Savage (Jack Sigler / Chess Team)

by Jeremy Robinson

  SAVAGE

  A Jack Sigler Thriller

  By Jeremy Robinson

  and Sean Ellis

  Summary:

  For more than a hundred million years, the Dark Continent has kept a savage secret.

  While on the trail of a stolen tactical nuclear weapon, Jack Sigler, callsign: King, and his black ops Chess Team, answer a cry for help. The Democratic Republic of the Congo is on the verge of exploding into another bloody civil war that will engulf all of Africa and put millions at risk, a crisis too politically volatile for any outside nation to touch. As the team, unfettered by political constraints, deploys across the globe, the threats spin out of control.

  A search for the Congo’s missing president becomes a quest to solve a century old mystery, and uncover a secret that powerful men will kill to protect. A mission to rescue a team of scientists from violent revolutionaries devolves into a desperate run through the jungle, pursued by both modern man and ancient beast. And the effort to stop a revolution becomes a brutal contest, pitting King against the most cunning and sadistic foe he has ever faced—a deadly mercenary known as the Red Queen.

  King has traveled around the globe and across time to protect the people he loves. Now, he must face a harsh truth: he cannot save everyone.

  Jeremy Robinson and Sean Ellis, the bestselling team behind The Brainstorm Trilogy and Prime return with an action-packed tale rivaling the best of Matthew Reilly and James Rollins. Savage is a fresh re-launch for Jack Sigler and the Chess Team, so if you’ve never tried a Jack Sigler thriller, this is the perfect point to jump in and enjoy the chaos. And if you’re a long time fan, welcome back, and prepare yourself...

  SAVAGE

  A Jack Sigler Thriller

  By Jeremy Robinson

  and Sean Ellis

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  For H. Rider Haggard and Edgar Rice Burroughs.

  “Oh, reader, had you been at my side on this day in Ujiji, how eloquently could be told the nature of this man’s work! Had you been there but to see and hear! His lips gave me the details; lips that never lie. I cannot repeat what he said…”

  ~Henry Morton Stanley, 1872

  “Barbarism is the natural state of mankind. Civilization is unnatural. It is a whim of circumstance. And barbarism must always ultimately triumph.”

  ~Robert E. Howard, 1935

  “The darkest thing about Africa has always been our ignorance of it.”

  ~George Kimble, 1951

  PROLOGUE

  Brussels, Belgium, 1878

  Henry Morton Stanley stopped speaking for a moment, studying the hungry faces gathered around him. He sensed that everything—his bold plan, his reputation, his career, perhaps even, in an indirect way, his life—might hang on his next words. He cleared his throat and spoke.

  “So I took off my hat, and said, ‘Dr. Livingstone, I presume.’”

  There was a moment of silence, and then the room erupted in laughter.

  Stanley hid his relief behind a wry smile. He had been worried that something would be lost in the translation from English to Flemish Dutch, but it was an oft told tale, both by Stanley himself and in countless newspaper articles, which many of the assembled guests had no doubt already read. Now, nearly a decade after the fact, those words remained the perfect climax. Any further elaboration would only dull the impact of his clever punch line.

  It was all rubbish, of course. He’d started it merely as a joke, a humorous way to avoid telling the truth, which he had not shared with anyone, but it had taken on a life of its own. The story was now part and parcel of the legend he had created for himself. He had been nurturing and cultivating this image—Stanley, the intrepid explorer, the man who found Livingstone—for a long time now, and soon he hoped to reap the fruits of that long labor. He would capitalize on his notoriety by finding an investor willing to fund his next great expedition.

  Soon turned out to be much sooner than he could have hoped. A hand clapped down on his shoulder, and he turned to meet the regal gathering’s host, His Royal Majesty, the King of Belgium, Leopold II.

  “An excellent story,” the king said, drawing him aside. “I would hear more of it.”

  Stanley had only dared hope for such an audience. “Certainly, Your Majesty.”

  “I have followed your exploits with great interest.” The king spoke English, which surprised Stanley. It was unseemly for a king to make an accommodation like that to a visitor in his own house. Leopold, however, did not seem at all put off by it. “Africa fascinates me. A savage, dangerous land, but also, I believe, a place where bold men may accomplish great things.”

  “I could not agree more.”

  “The Dark Continent is a magnificent jewel, and yet, like any precious gem, it must first be cut and polished, using the utmost skill, for its true worth to be known.”

  Stanley was not surprised that the conversation had not yet come around to the topic of his exploits. Leopold, like most men of power and prestige, was not so much interested in listening to what others had to say as he was in having an audience. So Stanley merely nodded.

  “I have a vision for Africa, a bold vision, but also one that requires the skill of an expert gem cutter, as it were. The wealth of Africa is tremendous. You, perhaps better than any other man living, know this to be true. And you know, better than any man, why it cannot so easily be taken. It is not enough to simply tramp back and forth across the continent, taking out only what can be carried. I want to own Africa!”

  “You mean to claim it for Belgium.”

