Patient Zero (14 page)

Baltimore, Maryland / Tuesday, June 30; 3:16 P.M.

WE ENTERED THE main warehouse floor, which was big enough to be an airplane hanger. Back in the shadows I could see a number of vehicles, mostly civilian with a few military Hummers and transport trucks sprinkled throughout. There were two big storage bins lining one wall, one marked EQUIPMENT and the other ARMS. A soldier with an M-16 stood outside the arms locker, eyes slowly scanning the room, his finger laid straight along the outside of the trigger guard. One corner of the room had been turned into a makeshift training area with several hundred square feet of blue gym mats.

The other candidates I’d tussled with—minus the clown I’d punched in the throat—were seated in the front row of an otherwise empty section of folding chairs. I could feel their eyes on me, and two of them gave me cautious nods: Sergeant Rock and the Jolly Green Giant. The latter held an ice pack to his face.

Across from them was a second row of chairs and these were filled with a dozen hard-looking men and women in fatigue pants and black T-shirts. No one wore any patch or insignia indicating branch of service or rank, but at least half of them had military tattoos of one kind or another.

Church stepped onto the mats and gave each group a long, considering stare. Even in that vast room he gave the impression of size and substance. All conversation ceased immediately and every eye was on him. I’ve seldom encountered a more commanding presence and though he was surely aware of the effect he had on everyone there wasn’t the slightest sign that he was jazzed by it. It was a fact of life to him, or, more probably, a tool.

Grace and I stood at the edge of the training floor, she on the side with the dozen—her team, I presumed—and me closer to the four men I was supposed to lead.

“Time is short,” Church began, “so let’s cut right to it. With the loss of Bravo and Charlie teams at the hospital we are critically shorthanded. Over the next three months we will recruit and train at least a dozen additional teams, but that doesn’t help us right now.” He paused and looked at Grace’s team. “Echo Team needs to build, train, and get to combat readiness asap. I expect each member of Alpha Team to assist in any way possible.”

Grins began to form on the faces of some of the Alpha Team bucks, but Church said, “Understand me here. If anyone, any single person, no matter what rank or MOS, does anything to interfere with the training process—whether by a harmless stunt or some kind of hazing nonsense—I will take it as a personal insult. It will be better for you to wake up in a room full of walkers, let me assure you.”

That wiped the smile off everyone’s face. We all knew he meant it, and I was starting to get a pretty good idea that he was a total whack job.

But he was our whack job.

He turned to Echo Team. “Lieutenant Colonel Hanley has chosen to spend the rest of the day in intensive care. Apparently his larynx got in the way of his good judgment. Pity about that.” He looked real broken up about it, too. Church pointed to me. “Captain Ledger is now your team leader, effective immediately. You will all offer him your very best support.” He didn’t add a cheesy “or else” but everyone heard it.

He waited for questions. Perhaps “dared” is another word, and then beckoned me over. When I was within range for a quiet comment I murmured, “ ‘Captain’ Ledger? I was only an E6 in the army.”

“If ‘captain’ doesn’t suit you, we can discuss it later.”

“Look      what’s my brief here? Is this a hand-to-hand session? Do you have a curriculum you want me to follow?”

“No, but in short I need you to know their capabilities and their flaws so that you know who to trust and at what moment.”

“With Alpha Team watching?”

“Yes.”

I shook my head. “Not going to happen. If my guys are going to have to go in alone, then we train alone. Show them some respect.”

I was aware of having said “my guys,” and Church was aware of it, too. He smiled. “Fine then.” He signaled to Grace. “Captain Ledger will be using the gym floor. Take your team to the small arms range.”

She hesitated and then nodded, called to her team and led them away.

Church walked over to a chair on which was a stack of thick folders. He handed the top four folders to me. “These are the records for your team. These are the men who have the best overall qualifications and whom we could get on site in time to meet you. I have a few others on their way here from the field, but the earliest ETA from that group would be thirty hours. These other folders are possibles. I’m having them all brought in and if you have time I want you to review the candidates and make your selections.”

