The pair of Q-UGVs reached Kane’s position. Tucker slipped his Desert Eagle out of its hip holster. But without missing a synchronized step, the pair stomped past Kane’s hiding spot. Tucker let out his breath. He watched them vanish into the forest as they continued their patrol. He didn’t know if the pair’s sensors had failed to detect Kane’s hiding spot, or if they had been programmed to fixate only on humans. With so much wildlife out here, it would be ineffectual for the guard dogs to be constantly shooting up the forest with every snap of a twig or flight of a bird.
Still, to be cautious, Tucker waited another three minutes before whispering a command to Kane.
“QUIET RETURN.”
On the video feed, Kane swung around and slunk back. Upon his arrival, Tucker gave his partner an enthusiastic rubdown.
“No one’s gonna replace you, buddy.”
Kane agreed with a vigorous wag of his tail.
With the greetings done, Tucker returned his attention to the river and the mysterious island at its center. If there were robotic guards patrolling here, then something was definitely wrong with that place. He was eager to get moving, but he checked the sun. It had already sunk halfway into the horizon. It wouldn’t be too long of a wait.
Still, he stared across the water, knowing who was to blame for him being here.
“Frank, what goddamned mess have you gotten us into?”
14
April 24, 5:45 P.M. CAT
Belka Island, Democratic Republic of the Congo
Frank shifted uncomfortably in the deeply cushioned leather chair. Shortly after arriving at the island encampment, he and Monk had been strip searched and examined by a doctor. Only afterward had they been given a matching set of blue scrubs to don.
Monk shared the neighboring seat before a wide African mahogany desk. During the search, the captors had discovered Monk’s prosthesis. He fidgeted with it now on his lap. He had been allowed to keep it, especially after feigning it to be stiff-fingered and clumsy, despite its outwardly authentic appearance.
The two of them faced the man who had orchestrated their kidnapping. Nolan De Coster, CEO of a mining conglomerate. Sadly, Frank actually knew the bastard, not personally, but the man’s corporation—its philanthropic division—had partly funded Frank’s own research here in Africa.
He struggled to come to terms with all that had been told to them, listening as the CEO eloquently recast his callousness and cruelty as economic necessity. Not that their attendance was voluntary. The tall Congolese soldier with the scarred face stood guard behind them.
Nolan kept his attention focused on Frank. “Dr. Whitaker, I can ap preciate the hard set to your lips. You can judge me as harshly as you like. But as they say, what I’ve done . . . it’s water under the bridge. It’s a wise man who addresses the matter at hand versus wishing things to be otherwise. The viral disease is here. People are dying. More will soon be. But with your help, we can accelerate our research here. To quickly put a stop to the spread.”
“So you can play the white savior of the Black man,” Frank said darkly, noting the African gold crown hovering in a case behind the man’s head.
The gall of this bastard.
Nolan sighed and steepled his fingers at his lips. “I’ve read your dossier, Dr. Whitaker. Army veterinarian turned virologist. You strike me as an impassioned but practical man. You’ve surely seen the best and worst of your fellow man during your years in the service. You understand progress often only comes at the cost of blood. It’s more so here in the Congo. The history of Africa is written in misery and strife, measured in the number of bodies. I mean to ultimately change that for the Congo, to turn that bloody tide once and for all. And hopefully spread the same across the entire continent.”
“In other words, the ends justify the means.”
Nolan shrugged. “Sometimes it does. Especially if those ‘ends’ break the wheel of Africa’s constant and escalating cycle of violence, war, and death. Consider what is happening now to be merely the final birthing pangs of a new era for Africa.”
Frank sat straighter and opened his mouth, but Monk cut him off.
“What if we do help?” Monk said curtly, glancing apologetically toward Frank. Since their capture, Monk had continued playing the role of the deferential research assistant. He swallowed hard, looking nervous. “What’ll become of us?”
Frank imagined a shallow grave in the jungle.
“I can assure you that no harm will come to you. I’m a man of my word. You will both, of course, remain under guard. You will be well taken care of, every luxury afforded you, your every whim met.”
“But not our freedom,” Frank said. “We’ll be ensconced in a gilded cage for the rest of our lives. That’s your offer?”
“I’m afraid so. But what is the alternative, Dr. Whitaker? You served in the army. You know something of sacrifice. Is life in a gilded cage too high a price to pay if it means thousands—possibly hundreds of thousands—of lives are saved?”
Frank sat back. He recognized the futility of trying to argue his way out of here. Maybe it was best to play along. If these assholes had a leg up on the viral disease, it would serve the world to cooperate. At least for now. Plus, Frank could not deny an aching curiosity. He wanted to know what these bastards knew, to learn what progress they had made.
He pictured the spiky giant virus isolated from the Dorylus ants.
“Can I count on your help?” Nolan asked with a note of finality.
Frank met the man’s icy blue gaze. “Show me what you’ve learned, and then I’ll decide.”
“Fair enough.” Nolan stood up. The shift of his suit jacket revealed a heavy shoulder holster and the butt of a black pistol. “I’ll take you to our lab. The day’s nearly over, but it’s best if we start on the same page as soon as possible.”
The Congolese soldier stepped forward. “I can take them, sir,” he offered in French.
Frank was fluent enough to understand, but he kept such knowledge secret.
Nolan shook his head and came around the wide desk. “No, Lieutenant Ekon. I’ll go along, too. I’d rather get my daily briefing from Dr. Ngoy directly.”
The lieutenant nodded smartly. “Oui, bien s?r.”
Frank and Monk stood, sharing a look. Monk stared hard with a slight widening of his eyes. The silent message was easy to read.
Play along.
Frank knew that was the best course for now. Unable to talk freely, he didn’t know if Monk had any plan. Still, he appreciated having the man at his side. They were led at gunpoint out of the office and down the stairs of what appeared to be a restored colonial guesthouse. Once out side, Ekon marched them along a path of wooden planks past a white stone church and toward a cluster of gray Quonset huts.
Nolan played tour guide, pride bright in his voice. “I’ve spared no expense in expediting the installation of our research facility. We have medical wards, a pathology lab, a Level 3 biohazard unit, even a spot for animal testing.”
The CEO waved at a windowless cinder block building with a metal roof that looked hastily constructed. Frank suppressed a shiver at the muffled cries and bawling that echoed through the walls.
“Ahead is our main research ward,” Nolan finally said as led them to the largest of the Quonset huts.
They had to wait at the door while a form in a body bag was carried out on a stretcher by a pair of men in white biohazard suits. Nolan’s cheeks reddened slightly, as if embarrassed by the sight, but he remained silent and only waved them inside once the way was clear. Frank watched the body being hauled toward a neighboring hut.
He was finally ushered inside a draped anteroom with Monk. They all donned gowns and face masks and entered the main ward. A dozen hospital beds lined one wall, almost all of them occupied. Another cordoned off area in the back was partially obscured behind translucent drapes. It looked like a clinical lab. Throughout the remaining space, other gowned and masked figures worked, barely giving their arrival any attention. Though as soon as they started across the ward, a figure broke away from a bedside and rushed forward.
“Dr. Whitaker!” the man shouted, his voice muffled by his mask.
Frank squinted, confused, then recognized the face behind the shield. “Dr. Jameson?” It was the American pediatrician, the one who had requested his help at the U.N. camp.
Nolan interceded as the man joined them. “Of course, you know each other. How fortuitous.”