Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller: Book 3 (7 page)

Larry looked at the screen on his contraband cellphone to see who was calling before he answered it.  It was the only person who ever called.  “Hey Jimmy.”

“Larry Dean, my brotha’.  What’re you doing?” The signal was clear and Jimmy’s voice came across without static, very uncommon in the airwaves of late, as parts of the system had failed and hadn’t been repaired.  “Larry? You there?”

Larry didn’t feel like anybody’s brother.  Since his conversation with Millie, he’d been brooding on his junior partner share.  No, not even that.  Larry was getting paid like the hired help.  “I’m here.”

“You okay? You don’t sound good.”

Larry looked around his hooch—camp slang for the dumpster-sized metal box that served as his private, modular dorm.  He didn’t like it.  It had no windows.  No fridge.  No bathroom.  It was big enough for his metal-frame bed and tiny table.  A television was mounted on the wall at one end of his bed, but it only received three snowy broadcast signals, no cable.  He hated being in the camp.  “Doin’ my part.”

“You sound pissed.”

Looking at the phone, Larry nodded emphatically and stretched his face into the same expression he mocked the special ed kids with back in his elementary school days. 

“You feeling okay?” Jimmy asked.

The bag of serum slowly draining into his arm caught his attention, and Larry said, “I’m taking a bag of N.”

“Type N?” Jimmy scoffed.  “You don’t need type N.  You infused a bag of K when you took that job.”

“You’re not in camp.” Larry hardened his tone.  “Sick people everywhere.  I’m not gonna let Ebola kill me, Jimmy.  I see what it does.  We burn a pile of bodies, prisoners and dead patients, out by the east fence every night.”

“You
had
a bag of K.” Jimmy’s voice was calm and slow.  Condescending.  Just like the counselors back in high school.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid.”

“I’m not saying you’re stupid, Larry.  All I’m saying is you’re wasting good product.  You had a bag of serum from a type K infection.  You’ll get immunity to all the strains.  At least all of them so far.”

“I’m not taking any chances.”

Jimmy sighed.

“You do what you want.  I’ll do what I want.”

“Okay.” Jimmy paused.  “Did you have any problems with Millie after I fired her?”

“Nope.”

“She didn’t say anything?”

“She begged a little bit, but I told her to piss off.”

“That’s good,” said Jimmy.  “You can’t do business with people you don’t trust.”

Larry bit back the words that wanted to jump through the cellphone.  He didn’t feel like he should trust Jimmy.

“You tell me if she wants anything.  Okay?”

“Okay.” Larry nodded pointlessly.

“I got a long list of people that want any serum you can get.  Are you still having difficulty getting it?”

“They keep changing the system,” said Larry.  “I told you that.  I tell you that every time we talk.  This ain’t easy as you think, Jimmy.” Larry’s breath was snorting out his nose.  His frustrations were getting the better of him.

“Be calm, man.  It’s okay.  We’ll work it out.  I’ll help as much as I can.  Just tell me what to do.”

Shaking his head, Larry said, “There’s nothing you
can
do.  It’s got to be me.  I’m on the inside.  What are you gonna do, Jimmy? How are you gonna help
me
?”

“I’m going to make you rich, that’s what I’m going to do.”

Larry snorted.  “You?”

“We’re going to make each other rich.  Remember, you’re only half the equation.  Somebody’s got to sell this stuff.” Jimmy paused before he added, “You make what I do sound like a walk in the park.”

“Ain’t it?”

“No.” Jimmy’s voice lost all of its jovial friendship.  “You’re not the only one who’s in danger.  You haven’t been on the outside in too long a time.  Things out here are getting bad.  You can’t trust anybody.  Most of the police are gone.  The military only guards government buildings and hospitals.  You can get killed just by driving down the street.  There’s shortages on everything.  I haven’t had a beer in a month.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, man.  It’s true.  I’ve been drinking some other stuff.  Not beer, though.”

“We got almost nothing in here to drink,” Larry groused.

“I got two bottles of Jack the other day.” Jimmy was friendly again.  “You want one?”

“
Both
would be better.”

“Okay,” said Jimmy.  “Okay.  You’re right.  I’ll send them both.  You’ll get ‘em tomorrow morning with the produce delivery.” Jimmy paused.  “Will I get anything back?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Depends.  I’ve got a new thing working.  I may be able to sneak some serum before the truck arrives tomorrow.  Might not.  I might be a coupla days.  I don’t know for sure.  You gotta understand, I have to be careful now.  The officers are paranoid because they think somebody is stealing all the serum.”