  “Belgium has no need of territories. No, you mistake my intent. I mean to own the land for myself. As much as I am able. I want to create a free state in Africa—a commercial enterprise, not a political one. But to do so, Africa must be subdued first; her savages introduced to the ways of civilized behavior and Christianity, so that they may provide the labor we need to reap the bounty of this land.”

  “A bold vision indeed,” Stanley agreed. “But I warn you, Africa is not so small a place as it appears on our maps. And I do not speak merely of the distances, though they are considerable. A journey of just a few miles, what we might travel by horse in a single afternoon or by train in just an hour’s time, might take days…days of hacking through impenetrable jungle, all the while plagued by flies and disease, foul water, every manner of deadly beast and of course, there are the African natives themselves to consider. I was three years charting the Congo. It is no place for the faint of heart.”

  “I am quite familiar with your search for Livingstone, and the Congo expedition as well. In truth, your familiarity with the place is the very reason I have sought you out.”

  Stanley took a deep breath. This was the moment for which he had been waiting. He chose his next words carefully. “I did not reveal everything in the published account. You have said that Africa is a place where bold men may accomplish great things. You are more right than you know. If you will permit me, Your Majesty, I would like to share with you what really happened on the day that I found David Livingstone…”

  As he concluded his story, Stanley searched the king’s face for some hint of excitement, but there was none. The king did not smile, nor was there the expected glimmer of anticipation or avarice in his eyes. Instead, there was something much darker. “On your oath, this is the truth?”

  “I know not whether the story is true,” replied Stanley, trying not to sound defensive. “Livingstone was recovering from a fever when I found him. I cannot know if he really saw what he claims to have. But I will swear by anything you name, that this is, word-for-word, what he told me.”

  “Word for word?
It was eight years ago.”

  “I wrote it down in my diary, even as he spoke.” Stanley felt his heart pounding with trepidation. He had, on more than one occasion and usually by miserly investors, been accused of exaggerating the potential riches of the unexplored land to fund his expeditions. Did the king think him some kind of confidence artist, teasing him with fabrications, like some gypsy with a treasure map? “I believe it to be true, Your Majesty. I would not trifle with you.”

  “Trifle?” The king shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re not fully understanding. This is no mere trifle. Do you grasp the significance of what you have just told me?”

  For the first time in almost nine years, Stanley was not certain that he did.

  The king made a chopping gesture with his hand. “I do not want to explore Africa, Stanley. I want to own it. This…” He struggled to find the right word. “This story of yours, if true, would undermine everything that I want to accomplish.”

  “Your Majesty, I’m not sure I understand how.”

  “If the savages knew of this…” The king paused, and then shook his head as if even speaking the words aloud was too dangerous. He gripped Stanley’s shoulder firmly, peered intently into his eyes. “Greatness is set before us, Stanley. I want you to go to the Congo. Establish this new state, so that we may possess all the riches Africa has to offer. I wish to make you my agent. Survey these lands and acquire them for me, so that together we may launch this enterprise. Does this interest you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you must do something for me. Tear those pages out of your diary, and never speak of this again. Will you do that for me?”

  The request was like a knife through Stanley’s heart. For years he had dreamed of learning the truth behind Livingstone’s story, and now, instead of finding a patron who would help him accomplish that, he was being told to sacrifice it all.

  And yet, what was he really being asked to give up? An uncertain reward that might amount to nothing more than a fever dream, in exchange for real wealth, real glory? Perhaps it wasn’t such a sacrifice after all.

  He sealed his pact with a single word.

  “Yes.”

  Republic of the Congo (formerly Belgian Congo), 1964

  The young man shifted into reverse and applied steady pressure to the accelerator pedal. The engine revved and the wheels began to spin, throwing up a shower of mud in front of the Land Rover, but the vehicle did not move. The driver shifted back into first gear and tried again with no more success. He pounded his fists against the steering wheel in frustration.

  “What about the winch?” the youth in the passenger seat asked.

  “There’s no time,” another young man said from the back. “They’re right behind us. We must leave the truck, David.”

  David, the front seat passenger, shook his head, but the gesture was more an indication of his frustration than an outright refusal. “Keep trying, Ki,” he told the driver. “Turn the wheels back and forth.”

  Ki did as instructed, but while the engine roared and mud flew, the Land Rover refused to budge.

  “We have to leave it,” a boy named Christophe urged, from the backseat. “We can take our chances in the jungle.”

  The idea sent a chill through David. Although he had grown up on the edge of the dark, Congo rain forest, he had never felt safe leaving the well-traveled roads that sliced through its dark depths. Out here, deep in the Kivu region, his mild aversion bordered on outright terror. Still, better to brave the uncertain risks of the jungle than face the guns of the mercenaries who pursued them.

  It took him a moment to recognize that the others were waiting for him to make the decision, and that scared him even more.

  How did I become the leader?

