by Hank Parker
“That’s no ordinary pamboat engine,” said Cothran. “They’re moving out. In calm seas they could be in Sabah in less than an hour. But it’s pretty rough outside the reef. That’ll hold ’em up some.” He turned to Kennedy. “Look, you and Angus go after them. With just the two of you, you’ll have a better chance of catching them. More people would slow the boat down.”
Here we go again, thought Mariah to herself. Some guy trying to protect me, separate me from the action. “We’re a team,” she said. “We go together.”
“Well, we can’t all go,” said Cothran. “I’ll wait here and keep an eye on you through the binoculars. Watch for other visitors.” He stood and began tugging at the inflatable, a fifteen-footer with three seats and a forty-horsepower outboard motor. “Still have your weapon?” he asked Kennedy.
Kennedy nodded and they all helped Cothran launch the boat. When it was floating, Kennedy jumped in and started the outboard. Mariah climbed aboard and Angus pushed the inflatable into deeper water before hopping on board himself.
Curt put the engine in forward gear and turned back to Cothran as the boat slowly moved away from the shore. “We should be back to pick you up in a couple of hours—with Omar,” he said.
Cothran nodded and pointed toward the bow of the inflatable. “Not that you’ll need it, but there’s a survival kit up forward. Good luck.”
The inflatable moved out of the lagoon, passed through the reef entrance, and entered the open ocean. Even though the waters were choppier now, Curt brought the boat up onto a plane and they skimmed over the surface of most of the waves. Occasionally one broke over them, causing the inflatable to shudder and nearly stall, and drenching them in a cascade of cold water. They cleared the end of the island. Mariah made out the pamboat several hundred yards ahead. She saw that the narrow craft was struggling in the rough waters, pitching up and down, and periodically submerging its bow. Curt quickly closed the distance. He motioned for Mariah to take the helm and positioned himself on the middle seat. Angus knelt on the floorboards behind the forward seat and grasped the seat with both hands.
Mariah struggled to steer the boat. Every time a wave hit them the tiller would jerk to one side. But by experimenting, she found that if she loosened her grip she could maintain better control. They drew closer to the pamboat. In the distance beyond, she could see a large landmass. “Borneo?” she yelled to Curt, pointing ahead.
Shielding his eyes with a cupped hand, he looked where she was pointing and nodded. “Has to be,” he said. “Keep following them.”
Mariah could see that Omar was now steering the pamboat and the other man was standing, facing aft, legs widely spaced to maintain balance in the rough seas. He was raising something to his right shoulder. It looked like a long tube.
“RPG!” Curt shouted. “Grenade launcher. Turn sharp left.”
As Mariah pushed the tiller over, she saw a bright flash. There was a whooshing noise overhead followed by a splash well astern.
“Zigzag course!” Curt yelled. He knelt at the bow of the boat, gripping a large black pistol in both hands. Mariah recognized it as the gun that he had carried during the night raid on the Abu Sayyaf camp.
Another flash from the grenade launcher was followed by a large splash just ahead. “Hold on!” yelled Curt as the wave struck the small boat, causing its bow to rear up. Mariah fell backward, striking her shoulder on the boat’s wooden transom. As Angus moved toward her to help, she regained control of the tiller and the boat accelerated forward. She thought about putting on a life jacket but didn’t want to interrupt her steering. She changed direction frequently, varying the times between course changes. The grenade launcher was still pointed at them and the pamboat was headed directly toward the landmass. She realized she’d closed the distance to a hundred feet or so.
Curt fired a short burst from his Beretta. The RPG operator tried to move but, burdened by the grenade launcher, lost his balance. He teetered for a moment at the pamboat’s rail and tumbled over the side. Still steering, Omar turned, a pistol in his hand, and fired off a volley of shots as the boat crashed into a wave. Mariah, Angus, and Curt ducked below the inflatable’s pontoons. The shots went wide. Omar turned again and faced forward.
