OCTOBER 20. 1600 HOURS. ATLANTA, GEORGIA.
The warm breeze blew across the wavering fields of grain and stirred Garusovsky’s white hair where he stood on the hilltop. He tapped the screen on his computer to shut off the power and tucked the device back in his coat pocket, then granted himself a few moments to watch the wind’s path move through the wheat like enormous invisible serpents.
It reminded him of home. Or, rather, the home he remembered before the plague. Desolation filled him when he thought of his beautiful fields and two-story home built of golden sandstone that gleamed like honey at sunset. Of course, none of it existed now.
Far down the highway he could see the empty dark towers of downtown Atlanta. He tipped his head contemplatively. Ten years from now, the towers would be overgrown and starting to sag. In fifty years, they would be ruins, habitats for mice and cockroaches. Only the most evolutionarily hardy animals would survive in the world to come.
Garusovsky cast a glance over his shoulder. HazMat-suited soldiers climbed the hill below with Borodino.
Garusovsky nodded when Borodino approached. “We have accomplished our mission, General.”
“Show me.” He held out a gloved hand.
Borodino extended the research papers encased in the individual transparent bags that they’d gathered from the Primate Center.
Garusovsky took them and flipped through them. He had only a vague understanding of what the researchers had been discussing, but it would impress Cozeba. And he wished to do that. Garusovsky and Cozeba went way back. When Russia had finally decided it had to grow or die, it was Cozeba who’d been its archenemy, fighting Russia at every turn, cutting off its money supply, throwing Russia into a depression, starving the Russian people. Garusovsky disliked many people, but there was only one man he absolutely despised. Cozeba. That’s why, he was certain, Cozeba was now sitting on Malta. Malta had been one of their battlegrounds. Russia had needed the island as a military staging ground, especially for sensitive interrogations, and despite Cozeba’s best efforts, Russia had taken the island. Now Cozeba had taken it back. At this instant, he was probably smugly sitting in Garusovsky’s office with his feet propped on Garusovsky’s desk. Still, sometimes a man had to work with his enemy.
“General?” Borodino said, and gestured to the documents. “They understood the link. They had traced the virus back five million years.”
“They’re all dead, Lieutenant, which means that knowledge did them no good. That should be perfectly clear.”
Borodino expelled a breath. “Yes, General, but I still think there may be valuable information here that will help us.”
Garusovsky slowly straightened to his full height and clutched the report to his breast. He momentarily tugged his silver hood in frustration. “Is the American that we inoculated with the experimental vaccine still alive?”
“Yes.”
“If he dies, our only hope rests with Anna Asher?”
“I believe that is correct.”
As Garusovsky turned to Borodino, his protective suit reflected the sunlight like a shimmering leaden sea. “Where is she?”
“In a helicopter heading for the island of Malta.”
Garusovsky searched the dejected faces of his men. He suspected that continuing this futile search was a mistake. He had not given up hope, not by any means, but there were limits to what men could stand. So many disappointments sapped the will to survive, and he could see it in his men’s eyes.
“Very well. We will need more troops for Malta. Fortunately, Lieutenant, thanks to your vaccine, we still have troops.”
“So far, but it won’t last.”