The Congolese escort led them toward a helicopter that sat atop a pad. The rotors slowly turned as the pilot kept the engine warm.
Tucker wanted to hurry. He had already heard from Director Crowe about Sigma’s fear that the contagion was spreading beyond these borders. It had to be stopped. Tucker’s love for this continent ran deep. It had become his home and refuge. Its natural beauty ached his heart. A couple of years ago, he had invested with the Nkomo brothers—Christopher and Matthew—in a luxury safari camp at the Spitskop Nature Preserve in South Africa. A month ago, he had returned from the States, after a sojourn through the Southwest, and joined the brothers in scouting a second location for their growing enterprise.
Until Sigma’s call.
Frank sidled up closer. “Do you think we can fly in this weather?”
Tucker shrugged. “Visibility will be strained by the rain, but as long as it doesn’t blow into a lightning storm, we should be able to make the forty-minute hop to the campsite.”
“What do you think happened out there? Why would Dr. Jameson warn us away?”
“I don’t know, but the Congolese forces should have the camp locked down before we get there. According to Crowe, a pair of military helicopters—a transport Puma and a small gunship—left a few minutes ago.”
Tucker and the others finally reached the parked helicopter and ducked under the blades with their escort. The military chopper—an Aérospatiale Gazelle—was a single-engine, light utility craft, one nimble enough for quick flights in rough conditions. The escort popped the side hatch and poked his head inside, yelling over to the pilot.
After a brief exchange, the escort faced them again. He spoke English with a French accent. “Storm comes fast. You go now or not go.”
Tucker turned to Frank. “The weather forecast warned that thunderstorms will be raging throughout the night. We can always wait until the skies clear up in the morning.”
Frank crossed his arms, clearly unsure what to do, vacillating between urgency and caution. “With something possibly spreading already, even a day could make a huge difference.” He glanced off to the dark forest. “And like you said, our Congolese friends are already en route. If we lift off now, we can follow behind them. If there’s any problem ahead, the military could radio us, and we could turn back. Right?”
Tucker glanced to the escort for confirmation.
The man merely shrugged.
Frank unfolded his arms and pointed to the open hatch. “I say we go for it.”
Tucker nodded and waved Frank inside. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
The veterinarian clambered up into the back. Tucker signaled Kane to hop in after him. The shepherd leaped atop the bench seat. Tucker followed as the pilot twisted to face them with a scowl.
“No dog!” the man shouted from under his helmet.
Tucker glared at the man. “You’re right. He’s no dog.” He pointed at Kane. “He’s a soldier.”
Kane gave a low, menacing growl, confirming the same.
Frank settled back and pointed a thumb at the shepherd. “Sir, maybe you best listen to our furry friend.”
The pilot swore under his breath and faced back around.
Tucker grinned at Frank. “Who knew you spoke canine?”
Frank strapped in. “Not as fluently as you. I’ve seen you and Kane work.”
“That’s more Kane than me.”
Still, Tucker felt a flush of pride, both for himself and his partner. Kane had a command of a thousand words, a hundred hand signals, but that was not their truest bond. That had been forged during their years together. After all this time, the two were bound together tighter than with any leash, each capable of reading the other, a communication that went beyond any spoken word or hand signal.
He patted Kane’s flank as the rotors sped up, sweeping through the rain. The engine growled into a roar. Tucker felt a tremble in his partner’s body. It was not fear, but excitement. Kane was readying himself for the challenge, ramping up, clearly anxious to be underway. From the seat, Kane glanced at Tucker. The shepherd’s dark brown eyes shone with flecks of gold in the cabin lights.
You ready, buddy?
Kane answered, nudging Tucker’s cheek with his nose.
Of course you are.
Satisfied, Tucker snapped into his seat. He didn’t know what lay ahead—only that he and Kane would face it together.
Like always.
5
April 23, 11:17 P.M. CAT
Tshopo Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
Charlotte recoiled as a rifle blasted outside the tent.
The gunman appeared behind Benjie, herding the grad student farther into the tent. The shooter was one of the ICCN guards, likely the same one who had accompanied Ndaye in the search for the missing biologist. The uniformed man took up a post at the tent flap, his rifle pointing outward.
Ndaye crossed to his teammate, shadowed by the shaman and his apprentice.
Jameson closed in on Benjie. “What’s going on out there?”
The student’s eyes blinked rapidly in wild fright. “They’re coming,” he panted out.
Charlotte joined them. “Who—?”
An ululating howl cut through the rumble of thunder. A chorus answered, sounding as if coming from everywhere. All the hairs on Charlotte’s body shivered in primal terror.
“We need to go,” Benjie warned. “They’ll rip right through this tent.”
Jameson grabbed the biologist’s arm. “What did you see?”
Rifle fire drew their attention. The eco-guard clutched his weapon at his shoulder, his cheek to its stock. Then something large struck him in the back, hard enough to knock him out of view. The man screamed, his body thrashing into the side of the tent. He fought something that tore into him. Dark blood suddenly sprayed the fabric.
Benjie fled, drawing them all back. Charlotte grabbed Disanka and her child and followed.
At the flap, Ndaye dropped to a knee with his rifle raised. He squeezed off a shot, then another, aiming for the fighting, which had rolled away from the tent. The guard’s scream strangled to a gurgle, then went silent.
Ndaye cursed and retreated, pushing the shaman and apprentice behind him.
Woko stared past Ndaye’s shoulder. “Nyani . . .”
Charlotte frowned. She knew that word, but it couldn’t be true.
As if proving her wrong, a hulking form shoved through the flap. It stood shorter than her waist but had to weigh over fifty kilos. Its shaggy gray-green fur was soaked and matted with mud. It crouched on its back legs, balanced on one forearm. Huge eyes glowed with fury. It screamed at them, lips rippling back from its dog-like muzzle, baring pink gums and fangs as long as her fingers.
Nyani meant baboon.
As more savage cries echoed all around, Ndaye fired at the beast, striking its shoulder. It spun fully around from the impact—then leaped straight at him. Backpedaling, Ndaye managed another quick shot. The baboon’s head cracked backward, and its body crashed to the floor.
Ndaye leaped over the bloody remains and yanked the tent’s zipper, sealing them in. Not that it would offer much protection. He knew it, too. “We can’t stay here.”
“I . . . I tried to warn you,” Benjie gasped out.
Charlotte stared at the body on the floor. More shadowy shapes trampled all around the camp. One bounded across the tent’s roof, causing her to duck. Howls and savage screams echoed everywhere. It sounded like hundreds of baboons had invaded the camp.
She still did not understand this behavior. The presence of baboons was not unusual in the camp. Over the prior days, the occasional furry thief would bound in, steal food from tables, or root through their stores. The gray furred monkeys—Papio anubis, or olive baboons—were prevalent throughout the Congo. But so far, they had been no more than a nuisance. Not that they couldn’t be dangerous. She had read how baboons could swarm a leopard and kill it. Still, she had been assured that the shy monkeys posed little threat unless provoked, that thieves would scatter with a shout, which had proven true.
But clearly no longer.