Mariah struggled to steer as the inflatable pounded into short, steep waves as it closed fast on the coastline. The next thirty seconds or so registered in her mind like a kaleidoscopic sequence of bright, disjointed images. A foaming mass of spume dead ahead, waves breaking onto a stretch of fringing coral reef exposed by a low tide. A narrow channel between the reef and the landmass. The pamboat now only yards ahead, moving quickly toward the reef. Omar standing, then rolling over the side, clutching the case. The pamboat hitting the reef bow first, driving half of its length onto the exposed coral before coming to a stop.
Mariah saw Omar struggle to his feet and splash through the surf. A breaking wave knocked him down and he disappeared in the froth. Seconds later, he emerged, briefcase still in his hand, and stumbled onto the reef. He moved crablike across the jagged surface, head down against the breeze, lurching toward the channel on the far side of the reef.
Curt took the tiller from Mariah and eased the inflatable onto the edge of the reef, timing his landing between breaking waves. He stood and yelled, “Omar!”
The man stopped and turned. He set the case on the coral, pulled his gun from his belt, and pointed it toward the inflatable. A staccato burst of loud popping noises. Curt grabbed his right arm, toppled out of the inflatable, and fell heavily onto the coral. Omar picked up the case and moved toward the trees. Angus vaulted out of the boat and began running after him. “Drop the case!” he yelled. Omar looked over his shoulder, started to raise his weapon, but then accelerated his pace without firing.
Mariah knelt over Curt’s still form and pressed her face to his. He was unconscious but breathing. Blood was gushing from his left bicep and staining the reef. Working quickly, she tore a strip from his T-shirt and tightly bound the arm just above the bullet hole. The wound didn’t look serious, but he seemed to be losing a lot of blood. With the tourniquet in place, the blood flow slowed to a trickle. She washed the wound with seawater, ripped another strip off the T-shirt, rinsed it in the ocean, and bandaged the arm.
Curt was now awake and trying to say something. She bent closer to him.
“Go after him,” Curt said. “Help Angus. He’s not even armed. He pressed the Beretta into her hand. “I’ll be okay,” he said.
Mariah knew she had no choice. Omar was closing in on the narrow channel that separated the reef from the mainland. How deep is it? she wondered. If he could wade across, they might lose him forever. She reluctantly took the gun, hoping that she wouldn’t have to use it.
After a final check on Curt, Mariah moved quickly across the razor-sharp coral. Even with the case in one hand and the gun in the other, Omar was outpacing both Angus and her. This guy’s in good shape, Mariah thought. She figured that the distance between her and Omar was about a hundred yards. What’s a Beretta’s range? she asked herself. “Stop!” she shouted, pointing the gun in front of her. She was gratified to see that Angus moved to the side, giving her a clear line of fire. She hoped Omar wouldn’t call her bluff and fire first.
Omar turned, faced his pursuers, and held the case up. “There’s a detonator in here,” he yelled, in English that was only slightly accented. “If I trigger it, the case will explode and that will release the virus. This wind will carry it a long way. You don’t want to take that chance.”
Angus and Mariah stopped in their tracks. Mariah hesitated. Virus! And did he really have a detonator? Would he be foolish enough to use it? Even if he did, what effect would it have in this remote location? She doubted the virus could survive in seawater. But if she let him go, the consequences could be far worse. She began to move slowly toward him, gun at her side.
Still holding the case aloft, Omar aimed his own gun a
nd fired.
Mariah dove down, and her torso slammed against the spiny surface of the reef. Adrenaline kept the pain at bay, but she knew, could feel, that the coral had pierced and scraped her skin in several places. She looked up. Omar was moving away again. She quickly rose and ran up to Angus, who had also thrown himself on to the reef surface and was now scrambling to his feet. They both sprinted after Omar. When she thought they’d closed the distance enough, she knelt on the coral and raised the Beretta again. She tried to take careful aim but a gusty breeze and her anxiety made it impossible to hold the gun steady. She held the pistol in both hands as she’d seen Curt do, released the safety, and pulled the trigger. A half-dozen shots erupted as her arms jerked upward; the gun was still on semiautomatic setting. She cursed. Why had she never learned to use a firearm?
