by Jeff Rovin
“No sudden moves.”
“Exactly.”
Williams shook his head. “We’re on a fact-finding mission? That’s it?”
“It’s stronger than that,” Breen said. “We go in and make a preemptive bid, tell him the DoD wants everything. And it’s not like we don’t have leverage. We can let him know that potential bidders are descending on Prince Edward. If he doesn’t sell now, he’ll be left with extortion. That has a pretty low high-end, given South Africa’s divided feelings about its own population. We have to make sure he understands that Pretoria will pay considerably less and give our offer a short shelf life.”
“And if he agrees?”
“You tell me. Because I’m wondering how bad our military might, in fact, want this bug.”
“You think we should actually buy it?”
“That’s the goal, right? To get it away from Foster, keep him or anyone but us from killing more people?”
The tenor of that last remark was pure courtroom: by inflection, not words, Breen had just condemned the idea that even his side should possess another weapon of mass destruction.
“I can’t say I like it, but I understand,” Williams said.
“It’s like defending a murderer I know is guilty,” Breen said. “Had that with a home-grown terrorist. He told me how he was radicalized and why. It made me sick. He took the leg off a child, blinded another, driving a van into a school bus. I had to defend the monster. I have to do my best whatever my personal feelings. You’re doing the same—about winging this, I mean.”
Williams laughed. “You noticed?”
“Once a commander…”
“Yeah,” Williams said. “I wish to hell we had Grace and Rivette reporting in. Current intel about what’s going on down there so we could drop that on Foster.”
“Black Wasp wasn’t designed to work like that,” Breen said.
“Which puzzles the hell out of me.”
The criminologist said nothing further. Breen wasn’t just quiet, he had suddenly shut up.
Williams regarded him. “What are you not telling me?”
“Nothing you probably haven’t figured out,” Breen replied. “The calculation. It became obvious as soon as we started drilling. Black Wasp isn’t just a test of surgical-strike special ops. It’s a rethinking of the entire command structure, the design and execution of national military missions.”
“I think you just said ‘guinea pigs’ in bureaucratese.”
Breen snickered. “Complete with gene splicing. Grace said it herself. She and Jaz were yin and yang—opposites that, together, formed a perfect whole. They didn’t need me to execute various training scenarios. My job was to watch situations and offer evolving analysis. Your job, I suspect, was to plug us into the mainframe. In this case, the White House, I presume. The military itself doesn’t need more military. The West Wing does. They gave you the ability to feed the team without controlling it.”
“Eliminate all fat, a huge STF minus the command structure, the overhead, by using disposable loose cannons,” Williams said.
“Right. Something the military would never agree to unless ordered, since there goes the trillion-dollar budgets. And this new setup is modular. We lose Jaz and Grace, we get two others. They lose us, the same.” Breen reflected briefly. “You want the pullback, Chase? What I think we’re seeing here?”
“Very much.”
“The notion of an experimental ‘situational command’ is a feint. I believe that two very different ideas, Black Wasp and Space Force, are being groomed as the new faces of the U.S. military. The unseen—one small and mobile, like the germs we’re chasing. The other high and godlike, able to rain hell on nations, borders, hypersonic nuclear missiles, submarines, nuclear silos and bunkers—we can kill all targets of all sizes in all places all the time. Every military force in the middle becomes extraneous.”
Williams immediately grasped that big picture. “Not just the U.S. military but every other military on Earth becomes big and ineffective.”
“Exactly. And what Space Force can’t obliterate, Black Wasp can behead.”
Williams should have been pleased by Breen’s assessment. If it were true, far fewer troops would be in harm’s way or far from their families.
Except for the ones in orbit or on the moon, he thought.
He should also have been excited or at least grateful to be on the ground floor of a quick, seismic shift in a process that was typically glacial. But it was slow for a reason. Safeguards were built in—not just command structure but decision-making protocols from the top on down. With a computer determining defense readiness condition levels, wasn’t it possible that one of their own Black Wasp teams would be misread and targeted?
Once a commander …
Williams sighed and looked at the countryside rushing by. There were communities like you’d find in Middle America with lawns and pools and cars. And they were butting against pockets of jungle and rivers and brilliant colors that looked like a romantic’s idea of Africa.
It was a land both as familiar and then as abruptly alien as the life he was now leading.
It’s also not your big problem, Williams reminded himself. He had this small, key part of it. He had to focus on getting that right, giving the think tanks data to ponder before sending more Black Wasps into the world.
He was pulled from the view by a text. He was the only recipient. It was from General Krummeck. Williams read it and swore. There was a case of his worst Black Wasp fear. Of all the damn luck, an elite force had hit the right place for the wrong reason:
Wreckage of Teri found. Special Task Force at East L Target. Chaos.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Marion Island, South Africa
November 12, 9:00 A.M.
The Maule M-7-235C amphibious aircraft had the option of taking off on water or land, thanks to tiny wheels beneath its floats. Grace would be happy if, after this, all her takeoffs and landings could be on water.
