Koroma looked at her for a moment, saying nothing. It began to make her nervous. He finally spoke. “You realize cooperating won’t save your lives.”
A pit formed in her stomach, but she fought it off. This was the early minutes. If she could prove their worth, their chances of survival would increase. And the longer they stayed alive, the more likely they’d be rescued.
For she had no doubt her father would stop at nothing to rescue her.
But she couldn’t tell Koroma that.
“I’m not doing it to save our lives. I’m doing it because I’m a doctor, and I took an oath.”
Abbotts Park Apartments, Fayetteville, North Carolina
“Baby, if you keep feeding me like this, I might just have to marry you.”
“Don’t you be making promises you’re not going to keep, Leon.”
Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James smiled as he tucked into another slice of lasagna. His girlfriend was going to culinary school and this week was Italian food.
And he was loving it.
In fact he couldn’t think of a type of food he didn’t like and he had tried pretty much everything in his travels. He had met Vanessa six months ago at the grocery store. He was picking up a couple of hundred hamburgers and buns for a Unit barbecue, she was picking up the ingredients for her first cooking assignment.
They had both arrived at the cashier at the same time.
He had let beauty go first.
And a conversation had resulted.
Hamburgers were a little late that day.
He held up his beer as she sat down. She lifted her glass of chianti and they clinked. “To the cook!”
She smiled, took a sip and cut off her own first bite with the edge of her fork. Chewing, she swallowed and shook her head. “Not enough Italian seasoning.”
“Bah, it’s perfect.”
“Of course you’re going to say that. You just want sex later.”
“Baby, you know you can’t resist me, so telling you the truth is risk free.”
“Mighty full of ourselves, aren’t we?”
He swallowed another bite. “I have it on good authority that I cure whatever ails you.”
She smacked his shoulder, giggling. “You’re terrible.”
“My mama says I’m perfect just the way I am.”
“I’ve met your mama. That woman spoils you like nobody’s business.”
Atlas bit into a piece of garlic bread. “Right now, baby, you’re spoilin’ me.”
“Don’t compare me to your mama. I don’t need that kind of pressure.”
Atlas laughed, crumbs erupting from his mouth as his hand darted up to try and deal with the aftermath of the accident. “Don’t make me laugh when my mouth is full.”
“You shouldn’t talk with it full then.”
He reached over and squeezed her leg, lowering his voice. “You’re beautiful, baby.”
She put her fork down and placed her hand on top of his. “I know,” she said with a wink. “And I also know this needs more Italian seasoning.” She jumped up and grabbed a pencil, making a note on the page containing the recipe.
Atlas’ phone vibrated in his pocket, the distinct pattern indicating work.
Shit.
He had been looking forward to a quiet night in with his girlfriend, yesterday’s plans already screwed up by the hostage taking in Norfolk. He fished it out of his pocket and answered.
“Hello?”
“Sorry, buddy, but we’ve been called up.” It was Dawson delivering the news.
“Understood.”
“Not again!” cried Vanessa.
“You at Vanessa’s?”
“Yup.”
“How much time do you need?”
“How much time do I have?”
“You’re a machine, my friend. Niner and Jimmy are coming in from Florida, so you’ve got a couple of hours.”
“Vanessa thanks you.”
“I’m sure she does. See you at The Unit.”
The call ended and Atlas returned his phone to his pocket, looking at Vanessa.
“So?” she asked, sitting back down.
“I’m needed at The Unit.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Sometimes I hate your job.” She shook her head. “Can’t they logisticate or whatever the hell it is you do without you?”
Atlas laughed. “Logistics. I help coordinate the delivery of supplies to our troops across the world. I guess there’s an op or something that they need stuff organized for, and us Sergeants do the grunt work while the officers sit at home with their wives, sipping their fine wines, eating their store bought lasagnas that aren’t anywhere near as good as the one prepared by my incredibly talented girlfriend.”
She melted.
All was forgiven.
“How much time do you have?”
“Two hours.”
“Then eat up, big boy, you’re going to need all the energy you can get.”
He grinned, shoveling the food into his mouth, determined to give his girlfriend a great time, her status of not being his wife meaning she couldn’t know the truth about what he really did for a living.
Which meant their entire relationship was built around a lie.
And he hated that.
Somewhere in Sierra Leone
Sarah Henderson stepped through the door, Tanya behind her, Major Koroma following them both. Sarah and Tanya both were in full personal protective gear but the Major was only wearing a facemask, refusing to don the proper equipment.
Fool. I hope you die.
As a doctor she found her thoughts repugnant, but this man was repugnant. He was a criminal and deserved to die. Her father had raised her to respect the law and she had always felt it was better to be tough on criminals rather than hug them to goodness. She was a firm believer that the smaller crimes like vandalism and theft should be punished far more harshly to nip the behavior at an early age. She had been known to express her feelings that vandals should be shot because these people served no purpose in society. At least thieves were stealing to profit, but vandals were merely out to destroy.
