by Jeff Rovin
It was a hideous sight, as Raeburn had expected. The front of the suit was still sealed but it sloshed with the viscera and blood of the dead man. The doctor wondered if the seaman would open a zipper and let it bleed out into the sea.
He did not, probably due to caution rather than a loathing for the grotesque: he did not know in what part of the man the bacteria would reside.
When the body was on the rocks, the crew of the patrol boat came down with a body bag. Raeburn was alarmed but not entirely surprised that they had one on the patrol boat. The Chinese were known to shoot pirates on sight. Those dead were placed in bags lined with lead so they sank.
The ropes binding the three men were cut, and once the corpse was sealed it was hoisted onto the patrol boat. There were urgent, uttered words and pointing. The engine was still growling unhappily.
Raeburn gathered that the gunfire from above had damaged it.
Good for the shooter, he thought—which was no doubt Commander van Tonder, doing his job.
The leader waved the concerns away and ordered the body stowed. He would call the corvette and apprise them of the situation. They had secured what they had come for. One way or another, they would get the cargo aboard.
* * *
Above them, van Tonder watched with revulsion as the breaking light revealed the ghoulish activities of the Chinese team. He saw the dings he had put in the engine casing. The engine had a rasp, like sandpaper, but that might not be enough to stop the boat from departing.
The last time the Boers had fought a war, over a century ago, the British had won and forced the humiliating Peace of Vereeniging upon them. Van Tonder had viscerally wanted for history not to repeat itself with these invaders.
It took quite some time for the Chinese to maneuver in the shadow of dawn with their fragile, dangerous bundle. When they finally had him inside, van Tonder watched, pleased that he had been able to inflict damage, at this distance, with the M1919 Browning.
He waited anxiously as the helmsman, dimly lit by dawn, took his place.
The patrol boat engine rasped, then clanked. It was throttled down. It came to life again more slowly—and banged again. The helmsman throttled down. There was no third effort.
That actually sounded like the propeller hitting the bottom of the boat, van Tonder thought. He had not hit what he thought he had but it didn’t matter. The boat was not going anywhere. Most likely they would have to radio for help from the corvette.
Content, for now, he returned to the helicopter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
East London, South Africa
November 12, 5:21 A.M.
The two tall, older South African Police Service officers stood shoulder to shoulder at her door, their expressions distressed and impatient. Clearly, they—and their department—had had an unforgiving night.
She only saw one car at the curb and the men were not trying to look past her. This might not be what she feared.
One man touched the brim of his hat. “We understand from Mr. Claude Foster that you were the pilot of the autogyro that we found unlawfully parked on Nahoon Beach.”
Katinka unfroze when she heard that. She laughed. It was partly relief but also the idiocy of the priorities of local authorities.
“I will remove it,” she assured them.
“Mr. Foster has additional instructions,” the officer said.
So that was how it was. Foster had often mentioned a “flag” system of security. If his name came up in an investigation, officers knew that a month’s pay awaited anyone who made the situation go away. These men had broken from a national emergency for pay.
“I’m listening,” Katinka said.
“He has reserved a lot at the Vandermeer Car Rental at the airport,” the officer replied. “He said you know the place?”
“Yes, we … provide them with automobiles.”
“Very good. There will be cones with red flags at either end. May we take you there so we may report it was done?”
Katinka did not want to go. What she wanted was more time to think.
“I will go myself so that—”
“Ma’am, that was not a request,” the officer interrupted. “We do have other, rather urgent duties today, as you might understand.”
“Of course,” was her only response. “I’m sorry. I was not thinking.”
There would be no packing, getting the core sample, and then flying north. What’s more, she had a very good idea that Foster would be waiting for her. This may have been part of his plan all along. She was the only one who could report him to the authorities.
Katinka snatched her keys from a table beside the door and followed the men to their patrol car. A man walking his dog had stopped to watch. Police escorting a resident from her home was not a common occurrence on this quiet street.
Five minutes later, Katinka was on the beach.
“We have been told that it is safe to fly west and then north, at a ceiling of five hundred feet,” the officer said as he walked her to the autogyro.
“How was that calculated, based on what data?” she asked.
He looked at her. “Ma’am, if you have a question I am able to answer—?”
“No, Officer. None. Thank you and be safe.”
“Our appreciation,” he replied.
Two minutes later, Katinka was airborne. Only then did the police car pull away.
“I do not want to be a prisoner of Foster but I cannot leave without my core sample,” she thought aloud.
There was a third option, she suddenly realized. So direct it had not occurred to her.
“That’s how long you’ve spent being devious,” she admonished herself.
To this point, she had done anything.
“Not done much,” she corrected herself. She drilled illegally at Prince Edward Island and blew up a boat—though she could cover that somehow. “You knew about the toxin but you kept it safe. You meant to turn it over to the proper authorities, right?”
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She looked at it.
“Shit.”
It was Foster.
“Okay,” she said. “Either you’re ignoring him and going to the authorities or confronting him and landing.”
