CHAPTER 68

The tent

 

Parker had been mentally prepared to take a bearing as soon as he saw the light. It was an advantage that he had. He expected the light. They didn’t. The tent was to the west, up the valley, in the face of the rocks, ten degrees to his left. As a pilot, he knew how to take a bearing. More important, it was near a dark chocolate-colored rock that stood above a man’s height. But it was a chocolate-colored rock in a field of rocks in the dark.

Where is it?

And the sky was now gone. The stars had disappeared from sight. The wind had increased, now blowing directly at him.

If I had a star.

Parker’s mouth was dry, his fever relentless. The headaches continued to pound his skull.

If I had Venus.

As a child, Parker’s father would point out to him the brightest star in the early sky. It was called Anahita for over a thousand years. And then the Greeks called it Lucifer.

The plan has changed.

Parker’s original plan was to enter the camp, infect Yousef, and then try to escape. Simple. The disease would hit Yousef and spread to the leadership. Few would survive. And the propaganda would be that Allah had punished these wayward mujahideen. As the children of the local villages became ill, America would bring the antibiotics. America would become the hero. The villagers would turn against the visiting mujahideen, who only brought death.

But now nuclear weapons were involved. The plan needed to change.

I know how to find the second one.

Parker tried to concentrate. It was now critical that he made it to the team. He had to make it to their radio. He looked back at what was once the sky.

Abu Ali Sina.

Parker’s mind started to wander, between the fever and the progression of the disease. He recalled his father telling him of Abu Ali Sina, the astronomer from Afghanistan, within a hundred miles of where he stood, who first discovered the transit of Venus.

The transit of Venus. The planet’s passing across the face of the sun.

As Parker moved through the dark, he knew he’d drift to the right without thinking. It was what a right-handed person did. Only a matter of inches, each step would be slightly to the right. In a hundred yards, he would be ten yards to the right. Unless he corrected for the unconscious step.

He intentionally made every step slightly farther to the left.

If I had Venus.

They could light up the tent again, but if they did it would draw the hounds to him. In the original plan, the team was to stay away. Parker was to disappear in the night. There was a chance that Yousef might not even follow. In the original plan, Yousef wouldn’t have known what path Parker would have taken. And shortly, Yousef would be distracted by the illness, with others becoming sick rapidly. But the plan had changed; his team would now be improvising, just as Parker had been.

He stopped. Nausea took his breath away. It had now been more than twelve hours since he’d chewed the gum. He was close to the point of no return.

He walked another ten paces and stopped. The weight of his gun and the case were becoming impossible burdens. He moved a step to the left and walked another ten paces forward.

God, I can’t find it.

He leaned against a boulder. His thirst was overwhelming. He looked west toward what was once the mountain range. Visibility had reduced further. Suddenly, headlights lit up the rocks behind him. Yousef ’s truck had to be no more than a hundred yards away. He slid in behind the boulder, putting it between himself and Yousef and the wind. Parker put his hand on the rock. It was sharp and pocked with jagged edges across its face.

Volcanic.

Eons ago, this rock had been liquid.

He felt for the next rock, for new and better cover from the approaching vehicles.

But what Parker touched next didn’t feel volcanic. It felt like the smooth, man-made fabric of a tent.

The lights from the truck suddenly went dark.

Thank God!

Parker felt for the tent’s zipper, found it, and slid inside. Darkness, complete. Parker moved his hands in the darkness along the inside edge of the tent. The wind continued to buffet the shelter, causing it to rock slightly back and forth. He came to the cold steel of the Windrunner rifle with a scope on top. Parker pulled the bolt back and used his finger to feel the brass cartridge in the chamber. It was ready to fire. He slid his hand down the length of the weapon, feeling the round cylinder of a silencer at the end. He put the AK-47 to the side, going with the better weapon, and left the device box on the far side of the tent.

Parker kept moving his hands along the base of the tent.

“There it is.”

A small plastic ice chest tucked in the corner.

“I don’t have much time,” he whispered to himself as he opened the chest and felt inside. A plastic zip-lock bag held a tube and a long needle. He put his hand back into the chest full of the liquid and ice and felt a second plastic bag.

“All right, let’s get this going.”

