by A. G. Riddle
The voice over the speaker was calling him again as he walked to his office.
The operator connected him to the Ministry of Health. Dhamiria’s voice on the line was music to his ears; they had both been working around the clock, and he desperately wanted to see her.
“Elim, the general’s staff just called.”
He sat up. The military was now the closest thing Kenya had to a functioning government.
“The UN has contacted them. They’ve made a deal with Greece and France to get a small number of doses of the cure to every nation. We’re going to get seven doses within two hours—a Greek jet is flying them here.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“The general wants all the doses, but we told him we needed at least one for research, in hopes of making more of the cure.”
Elim smiled. “That was very smart.”
The truth was, they didn’t have the facilities to effectively research and manufacture a cure. But he did have use for a dose of the life-saving medicine. It would help him fulfill a promise he had made. And repay a debt.
When the doses of the X1-Mandera cure arrived, Elim personally went to the military headquarters at the Ministry of State for Defence complex in Nairobi’s Hurlingham area. One dose had already been used for the general currently leading Kenya’s Defence Forces, and the general was using the other five doses to test the loyalty of those under his command and root out anyone who might challenge him. It was proving effective. Two other generals and three colonels had been assassinated that morning—all had been discontent with the current leadership. People were falling in line, and Elim could sense the change at the military complex.
As soon as he got the dose, he rushed back to Kenyatta National Hospital and raced through the corridors. He brought five of the survivors from Dadaab to protect him—and the cure. They were an intimidating presence in the hospital, but they were necessary.
Inside the patient room, he quickly administered the dose. He hoped he wasn’t too late.
He tried not to think about the patient as he conducted his rounds. Hours went by without word. He wondered if the cure wasn’t 100% effective.
He was diagnosing a middle-aged man with Hepatitis E when he got word that the patient was awake. That was a good sign.
He pushed open the door to the room. Hannah was sitting up in bed. Her eyes were sleepy; black bags hung under them. Moving her limbs seemed to take immense effort. Elim remembered vividly the wasting away the deadly virus had brought with it. He had been forced to almost start over: to learn to walk again and to use his muscles. He knew she would have to travel the same road. But he saw strength in her eyes.
“They tell me I have you to thank for my recovery.”
Elim shook his head. “I was just a delivery man.”
“But you made the decision.”
“I did. It’s the hardest decision any person will ever make: whose life to save. It’s especially difficult for physicians.”
“And you chose me.”
Elim answered the question she was really asking—why. He knew what she would go through next: survivor’s guilt. Hannah was a physician and an epidemiologist; she had dedicated her life to saving others. Now Elim had put her before them, at the front of the line.
“A couple of weeks ago, a group of very brave strangers came to help my people. We were dying. They put their lives at risk to help us. They brought what they believed was a life-saving cure for the virus. ZMapp. They brought it for their own people, but they agreed to give a single dose to my government, who gave it to me. That dose saved my life.
“I felt guilty about it at first, wondering if they had made the right decision. I asked why. They told me that mine was a life worth saving.”
“And you think mine is?”
“I know it.”
“Why?”
“You were one of those strangers who came here, risking your life to help us. But most of all, I know it because I know what you’re thinking right now.”
She looked away from him.
“Right now you want to get out of that bed, walk out into this hospital, and start helping people.”
Her eyes told him he was correct.
“The world needs people like you, Dr. Watson. It’s a difficult choice, but sometimes we have to save the people who can help others. I realized the wisdom of my government’s decision when I traveled to the refugee camp, and when I came here.
“A brush with death changes a person. For good people, it changes them for the better, makes them more thankful—and dedicated to the things that matter.
“Your recovery will take time. You’ve been bedridden for days. But it will happen. And when it does, we will welcome your help. Rest for now.”
Chapter 111
The moon lit their way. The boats were nearly silent, the passengers clad in black, their faces painted in jungle shades of green and brown.
The salt-laced wind blew through Peyton’s hair, whipping it around when the boat bounced. Desmond sat beside her, eyes forward. On this early summer night in the South Pacific, with the wind on her face, Peyton was at peace. She marveled at the events of the last two weeks. Her father had returned. Desmond had returned. And she might be about to lose it all.
Avery sat across from her. The blond woman had stuffed her hair in the helmet and applied the face paint liberally. Her eyes glowed unnaturally, like a predator sitting silently in the jungle, examining its prey, contemplating whether to spring. She looked from Peyton to Desmond and back, saying with her eyes, So you’re together again?
Peyton wanted to kick the woman in the chest, send her over the boat’s edge. But they needed her. And Avery would probably just catch Peyton’s foot and snap it like a twig anyway.
Peyton’s father seemed to read the exchange. He also glanced at Desmond and raised his eyebrows. Peyton felt herself turn red. It was so bizarre—all her teenage years squeezed into this moment.
