The Atlantis Plague: A Thriller (The Origin Mystery, Book 2)

by A. G. Riddle

She took a step forward. Then another. She would play the game—as long as she had to. That’s what her father had done. But he had turned his back on them, and they had buried him in a mine under Gibraltar. She wouldn’t relent.

  She blended into the growing throngs of people swarming the tables, talking quickly. “There you are.”

  Kate turned. It was the middle-aged man that had spoken to her before. “Hi,” Kate said. “Sorry if I wasn’t very talkative earlier. I… wasn’t sure what side you were on. It turns out I am a survivor.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Outside Ceuta

  Northern Morocco

  Through the dark of night and the glowing perimeter lights, David could see only glimpses of the massive military base ahead.

  The area around it was another mystery. The convoy of three jeeps sped across what David would have sworn was a dormant lava field. Here and there, wafts of smoke floated up from the lumpy, charred ground. The smell confirmed David’s worst fears. Ceuta had been put to the torch. The Immari had dug a trench around this part of the city, then burned it and flattened the remains—leaving an open area their enemies would have to cross to attack. Clever. Drastic, brutal, but clever.

  The scene reminded him of something, a lecture. For a moment, he was back at Columbia, before the world had changed, had come crashing down on him, literally. His professor’s voice had boomed in the auditorium.

  “The Roman Emperor Justinian ordered that the bodies be burned. This was mid-sixth century, people. The Western Roman empire had fallen to the Goths, who had sacked Rome and assumed control of its administration. The Eastern Empire, centered around Constantinople, now Istanbul, was very much a force in the civilized world. At the time, it was the largest metropolitan center on Earth. It held sway over Persia, the Mediterranean, and every land its army could sail to. The plague that came in 541 changed everything, forever. It was a pestilence the likes of which the world had never seen before—or since. The city’s streets ran red with the blood of bodies.

  “There were so many bodies that Justinian ordered the dead to be dumped in the sea. But still there were too many. Just beyond the city walls, the Romans dug giant mass graves, each capable of accommodating seventy thousand individuals. The fires burned for days.”

  History repeats itself, David mused. If this had happened in Ceuta, what was the rest of the world like? The plague unleashed by Toba Protocol—the eventuality he had spent the last ten years trying to prevent—had come to pass. He had failed. How many were dead? Almost against his will, his mind focused on one: Kate. Had she gotten out in Gibraltar? If so, where was she? Southern Spain? Here in Morocco? She was a needle in a haystack, but, assuming he survived the looming behemoth ahead, he would burn it down to find her. He would have to wait for his opening, a chance to escape. From the back of the jeep, he watched the last of the burned stretch of the city pass by.

  The convoy slowed at the iron gate at the center of the giant wall. Two black flags hung on each side. As the gate parted to let the jeeps pass, a gust of wind caught the flags and they unfurled: [II]. Immari International. The high white wall reached at least thirty feet into the air, and here and there it was charred with long stains of black, no doubt the scars from where the enemy on horseback had lain siege. The black-striped wall and gate looked almost like a zebra, opening its mouth to swallow the convoy. The flags waved like ears, flinching at the wind. Into the belly of the beast, David thought as they passed under the wall and the gate closed quickly behind them.

  The eight soldiers that had apprehended him in the mountains had bound his hands and tied them to his belt. He had ridden silently in the back seat of the jeep, enduring the bumpy, sometimes brutal journey from the mountains. He had gone through several escape scenarios, but each had ended with him leaping from the jeep, breaking a high number of bones and winding up in no shape to fight.

  Now he squirmed in the seat and turned left and right, surveying the interior of the base, searching for an escape opening. Inside the high walls, Immari soldiers were rushing to resupply the towers that dotted the walls. The scale took David aback. How many troops were there? Thousands at least, working along the wall that faced inland. Others no doubt manned the other walls that faced the sea. Beyond the wall, past the towers and wide supply roads, rows of houses spread out along the street. They looked mostly unoccupied, but occasionally a soldier would step into or out of one.

