At last, he could risk going no farther. He glanced down and around his perch. This would have to do.
He called to the other raft while pulling out the bomb. “Does anyone know how to arm one of these explosives?”
Sergeant Kostos answered, “Type in the time delay manually! Then hit the red button!”
Waxman yelled from where he floated in the water. Nate had to respect how calm the captain’s voice was as he added a warning. “It’s got an explosive radius of a couple hundred meters. Blow it wrong and you’ll kill us all!”
Nate nodded, staring at the bomb. A simple sealed keyboard glowed atop it, not unlike a calculator. Nate prayed it hadn’t been damaged by the dunking or abuse. He set the timer for fifteen seconds. That should be long enough.
Next, Nate cradled the bomb to his chest and snapped free his work knife. Clenching his teeth, he dug the blade into the meat of his thumb and sliced a deep gash. He needed the wound to bleed freely.
Once done, he used a secondary branch as support and climbed to his feet on the swaying perch. He pulled the bomb out with his bloodied hand and made sure he had a good grip. Stretching out over the water, Nate extended his arm, bomb in hand. Blood dripped over the weapon’s surface and down to the waters below, plopping in thick drops and sending out ripples.
He held steady, his thumb on the trigger button. “C’mon, damn you.” In Australia, he had once visited a live animal park and had seen a thirty-foot saltwater crocodile trained to leap after a freshly decapitated chicken on a pole.
Nate’s plan wasn’t much different. Only he was the chicken.
He slightly shook his arm, scattering more drops. “Where are you?” he hissed. His arm was getting tired.
Down below, he watched a small pool of his own blood forming on the surface of the water. A caiman could smell blood in the water from miles away. “C’mon!”
Squinting, he risked a peek toward the others still afloat in the debris field. With no way of knowing where the caiman was, neither of the other two rafts dared paddle to their mates’ rescue.
Distracted, Nate almost missed the flash of something large heaving through the shallows toward him.
“Nate!” Kelly called.
He saw it.
The caiman lunged out of the water, blasting straight out of the lake and springing toward him, jaws wide open, roaring.
Nate hit the bomb’s trigger, then dropped the blood-slick device down the open mouth. He realized at the same time that he had vastly underestimated how high a giant swamp caiman could leap.
Nate crouched on his branch, then leaped straight up, propelled by both his legs and the spring in the branch. Crashing through leaves, Nate grabbed a limb overhead. He yanked his feet out of the way just as the monster’s jaws snapped shut under the seat of his pants. He felt its huffed breath on his back. Denied its prey, it fell back to the water, shooting spray almost as high as its leap.
Staring down, Nate saw the branch he had been perched on. It was gone, a stump, cleaved clean through by those mighty jaws. If he had still been standing there…
Nate saw the caiman again glide from the shallows into the deeper waters, but now it remained floating on the surface, revealing its length. A male, 120 feet if it was an inch.
Hanging from the branch, Nate caught a frustrated glower directed up at him. It slowly turned toward where the others were floating, giving up on him for the moment and going after easier prey.
Before it could complete its turn, Nate saw the beast suddenly shudder. He had forgotten to count the seconds.
Suddenly the belly of the beast swelled immensely. It opened its maw to scream but all that came out were jets of flame. The caiman had become a veritable flaming dragon. It rolled on its side and sank into the murkier depths, then a huge whoosh exploded upward in a column of water, flames, and caiman.
Nate clung to his perch with his arms and legs. Down below in the roots, Kelly yelled in shock.
The blast ended as quickly as it blew. In the aftermath, bits and pieces of flaming flesh showered harmlessly around the swamp. Insulated by the armored bulk of the great giant, the worst of the bomb’s effect had been contained.
A shout of triumph arose from the others.
Nate climbed down the tree and retrieved Kelly. “Are you okay?” he asked her.
She nodded, fingering a gash at her hairline. “Head hurts a little, but I’ll be fine.” She coughed hoarsely. “I must’ve swallowed a gallon of swamp water.”
He helped her down to the water’s edge. While Kostos’s raft went to collect the swimmers and packs, Nate’s own raft, manned by his friends and Ranger Carrera, glided over to the pair to keep them from having to swim.
Carrera helped pull Kelly aboard. Manny grabbed Nate’s wrist and hauled him up onto the bamboo planks. “That was some pretty fast thinking, doc,” Manny said with a grin.
“Necessity is the mother of invention,” Nate said, matching his expression with a tired smile. “But I’ll be damned glad to be on dry land again.”
“Could there be more of them out there?” Kelly asked as the group paddled toward the other raft.
“I doubt it,” Manny said with a strange trace of regret. “Even with an ecosystem this large, I can’t imagine there’s enough food to support more than two of these gigantic predators. Still, I’d keep a watch out for any off-spring. Even baby giants could be trouble.”
Carrera kept watch with her rifle as the others paddled. “Do you think that the Ban-ali sent these after us, like the locusts and piranhas?”
