55

Washington, D.C.

The president saw Phil Bateman in his periphery. The Secretary of Defense stepped onto the stage in the Press Briefing Room even though most eyes were on the television images showing the unfolding events in Tanzania at the Olduvai Gorge. The president monitored Bateman’s approach while appearing to watch the television.

When Bateman reached into his jacket pocket only feet from the president, all of the journalists swiveled their heads back toward the podium.

Barkum felt his wife, Cynthia, perhaps in her role as his only true defender, step closer to him as Bateman approached.

“Mr. President, I can no longer support this announcement or this administration. As a good Christian, it pains me to do this,” Bateman said.

His hand rose, and two secret service agents were moving quickly toward him.

“I hereby tender my resignation to you in front of the world,” Bateman said. He held out a piece of paper with his signature on it.

Barkum looked at Bateman and then at the document, after which he looked up at the television and smiled grimly.

“Nobody’s watching us,” Barkum said. “Though nice gesture.”

Bateman looked up at the television about the same time Amanda Garrett leapt in front of the African boy and was struck with a bullet.

It appeared that the African kid, though, was unfazed, as he knelt down briefly and then kept walking.

***

As she lay on the ground bleeding from the chest, Amanda saw the scene unfold in slow motion. She’d dived in front of Kiram, and the bullet had struck her, spinning her to the ground. Then, everything seemed to accelerate.

Jonathan Beckwith shouted, “No!”

Five missiles whooshed into the ground as if they were on the receiving end of the Olympic javelin competition. The ground shook, and the unexploded ordnance kicked out huge rocks that created shrapnel despite the absence of explosions.

Amanda watched Kiram, who, despite his injury, appeared unfazed. She saw him look skyward from where the missiles had been delivered and then back down at his wound, blood seeping from his left pectoral area. He knelt as he cupped some of the black paste from the lava tube in his palm. Chaos all around him, he then laid down his rifle and turned toward Amanda, smearing the medicine on her wound while whispering softly into her ear the same Swahili chant that she had heard him sing to every Ebola- and HIV-infected child they had cured.

“I love you like a sister, Amanda. Thank you for saving me,” Kiram said. Amanda watched as the camera came within inches of her and Kiram’s faces.

Kiram stood and then continued to follow the footsteps.

Amanda saw the man named Rivers look over his shoulder in time to place the camera on Beckwith leaning over the chubby white man, who had fallen to his knees as if in prayer. His head hung low, and a pistol fell from his hand. Amanda saw blood seeping from the corner of his mouth and looked up at the redheaded woman, who was running down the crevice cursing herself. “Damnit, I got the shot but was too late,” she said. “I didn’t see McCallan pull his gun!”

“Sacrilege,” McCallan muttered. He dropped face-first into the beginning steps of the footprints. Amanda had watched the priest shoot both her and Kiram.

Amanda’s breathing was slight and raspy. She felt them all around her.

“Let’s get her to a doctor right away,” one man said. “Him, too.” They must have been talking about Webb. Who gives a shit about Webb ? she thought. He’d come here with evil intentions. Her mind was spinning as her blood pooled in the footprints. She heard a man say, “Where the hell is my pilot? Where is my helicopter?”

“Please don’t hurt Kiram,” Amanda whispered.

“Amanda, no one can hurt him. He’s the chosen one,” a man said.

She turned her head to see Rivers filming the back of Kiram’s shirtless black body walking into the northern darkness. He carried his AK-47 in his right hand, his thumb and forefinger circling the weapon just above the magazine well.

As Rivers filmed, Amanda watched.

Kiram continued walking and disappeared into the night.