  Three rows of tilled soil ran along each side of the road. Every twenty feet or so, a wooden pole, like a shortened telephone pole, rose out of the ground. Each held two lumpy sacks, spaced several feet apart. David thought at first that they were giant wasps’ nests.

  Ahead, another high whitewashed wall loomed, almost exactly like the outer wall, and that told David what this was: a kill zone. If the Immari’s enemy—whoever the raiders on horseback were—ever breached the outer wall, they would shred them in this area in between. The tilled soil along the dirt road no doubt hid mines, and David assumed the sacks hanging from the poles were filled with spent shell casings, scrap metal, nails, and other debris that, when exploded, would rip apart anyone caught between the walls.

  The ancient fortress had other modern upgrades. Each of the guard towers held massive guns. David didn’t recognize the model. Something new? The tops of many houses were gone, and David figured they hid anti-aircraft batteries inside, sitting atop hydraulic lifts, ready to rise up and shoot down any incoming enemy aircraft. He doubted the horse raiders had any though.

  Again the soldiers worked the radio, and the iron gate at the inner wall parted. This wall was less charred than the outer, but several zebra stripes still reached from its top and bottom. As he passed under the inner gate, David felt his chances of escape grow smaller. “Hit the closest guard and run” wouldn’t cut it here. He had to focus.

  Inside the inner gate, houses and shops lined another street, this one untouched by mines and improvised explosives. It looked more like a quaint ancient village. There were people in plain clothes here as well as more soldiers. This was clearly the main residential section of the base.

  Beyond the second row of homes and shops, another wall rose, this one stone and much older. Another gate parted. The city was almost like one of those Russian matryoshka dolls with other dolls nested inside it.

  Ceuta had probably been built like other villages along the Mediterranean. Thousands of years ago, the inhabitants of this place had no doubt built a small settlement on the shore. That settlement had prospered as a trading post. Prosperity had brought settlers and the less scrupulous opportunists: pirates and thieves. The ensuing commerce and crime had seen the first city walls built, and over the centuries the city had expanded, each time erecting a new outer city wall to protect its new citizens.

  The buildings were much older here, and there was no one in plain clothes, only soldiers and seemingly endless stacks of artillery, munitions, and other equipment. The Immari were preparing for war, and this was clearly a major launching center. This was also the city’s citadel. He would be judged here.

  David turned to the soldier sitting in the jeep beside him. “Corporal, I know you’re following orders, but you need to release me. You’re making a very big mistake. Take me past the city gate and set me out. No one will be the wiser, and you might avoid a court-martial for interfering with a top-secret mission.”

  The young man eyed David, hesitated, then looked away quickly. “No can do, Colonel. Standing orders are to capture or kill anyone beyond the wall.”

  “Corporal—”

  “They’ve already called it in, sir. You’ll have to speak with the major.” The young soldier turned away as the jeep crossed the threshold of a courtyard that housed the fleet of jeeps. The convoy stopped and the soldiers dragged David out and marched him inside the building, down several corridors, and parked him inside a cell with heavy iron bars and a small, high window.

  David stood in the cell and waited, his hands still bound and fastened to his belt. Af
ter a time, loud footsteps echoed against the stone floor and a soldier appeared. His black uniform was unruffled and a single silver bar sat on his shoulder. A lieutenant. He squared with David, but kept his distance beyond the iron bars. Unlike the corporal in the jeep, there was no hesitation in his voice. “Identify yourself.”

  David stepped toward him. “Don’t you mean: Identify yourself, Colonel?”

  Hesitation crossed the man’s face, and he spoke more slowly. “Identify yourself, Colonel.”

  “Have you been briefed on covert operations here in Morocco, Lieutenant?”