“All of it?”

“You know what I mean.  Too much is going missing.”

“We’re not getting that much,” said Jimmy, “not enough they’d even notice.  Are other guys doing this too?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ask around, okay?”

Larry laughed derisively.  “That’s not the kind of thing you just ask somebody.”

“It
could
be.  Just be smart about it.  Beat around the bush.  Feel ‘em out.  You figure something out, but find out.  I’ll check on the outside and try to track the source from out here.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re our competition, Jimmy.  They’re keeping the price low and they’re being stupid by stealing too much from our source.  That’s why Colonel Holloway keeps changing the system—because of those greedy knuckleheads who want to steal our customers and our money.  They’re not smart like us.”

Olivia stared and blinked at her computer screen, trying to get her eyes to focus.  She’d spent way too many hours staring at the monitor, calling phone numbers that rang and went unanswered.  Calling other numbers, explaining who she was, that she was coordinating with the CDC.  “Why you?” That question always came up.  At first Olivia embarked on a lengthy, frilly explanation to cover the fact her real purpose was to get Austin’s feet back on American soil.  Somewhere during those calls she told them, “Look out the window.  You see what’s going on, right? Everybody’s pulling their weight where they can.”

Turns out, that was effective.  She made progress.  But progress kept being one more call—one more attempt—to beg some help from someone who didn’t have the authority she needed to get some kind of long-range airplane from here to there and back again. 

To make it all worse, she couldn’t even find an airport at which to land an airplane.  The problems in Africa were laughable in their variety if the whole situation hadn’t been so sad.  The bottom line in most airports was simple.  Ebola had killed so many that the airport was nothing but an abandoned tarmac; in a state anybody could guess, with nonexistent support.

And support was required.  Refueling would be required.  She wasn’t trying to send a puddle jumper.

The phone rang and Olivia snatched it up, hoping.  “Cooper.”

“Olivia?” asked Wheeler’s voice.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.  How are things on your end?”

Olivia sighed.  “Same as last time we talked.  The closest I can get permission for the CDC’s jet to land is at Camp Lemonnier in Djibouti.”

“That’s the word coming back down the pike on this end, too.”

“You know that’s nearly seventeen hundred miles from Mbale, right?”

“Yes,” said Wheeler.  “I Googled it too.”

“Starting with the first question that needs to be answered, if we get a set of samples from the hospital in Mbale, will they keep if I get Mitch to drive them to Lemonnier?”

“They’ll degrade,” said Wheeler.  “They’ve got no refrigeration.  No ice.  No way to keep them cold.”

“I know.  Will they be usable at all?”

“We can probably get what we need.”

Olivia smiled.  “Are you telling me what I want to hear?”

“No,” said Wheeler.  “I think we can make the samples work as long as they don’t get too hot.  As long as this doesn’t take too long.  Now the question for you.  Do you really want to send Austin driving through East Africa the way things are now?”

“No,” answered Olivia.  “And I wouldn’t even consider it if he wasn’t going to make the trip with Mitch.”

“Does Mitch know he’s doing this?”

“He will.”

“You’re sure of yourself?”

“No,” answered Olivia.  “I’m sure of Mitch.  I think he’ll do it because he’ll think it’s the right thing.  I think that’s all the motivation he needs.”

“Yeah,” Wheeler agreed.  “He’s a Boy Scout.”

“Don’t be that way.”

“I’m not.” Wheeler chuckled.  “Same as you, I’m tired.  The hours are getting to me.  Maybe it’s the futility.”

“What you’re doing isn’t futile.  You’re making a real difference.”

Wheeler sighed.  “We’re trying, but most days it feels like everything’s working against us.  Not just Ebola, everything.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Do you want to hear me vent?”

“You’ve done it for me a thousand times.”

Wheeler laughed.  “I suppose I have.  Sure, I’ll cash in a few credits.  First, there’s Ebola.  Dammit, if it would just stop mutating.  The vaccines in the pipeline are ineffective against half the strains.”

“Half?” Olivia asked.  “I thought they were better.”

“We don’t have any way right at this moment to vaccinate anyone against all the strains of Ebola out there.  We just don’t.  We’re praying and treating.”

