Thaba Tshwane, Pretoria, South Africa
November 12, 6:19 A.M.
“For a waterfront kid, I’m in the air a lot now.”
Rivette was not quite complaining as he crossed the airfield from one plane to another. He didn’t mind flying, but the confinement that went with these long trips made him want to claw at the seat back. That changed once he and Grace left the C-21 behind them and he was airborne in the Advanced Hawk.
Snuggled carefree in the canopied back seat it was not just the flight in a screaming-fast nearly Mach 1 jet that delighted him from his big eyes to toes that instinctively if uselessly gripped the bottom of his boots. The low passage along the Indian Ocean, which seemed to amplify their speed, was thrilling. Grace had taken off after him and he did not know if her characteristically stoic expression had cracked. He doubted it. But he was ear-to-ear happy.
The good-byes to Williams and Breen had been quick and on the fly. That was fine too. Instructions and briefings generally bored him. The lance corporal was a survivalist at heart. He wanted to get to where he could be free and useful.
You are definitely getting there, he thought as he watched the dark expanse of water slip by.
He had not even spoken with his pilot, except to listen to the brief cockpit-to-tower conversation in his clean white helmet. The gear had its own oxygen supply so they would, in theory, be safe passing through the area that had taken down the jetliner. Still, flying low, he assumed, was a nod to the idea that this microbe rose.
Or maybe Chinese radar can’t see us this low over the water. If they were buzzing San Pedro, he could have done a layup shot into the cockpit.
As Rivette looked left and right, he did not see any military ships and few commercial freighters. Maybe they were flying a course designed to avoid the Chinese and Russians. He did not understand why. The Chinese at the island would see and hear them when the jets blasted overhead.
And they sure as hell should, he thought. It’s the South Africans’ damn island.
He wondered if the Chinese would pack up and leave when that happened. He hoped not. Unlike Yemen, where Black Wasp had been constantly buzzing and weaving, he liked the idea of being where they had permission to hunt bad guys.
After the low, lulling hum of the C-21, the furnace-roar of the fighter jet was an adrenaline rush. It lasted from takeoff to landing, which was the part of the flight Rivette liked least. They flew wide of the corvette and came in from the east, not to avoid being seen—radar would have failed to notice—but to come in at the right angle to land on Flat Cuff.
The pilot lined up with the target ledge. The slope of the cockpit gave Rivette a slightly elevated view above the pilot. He watched as the island came at them so fast Rivette was certain it was the last thing he would see. He turned to his right. Icy blue water was off to both sides, followed by a flash of pebbled beach that was covered with what looked like seals, and then they were replaced by terrain that moved by so fast the browns, greens, and grays appeared a soupy blur. The lance corporal instinctively pressed his arms to the sides, bracing them against the narrow metal panel to which the canopy hinges were bolted.
Hills rose swiftly on either side, not so near and not moving as fast. The sound of the engines bounced back up at them, the canopy vibrated, and then there was a bump under his seat that felt like a kickoff—only he didn’t go as far as a football, the harness saw to that. The force went up his back and jolted the base of his skull. The engines howled and the jet immediately slowed. Small stones pelted the undercarriage like flak, adding a staccato din.
And then they stopped with a suddenness that threw Rivette forward against the straps and gave his neck another jolt. There wasn’t time to recover. Rivette swapped out his helmet and oxygen for the breathing mask. When he was done, the cockpit hummed open and the pilot raised his left arm, pointing to the wing on that side. The lance corporal unbuckled himself and climbed unsteadily onto the wing. One of the two air intakes for the single, rear-positioned turbofan whooshed loudly and caused the wing to tremble as he removed his gun case from the cockpit. Particles of grit and grass literally vibrated off the metal.
Rivette sat on the wing and slid off the back, avoiding the suction. Then he grabbed his two grips and hurried away. The cockpit closed. He had not exchanged a word with the pilot at any time.
The lance corporal had dressed on the C-21 and took some time getting used to the tight, warm winter gear. He was wearing a thermal jumpsuit and cotton coveralls. He wore a slender black thermal parka with an insulated hood. He was impressed with the gripping capacity of waterproof lace-up boots with cleated outsoles. His lined tactical gloves would allow him to shoot without freezing. According to the instructions that came with the extreme-weather breathing mask, the edges might become a little stiff and possibly abrasive in temperatures below freezing. He hoped he would be able to take it off.