Kouwe answered, “No, but I would not put it past them to have nurtured this pair as some de facto gatekeepers to their lands, permanently stationed guards against any who dared to enter their territory.”
Gatekeepers? Nate stared at the far shore. The broken highlands were now clear in the afternoon brightness. Waterfalls were splashes of silver flowing down cliffs the color of spilled blood. The jungled summits and valleys were verdant.
If the professor was right about the caiman being gatekeepers, then ahead of them stretched the lands of the Ban-ali, the heart of their deadly territory.
He stared at the other raft, counting heads. Waxman, Kostos, Warczak, and Carrera. Only four Rangers remained of the twelve sent out here—and they hadn’t even crossed into the true heart of the Ban-ali lands. “We’ll never make it,” he mumbled as he paddled.
Carrera heard him. “Don’t worry. We’ll dig in until reinforcements can be flown here. It can’t take more than a day.”
Nate frowned. They had lost three men today, elite military professionals. A day was not insignificant. As he stared at the growing heights of the far shore, Nate was suddenly less sure he wanted to reach dry land, especially that dry land. But they had no choice. A plague was spreading through the States, and their small party was as close to an answer to the puzzle as anyone. There was no turning back.
Besides, his father had taken this route, run this biological gauntlet. Nate could not retreat now. Despite the deaths, the dangers, and the risks, he had to find out what had happened to his father. Plague or not, he could only go forward.
Waxman called as they neared the far shore. “Stay alert! Once we pull up, move quickly away from the swamp. We’ll set up a base camp a short distance into the forest.”
Nate saw the way the captain kept scanning the swamps. Waxman was clearly worried about other caiman predators. But Nate kept his gaze focused on the jungles ahead. In his blood, he knew that was where the true danger lay—the Ban-ali.
Across the water, Nate heard the captain fall upon Olin Pasternak. “And you, get that uplink running as soon as possible. We have a three-hour window before the satellites are out of range for the night.”
“I’ll do my best,” Olin assured him.
Waxman nodded. Nate caught the look in the captain’s eyes: full of grief and worry. Despite his booming confident voice, the leader of the Rangers was as nervous as Nate. And this realization was oddly reassuring. Ner
vous men kept a keen eye on their surroundings, and Nate suspected that their survival would depend on this.
The pair of rafts reached the shallows and soon were bumping into solid ground. The Rangers off loaded first, rifles ready. They fanned out and checked the immediate forest. Soon, calls of “All clear!” rang out from the dark jungles fringing the swamp.
Nate glanced up as he waited for the okay to disem-bark from the rafts. Around him, the soft roar of countless waterfalls echoed. To either side, towering cliffs framed the narrow defile ahead, choked with jungle. Down the center of the canyon a wide stream flowed, emptying sluggishly into the swamp.
Warczak shouted from near the forest’s edge. “Found it!” The corporal leaned out of the shadowy fringe and waved to his captain. “Another of Clark’s markers.”
Waxman motioned with his rifle. “Everybody on land!”
Nate did not wait. He hurried with the others toward Warczak. A few steps into the forest, a large Spanish cedar had been pegged with a strip of cloth. And under it, another carved marking. Each member stared at it with a growing sense of dread. An arrow pointed up the defile. The meaning was clear.
“Skull and crossbones,” Zane muttered.
Death lay ahead.
3:40 P.M.
“Now that was quite entertaining,” Louis said to his lieutenant, lowering his binoculars. “When that caiman exploded…” He shook his head. “Resourceful.”
Earlier that morning, radioed by his mole, Louis had learned of the Rangers’ plan to camp near the far shore until reinforcements could be flown in. He imagined the loss of three more men would cement Captain Waxman’s plan. The group was now down to four Rangers. No threat. Louis’s team could take the other at any time—and Louis didn’t want those odds changed.
He turned to Jacques. “We’ll let them rest until midnight, then rouse the little sleepyheads and get them running forward. Who knows what other dangers they’ll prepare us for?” Louis pointed to the swamp.
“Yes, sir. I’ll have my team suited up and ready by nightfall. We’re draining several lanterns now to collect enough kerosene.”
“Good.” Louis turned his back on the swamp. “Once the others are on the run, we’ll follow behind you in the canoes.”
“Yes, sir, but…” Jacques bit his lower lip and stared out at the swamp.
Louis patted his lieutenant on the shoulder. “Fear not. If there had been any other beasties lurking in the swamp, they would’ve attacked the Rangers. You should be safe.” But Louis could understand his lieutenant’s concern. Louis would not be the one using scuba gear to cross the swamp on motorized sleds, with nothing between him and the denizens of the swamp except a wet suit. Even with the night-vision lamps, it would be a dark and murky crossing.
But Jacques nodded. He would do as ordered.