“What about the blood serum programs? They’re succeeding, right?”

“Despite themselves,” said Wheeler, in as defeated a tone as Olivia had ever heard from him.  “I hate the camps they’ve set up.  I hate everything about them.  The thing I hate the most is at first, they produced serum just as predicted.  Then, production went down.  Way down.  More and more people went in.  Less and less serum came out.”

“Why?” asked Olivia.  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Corruption.  All of this stuff is hitting the black market.  We don’t know if it’s being administered properly.  We don’t know who’s getting it.  We don’t know if it’s out there killing people.  Hell, it might be making the epidemic worse, making people sick who otherwise might have made it through this in good health.  But people are scared to death.  I can’t blame them.  The pictures are gruesome.  Ebola is a nightmare no matter how you look at it.  It may be the worst possible way to die.  Nobody wants to catch it.  Nobody.”

From the comfort of a plush chair, Najid sat on the third-floor balcony outside his room looking across the electric-blue waters of the Persian Gulf.  Dozens of sandy dots made up an artificial archipelago called The World Islands just off Dubai’s northern coast.  Many of those white sand islands lay in Najid’s view.  One hid a mansion behind a forest of palms.  Most were barren.  Undeveloped.  The island Najid was on belonged to Hadi’s wife’s cousin.  On that island, opulent life continued uninterrupted as though the rest of the world was not suffering its way out of a modern age and back into a harsher time.

That couldn’t last.

In the distance, the Palm Islands—much more popular, much more developed, and much more accessible—seemed to float in the calm waters; a fleet of sand-colored barges layered in lush green under towering palms, with rows of mansions trying to hide behind.  The Palm Islands were too far away for Najid to see anything moving, at least nothing the size of a person.  None of the million-dollar speedboats plied the waters.  No yachts slid gracefully over the rippled blue. 

Only smoke from burning mansions on the far side of the islands gave any hint life was there, or in the throes of dying there.

Looters?

That was Najid’s guess.  He grimaced at the thought of Indian laborers, houseboys, and yardmen—ingrates all.  They’d been rescued from the poverty of Mumbai slums and given room, board, and pay well beyond what they could have received in India.  And what gratitude did they show to their employers for the opportunity at steady employment and the chance to send money back to their families? None.  Ebola changed the world, and the weak, amoral ones were showing their true faces now that the righteous authority of their masters was gone.

“The smoke?” Hadi said, startling Najid.

Najid didn’t flinch.  He pretended he wasn’t so lost in the hypnotic blue that he’d forgotten Hadi was sitting opposite him.  Najid said, “Indians.” They he felt dirty for allowing the word to traipse across his tongue.  He glanced at the coffee table, looking for a glass of water to wash it away.  He hated the guest workers almost as much as he hated the Americans and the Europeans. 

No glass was present.  He glanced at Hadi.  “Bring me some water.”

Hadi sat his laptop on a table and hurried out of the room.

Najid looked at the smoke again and added the migrant workers to his list of peoples who would pay for their crimes when the new world—a world of his making—grew from the ashes of the old.

Hadi showed up with a sweating pitcher of ice water and poured a cup for Najid.  He handed the cup to Najid and sat the pitcher on the table.

Najid drank as Hadi seated himself and opened his laptop again.  “Tell me of the men.”

Hadi stood back up, walked to the rail and pointed across the patchwork of islands to the one with the mansion and the palms.  “The fastballer Bellingham, the cricket player the Sheikh befriended, has died in London.  That was his island, given to him by the Sheikh.”

“That is where my soldiers are?”

Hadi smiled.  “Eighteen.  Enough room for them all to be comfortable.  Not as defensible as this island, it has no wall.  Its natural defense is the ocean.  No one will approach unseen.”

Najid liked the island.  With both the fastballer Bellingham and the Sheikh dead, leaving distant relatives to squabble over Dubai’s rule, appropriating the island would have no negative ramifications.  “We will move there.  Supplies?”

“The men are taking care of it.” Hadi came back to his seat.  “The island will be fully stocked.”

“A doctor?”

“None yet.”

Still, it would be good to be independent again.  Najid grated at the expensive hospitality he was receiving.  “What of our recruitment efforts? We lost a great many loyal fighters when the Americans sent their missiles.”

“I have contacted as many of Firas Hakimi’s soldiers as I could.  Most are either dead or beyond reach.”