She opted to answer the call. It was better to know where she stood.
“You didn’t return my calls,” he said. “That was inconsiderate.”
“I’m in the autogyro,” she answered flatly.
“I know,” Foster said. “Officer Cronje informed me.”
“What do you want?” she asked.
“You know, I had intended for you to be a part of this. A part of the plan I’ve created.”
“I don’t want it. None of it. Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” Foster said. “The officer put the canister I used in the storage space behind you. You cannot reach it while flying, nor have you the time to try. It is rigged with a detonator cap that will crack it in—let’s see, seven minutes and thirty-three seconds, unless you have set down, as instructed. I will be there to disarm it. And if you somehow manage to reach the sample and toss it—well, perhaps you can outrun the toxin, perhaps not. But many will die and the authorities will know who is responsible.”
Katinka felt as though the bottom had dropped from the autogyro and she was falling. Yet some corner of her brain managed to stay on point and continue flying.
“Why did you do this?” she asked. “How did I never see?”
“I’d concentrate on landing, not antisocial resolution, yes?”
Katinka angrily killed the call and looked at the time.
“Less than seven minutes,” she said as she peered from the phone out at the landscape two hundred feet below. Over the rooftops of the homes and low-lying industrial structures she saw the airport and, south of it, the rental car parking lot. She would not have to cross any air lanes to land.
“He planned that too.”
She would be landing in less than four minutes. She under
stood, now, another reason Foster had selected that lot. If she set down and tried to run, if he allowed the canister to open, most likely she along with untold numbers of travelers and airport workers would die.
As she approached, she saw Foster’s van. He was propped against the hood, arms folded, relaxed.
What he had done was monstrous, and his betrayal of her after so many years and exploits was unfathomable. As the autogyro set down between the cones, she found her desire for wealth replaced by something stronger.
Guilt so strong that she intended to destroy him and whatever he was planning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Thaba Tshwane, Pretoria, South Africa
November 12, 6:19 A.M.
“For a waterfront kid, I’m in the air a lot now.”
Rivette was not quite complaining as he crossed the airfield from one plane to another. He didn’t mind flying, but the confinement that went with these long trips made him want to claw at the seat back. That changed once he and Grace left the C-21 behind them and he was airborne in the Advanced Hawk.
Snuggled carefree in the canopied back seat it was not just the flight in a screaming-fast nearly Mach 1 jet that delighted him from his big eyes to toes that instinctively if uselessly gripped the bottom of his boots. The low passage along the Indian Ocean, which seemed to amplify their speed, was thrilling. Grace had taken off after him and he did not know if her characteristically stoic expression had cracked. He doubted it. But he was ear-to-ear happy.
The good-byes to Williams and Breen had been quick and on the fly. That was fine too. Instructions and briefings generally bored him. The lance corporal was a survivalist at heart. He wanted to get to where he could be free and useful.
You are definitely getting there, he thought as he watched the dark expanse of water slip by.
He had not even spoken with his pilot, except to listen to the brief cockpit-to-tower conversation in his clean white helmet. The gear had its own oxygen supply so they would, in theory, be safe passing through the area that had taken down the jetliner. Still, flying low, he assumed, was a nod to the idea that this microbe rose.
Or maybe Chinese radar can’t see us this low over the water. If they were buzzing San Pedro, he could have done a layup shot into the cockpit.
As Rivette looked left and right, he did not see any military ships and few commercial freighters. Maybe they were flying a course designed to avoid the Chinese and Russians. He did not understand why. The Chinese at the island would see and hear them when the jets blasted overhead.
And they sure as hell should, he thought. It’s the South Africans’ damn island.
He wondered if the Chinese would pack up and leave when that happened. He hoped not. Unlike Yemen, where Black Wasp had been constantly buzzing and weaving, he liked the idea of being where they had permission to hunt bad guys.
After the low, lulling hum of the C-21, the furnace-roar of the fighter jet was an adrenaline rush. It lasted from takeoff to landing, which was the part of the flight Rivette liked least. They flew wide of the corvette and came in from the east, not to avoid being seen—radar would have failed to notice—but to come in at the right angle to land on Flat Cuff.
The pilot lined up with the target ledge. The slope of the cockpit gave Rivette a slightly elevated view above the pilot. He watched as the island came at them so fast Rivette was certain it was the last thing he would see. He turned to his right. Icy blue water was off to both sides, followed by a flash of pebbled beach that was covered with what looked like seals, and then they were replaced by terrain that moved by so fast the browns, greens, and grays appeared a soupy blur. The lance corporal instinctively pressed his arms to the sides, bracing them against the narrow metal panel to which the canopy hinges were bolted.
Hills rose swiftly on either side, not so near and not moving as fast. The sound of the engines bounced back up at them, the canopy vibrated, and then there was a bump under his seat that felt like a kickoff—only he didn’t go as far as a football, the harness saw to that. The force went up his back and jolted the base of his skull. The engines howled and the jet immediately slowed. Small stones pelted the undercarriage like flak, adding a staccato din.
