Savage (Jack Sigler / Chess Team)

by Jeremy Robinson

  As night approached, the scant light penetrating the tangled canopy vanished completely, plunging them into darkness, and leaving them with little choice but to stop for the night. They huddled together under a hasty shelter made from Bishop’s parachute—still damp from the plunge into Lake Kivu—and in the glow of a chemical lightstick, he handed out an MRE. Knight had no appetite, but Bishop hassled him into eating a piece of bread and drinking some water, along with a hefty dose of penicillin to combat infection from his injuries. He also passed out some mefloquine as an anti-malarial. Knight soon fell into a restless slumber.

  After a while, Bishop turned to Felice. “Tell me about your project.”

  She tore her gaze away from Knight and stared at the green chemlight as if composing her thoughts. “The Congo region sits on enormous reserves of fossil fuel. Despite that, it is one of the poorest nations on Earth, energy-wise. Except for the cities, most people don’t have electricity or automobiles, but live the way they’ve lived for thousands of years. Most of the petroleum that is recovered gets exported to foreign markets, so while there is some revenue from energy production, most Congolese don’t see any benefit.

  “President Mulamba commissioned my team to find a new source of energy—renewable energy—that would address the needs of the people living here, as well as providing a long term source of revenue.”

  “You’re American. How did you get involved in this?”

  “For the last couple years, I’ve been working with a non-profit agency that’s trying to use cutting edge technologies to help developing nations stand on their own. Most of Africa is stuck in the 1950s. Not much has changed in the Congo since the Belgians left. The economy is driven by natural resources, but that’s not sustainable in the long term. If the Congo follows the pattern of other developing nations, they’ll keep exploiting those resources, with most of the money leaving the country, and they’ll deplete everything long before they make any kind of progress. Our goal is to find a way to leapfrog straight into the twenty-first century. Energy production is critical to such a plan. You can’t put computers in every school if there’s no electricity to run them.”

  “That doesn’t exactly sound like a job for a geneticist,” Bishop said.

  “We’re a multi-disciplinary team…” She paused abruptly and Bishop saw that she was blinking back tears. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “It just hit me that they’re all…”

  Bishop laid a hand on her shoulder. He felt awkward trying to comfort her. He kept such a tight lid on his own emotions that he didn’t really have much experience reading or reacting to the emotions of other people. “It’s okay.”

  He didn’t know what else to say, but he left his hand where it was until he sensed that she was ready to continue. “I guess I got involved by accident. I was working with a group in Kenya, trying to develop new gene therapies to stop the spread of AIDS, when I heard about some research going on at Lake Kivu, involving extremophiles.”

  “Like the organisms that live around deep-sea volcanic vents?”

  “Exactly. Extremophiles are life-forms—usually unicellular organisms—that can survive and thrive in conditions where nothing should be able to. Many are autotrophs—they produce their own food, like plants—but instead of using sunlight, they can transform heat and energy from chemical reactions into food. Lake Kivu is situated in an area of extreme volcanic activity, which makes it a perfect environment for extremophile organisms to thrive.

  “These microbes interact with escaping volcanic gasses, to produce hydrocarbons in huge quantities. There’s an enormous bubble of natural gas at the bottom of Lake Kivu—about sixteen cubic miles”

  “That sounds like a lot.”

  “Enough to supply about a hundred large electrical plants, and it’s constantly replenishing. Unfortunately, it’s also very dangerous where it is. The methane breaks down into carbon dioxide, and there’s an even larger bubble of that trapped at the bottom of the lake. If the methane spontaneously ignites—which can happen without any warning—the resulting explosion would release the CO2 to the surface and suffocate everyone living in the lake basin.”

  Bishop stiffened in surprise. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “In 1986, a carbon dioxide cloud released by Lake Nyos, in Cameroon, killed 1,700 people. The cloud was believed to have contained about 300,000 tons of CO2 and affected people more than fifteen miles from the lake. Lake Nyos is fairly remote, with just a few rural villages. The bubble at the bottom of Lake Kivu is believed to contain 500 million tons, and there are more than two million people living along its shores.”

