by Jeff Rovin
The lieutenant heard a shot from above. She had been so wrapped up in the assault on Ship Rock that she had forgotten about the net that was swinging above her. Grabbing the rock as Rivette had done, she took off her mask and pulled herself up to the mesh and then onto the line. She was arm-weary from taking the outpost and the patrol boat, but she would be damned if she’d give Rivette bragging rights that he climbed and she did not.
Reaching the ledge, she saw a solemn assemblage. The man she assumed was van Tonder was on his knees, halfway between the ledge and where it looked like struts had flattened the grass.
“Dude just took off,” Rivette said when she arrived.
“That was Lieutenant Mabuza?”
Rivette nodded. “Commander heard the rotors but couldn’t stop him, couldn’t let go or we would have lost the doc.”
The South African was leaning on a boulder, eyes downcast. She had no desire to go to him. There also wasn’t time. They had to contact the outpost and arrange to get out of there.
Rivette still had the Chinese radio. She took it and went to van Tonder.
“Commander, I’m very sorry,” Grace told him.
“I’ll miss him, but I’ll say this—he died where he belonged, behind the controls. Just too bloody soon, because people have lost their goddamn way.”
“Amen to that. But if fire was the answer, he definitely managed to destroy every particle of this thing.”
Van Tonder pulled off his own mask and rose. “Bless you, Tito,” he said to the smoking cliff beyond the ledge.
Just then, all eyes turned to the western cliff as a new arrival trudged up the last segment of ridgeline. Ryan Bruwer approached the others, his eyes falling on Dr. Raeburn then shifting to Grace.
“You did it,” he said. “You actually got him off the boat.”
“Somehow,” Rivette said, walking over.
“Who is this man we pulled up?” van Tonder asked.
“The man you rescued is the man who invented the bacteria,” Grace told him.
She watched van Tonder walk toward his fellow South African. For a moment, Grace would not have put money against the commander using the submachine gun that was still in his hand.
Raeburn seemed uncertain, then afraid.
“I couldn’t save my mate because I was saving you,” the commander said to him.
Grace had never heard a whisper so full of fire.
“I came here to help him,” Raeburn said helplessly.
“You did a shitty job of it, Doctor. You can thank whatever pig god you worship that judgment will be in the hands of the military and the Lord, not me.”
Van Tonder turned and walked to the cliff, where he knelt facing the smoldering ruins.
Rivette looked at Grace, who was uncommonly somber. He was glad he didn’t have her cosmic Daoism complexities as an algorithm. To him, this doctor, the Chinese, Black Wasp—they were no different than the street gangs he grew up around. The only difference was the size of the turf and the stakes that came with winning or losing. Plus, this time, the bad guys lost bad.
He faced Bruwer. “So what happened to our chilly-ass friends in the plane?”
“The pilot managed to get the engine going, not to fly but enough to trudge back to where he started. The Chinese are with him.”
“Beijing’s going to love trying to explain that,” Rivette said.
“You want to see if you can raise Ensign Sisula at the outpost?” Grace said. “You’ve got the radio and—I don’t want to bother Commander van Tonder right now.”
“No—sure. I’ll call him, get us a ride home. I think we all wrecked enough aircraft and seacraft for one day.”
Grace nodded.
“But you know what’ll make this okay when I finally sit down and take off my boots?”
She shook her head.
“The most important ones are still flying,” he said. “A pair of Wasps.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
East London, South Africa
November 12, 10:18 A.M.
There was no mistaking the target. It was a woman, speeding, with a large platform mounted to the back of her scooter. It was probably there to hold mineral samples. At the moment, it had what appeared to be a cylinder on the back. From about 150 feet up, it conformed to the size and shape of what appeared to have been in Claude Foster’s backpack.
The scooter was on Esplanade Street, right along the seashore. The rider did not seem to be aware of the helicopter about an eighth of a mile behind her. Or if she was, she probably assumed it was part of the entourage of law enforcement and press that were the only people driving, boating, or flying.
“Up ahead,” Breen said to Williams, pointing.
“What am I looking at?”
“Big, long, rectangular building right on the expressway. The East London Police Station.”
“Where that team originated?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ve got to warn them,” Williams said.
“She may be going there to turn the sample in. They may not give her the chance.”
“We’ll tell them that,” Williams said. “Major, that’s an urban center—churches, six-lane highway, offices, schools—”
“Which is why they may shoot first.”
Williams was experiencing a sharp sense of déjà vu. Once again, they had a terrorist in their sights. Last time, Williams had learned something about his priorities when he pulled the trigger. He went to confession after that—and didn’t bother mentioning it.
He had a similar feeling now.
“Whichever side street she takes, she has to turn onto the expressway to go inside.” Breen folded Illing into the conversation. “Vic, big favor.”
“Go!”
“I want you to land on the R72. Not a lot of traffic—I think you can scare them away.”
“Sir, uh—I could lose my license and spend a very long time in prison.”