  The lieutenant’s eyes darted left and right. Doubt. “No… I’ve haven’t been notified—”

  “Do you know why?” David held up his bound hands. “Don’t answer. It’s rhetorical. You haven’t been notified because, that’s right, the operations are covert. Classified. You log my presence here, my operation will be blown. And so will your chances of promotion or ever doing anything besides peeling potatoes. Understand?”

  David let the words linger in the young man’s mind a moment. When David continued, his tone was less harsh. “Right now, I don’t know your name, and you don’t know mine. That’s a good thing. Right now, this is just a mix-up, a stupid mistake by a low-ranking perimeter patrol. If you release me and provide me with a jeep, it will be forgotten.”

  The lieutenant paused for a moment, and David thought he was about to reach for something in his pocket, possibly the keys, when a set of boots began clacking against the stone floor and another soldier emerged in the hallway, a major. The higher-ranking officer glanced from the lieutenant to David as if he had caught them in the middle of something. His expression was mild, almost blank, somewhere near amusement, David thought.

  The lieutenant straightened at the sight of the major and said, “Sir, they found him in the hills below Jebel Musa. He refuses to identify himself, and I don’t have any transfer orders.”

  David studied the major. Yes, he recognized the man. His hair was longer and his face was leaner, but the eyes were the same as those David had seen several years ago in a small square photograph paper-clipped to a printout of an after-action report. The operative had handwritten the report in neat block letters, not cursive, as if every letter and word had been considered at length. The major had been a Clocktower operative—a member of the covert operations group David had worked for. David had recently learned that Clocktower had actually been under Immari control. The major might actually know who David was. But if not… Either way, David was finished if he didn’t make a play.

  He stepped to the iron bars. The lieutenant moved back and placed his hand on his sidearm. The major stood his ground. He slowly turned his head.

  “You’re right, lieutenant,” David said. “I’m not a colonel. Just like the man standing next to you isn’t a major.” David continued before the lieutenant could speak. “I’ll tell you something else you don’t know about the ‘major.’ Two years ago, he assassinated a high-value terrorist target named Omar al-Quso. He shot him at dusk at a range of almost two kilometers.” David nodded to the major. “I remember it because when I read the after-action report, I thought to myself, now, that’s a hell of a shot.”

  The major cocked his head, then shrugged and broke his gaze for the first time. “Truth be told, it was a rather lucky shot. I had already chambered the second round when I realized that al-Quso wasn’t getting up.”

  “I don’t… understand,” the lieutenant said.

  “Clearly. Our mysterious guest has just described a classified Clocktower operation, which means he’s either a station chief or a chief analyst. I don’t think analysts get to the gym nearly as much as our colonel here. Release him.”

  The lieutenant opened the cell and unbound David’s wrists, then turned back to the major. “Should I—”

  “You should make yourself scarce, Lieutenant.” He turned and began down the hall. “Follow me, Colonel.”

  As David walked down the stone hallway, he wondered whether he was now deeper in the trap, or on his way out.

  CHAPTER 36

  Immari Operations Base at Ceuta

  Northern Morocco

  The major led David out of the building that housed the holding cells, and across a wide courtyard that was crowded with pens. David could hear rustling inside. Were they keeping their livestock here? Sounds he couldn’t make out drifted into the night.

  The major seemed to notice David’s interest. He glanced at the pens. “Barbarians waiting for the boatman.”

  David wondered what he meant. In Greek mythology, “the boatman” carried souls of the newly deceased across the rivers Styx and Acheron that divided the world of the living from the world of the dead. He decided to let it go. He had more pressing mysteries to unravel.

  They walked in silence the rest of the way to a large building at the center of the inner city.

  David quickly took in the major’s office. He didn’t want to seem too interested, but several things struck him. It was too large. This was clearly the base commander’s office. And it was sparse. The walls had been stripped to the white drywall and there was very little else: a black Immari flag in the corner, a simple wooden desk with a swiveling metal chair behind it, and two foldout chairs across from the desk.

  The major plopped down behind the desk, drew a pack of cigarettes from the top drawer, and quickly lit one with a match. He held the match and looked up at David. “Smoke?”