  “Why would anyone choose to live near something like that?”

  Felice shrugged. “The same reason people live on the San Andreas fault, or in Tornado Alley. You’ve got to live somewhere. Most of the people in the Kivu region probably don’t even know about the danger, and spontaneous eruptions happen on geological time scales—thousands, even millions of years in between.

  “Several agencies have been working to come up with a way to mitigate the threat, as well as to harvest the natural gas for energy production, but those solutions carry a lot of risk. Disturbing the gas deposits might very well trigger the catastrophe they’re trying to prevent.

  “Our research isn’t—wasn’t—concerned with that, though. We were looking at the cause, the microbes that produce the methane in the first place. If we can find a way to adapt them to a different environment, we would be able to produce an endless supply of renewable energy.”

  “You want to use bacteria to make natural gas?”

  “It’s a natural process,” she explained. “Scientists in South Korea have found a way to use E. coli to produce gasoline. We just need to find a way to make it efficient and cost effective, and we were very close. Our research would revolutionize energy production everywhere. There would be no more need to drill for petroleum, no more tearing up wilderness areas to sink wells, no more fracking or pipelines. And since the process would be carbon neutral, it would pretty much solve the problem of greenhouse gas emissions and global warming.”

  “So why would anyone want to stop you?”

  “A lot of people have invested heavily in the status quo. This process would be available to anyone, and that would mean the end of the fossil fuel industry.”

  “So the rebels who attacked us, and the Army…they’re all working for oil companies?”

  “Possibly. Or they might just want to keep things the way they are. People fear change, even when that change means a better life for everyone.”

  Bishop had no response to that, so he switched gears. “You said you had to find a way to adapt these extremophiles. You’re a geneticist, so I’m going to assume that your plan is to re-engineer their DNA. Isn’t that kind of risky?”

  She frowned at him. “What have you got against genetic research?”

  “Oh, let’s see…tinkering with the blueprint of life, creating organisms that aren’t supposed to exist and that can’t be controlled, only figuring out when the shit hits the fan that there might be unintended consequences… I could go on.”

  “Humanity has been modifying the genetic code for thousands of years, long before anyone ever knew that such a thing as DNA even existed. Most of our food supply derives from plant and animal strains that were produced through selective breeding. This isn’t Frankenstein science. Sure, there are abuses, but that doesn’t mean we should go back to living in caves.”

  He wanted to argue with her, to tell her how he knew firsthand just how much damage one misguided person could cause by playing God, but there was no point. Genetic engineering was a genie that was already out of the bottle. There was no turning back the clock. “Better get some sleep,” he said, finally. “Tomorrow could be a long day.”

  He could tell that she wasn’t happy about the way the conversation had concluded, but she nodded and curled up on the ground next to Knight. Bishop continued to watch her until she was snoring
softly.

  The glowstick eventually faded to a dim green stripe, barely visible in the darkness, but Bishop did not sleep.

  25

  Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo

  When King and Asya had first arrived in Kinshasa a few hours earlier, they had seen a city poised on the brink of chaos. At some point during their captivity, someone gave it a push.

  Mabuki brought him up to speed as their convoy rolled back toward the city. “Shortly after you left the assembly, Army troops loyal to General Velle launched a coup from within the Palais de la Nation itself. They waited until I was away from the palace, looking for you, to make their move. They have taken several hostages, including President Okoa, your Senator Marrs and that woman, Favreau.”

  Asya let out what sounded like a strangled laugh. She had recovered from her near drowning, but still looked like a drenched rat. Both of them were soaked through, and coated in a thin film of mud.

  King accepted a canteen from one of the soldiers and drank a mouthful of lukewarm water. He swished it through his teeth to dislodge the muck, then let it dribble out unswallowed. A little more water spilled on his clothes wasn’t going to make much of a difference, but drinking water from an unreliable source was a good way to get the runs, and that was something he definitely didn’t need right now. Too late, he saw Asya guzzling from another bottle.

