A development. The word echoed through Norward’s consciousness. He was coming out of one of only two biohazard Level 4 labs in the country. The other one was at the Centers for Disease Control — CDC — headquarters in Atlanta. The people who worked at both USAMRIID and CDC around Level 4 agents knew that a development usually meant someone had died and that more people were going to die unless they intervened quickly and effectively.
It was obvious to most people why the CDC had such an interest in disease. It was less obvious why the Army ran one, except to students of military history. Even in the relatively modern times of the last century, more soldiers died of disease than in battle. Whenever masses of men gathered together, pestilence was never far away.
The shower finally shut down. Norward walked into the staging area and took off his suit. He rapidly threw on his Class B uniform and went to the elevator, still tucking the light-green shirt in.
The door opened and he rode it up to ground level. When the door opened, Colonel Carmen was waiting, dressed in sweatpants and a faded green surgical shirt — her normal work uniform. “This way,” Carmen said. They went directly to her office. Four other people were gathered there: the other top experts in the office on bio-agents.
“We’ve already looked at this.” She handed him the satellite imagery forwarded from Area 51. “First image was taken yesterday. The second one is today’s.”
“Oh, God,” Norward muttered as he saw the blue dots in the one village, then the red in the next. He knew what those temperatures meant. The second image showed the spread.
“That was our conclusion,” Colonel Carmen remarked dryly.
Norward looked around the room and then focused on one man. “What do you think, Joe?”
“It’s South America, so it’s not likely to be Ebola,” the man said. He was dressed casually in cut-off jean shorts and T-shirt. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, but Norward knew that Joe Kenyon was only twenty-eight. He’d had a tough life. He had black hair hanging down to his collar, and framing his face was the outline of a two-day beard — Norward wondered how Kenyon always managed to look forty-eight hours from his last shave.
Kenyon was a civilian on contract with USAMRIID. Inside the tight community of scientists that dealt with deadly infectious diseases, Kenyon was known as a virus cowboy. Someone who traveled around the world looking for microscopic bugs that killed. Corralled them. Brought them back to Level 4. Then tried to take them apart to find a way to beat them.
Kenyon was the resident genius on Level 4 bio-agents at USAMRIID. He had a Ph.D. in epidemiology and six years’ experience in the field. “There’s no way we can tell without going there and taking a look-see.”
“What’s in this area?” Norward asked.
“Small villages scattered about the jungle,” Colonel Carmen said. “They make their living harvesting coca leaves and making paste for shipment to drug dealers.”
Norward checked the two photos against each other. “This thing is moving fast. How is it getting transmitted?”
“We won’t know that until we get there,” Kenyon said.
“Who’s calling us in on this?” Norward asked.
Colonel Carmen sat behind her desk and steepled her fingers. “That’s the hard part. We haven’t officially been called in. This is coming from, let us say, unofficial channels. There’s a bouncer en route to our location to pick you guys up, link you up with some other people, and take you to ground zero.”
“A bouncer?” Norward frowned. “I don’t—”
“The less questions you ask right now, the less I have to tell you I don’t know,” Carmen said. She pointed at the imagery in his hands. “Let’s deal with that first. God knows what it is, but it’s spreading fast. Be ready to move in thirty minutes.”
“That’s the spot,” Faulkener said.
Toland looked at the border crossing. The rest of the mercenaries were farther back, hidden in some low ground. There was only the faint impression of a rough road cutting across the ground. No border post. No sign that there was even an international border between Bolivia and Brazil.
“We’ll keep surveillance on it,” Toland said. “I wouldn’t put it past The Mission to have a trap set for us now.”
Faulkener turned to him. “Who exactly is The Mission?” The two had always worked for The Mission using a cutout, never meeting their occasional employers face-to-face.
“I’ve heard they’re Germans.” Toland spit. “Nazis. Hiding in the damn jungle all these years.”
“I don’t like working for no Nazis,” Faulkener said.
“You want the money or not?” Toland said. “After this job we can retire. Quit and live in style.”
Faulkener’s silence was answer enough. Faulkener glanced toward where the other men were. “Some of the men are sick. Justin is in real bad shape. He’s throwing up blood.”
Toland had been thinking. “All right. I’ve changed my mind. I think it’s better for us to go small. Let those go who want to and get rid of all that are sick. We’ll keep about four good men who you trust. Whatever this guy we’re to link up with is coming after, it’s worth five million to The Mission. And after we get him where he wants to go,” Toland added, “we’ll have both the guy and whatever it is.”
CHAPTER 11
Area 51 had become the hub of UNAOC’s scientific center to investigate the Airlia. The choice had been made early for UNAOC because of the presence of the mothership and bouncers, but since the unveiling of that to the public, the site had expanded even further and Major Quinn, despite his relatively low rank in the military, was in charge.
Area 51 was the unclassified designation on military maps for a training area on the Nellis Air Force Base. Every military post had its land broken down into training areas, usually designated by numbers or letter. But Area 51 had developed into much more than a training area. For decades it had housed a top-secret installation burrowed into Groom Mountain. Next to the mountain lay the longest runway in the world. From that runway not only had the bouncers flown, but the skunkworks had tested all the latest top-secret aircraft, from the Stealth fighter to the still-classified Aurora spy plane.
Only a few of the facilities were aboveground. Most of the core of Area 51 was built into and below the side of the mountain next to the runway. Besides the mothership hangar that had been found, another large hangar had been hollowed out over the years to house the bouncers.
Majestic-12 was the committee that had been designated to run Area 51 and oversee the secrets it contained. Over the years it had turned into a world of its own, ignoring current administrations and believing itself to be above the law. That had all come to a crashing halt several weeks earlier.
Quinn now knew that the members of Majestic-12 had been mentally taken over by the guardian computer uncovered at a dig in Temiltepec and brought back to MJ-12’s other secret site at Dulce, New Mexico.
When MJ-12’s secrets were finally exposed, Area 51’s shroud had been torn asunder. The media had descended on the site, shooting images of the massive black mothership resting in its newly dug-out cavern and the bouncers being put through their paces by Air Force pilots. What had once been the most secret place in America was now the most photographed and visited.
But the discovery of the true nature of the STAAR bodies had brought a shadow into the new light. The information about the Airlia and STAAR had been deemed by UNAOC to be too inflammatory, and Quinn found himself once again guarding secrets.