Blood poured from the dog’s front leg, soaking the ground. Kane’s forearm was shattered, showing bone, hanging by only skin and tendon.
Tucker clamped the dog’s elbow, squeezing off the flow, trying to hold Kane’s life in place by sheer will. He lifted his partner with his other arm, finding strength that he didn’t know he still possessed. He shambled away from the blast zone. Though he had lost his goggles, he knew the way back.
He fought through the woods, trying to go faster. His ankle screamed, he bled from a thousand cuts, and shrapnel cut deeper into his thigh and shoulder with each step. He panted and choked. His vision tunneled to a point aimed toward the camp.
His gait wobbled. He tripped, almost dropping Kane. He lost hold of the broken limb. Blood sprayed until he could resecure his hold. He cursed himself for not finding something better than his weakening grip to serve as a tourniquet, but he didn’t know if Kane had the time to spare.
He stumbled on, the forest stretching endlessly before him.
Did I get turned around?
Then something shone ahead. He prayed it was a sign of the compound nearby. Instead, one of the robotic dogs clambered into view—then pounded swiftly toward them. Its turret swiveled for the kill.
Tucker turned his back, still trying to protect Kane. The gunfire was deafening. He waited for the pummeling of rounds.
It never came.
He glanced over a shoulder and saw Frank and Monk come charging toward him, rifles smoking. The Q-UGV lay on its side, punched with holes, legs stirring the air.
Tucker turned and rushed to meet the men. He slammed into Frank, passing him Kane.
Tucker fell to his knees. “Save him . . .”
Frank caught the dog in his arms. The army veterinarian immediately spotted the macerated limb and clamped hard to the leg. “He’s lost so much blood.”
Not just him . . .
Tucker slipped sideways, toppling in slow motion. The world darkened as he fell. Still, his gaze never left Kane. Only now did he recognize how slack the dog hung in Frank’s arms. Those dark eyes stared unblinking; a tongue draped too long, too blue.
Kane . . .
Frank’s last words followed him into oblivion.
“He’s not breathing.”
28
April 25, 9:29 A.M. CAT
Ituri Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
“Did that sodding tree drown your friend?” Benjie asked.
Gray knew this was a reasonable question. Kowalski had not surfaced for over ten minutes. His partner had big lungs, but not that big. Gray tilted higher on his toes, trying to get a better view past the churning pale roots, the shivering thorns and spines.
Across the way, the hollow of the mother tree glowed a shimmering silver. The pool’s water had settled to a flat mirror. Gray couldn’t tell if Kowalski had surfaced elsewhere in the pond and was allowed to take a breath. The pool’s sides stretched beyond his view, hidden by the curve of the tree’s trunk.
He glanced to Tyende with concern. The Kuba tribesman simply leaned on his staff. Faraji kept him company. The elder’s eyelids hung at half-mast. Clearly the morning’s exertion had taxed the man, someone who claimed to be over a hundred years old.
Still, Tyende noted Gray’s attention. “If She chose him, She will care for him.”
As if summoned by his words, the glowing waters surged up into a shining fountain. Kowalski was carried along with it, thrust high by a tangle of roots. He struggled in their grip. He sputtered and coughed, choking out water. It poured from his nose and lips.
The snare of roots carried him to the pool’s edge and deposited him at the entrance to the tree. Kowalski fell on his hands and knees and vomited more water.
“She is done with him,” Tyende said.
Clearly . . .
Kowalski sat back, gasped a few more times, then swore loudly. He gained his feet. “I’m never doing that again.”
Gray called over to him. “Are you okay?”
Benjie shouted, too. “How do you feel?”
Kowalski scowled. “Like a friggin’ drowned cat. How do you think I feel?” He grunted and spit. “Stuff tastes like antifreeze mixed with mildew. Stings my cuts like a mother, too.”
Kowalski stumbled toward them.
Gray lifted an arm and pointed back. “Your canteen! We need a sample of that water!”
The big man heaved an exasperated sigh, looking none too happy to return to that pond. Still, he swung around, struggling to free his canteen from his belt.
Unfortunately, another was done with this whole affair.
As Kowalski attempted to reenter the tree, the roots inside reared up like angry cobras, flaring sharp thorns, blocking the way.
Kowalski balked. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s happening.”
“You have to try!” Gray shouted.
Kowalski glared at him. “Then you come over and do it.”
Gray turned to Tyende, ready to plead for the man’s help.
Before Gray could speak, his sat-phone buzzed and rattled in his pocket. He slipped it out. He had left the battery in place after his last call with Painter. The director was coordinating a helicopter evac once they obtained the cure. The rally point was the bare ridge of rock overlooking the valley. It offered the only break in the forest for countless miles.
Gray was relieved that the director was checking in. He glanced over at Kowalski, who still stood with his canteen in hand. It looked like that evac would have to be pushed back.
Gray lifted the phone and opened the connection. “Director Crowe, we have a—”
Painter cut him off, his voice sharp with urgency. “Gray, you need to clear out of there. Right now. There’s a drone bomber winging your way, set to your current coordinates, carrying a MOAB payload. The blast will destroy everything for miles around.”
Gray clutched the phone harder. “When will it get here?”
“Fifteen minutes, maybe less.”
Gray stared over at Kowalski, at his empty canteen. “But we don’t have the cure.”
“Doesn’t matter. Get off this line and haul ass.”
The connection went dead.
Kowalski glared his way. “What now?”
Gray waved for him to return. They had no time to argue with a tree that had lived for millennia. “Forget it!” he shouted. “Run!”
Kowalski was happy to obey that order. Still, he hollered as he pounded toward them. “Why? What’s the rush?”
“A bomb! Headed our way. In fifteen minutes!”
Kowalski swore and sped faster. The outer tangle of roots parted to let him through, then closed behind him. He skidded to a stop and jabbed Benjie’s chest with a finger.
“You owe me fifty bucks.”
Benjie looked sheepishly at Gray. “He bet me someone would try to blow us up before this was all over.”
“You shouldn’t have taken that bet.” Gray shoved Benjie and Faraji toward the outer barrier of black roots and sharp thorns.
He waved for Tyende to follow, casting the old man an apologetic look.
The tribesman looked distraught, but also resigned.
Gray got them all moving. The low passage under the briar proved less of a gauntlet than before. The woody daggers and spines had retracted into the dark mass, allowing them to travel faster.
As they crawled, a countdown ran in his head. The blast radius from a MOAB stretched a full mile from ground zero—maybe farther with the explosion trapped within the valley’s high cliffs.
There was no way the team could clear that distance in the time remaining.
At least, not all of us.
Still, he refused to abandon any others. They would all make it out or none would. He intended to reach that golden kingdom, a city mined into a vein of precious ore. He prayed it would offer them enough shelter.
But first we have to get there.
Gray reached the end of the thorny briar and climbed back up, facing the rolling wonderland of glowing ponds and golden-green forest. A mist hung over the glade, cast forth by those sporulating cysts.
He waved everyone onward. “Keep going. As fast as you can manage.”