She didn’t really believe they should be shot, but vandalism angered her so much she felt a good baseball bat to the knees was definitely in order.
And the mentality of thieves she simply couldn’t fathom. To think you were entitled to someone else’s hard earned belongings was unthinkable to her. A few years ago when she and her husband had moved to a new home they had to transport the propane tank for the barbecue themselves, but the car was simply too full.
She left it on the doorstep.
They came back an hour later and it was gone.
Who would have the brass to walk up to someone’s doorstep and steal a propane tank?
And what had really floored her was that it was a residential street with almost no traffic. She was convinced it had been a neighbor walking by that spotted it and felt they were entitled to it. They would have had to take it and carry it down the street for all to see.
And this was an upper middle income area.
If only I had my baseball bat and caught them!
Men like Major Koroma definitely deserved the death penalty. She tacitly supported it but had reservations. Far too many innocent people had been put to death over the years, even more luckily found innocent before it was too late. If the proof was irrefutable, then sure, murderers should meet their maker’s fallen angel, but what was irrefutable? DNA evidence could be planted, even faked now, video evidence could be edited or faked, witnesses could be mistaken or lie.
Better to let them rot in prison for the rest of their lives just to be sure.
She secretly prayed some American Special Forces sniper would put a new hole in Major Koroma’s head for what he had done to Jacques.
And for what he had promised to do to them.
Koroma opened a door and flicked a switch on the wall, the room suddenly bathed in a bright, sickly white light. She blinked a few times, shielding her eyes wit
h her gloved hand, allowing her eyes to adjust.
Then she gasped.
It was a large, rectangular room, a stage at the head of it, clearly what used to be some sort of community hall. There were a few beds but most of the victims were lying on the floors, some on blankets, others on the cold concrete. Few had pillows or any type of creature comforts. The air was thick, as if the windows hadn’t been open in weeks, and the stench was unbelievable.
Their suits protected them from accidental exposure to fluids, but they breathed the same air as the patients, these stolen suits having no air filters. She wasn’t worried about contracting the disease this way, but more from desperate people tearing at her suit.
Hands reached out as the patients began to wake, realizing that help might have finally arrived as the two doctors advanced slowly into the room. Some started to sit up, others trying to stand, their desperation clear.
“Keep them where they are, Major, otherwise we’ll have to leave.”
Koroma pulled out his side arm and yelled something. The patients hesitated, a few resuming their advance, almost like zombies.
He fired a shot into the floor.
A few screams, more weak cries, followed by whimpers.
And those who had been advancing returned to where they had been lying, many in pools of their own blood, sweat, urine and feces.
“This is unbelievable,” said Tanya, almost sounding like her old self. “These poor people. How can you let them live like this?”
Koroma turned on her. “Do you think we do this by choice? We have no alternatives. The government won’t provide us with supplies and they are too sick to bring to the treatment centers. Those that aren’t, we try to bring there but they are always full.” He pointed at those around them. “These are my friends and family. I grew up with them all. I serve my country with honor and distinction, yet my country turns its back on my home. And you”—he spun, pointing his finger at Tanya then Sarah—“are also responsible. Your countries do almost nothing to help us. You spend hundreds of billions to make war yet balk at spending millions to save possibly hundreds of thousands of lives.”
“We’re trying now,” replied Sarah. “And people like us were here long before this became an epidemic.”
“You are the exceptions. And unfortunately there are too few of you, too late.”
Sarah knew there was no arguing with the man because he was right. The West had dropped the ball. Organizations like hers had begged Western governments for money but little to none had come until thousands were dead or dying. This could have been stopped early if the funding had been made available, but with nothing of strategic or economic interest in these countries, there was no perceived benefit.
Until it arrived on Western shores.
All it took was one infected man to lie to the authorities and the first case of Ebola arrived in America.
And America and the rest of the Western world woke up.
Albeit still too slowly.
All the stops were pulled out back home of course. Over a million dollars was spent on each of the Ebola patients back there to try and save them. Here in Sierra Leone it seemed like pennies.
She looked at Koroma through her mask and could sense his desperation. She wondered whether or not he had been a good man at one time and was now driven to desperate acts to save the ones he loved.
But she could never condone what had been done to Jacques.
“Let us help you, here, now. Maybe we can save some of these people, and perhaps stop it from spreading to others.”
Koroma looked at her and nodded. “What do we need to do?”
Sarah put her hands on her hips, slowly turning.
“Is there another place where we can move these people?”
“No.”
“What is the weather forecast for tomorrow?”
