and out began.
“What the hell’s going on? What’s the problem?”
“I think it’s a blockage in the fuel line!” the pilot said as the chopper dropped sickeningly and then struggled to regain altitude. “I’ve got to put it down. Now!”
Collen slammed himself back in his seat and tightened the harness around his shoulders, chest heaving with rapid, staccato breaths.
“What the hell are you talking about? We’re over a forest!” Drake shouted into the microphone hovering in front of his mouth.
“There!” the pilot responded. “There’s a clearing to the east.”
The nose dipped and they dove for it, engine sputtering and choking, threatening to go silent at any moment.
Drake could feel the blood pounding in his temples and he slapped off his headset, fighting back the bile coming up in his throat. A long, formless shout rose above the alarm buzzer, and it was only when the skids slammed into the ground that he realized it was coming from him. The harness tightened painfully across his chest and the screech of tearing metal filled his ears.
Then everything went silent. The pilot shut down power, killing the instrument lights and letting the momentum of the blades die. Blood was flowing from the side of Drake’s head where it had hit the window, but otherwise he was unharmed. He’d made it.
The pilot didn’t speak, instead kicking open his door and jumping out into the darkness. His footfalls echoed through the clearing for a moment and then faded as he retreated into the early morning gloom.
“Hey! Where are you going?”
No answer.
He turned to Collen and grabbed his shoulder. “Dave. Are you all right?”
He was still gasping for breath but managed to nod.
“The papers,” Drake said, pointing to the sheets of highly classified material strewn around the tiny space. “Pick them up and get them back into your briefcase.”
He sat there long enough to confirm that Collen understood and then shoved his way through the damaged door. His jaw tightened when he saw that the pilot, a decorated former Coast Guard man, had completely disappeared.
Drake pulled out his cell phone and looked down at it, swearing quietly when he saw that there was no signal. Had they called in a Mayday? He couldn’t remember. The president’s people would contact Langley when he didn’t arrive, but how long would that take? He was wearing nothing but a suit jacket and it was below freezing.
“Son of a bitch!” he shouted, fear and frustration finally breaking down the calm facade it had taken a lifetime to build. He slammed the phone repeatedly into the side of the chopper, not stopping until parts of it were strewn out in the dirt around him. This was all supposed to have gone so smoothly. But then Castilla sent that damn black ops team and Gazenga decided to grow a spine. Now he was standing in the middle of nowhere with the president of the United States waiting to rake him over the coals. One mistake — one moment of confusion in the maze of lies he’d created — and it could all come crashing down on top of him.
He took a few deep, controlled breaths and watched the fog roll from his mouth in the dull light of dawn. “Dave! What the hell are you—,” he started, but then fell silent. There was something at the edge of the clearing, something with an outline distinct from the trees.
They weren’t alone.
90
Jon Smith shaded his eyes and watched as more canopies popped into existence above. Frightened voices rose from the fifty or so Avass residents they’d fallen in with and the pace of the group increased perceptibly, sweeping past the edge of town and into the open desert. Twenty yards ahead, Sarie’s blond hair was visible as she and Farrokh pushed their way toward him.
“Seven injured people we could find,” she said when she got within earshot.
“Did you talk to them? Did they have contact with anyone infected?”
Farrokh nodded. “One fell down a set of stairs and another was wounded by a bullet. But the others were attacked.”
“And all five of them have open wounds,” Sarie added. “I’m not sure how the higher parasitic loads are going to affect things, but I think we have to be ready for a faster than normal reaction.”
“How long?”
“A guess would be seven hours before full symptoms. Eight if we’re lucky.”
“Is there any way we can separate them from the group?”
“An American, a Brit, and a South African trying to get families to abandon their injured?” Farrokh said. “I think not.”
“What about you? You’re Iranian and people know you.”
“My position is even weaker, Jon. This is a very conservative, poorly educated part of the country. If these people knew who I was, they would probably kill me. And even if we keep my identity from them, they will still see me as a liberal, urban outsider.”
Smith slowed and finally stopped, watching the haggard refugees flow past. Scared and unsure what was happening, they would do the same thing they had for a thousand years — disappear into terrain that no foreigner had any hope of navigating.
“What is it?” Howell said, making a subtle move for the pistol in his waistband. “What’s wrong?”
What was wrong was that Smith had no idea what they were doing or where they were going. Groups like this, some probably with even more victims, were undoubtedly spreading out in every direction, surrounded by friends and family who had no way of understanding or dealing with what was going to happen. He’d completely lost control of the situation, and the idea that the Iranian military could regain that control might just turn out to be the most deadly delusion in history.
“Farrokh,” Smith said. “Give me your phone.”
The Iranian took a hesitant step back. “To do what? Order your military to destroy my country? To insert another dictator?”
“You want me to be honest?” Smith said, the anger obvious enough in his voice that people passing by began giving them a wider berth. “I don’t know what Castilla will do. But this is going to spread — first through Iran, then through the region. At this point, a new dictator might be your best-case scenario.”
“No!” Farrokh said, but his voice quickly lost its force. “We can…”
“You can do what? Because as near as I can tell, we’re just wandering around in the desert. You want to walk into that line of paratroopers? You want to go into those canyons with a bunch of infected people and wait for it to get dark?”
“No. I—”
“Then what’s our next move, boss?”
A woman wearing a coat soaked with blood collapsed twenty feet away, unable to go any farther. The people around her rushed to her aid, and Sarie immediately began shoving her way toward them. “Stop! Don’t touch her!”
No one spoke English and all she managed was to garner a few startled looks before being completely ignored.
Farrokh watched in silence for a moment, and then entered the PIN into his phone and held it out.
Smith dialed quickly, moving to the edge of the crowd with Howell scanning the faces around them for any hint of threat.
“Hello?”
