Instinct

by Jeremy Robinson

  INSTINCT

  ALSO BY JEREMY ROBINSON

  The Didymus Contingency

  Raising the Past

  Antarktos Rising

  Kronos Pulse

  INSTINCT

  A Chess Team Adventure

  JEREMY ROBINSON

  Thomas Dunne Books St. Martin’s Press New York

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  INSTINCT. Copyright © 2010 by Jeremy Robinson. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Robinson, Jeremy, 1974–

  Instinct : a Chess Team adventure / Jeremy Robinson. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  “Thomas Dunne books.”

  ISBN 978-0-312-54029-6

  1. Geneticists—Fiction. 2. Bioterrorism—Fiction. 3. Special forces

  (Military science)—Fiction. 4. Americans—Vietnam—Fiction. 5. Terrorism—

  Prevention—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3618.O3268I57 2010

  813'.6—dc22

  2009047572

  First Edition: April 2010

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  COVER

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  DEVOLUTION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EVOLUTION

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  REVOLUTION

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  For Mom, even though I know

  this one will freak you out

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Over the past few years I have come to learn that without a core group of supporters, the job of being an author (and all the self-promotion that goes along with that) would be impossible for me. The time, skills, and knowledge required to pull off big promotions and even bigger stories is immense. So it is with great appreciation that I thank the following folks, my core.

  Though I’m sure my twists on science sometimes make him cringe, Todd Wielgos, senior research scientist with MS Chemistry, makes my genetics tinkering not just believable, but also cutting edge. You make me look smarter than I am.

  Major Ed Humm, U.S.M.C. (Ret.), your advice on everything from military tactics to weapons and even nit-pick details like foreign uniforms, is invaluable. Brigadier General Anthony Tata, your insights into the world of Delta and knowledge of field gear has been exactly what I needed to keep things real.

  Stanley Tremblay (aka Rook) and Walter Elly (aka sucka) you make PR, web analytics, and social marketing fun and challenging. You are also the best idea soundboards an author could have. Your unceasing excitement about the books and other media projects I dream up is contagious and often keeps me on track when I would normally be in a slump.

  Roger Brodeur, you are one of my biggest supporters, my favorite father-in-law, and the best grammar/typo checker I know.

  Scott Miller and the gang at Trident Media Group, your advice is valued and judgment sound. With the exciting projects we have brewing; I look forward to a long and prosperous journey with you.

  And now for the folks who truly make dreams come true. Peter Wolverton, you’re an awesome editor whose insights are sometimes brutal, but always appreciated. Readers have noted how much better the Chess Team books are, and that is in part thanks to you. Elizabeth Byrne, an e-mail from you is always good news, and I greatly appreciate your quick replies and diligent answers to my many questions. Rafal Gibek, production editor, and Christina Mac-Donald, copy editor, you took my rough prose and made them shine. And Jerry Todd, as an artist myself, I am a harsh judge of cover art and I am thrilled with what you have done for Instinct. A hearty thank you to all of you.

  And finally, to the people who are always last in my acknowledgments, but first in my life: my wife, Hilaree, whose years of sacrifice helped make this dream of being an author possible. My children, Aquila, Solomon, and Norah, while I spend my days dreaming up tortures and tension you fill my mornings and evenings with creativity, joy, and love. You are the ying to my writing yang. Love you guys.

  There is no law of progress. Our future is in our own hands, to make or to mar. It will be an uphill fight to the end, and would we have it otherwise? Let no one suppose that evolution will ever exempt us from struggles. “You forget,” said the Devil, with a chuckle, “that I have been evolving too.”

  —William Ralph Inge

  Man . . . is a tame or civilized animal; nevertheless, he requires proper instruction and a fortunate nature, and then of all animals he becomes the most divine and most civilized; but if he be insufficiently or ill-educated he is the most savage of earthly creatures.

  —Plato

  Life is a sexually transmitted disease.

  —R. D. Laing

  PROLOGUE

  The Annamite Mountains—Vietnam, 1995

  THREE MONTHS HAD gone by since Dr. Anthony Weston began his search for the elusive creatures, and now that he’d found them, they were going to kill him.

  A cascade of sweat followed a path of crisscrossing wrinkles down his forehead and dripped into his wide eyes. The salty, dirty sweat stung and brought forth a welling of tears, blurring his vision. He couldn’t see the creatures clearly, nor the ground on which he ran, but he could hear them all around, calling out to
each other.