And then they stopped with a suddenness that threw Rivette forward against the straps and gave his neck another jolt. There wasn’t time to recover. Rivette swapped out his helmet and oxygen for the breathing mask. When he was done, the cockpit hummed open and the pilot raised his left arm, pointing to the wing on that side. The lance corporal unbuckled himself and climbed unsteadily onto the wing. One of the two air intakes for the single, rear-positioned turbofan whooshed loudly and caused the wing to tremble as he removed his gun case from the cockpit. Particles of grit and grass literally vibrated off the metal.
Rivette sat on the wing and slid off the back, avoiding the suction. Then he grabbed his two grips and hurried away. The cockpit closed. He had not exchanged a word with the pilot at any time.
The lance corporal had dressed on the C-21 and took some time getting used to the tight, warm winter gear. He was wearing a thermal jumpsuit and cotton coveralls. He wore a slender black thermal parka with an insulated hood. He was impressed with the gripping capacity of waterproof lace-up boots with cleated outsoles. His lined tactical gloves would allow him to shoot without freezing. According to the instructions that came with the extreme-weather breathing mask, the edges might become a little stiff and possibly abrasive in temperatures below freezing. He hoped he would be able to take it off.
In any case, Rivette was psyched and ready for this mission.
There was nothing to take shelter behind on the flat plain so he kept on jogging to the south. The wind wanted him to go east but he resisted. He squatted to remove his guns and holsters then covered the case with rocks so it wouldn’t shine for enemy patrols, if any. He checked his phone for messages from Williams or Washington. There were no updates. He did not look back but he heard the engine rev again, blast across the terrain, and then he could hear it rise. The bellowing was over land this time, not water, and it echoed off the hills, sending flocks of hidden birds into the air.
Rivette had felt more at home in the burning, sandy expanses and harbor warehouses of Yemen. It wasn’t that much different from Los Angeles. This place felt rugged and remote, like there should be dinosaurs, Bronze Age forges, or both.
Almost as soon as the Hawk was gone, its engine receding, it was replaced by the jet carrying Lieutenant Lee. The lance corporal simply stood where he was, on a slope that looked like a slate walk someone had hammered to pieces. The Hawk followed the same path as his plane, spinning off a cloud of grassy dust as it touched down. The plane was briefly enveloped when it stopped. Rivette watched as Grace emerged, not bothering to sit on the wing but jumping down. She did not carry a bag or backpack. Everything she needed was strapped to her body.
She must have spotted Rivette as they were coming in, as she ran directly toward him. The jet was gone before she reached him. It left behind a primordial calm of wind, distant surf, and highly vocal birds.
The woman checked the compass function of her smartwatch, then looked at the local map. During the flight, they had agreed to use standard military visual signaling rather than shout through their masks.
Slowing but not stopping, she circled her arm for them to move out and pointed sharply with a ridge hand to the southwest. She ran on, Rivette following.
I guess she’s psyched too, Rivette thought. And in command.
The two made their way from the valley, slowed only by the difficulty of running and breathing in the mask. Following the compass, she decided to go up and over a hill that was some five hundred feet in elevation. Hiking was another thing Rivette had not done a lot of growing up, and except for survivalist training in the Rockies, this was relatively new. He was leg-weary even before they reached the coast where the outpost lay.
Just as the structure came into view, silhouetted by rising sunlight falling on the waters beyond, bo
th Black Wasps felt their phones vibrate.
Grace’s arm flew straight back, palm open. Rivette stopped as she did so they could check the text message. It was another anonymous update from the Defense Logistics Agency:
Chinese activity location Ship Rock site of original contagion. Possible regional reinfection.
Nuts to that, Rivette thought. Even though it was on the other island, the mask would have to stay on.
When they started up again, Grace indicated for Rivette to stay low. She pointed to her eyes, then out to the sea.
What did you see besides birds? he wondered.
Instead of going around the hill they made for a higher vantage point. She stopped them again. Grace had binoculars on her hip but they were useless due to the angle and the rising sun and the visor. Despite the glare and distance, however, Rivette was able to make out what she had noticed. The new sun was bouncing from a South African helicopter parked beside the single-story outpost. The target was roughly a half mile away.
Grace looked back and nodded. He nodded back. They were agreed that transportation would be damned useful to have.
Resuming their passage toward the building, the two were no longer moving in to reconnoiter. If there was a pilot, they wanted him.
* * *
Presuming they would hear an approach from the air, the Chinese had stationed a man at the sea cliff. Lying flat at the base of the mound they had climbed, Grace saw the sailor in profile. He was not wearing a mask. The men had likely not been told about the contagion. The Chinese were using them as guinea pigs, a kind of proximity test.
However, he did have the thick, lined hood of his parka on and buttoned tight. If he had heard the two Hawks come in, he had long since lost interest. The sides of the hood would also block the man’s peripheral vision slightly. He would have to turn and look at something fully to see it. The Chinese obviously were not expecting an attack from behind.