Omar was now yards away from the channel, with Angus in close pursuit. Seconds later, he reached it and plunged in, holding the case over his head. Angus was just steps behind.
Mariah quickly realized that Omar was in trouble. A swift current was funneling through the channel. Omar was immediately swept off his feet. As he lost his footing the case flew out of his hand, crashed to the reef on her side of the channel, and burst open. Mariah yelled to Angus to stop, but it was too late. He’d already entered the water and the current had caught him too.
Helpless, Mariah watched as Omar and Angus sluiced through the channel in a whirl of flailing arms. Seconds later, she lost sight of them.
Mariah was devastated. Angus had just returned to them, seemingly back from the dead. Now he was lost again. This would absolutely kill Curt. She walked to the edge of the reef and peered down the channel toward the open sea. Nothing. She sat on the rough reef surface and began sobbing.
After several moments, she wiped her eyes and forced herself to control her emotions. Curt needed attention. She had to get back to him. Then she saw the open case lying on the coral. She carefully approached it. It was made of hard plastic and was lined with Styrofoam. Insets in the padding held three bottles. She read the label on one: Tanduay Rhum. It was the name of the rum company on a billboard she’d seen in Manila. Surely Omar wasn’t smuggling mere booze out of the Philippines, she thought.
Mariah examined the bottles, taking care not to touch any of them. Each had a volume of one liter and all appeared to be intact. She heard a faint voice, carried toward her by the wind. Curt? Turning back toward where she’d left him, she saw that a man was standing over Curt’s prone body. She moved toward the man, focusing on Curt’s still form, hoping that the man was from the task force. As she closed to within a few yards she saw that the man was soaking wet and that he looked like the RPG operator in the pamboat. He quickly approached her. Before Mariah could react, he grabbed her by the shoulders, threw her facedown on the reef, and pinned her hands behind her back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SEPTEMBER 6, LATE MORNING
(SEPTEMBER 7, PHILIPPINES TIME)
Dr. Emily Rausch collapsed into a chair in her Pennsylvania Hospital office, buried her face in her hands, and choked back a sob. The hospital had just lost its tenth medical staffer to Kandahar, and this death had been by far the worst: the chief nurse in pediatrics, an RN Emily had worked with closely at the hospital for twenty-two years, a woman Emily had counted among her closest friends.
Emily pressed her fingers against her temples and stared absently at her desk. The hospital was severely understaffed, and not just because of sickness and death. It was proving impossible to recruit new doctors and nurses. All those within or near the quarantine zone, which had now been expanded to include the western suburbs of Philadelphia, were already hard at work at the three area hospitals designated to treat Kandahar victims. And almost no one outside the area would willingly take the risk of working with infected patients. The White House had assured her that active-duty military medics would soon arrive to fill the void, but that contingent seemed to have been tied up in the bureaucracy. Already her personnel were putting in harrowing 130-hour weeks. They were seeing dozens of new cases daily and more than three fourths of the patients were dying. There seemed to be no end in sight. And then there were the bodies. The hospital morgue was full and they were running out of space—and body bags—to store the corpses.
The desk phone rang. Emily wearily reached for the receiver. She’d been expecting the call. She identified herself and listened quietly for several seconds. The phone began to tremble in her hand and the blood drained from her face. Keeping her voice steady, she told the caller that she understood and placed the phone back on the receiver.
The person who had called was from the Department of Homeland Security. The authorities, he’d said, were concerned about the accumulation of infected corpses harboring a lethal stew of Kandahar virus. The bodies had to be disposed of—quickly. They would have to be cremated, en masse. The caller had explained to Emily that a team of specially trained soldiers would arrive later today. Public relations personnel from the department would contact loved ones. The operation had been approved by the White House, said the caller. It was unfortunate, but there was no choice.