  “I quit after the outbreak. Figured there wouldn’t be any left in a few weeks.”

  The major shook the match out and tossed it in the ashtray. “Glad I’m not that smart.”

  David didn’t sit at the desk. He wanted some distance between them. He walked to the window and stared out, thinking, hoping the major would tip his hand somehow, give David an opening.

  The major blew a cloud of smoke between them and spoke carefully, as if measuring every word before he spoke it. “I’m Alexander Rukin. Colonel…”

  He’s good, David thought. Right to the point. No opening. What do I have to work with? The room. A major—commanding a base this large? It was unlikely. But David sensed that there was no superior officer on site. “I was told the base commander would be notified of my presence, should we come into contact.”

  “He may have been.” Rukin took another pull on the cigarette. David sensed something changing. Is he changing his approach?

  “He’s in southern Spain, leading the invasion. He deployed almost everyone. We’re running a skeleton crew. Our station chief, Colonel Garrott, got picked off two days ago. Stupid son of a bitch was making the rounds, visiting every guard tower, shaking hands like he’d been elected mayor of hell. Berber sniper got him with one shot. We assume the shooter was in the hills, that’s why we added the patrols. And the boomerangs on the perimeter. Now I need to know why you’re here.”

  Yes, Rukin was giving him useless details, hoping David would reciprocate, tell his story, make a mistake. “I’m here for a job.”

  “What—”

  “It’s classified,” David said, turning to face Rukin. How long do I have? Maybe an hour before he finds out I’m a fake? At best, I can buy some time. “Call it in. If you have the clearance, they’ll tell you.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “The explosion.” Rukin read David’s face. “You don’t know?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Someone exploded a sub-nuclear device at Immari HQ in Germany,” Rukin said. “Nobody’s calling anything in right now, especially covert ops verifications.”

  David failed to hide his surprise. But… it was the opening he needed. “I’ve… been in transit, with no comms.”

  “From?”

  Now the test. “Recife,” David said.

  Rukin leaned forward. “There’s no Clocktower station in Recife—”

  “We were in startup when the analyst purge began. Then the plague hit. I barely got out. I’ve been on special ass
ignment since.”

  “Interesting. That’s a really interesting story, Colonel. Here’s the reality: if you don’t tell me who you are and why you’re here right now, I’ll have to hold you in a cell until I can verify your identity. It’s my ass if I don’t.”

  David stared at him. “You’re right. It’s… operational secrecy. Old habit. Maybe I was a Clocktower operative for too long.” Then David gave the story he had been working on since he crossed the first gate. “I’m here to help secure this base. You know how important Ceuta is to the cause. My name is Alex Wells. If HQ is destroyed, there’s bound to be someone from special ops directorate that can verify me.”

  Rukin scribbled some notes on a pad. “I’ll have to confine you to quarters under guard until then. You understand, Colonel.”

  “I understand,” David said. I’ve bought some time. Would it be enough to get out of here? One goal dominated David’s mind: finding Kate. He needed information to do that. “I do have one… request. As I said, I’ve been in transit. I’d like to hear any updates you have. Anything unclassified, of course.”

  Rukin sat back in the metal chair, seeming to relax for the first time. “The rumor is that Dorian Sloane has returned. Naturally he was arrested outside the Antarctica structure. But they say he carried a case. The morons in charge took that case back to HQ and it blew up the building. Darwinism at work, if you ask me.”

  “What happened to Sloane?”

  “That’s the strangest part. The story is that in interrogation, he killed a guard and ripped open Chairman Sanders’ throat. Then, get this, they kill him—double tap to the head, close range. An hour later, he walks out of the structure. A completely new body—with all his memories. Not a scratch on him.”

  “Impossible…”

  “And then some. The Immari are desperate to create this mythical story around him. It’s working. The rank and file worship him now. The end of days, Messiah, rapture rhetoric… here in Ceuta and every other place that flies the Immari flag. It’s nauseating.”