A tall cassocked figure lurked just beyond the foliage surrounding the camp, its head moving in time to the ultrasonic chorus.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Hammerson listened to Alex’s update with growing alarm. ‘Lieutenant Makhdoum dead, and Franks down. And by some insane priest with super-fucking-powers who doesn’t exist in anyone’s records? Jesus Christ, Alex!’ He got to his feet and began pacing his office.
‘That’s not all.’ Alex’s tone brought Hammerson to a sudden halt. ‘The CDC don’t believe they can control the necrotising bacteria. It’s one hundred per cent lethal. Maria Vargis’s son is now infected.’
‘One hundred per cent lethality — that bad, huh?’
‘Yes, for now. Maria Vargis believes it was being spread by insect vectors, which have been eradicated in the area. Its rapid rate of infection means the hosts don’t live long enough to be good carriers.’
Hammerson nodded. ‘Good. Secure the site, Arcadian; we need that drilling operation back online. As for that priest responsible for Mak’s death and our missing GBs, find him and terminate him. I’m sure God will forgive us later.’
‘We’ll catch up with him tomorrow, I guarantee it.’ Alex paused for a second. ‘Jack, one more thing: what do you know of a Protocol 9?’
Hammerson frowned. ‘Say again, Arcadian.’
‘Maria Vargis mentioned a secured set of international instructions — protocols, she called them — for dealing with unexpected or unusual encounters. Apparently, Protocol 9 relates to global life-threatening microorganisms. One minute Vargis is saying this is a terminal outbreak and there’s no way she can control it, and in the next she’s telling me she’ll have a solution in twenty-four hours. It doesn’t make sense. I reckon she’s not telling me everything.’ There was another silence before Alex said, ‘Did you know about these protocols, Jack?’
Hammerson tapped his chin with one large, gnarled fist. ‘No, but I don’t like the sound of it. I’ll get back to you. Over, Arcadian.’
Hammerson replaced the phone, sat down and switched on his computer. After entering his passwords, he selected an option on the secured military intranet that showed no identifying text or numbers, just three coloured boxes. He chose the first. The screen went black and stayed that way. To anyone else, it would have seemed a technological error or unfinished code-corridor. However, to Hammerson and a few others with special operational clearance, it was a sign that the system was waiting for the next step.
Hammerson pressed his palm against the screen. A red line traced the shape of his hand, then disappeared. After a few more seconds, two words appeared on the screen:
He could have got the information he needed by calling in a favour from any number of generals, but that would have taken time and he was an impatient man. Besides, the Military Universal Search Engine didn’t just rely on the United States’ vast warehouses of data; it accessed just about every other site on the planet too. Decades ago, the US military’s strategy and logistics division had forecast that the first strike of any modern war would come from a computer lab. Everything in the world was computerised now, from televisions to the most sophisticated defence systems; and with such complex software came vulnerabilities that could be exploited in either offensive or counteroffensive attacks. The US military was spending billions of dollars protecting itself from external hackers while itself diving into foreign networks and data warehouses.
After another few seconds, an eyes-only document entitled ‘The Protocols’ appeared on the screen. There were ten of them —
‘Oh shit, she wouldn’t.’
He downloaded the entire document and reached for the phone. He needed to swivel a communication satellite, now.
Despite Sam’s difficulty in drawing meaning from the ornate script that filled the heavy fibrous pages of the journal, he was enjoying its beauty. The cursive style was a relic of a time when penmanship had been lifted to an art form; each letter was perfect in its slope and precision. The outside leaves of the book were damp, but the inside leaves were surprisingly dry, indicating it had been only recently been dropped to the moist jungle floor. Each page was dated, and the year was 1617 —
Sam moved quickly through the early section, which was concerned with the voyage to the Southern American continent, then through its primitive towns and on into the deep jungle. From here, the almost clinical descriptions leapt to colourful life, with accompanying illustrations. Sam smiled as he felt the priest’s excitement and good humour. Pictures crowded nearly every page now: the local Indians cooking, clearing ground, children playing; another Jesuit drawn from behind, holding an outdoor mass, his arms held wide.
Sam turned another page and frowned. Here, the text described the new church’s bell tower, and a drawing of a smiling man polishing a large bell covered half the page. Sam recognised the broad shoulders, the square beard with the grey at the jaw-line. It was the priest, their priest: Father Alonso Gonzalez.
He looked again at the date at the top of the page: 1617 — nearly 400 years ago. Impossible.
But so was a non-military trained man taking out two HAWCs and nearly doing the same to Alex Hunter.
Sam snapped the book shut and looked at his wristwatch: 0530. No sleep after all. He headed for the door.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Alex prowled the camp, stopping from time to time at the edge of the jungle to reach out with his senses, trying to get an impression of anything lurking and watching from behind the dark green curtain. His head throbbed with a dull pain as he pushed his awareness out as far as he could. He could feel something there, but, strangely, it was all around him rather than in one specific location. And it felt like Gonzalez, but … He focused harder and got the sense of some kind of living essence, big and getting bigger, like a massive life form stirring or waking. He shook his head as the pain threatened to overwhelm him. There was too much life out there in the jungle to pull out individual details easily.
In less than an hour, he, Sam, Captain Garmadia and Aimee would track down the priest, and this time they wouldn’t underestimate him. Alex ached to get within reach of the killer of his HAWC. He had lost too many good men and women in battles above and below ground to let one be taken so cheaply.
He noticed that Maria’s laboratory light was still on, and drifted over to peer in the window. The CDC woman sat at her desk unmoving. Laid out before her were two syringes.
He backed away from the window and saw a light come on in Aimee’s cabin. Before he got to the door, it was pulled open and a fully kitted Casey Franks stepped out. She had been sharing Aimee’s quarters so Aimee could change her bandages.
The bandage at her throat was still a little discoloured, and purple bruising stretched from the base of one ear to the other. She looked as fit as ever though, her arms bulging with power, and her eyes carried a restless
