South Indian Sea, South Africa
November 11, 9:50 P.M.
The nearly three-hour ride in the Atlas Oryx helicopter was a rich pageant of things, none of them pleasant.
It was loud. Even the headphones could only muffle, not silence the noise. If it were only the monotonous beat of the rotors, Lieutenant Colonel Gray Raeburn might have been able to treat them as white noise. But it wasn’t. The wind kept up an uneven whine that rose and fell without a pattern. Sometimes it was a whisper, sometimes a scream.
It was cold. The forced air that warmed the cockpit did not do a very good job in the small, inadequately padded cargo and passenger bay. The wind made sure to remind them they were heading into the subantarctic.
It was also too bumpy, another gift of the air currents, of passing from strong westerly to strong easterly currents. The harness kept him secure in the seat but that meant he went with every jump and dip of the helicopter.
But the worst of it was not the ride. After about an hour, the tight plastic mask with its old, stiffening rubber seal had abraded his cheeks. Every knock of the wind and bounce of the chopper spread that discomfort. But he dared not shift it, even as it rubbed raw, mask-shaped contours into his flesh.
The doctor did not even try to sleep. The physical discomfort aside, the ugly unreality of what had happened and the life-changing suddenness clawed at mind and soul. He had not even contacted Commander van Tonder. What would he tell him?
Raeburn thought about returning the call of Barbara Niekerk. He did not worry about whatever message she had left in his voicemail. It would have been nothing more than an insistent “Call me.” He wanted to, if only to tell her he was on his way to try and deal with the problem. But she would want to know more than that—such as the bug’s viability in the atmosphere and how to treat it. These were things he could not know. Not until he had obtained a sample and looked for mutation.
The one window beside his plastic bucket seat was damp with condensation and smudged with filth. But the skies were relatively clear and misleadingly cheerful as Prince Edward Island appeared on the sea ahead. It did not seem as if eight years had passed since he was last here. Then, he had traveled in a helicopter not unlike this one, with a select special ops intelligence team that reported directly to Krummeck. They did not know what was being buried here. The hole had been dug and the coffin-sized casing winched down. Raeburn himself—and alone—went down on the winch and interred the canisters. Then the top was lowered and the hole was buried.
The naval outpost on Marion Island had been ordered to stand down during this operation. There were no outside witnesses.
Now there are, he thought as the helicopter swept in low over the sea. Whatever he did here, it would have to be for the first time, as it were. He could not have seen the burial chamber or what was inside.
The familiar shape of Ship Rock came into view, standing solitary over the sea with the main island behind it. Both were crusted with ice but no fresh snow. Small floes of ice had clogged the waters between the island and the rock. They would be solid enough to stand on while Raeburn investigated whatever had happened here.
He was glad they were too low to see the wreckage on the far side of Marion Island. There was no smoke; whatever fires there had been were out. They had passed the two Maule M-7-235C amphibious planes an hour earlier, as well as the refueling boat that was coming along behind them. The Maule was an adaptable aircraft with removable pontoons. One of these two, he suspected, was a flying laboratory the Civil Aviation Authority used for crashes on sea and land. The other bore a red cross: medical evac.
The navy Denel AH-2 Rooivalk was soon visible. The sunlight bouncing from the bubble front made it impossible to see the men inside, but there would have been nowhere to go.
Raeburn was about to tell the pilot to radio the navy aircraft when the flyer contacted him.
“Doctor,” he heard through the headphones, “there is someone else off the island.”
Raeburn craned to see, but his side view was only to the east. He did not want to unbuckle and could see only sky through the other window.
“Any idea who it is?” the doctor asked.
“Yes, sir,” the pilot replied. “It’s a corvette, model 056. People’s Liberation Army Navy, China.”
Commander van Tonder had seen the Chinese ship when it was still dark and the vessel was far out at sea. The silhouette of the corvette was visible against the stars, and by its own lights flashing red and blue on the tower.
It was not uncommon to see Chinese, American, Russian, and Indian naval vessels in the region. With increasing aggressiveness, the Chinese and Indians were vying for control of the Indian Ocean Basin. Part of this was their inability to flex military muscle on land with the Himalaya Mountains between them. A larger part was the need for China to keep its economy growing. That required oil, which came through these sea-lanes. Increased investments in the ports of Myanmar, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, and the Maldives gave China exponentially greater access to the waterways.
South Africa was mostly a bystander in all of this. Neither nation came to these islands, merely passed by.
Until today.
Lieutenant Mabuza was not well. He was feverish, dehydrating—the water had already run out—and rarely conscious. Van Tonder kept him covered; there was nothing else he could do.
Ensign Sisula kept the commander informed about developments regarding the crash. Except for the fact that they were on the way, there was no news from them.
“Simon says there’s another heli on the way,” Sisula said. “No details, but it’s one of theirs.”
