Mutation

by Michael McBride

  “So our working assumption is their goal is to reach Tabasco, one way or another,” Roche said. “How long will that take?”

  “Six to eight hours, depending upon their route,” Maddox said. “If they’re able to negotiate passage through Honduran and Nicaraguan airspace, they could potentially be there already.”

  “How quickly can we get a team there?”

  “Barnett’s unit is still our best shot. They just boarded a Cessna Citation X+, whose top speed is nearly 650 miles per hour, easily three times that of what we believe—based on the tire tracks and the distance between them—to be an older-model Piper Chieftain cargo plane. If they push it, they can be there in two hours.”

  “Then tell them to push it,” Roche said. “In the meantime, we need a list of every active and decommissioned airfield within that Chieftain’s range and satellites tasked to their locations. And contact the authorities in Guatemala, Honduras, and Nicaragua. Let them know what we’re looking for and tell them to alert us the moment it hits their airspace.”

  “Assuming it hasn’t already passed through.”

  “We’d better hope it hasn’t,” Roche said and turned to one of the communications specialists. “Bring up the satellite feed of Göbekli Tepe and get Dr. Evans on the phone.”

  “Transferring to the main screen,” O’Reilly said.

  A second later, Roche heard ringing in his headset. He was resigned to leaving a message when the call was finally answered.

  “Evans.”

  “Where are you by now?” Roche asked.

  “Right to it, huh?”

  “We’re in the middle of a rapidly devolving situation, and time is of the essence.” The image on the screen switched to display the archeological site in Turkey. Four figures were clearly visible among the ruins. “Who’s that with you?”

  The miniature version of Evans on the screen craned his neck, shielded his eyes, and looked straight up at the satellite.

  “The chief archeologist. Dr. Ahmet Sadik. He’s in the process of explaining the history of the site.”

  “Tess discovered something you need to see. I’ll have her forward it to you now.” Roche glanced back at Tess, who’d already taken his cue and was in the process of sending the aerial images of the site with the matching overlay of the constellation Cygnus. “I’m not entirely sure what it means, but there has to be some significance.”

  “Give me a second to look at it,” Evans said.

  Roche covered the microphone and turned to Maddox.

  “How are we coming on that list of airfields?”

  “There are twelve commercial airports, although most of them hardly qualify as such, within the plane’s range in the Mexican states of Veracruz, Campeche, Chiapas, and Tabasco,” he said from where he leaned over the shoulder of the specialist charged with the task. “But that whole area’s one big, sparsely inhabited rainforest. They could raze the trees, set up their own runway, and eliminate the risk of landing anywhere with a control tower.”

  “Then broaden the range of the satellites and look for anything that could serve as a makeshift airfield. They’ll want to unload their cargo away from prying eyes, and they’re going to need to refuel that plane, whether it’s continuing north or returning to Panama. This setup has to be more than just a long stretch of dirt road.”

  “This is amazing,” Evans said.

  “Talk to me, Cade.”

  “This entire site was built with the intention of tracking a single star across the sky.”

  “Let me guess,” Roche said. “It’s one in that very constellation.”

  “Deneb, the head of the Northern Cross and the point dead center in the constellation.”

  “What’s its theoretical significance?”

  “It’s where their god came from.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” He heard the sound of running footsteps from the hallway behind him but tuned them out. “Does the map overlay mean anything to you?”

  “It means we need to find out what’s waiting for us at the point where Deneb would be.”

  “Do you know where that is?”

  “I’m sure I can find it.”

  A communications specialist burst into the room.

  “I have an urgent call for the director,” he said.

  “Barnett’s in the field,” Maddox said.

  “I told him that and he said to pass him down the chain to whoever’s in charge. He has all of the proper security codes.”

  Maddox glanced at Roche and raised his brows.

  “It’s all yours,” he said with a smirk.

  “Let me know the moment you get there,” Roche said to Evans. He terminated the call and turned to face the specialist. “Transfer the call to my com.”

  He heard a click, and then the hollow sound of an open line.

  “Roche,” he answered.

  “Wait,” the caller said. “As in Martin Roche? You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.”

  “If only I were.”

  “And you’re in charge in Barnett’s absence?”

  “It was either Maddox or me, and apparently I drew the short straw,” Roche said. “But I’m in the middle of something kind of important right now, so I really don’t have the time—”

  “Totally my bad. You just caught me off guard is all. You’re about the last person in the world I expected to talk to. Not just there, but, I mean, ever again.” The cadence of the caller’s voice was familiar. Recognition dawned with a sinking sensation in Roche’s stomach. “I don’t know if you remember me, but my name is Max Friden. Dr. Max Friden. From . . . you know . . .”

  Roche glanced back at Kelly, who appeared every bit as surprised as he was. Friden had been the resident microbiologist at AREA 51, the research station responsible for the discovery of the ancient civilization beneath the Antarctic ice cap and the subsequent creation of Subject Z.

  “I take it from your silence that you do remember me,” Friden said. “But I’m not calling to catch up on old times. In fact, I’d really rather not. Like ever. I’m actually calling in my official capacity as director of the Special Pathogens Laboratory at the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases.”

