met a sifu who invented a style called kung fu zu. He was from Harlem, had learned Zulu fighting and dancing techniques in Africa and merged them with his own Shaolin style. Alternately solid and flowing. If these guys have had even a smattering of that, I want to know it.”
Rivette snorted. “Maybe there’s something to be said for point-and-shoot after all.”
The two continued their studies in silence, though each quietly marveled at two things. First, how she and the lance corporal were a perfect balance of aggressive male yang and subtler female yin. Second, the uncommon wisdom and courage the military had shown by putting them together. They were the perfect balance of the forces of the universe.
They were, she believed more than ever, the future of perfect, proficient, minimalist combat.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
South African Navy Command, Simon’s Town
November 11, 11:56 P.M.
The generously sized office with its views of the compound and the sea beyond was adorned with memorabilia—pieces of history that Rear Admiral Mary-Anne Pheto had witnessed, even brushed against, but not created.
There were framed photographs of a younger Pheto with Nelson Mandela and Winnie Mandela, and a large framed flag inscribed to her by both. She had a signed photograph of Lieutenant General Gilbert Lebeko Ramano, former chief of the army, who had been a mentor.
There was a cross that had been given to her by Desmond Tutu, Nobel Peace Prize–winning Anglican cleric who had courageously spoken out against apartheid.
The woman had joined the maritime service in 1980 as a volunteer cadet and rose to full-time sailor within a year. She served onboard SAS Galeshewe then SAS Shaka before beginning an officer’s course at the SA Naval College in Gordon’s Bay. She obtained her National Diploma in Tactics and Strategy and was assigned to SAS Adam Kok in 2007. A stint at the Joint Senior Command and Staff Programme at the SA National War College and the Security and Defence Studies Programme landed her a deputy directorship at the Department of Maritime Warfare. It was considered a “shelf” position because there was no maritime warfare. But at least the SAN could crow about having promoted an African woman to a top spot.
Close, always so close to greatness but never quite achieving it herself.
That was the epitaph the fifty-five-year-old rear admiral imagined would adorn her tombstone—in fittingly small letters, so it would all fit. Attaining greatness in her chosen field was not for lack of desire but for lack of opportunity and, until now, lack of support for her outspoken views on absolute, even militant sovereignty.
That stagnation had changed within the past hour. Changed by a gift from a man who had not been on her radar before this morning. Triggered by his call, she had set in motion a military mobilization unprecedented in her tenure. There had never been a mission so swiftly mounted, nor one so fraught with purpose, as that which she was overseeing now.
If Pheto were not so busy, perhaps she would be the one crowing right now.
The existence of Prince Edward as a possible cause of the contagion, and the interest of the Chinese, had been called to her immediate attention directly by no less a figure than General Tobias Krummeck, chief intelligence officer of the South African National Defence Force. He had folded her into his intelligence because, as he had put it, “You have made no secret of your desire to keep the Chinese contained.”
Krummeck did not have the authority to tell her what to do. He did not have to. Nor was it likely that anyone from on high would interfere. However it went, if this action failed, her career would be over. If it succeeded—both militarily and in terms of popular support—high command would take the credit.
That was fine with her. Anything that allowed her to rewrite that albatross of an epitaph was fine.
She was sending the frigate SAS Isandlwana to Prince Edward, along with two Saab JAS 39 Gripen fighters. Flying at Mach 2, the jets would arrive within an hour of taking off. Each was equipped with a 27mm Mauser BK-27 revolver cannon with 120 rounds, four 13.5cm rockets, six AIM-9 Sidewinders, and both laser-guided and cluster bombs. The frigate would take much longer to reach the islands but its armaments did not rely on proximity. These included an Oerlikon 20 mm cannon, eight four-cell launchers, and two eight-cell vertical launchers. The commander of SAS Isandlwana had complete operational discretion. The rear admiral had granted this authority because if anything—and if it were possible—Captain Leon Jordaan disliked Chinese expansionism even more than she.
“Hostile action toward your vessel or our aircraft, or refusal to honor the sovereignty of our lands, will be perceived as aggression and responded to as permitted by international and national rules of engagement.”
Both sets of law stated, explicitly, that unit commanders have the right to defend their troops, vessels, and aircraft from actions by other nations, including attack or imminent attack. South Africa maritime law further qualified such action as not just a right but an obligation.
Pheto and Jordaan had carefully considered the relative strength of the frigate and the Chinese corvette. They had ascertained that the South African vessel would dominate such an encounter, especially with the aid of the fighter jets. They believed the Chinese would back down.
The question of a possible bacteriological agent somehow attached to the region was not something the rear admiral took lightly. And she was surprised that Krummeck had not made mention of it, other than as a potential risk to the mission. It had been a topic around the command center all day, not as a possible bioweapon but as a frightening curiosity.
Perhaps Krummeck was exploring it with other departments and did not want to confuse the matter at hand. Or perhaps he was just being a professional intelligence officer: speaking, by habit, of nothing that did not need to be discussed. In any case, she assured him that the forward team, the pilots, were equipped with hazmat masks and would be flying low so that upper-atmosphere toxins might not be a risk. If the experience of the outpost crew of the Denel AH-2 Rooivalk helicopter and then at Batting Bridge had taught them anything, it was that this microbe seemed to lose potency rather quickly.