Parker turned around, putting his feet to the opening of the tent. As he did, he sat on a small metal object. His hand felt a .45-caliber automatic pistol with a long silencer attached to the barrel. He quietly chambered a round and cocked the hammer.

He pulled off his shawl and pulled up the sleeve to his shirt. Every second mattered. He hung the IV bag, hooked up the tube, and took the needle. He had discussed this with Dr. Stewart at the CDC. It was best to put it in a vein on the back of his hand.

Parker stuck his hand back into the ice chest and halfheartedly washed it off. It wasn’t sterile, but would have to do. He felt for that small bulge just to the outside of the back of his hand. He tied a rubber strip that came with the bag and made a fist. A distended vein stuck out on the back of his hand.

He stuck the needle in the vein and then slid it slowly deeper. He released the valve to the IV bag and almost instantly felt the cold liquid enter his body.

The wind rocked the tent, moving it back and forth as the gusts changed directions.

Parker leaned back with his hand on his chest, in the dark, holding the pistol in the other.

All he needed now was time.

 

 

A shadow crossed over the tent.

Parker tried to focus his eyes in the dark.

A shadow?

A shadow meant a source of light. It had to have been from the headlights of Yousef’s truck.

God, I’m thirsty.

Parker’s mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton. His tongue seemed welded in place. He felt the IV bag. Still half full. But at least the vancomycin cocktail was passing into his body.

The shadow passed again over the tent.

Parker pulled the pistol up to his chest. The wind kept rocking the tent. He listened for a sound other than the howl of sand blasting against the rocks and tent.

Finally his thirst became overwhelming. Parker reached for the small cooler and stuck his hand back into the icy water. It became irresistible. He pulled the cooler over, putting his hand into the cold liquid and bringing a handful up to his mouth. He swallowed the water with a small piece of ice. So good. He lifted the cooler and drank the cold water.

More time; just need a little more time.

He reclined again with the pistol on his chest. Lights flickered above, bouncing up and down, in silhouette against the roof of the tent. And then a shadow passed over again.

“Allah!”

Umarov’s blade sliced through the tent, narrowly missing Parker’s head. Parker grabbed Umarov’s wrist as it came through the opening in the fabric; as he did so, the IV ripped out of his hand. Umarov’s body fell on Parker’s other arm, with his weight on the pistol, but as it did a silenced round fired from the gun.

Whish.

The silent bullet tore through the tent and ricocheted off the larger boulder nearby.

“Srati!” Umarov growled at Parker. He swung again with the knife.

Parker caught his hand again, holding the knife just above his head.

“Srati!” Umarov screamed, shifting his weight to his right arm and the knife. The blade was just above Parker’s throat, the steel point pressing into his flesh.

Parker pushed up with his body and, as he did, for a flash of a moment his other hand came free.

Whish.

An animal cry as a second silenced bullet from Parker’s pistol tore through the flesh of Umarov’s right forearm. He pulled the knife away from Parker’s throat but then came back down, sticking the blade into the upper part of Parker’s right arm.

Umarov kicked the pistol away into the rocks. The tent was now shredded around the two men as they struggled.

Umarov pulled back up against the rocks, lifted the IV bag, and looked at its label, recognizing not only what it was but also what it was for. He used the knife to cut the tube from the needle.

Parker crouched, looking for an opening. But he had no gun he could reach and no knife to match Umarov’s.

“Yousef!” Umarov yelled out.

“Umarov?” A voice came from well behind the rocks.

“They have infected us.”

“Umarov! Where are you?”

The sand came in gusts, stopping for a second and then bearing down again.

“Here! I am here! I have their medicine.” Umarov stood up, holding his side with the one hand and the IV bag with the other. He looked at Parker, a growing pool of blood at his feet, and smiled.

“Maybe you should die like this.”

Umarov turned and then stopped, seeing the pistol lying nearby.

“And then, maybe not.”

He reached down to the .45-caliber automatic and picked it up, with the intent of putting a final round into Parker’s face.

Just as he turned, Parker hefted a large stone that he’d managed to palm and struck.

Umarov fell in a heap.

“Maybe not.” William Parker, on his knees, cradled his injured arm across his chest, panting for breath, and realized that he had survived.