“Medical, I hope.”
Sisula had not been aware of the Chinese vessel. Until they contacted the outpost. Van Tonder listened to the communication over the radio.
“SAN Outpost Marion Island,” a voice said in highly polished English. “This is Command Master Chief Petty Officer Kar-Yung Cheung of the corvette Shangaro. We note two explosions in your vicinity. One occurred this morning at 12:39 A.M. on Marion Island. We understand this to have been South African A330-200 Airbus flight 280. We note that assistance has not yet arrived. We stand ready to help.”
“Shangaro, Outpost Prince Edward has received your offer and will pass that offer along. Thank you.”
“The other explosion was at sea earlier this morning. Our helicopter photographed debris. Is the identity of this vessel known to you?”
“It is not, Shangaro. We recorded the incident at 2:59 A.M. and it was reported.”
“Very good, Outpost Prince Edward. We note as well that you have an ailing officer on Prince Edward Island. As we are at the coast, may we volunteer the services of our trained medical personnel?”
Sisula was silent. Van Tonder quickly considered the matter. Without knowing whether medical help was on the way, he had to decide whether Mabuza’s recovery was worth risking inviting the Chinese ashore. He believed that humanitarian rather than hostile intent would spare him from any disciplinary repercussions.
Not that it mattered. The lieutenant needed help. Military regulations allowed for SOS assistance by foreign forces—as long as national security was not compromised, or, as a poster on the mess hall at Simon cautioned: Emergency? Shun Over Sharing. There was also the Chinese crew to consider. They might recognize the risk.
“Shangaro, this is Commander Eugène van Tonder on Prince Edward,” he said. “I can see your corvette from the ledge above Ship Rock. I urge you not to approach. There is an unknown toxin abroad.”
“You are unaffected?”
“We are. When we approached the coast by helicopter, my pilot became ill. We immediately turned back to Point Dunkel but set down when the lieutenant became too ill to fly.”
“Then exposure was limited.”
“So it seems.”
“We understand the risk and have consolidated our crew in sealed areas,” said Cheung. “We wish to be of assistance.”
Van Tonder did not believe that. But if they could help Mabuza, he was not going to argue.
“Do you have hazardous materials gear and a means of quarantine?” van Tonder asked.
“Our medic informs me we do. What are your pilot’s symptoms?”
“Like the flu but much more debilitating. He’s perspiring, shivering, feverish.”
“Your proximity to him seems not to have affected your health. Have you touched him?”
“Not with bare skin,” van Tonder said. “I’m also wearing a surgical mask, as is the pilot.”
“We will send our medical officer by helicopter to your position,” the Chinese officer informed him.
“Sir, I would advise you not to bring the ship any closer.”
A new voice came on. “Commander, this is Chief Medical Officer Han. We do not detect radiation or gas. Toxins rise with the heat. We believe that, being below your point and with reasonable precautions, our shipboard crew will be safe.”
“Thank you for the caution, Commander van Tonder,” Cheung added.
“Thank you for your assistance,” the South African commander replied.
The formality of both men disguised mutual mistrust. The conversation was by the book, no doubt recorded. The Chinese knew about the Marion Island outpost, had flown over it many times. No secrets were betrayed.
The commander told Sisula to terminate the call then removed his headset. He turned to Mabuza.
“Help is on the way,” he said.
The pilot just shivered and nodded. For his part, the commander was getting cabin fever just sitting here.
How much worse can it be on the ledge than it is here, with an infected man? he wondered.
But he couldn’t leave Mabuza. Just wiping the man’s forehead let him know he was not alone.
Within minutes, a long, sleek patrol boat had left the starboard side of the corvette, headed toward Prince Edward Island. The sound of the engine, echoing through the cove below, made the boat sound close and immediate. As it reached a crescendo, van Tonder saw Mabuza’s hands come to life.
Choking up, the commander steadied them with his own.
“It’s okay, Lieutenant,” van Tonder said. “That’s not us. It’s the rescue ship, I think.”
Mabuza nodded weakly. “I—I am glad.”
“Me too.”
After a moment Mabuza relaxed.
Van Tonder looked out again and saw, in the distance, the corvette slicing through sparkling waters and coming closer to shore. Though the seas were dark, the lights were not. It stopped roughly a quarter mile out. The lights on its bridge tower flashing, the patrol boat continued toward the island, finally vanishing below the ledge. He knew from his many patrols that the seasonal land bridge, Ship Isthmus, would prevent them from circumnavigating Ship Rock. It appeared when ice piled high on submerged rocks, creating a tenuous link with the larger island.
He also knew that the patrol boat did not have to go around. What they wanted was on the eastern side.
Van Tonder slipped the headset back on.
“Michael?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Report to Simon that the Chinese have come to Ship Rock with what appears to be an armed military unit,” he said. “Tell them I think they mean to stay.”