Koroma shrugged. “Sunny and warm.”
“No rain?”
“No.”
“Good. First we need to clean this place, top to bottom.”
“How?”
“Do you have bleach or some other cleaning supplies?”
“We have bleach. And I know where to get more.”
“Good. Water?”
“We have several good wells.”
“Excellent. Get us as much bleach and water as you can. We’ll need to move these people outside as soon as it’s warm enough. Anybody who’s strong enough to move themselves and help others, we’ll use. Anyone else, we’ll need to suit up some volunteers.”
“Are you crazy? You want to let the infection out of here?”
“It’s spread through bodily fluids, not the air.” She pointed at the windows. “And that’s another thing. We’ll need all these windows opened. We need these people to get fresh air, especially at night so we can cool this room down.” She looked at Koroma. “Can you get volunteers?”
He nodded. “My men are from this area. Some of their families are in here as well. They’ll help.”
“Good. Then let’s get started.”
Number One Observatory Circle, Washington, DC
Residence of the Vice President
“I don’t care if you have to invade the goddamned country, I want my baby back home, now!”
Philip Henderson held his wife, tight, battling his own tears. The news about his daughter had been a shock, an emotional rollercoaster no parent was ever prepared for, and one no parent could understand unless they had been through something similar.
Fortunately most parents in America didn’t go through something like this.
Unfortunately too many did.
They had been crying and talking and arguing for hours, interrupted constantly by phone calls with updates on the investigation’s progress—or lack thereof, and they were both exhausted. He had immediately driven home to tell his wife the news while his aides arranged meetings with everyone that needed to be informed or pulled in to help. He had met the President who had pledged his full support, immediately authorizing deployment of a Delta Force team. With the assassination of the Sierra Leonean Vice President the day before, he—and his advisors—had a feeling the two events were related. What wasn’t known was whether or not it was in retaliation for the death, or in conjunction with it.
Frustratingly, there had still been no communication with the kidnappers.
He kissed the top of his wife’s head. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to bring her home safe.”
“This is all your fault,” she sobbed, her words punctuated with her hyperventilating breaths. “You never should have gone into politics.”
He shook his head, ignoring her angry, ridiculous words. He had been in politics for over forty years, before they had even met. And if anyone were to blame it was Sarah for going to Sierra Leone in the first place.
He mentally kicked himself for the thought.
He was proud of what she did, though he actively tried to convince her to go to safer places. Ironically he had thought Sierra Leone might actually be safer than some of the war zones she usually found herself in. Things were quiet there now that the civil war was over and Ebola had settled down the Muslim on Christian violence. It had never occurred to him that she might get kidnapped.
His wife pushed away, retreating to the far end of the couch. “What are you doing about it?” She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose.
“CIA, NSA, everyone’s on it. And you didn’t hear this from me, and you’re not allowed to tell anyone—I mean anyone—we’re sending in Delta.”
“What’s that?”
He stopped himself from smiling. His wife was well-read and well educated, but she had a habit of avoiding stories on terrorism, which meant her exposure to the Special Operations world was limited.
“They’re Special Forces. The best.”
“Like those seal thingies I keep hearing about?”
“Navy SEALs, dear. Sea, Air and Land teams, and yes, like them.”
“Only better?”
“Yo
u’ll never hear me say that,” he said with a smile.
She didn’t appreciate the humor. “You joke at a time like this?”
He wiped the smile off his face. “Of course not.” He took in a long breath, thinking of what to say that might help reassure her without pissing her off. “We’re doing everything we can and will have boots on the ground by tomorrow. They’ll find her, that’s what they do.”
His wife jumped to her feet and held out a hand, stopping him from rising. “No, I need to be alone. In the morning I want to be formally briefed on what’s being done to bring back my daughter.”
“But—”
“Just do it!” she screeched.
His mouth dropped open but he didn’t dare say a word as she stormed off. Instead he waited for the bedroom door to slam shut then pulled out his phone, dialing his aide to arrange a briefing her security clearance—or lack thereof—would permit.
It would be a dog and pony show, but as long as she felt included, and it looked impressive enough, it might just reassure her enough that the job she blamed for getting her daughter into trouble, might just be the one that could save her.
And the hollow in his stomach was making it crystal clear that he too needed the same reassurance.
The Unit, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
“Sorry for ruining your weekend, boys.”
Dawson stood at the front of the small briefing room, Niner, Jimmy and Atlas at the table. A flat screen had the Joint Special Operations Command logo spinning on it, each man with their own laptops in front of them with the classified files loaded.
“My mom has placed an old Korean curse on you,” said Niner. “Either your first born will have a third leg or you’re going to lose all your hair, I’m not sure which.”
Jimmy snorted. “Ron Jeremy’s dad must have been cursed by a Korean then.”
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