“What’s going on?”
Both men jumped as Somi’s voice cut the silence.
Rook looked down and put the barrel of his handgun in front of his lips. He shushed her quietly, shaking his head. Of all the times to regain consciousness. He refocused on the tunnel as a figure stepped into view. His eyes went wide. He had no clue what the thing holding the torch was, but he recognized the limp body over its shoulder.
Knight.
TWENTY-THREE
Washington, D.C.
THE PRESIDENT STOOD in front of a massive rectangular screen comprised of eight smaller screens that merged to form one. A single large image could be shown on all eight or an individual image could be viewed on each independently. This was the back wall of the White House Situation Room, which featured multiple flat-screen TVs mounted on every wall of the room. In this room the powers that be could keep watch on the entire world, receiving data from eyes on the ground, satellites, and the media. It was the media that held Tom Duncan’s attention now.
All eight screens were dedicated to the image, blowing it up to life-size proportions. It was the White House. Just outside. A line of reporters speaking into microphones dominated the view. They were polluting the airwaves with theories about what was going on inside the White House. Why weren’t they being given a press conference? Did the president have a heart attack? Was he dead?
What was most frustrating was that they couldn’t tell the truth. Not yet. Not until there was a cure. But if they lied, and Brugada got out . . . well, then they would be lynched. Silence, for now, was Duncan’s only option.
“Shut it off,” Duncan said.
The Situation Room hiding beneath the West Wing of the White House was full of infected advisors, a few generals, and a number of officers from various intelligence agencies—all confined within the walls of the White House. Those who were not infected, but integral to the conversation, joined them via Webcam.
Duncan looked away from the TV screen and focused on the American flag standing next to it. He wasn’t sure whether he should lower it to half staff or turn it upside down. While most people thought the upside-down flag to be an act of disrespect, those in the military knew it signified extreme distress—to be wary of a lurking enemy. Extreme distress didn’t begin to describe the state of the White House.
He turned and faced the group sitting around the long conference table. His seat at the head of the table, opposite the massive screen, was empty, but he didn’t feel like sitting. Hell, he didn’t feel like talking. He wanted action and he wanted it now. “Give it to me straight. What are we dealing with?”
Stephen Harrison, head of the FBI, filled the screen of a laptop on the desk. He was communicating with them from the safety of FBI headquarters. “We were able to trace everyone who came in contact with you and with Brentwood, from family members to security guards at the airport. They’ve all been quietly quarantined, but friends and family are getting vocal. If this was just one or two people we could keep it quiet, but the total number is . . .” He looked at his laptop screen. “Five hundred thirty-three.”
Silence.
Duncan took a deep breath and felt repulsed by the mixture of colognes and perfumes assaulting his nose. He let the air out of his lungs slowly and stared at the cherry oak conference table. “What are our options?”
“Lie,” Harrison said. “Well, a half truth. Food poisoning. You passed out. But you’re fine. We have everything we need in house for you to address the nation, show them you’re in good health. It will quiet the media.”
“For a day or two,” Boucher said, “but they’re going to want a press conference. We could be holed up in here for weeks, months! Until a cure is found.”
“And if a cure isn’t found?” Harrison said.
“It will be,” Duncan said, his voice confident. He couldn’t lie to the American people, but he could lie to the men and women in this room, even if they saw through it.
“Look, sooner or later, the press is going to catch wind of the quarantines on the East Coast. They’re going to figure out that the White House is in the same situation. We need a contingency plan.”
“Oh my God,” someone on the opposite side of the room whispered.
Duncan saw an aide cover her mouth with her hand. She was looking at a small screen in front of her, an earbud in one ear. She was paying attention to the conversation and something else.
“What is it?” Boucher asked.
The woman’s head snapped toward him. “The news.”
Someone had the forethought to switch the big screen on before being asked. News reports from CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News appeared side by side. Each featured a news reporter speaking into a microphone, but they were clearly agitated, and ignoring the crew from other stations dashing back and forth through the shot.
“Let’s hear Fox,” Boucher said.
The volume was turned up.
“Again, this has just come in. More than five hundred U.S. citizens have been placed under quarantine with no reason given to their families. A source within the White House, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, told the Associated Press that the White House is also under quarantine, that several staff members are being held against their will, and that a disease, something called Brugada syndrome, is responsible. While we have yet to discover what Brugada is, we will keep you up to date as our researchers—”
“Enough,” Duncan said. He stood and placed his hands on the tabletop, leaning toward the group around him. “Stephen, how is that contingency plan coming?”
Harrison blanched on camera. “On it.” The screen went blank.
“The rest of you, go do your jobs. Do not contact the press. I want radio silence, people, understood? The only outside contact you can have is to government and military agencies. No family. No friends. No press.” He turned to Judy, who was standing behind him to the right. “Let the press know that I will address the nation soon.”
Mumbled conversations broke out around the room.
“Just do it,” Duncan said, his voice bordering on anger. “Now get to work.”
The group set about doing their part. Several rushed out, others got on cell phones. General Keasling, who’d waited in silence through the meeting, spoke to Boucher via Webcam. The president sat down next to Boucher and spoke into the Webcam. “Have we heard anything yet?”