  Oh well, he decided. Can’t be any worse than what we were just swimming in.

  The thunderstorm had moved on, but it was still raining heavily. The streets were ankle-deep in water, and it was still accumulating faster than it could drain away. The rain kept most people inside, which was good, because there were soldiers everywhere—their red berets marked them as members of the Republican Guard, loyal to Mulamba’s government and under Mabuki’s direct command. This part of the city was controlled by pro-Mulamba forces, but if Mabuki’s report was correct, several divisions of the army had openly declared their support for General Velle, and now occupied more than a third of the city, including the important Gombe commune, where the Palais de la Nation and numerous other government buildings and foreign embassies were located.

  King explained Asya’s reaction. “Favreau organized this. She’s the one giving them their orders.”

  Mabuki’s brow furrowed. “This is a very serious accusation. She is here as a guest of the government, helping negotiate an end to this crisis.”

  “Yeah, well I think she’s been negotiating a lot more than that. She’s a mercenary, working for an outfit called Executive Solutions.”

  “Oui,” said Mabuki. “I have heard of them. They were in Angola. Very brutal men.”

  “And women. She’s only interested in what’s best for her employers—which in this case is probably Consolidated Energy.”

  The general considered this for a moment. “You told the assembly that President Mulamba is still alive. Is this true?”

  “Last I heard. Favreau took my phone, so I haven’t been in contact with my team.” King thought Mabuki looked like he needed more convincing, so he added. “I would assume he’s on his way.”

  “His return might not be enough to turn the tide,” Mabuki said. “Now that General Velle has made his move, there might be no way to prevent civil war.”

  For the first time since he’d been given them, King found himself wishing for the instantaneous connectivity of the q-phones. The situation had moved beyond the point where he could advise the government forces on the best way to maintain stability. Now, every choice he might make was fraught with the potential for blowback. That however, was only one of the troubling thoughts occupying his mind. There was something else bothering him, a detail that seemed at first glance like a jigsaw piece mixed up with the wrong puzzle.

  His mind kept turning over the moment where he had fired on the soldiers with the MP5 taken from one of the steroid twins. The mercenary, along with everyone else in the truck, was now dead. Mabuki’s Republican Guard forces had opened up on the army truck, strafing it with rounds from the turret-mounted DShK 12.7 mm machine gun, and setting the truck on fire in the process. King had lost the MP5 during the plunge into the drainage ditch, but he still recalled how it had felt in his hands, especially when he’d pulled the trigger. It had been heavier, with a lot more recoil than it should have had. He also remembered how it had devastated the bodies of the soldiers.

  Bullets killed; that was their job, and they did so in a way that usually wasn’t pretty. Even so, some types of ammunition seemed designed to accomplish that grim purpose in a way that was almost sadistic. Overpressure rounds, like those he suspected had been in the magazine of the MP5, contained particles of heavy metal, loosely packed in the hollow core of the bullet. When the bullet was fired, the acceleration would compress the powdered metal against the rear of the hollow core, and then on impact with the target, the powder would be catapulted forward, creating a catastrophic shock wave that caused massive destruction at the cellular level.

  Aside from their perceived inhumane effects, overpressure rounds were usually disdained by military forces for purely practical reasons. To accelerate the heavier payload to lethal velocity, the bullets needed more explosive force in the firing chamber. The added recoil not only made the weapon harder to use, but reduced its effective lifespan, and this was particularly true of semi-automatic weapons like the MP5. Firing overpressure rounds in a machine pistol was analogous to putting nitrous oxide in the carburetor of a sports car. You went faster, but at the cost of burning up your engine.

  King wasn’t surprised that the mercenaries were packing overpowered ammunition. It was entirely consistent with their testosterone-fueled lifestyle. What bothered him was the sense that he had seen something like this before.

  Still pondering the significance of this troubling detail, King turned back to the general. “Can you get me to a telephone?”

