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  I was intrigued. What could possibly be going on that involved necrotics, unless they were trying to pin down the virus’ source or point of origin? Obviously, there had already been deaths, otherwise I wouldn’t be involved. I had not traveled in years, and here was a chance to go to Africa. The destination itself didn’t explain why my colleagues had declined. These guys weren’t telling me the whole story. I wanted to know more. Despite my reservations, I found that my curiosity was getting the better of me. In my heart I knew I had decided to go, but I wasn’t ready to accept yet.

  “You said the mission was dangerous,” I reiterated.

  “Nothing greatly beyond your experience dealing with bio-hazards,” Mr. Carmine stated. “You will be provided with any necessary protective gear and the most advanced research equipment we have available,” he concluded.

  I thought quickly. “At the least, I would have to have access to an electron microscope, and those are not portable,” I explained.

  “Leave that to me,” Mr. Carmine said.

  “The kind of work you are describing can only be done in a lab,” I continued. “You cannot expect anyone to do that kind of research in a hostile environment.”

  “For your protection you will be assigned to an ingoing Army recon unit, and provided with an armed escort,” Gen. Jotter added.

  “I’m not going to be able to perform research if I’m “assigned” to anyone. I want autonomous authority to perform my own research,” I retorted.

  The general sighed audibly. Mr. Carmine spoke, “You will be considered a civilian scientist with your own agenda. Your research will be the primary objective of the mission. The military escort will be there to assist you and offer protection.”

  I considered this. It still wasn’t enough. “I want to be able to leave at any time. If I consider the situation too dangerous, I want to be able to call the whole thing off,” I finally declared.

  “I can’t authorize that,” Mr. Carmine countered.

  “Then I’m not going,” I stated bluntly.

  Gen. Davidson looked at me. He seemed to be assessing my determination.

  “I can authorize it,” he concluded. “You will have the authority to call for an air evacuation at any time.”

  The general and Mr. Carmine exchanged hard glances.

  “I want all of this in writing,” I demanded. “I also want government funding to be set aside for equipment to further my research at ProGen; say a million dollars.”

  “Agreed,” Mr. Carmine replied.

  The generals wished me luck and left me alone with Mr. Carmine.

  I realized that I should have asked for more. They had agreed too easily to all of my terms.

  Within a few minutes a government clerk brought in a contract for me to sign. I read through it quickly. Most of the document released the government from any liability, but the cover page contained my provisions.

  I figured it was too late to get any more concessions, so I signed.

  “Alright, “ I said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “You will receive a briefing on the plane to Africa,” Mr. Carmine declared.

  “You have got to be kidding,” I replied.

  “I don’t have the time or inclination to brief you Barry,” Mr. Carmine shot back. “I have important work to do. Now, if you would be so kind, you have a plane to catch.” He walked to the door and held it open for me.

  Mr. Carmine escorted me back through the hallways to the rear entrance.

  He was silent as we walked along, but as we reached the doorway he said, “Dr. Barry, this mission is vitally important to national security. Please treat it as such.”

  I walked through the doorway and out into the lot. The same limousine that had brought me to the Pentagon was still waiting for me. The driver opened the car’s door for me. Mr. Carmine turned and walked back inside without a word. I climbed inside and melted into the seat. As we pulled away, I wondered just exactly what I had gotten myself into.

  OPS ORD 13-3

  US ARMY CAPT. CHRISTOPHER , LEONARD, K. ANACOSTIA AIRFIELD

  ENCLOSED RECORDS OF PETER BARRY, NECROLOGIST, ASSIGNED TO YOUR RECON TEAM AS CIVILIAN RESEARCHER.

  BARRY TO BE FULLY BRIEFED ON HAET-MOMBAU VIRUS.

  BARRY HAS BEEN AUTHORIZED TO ORDER TEAM EXTRACTION.

  YOU ARE ORDERED TO COMPLETE MISSION OBJECTIVES AT ANY COST, AND HAVE AUTHORITY TO COUNTERMAND BARRYS EVACUATION ORDER.

  ASSEMBLE RECON TEAM CHARLIE AND EQUIPMENT FOR IMMEDIATE DEPLOYMENT TO CONGO REGION

  ORDERS END

  Chapter 2

  7:38 a.m. Eastern

  Anacostia Airfield

  Washington, D.C.

  The car took me to a nearby military airfield and pulled directly onto the tarmac.

  A pair of grim looking MPs escorted me to a hanger where a C-130 transport plane was being loaded. I was taken inside.

  An Army nurse gave me a series of shots. I stopped counting after eight; I was going to Africa after all. I didn’t think they were immunizing me against anything too exotic, just the normal shots everyone gets when they travel to Africa.

  I was then handed over to an Air Force specialist who put me into a parachute rig and guided me onto the plane and into a jump seat. He double-checked my harness and told me in no uncertain terms to stay put until the plane was in the air.

  Shortly afterwards, an Army captain boarded the plane and came back to talk with me. He introduced himself as Captain Christopher. The captain looked to be in his mid-forties, but he was still very fit and muscular. He struck me as professional and serious. We shook hands; he had a firm grip and seemed pleasant enough.