“Not a peep,” Keasling said. “We’re watching the area with five satellites and endless spy plane passes.”
Duncan scrunched his lips and shook his head. “Not good enough. The solution to all this is in that jungle.”
“What are you thinking?” Boucher asked.
Duncan set his eyes on Keasling. “How many troops can we have on Vietnamese soil in three days?”
Keasling thought for a moment and then asked, “Just troops? No tanks, jeeps, or other equipment?”
Duncan nodded. “Just troops.”
“A full brigade, five thousand men. I think that would do the job.”
Boucher’s forehead scrunched up. They were talking presidential suicide. An aggressive, invading president rarely got reelected, not without someone crashing planes into buildings. “Tom, you don’t really want to invade Vietnam?”
“As a last resort, yes. A sudden overwhelming force will give us the time and security to solve this problem. Then we’ll evacuate.”
“The region’s unstable as it is,” Boucher said. “Other Asian countries—scratch that—every other nation on Earth that isn’t a pal is going to feel very threatened. It could provoke a world war.”
“That’s why it’s Plan B. I want to be ready the moment we catch wind of Brugada spreading. Worldwide genocide is not something I am willing to risk, even if it makes me unpopular. I want our forces in the region on high alert and ready to go at a moment’s notice, just in case.”
“I’ll see to it,” Keasling said before closing the connection.
Duncan turned to Boucher. “Dom, you’re a spook. Find
out who our White House snitch is and fire them, Trump style.”
Boucher nodded. “Gladly. But . . .” He raised his eyebrows, further wrinkling his age-etched forehead. “Tom, just curious, what is Plan A?”
Duncan grinned. “If you need something done right . . .”
TWENTY-FOUR
Annamite Mountains—Vietnam
THOUGH ALL OF his instincts told him to rush in, guns blazing, King held back. Jumping into a fight half cocked always got someone killed. With odds stacked to alpine heights against them, success would come only with a solid plan. Communicating through their throat microphones, Queen and King split up and encircled the VPLA camp they’d found.
Twenty large, olive green tents arranged in a squared formation revealed a sizable force, yet few were present in the camp. The VPLA had cleared the area of brush and scrub but had left the tall trees unscathed. Far from being environmentalists, they were well aware that the trees’ thick canopy provided cover from prying eyes in orbit. They were invisible to the world here in the jungle, free to do whatever they pleased, without consequence.
Not today, King thought as he crouched behind the exposed roots of a moss-covered tree, watching the men in the camp and assessing the situation. The two Death Volunteers carrying Sara set her down in the center of the camp and were greeted by three others. None seemed to carry any kind of authority or rank, which was strange, but he could not hear or see another living thing inside the camp. Unguarded and lax, the site would make easy picking. Even the men who’d taken Sara seemed at ease—like they knew he and Queen had been killed in the tunnel.
“Queen,” King whispered into his throat mic. “What’s your take?”
Queen looked down from the canopy. She’d shimmied up a tree far from camp and then made her way through the twisting branches of the canopy. It was like another world in the canopy, like a second layer of jungle through which movement was almost as easy as it was on the ground. Concealed by overlapping layers of large leaves, Queen watched without fear of being spotted.
“I count five,” Queen said. “Nobody else is home. Might be our best chance.”
King knew she was right, but couldn’t shake the feeling that something looked off. The men were too relaxed, too sure of themselves. The VPLA might be special forces, but they weren’t Delta, and you’d never find a Delta operator looking so relaxed when enemies were on their doorstep.
“King . . .” Queen’s voice sounded hesitant. Distracted.
“What?”
“Your watch.”
King looked at the outbreak meter on his wrist. He’d all but forgotten the thing. It demanded his attention now. Three of five bars were full. The third was orange. Something in the world had changed. Something bad.
Time was running out.
The five VPLA men laughed, snapping King’s attention back to them. Though he couldn’t understand a word, he could tell the men were telling jokes. All the while, Sara’s unconscious form lay still at their feet. One of the men rolled her onto her back with his boot. She lay propped up on her backpack looking as though she’d fallen asleep tanning by the pool. The man who pushed her over knelt down next to her. His hand gestures and laughs told King all he needed to know about what would take place next.
“I’m moving now, Queen,” King said. “Cover my ass, but only fire if you need to.”
King moved toward the camp, crouching low behind the brush that clung to the outer fringe of the site. He came in low behind one of the long green tents. The men standing had their backs to him, blocking the view of the man kneeling down next to Sara. As the man undid Sara’s backpack straps and protective vest, all eyes were on her.
As King came within twenty feet of the men, Queen’s voice filled his ear. “King, I don’t like this. It’s too damn fishy. Shred them, grab her, and get the hell out.”
King agreed, but wanted to get as close to his targets as possible. He didn’t want to risk hitting Sara and wanted to scoop her onto his shoulder before the last Death Volunteer hit the ground. This speed would only come with being close. Any VPLA in the area would hear the gunshots and rush to inspect. The time between firing at least five shots, grabbing Sara, and exiting the camp had to be minuscule. Efficiency was key. Fifteen feet would have to be close enough. He raised his M4 and took aim.