“Let the fearful remain in their homes with the other women.” Najid hated cowardice.

“Twenty-three are close enough to make their way to Dubai to join us.  As many as fifty will remain where they are.  They are too far away to come.  Some offered their full cooperation.  Others agreed only to listen when we have a request to make.”

“I do not make requests.” Not all men understood their place in the world, but Najid knew part of the responsibility of his place was to teach them.  He smiled as his thoughts went to defiance.  The Americans probably thought they’d won.  But he was preparing to move into a new compound.  He was reconstituting his force from the fertile ground of hatred left in the wake of America’s decades of foreign policy.  “Plan an expedition to the old compound.  All of the gold must be retrieved and brought here.”

Hadi’s shoulders sagged.  “That will be difficult.”

“This is your time, Hadi.” Najid drilled Hadi with a hard stare.  “You must choose your destiny now.  If it is your will to watch your computer screens and only collect the information I require, then so be it.  I accept that.  If you wish to stand at my side as my second-in-command, that opportunity is open to you but you must seize it.”

“Leading men is not my talent.” Hadi looked down at his laptop screen.  He rested his fingers lightly on the keys and thought.  It took a few long, nervous moments.  “I will try.” He returned Najid’s stare.  “If I don’t rise to the task, replace me as you see necessary.”

“Arrange to get the gold.” Najid had little doubt he’d eventually replace Hadi.  At the moment, though, Hadi was loyal and competent, at least in a limited way.  He was the best Najid had.  “Do this right away.”

“We will need gold to pay for goods that will grow scarce.  As for the men, you will have no trouble finding men to carry guns.  It is what warriors long to do.  A warrior lives in every man’s nature.” Najid glanced at Hadi’s computer.  “Tell me the news of the world, now.”

Other thoughts were hiding behind the mask Hadi was trying to make of his face.  Najid said, “If it truly bothers you to accept the responsibility, I can find another to stand at my side.”

Hadi shook his head.  “I expressed my doubts.  Now I accept the role you would like me to fill.  I will do my best.”

“If not that, then what?”

Hadi took a deep breath and glanced away from his screen.  “I look at the numbers of the dead in the world every day.  Many times each day.”

“Yes?” Najid was suspicious of the change in Hadi’s tone.

“I understood better than nearly everybody what it was we were doing,” said Hadi.  “I accepted the necessity and brutality of it.” Hadi’s face stretched, showing the painful thoughts that had been hiding behind.  “At first, I did not think about the human toll of our decisions.  It was an abstract problem in need of a solution.  It was a complex, dynamic endeavor in need of measurement.  Those are the things that engage my mind.  Perhaps that is why it was easy for me at the time to disengage my intellect from the reality we were creating.”

“You have regrets?” Najid asked.

“No.” Hadi shook his head vigorously.  “As I said, I accepted the necessity of what we did.  I fill the cracks in my personal resolve with your certainty.  You know the way forward.  All those who follow you are girded by your strength.  That is one reason I am afraid I cannot be successful as your second-in-command, but that is not of what I speak now.”

“What is it?”

“The abstraction has become real.” Hadi stood up and paced across the carpet, reaching the edge and coming back.  “I have seen pictures of mass graves.  I’ve seen video of the grieving.  I’ve seen the dead in the streets.  I’ve smelled their rotting bodies and I’ve heard the women cry.  The Westerners deserved the fate they received.  It is Arab tears that pain me.”

Najid nodded and silently appraised Hadi.  “Sit back down.”

Hadi did as instructed.

Najid sat up straight in his chair, hiding the pain of moving his injured body.  “We are at war.  We’ve been at war with the West since our cultures first met.  They sent their crusaders.  We killed them.  We warred with them over Spain.  They came to steal our oil wealth to fuel their industries.  They split our people with their maps and political divisions to weaken us and turn us against one another.  This war has been burning for a thousand years with no victor.  The dead are heaped high through history.  Over the last century, the pile of the dead has been mostly Arab as the West has killed us and imposed their will.  Left up to them, our future would be no different than our past.  What you have helped me do is bring about the decisive, inevitable battle through which peace will come.  It is the only path to peace for our children and grandchildren, and their grandchildren.  Peace only comes through victory.  Victory only comes to men who can harden their hearts to do what must be done.  Weak men die, and their children are subjugated.  The children of strong men live in paradise.”