Z (23 page)

The Gull pilot knew he was very close now. He pressed the send button on his stick. “Horseman, this is Gull. Over.”

Quinn sat up, ignoring the pain in his stomach and head. He fumbled, then pulled out the radio. “Gull, this is Horseman. Over.” He squinted up into the rain. It was getting lighter. The worst was passing.

“Horseman, this is Gull. I’ll be down in three minutes. Be ready to load fast. Over.”

“Roger that. Out.” Quinn stood with difficulty. “Aircraft’s inbound. Let’s get ready.”

“Got him!” Colonel Harris called out. “Got them both!” He had the small airplane on screen for sure now and they had pinpointed the FM ground source.

“Direct in the Spectre and the Black Hawk,” he ordered.

Vickers had them in the air even before the message from the AWACS was complete. “We’ll be there in two minutes,” she said.

Inside the Gull, the pilot held the stick between his knees as he pulled the bolt back on the MP-5 submachine gun. He only had room for one man, and that man was Bentley.

The pilot of the Spectre gunship leveled off. “What do you see?” he asked his targeting officer.

“I’ve got them on the ground. Four people.” The man played with his camera controls. “I have the plane too. Off to our left. About a half a mile away.”

“Eagle, this is One One. What are your orders? Over.”

Colonel Harris didn’t really understand what was going on, but the latest he was hearing from Washington was not pleasant. And there was the no-fly rule.

“Put it down. Over.”

The pilot of the Spectre blinked. “Say again. Over.”

“Shoot down the aircraft. Over.”

As far as the pilot knew, no Spectre had ever even engaged another aircraft, never mind shot one down. “Keegan,” he asked his targeting officer over the intercom, “did you hear that?”

“Yeah,” Keegan said. “Far out. We’re a fighter now. The jet-jocks will shit when we tell them this. Give me level flight, azimuth, two one seven degrees.”

The pilot of the Gull saw the edge of the runway through his NVGs, just ahead. He nudged the stick forward, descending. He had about a second and a half to try and figure out what was happening as a solid line of tracers appeared just in front of him before the plane—and him with it—was torn to shreds by a combination of 20 and 40mm rounds.

“What the hell is that?” Trent called out as they watched the tracers streaking overhead, parallel to the ground.

“Gull, this is Horseman,” Quinn called into the radio. “Gull, this is Horseman!” There was only static.

They all turned to look as a Black Hawk exploded out of the rainy dark and flew by.

“There they are!” Riley cried out. “Put us down!”

They landed hard, a hundred meters from the four men Riley had spotted on the flyby.

“What’s going on?” Bentley asked.

“Jesus, these fucking people want us bad,” Trent said.

The radio dropped from Quinn’s fingers into the mud. His head drooped on his shoulders for a long second, then came back up and he looked around. There was just the slightest hint of dawn in the east and the clouds appeared to be clearing.

The third man from Quinn’s patrol was lying in the mud, black vomit coming out of his mouth, blood seeping out of his eyes, nose, and ears.

“This is it,” Quinn said.

“It, what?” Bentley demanded.

“Ever wonder where you were going to die?” Quinn asked. “Well, this is it.”

Northeast Angola, 17 June

“Do you have us fixed? Over,” Riley asked into the boom mike.

“Roger that,” the Spectre replied. “We’ve got the Black Hawk clear. We’ll track each individual as you come off. You have four people, about one hundred meters due south of your position. We can finish them for you. Over.”

“Negative,” Riley replied. “We need them alive. There is something you can do, though.” Riley quickly finished giving instructions, then signaled for the other men on the helicopter to move out.

Riley hopped off and slid through the ground fog and the half-light of a sun just clearing the horizon, weapon at the ready. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Comsky, Oswald, and Tiller on line with him. The sound of the Black Hawk’s engine was fading behind them as it shut down.

Riley sidled to the right, getting off the mud of the runway and into the waist-high grass. He got down on his belly and began slithering forward, his clothing immediately soaked by the wet grass, the others following.