In any case, Rivette was psyched and ready for this mission.
There was nothing to take shelter behind on the flat plain so he kept on jogging to the south. The wind wanted him to go east but he resisted. He squatted to remove his guns and holsters then covered the case with rocks so it wouldn’t shine for enemy patrols, if any. He checked his phone for messages from Williams or Washington. There were no updates. He did not look back but he heard the engine rev again, blast across the terrain, and then he could hear it rise. The bellowing was over land this time, not water, and it echoed off the hills, sending flocks of hidden birds into the air.
Rivette had felt more at home in the burning, sandy expanses and harbor warehouses of Yemen. It wasn’t that much different from Los Angeles. This place felt rugged and remote, like there should be dinosaurs, Bronze Age forges, or both.
Almost as soon as the Hawk was gone, its engine receding, it was replaced by the jet carrying Lieutenant Lee. The lance corporal simply stood where he was, on a slope that looked like a slate walk someone had hammered to pieces. The Hawk followed the same path as his plane, spinning off a cloud of grassy dust as it touched down. The plane was briefly enveloped when it stopped. Rivette watched as Grace emerged, not bothering to sit on the wing but jumping down. She did not carry a bag or backpack. Everything she needed was strapped to her body.
She must have spotted Rivette as they were coming in, as she ran directly toward him. The jet was gone before she reached him. It left behind a primordial calm of wind, distant surf, and highly vocal birds.
The woman checked the compass function of her smartwatch, then looked at the local map. During the flight, they had agreed to use standard military visual signaling rather than shout through their masks.
Slowing but not stopping, she circled her arm for them to move out and pointed sharply with a ridge hand to the southwest. She ran on, Rivette following.
I guess she’s psyched too, Rivette thought. And in command.
The two made their way from the valley, slowed only by the difficulty of running and breathing in the mask. Following the compass, she decided to go up and over a hill that was some five hundred feet in elevation. Hiking was another thing Rivette had not done a lot of growing up, and except for survivalist training in the Rockies, this was relatively new. He was leg-weary even before they reached the coast where the outpost lay.
Just as the structure came into view, silhouetted by rising sunlight falling on the waters beyond, both Black Wasps felt their phones vibrate.
Grace’s arm flew straight back, palm open. Rivette stopped as she did so they could check the text message. It was another anonymous update from the Defense Logistics Agency:
Chinese activity location Ship Rock site of original contagion. Possible regional reinfection.
Nuts to that, Rivette thought. Even though it was on the other island, the mask would have to stay on.
When they started up again, Grace indicated for Rivette to stay low. She pointed to her eyes, then out to the sea.
What did you see besides birds? he wondered.
Instead of going around the hill they made for a higher vantage point. She stopped them again. Grace had binoculars on her hip but they were useless due to the angle and the rising sun and the visor. Despite the glare and distance, however, Rivette was able to make out what she had noticed. The new sun was bouncing from a South African helicopter parked beside the single-story outpost. The target was roughly a half mile away.
Grace looked back and nodded. He nodded back. They were agreed that transportation would be damned useful to have.
Resuming their passage toward the building, the two were no longer moving in to reconnoiter. If there was a pilot, they wanted him.
Presuming they would hear an approach from the air, the Chinese had stationed a man at the sea cliff. Lying flat at the base of the mound they had climbed, Grace saw the sailor in profile. He was not wearing a mask. The men had likely not been told about the contagion. The Chinese were using them as guinea pigs, a kind of proximity test.
However, he did have the thick, lined hood of his parka on and buttoned tight. If he had heard the two Hawks come in, he had long since lost interest. The sides of the hood would also block the man’s peripheral vision slightly. He would have to turn and look at something fully to see it. The Chinese obviously were not expecting an attack from behind.
Rivette was slightly behind her and to the left. He texted her a picture of the QBZ-95 assault rifle the man was carrying, along with a note:
1200’ pt
She showed an okay sign. The sentry could hit a point target precisely at that range.
