“I’ll see to it. Finish your exam on his mother. If she’s also getting sick . . .” Jameson left the rest unsaid.
As Jameson departed, Charlotte cast a worried look across to a neighboring bed where a form lay sealed in a black body bag. An older patient had died, and they were readying to transport his remains to the pathology lab in the next Quonset hut over. According to his chart, the old man had arrived four days ago, already deep into the strange malaise. Whatever encephalitic condition resulted in that lassitude had progressed, slowly paralyzing the victim over time. Or maybe the sluggishness had simply become so severe that the man simply forgot how to breathe, or his heart lost its will to beat. That was a mystery for the pathologists. Not that she expected any answers to be shared with them.
She glanced to the suite of equipment at the back of the ward. She had tried repeatedly to get further information from Dr. Ngoy, who led the team of clinicians working there, only to be rebuffed again and again.
Not exactly a cooperative bunch.
Still, Charlotte had a more immediate concern. She returned her attention to Disanka. The woman had started running a low-grade fever and, with some prodding, admitted to a growing headache. It would be easy to blame all of this on fatigue and fear for her boy, but a late lunch of stew and fried bread had left Disanka nearly choking.
Charlotte picked up a tongue depressor and requested in French, “Disanka, could you please open your mouth?” She pantomimed the same by sticking out her own tongue.
As Disanka obeyed, Charlotte leaned forward. She used the tongue depressor to examine the back of the woman’s mouth. The tonsils appeared slightly inflamed. Otherwise, there appeared to be no other lesions or sores. Charlotte held a breath and reached to the left tonsillar bed with her tongue depressor and brushed its wooden edge against the inflamed tissue. Normally, a patient would’ve jerked back and gagged. Instead, Disanka showed no acknowledgment of the violation.
Charlotte sat back and tossed the depressor into a red hazardous waste bin. She motioned Disanka to relax and patted her shoulder in reassurance. Her efforts failed to diminish the worry in the woman’s eyes, but the fear was not for her own health. They both turned toward the swaddled baby in the crib.
Disanka reached over and took Charlotte’s hand, reminding Charlotte of her earlier promise. To keep the child safe at any cost.
Charlotte squeezed her reassurance.
I’ll do everything I can.
The fear in Disanka’s eyes had dimmed, smothered by a renewed determination. They matched gazes in that moment, the meaning clear.
They both would do everything they could for the child.
By now Jameson had returned with a tiny pediatric mask and hooked an oxygen line to it. “Well?” he asked brusquely.
Charlotte released Disanka’s hand. “It definitely appears her struggles during lunch were due to dysphagia. I don’t know if it’s just a lack of feeling in the back of her throat or if there’s muscular paralysis, too.”
“Could this be an early sign of the disease?”
She shrugged. “The fever, headaches, they could all be the signs of the onset of a viral encephalitis. But this degree of dysphagia, that’s an unusual sequela.”
“Not always.” He glanced significantly at her.
She understood. “You’re thinking of rabies.”
The zoonotic disease was one she had been well versed on before coming here as part of Doctors Without Borders. The characteristic hydrophobia—or fear of water—along with the foaming at the mouth and drooling, was due to pharyngeal dysfunction as rabies triggered a deadly encephalitis.
“But this is clearly not rabies,” Jameson said.
No, it’s definitely not.
She found herself rubbing her own throat, trying to judge if she was experiencing such a symptom. The ant bites on her hands were still red. She had a persistent headache and felt overheated and sweaty. She wanted to blame it all on stress and being suited up from head to toe. Still, she could not escape the worry that she was infected, too.
Jameson nodded toward the back of the ward. “Maybe we should inform Dr. Ngoy about our observation.”
She turned and frowned at the head researcher and his team. The clinicians remained clustered among the serology and histology equipment at the back of the hut. To that group, she and Jameson were merely glorified interns and phlebotomists, not worthy of their time.
“Let’s hold off for now,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
Before she could respond, the entire Quonset hut shook as a helicopter swept over it. The rotorwash pounded the metal roof. Already on edge, she found herself ducking and staring upward. Whoever had arrived had done so with some urgency.
Curiosity drew her to a narrow window beside Disanka’s bed. It sounded like the helicopter had landed close by, rather than over at the riverside helipad. Jameson shadowed her to the window.
The angle of the hut allowed her to spot the aircraft settling to its skids in the central square of the old colonial outpost. Hatches popped open on either side, and men in black armor piled out. They were more of Nolan De Coster’s personal army. She spotted the tall form of Lieutenant Ekon. He led two men in civilian gear at the point of a rifle toward the guesthouse where Nolan kept his office.
Jameson stiffened next to her. “Impossible,” he muttered.
She turned to him. “What is it?”
He nodded back toward the men being led away. “The one in front. That’s Dr. Whitaker.”
It took Charlotte another breath to recognize the name. “The virologist? The one you had tried to summon to the camp?”
“The same. But what is he doing here? How is he here?”
Charlotte noted the rifle threatening the pair of newcomers. “Clearly he didn’t volunteer.” She pointed to the stocky, bald man beside the virologist. “Do you recognize the other one with him?”
“No. But it doesn’t matter. They’re as trapped as we are. They won’t be able to help us.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“We need an experienced virologist.”
She glanced over to Ngoy as the clinician bent over a microscope.
Especially one we can trust.
3:42 P.M.
Tucker knelt in shadows and readied his partner for the trek ahead.
Behind him, Ndaye remained with the helicopter as its motor cooled with metallic tinks and pings in the small clearing not far from a small river. The aircraft was the same Aérospatiale Gazelle that Tucker had ridden last night, when he had rescued Ndaye and the others from the flooded Tshopo River.
Let’s pray the aircraft is up for one more high-stakes rescue.
For the past hour, Ndaye and Tucker had been tracking the GPS transponder in Monk’s prosthetic. They had kept a wary distance until the moving target finally stopped—or rather the signal went dead. They’d lost the transmission about five minutes ago, requiring a swift search and landing in the clearing. The last signal had been broadcast about ten kilometers off. It was impossible to tell if the transponder had been discovered and disabled. If so, they dared approach no closer by air. They would have to continue on foot.
They being Tucker and Kane.
Ndaye would stay with the helicopter. The eco-guard needed to be ready to sweep over for an airlift if Tucker was successful in finding and securing the others. In the meantime, Tucker would maintain radio silence. He would only risk contacting Ndaye when absolutely necessary. After so many ambushes and apparent betrayals, paranoia was running high. Then again, he took heed of a quote from Catch-22: Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you.
Either way, for now, that meant Tucker was on his own—though not entirely on his own. He stared into Kane’s dark caramel eyes, flecked with gold. It would be just the two of them from here.