When he had made about fifty meters, he halted. “Stand up,” he yelled. “Throw down your weapons and put your hands on top of your heads.”

“Fuck you!” A burst of semiautomatic fire ripped a few feet over Riley’s head.

Quinn looked at Trent. Trent returned the look with a glare. “I’m not going to be taken in like some animal.” The NCO fired another burst from his AK-47. “I can’t be locked up.”

“We’ve got a chance,” Quinn said. “They want to talk!” He looked at the third man. He was unconscious now, blood seeping out of every pore, covered in black vomit.

A noise caught Quinn’s attention. Bentley was turning a knob on one of the cases. “What are you doing?”

“Orders,” Bentley said.

“Everyone just fucking freeze,” Quinn hissed. “I’m in charge here and I’ll make the decisions.”

Bentley didn’t stop. Quinn rolled twice to get close, then slapped Bentley’s hands away from the case. “I said stop.”

“Skeleton—” Bentley began.

“Skeleton isn’t here,” Quinn said.

“I ain’t going in, mate,” Trent said. He began to stand. Quinn grabbed him and pulled him down.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I won’t be captured! You know that. We agreed.”

Quinn nodded. “Yeah, I know we agreed. But we aren’t captured yet, so cool your jets.” He looked down. His own hands were shaking.

Quinn didn’t have time to dwell on his hands, though, because Bentley began fiddling with the case. Quinn finally understood that he was working on a small keypad—activating a destruct device. Quinn drew his knife, grabbed Bentley’s right hand, and slammed the knifepoint through the center of the palm, pinning it to the ground.

“Hands up!” the same voice called out, as Bentley screamed, which caused Quinn to smile at the absurdity.

“Who are you?” Quinn called out.

“U.S. Army.”

“Why do you want us? We have nothing against you.”

“We want to talk!”

“Talk?” Quinn returned. “You shot our plane down.”

“We’ll shoot you if you don’t put your hands up.”

A line of tracers came down from the sky and tore into the earth less than ten meters away from Quinn’s position.

“Next burst is on top of your position,” the voice called out.

“We’re fucked,” Trent said.

“We were already fucked,” Quinn amended. He reached over. The third man was dead.

“You can’t surrender that case,” Bentley said through a grimace of pain.

“Oh, yeah,” Quinn said. “So we blow it up and then we don’t have shit to deal with these people.”

“You can’t deal this!” Bentley said, his one good hand reaching for the case.

“Skeleton’s got you brainwashed,” Quinn said. “Diamonds aren’t worth that much.” He raised his voice. “You want the imagery, we’ll give it to you, if you’ll give us free escort to the border.”

Riley looked at Kieling, who had come up during the exchange. “Imagery? What’s he talking about?”

“I don’t know what they might have,” Kieling said. “But we need to see it, whatever it is.”

“All right,” Riley called out.

“That was too easy,” Trent noted. “They could just kill us and take the cases.”

“Maybe they don’t want to damage it,” Quinn said. “Or maybe they’re afraid we’ll blow it up like smart-ass here was trying to do.” He could hear the drone of an airplane overhead and knew there was no way out. “We have no choice.”

“You can’t!” Bentley cried out. “It’s not what you think.”

Quinn reached over and with one move withdrew the knife from Bentley’s hand. “Next time, I won’t be so nice,” he said. Bentley tucked his bleeding hand into his stomach. “Move and I’ll kill you,” Quinn continued.

“Stand up!” Riley called out again. He was relieved when a man stood, a Sterling submachine gun in his hands.

“Put the weapon down,” Riley called out.

“You’ve got the big gun in the sky,” the man said. “All we’ve got is our personal arms. You want to talk, we talk like we are now.”

Riley glanced at Kieling, who shrugged. “Your call,” Kieling said.

“I’ll meet you halfway.” Riley stood up. He let the M-16 hang by its sling and noticed that the other man did the same with his Sterling. Riley walked forward—the other man doing the same—until they were five feet apart.