“You could also be a hero. The lady below has the last container of bacteria. I want to stop her from opening it in the police station and keep her from being shot.”
“Hold on,” Williams said. He regarded Breen. “You drop down like God Almighty, how do you know you won’t scare her into opening the damn thing right there?”
He took the gun from his pocket. “If she tries, I’ll shoot her. No hesitation.”
“I like that idea,” Illing said.
“Will you do this, Vic?” Breen asked him.
“I’m not a hero, gentlemen, but I am crazy. I guess—I guess I can tell them I had engine trouble.”
“Good man,” Breen said.
Plunging toward the largely deserted expressway, Illing came in west of the police station. He hovered some fifty feet above the street as the scooter was making a left turn from Buffalo Street to the east.
“In front of her,” Breen said as Katinka raced forward.
Two cars had already rushed to switch lanes as the helicopter dropped. It came down right in front of the police station, causing Katinka to swerve and officers to rush out—though all but two armed police stayed inside. The pair had handguns. They were on Williams’s side of the helicopter.
“I’ll deal with those two,” Williams said as the aircraft set down.
“Vic, kill the engine,” Breen said.
“Long as that’s all that gets killed, like you promised,” the pilot reminded Williams—only partly joking.
“Stay cool,” Breen cautioned, his own voice calm.
“Sure, sure, I’ll just wait here, then. Right behind this big glass bubble that isn’t bulletproof.”
Breen was not listening. Each man got out from his own side—without having coordinated it. Breen had his weapon tucked in his belt, in back, out of sight. Williams left his gun in its holster. Neither wanted to antagonize the objectives. Breen hesitated then placed his gun back on the seat.
“Major?” Williams cautioned.
“If she opens it, bullets won’t help,” Breen said. But it was m
ore than that. He believed in a process and gunfire was not a part of that.
Either you believe in it or you don’t, he thought.
Breen raised his empty hands and walked toward Katinka. His dark eyes were fixed on the woman’s face, the way they had locked on the expressions of countless plaintiffs and defendants in depositions. He had learned to read the truth before he heard a lie, a confession, or a half-truth.
The woman who was still astride the partly turned scooter was homicidal. Not by nature but by circumstance. He had seen that in killers talking about their crimes of passion: planned, committed, and regretted in under five minutes.
“Katinka, I’m the man who was at the house before the shooters arrived,” he said, choosing his words carefully as he continued to approach. He wanted her to understand that he was on her side.
“Did you betray us?” she asked, dismounting and throwing the kickstand. She walked around to the back.
“No!” Breen assured her. The tail rotor stopped and it was suddenly funereally silent. There were no distractions. He lowered his hands and held them imploringly before him. Every word, every gesture carried the future on its back. “I did not approve of what Mr. Foster did. But I did not want to harm him.”
“He was driven to this terrible thing!” she shouted. “More than I understood … more than I wanted to believe.”
“Katinka, you were not responsible for his actions. You don’t have to answer for them—”
“I should never have turned those samples over,” she said, sobbing now. She stood beside the canister. “I thought … he would see what I could do. He would be pleased.”
“You did nothing wrong,” Breen said. “Do you hear me? I know what happened at Prince Edward, on the Teri Wheel. It was all an accident. Don’t do anything now that you know will harm others. I saw in the van—that isn’t you, Katinka.”
Her strong fingers and tearful eyes came to rest on the canister. The two armed police were moving to be clear of the helicopter where they would have a clear shot.
Breen saw them. He continued to approach and began to move so he was between the officers and their target. Williams had the same idea and had moved forward, toward Katinka and Breen.
“Sir, step back!” one of the officers said.
“I’m SANDF Intelligence and you will stand down!” Williams ordered without turning.
The police hesitated then continued forward silently.
“Katinka, take my hands,” Breen said. “Let me help you.”
“I thought he would,” she muttered as she removed the straps from the core sample.
“He did. He gave you time to get away.”
“He did that,” she agreed, nodding, then crying. “Everything is lost, gone.”
“Only the past, not your future.” He was nearly opposite her. “Come with me, please.”
“Where? I want to be with Claude.”
Uncertain what Katinka would do, what the police would do, Breen threw himself over the container, pushing her back with his right shoulder. She stumbled, fell, and clutching the sample like a football, he turned away.
“Go!” the police yelled as they ran forward.
Williams was ahead of them, preventing them from firing, and was the first to throw himself on top of Katinka.
He half turned toward the police, who were now approaching in a flood. “All of you get back! I am in charge here!”
With their focus on Katinka—and this was, Breen realized, part of Williams’s ploy—the major was able to reach the helicopter.
“Start her up, Vic.”
“That was … amazing, sir!”
“Rotors—now!”
“Yes, sir.”
The helicopter hummed to life and Breen watched through the bubble window as Williams stood and helped Katinka Kettle to her feet. His arm around her shoulder, he walked her back toward the helicopter. He spoke to a woman in a sharp uniform and cap who had come through the crowd of police. He handed Katinka to her and the woman waved everyone else away as she walked her toward the police station.
