“Atlanta.”
Anna seemed to be examining his facial features and the color of his skin. “But your people were from northern Africa?”
“My ancestors were, yes. At least those are the legends.”
“Ethiopian?”
Micah nodded. “Apparently. How did you know that?”
“You have classic Ethiopian features. Oval face, straight nose, high cheekbones.”
The low flames danced around what looked like dried cow manure, an ancient and efficient fuel. As the light brightened, the extent of the refugee camp became clearer. It stretched along the banks of the Nile for as far as he could see to the north. Micah looked over his shoulder. To the south there had to be a few thousand people. What had driven them from their homes? Or, maybe more appropriately, who?
Anna reached down to stir the pot that rested in the ashes at the edge of the flames. It was the first time he’d seen her in the daylight. About five-foot-ten, she was lean and muscular. Anna’s manner was predatory. Alert, observant, ready to kill on an instant’s notice, and she made no pretense to the contrary. It relieved him. At least there was someone here who was healthy and would protect them if necessary. For the moment, Micah couldn’t do it.
As he sipped his coffee, Micah wondered about Nadai and Asher’s relationship. When Nadai looked at Asher, concern etched his face. He clearly wanted to trust her, but did not. When Asher looked at Nadai, it was all facade. Her every expression, the movements of her body, screamed deception. What was she hiding? If the two of them were a couple, they must have some awkward moments.
Not only that, Asher’s face had frozen into an expression that Micah knew very well: the clamped jaw and thousand-yard stare of a soldier who’d once been captured and would fear recapture for the rest of her life. If he didn’t miss his guess, this woman had demons frolicking inside her.
Just as Micah did.
He felt for her.
Nadai said, “Captain, what is that you carry beneath your arm?”
“Just about the only thing I own.” Micah set his cup down and spread his combat suit across his lap. “I heard you speaking the language, Dr. Nadai, and I’m hoping I can ask a favor of you.”
“Sure.” Martin’s gaze went from the combat suit to Micah’s eyes.
“I see many AKs in this camp. I want either a 47 or a 74. And as much ammunition as I can get, in exchange for this combat suit.”
Nadai looked stunned. “You’re going to trade your combat suit? As I understand it, that thing may have saved your life.”
Micah placed his hand on the synthetic material, touching it like the face of a lover. All weapons, even suits of armor, had souls—at least to him they did. Selling it made him feel like he was betraying his best friend. “I don’t know the language or I’d do it myself.”
“I’ll give it my best shot.”
“I appreciate it. If I can give you some advice, before you ask for offers, shoot the combat suit. Once they know what it can do for them, they’ll want it badly.” As badly as I do. He petted the suit before he handed it to Martin.
Nadai took the armor. “I understand.”
Anna aimed a finger at Nadai, then at Hazor. “But no electronic devices. None. Is that clear?”
Nadai, clearly irritated, replied, “Of course, Anna.”
As though it were alive, Micah felt the tracker stuffed in his sock warm. He considered mentioning that he had it, but decided against it.
Anna peered inside the boiling pot. “Let’s eat, so we can be about our business. We don’t know where our enemies are. They could be right across the river.”
“I agree.” Martin turned around to look across the river, and his hand instinctively lowered to rest on his pistol.
The sudden tension in the air could be cut with a dull knife. Anna handed Micah the first bowl, with a spoon sticking out. Micah took it. “Thanks.”
Their expressions had totally changed. The scent of fear filled the air.
Micah waited until everyone had a bowl before he asked, “Who’s chasing you?”
Nadai’s jaw clenched. He grimaced down into his bowl without answering.
Micah turned to Asher.
When their eyes met, she straightforwardly answered, “The U.S. military.”
Micah thought about that as he ate a bite of cereal. “Why?”
“We have something they want.”
“What?”
Anna hesitated only a moment. She was looking squarely into his eyes when she said, “Me.”
Micah chewed and swallowed, then glanced at Nadai. The professor was watching Micah over the rim of his bowl, apparently waiting for the next shoe to drop.
