The 6th Plague

by Darren Hale

  Darren J Hale

  The 6th Plague

  © 2020, Darren J. Hale. All rights reserved.

  The right of Darren J. Hale to be identified as the author of this work is asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Except as provided by the Copyright Act 1988 no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any

  resemblance to actual persons living or dead

  is purely coincidental.

  Cover: © 2020 bookcoversart.com

  To My Parents…

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  2000BC

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  Epilogue

  Also by this Author:

  2000BC

  Torches danced and flickered along the causeway, painting the buildings with sanguine smears of smoky red light, and dappling the crowd with their tawdry light.

  Ishra-Tep turned his eyes toward the eight burly servants now approaching the royal plaza, bearing the remains of his father, the late high priest, in a litter high upon their shoulders.

  The crowd wailed, wringing their lamentations onto a breeze heavy with the scents of incense and copal.

  The causeway was long, and the litter bearers’ steps had been slow and methodical. Nevertheless, they had almost reached their destination – the royal tomb – a magnificent edifice smouldering in the dying rays of the sun. It had been their queen’s final resting place, and according to their traditions, it would be his father’s too.

  He raised his voice against the wind and added his own ululating cry to those of his people, calling them to silence before offering a prayer to the gods, invoking powerful magics and offering sacrifices until the altars were wet with blood in the hope that they would forgive them, for he too showed the marks of their displeasure – large, mottled blue blotches that seemed to ache beneath his skin. If they remained unappeased, the bruises would fester, becoming boils, then open sores that would consume him within days, adding his death to the many others of who had been culled like heads of maize before a gale.

  The litter-bearers continued their solemn advance, down the steps and into the catacombs below.

  Ishra-Tep nodded to the crowd, his headdress of brightly coloured quetzal feathers bobbing awkwardly as he did so.

  Answering his signal, a dozen warriors bounded to their feet and hurried after the funeral party, brandishing clubs and axes fashioned with blades of polished obsidian.

  Ishra-Tep smiled.

  Perhaps their gods would forgive them now?

  1

  Six years ago

  Deep in the Colombian Jungle:

  The Infrared Surveillance and Imaging Satellite ISIS-1 stalked the heavens; a tiny mote cast against the canvas of eternal night, silent and anonymous as it peered through the cataract of soiled clouds below.

  Reece McKenzie sat hidden from its view, sheltered beneath a thin foil blanket designed for that purpose and dappled in the shadows falling from the giant Ceiba tree behind him. He resisted the urge to look into the sky, exposing himself in a futile search for something that could not be seen. Nevertheless, he knew it was there, its position painted as a yellow blob and hazy red ellipse that wandered steadily across a map of the area.

  ‘Okay… we’re good to go,’ he said, folding the laptop and stowing it in his backpack just as soon as the threat had passed.

  Lucas Zachary watched him suspiciously. The man was a newcomer to their outfit, and yet to prove himself. ‘You’re sure?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I’m bloody sure!’

  ‘Good… Because it wouldn’t do to have our “deniable” operation being caught on camera, even if it does belong to the home team,’ said Lucas. ‘So, what’s our window?’

  ‘Three hours and forty-five minutes…’

  ‘Then ISIS-2 will be in a position to see us?’

  Reece nodded.

  ‘Okay…’ Lucas was satisfied. Their modified all-terrain quad bikes would cover the remaining twelve klicks up the riverbed and be back out of sight well before ISIS-2 was in any position to see them. Then came the difficult bit – a ten-kilometre hike through some of the country’s more inhospitable jungle in search of their target – one of the Rodriguez cartel’s larger cocaine factories.

  In Colombia, power was money, and money was cocaine. You either supplied it or controlled it, depending on your moral leanings. And as had been demonstrated time and again by the country’s President, Alberto Marez, those “moral leanings” could be rather ambiguous. A man of questionable integrity, he was known to have had ties to the country’s cartels and terrorist organisations, nevertheless, when it had come to the pursuit of power, he had been quick to rail against the drug trade, calling upon the American people for their aid, and sanctioning the many covert US strikes against coca plantations and factories around the country. Those belonging to the opposition of course.

  You had to love politics…

  ‘Let’s move out!’ Lucas ordered.

  Matthew Saunders, Sandy Marshall, and Greg Owens – the three remaining members of his team – were quick to obey. They stripped the camouflage blankets from their quadbikes and stowed them in their backpacks. These thermal-reflective covers had served their purpose, hiding them from the satellite’s cameras, both optical and infrared. Awakening their bikes with a twist of the throttle, they sped away, closely followed by Nathan Eades, his tyres spewing mud and rock behind him.

  Nathan Eades watched him depart. ‘Just who the fuck does that guy think he is?’

  ‘Reece McKenzie – ex-Navy SEAL – dishonourably discharged for insubordination, failing to obey orders, and striking an officer. He has quite the colourful resume...’ Lucas replied.