Louis crossed back into the jungle, heading to the camp. Like his lieutenant, many others were on edge, the tension thick. They all had seen the remains of the Ranger back in the woods. The soldier looked like he had been eaten alive, down to the bone, eyes gone. A scattering of locusts had still crawled around the site, but most of the swarm had dispersed. Alerted by his mole, Louis had carefully kept burners of tok-tok powder smoldering as they crossed through the forest this morning, just in case. Luckily Tshui had been able to harvest enough dried liana vines to produce the protective powder.
Despite the threats, Louis’s plan was proceeding smoothly. He was not so vain as to think his group moved unseen, but so far the Ban-ali were concentrating all their resources on the foremost group, the Rangers.
Still, Louis could not count on this particular advantage lasting much longer, especially once they entered the heart of the secretive tribe’s territory. And he was not alone in these thoughts. Earlier, three mercenaries from his party had attempted to sneak off and flee, abandoning their obligations, fearful of what lay ahead. The cowards had been caught, of course, and Tshui had made an example of them.
Louis reached their temporary jungle campsite. He found his mistress, Tshui, kneeling by his tent. Across the way, strung spread-eagle between various trees, was the AWOL trio. Louis averted his eyes. There was surely artistry to Tshui’s work, but Louis had only so strong a stomach.
She glanced up at his approach. She was cleaning her tools in a bowl of water.
Louis grinned at her. She stood, all legs and sinewy muscle. He took her under his arm and guided her toward their tent.
As Tshui ducked past the flap, she growled deep in her chest and, impatient, tugged his hand to draw him into the dark heat of the tent.
For the moment, it seemed rest would have to wait.
Thirteen
Shadows
AUGUST 15, 3:23 P.M.
INSTAR INSTITUTE
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Lauren knocked on Dr. Alvisio’s office door. Earlier this morning, the epidemiologist had requested, rather urgently, a moment with her. But this was the first chance she’d had to break away and meet with him.
Instead, she had spent the entire morning and afternoon in video conference with Dr. Xavier Reynolds and his team at Large Scale Biological Labs in Vacaville, California. The prion protein they had discovered could be the first clue to solving this disease, a contagion that had claimed over sixty lives so far with another several hundred sick. Lauren had arranged for her former student’s data to be cross-referenced and double-checked by fourteen other labs. As she waited for confirmation, she had time to meet with the epidemiologist.
The door opened. The young Stanford doctor looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. A bit of dark stubble shadowed his cheeks, and his eyes were bloodshot. “Dr. O’Brien. Thank you for coming.” He ushered her into the room.
Lauren had never been in his office, so she was surprised to see a whole array of computer equipment lining one entire wall. Otherwise, the room was rather Spartan: a cluttered desk, an overflowing bookcase, a few chairs. The only personal touch was a lone Stanford Cardinals banner hanging on the far wall. But Lauren’s eye was drawn back to the computer bank. The monitors were full of graphs and flowing numbers.
“What was so urgent, Hank?” she asked him.
He waved her to the computers. “I need you to see this.” His voice was grim.
She nodded and took the seat he offered before one of the monitors.
“Do you remember when I told you about the possible signature spike of basophils early in the disease process? How this clinical finding might be a way to detect and specify cases more quickly?”
She nodded, but since hearing his theory, she had already begun to doubt it. Jessie’s basophils had spiked, but the child was recovering very well. There had even been talk of letting her out of the hospital ward as soon as tomorrow. This rise in basophils could be something that occurs with many different fevers and is not specific to this disease.
She opened her mouth to say just that, but Dr. Alvisio interrupted, turning to his computer keyboard. He typed rapidly. “It took me a full twenty-four hours to gather data from around the entire country, specifically searching for fever cases in children and the elderly with characteristic basophil spikes. I wanted to run a model for the disease using this new criteria.”
On the monitor, a map of the United States appeared in yellow with each state mapped out in black lines. Small pinpoints of red dotted the map, most clustered in Florida and other southern states. “Here is the old data. Each area of red indicates current documented cases of the contagion.”
Lauren slipped on her reading glasses and leaned closer.
“But using the basophil spike as the marker for designating cases, here is a truer picture of the disease’s present status in the United States.” The epidemiologist hit a keystroke. The map bloomed brighter with red dots. Florida was almost a solid red, as were Georgia and Alabama. Other states, empty before, now were speckled with red spots.
Hank turned to her. “As you can see, the number of cases skyrockets. Many of these patients are in unqua
rantined wards due to the fact that the trio of signs designated by the CDC have not shown up yet. They’re exposing others.”
Despite her doubts, Lauren felt a sick churn in her belly. Even if Dr. Alvisio was wrong about the basophils, he had made a good point. Early detection was critical. Until then, all feverish children or elderly should be quarantined immediately, even if they weren’t in hot zones like Florida and Georgia. “I see what you’re saying,” she said. “We should contact the CDC and have them establish nationwide quarantine policies.”
Hank nodded. “But that’s not all.” He turned back to his computer and typed. “Based on this new basophil data, I ran an extrapolation model. Here is what the disease picture will look like in two weeks.” He pressed the ENTER key.
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