The soldier on the ground next to Sara rolled her over and began tugging off her backpack. Sara’s eyes popped open and locked on King’s. She’d been awake the whole time. He read her lips as she mouthed a single word to him. “Run.”
But it was too late. Four fifteen-foot-long hatches sprang open in front of each row of tents. From each leaped ten VPLA soldiers, their weapons trained on King. None fired.
Queen’s barely discernable whisper entered King’s ear. “Clear your throat if you want me to hold off.”
King cleared his throat and lowered his M4 to the forest floor. He raised his hands and looked in the eyes of the men surrounding them, turning slowly. He saw anger in the eyes of each and every one of the men. Except one. He was shorter than the others, yet carried more confidence . . . and no weapon. A single yellow star adorned the right shoulder of the man’s black and brown tiger-striped camouflage uniform.
“Major General,” King said with a nod.
Trung grinned and glanced at the gold star. “Major General Trung.” He walked around King, looking him up and down. Then he leaned in close, removing King’s KA-BAR knife and holstered pistol. He shouted an order to the five men still standing over Sara. They yanked her up, all of their casual aura vanished. An act.
Sara shrieked as she was pulled up. Her arms were twisted back by one man while a second pulled her up by her hair. With wide eyes, she began to whimper as the general approached. He held the razor-sharp KA-BAR knife up to her face and allowed Sara to see her own horrified expression in the blade’s reflection.
He drew the blade slowly across her cheek.
It felt like little more than a pen being dragged over her skin, cool and hard. But when the intense sting set in, Sara realized he’d actually cut her! Warm blood seeped from the four-inch slice and ran down her cheek. Sara’s chin shook as tears filled her eyes.
Trung moved the knife from Sara’s cheek to her neck.
“Please,” Sara said, as the first of her tears mixed with the blood on her cheek, burning in the open wound. “Don’t . . .”
King’s fists were clenched tight. His breath lodged in his chest. His eyes locked on the knife approaching Sara’s throat. He believed the VPLA general was testing his nerve. They wouldn’t kill Sara. She might have answers. It would be a strategic blunder, and from what he’d experienced this day, the VPLA had their shit together. They wouldn’t screw up something as elementary as killing their most useful captive.
Blood began to drip from Sara’s neck. He looked in her eyes, which were trusting him to keep her alive at all costs. That was the mission.
The knife stopped moving, though its blade remained buried in a few layers of skin. Blood ran down the gleaming metal and gathered around the hilt before dripping and slapping onto the dried leaves below. The general looked back at King. “Your female partner. She has thirty seconds to show herself.”
King’s jaw muscles bulged as he bit down in frustration. This backwater major general and his squad of men who’d never seen action outside their own country had them pegged. Trung’s perfect English was icing on the cake. His few spoken words, lacking any kind of accent, said, “I know you better than you know me.”
And that was the truth.
King shook his head. “Queen.”
Several of the VPLA soldiers jerked their weapons up as the canopy shook. They knew she was hiding. They didn’t know where. Bark shredded from the tree as Queen slid down to the forest floor. She turned her UMP around and handed it to the nearest soldier. She raised her arms as the man took her knife and sidearm. The man shoved her from behind, pushing her toward King.
“Watch it, buddy,” she said with a g
rowl. They might have taken her firearms but she still possessed her most lethal weapons. To remove those would require several amputations.
The knife came away from Sara’s throat and the men dropped her to the ground. She held her hands to her wounds and found the blood flow to be minor. They were superficial cuts.
Trung spoke to the men in rapid-fire Vietnamese. They sprang into action. King, Queen, and Sara were bound, hands behind backs with zip-tie handcuffs, then shoved into the largest of the tents.
King’s eyes widened upon entering the tent. The odd collection of devices, tools, and tables told him more about the tent’s purpose than he wanted to know.
Trung walked in front of his three prisoners and grinned upon seeing the expressions on their faces.
King’s concern.
Queen’s rage.
Sara’s fear.
He stepped in front of King and spoke quietly. “Today you will learn to speak your first Vietnamese word, su? ‘tra tâń.”
King didn’t need a translator to understand the word. It would be one he remembered for the rest of his life.
Torture.
TWENTY-FIVE
ROOK’S BODY SHOOK with rage as he tried to launch himself at the dark figure lowering Knight’s limp form into the pit. Bishop’s bulging arms held him in place while his whispered warning kept the silence. “Know your enemy, Rook. It’s too soon for revenge.”
Rook stopped and watched without speaking as Knight slid down the wall, head first. His arms were free, dangling down below his head. With his feet bound together by a rope that led up and over the edge of the pit, Knight looked like a fresh version of the dead villagers hung next to him. Just another side of beef in the meat locker.
The thick figure set the torch down, further obscuring itself from view, but in the dim flickering light its orange hair could be seen. The hair struck Rook as odd because everything else about the figure looked human . . . though hunched, like an old man . . . or an ape. As the figure bent down and tied off the rope Rook knew he wasn’t watching an ape. Apes weren’t intelligent enough to tie knots. And they sure as hell couldn’t get the jump on Knight.
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