  ‘So how in the hell did we get stuck with him?’

  ‘He came highly recommended… Three purple hearts, a bronze star, and a silver star for heroism in the face of overwhelming odds. The man spent two years working black-ops here in Colombia before he was busted, and he knows the terrain, and more importantly the target, better than anyone.’

  ‘Yeah – well, I don’t like him…’

  ‘Good – neither do I…’

  Having saddled their own bikes, they raced onto the riverbed.

  The bikes chewed up the empty miles, chasing, but never reaching, the saw-toothed mountains that lined the horizon, and within the hour they’d made good progress. The rains had yet to start and the river w
as little more than a vestigial stream, its broad, muddy banks, baked as hard as any road. Nevertheless, despite his enthusiastic start, Reece was beginning to lag behind...

  Lucas eased up on the throttle, falling back until he was almost alongside the trailing rider. ‘Problem?’ he asked.

  Reece shook his head. ‘Not really. I think I must have done some damage to the fuel line as we crossed those rocks back there. The engine’s been sounding a little rough.’

  ‘Sounds alright to me…’ Lucas observed.

  ‘Like I said – it’s not a problem. Just as long as I don’t push it too hard…’

  ‘Do you think you’ll make it to the insertion point?’

  Reece grinned. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

  ******

  Roberto Frakes watched from a neighbouring hill as the first of the quadbikes came bouncing into view, its appearance heralded by the muted droning of its engine. He raised his rifle, and having snugged the butt firmly against his shoulder, let the crosshairs brush the riders one by one, before coming to rest finally upon the last of them – a brawny soldier in a jungle pattern DPM jacket and incongruous-looking brown, leather Stetson..

  He grinned, his lips curling back as he tested his finger lightly against the trigger. With just a little light pressure he could have taken this man down. A simple clean headshot to punish his arrogance. An accident…

  Resisting the urge, he corrected his aim, returning his sights to the leading bike.

  A deep breath…

  A gentle squeeze…

  ******

  A gunshot ripped the air.

  The lead bike flipped end over end, flames budding from its fuel tank before expanding in a fireball that tore it apart.

  ‘What the!’ Lucas jinked sideways – a reflex that had perhaps saved his life as the second bullet, which had otherwise been aimed at his head, struck the wads of muscle covering his shoulder, leaving nothing more than a flesh wound.

  He gunned the throttle in an attempt to outdistance his assailant, while continuing to make rapid turns to confound his aim. Nevertheless, the next shot brought an end to his efforts. Pinging through the carapace of his bike’s engine compartment, it sent fragments of metal tumbling through its own internal organs, liberating streams of oil that leaked like blood from the wound.

  The engine coughed and stuttered as the bike yawed, hurling him towards the riverbank and the promise of cover.

  Ahead of him, Owens had turned towards the trees only to find himself being cut down by a barrage of weapons fire.

  Nathan Eades was more fortunate. With bullets pecking the ground ahead of him, he heaved his quad-bike to one side, avoiding what might have been his imminent demise, though the violent manoeuvre had upended the bike and sent him tumbling to the floor a few metres away.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Lucas exclaimed, shouting to be heard above the sound of gunfire.

  ‘Looks like we’re under attack…’ Nathan observed as another salvo of bullets pinged across his upturned bike.

  ‘No shit! And how did they know we were coming? These bastards were here ready and waiting for us.’

  ‘How the hell would I know? If you hadn’t noticed, these bastards are shooting at me as well!’

  Further upstream, Reece McKenzie and Matthew Saunders had abandoned their bikes and were using them as cover while they returned fire, as best they could.

  Lucas hammered his finger down upon the trigger of the LAR-15 assault carbine he was carrying, peppering their assailants’ general vicinity with a burst of gunshots. ‘I vote we get the hell out of here before they turn us into confetti!’

  Nathan gave a curt nod. ‘I agree... Let’s see if we can make it to those trees?’ he said, pointing the way.

  ‘And what are the chances that there are more of them, in there, waiting for us?’

  ‘High…’ Nathan observed. ‘But I say we take the fight to them. We’ll last a lot longer in there than we will here.’

  ‘Okay, I’m good with that.’ Lucas looked towards the tree line. ‘On the count of three… two… one…’ He fired another burst from his assault rifle, jumped to his feet, and sprinted towards the trees, closely followed by Nathan.

  The whiplash crack of a sniper’s rifle sundered the air and Lucas went down, his throat a ruined mess of flesh and blood.

  Nathan hesitated. Lucas was still alive, one hand gripped to the hole in his throat in an impossible attempt to stem the flow of blood, while his other arm thrashed about him in an anguish that was short-lived. The next shot hit him squarely in the chest, leaving a rosette of blood where the round had struck and bringing a quick end to his pain. There was no saving him now…

  Realising that his own death might come winging its way towards him at any moment, Nathan planted his feet and ran. Further along the riverbed, Matt and Reece had come to the same conclusion and were now racing toward the trees.