“Why?”
“I’ll answer all your questions, Hazor, but not now.” Her tone brooked no disagreement.
It was an order to cease and desist, one that intrigued Micah. Anna Asher had just asserted her authority as team leader. Micah’s head dipped in a slow nod. “Okay, Captain. For now.”
CHAPTER 24
OCTOBER 9. LATE AFTERNOON. MALTA.
Colonel Joseph Logan swiveled his chair away from Captain Bowen and Major Bibi to glare at the room. Twenty feet long and twenty-four wide, the stone walls felt like a gray prison. Four narrow rectangular windows lined the northern wall to his right. About a yard high, but only fifteen inches wide, centuries ago they must have been shooting portals for archers. For millennia, Malta had been an important military stronghold, but never more important than today. The island was mostly empty, and its isolation in the Mediterranean made it the perfect refuge. What was left of the Atlantic Fleet had been ordered to reconvene here and hold position until further notice. It was a reprieve. Gave them time to take stock and treat the sick.
Logan glanced at General Matthew Cozeba. The general stood with his back to them, looking out one of the portals. He’d been completely silent since the meeting began ninety minutes ago. Thirty-eight, with black close-cropped hair, Cozeba’s uniform appeared freshly washed—a strange sight—and his medals had been polished to a high luster. The two stars on his collar glittered. As the highest-ranking officer in the region, he had taken command of every soldier, sailor, marine, and any other military asset remaining in the Mediterranean. The huge burdens of command meant he hadn’t been getting much sleep. Dark bags swelled beneath his brown eyes, giving his face a haggard look. Cozeba seemed to be staring out at the Italianate churches and magnificent golden limestone buildings that gleamed in the sunlight. Four weeks ago, the city of Valletta on the island of Malta had been controlled by the Russian military and had been a beautiful bustling place. Now, abandoned military equipment blocked the streets. Overstocked ammunition depots brimmed with bullets, mortars, rocket launchers … all free for the taking. The contagion had depopulated the island of everything except a few recalcitrant humans and cats. And the only reason the cats had survived was because they were too fast for his soldiers to catch for dinner.
Logan ran a hand through his gray hair, and in an exasperated voice said, “That’s the best you can do? After two weeks of constant analysis? Really?”
Maris Bowen spread her hands. Her face had gone red. She had a tendency to speak very fast when under pressure, and no one could understand a word she said. Logan prayed that wasn’t about to happen.
“Colonel, I have no laboratory to analyze the data. Without supercomputers or proper equipment, I can’t give you reliable answers. What do you expect, sir?”
“I expect your overeducated brain to be capable of conjecture.”
Bowen extended a hand in a pleading gesture. “What good is conjecture? I’ve repeated these things so many times, I can’t think anymore.”
In the square of window visible beneath Cozeba’s clenched fist, Logan could see the empty warships that floated in Grand Harbour. Every time he looked at them, he felt like his insides had been kicked out.
So many dead.
Logan’s wrinkles refolded into hard lines. Historic Fort Saint Elmo, built in the sixteen
th century by the Knights of the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem, perched on a hilly peninsula that jutted into the Mediterranean. Massive ancient fortifications surrounded the fort, making it perfect for their new headquarters. The fort’s interior rooms, however, were cold and dark. Which accurately described the state of Logan’s soul. Fear and despair had become his best friends. They kept him vigilant.
Logan swiveled back and leaned forward to brace his elbows on the table. His officers’ uneasy faces glistened beneath the solar-powered fluorescent lamps. Other than a stockpile of candles they’d found inside the fort, solar was the only modern form of power they possessed, and Logan was grateful for it.
“Let’s go through it one more time,” Logan ordered.
Bowen sighed. Her gaze kept going to General Cozeba and back to Logan. To her left, Major Zandra Bibi sat with her head down, scribbling in her notebook. Dirty blond hair clung to her temples.
“Where do you want me to start this time?” Bowen asked.