Though there were not enough masks to go around on the frigate, gas masks were standard issue. Pheto would trust them to protect the crews. Jordaan would have to use his own on-site discretion where that was concerned.
She doubted he would be backward about moving forward.
The arrangements made, Pheto rose from behind her desk to join her colleagues in the situation room down the hall, watching live video feeds and digital maps on eight wall-mounted monitors. There would be cautions from the director of maritime diplomacy and strategy, who preferred talk to action; the chief of fleet staff and director of fleet force preparation would also be present to offer advice and caution.
But, encouraged by Krummeck, the chief of navy had given this to her, the chance she had wanted her entire life. There was no way she was going to let China cow her. Though there was one thing that puzzled her in Chief Roodt’s verbally delivered orders: she was to ignore the Advanced Hawk training jets that would be flying in the region. They were under direct orders from him and would not be armed.
“They are tasked with observation and reconnaissance,” he assured her.
That was fine. They were supersonic but not as fast as the Gripen fighters. Her jets would get there first.
Pheto fit her hat upon her head and rose, exhaling to calm herself, and left the sunny office for the artificial lights of SR1.
CHAPTER TWENTY
USAFRICOM C-21, Atlantic Ocean
November 11, 11:09 P.M.
The deal was simple and only four people knew about it: the president, Matt Berry—who crafted it—South Africa’s Chief of Navy Stefan Roodt, and now Chase Williams.
No one stands to lose anything, except the team in the field, Williams thought as he listened to Berry explain it.
&n
bsp; The deputy national security advisor had woken Williams up with the news. Not that he minded. As much as he liked to stockpile rest before a long haul, there were a great many details still to plan—such as finding an approach to Barbara Niekerk.
At least the operational parameters for Grace and Rivette were falling into place. In exchange for real-time intelligence from the National Reconnaissance Office on Chinese activity on Prince Edward and Marion Islands, Roodt had agreed to allow the presence of two American operatives working undercover on the islands. After the C-21 landed at joint services base Thaba Tshwane in Pretoria, Grace and Rivette would be flown to Marion Island for a quick drop-off at a spot officially named Flat Cuff, but dubbed, by pilots who had used it, as “Flat Enough.”
The ground had been leveled for an airstrip in the days of prop planes, but the environmentalists would not permit the work to be completed. Because of the hills to the north and south, and the constant winds to the south at this time of year, the approach would be “silent enough,” as Berry put it.
Before leaving the aircraft, the Black Wasps would swap out their onboard oxygen supply for gas masks—though the risk of infection was deemed to be virtually nonexistent at that low altitude and given the prevailing winds.
Before finishing with Berry and briefing the others, Williams went over the latest China update, which he was just reading for the first time.
“The jetliner crash gives them cover,” Berry said. “They can always say they were there to help figure this thing out.”
“Wouldn’t be a lie, as far as it goes.”
“The woman in charge of South Africa’s response hates the poker-faced bastards,” Berry said. “Wasp has got to step carefully. Especially Grace. SAN rank and file won’t be getting the memo about our participation.”
Grace’s ancestry had not even occurred to Williams. People were just people until someone else made them categories.
“Apart from being obliged to fall on our swords, what’s your stand on us being forced to take someone down?” Williams asked.
“You mean what works for me?”
“Yeah.”
“The bug,” Berry said. “Especially with China there and Russia watching. As far as we can tell, they haven’t fielded a unit. They’ve got enough going on in Eastern Europe to worry about stepping on Chinese claims. Whatever the price, Chase, stop it, get it—either of those.”
Even if it comes back inside a cold, dead, infected but quarantined member of Wasp, Williams thought. Even so, he could not really blame Berry. If an enemy were to obtain the microbe, there was no limit to the scale and scope of blackmail and extortion they could enact.
Williams went up a few rows to talk to Grace and Rivette. Breen was awake and joined them. He stood beside Williams in the aisle. Throughout the briefing, the major seemed unusually distracted. He would check his phone, look out a window at the darkness, and seemed generally restless.
When Williams finished, he asked the officer for his reaction.
“None of that is surprising,” he said.
“But?”
“While you were asleep and they were studying,” he said, indicating the younger members, “I read a long e-mail from Becka Young in the TS/SCI-cleared folder. There was no tickler to us, I just decided to have a look.”
The blanket-cleared Top Secret/Sensitive Compartmented Information folder was for all intelligence and defense agency personnel who qualified. The program was instituted post–9/11 to encourage the sharing of intel.
“The surgeon general was looking into this matter of what is still a theoretical microbe being unable to survive in the air for very long.”
“Looking into—how?”
“Running simulations on known bacteria and viruses that adhere to this kind of pattern. Active inside a welcoming, nutritious environment—the body—and perishing without that. She took thirteen known specimens, ran computer simulations in the two known ‘attacks,’ if you will, and felt strongly enough to write it up. There’s a problem with all this.”