  “Dr. Barry, we need to come to an understanding immediately.” I could see he was direct. “You and I will both have the authority to call for an air evacuation that ends the mission at any time. The other members of the team need to believe that only I have this authority. I am the commanding officer. We may face a life and death situation where I must make split second decisions, and I need the men under my command to obey my orders without hesitation, without looking to you for a way out. There cannot be two commanders. You will defer to me on all matters military and of security. I will defer to your opinion on matters of a medical or scientific nature, and assist you to the best of my ability with your research. This arrangement is in your best interest. I am trying to provide for your safety. Do we have an understanding?” he asked.

  I considered this for a moment. “I agree,” I replied. What he had said made sense.

  As we spoke, the other four members of his group came aboard; three military men, and a woman, obviously a civilian like me. I assumed they were all specialists assigned to the mission.

  The captain pointed them out to me. The first man aboard was a short, broadly built younger man with sandy hair and a boyish face. He was dressed in a camouflage uniform and fairly bristled with weapons, including the biggest rifle I had ever seen. “The sawed-off bastard with the really big gun is Sergeant Dyson,” he explained. “Dyson is a highly decorated Marine sniper. He can kill a man three-quarters of a mile away with that fifty-caliber rifle he’s carrying.”

  Dyson saluted the captain by touching his finger to his cap and moved into the plane’s interior.

  The next man through the door was of monstrous size and had a brutish face and manner. Most of the flesh not covered by his uniform was cicatrized with scars and tattoos. I actually recoiled involuntarily as he moved towards us.

  Capt. Christopher laughed and said, “That’s Mr. Robinson. He’s a specialist in hand-to-hand combat. Don’t worry; he is one of your bodyguards.”

  Robinson shot me a look of disapproval as he moved past us. I could tell he considered me weak and useless, but he probably thought that about anyone he had to protect.

  Behind him was a darkly tanned man of medium build, with jet-black hair and somber, piercing eyes. He was wearing a worn brown uniform of some foreign army, and a grinning skull was emblazoned upon his left shoul
der.

  “And that is Mr. Blythe, your other bodyguard, and our guide.” The captain concluded.

  “Those two are my bodyguards?” I asked dubiously.

  “Yes,” the captain replied. “They are your security detail.”

  “Security? You mean mercenaries,” I stated.

  “Dr. Barry, to employ mercenaries is against United States law, these men are your security detachment,” the captain corrected.

  I was distracted from further inquiries by the entrance of the only woman in our group. The captain noticed my interest.

  “That’s Ms. Keyes, our communications and computer specialist. She’s a civilian contractor, but has been attached to my command,” he added.

  Keyes was by far one of the most attractive women I had ever seen. Her long blonde hair was tied up in a ponytail, and had been thrust through the back of a ball cap. She wore an olive green jump suit and knee-high engineer boots, laced up the front. I noticed she was carrying a very expensive looking thirty-five millimeter camera, and what I assumed was a compact camcorder. She looked out of place.

  The other men stopped to watch her climb aboard, but only Sgt. Dyson was foolish enough to question her presence.

  “Who’s the babe?” he shouted from the rear.

  “I’m the bitch who is going to castrate you in your sleep,” she shouted back. I figured a woman who worked in the field could probably handle herself.

  The crew chief warned everyone that the plane was prepping for take-off, and the captain went forward and strapped himself into a jump seat. I grabbed my seat and strapped in as the plane was rolled back and the engines started.

  I didn’t like flying, and I had never been inside a military transport plane. The seats were little more than webbing strung on an aluminum frame, rigged with safety belts. The inside of the airplane was just a huge hollow shell. It was noisy and cold, and we hadn’t even taken off yet, but soon enough we were airborne, and I knew there was no turning back.

  The plane flew for a short time before it leveled off and the crew chief came back to tell us it was safe to walk around.

  The captain moved to the center of the cargo area and addressed us. “Everyone listen up,” he ordered, pointing to me. “This is Dr. Barry. He is a specialist in cellular necrosis. In case you are unfamiliar with that term, it means dead tissue. It is the doctor’s mission to investigate the Haet-Mombou virus that has emerged in the Congo River basin. It is our job to get him in and out safely. The virus was first reported near the village of Gatou in the Central Democratic Republic of the Congo. We will parachute into the interior, a safe distance outside the zone of infection, and make our way to the village. The distance we must cover is approximately 120 miles. We will travel on foot and will receive no local assistance. Hopefully, once we are there, the doctor can identify the source of infection, and formulate a vaccine.”

  “On foot?” Robinson groaned.

  “Yes, on foot,” the captain replied. “The situation is complicated.”

  Before I could ask a question, Keyes queried. “What do we know about this Haet virus? The briefing we received was pretty sketchy.”

  “Haet-Mombou,” the captain corrected.

  “It’s called the Haet-Mombou virus,” I interrupted. “Viruses are often named for the area from which they originate.”

  “I don’t care what we call it, what do we know about it?” Keyes insisted.

  “Not much,” the captain replied. “We’re not sure when the virus first appeared, but we have been receiving reports of casualties for over three weeks now.”

