Painter agreed. “I need you to delay your vacation.”
For all intents and purposes, Gray had just been hitching a ride on the jet. With everything so tentative out in Africa, his original objective had been to accompany Sigma’s medical team to the area, get everyone situated, then move on. His own studies with Sigma—after he had been court-martialed out of the Army Rangers—concentrated on an amalgam of physics and biology. So, he was far from a medical expert.
His plan had been to continue on from Africa and join his girlfriend, Seichan, and their young son in Hong Kong. Seichan had taken Jack to visit her mother. She had left two weeks ago, intending to spend a month there. Gray had been heading to join them for the latter half of her visit.
Now it looks like that won’t be happening.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about this change. He was anxious to see Seichan and Jack, but he could not discount the harder beat of his heart. Of late, there had been a lull in activity at Sigma. During the pandemic, terrorism on a global scale had waned. Regional skirmishes persisted, but the lockdown had stymied any wider reach.
But now . . .
While he loved being a father and building a home life with Seichan, he remained a warrior at the core. His ears were forever piqued for the tiny sonic booms of a bullet passing close, of the Doppler of flying shrapnel. His blood ran with gun oil. He longed for the acrid whiff of rifle fire in the air, for those moments when time slowed, and adrenaline surged. He glanced over to Monk, noting the tightening of his fist.
He feels it, too.
Still, Gray also noted the winced crinkles at the corners of his friend’s eyes. Like Gray, Monk was a father. Did either of them have any right to put themselves in danger with young children at home? All soldiers struggled with this dichotomy; this pull in two different directions.
Gray had another reason for discomfort. He pictured Seichan, her leonine curves, her wry smile, her deft skill with glade and gun. She was as much a warrior as he was.
If things go south in Africa . . .
She’s not going to be happy missing out.
Another passenger also expressed displeasure with this change in plans.
A groan rose behind Gray, coming from a sofa along the cabin’s starboard side. The cracking of joints sounded as the last member of the team woke and stretched his limbs. Gray glanced back. Joe Kowalski shoved his six-foot-four frame into a seated position. He ran a large palm across the dark stubble crowning his skull. He cast a heavy-browed glare at the assembly ahead of him.
His graveled voice complained, “What’s all this about a delay?”
Like Gray, Kowalski had no role in this mission. The former seaman was Sigma’s demolitions expert, but he was currently on medical leave. He had been diagnosed with cancer four months ago. Multiple myeloma, stage 3. A cancer of plasma cells. The prognosis was grim, though his symptoms, beyond a low-grade anemia, were presently mild. He was already on a regimen of dexamethasone and a protease inhibitor. Gray had heard that his oncologist was recommending a stem cell transplant, where the man’s bone marrow would be wiped out with chemotherapy, then replaced with healthy stem cells.
Ever stubborn, Kowalski had refused such a radical course—at least, for now.
Instead, Kowalski was headed to the Republic of the Congo, just north of the DRC. He was traveling to the Virunga National Park to visit his fiancée, Maria, who was checking on the pair’s foster son, Baako, a young gorilla hybrid who had been released at a sanctuary there. Painter had cautioned against Kowalski traveling to Africa, especially as myelomas weakened a sufferer’s immune system. Not that anyone would ever use the word weak in respect to the muscular brute. Still, Kowalski had insisted on coming along, pressing the matter, especially with word of some unknown threat spreading across the jungle, which could put both his fiancée and his furry son at risk. He intended to be there to protect them both.
Painter had finally relented.
How could he not?
Kowalski was not one to waste away in a sickbed. He would fight for as long as he could. Plus, no one doubted how the man had acquired the cancer. During a prior mission, he had been exposed to a massive dose of radiation.
So, we all owe him any accommodation he wants.
Monk answered Kowalski’s query. “Looks like this trip into the jungle isn’t a wild-goose chase after all. Something’s definitely spreading across the jungle.”
“Of course it is.” Kowalski glowered and settled back to a sprawl on the sofa. “Wake me when we get there.”
Gray faced Painter on the screen. “Anything else we should know about?”
“Not at the moment. I’ll give you a final update before you land. Until then, maybe you all should heed Kowalski’s example and get some rest. Something tells me you’ll need to move fast once you land.”
Gray didn’t doubt this. He signed off and everyone returned to their own seats and thoughts. His heart pounded even harder now. He pictured a storm of contagion sweeping across the heart of Africa. He sensed their team was already behind the curve in getting a handle on this crisis and wished they were already landing.
But it was not to be.
That role belonged to another.
11:16 P.M. CAT
Kisangani, DRC
With a pack over his shoulder and a holstered Desert Eagle at his hip, Tucker hurried across the dark rainswept tarmac of Bangoka International Airport, a small airfield east of the city of Kisangani. Their Cessna Grand Caravan had landed a few minutes ago, piloted by his friend Christopher Nkomo. He and his brother Matthew would offload the fifteen red plastic crates that comprised Frank’s mobile lab and transfer them to the University of Kisangani.
In the meantime, the weather pressed their schedule.
Tucker followed a FARDC soldier in khaki fatigues and a bright-orange vest.
Kane trotted at Tucker’s side. Even so close, the Belgian Malinois’s dense black-and-brown coat made him look like Tucker’s shadow. The shepherd’s fur was soaked from the downpour, which frequent full-body shakes did little to disperse. Kane kept watch silently, not even panting, his ears tall and pointed.
Dr. Frank Whitaker followed on Tucker’s other side, carrying a backpack of sample-collection gear. The veterinarian looked like he hadn’t aged a day since Tucker had left the service. Maybe a few curls of gray in his close-cropped hair. With the man’s clothes sodden to the skin, he looked to have kept in lean shape. Once upon a time, the three of them had jogged together, under a sun that baked, kicking up the perpetual red sands of the base outside Baghdad.
Tucker had spent most of his service in Afghanistan, losing a partner there, Kane’s littermate Abel. Afterward, distraught and nearly inconsolable, Tucker had been shipped to Iraq, where more than anyone, Frank had helped him find his center again. He had even helped Tucker steal Kane. At that time, the war dog had not completed his full tour of duty, but after losing Abel, Tucker refused to leave Kane behind. The two of them had shed enough blood. So, under the cover of night and with papers falsified by Frank, Tucker had fled. Eventually the crime had been cleared up, courtesy of Tucker’s past help with Sigma. Still, he knew none of that would have been possible without his friend’s help.
Tucker glanced sidelong to Frank.
I owe this man everything.