  David would have been hard pressed to explain how he had become part of this rebellion in the first place. He’d been caught along in a wave of passion, seduced by the message that it was time to throw off foreign oppression. He didn’t know much about politics or Communism. He had no idea who this Mao fellow was, and he couldn’t find China on a map, but the oppression was real enough. He’d watched his father, all his friends and their families ground under the heels of the Belgians and their lackeys all his life. Yet, while he sympathized with the rebels and their position, he hadn’t been given much of a choice. The rebels controlled the region and all young men were expected to fight for them.

  At the beginning, it had felt a little like a game, playing at being a soldier, which wasn’t surprising, since he had been just fourteen. War, it seemed, had a way of quickly aging a person.

  He still wasn’t sure exactly how it had all led to this, though. There had been persistent rumors that things were not going well, but new recruits like David were likely to be beaten or shot if they asked too many questions. So when the mortar rounds rained down on their camp, no one knew whether it was merely a skirmish or the beginning of the end. When the rebel leaders—none of them locals—had slipped away in the dark of night, the answer seemed plain enough.

  The compound exploding around them, David and six others had fled on foot, unaware that pro-government forces had the camp surrounded. Two of David’s companions had died, and another had been badly wounded, as they ran the blind gauntlet to freedom. But somehow the rest had slipped through the net and reached an abandoned plantation, where they’d commandeered an old Land Rover and headed west.

  That had been six hours ago.

  The rain, which had turned the road into a quagmire, pounded against the roof of the Land Rover. Although it was midday, the sky was so dark that it felt like dusk. David didn’t know if the enemy soldiers were indeed right behind them, but to stop moving was foolish.

  “We must be close to the border,” Christophe said. “We have to go on foot, through the jungle. It’s the only way.”

  “Songa can’t walk,” argued a different voice.

  David craned his head around to look at the other passengers. Songa was the name of the young man who had been wounded in the escape. He was sprawled out on the floor, between the inward-facing safari bench seats. The only indication that he still lived was the faint tremor of his fevered shivering. The bullet had struck him in the abdomen, and David knew that the boy would not last must longer.

  “We have to leave him,” Christophe said.

  David shook his head. “I won’t leave anyone behind. We have to try the winch.”

  He didn’t wait for Christophe’s inevitable reply. He threw open the door, exposing himself to the downpour. What he saw nearly caused him to pull it shut again. The Rover wasn’t merely stuck, it was mired in a veritable sea of mud that rose nearly as high as the running boards. David felt his resolve crumble, but he couldn’t give up now. He kicked off his sandals, then braved the driving rain, swinging onto the vehicle’s hood and crawling forward.

  The mud was nearly up to the front bumper, and the winch mounted there was half-submerged. Tentatively, he lowered himself into the murk, cringing a little as it oozed between his toes. He pulled out several feet of cable from the winch, and hook in hand, he trudged forward. He had to fight for every step, wrestling his bare feet out of the deep, sucking mud only to plunge them in again, but he fought against the wet earth and reached a section of the road that was still firm. There were small trees alongside the road, but they would not serve as an anchor for the winch cable. In the rain loosened soil, they would simply be pulled out by their roots. He kept going, searching for anything that might work.

  Suddenly, the world was filled with blinding white light, followed almost immediately by a thunderclap so close and powerful that it drove David to his knees. Yet, even more frightening than the close proximity of the flash was what the lightning revealed. On the road behind them, less than a half a mile away, was a convoy of dark green military vehicles, moving slowly but relentlessly forward.

  Another burst of noise shook him. This time it wasn’t thunder. David felt the heat of stray bullets streaking through the air
around him. Most of the rounds found their target. The Land Rover shuddered under the impact of machine gun fire.

  Unbelievably, two figures tumbled out into the mud—Christophe and another, whose name David did not know. He shouted and waved to them, but they paid him no heed. Instead, they slogged through the mud, desperate to find cover in the trees. When another volley of gunfire hammered into the Rover, David hastened after them.

  His feet sank into the saturated ground with every step, and the low growing vegetation wrapped around him like the tentacles of some nightmare monster; the jungle was trying to swallow him whole. He struggled forward, ripping through the ferns and vines that clung to his clothes and skin, wrestling free of roots tripping him up. He found himself wishing for a long panga knife with which to hack out a path to freedom. Only then did he realize that he was completely unarmed. He had left his rifle in the Rover. As if to underscore the gravity of this error, the foliage overhead exploded into a blur of green fiber, as it was raked by a barrage of gunfire.

  David threw himself flat, but did not stop moving. He soon discovered that crawling on his belly like a snake was easier than trying to walk upright, and after just a few minutes of squirming, the tangle of undergrowth opened up, disgorging him into the emptiness beneath the canopy of the deep forest. Hardly anything grew down here, where the sun did not reach. Even the torrential rains had trouble penetrating the network of branches, leaves and liana vines. A strange mist shrouded the forest floor, and the ground smelled of decay, but after just a few moments, David began to sense how overpoweringly alive the jungle was.

  It was alive and dangerous.

  Christophe and his companion broke out of the bush nearby. Both young men had held onto their rifles, but the weapons hung from their slings, forgotten. “They are coming,” Christophe yelled. “Run!”