She texted: I’ll take him. You follow, cover.
Now Rivette formed an okay sign.
My God, I love this, he thought, his life proceeding from moment to moment with adrenaline and purpose. Just like when he was a kid in Los Angeles, he could afford to miss nothing.
They rose. The sun was climbing to their right and gave them some cover in the shadow of the hill. They stayed within it, walking low. Several times Grace had been tempted to remove the mask. She did not like the fact that she could hear her own breathing in her ears. But the winds had shifted several times in just the half hour since they had arrived. It was not worth the risk.
Rivette was carrying his Colt 9mm submachine gun. Grace knew it had an effective range of roughly one-quarter the Chinese weapon. That meant he could stop about 350 feet away and still cover her. She held up her hand to stop, pointed to a satellite dish that was at least thirty years old. Judging from the dung coating the latticed surface, the technology was only active as a bird refuge. The white dish sat on a fat metal cylinder.
Hunkered low on his feet, Rivette made for it. As he ran, he kept his weapon pointed at the sentry who was looking out to sea. If the man turned, the last thing he would see was the American.
Then we’ll be in a firefight, he knew—but at least the Chinese would not know about Grace. He could keep them busy while she made her way to the outpost. No one was better at a stealth approach than Grace.
None of that happened. Rivette reached the spot unseen, and by the time he looked back Grace was already in motion. She was running toward the back of the outpost. The eastern side blocked her from the sentry’s view. He would only see her when she reached the front. From there, she had to cover about thirty feet of open terrain.
She never made it.
The shift changed at 7:00 A.M. and the replacement walked out as Grace had just started her snake-low approach to the sentry.
The Chinese seaman hesitated from surprise. Grace did not. She doubled him over with a right side kick. When that foot came down she was right in front of the man. Her left knee came up into his bowed, open jaw.
She ignored the sentry and, as the man she’d hit fell back, literally ran over him. Bullets splatted behind her; they were Rivette’s, chewing up the terrain between his partner and the sentry and driving the man back toward the cliff. He fell onto his belly and aimed at the young marine. By that time, Grace was pressed to the wall just outside the door. She threw back her hood so she could hear. The wall behind her was cinderblock. The Chinese would not be firing through it to try and get her.
The sentry’s replacement stirred and she kicked him in the ear with a snap-kick from the toe of her boot. There was an audible crack and he flopped back down.
Off to the southeast, Rivette was moving forward, driving the sentry back toward the sea cliff, making sure he did not have time or a sight-line to shoot her. The lance corporal’s shots were not random but precise and shifting; endless, droning fire would have given the guard a chance to get ahead of the bullets. Also, before long, Rivette’s supply would have run out.
The men inside were shouting. Grace listened.
“Send the pilot out to reconnoiter!” someone shouted.
Smart, but stupid, Grace thought.
“What are you bloody doing?” a man said in English. “Stop pushing—”
“Get out there!” a Chinese seaman barked.
She could not afford to allow this man to become a moving hostage, either for his sake or her own. Grace listened to the cold floorboards creak as she watched the door. She removed her right-hand glove, held it in her teeth, and wriggled her fingers in a spider maneuver so they’d be flexible. There was warmth coming through the door; whatever he was wearing, the fabric would not be stiff. His arms were apparently raised, because the first thing she saw move slowly through the door was an ivory-white sweater—
Grace’s right hand shot across the doorway, palm facing the inside. She slapped on the garment, her palm hitting first and her fingers immediately curling around the wool like talons—an eagle grab. She did not use muscle to pull him out. That would have taken time and effort. She took a wide step to her left and dragged him with her. Surprised and off-balance, he literally fell to his left, following her.
Gunshots cracked and missed him, though a circling albatross exploded in red and dropped beak-first.
Grace immediately dropped to her knees, the man falling face-first with her. She kept her palm on the back of the man’s neck—not forcefully, but enough to communicate that he should stay down. He nodded into the dirt. She tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up. She motioned him to move from the wall slightly. He quickly obliged, scuttling two feet to the south. In case the sentry at the sea managed to fire a round in their direction, the rolling terrain offered the man protection.
But that was not why she had moved him.