Williams turned, then, and ran to the helicopter.
“Let’s get out of here,” Williams said, slamming the door.
The commander’s eyes fell on the container that Breen was examining. He had not expected to find any breaches. If there were, they’d be dead.
“I take back what I said about accomplishing nothing,” Williams said quietly as they rose.
Below, officers were swarming the scooter, realizing, as they searched, that the men in the helicopter had not just the toxin but their evidence.
“What did you tell her, the arresting officer?” Breen asked.
“I told her not to cuff the woman or she would answer to General Krummeck of Intelligence,” Williams said.
Breen smiled thinly. “Thank you.”
“No. Thank you. If I had been in command—”
“Yeah. Way to go Black Wasp,” Breen said dryly.
“Speaking of way to go—?” Illing said.
“You got enough fuel to get us back where we started?”
“Just about. If not, you got guns—we’ll score some on the road.” He half turned. “Kidding. Gentlemen, you got me pumped. I will never have a day like this again if I live to be a great-great-great-grandfather.”
“I hope you do,” Williams said.
“I hope we all do,” Breen replied, looking at the canister as they turned toward the sea.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Thaba Tshwane, Pretoria, South Africa
November 12, 11:15 A.M.
Upon arriving unheralded in Illing’s helicopter, Major Breen had immediately gone to the refueled C-21 that was still waiting to take them home.
Williams gave Illing all his South African money for fuel, which the pilot gratefully accepted.
“I’ll take my wife to dinner with this,” he said gratefully. “In Paris.”
Williams smiled as he went to join Breen. En route, he had received a text from Lieutenant Lee stating that their mission had been accomplished and that they were returning to Pretoria with “the man who made this all necessary.”
While the two men waited, Williams contacted General Krummeck. He put the man on speaker so Breen could hear.
“Congratulations. I heard you had arrived,” the general said.
“Mr. Illing was an able pilot. You should use him again.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about his talents. The police aren’t sure whether to give him a legal citation or a medal.”
“I think he’d be happy with both. So you’ve heard from East London, then?”
“Just. We were discussing Katinka Kettle. It seems she was apprehended by ‘two of my people,’ as they put it.”
“A convenient stopgap. What do they intend to do with her?”
“That depends. They’re waiting for a court-appointed barrister to take her confession.”
“Consider interceding,” Williams urged. “She was not an accomplice and appears to genuinely regret what her employer did.”
“There is a sense that she intended to attack the police station,” Krummeck remarked.
“She could have done so, if that was her true intent. She had time to open and throw the container. And keep in mind, General. She had, not more than thirty or so minutes before, been subjected to a deadly barrage by the STF. I’ve seen enough combat to know the effect that has on seasoned warriors. A young gemologist is something else again.”
“True,” Krummeck agreed. “And I would be willing to help in light of the service your people provided here and at Prince Edward. I understand they are going to return on a SAN helicopter.”
“Along with Dr. Raeburn, whom I believe you know well,” Williams said. “I understand this bacteria was his work? Team work?”
Breen frowned at that.
“Sir,” the general said, “if it is your intent to try and intimidate me while you are still on South African soil—”
“You wrong me
, General. Dr. Raeburn appears to know more about this bacteria than anyone. He has told my people he wishes to find a cure. It is my intent to encourage you to help him do that. I am prepared to offer any assistance he might require. That includes anything our people discover by researching the sample I have with me.”
“Dr. Raeburn will require that for his work,” Krummeck said. “It is my understanding all other samples have been destroyed.”
“I doubt that,” Williams said. “You have dozens of victims with dormant samples. Samples, I might add, which can be reconstructed and replicated. No, you do not need this active set of specimens.”
“But Washington does? You’re an old military lion, I saw that the moment you walked through the door. You’ll do what Beijing was prepared to do—find a cure for what you will weaponize.”
“That may be. But you also opened the door to Moscow. I’ll bet they have already hacked the phones and computer of the chief forensic pathologist in East London. Beijing has probably done so as well, along with our own Department of Defense. We at least—and you have my word on this—will share with you and Dr. Raeburn anything we find. No one need know where this came from, only who was the key to making sure it never happens again.”
Breen frowned a second time.
Williams smirked and muted the phone. “Okay, it was a threat. But I knew where I was going with it.”
General Krummeck sounded appeased and agreed to what Williams had proposed. The Americans had no doubt his sudden urgency to get off the phone was to secure the devices of the East London CFP.
Williams ended the call and sat back in the thinly cushioned seat. Breen still had a disapproving look.
“You don’t think we should take the sample back?” Williams asked.
“Actually, I do,” Breen said. “Mutual assured destruction is an arguably necessary attitude. I just don’t have to like it.”
“No argument.” Williams rose. “But we have a few hours until Grace and Rivette get here—I’m going to see what they’ve got to eat in the galley and then take a nap.”
“I like when we’re in agreement, Mr. Williams.”
“Yeah.” The commander smiled.