Cozeba turned halfway around, so they could see only his profile. He did not look at anyone. Instead, he seemed to be examining the floor as he listened. The brilliant window light bleached his image, turning him into an oddly animate black-and-white photograph.
Logan said, “What happened at Bir Bashan? Begin with the Silver Guys.”
When she filled her lungs to answer, General Cozeba clasped his hands behind his back and straightened to his full six-foot height.
Bowen glanced at him and exhaled hard. “I don’t know what else I can tell you. We don’t know who they were, sir. Not our people, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Logan replied. “They looked like something straight out of a science-fiction novel. Tell me why they glowed.”
Bowen drummed her fingers on the table and glanced at Bibi for help.
Bibi said, “This is a guess, sir. Our attack may have generated extremely large electrical fields that ionized the atmosphere and produced plasma, glowing gas, around the enemy.”
Logan’s gray brows lowered as he glanced around at his headquarters. “St. Elmo’s fire?”
“Something like that, yes.” Bibi nodded. “I also suspect that the enemy was wearing some kind of protective suit.”
“HazMat suits? To protect them from the plague?”
“Or the spray. Or both.”
Logan swiveled his chair back to Cozeba. “But that would imply that one of our enemies knew we’d be using CW, chemical weapons. Which enemy?”
“Chinese. Russians,” Cozeba replied. “They may have more advanced listening capabilities than we’re aware of.”
Bowen fiddled with her notebook, shoving it around the table. The woman’s round face was sweating; drops had collected around her hairline. “If you would allow me to thoroughly examine their bodies, I might be able to tell you what killed Hazor’s team, but at this point, I can’t.”
Bibi added, “I agree, sir. The only operating laboratory with computers in our vicinity is aboard the nuclear submarine, USS Mead, and we are not authorized to use its resources.”
Cozeba said, “Those assets are already strained to the limit by our medical personnel trying to handle the onslaught of sick soldiers. Bowen, give me your opinion of what happened to Hazor and his team.”
Bowen squirmed in her chair. “I need to examine the bodies with my own eyes before I can provide an informed opinion.”
Logan slammed a fist on the table. “That kind of answer is what makes the military hate scientists. The general asked you for your opinion. Give it to him.”
Bowen looked around the room as though the answer could be found in the wall cracks.
Finally, she said, “It’s possible that Hazor’s team was killed by the chemical weapons, Colonel.”
Logan could see the overwhelming guilt on her face. “Explain.”
“It was apparent that the spray pooled in low places around the base of the dunes, then it snaked out when the wind blew it. I think your men, Beter and Gembane, trotted into one of those pools.”
“But you did not actually see that happen on your screen.”
“No, sir,” Bowen answered. “The mobile tracking station also seemed to be rendered ineffective by the chemical pools. They were blind spots on our screens.”
Cozeba said, “I agree that it may well have been the chemical weapons that killed Hazor’s team.”
Logan swiveled around to scrutinize the general. The window behind him was suddenly aflutter with moths and flies, staying warm as the afternoon air cooled inside the ancient stone room. “Why?”
Recently shaven, Cozeba’s lean face showed almost no wrinkles. He turned and spread his feet.
“Operation Mount of Olives was an act of desperation, Joe.” Rarely did he use Logan’s first name. “We had no idea how the new chemical agents would perform. They’d been tested solely in the lab. But those experiments had given us hope, that if used in combination, the two agents might work to stop the disease.”
“Is the plague some kind of biological warfare?”
“The president is convinced it is.”
Wind whistled through the poorly sealed window, making the moths and flies beat themselves against the pane. Soft thudding and buzzing erupted.
Bowen said, “So you resorted to CW on a massive scale?”
Cozeba squared his shoulders at the reproach in her voice. “No one wanted to have to resort to implementing Mount of Olives. We had no choice. The United Nations had just finished identifying infection zones, drawing up quarantine plans, detailing ways to cut off the spread of the disease and isolate it. But they were dallying, wringing their hands, afraid to go ahead. America had to take action before it was too late. The incendiary campaign was designed to heat the retrovirus to 1,200 degrees Celsius—”
“Twelve hundred! My God, there were civilians in those villages.”