Grace pressed herself back to the wall. The men inside were quiet but Grace heard the footsteps. Two pair. One pair was moving toward the window to her left. The shades had been drawn, probably by the Chinese, looking to conceal themselves.
Dumb, she thought. The sun’s glare would have done that if they had been thinking. The Chinese and their tactical rulebooks. If they didn’t have a billion-plus people to throw at the world, few would take their aggression seriously.
Leaving the South African, and still squatting, Grace made her way to the window. It was just over five feet away. Hanging just to the side, her back to the wall, and pulling her glove back on, she watched as the shade was drawn from the nine-pane window. She did not see a face.
“There’s one man firing at Lung Chen,” a man whispered.
“Who is here?”
That would require the observer to move. The face moved cautiously toward the middle pane on her side. The glass would be strong but not strong enough.
Once again, Grace flexed her now-gloved right hand. She formed a leopard fist—all five fingers tightly bent and held firm against her palm. The knuckles were pointed up, the palm toward the window. She saw the face and was already in motion as the face saw her. She rolled her back off the wall, an upward corkscrew move, and at the same time propelled her palm into the pane. The glass exploded inward, causing the seaman to gasp and jump back.
The other man fired in that direction, bullets destroying the other panes.
The men inside were only distracted for a few moments, but in that time Grace had turned and run back to the open door.
The man with the gun was momentarily paralyzed by her arrival. She front-kicked his automatic up and out of his hand. Then she drove her left hand, a leopard paw, into his throat. Even as he gagged and stumbled back she turned toward the man at the window.
The African radio operator was already in motion, bear-hugging the man around the chest and driving him into a desk. The furniture moved back and both men fell sprawling, but the seaman still had his gun.
Grace ran over and stomped on his wrist. The man’s fingers reflexively flew open and he released the semiautomatic. She picked it up and turned to the other man as the radio operator rose and punched down hard at the seaman’s face.
Grace swore.
She had heard the other man hacking and gagging, trying to recover from the neck-strike, but he had not been immobile. Grabbing a backpack, he had run to the window that faced west and was just jamming it through. Then he dropped to the floor and Grace realized why. She ripped off her mask.
“Get down and cover your ears!” she yelled to the radio operator as she dove to the opposite side of the room, landing flat behind the desk. A moment later, the bag exploded.
A red-yellow blew through the shattered window, taking out the remainder of the frame. Shards of glass and wood splinters traced wide, dizzying courses through the room, followed by the smoke. Grace smelled thermite.
“Stay down!” she cried as a second, much larger blast rocked the outpost. The ground itself shook, the walls and ceiling rattled, and the entire room went red as the helicopter exploded. The outside wall was pelted with metal, followed by a rain of debris on the roof.
Rivette had used the distraction of the explosion to rush his prisoner. If his training had taught him anything, it was to focus on only that which was an immediate danger. Even if Grace had just gone up in smoky particles, there was nothing he could do about it. But there was something he could do about the sentry.
The seaman had watched the blast and was not aware of the lance corporal swinging in from the opposite direction and putting a warm gun barrel to the back of his collar. The seaman surrendered and stood, arms raised. The two walked toward the burning tableau, the helicopter in formless, melted ruin and the outpost intact but half-concealed in blowing smoke.
The man in the white sweater had risen when two Chinese appeared in the doorway, their arms raised, followed by Grace and an African. The latter had the only gun among them.
Rivette removed his mask. “All clear?”
“No one else,” Grace said.
“Thermite?” Rivette said, sniffing as they arrived.
“I didn’t even think about it,” Grace said angrily.
“It came with Raeburn,” the pilot said. “I’m Captain Velts, by the way. You are?”
“Where is Raeburn?” Grace asked, shaking her head firmly in answer to his question.
“He left with a Chinese patrol, by boat,” said Sisula.
“Left?”
“Was forced to go,” Sisula said. “He’s a doctor, name of Raeburn. He came to help Commander van Tonder and Lieutenant Mabuza, who took our helicopter to Prince Edward.”
“I wondered about your own transportation,” Grace said.
“Now we’re stranded here,” Sisula said.
Grace thought for a moment. “No,” she announced as she returned to the partially shattered outpost. “We are not.”