  Matt fell, the crack of a gunshot reporting his death seconds after it had happened, though, with the blood pounding in his ears, Nathan had barely heard a thing as the jungle closed its jaws around him.

  Matt was dead…

  Lucas, McKenzie, and Marshall too…

  He was sure of that much.

  And Reece was nowhere to be seen.

  Footsteps…

  Heavy breathing…

  The rustling of leaves…

  The snapping of twigs…

  Nathan turned – his gun raised towards the sounds.

  Reece blundered into view…

  ‘Whoa there, mate…’

  Reece raised his arms, as if to surrender.

  A smile.

  A betrayal of intent?

  A shot.

  And a hat reclaimed from the floor, where it had fallen…

  2

  Wednesday 6th September:

  Will-O-Wisp flickers of light darted through the gaps between the curtains and danced like ghosts along the walls. They were followed by the pop and crackle of tyres chewing up the gravel as a car pulled into the driveway outside.

  Catherine Mills grabbed her passport from its resting-place on the coffee table, where it lay next to a half-consumed mug of coffee – black, now cold – and placed it in her jacket pocket. An old white lab coat wilted on a peg next to the front door, the name badge pinned neatly to its breast pronouncing her name in boldly-stencilled letters – “Dr Catherine Mills” – a stark reminder of the life she was leaving behind. The cleaners would find it in the morning and remove it, along with the coffee mug.

  She gave the room a quick once-over to make sure she had not forgotten anything, and stifling a yawn, collected her single voluminous backpack from its resting place next to the sofa and shrugged it onto her shoulder. Then, with just a tinge of sadness, she unlocked the door and stepped into the night.

  The driver was standing next to the taxi, puffing and wheezing in the cold air, having just squeezed his generously proportioned body out from behind the steering wheel. He made no attempt to approach her. ‘Here love, let me help you with that,’ he offered, pointing to her bag.

  ‘Thank you, but I think I’ll manage,’ Catherine replied, more than a little concerned that his sudden display of chivalry might result in the need for medical assistance before the night was out. She lugged her backpack over to the car and slid it onto the back seat. Then, curling up next to it, she rested her head on one of the softly bulging pockets and closed her eyes.

  The taxi driver wedged himself behind the dashboard with a grunt. ‘So, where you goin’ luv?’

  ‘The airport please...’

  ‘Going somewhere nice?’

  ‘Manaus…’

  The taxi driver nodded knowingly. ‘I think I had a friend of mine go there once. One of the Greek islands isn’t it?’

  ‘No… it’s not. It is in fact in the middle of the Amazon jungle,’ she replied petulantly. It was fast becoming evident that he had no intention of letting her sleep.

  ‘Oh,’ said the t
axi driver, feeling a little uncomfortable. He turned the radio on and started tapping the palm of his hand against the steering wheel in time to the music.

  Minutes later, the car turned onto the motorway and was speeding south towards Edinburgh, mountains rolling past them like slumbering giants, puffs of cloud breaking across their shoulders like spindrift.

  ‘So how long are you going for?’ the taxi driver asked. ‘You know we can arrange to pick you up for the return journey as well if you like.’

  Catherine sighed. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea how long I’ll be gone. Probably four to six months I would imagine – maybe longer.’

  He whistled. ‘That’s some holiday…’

  ‘Actually, it’s more of a busman’s holiday. I’ll be working.’

  ‘You’re a doctor – right…’

  ‘Ah-ha…’ Catherine waggled her head in agreement. It hadn’t taken any great leap of deductive logic to figure that one out – the hospital residencies only catered for doctors, and he’d no doubt been there many times in the past. And besides, the tired recesses beneath her eyes were a dead giveaway…

  ‘So, you’re going to be working in a hospital out there then?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’m going to work with an expedition that’s travelling up the Amazon.’

  He whistled. ‘An expedition? How on earth did you manage to land a job like that?’

  ‘Just lucky I guess…’

  Her emancipation had in fact begun late one night, while relaxing in the hospital mess. It had been one of those rare, quiet moments on call. She’d been curled up on the sofa, watching a little television while consuming the meagre content of a microwave meal – one of those all-in-one meals that was destined, for the most part, to make it straight from the packet to the bin. All in all, it had been a fitting end to a not so perfect day… Mrs McAllister, the lady with alcohol induced liver failure, had finally died. In the closing days of her life, the woman had turned every conceivable shade of yellow from pale lemon to an almost fluorescent orange as her liver finally gave up to her jaundice. A vagrant in more ways than one, she had migrated around the ward, moving from room to room as her condition deteriorated, until she had finally ended up in a small single occupancy room where her deranged ramblings would not upset her fellow patients.