“I’m Quinn.”

“Riley.”

Quinn looked Riley up and down. “I don’t see a uniform.”

“I don’t see one either,” Riley replied. The other man looked ill, with the beginning of a red rash running down one side of his neck— which didn’t surprise Riley. Everyone out here seemed to be sick. Was sick, Riley amended in his mind.

“You want the imagery?” Quinn asked.

Riley didn’t have a clue what he wanted other than answers. “Yes.”

“What assurance can you give me that you’ll let us go?” Quinn asked.

“What assurance could I give?” Riley asked in turn.

Quinn smiled despite his pain. “Good answer, Yank.”

Riley had had enough with sparring. He also was surprised at Quinn’s attitude. Where did the man think he was going to go now? The border with Zaire was closed. The world was now aware of the quarantine on Z. If Riley was in Quinn’s place then—it suddenly clicked in Riley’s brain. He had been in Quinn’s position before. And when he was there he had not been told the truth about what was going on.

“You know you’re sick?” Riley asked.

Quinn frowned. “Yeah.”

“Do you know how sick?”

Quinn hesitated. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“You’ll be dead inside seventy-two hours,” Riley said. He was surprised when Quinn nodded.

“Aye. I expected as much.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture. He handed it to Riley. “We hit some rebels on the eleventh. She was being carried. I knew something was wrong then.”

Riley looked at the young woman, ravaged by disease and bullets. Six days ago—just about right.

“The booster you were just at,” Riley said. “We think it had something to do with the disease.”

This time Quinn did show surprise. “Booster? I was told it was a satellite.”

“Who told you?”

Quinn looked over his shoulder. “You say this has something to do with the disease?”

Riley nodded.

Quinn turned. “Come with me.”

Riley hesitated. “Can I bring someone?”

“Who?”

“A scientist who specializes in viruses.”

“All right.”

Riley gestured and Kieling rose and joined them. Together, they walked back to Quinn’s group. Riley looked at the dead man lying there, then at the others.

“This is my top. Trent,” Quinn said. “This is Bentley,” he added, pointing at the man holding a bloody hand. “He’s the one who knows what’s going on.” Quinn kicked Bentley. “Open the cases.”

“I can’t,” Bentley said without much conviction.

Quinn’s hand strayed to the knife on his web gear.

Bentley knelt and turned the combination knobs. He flipped the lid open. Inside sat a large metal box, battered and heat streaked.

Kieling looked at the box. He reached to his belt and pulled off a multipurpose tool and used the Phillips head to work on the screws holding the top on. Bentley sat back down, nursing his wounded hand.

Keiling flipped the top off. Inside lay sophisticated machinery.

“What is it?” Riley asked.

“Could it be a camera?” Quinn asked.

“No.” Kieling lifted the machine out and turned it over. “No lens.” He was looking it over very carefully; then he pointed. “This canister.” It was as large as a gallon milk jug. “I’d say it’s a dispenser.”

“Of?” Riley asked.

“Z.”

“Z?” Quinn repeated.

“The virus.”

Quinn’s eyes opened wide and he turned to Bentley. “You mean this thing we got. He made it?”

“He either made it or he knows who made it,” Kieling said.

“You—” Quinn was speechless. His knife was out and he was just about at Bentley’s throat when Riley intercepted him. “Easy. We need answers from him. We need him alive.”

“I’m not talking,” Bentley said. He glared back at Quinn. “You can use your knife all you want, but I’m not going to say anything more.”

“Let’s take it back,” Riley ordered. “And all of you.”

“What about safe passage?” Quinn asked.

“You’re free to walk to the border if you want to,” Riley said.

Quinn looked at Trent, then at Bentley. “We’ll go with you.”

Sandoa, Zaire, 17 June

The young French doctor looked up at the sound of trucks rumbling down the road. Three lorries turned into the dirt courtyard of the hospital and soldiers piled out, weapons at the ready, their faces covered with surgical masks.