  Roche stiffened. That was the lab where they’d taken the biological samples from the tomb in Mosul.

  “What did you find?”

  “Not over the phone. This is the kind of thing you have to see to believe.”

  17

  TRUJILLO

  8 miles northwest of Chontalpa,

  Tabasco, Mexico

  Gervasio Trujillo opened his eyes and raised the brim of his camouflage cap. It was about goddamn time. He unlaced his heels, rolled his chair back from the desk, and headed for the hangar door, where his men were already waiting. They wore the same camo fatigues with black balaclavas that concealed their faces, save for a narrow horizontal strip over their wide eyes. The way they clung to their Kalashnikovs reminded him how very young they actually were. Theirs was a business where few lived long enough to benefit from their experience, which was why Trujillo gestured for them to slide open the door and precede him into the clearing. He wasn’t the slightest bit concerned that any of their rivals would be so bold as to make a move on the handoff, but he hadn’t survived this long by taking unnecessary chances.

  The assault of the heat and humidity was instantaneous and reinforced by the swarming mosquitoes. He waved them away, shielded his eyes, and looked to the southeast toward the source of the buzzing sound that had roused him from his siesta. The sun reflected from the fuselage of the distant plane through the gaps of the trees as it skimmed the upper canopy to keep from popping up on radar.

  He whistled between his teeth and twirled his index finger over his head. His men took the cue and assumed their positions on either side of the narrow asphalt runway. A handful of snipers were already hidden in the trees, invisible to anyone who didn’t know exactly where they were. Those in the open served as little more than a demonstration
of strength, for he was prepared to lose every single one of them should anything go wrong. They all understood the risks, not just for themselves, but for their families, as well. Should any of them find themselves in the custody of the federales or, worse, the Sinaloans, whether or not they intended to cooperate, their loved ones would be dragged from their homes and executed in the most visceral manner possible for all to see. It was the kind of deterrent that guaranteed his men would fight to the bitter end, and the reason Trujillo had eliminated all personal attachments long ago. His allegiance was to his employers—more specifically, to the dinero they paid him—but should they ever fail to recognize his worth, he’d fall back on his training in Fuerzas Especiales, the naval special forces unit that had trained him in unconventional warfare tactics, and make them regret it.

  The drone of the twin engines grew louder by the second, producing an echo from inside the corrugated aluminum hangar. The rumble of the fuel truck’s engine joined it as the tanker emerged from the adjacent shed and headed toward the end of the runway, where the plane would pause only long enough for them to unload its cargo, refuel it, and load the waiting crates of cash. Half an hour from now, they’d be on their way once more, all of them exponentially richer for their labors.

  Trujillo strode toward where the fuel truck idled and turned to watch the plane approach. The airfield had been abandoned since long before any of them were born. It was invisible from the sky until you were right on top of it, and even then the pilot needed to make a perfect approach to hit the landing strip with enough space to decelerate before careening off into the dense jungle. There was a reason that people were only now beginning to find the old Mayan temples hidden around here. Much like him, the jungle took what it wanted and left no evidence behind.

  The Chieftain was coming it so low he could barely see it over the treetops.

  “Viene muy rápido,” the driver of the tanker said.

  Trujillo nodded. The man was right; it was definitely coming in too fast.

  The plane disappeared behind the trees for several moments before appearing once more. It wasn’t going to clear the canopy. The roar of the engines grew louder. Its flaps were up and its landing gear was down, but the approach sounded all wrong. The pilot wasn’t making any effort to slow its descent.

  Trujillo unclipped his transceiver from his hip and spoke into the microphone.

  “Tenemos un problema. Mantén tus ojos abiertos.”

  The plane once more vanished, even as the engines grew louder. The men guarding the runway looked curiously at each other. Even they could sense that everything wasn’t going as planned, but they held their positions.

  Wind sheared from the wings with a high-pitched scream that reminded him of incoming mortar fire.

  “¡Huir!” Trujillo shouted and sprinted away from the landing strip.

  He heard the crashing sound of breaking branches and the shriek of wrenching metal as the plane burst from the trees. Its landing gear tore off and bounded onto the runway. One of its propellers flew off and chewed up the earth on its way through the side of the hangar.

  His men didn’t react fast enough. The plane hit the asphalt on its exposed belly and swung sideways, its wing cutting through those on the left side while its tail pulverized those on the right.

  The engine of the fuel truck growled. It made a beeping sound as the driver threw it into reverse.

  Trujillo caught a glimpse of the front windshield of the plane, the interior spattered with blood, as it skidded past, sparks flying from underneath it, straight toward the tanker.

  The impact shook the earth.

  A wall of superheated air struck him from behind. Lifted him from his feet. Hurled him ahead of it.

  Trujillo rebounded from the turf, tumbled through the smoke, and smashed into the side of the panel truck containing crates filled with cash. A flaming tire bounded past in his peripheral vision.