Not to be left out, Charlotte eyed Desmond and Peyton. She smiled, apparently delighted at the prospect of her former boyfriend’s sister and the orphan she had cared for getting together. The only ones who didn’t seem clued in to the exchange were the Navy SEALs at the bow and stern.
The beach ahead appeared deserted, but Peyton couldn’t help but hold her breath as the small vessels crested wave after wave.
Their boat came to a crunching halt as sand dragged the bottom. The beach was littered with shells, driftwood, and fallen coconuts. It wasn’t a pristine resort beach. It was an untouched land, the way nature had made it and kept it for all these years.
Soldiers were waving their arms forward, urging their five passengers out of the boat. Seconds later, Peyton took her first step onto the island.
Chapter 112
SEALs and Force Recon operatives hoisted the two boats up and jogged into the lush forest. They hid the vessels under camouflage and led Peyton, Desmond, Avery, William, and Charlotte deeper into the South Pacific island jungle.
The troops formed a ring around the five civilians. They crouched slightly as they crept through the jungle, over coconuts on the ground, with palm trees above and dense tree ferns in every direction. The air was humid, sticky almost. The heat was oppressive, but the breeze off the ocean beat it back every few seconds.
To Peyton, the jungle seemed alive, constantly in motion, like a single organism breathing in and out. The dense trees and plants swayed in the wind. Creatures she couldn’t identify clicked and called and slithered all around her. The plants were so thick she could barely see ten feet in front of her.
Everyone was on edge. Several times they stopped, crouched, and waited, making sure they were alone in the jungle.
Peyton had had basic training in voice procedures for two-way radio communication, and it had come in handy on many of her deployments when interacting with armed forces, police, fire, and aviation personnel. The training had certainly come in handy of late.
Peyton’s father spoke the first w
ords over the comm, a whisper. “Target three hundred yards.”
The group stopped, and three soldiers departed, moving quickly. When they returned, they motioned for the group to follow.
The forest gave way to a cleared area. From a hill in the trees, Peyton made out rows of small houses in a Caribbean style: clapboard sides, metal roofs, hurricane shutters, and large front porches. A massive canopy hung over the homes, supported by metal poles set in concrete footings. An electric vehicle that reminded her of a golf cart with clear plastic sides zoomed away from one of the houses.
A Marine spoke over the comm. “Overwatch, units Bravo and Zulu. We are at location Tango. Proceeding.”
“Bravo, Zulu, Overwatch. Copy that.”
William and four soldiers departed from the group, made their way to the corner of the settlement, and sat for a moment, working their binoculars. The remaining troops spread out in the forest and took up sniper positions, most lying on their stomachs, peering through the scopes of their rifles, sweeping across the small settlement.
On the ship, Peyton’s father had insisted on leading the advance recon teams. Colonel Jamison had argued against it, but William had insisted that he had the most first-hand information about the terrain and their adversary. In the ship’s infirmary, he had made Peyton wrap up his ankle again, administer cortisone shots, and give him some oral painkillers. He had tucked the pills in his pocket, but hadn’t taken one.
William and the four soldiers accompanying him darted to the closest home and entered through the back door. The older man brought up the rear. His limp slowed him down some, but Peyton thought he was moving well, considering.
She counted down the seconds, but nothing occurred. Minutes passed. Then two soldiers slipped out the back door, ran back into the tree line, and exited farther down, by the fourth house from the corner. They entered that house in a similar way.
A soldier spoke urgently on the radio. “Zulu leader, request backup at location two.”
Orders then came quickly over the comm.
Six team members sprang up, raced along the tree line, and burst out, into the second home the troops had entered. Peyton was amazed at their speed. She swallowed. Her father was in the first house. Is he okay? The thought of losing him now terrified her; she only realized it in that moment, when his life was at great risk.
Desmond looked at her and nodded slightly, a gesture only she could see, trying to reassure her.
Avery crept to the leader of Zulu team and whispered to him, too low for Peyton to hear. The man shook his head and pushed her back, seeming annoyed.
She didn’t let it go. Seconds later, she rose and barreled down the hill.
The man’s voice was hard over the comm. “Medusa, return to rally point.”
Avery didn’t stop.
“Fox team, be advised, Medusa is inbound to your twenty.”
Zulu leader looked back at Desmond, who just shrugged, letting the man know they’d been dealing with the same thing.
Another electric car emerged from the wooded path and parked at a house unoccupied by the soldiers. Two more cars drove to different houses. Along the perimeter, several of the black-clad troops began spreading closer to those houses.
Peyton desperately wanted to know what was going on, but she held her tongue and tried to stay calm.
A hushed voice came over the comm, a soldier; wounded, Peyton thought. “Zulu, Bravo teams. Move in. Hurry.”
Chapter 113
Inside the second home, the blinds were closed. Blood spread across the wide-plank hardwood floor. Peyton stopped at the sight, walked slowly around it. The Marines and Navy SEALs moving through barely took notice. They went from room to room, calling “Clear!” before re-entering the central hallway.
