by Jon Land
“Spare us the bullshit and just give us the haps, Doc,” Denton said, in what sounded like an order.
“In normal situations, the life of the mother wouldn’t be at risk.”
“I take that to mean this isn’t a normal situation,” Ben interjected.
“In fact,” the doctor began, clearly unsettled as well as surprised, “it’s unprecedented. An ectopic pregnancy occurs when the embryo attaches outside the uterus. The severe abdominal pain that results, accompanied by vaginal bleeding, is usually more than enough to alert us to an anomaly, even before it’s detected by ultrasound. In this case, both these cases, the normal growth pattern of the fetuses pushed them inside the uterus with any outgrowth sealed by scar tissue. Had we known about this earlier, we would’ve been able to try to deliver the babies prematurely through emergency Caesarean sections. Now we’re faced with extremely complex and dangerous deliveries, no matter what scenario we choose to pursue.”
“So neither woman had a single symptom,” Denton said, trying to make sense of it all. “That’s what you’re saying.”
“In ten percent of cases, Mr. Denton, there are no symptoms. But I can’t explain how all of our regular checkpoints failed to detect what should’ve been obvious.”
“Maybe because you’re an incompetent idiot.”
Denton’s remark got no rise from the doctor. He’d introduced himself, but Ben couldn’t remember his name, and saw now that he wasn’t wearing a name tag.
“There’ll be time for recriminations later,” the doctor said. “For now, we’re left to face some long, challenging hours that may well leave us with some very difficult decisions to make.”
“You mean, whether to save the mother or the child,” Ben assumed.
“I mean,” the doctor told both he and Denton, “in both these cases, we may not be able to save either of them.”
THIRTY-ONE
Nigeria, 1991
“I don’t think I understand,” Secretary Neville said, after Pascal Jimenez had completed his initial report of the strike itself.
“Neither do I,” Jimenez told him over the satellite phone. “This is entirely unprecedented in the annals of planetary science and meteor strikes.”
“Surely, there must be something.”
“No, Mr. Secretary, I’m afraid there isn’t. I’ve spent the last day studying the crater and surrounding area. And I can definitively say I can find no trace whatsoever of any meteor.”
“What about fragments, anything?”
“You’ve already asked me that and the answer’s the same: no fragments. And, even if the structural integrity of the meteor was compromised upon entering our atmosphere at such a high rate of speed, there still should be plenty of evidence, at the very least, in the subterranean layers beneath the crater. But there’s nothing.”
Dead air filled the line, silence for so long that Jimenez thought the satellite connection might’ve been lost just before Neville’s voice returned.
“You’re saying that one of the most catastrophic strikes in recent history was caused by a meteor that, according to your report, no longer exists in any form.”
“I’m saying that’s not even remotely conceivable. And there’s something else.”
“I’m still listening, Professor.”
“Remember you told me how none of the planetary observatories were aware of this meteor entering the Earth’s atmosphere? That should’ve keyed us in to the fact we were dealing with something unprecedented and utterly inexplicable here. Meteors are normally aflame when they explode either in an airburst or upon impact, resulting in heat scoring and residue of the signature. There’s nothing like that here. No evidence of scoring at all from any heat, other than from the energy released at the moment the strike occurred.”
Jimenez heard Neville utter a deep sigh on the other end of the satellite line. “So you’re no closer to a conclusion about the animal deaths and the disappearance of the tribes residing in the surrounding area.”
“I had expected the answers to lie in samples of the meteor itself taken from the scene,” Jimenez told him. “I’ll have to look elsewhere for those answers now.”
“Bloody Africa,” Neville said, his distaste clear. “The mystery continent for as long as I’ve been in government.”
“One more thing,” Jimenez said, unsurely.
“What’s that?”
Jimenez thought of coming upon the lion pride that had ravaged itself, couldn’t put into words his fear that something the meteor strike had unleashed had been the cause.
“I misspoke,” he continued, as a result. “It’s nothing. Just my nerves acting up.”
“Understandable, given the circumstances. I’ll look forward to your next report, but contact me anytime with any further updates. And, Professor?”
“Yes?”
“You need to find whatever caused this nasty mess.”
* * *
The line clicked off, Jimenez left with the satellite phone dead in his hand while forming his next thought.
What am I missing here?
That a meteor had struck the Earth and created the crater he was currently gazing down into was incontrovertible. So what had happened to it? Over twenty thousand metric tons of rock couldn’t have all burned up. There should at the very least have been fragments, as large as boulders and as small as pebbles, contained within the crater with the largest concentration centered around the epicenter itself.
But there wasn’t, not in the crater and not anywhere in the blast zone’s radius. It was as if …
As if what?
Before Jimenez could consider the matter further, Foluke rushed up to him, out of breath.
“What’s wrong?” Jimenez asked him.
Foluke caught enough of his breath to finally speak.
“Wahala, Oga.”
“Wahala?”
“Trouble,” Foluke said, switching to English. “The rebels are coming.”