  He tried to get up, but the ringing in his ears toyed with his balance. Fires burned all around him. From the ground. The trees. He heard screaming through the smoke, the distant sound of gunfire. Not the rattle of AK-47s, but the booming thunder of long-range rifles. The snipers. Suddenly everything made sense.

  The Sinaloans.

  They’d shot down the plane and were about to swarm the airfield. The hell if he was going down without taking them with him.

  He followed the screams toward where one of his men lay facedown on the scorched earth, clawing his way toward where his weapon rested, beyond his reach. He appeared oblivious to the fact that his severed legs were still burning behind him.

  Trujillo snatched the Kalashnikov from the ground and seated it against his shoulder. He’d lost his transceiver, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

  A rapid series of gunshots. Screaming. Then, abrupt silence.

  It struck him that he hadn’t heard any return fire; his men were the only ones shooting.

  They were in the middle of nowhere. The closest settlement was a dozen miles away and probably didn’t even have a phone, let alone a police force. There was no reason for their attackers to be using suppressed weapons. Come to think of it, he hadn’t heard whatever weapon they’d used to take down the plane, and while the front windshield had been covered with blood, it had remained intact.

  More gunfire from the trees on the far side of the runway, somewhere deep within the roiling smoke. An errant shot ricocheted from the tarmac and struck the front tire of the panel truck.

  He dove to the side. Scurried through the weeds. Pushed himself into a crouch and sprinted toward the burning plane. His employers would never forgive his failure, but salvaging what was left of the cargo might be able to buy him some leniency. Or maybe a new life where no one could find him, assuming such a thing was possible.

  The fuel truck rested on its roof, canted sideways on a tank that had ruptured like a baked potato. Flames rose from what little was left of the fuselage beside it. The wings were nowhere to be seen. Smoke boiled from the open cargo hatch. The door was scored with deep grooves, presumably from the tree branches raking through the metal on the way down, although it almost looked as though they’d been inflicted in the process of prying open the door. The duct tape–wrapped bricks of cocaine inside were only beginning to smolder.

  Trujillo pulled his undershirt up over his mouth and nose. Held it in place with his teeth. Slung the AK-47 over his shoulder, climbed inside, and started shoveling out the bricks as fast as he could.

  Another scream. This time from the jungle behind the hangar.

  He glanced in that direction, but couldn’t see anything through the front windshield, now spiderwebbed with cracks and darkened by soot. The pilot leaned sideways from his seat, his neck torn nearly all the way through, leaving his head to dangle by tendons and broken bones. He couldn’t have sustained an injury like that in the crash, which meant—

  Again, he looked at the damage to the door. Long, deep gouges from an implement easily sharp enough to partially decapitate a man. And a partitioned area, beside the cocaine, someone could have hidden inside.

  The hell with this. He was out of here.

  Trujillo jumped out, gathered as many bricks as he could carry, and ran for the jungle. With his instincts and training, he’d be able to disappear and no one would ever find him. He knew how to live off the land, how to survive where no one else could.

  An explosion behind him marked the passing of the plane. Flames washed over him from behind. He used the smoke to cover his escape and prayed his coughing wouldn’t give him away.

  He and his men had been set up from the start. They were being hunted by men with knives, men who hoped to throw the Gulf Cartel off their scent. Weapons could be traced and bullets could be matched, but if it looked like Trujillo’s men had been slaughtered by wild animals—

  A silhouette appeared through the smoke. Here one instant, gone the next. It was easily a full head taller than he was. Maybe more. It almost looked like a deer, rearing
up on its hind legs, antlers protruding from its head, but its outline . . . appeared almost human.

  Trujillo veered away from it and momentarily lost it to the smoke.

  He felt a cold sensation across the backs of his legs and went down hard. Landed on his chest before he even knew he was falling. Ruptured several of the bundles. Coughed out the white dust. Spit the paste from his mouth, which was already beginning to tingle. Pain blossomed from behind his knees. Warmth poured over his calves. He tried to stand but couldn’t seem to make his legs work.

  The cocaine burned his eyes, his nostrils. He rolled over onto his back and saw his limp legs, only the upper halves of which rolled over with him. His heart jackhammered in his chest, so fast the edges of his vision shivered.

  Something crouched over him from behind. He caught a glimpse of it from the corner of his eye—spindly appendages, a narrow chest, an elongated skull—but he couldn’t bring himself to look away from the silhouette approaching through the smoke. Its body was ensconced in a gauzelike cloak, which did little to conceal the feminine contours underneath. The woman reached up and removed what looked like the head of a stag from on top of her own. Stared down at him for several seconds before finally kneeling so she could get a closer look at him.

  While human in form, there was nothing human about her face. Her skin was psoriatic. Scaled. Like the flesh sloughing from the body of a dead fish. Her pupils were vertical slits, gecko-like, her teeth an amalgam of human and serpent.

  She spoke in a guttural language he’d never heard before.

  “Zi dingir kia kanpa!”

  Fingernails like talons struck his forehead. Lanced straight through his skin, burrowed into the bone. Jerked his head back.

  He found himself looking up into the face of the being crouching behind him. Pale gray skin, circular black eyes, a conical head, and a smile knitted with needle-like teeth.