Peyton relaxed when she heard her father’s voice in the dining room. She found him standing with Avery and two other soldiers. They had taken a painting from the wall and had drawn a map of the island and its buildings on the back.
William activated the comm and laid out his plan, broadcasting to their forces and to the Boxer’s Combat Information Center.
He and the soldiers had interrogated several of the homes’ residents and had learned a great deal. The map was an updated view of the island’s layout, which had changed some since the sixties. About two hundred private security contractors were housed in barracks near the harbor. The island had also been upgraded with significant defensive capabilities, including advanced sonar and radar. The technology likely would have detected the larger amphibious landers long before they reached the beach. They were unsure whether the small boats they’d used to come ashore had been detected, but they were hopeful they’d gone unseen. The detection grid was focused on the harbor side of the island.
The most concerning fortifications were the island’s surface-to-air and surface-to-sea defenses. The Citium was capable of fending off attacks from the Boxer’s air wing, and it had missiles with sufficient range to reach the ships of the expeditionary strike group.
William urged them not to move the vessels back; if the formation of ships was already under surveillance, withdrawing might raise suspicion—and launch a search of the island.
William had flagged two buildings of interest: a lab complex, and an administrative building that housed the island’s data center and communications equipment. According to the residents they’d interrogated, neither building was heavily guarded, and the current work shift would be ending within the hour—that would be the best time to infiltrate the buildings.
Quickly, they made a plan that struck Peyton as well conceived. The SEALs and Force Recon troops would make their way to the barracks and defense complex. Their first priority would be disabling the island’s radar and missile capabilities. Then they would rig explosives to the troop carriers; the logic was that if the island’s infantry units were mobilized to repel a ground assault, they could be neutralized quickly. The plan was efficient and deadly, and perhaps the best they could do with their limited forces.
Their search of the homes had turned up an IT administrator named Carl and a senior biomedical engineer named Gretchen. Their shifts were about to start, and they would provide a cover for the infiltration teams. Desmond, William, and Avery would enter the administrative building with Carl, who would tell anyone who asked that they were new consultants who needed access to the database. Charlotte and Peyton would enter the lab complex with Gretchen, and search for any information related to the cure. Two Navy SEALs would go with the second team. Each team member had brought along civilian clothes and a disguise for this exact type of infiltration.
In the bathroom, Peyton began washing off the face paint. When she looked in the mirror, she saw Desmond standing in the doorway.
“Be careful.”
She stared at him in the mirror. “You too.”
“I’ll see you on the other side.”
“I’ll be there.” And she hoped he would too.
Chapter 114
Peyton rode in the back of the electric car with Gretchen and Charlotte. The two Navy SEALs sat in the front, both silent, eyes forward, occasionally glancing around for any signs of trouble along the dirt road that wound through the island. The car’s tiny lamps barely cut the darkness; Peyton assumed that was to avoid being spotted from above. The roads weren’t covered with large canopies; instead, large trees lined both sides, their massive limbs stretching overhead.
Peyton glanced over at Gretchen. The woman was in her mid forties, fit, with blond hair and an annoyed expression. Peyton wondered what had happened in the house to convince her to take them into the lab building. She assumed some sort of coercion was involved. Most of all, she wondered how a person with a PhD in biomedical engineering, who seemed rational, would ever cooperate with the Citium.
“Why did you do it?” she asked.
Gretchen replied without looking Peyton in the eyes. Her accent was German, or perhaps Dutch, Peyton thought. “I dispute the premise.”
Peyton bunched her eyebrows.
“You assume we have acted against humanity’s best interest.” Gretchen looked at Peyton now. “I assure you that is not the case. Our actions will save lives. It is you whom I should ask why.”
“I think distributing a deadly pathogen is just slightly against the human race’s best interest.”
“Your perspective is myopic.”
“You have killed millions of people in the last week.”
Gretchen looked away. “Something we regret. Many of the deaths were due to decisions by your government and others. But the end result will be the same. An outcome easily worth the price.”
“Which is—”
The Navy SEAL driving interrupted. “Look alive, ladies.”
The car exited the dirt road and moved onto a heavily wooded promenade with covered walkways, no doubt with camouflage images on top. A large covered parking area loomed to the left.
“Take any space,” Gretchen said.
As they parked, the SEAL in the passenger seat turned and said to her, “I want to remind you of our arrangement—and the consequences of deviating from it.”
“I require no reminder.”
LED lights on the dome of the canopy lit their way toward the lab complex. They walked in silence as other staffers joined them on the path.
Inside, a guard at a desk barely glanced at them. Gretchen led them to an elevator and pressed a button that read B4. At the house, Peyton had considered where to go first. The others had the primary mission: finding the warehouses where the existing cure was housed. But as a backup plan, Peyton’s job was to find where the cure was being created, and gather any information on its mechanism of action. If the others failed, and governments around the world were forced to try to manufacture the cure themselves, that information would be critical.