* * *
As a young boy, Jimenez had grown up in Caracas, Venezuela, at a time when gangs ruled the street. Going to the market literally meant taking your life in your own hands. A simple trip to bring food back to his mother and younger siblings consisted of weaving his way through alleys and over rooftops while listening to the clack of both automatic and sniper fire as the gangs battled both each other and the corrupt police force that rotated allegiance depending on who was paying them. He thought he’d never know fear like that again.
For his part, Cambridge didn’t seem overly concerned about the prospects of that, even after Foluke broke the news that the Nigerian complement of their troops had fled.
“That’s why we’re here,” he explained to Jimenez, scratching again at the area where the snake had bit him.
“The British government knew about Maitatsine, didn’t they? They knew Islamic fanatics were running rampant in these parts, all about the risk we were facing when they ordered up this expedition.”
“Here’s what I know, Professor,” Cambridge said, without really responding. “We’ve both got jobs to do, and mine is to keep you and your team safe. And if that means killing some bad guys, I’m ready and willing ’cause that’s what I get paid for. That’s what we do.” His dark eyes turned into black pools of ink that seemed to swallow all of the white. “But I’ll let you in on a little secret: I’d do this one for free, once I find you safe passage out of here.”
“Your hand,” Jimenez said.
“What about it?”
Jimenez glimpsed the swelling around the area of the man’s snakebite, riddled now with individual bumps that looked like boils ready to burst. “Let me have a closer look at it. The wound could be infected.”
Cambridge tucked the hand behind his back. “I feel fine, Professor, and we got more important fish to fry right now.”
* * *
Far more than he’d been expecting, as it turned out, when Foluke and Cambridge’s own SAS scouts reported that pockets of the advancing Maitatsine Is
lamic radicals had managed to secure all routes leading back to civilization.
“And there’s more,” Cambridge reported. “Word is they’re led by a man named Musa Makaniki, a psychopath who hates anything that even smells Western,” Cambridge explained. “Apparently, he’s been spotted in the area himself, leading the fighters who are headed our way.”
Cambridge’s walkie-talkie crackled and he snatched it from his belt, jerking it to his ear as he slipped away. His expression never changed during the course of whatever he was hearing; not dour or grim, so much as resigned, expectant, maybe even … pleased?
“We need to get you and your people hunkered down, Professor,” he told Jimenez. “Looks like the bloody sons of bitches are coming.”
THIRTY-TWO
New York City, 1991
“We may not be able to save the baby,” the doctor told Ben Younger outside the delivery room. “We may not be able to save either. I already told you that.”
“She can’t die,” Ben pleaded, feeling his knees quaking so much he thought the floor was shifting.
“The baby’s a boy.”
“I’m talking about my wife.”
“If you had to make a choice…”
“There’s no choice to make.”
“I understand,” the doctor said, even though it was clear he didn’t.
“Save them both, Doctor. That’s my decision. My wife’s too.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then save a scalpel for me.”
* * *
“The kid,” Dale Denton said. “If that’s what it comes down to, save the kid.”
“Mr. Denton, normal procedure dictates that we—”
“I don’t give a shit about normal procedure. I care about my kid. If you can save my wife too, great. If not, it’s balls to the wall to get the kid out alive, and let the rest of the chips fall where they may.”
“It’s a girl, Mr. Denton,” the doctor told him.
Nigeria, 1991
Maitatsine came from three directions at once, a two-hundred-man force, by all accounts, destined to converge inside the blast zone where they’d be able to flush their targets into the open. They knew the territory, certainly an advantage that Jimenez could only hope was more than balanced by the prowess and proficiency of SAS troops.
The bulk of the fighters wore shabby, Western-style clothing, a few in army uniforms either owned or taken off the soldiers who’d already fallen in their path. All carried guns; Russian Kalashnikovs, by the look of things, and spanking new compared to the ancient ordnance known from the days of Marwa.
Jimenez was with Cambridge when the report came down that their advance had come much faster than expected, leaving no time for him to hunker down with his team members, or retreat to the hills west of their current position. But there was still time, Cambridge assured, for his men to prepare for what was coming.
“You’re outnumbered at least ten to one,” Jimenez reminded, “maybe more.”
“And those ten to one will be coming single file along congested jungle trails. Easy pickings for boys who know how to pick.”
“But—”
“Bollocks, Professor,” Cambridge told him. “Keep cover, keep still, and enjoy the show. This is our blasted expedition now.”
New York City, 1991
Ben Younger stood by his wife’s bedside, feeling her squeeze his hand so hard he thought she was going to crush the bones.
“The baby, Ben,” she gasped, “the baby!”
“He’s going to be fine.”
“Save him, pleassssssse!”
Ben felt the bones in his hand crackle, his knees quaking from the pain that left him biting his lip.
“Whatever it takes! Promise me! Promise—”
Missy’s voice choked off there, like a battery had shut off in her head. All at once the monitoring machines wired to her began to flash and beep.
“We’re losing her!” a nurse cried out.
“We’re losing the baby too!” from the obstetrician, his expression anguished as he continued working his hands about desperately in Melissa’s insides. His pleading eyes locked onto Ben Younger. “Choose! You have to choose!”