“Who do I have to clear them with?”

He shook his head. “No red tape in the DMS, Captain. Your team, your call.”

Jesus Christ,
I thought.
No pressure there.
I said, “Listen, Church, since you yanked me out of my life and stuck me with this job, and since you seem to want to give me a lot of personal freedom of action and authority, I hope you’re as good as your word when I want to do things my way.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, as of this moment there’s the police department way, the federal law enforcement way, the military way      and my way. If you want me to function at my best then you’re going to have to accept that I’m going to have to make up some of my own rules. I don’t know enough about your playbook and, quite frankly, I don’t like the way you operate. If I’m not a cop anymore then I’m something else, something new. Okay, then from here on out I’ll decide what that is; and that includes building, shaping, and leading my team. My team, my rules.”

We stood there like a couple of mountain gorillas, eyeing each other to see if this was going to be a fight or a collaborative hunt. He smiled. “If you’re looking for an argument, Captain, you’re wasting your breath and you’re wasting your own training time.”

“Do I have to salute you?” I asked, keeping the smile off my face.

“I would prefer not.”

“What about my job? I’m supposed to report back to work tomorrow and I have to let someone know at the precinct. And my—”

He cut me off. “If time allows, you and I can sit down and go over whatever details need seeing to. I’ll even have someone go and feed your cat. All of that is beside the point. Right now, I need you to step up and be the team leader.”

“I want to see Rudy.”

“Dr. Sanchez and I will have a talk first. You can see him later.”

“Can you tell me one thing at least?”

“Make it quick.”

“Who the hell
are
you?” When he didn’t respond I said, “Will you at least tell me your first name?”

“As far as you’re concerned, it’s ‘Mister.’ ” Blindsiding this guy was never going to be easy. “Have fun getting to know your men, Captain Ledger,” he said. “I’m sure they’re all dying to get to know you better.”

With that he turned and left.

“Son of a bitch,” I said softly and turned to face my team.

HMS
HECLA
/ Royal Navy Hospital Ship / Four days ago

THE MEDIVAC CHOPPER airlifted the wounded British soldiers from the field hospital at Bastion, across Pakistani airspace into the Gulf of Oman where it touched down on the helipad at the stern of the HMS
Hecla,
a hospital ship, and an hour later the ship headed out of the Gulf into the Arabian Sea and steered west toward the Gulf of Aden and then turned northwest into the Red Sea.

Within forty minutes of the transfer of wounded from the helicopter to the
Hecla,
Lieutenant Nigel Griffith was in surgery. Griffith survived the operation but coded in recovery. The ICU team brought him back once, then again, and finally Griffith’s heart simply failed.

Corporal Ian Potts was treated and made comfortable, but the doctors were already planning the amputations of his hand and leg.

Of the third man from the ambush, Sergeant Gareth Henderson, it was later reported that he died as a result of head trauma. His death was observed and recorded by Nurse Rachel Anders and Dr. Michael O’Malley, both of whom were temporary medical staff from the Red Cross, coming off a six-month volunteer stint aboard and expecting to transfer off the
Hecla
to join an international infectious disease medical research team stationed in the Great Bitter Lake region of Egypt. His body was wrapped in a body bag and transferred to the cold room in the ship’s hold, along with forty-one other corpses from the meat grinders in Iraq and Afghanistan.

At 2:55 that morning a second helicopter landed on the stern of the
Hecla,
and Nurse Anders and Dr. O’Malley boarded the chopper along with four very large wheeled metal equipment cases. Drugs and medical supplies for the research team. The helo lifted off and flew east toward the lake. When it landed, Anders, O’Malley, and the two others were greeted warmly by the research team, all of whom were strangers but each of whom were happy to have their team strengthened.

O’Malley oversaw the unloading of the metal cases personally while Anders loitered outside the tent, smoking a cigarette, ostensibly relaxing after a harrowing tour. Two men approached: a tall sandy-haired man in a lightweight white suit and a slightly shorter dark-haired man in dun-colored trousers and a Polo shirt. The tall man bent and kissed her on both cheeks. “It’s good to see you, Rachel. I trust the flight was without incident.”