  The sheer volume of their booming hoots and hollers filled him with a kind of primeval dread that quickened his pace and made his heart pound painfully in his chest. He feared a heart attack for a moment, but the crunch of dry leaves all around signaled that his life was fleeting, heart problem or not.

  Weston rounded a bend on the overgrown path that wound its way through the jungle and eventually up into the mountains. He picked up speed as the trail straightened out. If not for the assistance of gravity and the steep grade, the beasts would most assuredly have already overtaken him, but as it was, Weston found himself running much more quickly than on level ground. Even still, the task of outrunning the savage tribe was taking a grim toll on his body. With each labored breath, his ruddy brown beard and mustache, which had grown long and ungainly during his months in the bush, were sucked in and pushed out of his mouth. His light blue eyes sparkled with wetness, and his hands, which held off approaching tree limbs and bushes, shook violently, smearing the blood drawn from his fresh wounds.

  Brush exploded to his right as one of the creatures toppled through it. They were tumbling and tripping as they barreled clumsily in pursuit, focused more on their quarry than their surroundings. They were single-minded hunters. He knew this from watching them take down yellow pigs and the antelope-like saola—even that fine creature’s keen horns couldn’t fight off the savages when they were hungry.

  And they were hungry now.

  Weston first knew something was wrong when, that morning, the creatures began sniffing vigorously at the air. He’d been watching them from a distance, higher up on the mountain, for an entire week. He’d observed them hunting, grooming, sleeping, and playing. But it hadn’t been enough. Seeing through binoculars and hearing only distant calls could not quench his thirst for discovery. So, the previous night, he’d worked his way carefully, silently, down the mountainside until he was a mere fifty yards above with a clear view of the glade and mountain cave that served as their home. After carefully concealing himself with brush and debris, he waited eagerly for daybreak.

  As the morning sun burned off the previous night’s fog, the group emerged from their cave, stretching and yawning. Typically, grooming would come next, but a new smell had caught their nose—Weston. As a cool breeze tickled the back of his neck, he realized the winds were rolling down the mountainside from above, and since he was so close, the odor of his unbathed body was fresh in the air.

  He’d only just begun debating what he should do next when the group started jumping up and down, slapping the earth. A moment later, each and every one of them, forty-three in all, charged up the mountain. Their brown hair stood on end, bouncing madly as they ascended. For a moment, he sat still, stunned by the display, but as the creatures made eye contact with him and began their wild hoots, he too began to climb. Upon reaching the top, he wasted no time looking back to see how close they were. He knew them to be excellent climbers. They were no doubt already nipping at his heels.

  And now, not two minutes after reaching the mountain’s peak and beginning his frantic descent down the other side, they were on top of him.

  Weston lost his footing for a moment and screamed. He was surprised by the volume and high pitch of his voice. It sounded as inhuman as the noises made by the unclassified creatures pursuing him. As he sensed the front-runners of the group closing in he searched for any hope of escape. In the movies this was the point where the hero would trip and slide down a perfectly formed mud-covered waterslide and escape. But the forest was an unending assemblage of tall tree trunks, the occasional low-level scrub, and a detritus-coated, downhill-sloped forest floor. There was nowhere to go but down.

  And then where? The river was two days out on foot and from there it was a week, at least, to the nearest pocket of civilization. And what weapons did they own that could defeat such a group as this?

  None.

  Hopelessness settled in and his limbs grew weary. He thought of his wife and only regretted not having been able to tell her how angry he was that she’d left. In the end, she had grown to hate him and taunted his profession; said that being a cryptozoologist was a job far better suited to children or imbeciles prone to flights of fancy. He thought she’d understood him, but he’d been wrong. And he would have never known if not for—

  Shaking his head, Weston banished his thoughts of his wife. She was not the image he wanted to see when he died.

  With sure footing beneath him and the slope growing steeper, Weston felt himself moving faster. The pain in his lungs began to subside and the sweat on his forehead evaporated before it reached his eyes. He’d never before experienced a second wind but recognized it, and for a moment, felt some degree of hope.

  That’s when he saw the flickering shadow surrounding him, as though something above were blocking out the sun that filtered to the forest floor between breaks in the canopy. He glanced up into a pair of red-rimmed, deep yellow eyes. The beast shrieked at him and reached out. Its fingers found his field vest and gripped tightly. A moment later, Weston’s feet left the earth and he found himself airborne, propelled through the air with stunning ease.