“What do you want?” the doctor asked.

“We understand you have men here. Sick men who came across the border from Angola,” the officer in charge said in perfect French.

The doctor involuntarily glanced over his shoulder at the hospital. “This is an international—” he began.

“You are in Zaire,” the officer intoned. “You are under our laws. There is a quarantine in effect along the border. These men entered illegally.”

“They are ill,” the doctor said. “They require—”

“Where are they?”

“In the isolation wing,” the doctor said. “But they—”

The officer ignored him, gesturing. A squad of men ran forward, kicking open the door to the wing. Inside, the surviving members of Quinn’s patrol that had been released at the border two days ago lay on cots, tended to by two local nurses. The nurses were the first to understand what was going on and sprinted for the back door. They were cut down by bursts of fire from AK-47s before they made it halfway.

The soldiers walked down the aisle, spraying the beds with automatic fire, ignoring the pleas of those still well enough to beg. The massacre was over in a few seconds.

“You will be held accountable!” the doctor screamed from the doorway.

“Did you tend to these men?” the officer asked.

“You will be held accountable by the international community!” the doctor repeated.

The officer pulled his pistol and shot the doctor through the forehead. “Burn the hospital,” he ordered. “I want nothing left standing!”

Cacolo, Angola, 17 June

“This,” Kieling said, using a ruler to point, “is some sort of chamber in which the virus was manipulated in zero g. I can’t tell you much more without taking it apart.” He moved the ruler. “The virus was then shunted down this tube, to this dispenser. It must have been held there until the booster came down. Then it was sprayed out. Someone probably saw it come down and came to investigate and they were patient zero.”

Riley had the imagery. “There’s a village here about twelve klicks from the crash site. It’s blue. Everyone’s dead.”

“That’s where it started.”

Riley looked up at Bentley. Comsky had wrapped a bandage around the man’s hand, but he had held true to his word and said nothing since they’d boarded the Black Hawk and flown back to Cacolo. Riley had gotten on the radio and transmitted everything they’d learned so far to Major Lindsay at the AOB, who was forwarding it back to the Pentagon.

“He doesn’t seem too worried about catching Z,” Conner noted.

“Do you have a vaccine for this?” Kieling asked. Everyone in the tent turned and stared at Bentley.

Bentley simply looked away.

“We know he works for Skeleton,” Quinn offered.

“Who is Skeleton?” Riley asked.

“Security chief for the Van Wyks,” Quinn said. “Does all their dirty work. I’ve met him. He’s former Rhodesian SAS. A big fucker. You won’t mistake him when you see him. About six foot eight, completely bald, and he’d as soon cut your heart out as talk to you.”

“Headquartered in Luderitz?” Riley asked.

Quinn nodded. “Right. How’d you know that?”

“We intercepted your SATCOM and found out where it came down,” Riley said.

“Bentley’s got to be vaccinated,” Kieling said. “He wouldn’t have handled this”—he tapped the device from the booster—“like he did, if he wasn’t vaccinated.”

“A vaccine don’t do us much good,” Comsky noted.

“But it will save a lot of lives,” Kieling said. “Z hasn’t finished burning yet.”

Riley walked over to Bentley. “You need to talk to us.”

“Let me at him,” Quinn said, drawing his knife. “Son of a bitch killed us. I’ll make him talk.”

“I have a better idea,” Kieling said. He stood. “I’ll be right back. I have to get something from Tyron at the habitat.”

Oshakati, Namibia, 17 June

General Nystroom looked at the new orders that had just arrived, then slowly put them down on the small folding table inside his command vehicle.

“Where did this come from?” Nystroom asked.

“Silvermine.”

“I need to talk to Pretoria,” Nystroom said.

“Sir, none of our communications links outside of Silvermine are functioning. Silvermine has closed down all other SATCOM channels.”

“It figures,” Nystroom said. He looked at the orders again. “All SADF are ordered to deploy southward.”

“Southward?” the officer was confused.

“Luderitz,” Nystroom said.