The lieutenant borrowed a radio from Sisula and said she would contact him if they needed to talk to van Tonder.
“Just in case we’re delayed for some reason,” she said.
Rivette knew what she meant. At least, he hoped he did.
After that, Grace, Rivette, and Ryan Bruwer went to the sea ledge and made their way to the rocky beach of Crawford Bay to await the plane. Rivette was the only person of color among the three, and decided it would be best to keep his face fully exposed. The civilian pilot would be expecting an African, not an Asian or a white Boer. The rocks were largely clear of dung due to the ebbing tides though the large, round stones were slippery with seaweed and clinging foam.
“Out there is friggin’ Antarctica,” Rivette kept saying as he stood looking across the sea. The Southern California native was wriggling and moving every way he could think of to stay warm. “That’s awesome and cold.”
“She’s out there, yeah, but about two thousand miles,” Bruwer said.
“I used to stand on Santa Monica Beach and look out at the sunset and think, ‘Japan’s right out there.’” He shrugged. “Same thing. It’s a road, y’know? And a road means you can get there.”
The hum of the aircraft sent the birds scattering and the three passengers ducking. Marine mammals of various size plunked into the sea farther to the west and came slapping through the water to unbothered ground. Grace noticed that the elephant seals and varieties of fur seals mingled freely, the way the many varieties of bird had done. It took civilization to manufacture differences.
She noted that only the killer whales were shunned, with rapid right-angle twists and dives. With good reason. Seeing their sleek black-and-white skins aglow with sun and seawater, and their large, sensual dorsal fin, she was reminded of the black-and-white silk Wudang Daoist attire of her own deadly arts.
The plane cleared the bay of its indigenous life, landing with a splash as it fought the local winds. The pilot swung the aircraft around so the passengers could board.
“You’re a lifesaver, thanks,” Rivette said to the pilot as he opened the door of the passenger compartment.
The man was masked, and pointed that he could not hear through the headphones. That was just as well, Grace thought. Jaz did not sound remotely African. Sometimes he was just too exuberant.
The others boarded with their faces averted. They donned their masks and were airborne in less than a minute.
As they flew low over the mountains and rugged terrain of the island, Grace turned her eyes to smaller Prince Edward to the north. She knew the Chinese would not mistake them for South African. They had no markings or insignia to identify them as such. For all the squatters knew, they could be Russian or American.
In which case this will get messy, she thought.
The only hope to avoid a showdown lay with Commander van Tonder. She hoped he had a backbone to match that little speech he gave.
The flight took just under fifteen minutes. Grace and Rivette used the trip to try and pinpoint the Chinese positions. They saw the corvette anchored offshore but, from their position, they did not have a good view of the microbial ground zero.
The M-7 headed toward a flat plain about a half mile east of the helicopter. After making a pass, the pilot shook his head hard and pointed ahead.
He was going to have to land on the water.
He pointed toward a sloping ridge that went from the coast to the ledge where the helicopter was parked. Rivette looked at Grace, then nodded. The water landing would actually bring them closer to the target. Bruwer could make his own way up to the South African officers.
The plane passed over the eastern promontory. As it angled toward the water, Grace caught a quick glimpse of the patrol boat and Ship Rock. Moments later the plane ducked below the ridgeline and skidded to a loud, wet landing. He came as close to the coast as he was able, about twenty feet away. The compartment where the inflatable rafts would have been stored was empty; the emergency workers had already used them to reach the crashed jetliner. The three passengers were going to have to slosh to shore in the frigid, waist-high surf.
Rivette and Grace stood in the open doorway of the aircraft, pitching from side to side and back and forth as it rocked in the eddies. Grace heard him swearing behind his mask—loud enough so that she could make out the words.
She turned to him and leaned close. “I saw a Chinese patrol boat at ground zero! Have to get there!”
“How? Swim? In this cold, these currents?”
“No! I have a better idea! Remember van Tonder’s message?”
“What about it?”
Grace waved the question away. “When I move, shut the door and follow me!”
Rivette gave a thumbs-up.
Grace motioned Bruwer to stay where he was. Then she turned back into the cabin, leaned over the seat, close to the pilot, and slapped a firm, powerful hand on his mask.
“Idle the engine.”
The pilot stiffened.
“Listen to me,” Grace said. “You’re not going anywhere. Throttle down or I yank it off!”
“Don’t!” he cried, pushing in a black knob to the right of the steering column. The engine quieted.
“Do you have a raft in storage?” She cocked her head toward the area behind the back seat.
“No room—we brought medical supplies.”
“All right, then. Send an open SOS,” she ordered. “Say you’re being hijacked!”
“By who? Who are you?”
“The last person you’ll see if you don’t do as you’re told!” she said, firmly twisting his face around so he was looking up into her eyes. “Get on the radio and tell them the Chinese have taken your aircraft.”
Without looking away, the pilot fumbled for the dial on his instrument panel. The digital numbers shifted from the emergency frequency to a wider bandwidth.