  As the forest spun, he saw the entire group descending toward him, some charging, some taking to the trees, and some rolling clumsily through the brush. What may have been a ten-foot flight took Weston much farther as the ground continued to drop away. Twenty-five feet later he landed, but the same grade that made his fall farther also minimized the force of his impact. He rolled and slid another fifty feet and came to rest at the foot of a tall, slender Aquilaria tree.

  Weston knew he was lucky to be alive, but even luckier to not have sustained any broken bones. He hadn’t even lost consciousness. He struggled to his hands and knees, acutely aware that the wave of hair-covered flesh roaring down the mountain was almost upon him. He stood on wobbly legs and held the tree for support. It was shaking.

  Weston looked up and found the same deep, red-rimmed eyes staring back at him. The creature, suspended upside down on the tree, reached out and backhanded Weston’s head. He fell to the ground, stunned and despairing. They had him. Escape was impossible.

  He began weeping as the creature climbed down the tree with an agility he’d witnessed all week. In many ways the creatures were more suited to a life in the trees than on the ground. Once on the ground, the beast stood erect, stretching its height to a mediocre five feet. If not for their physical strength, Weston might even have been able to fight his way out. But he remembered how easily he’d been thrown, as though he were but a child.

  As the beast stood above him it hollered to the others, who quickly surrounded his prone body. They hooted and slapped the ground in a wild display, the likes of which he had not observed in the last week, even when they were hunting. A few stayed in the trees where they shook branches and shrieked. The one who had caught him, Red Rim, stood above him and looked into his eyes. Red leaned in close and smelled him, moving slowly from his feet to his head, sniffing diligently.

  Perhaps they’re trying to decide if I’m edible, Weston thought. He tried to think of a way he could make himself less appealing, but that was impossible. Inside his pants, his legs were already coated in shit, and his urine had leaked through the front. He smelled terrible; though, he noted now, not as terrible as the creatures standing guard around him. Their scent was fecal and raw, like moldy egg salad. As Red sniffed Weston’s head and blew its breath onto his face, he could taste the decaying flesh of some previous meal that clung to its two-inch-long canines. While Red sniffed his hair, Weston became aware of a gentle caress upon his chest. He glanced down, past his matted beard, and saw two large hair-covered breasts dangling down onto his body. Red . . . was a female.

  Then she was up and hooting again. The cacophony reached an apex and the group descended on Weston like a starved pack of hyenas, yelping and reaching for him. As his clothes were torn and yanked away from his body by tooth and claw, he began to scream and fight. It did little good and only seemed
to work the group into more of a craze. Then one was on top of him, straddling his naked waist and pinning him to the ground. The creature’s face leaned in close.

  Red.

  She howled and then bit into the meat of his shoulder.

  DEVOLUTION

  ONE

  Annamite Mountains—Vietnam, 2009

  THE OPEN SORES covering Phan Giang’s feet looked like the craters of the moon. They’d long since stopped oozing, but the dried flaking skin itched relentlessly. Yet he kept walking. Stumbling really. He’d been moving like a machine for the past three days, shuffling through the jungle like a zombie. His bloodshot eyes, half closed, stung and saw the world through a haze. His feverish, parched body was slick with moisture that clung to him yet failed to penetrate his skin. His tattered clothes, those of a peasant villager, hung from his bones in damp tatters, like meat hung to dry. Though he was near death, his heart soared when the jungle broke.

  He emerged from the sauna that was the jungle of Vietnam and stepped into an open field. He saw an array of gleaming metal hangars, several parked green helicopters, and groups of men in uniform patrolling the outer fringe of the facility. A military base. Who better to help, the man thought.

  As the only surviving man in his village, Anh Dung, he had left in search of help. For generations his people had dealt with cái chê´t bâ´t thình lình—the sudden death. Occasionally one of the men in the village would fall over dead. Regardless of health or age, the man struck would die suddenly where he stood, sat, or lay. They’d always believed that angry spirits looking for vengeance on the living sometimes targeted men, taking their souls. But the solution had always been to dress and act as a woman. This knowledge had saved the village, as the spirits never claimed more than one man.

  But this time . . . the spirits that visited Anh Dung were furious. Regardless of dress or duty, the spirits had slain every man in the village, first striking them with a mild fever and coughing, then death. Whether sleeping, tending the field, or washing clothes, men were struck dead. Some in midsentence. Others in their sleep. The spirits were relentless . . . to the point that the villagers realized it wasn’t spirits killing the men.