Cozeba continued as though Bowen had not spoken. “Then we used the liquid nitrogen cocktail to freeze it to as close to absolute zero as we could. Our actions were totally ineffective. LucentB continued to spread throughout the targeted regions.”
Cozeba shifted to glare out the window. He seemed to be watching the tattered American flag attached to the pole outside flap in the gale. Red and white stripes furled and unfurled, snapping out swatches of stars on a blue background.
Bibi asked, “What’s the status of the disease now?”
“Refugees are fleeing Asia and Europe into surrounding countries. Most are heading south.”
Bibi and Bowen exchanged a lengthy knowing look that irritated Logan. “What are you two thinking?”
Bowen’s head waffled, as though she didn’t really want to answer, but she said to Cozeba, “LucentB started in France, right, General? Patient Zero was a biology graduate student? I’m not sure how much of the information I have is rumor and how much is fact.”
“Those are facts. We immediately initiated a media blackout, quarantined the affected region of France, and started analyses.” Cozeba’s medals shimmered with his movements. “But after two weeks, the media was starting to catch on. Reporters went crazy. The truth came out: LucentB was 100 percent lethal. We kept trying new vaccines, new treatments. We experimented all over the world. We had to stop LucentB any way we could. The president did not approve Operation Mount of Olives until it was spreading like wildfire.”
Clouds covered the sun outside, and the bluish glow of storm light filled the stone room, turning flushed faces gray. Fingers tapped nervously on the table.
“The Silver Guys may be Chinese,” Cozeba said.
“Why do you say that?” Bowen asked.
A moment of silence descended.
That information was so highly classified that even Logan didn’t know it. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Cozeba. When the man didn’t elaborate, Logan said, “The world is falling apart, General. If it’s relevant to this issue, everyone in this room needs to know why you think they’re Chinese.”
Cozeba’s broad chest expande
d as he inhaled. He seemed to be weighing the risks. “Our intelligence sources informed us several years ago that Chinese geneticists were working on a new gene-editing project involving viruses. We’ve had several spec ops teams attacked in the past six months.”
“Attacked?” Logan asked.
“Vaccinated. Apparently, the Chinese are experimenting with vaccines. They appear in shiny HazMat suits. We call them ‘ghosts.’”
“Any survivors of the vaccinations?”
Cozeba shook his head. “None. But a few have lived long enough to describe their assailants.”
“Are you saying the Chinese genetically engineered this virus and are testing possible vaccines on our troops?” Maris Bowen asked. “Why not test it on their own troops?”
“I’m sure they’re testing it on everyone they can. Our troops were probably just convenient. We’ve tested plenty of drugs and possible vaccines on prisoners.”
With good reason. LucentB has decimated the military.
Perhaps not unexpectedly, the scientific teams working on the disease had succumbed first. Then it had struck the troops like a hammer. The skeleton crew that guarded Fort Saint Elmo had plenty of ammunition, but each soldier lived in fear that he or she would be the next to fall sick. Logan hadn’t had anyone go AWOL for days. A record he feared would not last.
Maris Bowen reached up to scratch her arm, probably her latest vaccination site. “Sir, are you sure the Silver Guys who attacked Hazor’s team are the same ghosts seen by other spec ops teams?”
“No, but it’s likely. Let’s get back to LucentB. After the quarantines failed and our campaigns in Europe and Africa failed, panic set in. By the millions, people fled their homes, trying to outrun the plague and the wars. Most were already infected; hordes stumbled across neighboring borders dying on their feet. Bullets weren’t enough to stop them. To protect their own peoples, affected nations unleashed their arsenals.”
“Nuclear?” Bowen asked.
“Conventional weapons, for the most part, though we documented a few small nuclear detonations along the borders of North Korea, China, and in western Siberia. We fear people are saving their big nukes as a last resort, and they may be close to the final straw.”
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