“This is CAA Alpha-Seven-Five-Zero-Zed,” he said. “Chinese passengers have commandeered aircraft!”
“Tell them you’re sitting offshore of Voolkop, roughly a half mile southwest of Ship Rock, tending to their wounded!”
The pilot repeated the words and was instructed to sign off. He obliged. With one hand still on the mask, she indicated for him to shut the radio. Then she motioned for him to rise.
“Bend over the back of the seat, belly down, arms down.”
He did as he was told. He saw Rivette and was openly puzzled.
“I’m a traitor, dude!” the lance corporal said. “Sold out to the enemy.”
“All right,” Grace said, picking up on that. “I’m your translator.”
“At least something’s true,” Rivette said.
“Tie him here,” the woman went on, impressed by the improvisation. There was something to be said for street smarts.
Grace sliced off the shoulder harness from the passenger’s side and passed the straps to Rivette. He used one strap to bind the man’s wrists together then the other to tie them to the base frame of the seat. There was not enough room on top for the man to climb over.
“Don’t worry,” Grace said to the frightened man. “Unless you become aggressive, you will survive.”
“He can shout through the mask,” Rivette pointed out.
“They won’t hear him with the wind, surf, and propeller.”
The lieutenant moved around Rivette as he tested the man’s bonds. She went to the door and looked out. The end of the island was about a quarter mile to the northeast. There was no way the crew of the patrol boat could fail to investigate the call. Unable to contact anyone at the outpost, and probably hearing van Tonder’s broadcast, they would assume their men had been forced to vacate, perhaps with wounded, and hijacked a plane to get away.
Even if they suspect it’s a lie, they have to come, Grace thought.
The sway and bob of the boat was a chance for the woman to practice centering, balance as she waited. Rivette went over to Bruwer.
“I think the plan is to not let them see you or the pilot,” Rivette said. “You got a pocketknife?”
The man pulled a switchblade from his hip pocket.
“Not standard SAN issue, I’m guessing?” Rivette grinned.
“Volatile land, still,” he said. “Sometimes you have to surprise your own people.”
The American looked around, saw a life preserver. “So how about I tie you to a seat and you cut free when we’re gone?”
“Sounds good, though that doesn’t give me much to do.”
“You got comrades up the cliff,” Rivette said. “When this is over, however it goes, maybe you can help them.”
“I like that.” Bruwer offered his hand. “Thank you and totsiens, as my ancestors used to say.”
“Is that good-bye?”
“More accurately, farewell,” Bruwer told him.
“How would I say hello in something from here?”
“In isiZulu?”
“That works.”
“Sawubona,” Bruwer told him.
The helicopter pilot returned to his seat and let Rivette tie him with a cord from a life preserver which was still attached.
“Dude may get shot or frozen, but at least he won’t drown!” Rivette said when he reached Grace’s side.
The warm air of the cabin was a comfort and Grace let it soak in. Hopefully, they would not be enjoying it for very long.
She was right.
“Damn!” Rivette said as he saw what she saw. “My partner is a magician!”
Ahead, churning ahead on a sea of bright-white waters, was a dinghy with an armed complement of four seamen.
“What’s the plan?” he asked.
“That depends on them!” Grace replied. “Just follow my lead!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
East London, South Africa
November 12, 9:11 A.M.
“You’re with me or you’re dead.”
Foster’s quiet words struck Katinka’s ears like a church bell. She shook hearing them enter the office with their bodies armored and
weapons raised.
“What are you going to do?” Katinka asked as the STF team took their time to move through the desks, surrounding and covering everyone in the office.
“One of them is Sea Rescue. They had to have found the boat, bodies, God knows. If we go with them, they find out the rest.”
Foster swiveled around. Ducking low behind the desk, his back to the room, he pulled on the gas mask and reached for the canister. Though the office glass was bulletproof, the door was not airtight.
“God, no,” Katinka said.
“The mask,” he said thickly as he twisted the lid. “Do it!”
Sobbing, Katinka did as he instructed, even as two officers closed on the office.
“Hold where you are!” the head officer shouted. She was an African woman, her Vektor SP1 semiautomatic aimed at Foster through the glass.
“Don’t,” she told Foster.
He stepped away lest she lunge at him, and removed the lid.
“Get out!” Katinka screamed at the room.
The officers stopped moving. In a gut-kick flash, they realized who and what they had stumbled onto.
“Everyone go, workers go!” the squad leader cried, whipping her gun toward the door.
Desks nudged and chairs flew. Within moments the door was clogged with panicked MEASE employees, followed by STF officers who were crowding after them, pushing them through.
Holding her breath, the leader backed away with a look so venal that Katinka wished she had remained onboard the Teri Wheel. The room cleared quickly and all Katinka heard was her own labored breath.
The two waited in the office, Foster listening. After nearly a minute, he smiled under the mask.
“It’s safe to go,” he said. “Do you hear?”
Katinka wasn’t listening. She shook her head forlornly.