Williams found himself growing increasingly concerned as Breen spoke. The major was nothing if not a calm, logical, reasonable man. The man standing before him was not that. Fittingly, given the topic, the mood itself was contagious. Even Rivette, who was prone to interjections, had been tempered by the man’s obvious concern.
“What problem?” Rivette finally spoke.
“Four of the sampled microbes did not die,” he said. “They simply became dormant. In the given situation, she wrote, the germs would be lifted to the upper atmosphere, where they would disburse and represent an infinitesimal danger. There would be no way for them to get back down or intersect with human activity. But,” he emphasized, “that ascension process depended on thermal currents providing more lift than crosscurrents blowing them sideways.”
“Meaning they might stay close to Earth,” Williams said.
“But dead, still, so what’s the big whoop?” Rivette asked.
Breen looked at him. “Not dead. Four of the samples she ran were just dormant. If they found a host, they came back. Fast.”
“So a germ that was released at Batting Bridge could float to—anywhere if the winds were with it,” Grace said. “It could cross an ocean.”
“Yes, especially in an area where thermals are either seasonally short-lived or nonexistent.”
“East or west, back home’s in the crosshairs,” Rivette said, thinking it through. “It’s like a damn sleeper cell. It can go undercover and wait till it’s ready to blow your ass off.”
“All right, everything about this is still speculative,” Williams said.
“Except for the fact that it kills, quickly,” Grace said.
“You could be walking the dog and drop dead,” Rivette agreed.
“Both true, but we do not understand the mechanism by which this happens,” Williams went on. “Our mission is to collect intel from a person or persons in South Africa and to try and stop the Chinese from securing a sample. Dr. Young, the CDC—those people are more highly qualified to do the worrying.”
That came out a little more like a unit commander than Williams had intended, but nothing was gained by having the team slip into a “what if” scenario over which they had no control. Non-hierarchal as Black Wasp was, each member still had to be focused on the task before them.
There was, in fact, only one thing Chase Williams knew for certain. By any means necessary, at whatever price, they needed to obtain a sample.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Prince Edward Island, South Africa
November 12, 4:30 A.M.
Lieutenant Colonel Raeburn actually welcomed the nighttime hours he spent in the cabin of the Chinese patrol boat.
He was seated on the galvanized floor, surrounded by the sailors who remained standing, studying their instruments, watching the sea, and receiving instructions from the corvette. He barely heard their chatter over the sound of his own breathing in the mask. Staying comfortable and trying to sleep, just a little, gave him something to do other than to think about the Exodus bug. Added to that was nausea from the constant rocking. He did not dare throw up, however. He could not risk removing the mask.
When ebb tide arrived it was time to move out. Raeburn’s eyes were shut; his only signal was the toe of a boot and the gesturing of the pistol.
The doctor’s knees were bent and it took effort to move. When he finally got up on his painfully straightened legs, he stood for a last moment savoring the heat of the cabin. The instant the door opened, the icy wind gusted in, making the yellow suit flutter. His parka would only retain heat for so long, though the airtight hazmat attire would hold it in a little longer.
He and the man with the pistol made their slow, cautious way back to the unnatural excavation in the seawall. The sailor was followed by a man with a small hatchet that had a ball-peen knob on the other end. Raeburn presumed it was onboard for chopping caked deck ice if the corvette went farther south.
The
spotlights were on again, their white light on the black stone making the vista seem like a Doré etching, something from Rime of the Ancient Mariner—agonized faces cut into ice and rock or briefly formed by full-bodied, high-crested breakers. Because of the curvature of the rock wall, the sea smashed every which way and rebounded, arching backward, often higher than when it came in.
Tiny chunks of ice floated on the waves, worn smooth and occasionally cracking as they were heaved skyward.
The man with the ax removed a vinyl covering from a coiled rope hanging on a hook at the top of the rail. It was attached to a life preserver that hung beside it. He undid that end and, tucking the hatchet under his arm, tied the rope around the waist of each man. Raeburn wasn’t sure whether this was to keep them from drowning or him from trying to escape. There was nowhere to go, but the Chinese were cover-your-ass efficient that way.
With the sea spray, Raeburn realized those knots would tighten and solidify very quickly. The fate of one was the fate of all.
The man with the hatchet descended to the stones first, followed by the South African and then the sailor with the gun. The man put the pistol in a zippered pocket on the right leg, obviously realizing it was extraneous here. He removed a waterproof flashlight.
The men got their footing, the first man slowly putting his fingers around one of the wider cuts in the rock, careful not to tear his suit. He eased forward and used the ball-peen hammer to lightly tap away the edges of the opening from the inside out. Chips fell at their feet and plunked into the sea. When the hole had been sufficiently enlarged, the seaman swapped with his superior, the hatchet for the flashlight, and shined it down into the artificial fissure. There was enough play in the rope and room on the rocks for Raeburn to half walk, half slide his way around the man to peer down.
If Raeburn thought he had been sick before, he was wrong. What he saw made bile, shame, and tears rise in equal measure. Below, its heavy lid eaten like ratty cheese, was the concrete container with the canisters of the Exodus bug. It was set in the well-like tomb they had cut in the natural rock. Most of the large container was submerged in pooled water left over from high tide.