“No, but that can’t stop us.”
Frank shoved the door open, and Tucker dashed out, running low. No one paid them any heed. They looked like any of the other dozens of men in armor and helmets. Automatic fire rattled all around them. Tucker ran past a man down on a knee with a flamethrower aimed at the sky, sweeping a fiery swath through the air.
Bodies sprawled everywhere, some still covered in bats, others with limbs tremoring in poisonous agony.
A burning bat tumbled out of the air and landed ahead of Tucker. It flopped and smoked, a slight glow rose from its chest fur, looking like a smear of phosphorescent algae—and maybe it was, acquired from some viral-induced symbiotic relationship.
Tucker leaped over it, leaving such mysteries for later.
Frank gasped, drawing attention. A dark shadow flapped atop his helmet, struggling to reach flesh. Tucker stabbed it with his bayonet and flung the bat away.
Without comment, they rushed into an alleyway between two squat buildings. Tucker had already identified their goal, using his scope’s binocular features. In the center of the administration sector rose a four-story tower, the roof festooned with satellite dishes and antennas, along with a taller pole ringed in radio-jamming plates. It had to mark the communication center for the mine.
As they reached the end of the alley, winds buffeted them, trying to push them back. The source was a familiar helicopter, the gunship that had been plaguing their group from the start. Men in combat gear loaded crates into the back; others climbed into the crew hold.
Frank leaned toward Tucker’s ear. “They’re evacuating.”
He nodded and couldn’t blame them. Even now, bats dive-bombed the enemy’s efforts. Bodies dotted the open square. A soldier had collapsed nearby. His face was a blackened mass, weeping with blood. Worst of all were his intact eyes staring upward.
Tucker ducked lower. The fierce rotorwash from the parked helicopter kept Frank and Tucker momentarily protected. Frank motioned around the edges of the square and toward the open door into the communication building. There was plenty of activity over there, but that might serve them.
Tucker led the way, running low, rifle in front of him. Frank followed at his heels. They circled the square, ducking periodically under metal awnings. Bats pelted all around, either blown by the helicopter’s chop or flying under their own volition. Glass rained on them as windows shattered under the assault.
Tucker felt a blow to his shoulder, hard enough to almost knock his rifle loose. A bat clung there, teeth gnashing at the Kevlar shoulder pads. Tucker lunged sideways and smashed its body into the nearby wall, crushing it. He felt a twinge of guilt, knowing there was no malice in the tiny creature’s attack, only instinct and fury.
Still, he had others to protect. Not just Monk and his team, but everyone who was threatened throughout the Congo.
He continued around and reached the open door. The helicopter roared behind him. Rotorwash shoved him across the threshold. He shouldered through other soldiers, but even their entry was ignored amidst the terror, chaos, and rush to evacuate.
Tucker hurried down a hallway, searching right and left for any space that looked like a radio room. It would take them time to canvass each floor. Frank suddenly grabbed him and shoved him through an open office door.
Tucker frowned at him.
Frank edged back to the doorway and pointed toward a stairwell at the end of the hall. Two figures stood in agitated conversation. Frank indicated the taller of the two, with grizzled features and close-cropped gray hair. He carried himself with stiff-backed authority.
“That’s Captain Draper,” Frank whispered.
Tucker recognized the name of De Coster’s righthand man. He must be the one overseeing operations and leading the evacuation. Draper waved an arm toward the exit, shouted something in Swahili, then turned away. He hiked up the steps, taking them two at a time.
“Follow him,” Tucker urged and headed back out.
From the urgency of the captain’s departure, Tucker sensed he might be reporting in. If not, they could always waylay him and force him to reveal the location of the radio room.
Tucker hurried to the stairwell and mounted the steps, staying well back from their target. He didn’t want to raise the suspicions of the man they were tailing. Draper climbed to the top floor, further reinforcing that he was headed to report to someone in authority. If there was a radio room, it made sense that it might be under a rooftop covered in dishes and antenna.
Reaching the fourth floor, Tucker proceeded more cautiously. It appeared deserted. Still, he heard voices coming from a double set of doors to the right. He and Frank edged forward to eavesdrop. They slipped into a dark office across the hall that allowed them a partial view into the other room.
Draper stood before a bank of satellite equipment and monitors. He leaned over a radio technician, a Congolese soldier, and barked orders, this time in French. Tucker knew a smattering of the language, but not enough to follow the hurried conversation.
He glanced to Frank, who Tucker knew was more fluent.
Frank’s eyes grew huge.
Tucker leaned close. “What’s wrong?”
11:42 P.M.
Frank held up a palm.
I need to hear this, make sure I’m not mistaken.
Draper leaned over the tech and passed him a thumb drive. “Call up De Coster. We only have another eighteen minutes until this whole place becomes a smoking pit.”
“Yes, sir.”
Frank glanced to his wristwatch.
That timetable’s set for midnight.
The tech plugged in the thumb drive and tapped a few keys. A moment later, the monitor in the room bloomed open a screen, showing Nolan De Coster seated at his desk. He had shed his suit jacket and had rolled up his sleeves. “Captain Draper, what are you still doing at the mine?”
“The attack is far worse than I anticipated, sir. Took much longer to secure and load everything and rally my men. We already lost a fifth of my personal contingent.”
“You need more time?”
“No, sir. Everything is loaded, and we’ll be airborne in two.”
“If there’s a problem, I can reset the timer on the MOAB. The bomb can be delayed if necessary.”
Frank winced at the mention of a MOAB. It can’t be . . . Still, he remembered Draper’s description a moment ago, about leaving this place a smoking pit. If that bomb set to go off at midnight truly was a MOAB, its pit would consume the entire mine and a good portion of the surrounding jungle.
Draper shook his head. “There’s no problem, sir. It’s handled. And the quicker this place is wiped off the face of the earth, the better.”
“Understood.”
Draper stepped back from the monitor. “I’m headed out now.”
“Good. Considering the escalation of events, I think it’s best if we clean house at the island, too. I’ll start orchestrating an evacuation. Set the research team to collating and collecting all the data. We should be ready by dawn. A few hellfire rockets should take care of the rest, yes?”
Frank clenched a fist, picturing the ward of patients.
“Oui, Commandant.”
“Then get moving.”
The connection ended, and Draper straightened. He ripped the thumb drive out of the radio and pointed it at the tech’s nose. “Send a final rally order to our men, then get your ass down to the chopper.”
Frank pushed Tucker farther into the office as Draper stormed past and headed toward the stairwell. He waited for the man to vanish and the clatter of his boots to fade. Frank didn’t have time to explain to Tucker.
He rushed across the hall and burst into the radio room. The tech jolted, shocked by the sudden intrusion. Frank put the point of his bayonet against the man’s throat. “Do you speak English?”