* * *
Dale Denton was hardly prepared to bear witness to an emergency Caesarian section, but he wasn’t about to show weakness. He did his best to stand back from it all, as the obstetric team worked feverishly to deliver his daughter. But the queasiness turned him light-headed and left the floor wobbly beneath his feet. He leaned back against a wall and shut his eyes to the sights, wished he could’ve shut his nose to the smells as well.
He knew what Danielle would say, would want: “Fuck the kid. I’ll just have another.”
Denton was glad that decision now fell upon him. Dani had been pregnant twice before, both squandered to booze, drugs, meds, or a combination of all three. This time, Denton had obsessively committed himself to changing the paradigm by turning his wife into a veritable prisoner. She went nowhere without escort. Denton himself checked the medicine and kitchen cabinets, along with all her usual hiding places on a daily basis—anything to make sure Dani stayed clean this time.
Of course, she would’ve chosen herself; she hadn’t given a shit about the first two babies, so why change with this one?
The doctor believed it was both of them or neither at this point, robbing Denton of his ideal scenario:
A living daughter.
And a dead, pain-in-the-ass wife.
Nigeria, 1991
Jimenez watched as glimpses of motion and spots of the sun’s reflection off gunmetal flashed in the narrowing distance, the radicals almost upon them. His team of expert scientists, whom he’d barely gotten a chance to know, were as secure as could be in a thick nest of foliage well back from the crater with two of the SAS troops with them for protection. For his part, Jimenez remained with Cambridge for as long as possible, wanting to feel he had a part in this, even if that meant wielding a weapon himself.
“Showtime,” Cambridge said, just after teaching Jimenez how to shoot the pistol he’d provided.
The rest unfolded in a haze of blast and fire. First came the Claymores and other mines tucked under the dried-out muck of the jungle trails. Bodies of Maitatsine soldiers, both whole and ravaged, were launched far and near like something out of a slapstick movie. Severed arms, legs, torsos, and heads rocketed out of the smoke plumes.
Jimenez watched, the sounds seeming to come after a lag. Then his hearing sharpened and the lag reversed, with him seeing the product of blasts his ears had already recorded, the whole time with his own Beretta held at the ready.
He realized the initial series of explosions had been replaced by the steady clack of assault rifle fire raining in on the rebels from secure positions that included tree limbs commanded by a pair of snipers. The fall of bodies was like something out of a crude children’s video game, the kind played now with wires strung from a television. The precision of Cambridge’s SAS troops was as chilling as it was terrifying, the Maitatsine radicals standing no chance against them. Up until today, they’d rampaged through the country, encountering minimal resistance posed by government troops more likely to run than fight. Schoolyard bullies used to trampling over those too weak or afraid to fight back, enamored now by their own sense of power and will that had yet to truly be before now.
It didn’t feel like a dream or nightmare; it didn’t feel like anything at all, at least anything Jimenez had ever experienced before. Gunfire continued to hammer his ears, interspersed with anguished screams of pain uttered by Maitatsine radicals until more SAS fire silenced them.
Jimenez followed it all as best he could, utterly transfixed, feeling as if his consciousness had detached from his own body. Around him, flames continued to bite at the air as smoke from both fire and blast residue wafted through the jungle, forming cloud pockets that looked like fog nearly as thick as the soupy ash mist that had greeted their arrival here before the sun had broken through.
/> Jimenez heard brush crunching underfoot nearby and ducked out from his meager position of cover. He froze briefly before opting to move back downhill, closer to the actual crater and the greatest concentration of SAS troops. He resisted the urge to use the Beretta Cambridge had provided, not trusting his aim and afraid the shots would succeed only in alerting the rebels to his position.
The foliage thinned as he neared the soot-covered ground of the blast zone, entering the open charred space in which the crater was centered, just as the SAS commandos, a few of them wounded, emerged from the jungle. Having killed or chased off the rebels.
Jimenez was staring right at them, when a blistering torrent of bullets rained down from everywhere at once.
THIRTY-THREE
New York City, 1991
Ben Younger prayed, which was strange because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done so. He also couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so utterly helpless, including falling down a cave in the Yucatán the year before. Ben felt like he was back in that cave right now, lying at the bottom and gazing up at what remained of his life.
He was leaning against the wall, a closet door he realized now. Before him the hospital room had gone silent, his anxious mind suspended between levels of consciousness, unsure whether to fade to black or not. He could see the shapes in blue hospital garb working feverishly, frantically. Lights on all the monitors hooked up to both baby and mother flashing soundlessly and providing his only hope.
Then the machines went dark.
* * *
They had gone dark a few rooms down the hall too. Dale Denton came right up to the damn doctor who was skinny as a rail with big eyes that looked like big marbles sticking out of his head.
“You save my damn daughter, you hear me? You fucking save her!”
“We’re doing our best,” the doctor managed, between whatever desperate measures he was performing on a fetus exposed amid the blood, slop, and rearranged organs.
A trio of nurses, meanwhile, were working on Danielle. Denton couldn’t help but blame all the drinks, all the butts, all the drugs. Goddamn pharmacy for a medicine cabinet. Going cold turkey for nine months, when it probably would’ve taken nine years to get her system really cleaned out.