  Mabuki smiled and produced a slim mobile unit that looked about ten years old. “Will this suit your needs?”

  King took it and thumbed the power button. The backlit monochrome LCD display showed a strong signal. “I apologize in advance for the long distance charges.”

  Mabuki waved a hand dismissively. “Let the government pay for it. That way, even if General Velle succeeds, we will still be able to stick it to him.”

  King laughed and dialed a number.

  There was a brief pause between the click of the connection being established and the mumbled greeting. The voice was groggy and irritable, not surprising since it was the middle of the night at the other end of the call, but the voice was still instantly recognizable.

  “It’s King.”

  The bleariness—an act, Deep Blue wouldn’t be sleeping much with the team in the field and under fire—was completely gone when the response finally arrived. “King. Thank God. What’s your situation?”

  “For starters, I don’t have secure communication.”

  Silence. The transmission lag was maddening. Carrier pigeons would be faster, King thought.

  “I kind of figured that,” Deep Blue said. “Go on.”

  “Pawn and I are fine, but things here have gone sideways.”

  “I’ve been monitoring the news reports.”

  King waited for Deep Blue to elaborate, but several seconds passed and he realized that there wasn’t anything more to be said. “How are the others?”

  “Queen and Rook…” Another pause occurred, presumably Deep Blue trying to come up with a way to share his news in ambiguous terms. “…were successful. They’re checking something else out right now, but I expect them to be on their way very soon. I’ve booked their flight.”

  That meant Crescent II was already en route to pick them up. Mulamba might conceivably be back in Kinshasa in time for breakfast. “Bishop and Knight?”

  “No word. Doesn’t look good.”

  Damn.

  King closed his eyes, took a breath and went on. “What’s the best play here?”

  “Remember what you’re t
here for. Advise and support. I know that’s not very helpful, but it’s all I’ve got. I trust your judgment on this. You’ve got a lot more experience than I’ll ever have.”

  King parsed the comment quickly. The ‘experience’ to which Deep Blue was referring was the sum of several lifetimes spent roaming the planet, championing the defenseless, knowing full well that the outcome had already been written in the annals of the history King knew. His choices hadn’t been guided by knowledge of what the inevitable outcome would be, but rather by a more fundamental determination to protect the innocent, help the helpless, to do what he believed was right and the certain knowledge that he would have to live with his choices for hundreds of years thereafter. He wasn’t immortal anymore, but that didn’t mean he could just wash his hands of the situation. Walking away, or even simply staying on the sidelines as a spectator was unthinkable, especially knowing that Bishop and Knight might have already made the ultimate sacrifice. If he didn’t do something, their deaths would be meaningless.

  He knew what he had to do.

  He glanced at Asya, who was watching and listening expectantly, and he felt his certitude start to crumble.

  “I understand,” he said. Without hanging up, he turned to Mabuki. “I need to find a way back into the Palais.”

  The general looked at him expectantly. “To rescue the hostages?”

  King shook his head. “No. I left my sunglasses in there. I’d like to get them back.”

  26

  Monique Favreau took the news of the Americans’ rescue and the death of her men in stride. It confirmed her instincts about the man and filled her with an almost sexual anticipation for the battle she knew would follow.

  She was not quite so optimistic about the report that had preceded it.

  As the American had hinted, President Mulamba had escaped, or rather he’d been liberated by a commando team working in conjunction with her new nemesis. The failure of her men—two teams, twenty men, against just two people, if reports were correct—was unforgivable, and the very few who had survived the debacle could count themselves lucky that the Red Queen was in a different hemisphere. The news that Mulamba was free and on his way back had forced her to accelerate her original plan. Instead of waiting for General Velle to show up and lead the charge, she’d had to settle for one of his subordinate officers, a colonel in the 1st Brigade, who had happily assassinated his immediate commander, the man between him and Velle, and taken charge, deploying his 2,000 troops throughout the Gombe commune, and personally seizing control of the Palais de la Nation.