* * *
Mariah was lashed to a chair, her ankles bound together and her wrists tied behind her back. Sunlight was leaking through gaps in the bamboo walls, illuminating the walls and a thatched ceiling. She heard the cry of a seabird and the distant sound of a plane high overhead. She twisted around and again called softly to Curt, who was tied up in another chair that was lashed to hers. No answer. Was he still unconscious? Worse? Behind her, a door squeaked and then slammed shut.
“Well, well. Fancy seeing you here,” said a voice that was at once familiar to Mariah and baffling. Where had she heard it before? She’d heard it somewhere . . . often.
Just as the man rounded her chair Mariah’s brain recognized the voice, and her body began to struggle almost before she could comprehend what she was thinking. The voice was that of Frank Hoffman, and sure enough, Hoffman was now standing in front of her, watching her buck uselessly against her restraints.
“Calm down,” he said coldly.
Mariah’s mind was racing. “What’s happened to Curt? What the hell’s going on here?” She almost ended the questions with “sir,” by instinct, but caught herself just in time.
“So many questions,” said Hoffman, with a cursory shake of his head. “If you must know, we’re in a hut. On a reef. A barrier reef, to be precise. If you don’t know what that is, it’s a coral reef that runs along a shoreline and is separated from the land by a lagoon. So you can’t just walk out of here.” He started to laugh, harshly, but the laugh quickly turned into a hacking cough. When he’d finally settled himself he spoke again. “And you asked about Kennedy. He’s still asleep. At least for now. Any more questions?”
Mariah tried to size up the man standing in front of her. There was that typical phrasing, clinical and precise, just like the man. But Mariah couldn’t reconcile the physical appearance of the person standing in front of her with the stern, reserved, no-nonsense boss she’d seen on a daily basis for the past half-dozen years. The Frank Hoffman she knew from the Barn was professional to the point of coldness. He rarely laughed. He rarely showed any emotion whatsoever. Now, studying the face of this new version of Hoffman, Mariah saw gleaming, bloodshot eyes and a frozen half smile. God, she thought. The man looks unhinged. What was he doing here? What had happened to him? Her gaze fell to a large pistol tucked into his waistband. Was he going to kill them? Keep him talking, she thought, and try not to antagonize him.
“Why are you here, Frank?” she asked. Maybe using his first name would connect with something in the old Frank Hoffman.
“Too many questions!” barked Hoffman, clenching his fists and then gradually relaxing them. “Right now I’ve got a job for you.” He pointed toward the far side of the hut. “See that case on the table? One of the bottles inside is cracked. You’ll find an empty bottl
e on the table. I need you to transfer the contents of the cracked bottle into the empty one.” He bent down and began to release Mariah’s bonds.
Mariah stared at the table, at the briefcase, the one that Omar had been carrying, with rum bottles that she knew didn’t contain rum. Was he really going to make her handle the virus? No protection. Certain exposure. She looked back at Hoffman, at his determined, manic expression. He doesn’t care, she suddenly realized. He doesn’t care if I die. No matter what I do, he’s not going to let me live.
Knowing this, facing up to it, gave her a strange feeling of liberation, a sense that it didn’t matter how she handled the situation. She was free to take all the risk in the world because in a way she had nothing to lose. She stared hard at Hoffman. “Go to hell,” she said, slowly and evenly, her eyes fixed on his.
Hoffman drew his arm back and slapped her, hard, across her right cheek.
At first Mariah forced herself not to cry out, to ignore the stinging pain, to hide her fear. She didn’t want to give Hoffman the satisfaction of seeing her hurt. But the slap also awoke something within her. A burning rage and a desire to fight, with everything she had. And to win. But first she had to get free, and Hoffman had just given her an opening.
She started to whimper. “Please don’t hurt me,” she said, her eyes still on his. “I’ll do what you want. I’ll transfer the virus.” She could tell by the startled expression on his face that he was surprised that she knew that the bottles contained virus, and that gave her more hope. If the new Frank Hoffman betrayed his feelings that easily, maybe she could get him to reveal more. She decided to be direct.