“Everything went well,” she said, exhaling as she spoke.

“Jolly good.” The man gave her a wink and then slipped in through the tent flaps. The shorter man lingered for a moment to survey the surroundings before following his companion inside. In the tent the doctor looked up suddenly from behind one of the cases, but his face changed from alarm to pleasure instantly.

“You gentlemen are up and about early,” O’Malley said, rising and extending his hand.

“Early bird and all that,” the tall man said. He nodded to the case behind which the doctor stood. “Still snug in there?”

“I was just about to open it.”

“Oooh, I just can’t wait,” murmured the shorter man with asperity.

The doctor undid the locks and lifted the lid, then swung open the side doors so that the contents were revealed. Inside the case a large man lay in a fetal curl, his head swathed in white bandages. He turned his face toward the newcomer and opened his eyes, which were red-rimmed with fatigue and pain.

“Sebastian,” he whispered.

Gault smiled down at him and then extended his hands; together he and Dr. O’Malley helped El Mujahid to his feet while Toys hung back by the tent entrance and watched; he wore a smile but it did not reach as far as his cold cat-green eyes. The Fighter was a little unsteady and his bandages were stained with blood seepage, but for all that he still exuded an aura of great animal strength. They helped him into a chair and O’Malley set to work removing the soiled wrappings. The gash was ugly and it disfigured the Fighter’s face. Gault privately thought that El Mujahid might have done too thorough a job because his lip had a sneering curl, proof that nerves and muscles had been damaged. All that had really been required was a disfiguring wound; but, he reflected, never tell a tradesman how to do his own job, and El Mujahid’s job was mayhem and slaughter. He flicked a glance at Toys, who appeared to be mildly disgusted, but whether it was from the ugly wound or the man whose features it distorted was not clear. Gault figured it was both.

O’Malley gave him a shot for the pain, though El Mujahid appeared not to need it; and he gave him vitamins, antibiotics, and a stimulant. When he had applied a fresh dressing Gault thanked him and suggested the doctor join Nurse Anders outside for a smoke. Toys went with him.

When they were alone, Gault pulled over a folding chair and sat down, bending close to the Fighter. “You did yourself quite a nasty, my friend. Are you sure you can complete the mission? It will be a lot of travel. Another helicopter, a ship, trucks, and all of it in a few quick days. That’s enough to tire the average bloke, but with that injury      ”

The Fighter grunted. “Pain is a tool; it is a whetstone to sharpen resolve.”

Gault wasn’t sure if that was a quote from scripture, but it sounded good.

“The trigger device is already in the States,” Gault said, “in a safe in the hotel room we’ve booked for you. The combination is Amirah’s birthday.”

Gault looked for the flash of anger in El Mujahid’s eyes, saw it, and mentally nodded to himself.
Yes,
he thought,
he knows about us.
It was something Gault had begun to suspect, but he didn’t yet understand why El Mujahid was leaving the matter off the table.

Aloud he said, “I suggest you leave it in the safe until the very last minute. We wouldn’t want an accident, would we?”

“No,” said the Fighter in a soft voice, “we wouldn’t want that.”

TOYS STOOD JUST beyond the campfire light, lost in the deep black shadows cast by a stand of date palms. He was staring at the entrance to the tent where Gault and El Mujahid were deep in conversation. As soon as he had left the tent his smile had vanished as surely as if some hand had reached into his mind and flicked off a switch. His features changed in the absence of observation. He became a different kind of creature.

“Amirah,” he murmured aloud, his lips curling into a feral sneer at the taste of the name. Before Gault had met her, before he’d allowed himself to fall in love with that woman, his friend and employer had been perfect. Brilliant, wonderfully ruthless, efficient and inflexible. In short—beautiful. Now Gault was getting sloppy and he was getting far too confident. Overconfident. Against Toys’s frequent cautions Gault was taking unnecessary risks, spinning plans within plans, and all of it because of that mad witch.

“Amirah,” he said again.

God, how he would love to see her bleed.