  “Casualties?” I asked, “How many?”

  The captain paused before he answered. “We aren’t sure,” he finally said, “Thousands, maybe tens of thousands.”

  Everyone grew silent for a moment.

  “That’s impossible,” Keyes whispered.

  “Wait a second,” I retorted. “If thousands of people have died, why didn’t the government send in someone earlier? Why isn’t the UN involved, the World Health Organization?”

  “The WHO and the UN did send in doctors and survey teams. They died. Our government sent in an Army medical unit. It came under attack, so a full combat company was sent in to extricate them. They all caught the virus. They all died.” The captain paused to look around. “In the interest of national security this has all been kept quiet. You are not to discuss it with anyone outside this unit,” he concluded.

  Blythe spoke up. “You said they came under attack. Did the locals attack a medical team? That seems highly unlikely.”

  “Well,” the captain began, “that is the most dangerous thing about this virus. It seems that the victims who die suffer from a condition called ACS: Ambulatory Cadaver Syndrome. As hard as this is to believe, the corpses of those who die from the virus reanimate, and then attack uninfected victims.”

  “You’re telling me that the virus turns people into zombies?” Robinson laughed.

  “Not zombies,” the captain replied evenly. “Ambulatory cadavers.”

  “Look, Captain,” I chimed in. “I don’t know what we’re dealing with here, but what you’re suggesting is physiologically and medically impossible. I should know. I have examined literally thousands of dead tissue samples. It’s my specialty. I am a necrologist. Zombies are medically impossible.”

  “Dr. Barry, I am only relaying the reports I have from the field,” the captain explained. “Experienced Army doctors reported that victims of the disease died and later reanimated. These cadavers then attacked healthy people and spread the virus. Apparently this phenomenon is widespread within the infected zone.”

  “No disrespect intended, but they were wrong,” I implied.

  “Well, we can’t ask them,” the captain replied sarcastically. “They are all dead. Everything behind the zone of infection has gone dark. We have no communications with anyone within that area, period.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” Robinson growled. “We’re going into a hostile area where a regular United States Army unit was wiped out by a highly contagious virus that turns you into some kind of zombies. Aren’t we going to catch the shit too?”

  “No, we are not,” Capt. Christopher stated. He moved to the rear of the cargo area and rummaged through a container. He pulled a small black device out, and removed its protective plastic wrapper as he returned. “This is an AVR,” he began, “or anti-viral respirator.”

  I started to wonder if the Army came up with acronyms for all their equipment. The AVR was a compact black respirator that covered the nose and mouth. It had a small battery pack on the left side, but no filter that I could see.

  “The AVR is a prototype; we are the first unit to try it in the field. Instead of a traditional filter, the AVR ionizes the air that enters, making it safe to breathe. You should wear it any time that you are likely to come into contact with infected victims, or any corpses or cadavers. If it’s dead, it’s on your head. The AVR makes the air taste slightly metallic, but it’s safe,” the captain concluded.

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small dispenser. “We will also utilize this disinfecting foam immediately after any contact with all materials that may be infectious. Our best defense against the virus is just common sense and military discipline. Dr. Barry, do you have anything to add?” he asked.

  “Yes, actually,” I replied. I stood up to address the others. “Viruses can be extremely dangerous, and are highly contagious. I’m sure you have all had the flu. The flu virus is transmissible through aerosol dispersal. If someone coughs, or sneezes, their expectorant carries the virus. You inhale it, and you catch it. If the virus has killed as many people as the reports indicate, then it would have to be transmissible by aerosol. The anti-viral respirator should protect you from this. Viruses are also transmittable through fluidic contact: saliva, blood, bodily fluids and waste. Any open cut or wound is a possible source of infection, so we need to treat any wound, no matter how minor, immediately. I don’t think we have
anything to worry about that way, as long as you avoid contact with the sick and the recently dead. And I seriously doubt that the dead are going to bother us, despite reports to the contrary.”

  I looked at the captain. “Capt. Christopher, was an electron microscope requisitioned as I requested?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “You have been provided with a full medical field pack, and it contains an electron microscope. It’s stowed in the cargo containers.”

  “What firearm will we be issued sir?” Blythe asked.

  “Each of us will carry a KGP-9 sub-machinegun, and a nine-millimeter Beretta pistol. The civilians will carry the Beretta only. Keyes, you’re proficient with the pistol, correct?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” she affirmed. “I am.”

  “Dr. Barry, can you shoot?” the captain inquired.

  “Not really,” I answered.

  “Regardless, you will carry a pistol at all times,” the captain concluded. “I’m pretty sure you will get the opportunity to practice with it.”

  “Does anyone else have anything?” the captain queried.

  “I’m pretty sure I have crabs sir,” Dyson laughed. “Do you have anything for that, Doc?” he asked me.

  The mercenaries laughed. I wasn’t sure if they were laughing at me or with me.

  “Stow that shit, Sergeant,” the captain ordered. “We have a nice twenty-hour flight ahead of us, so I suggest you all get some sleep while you can. It may be the last time you get any rest for a while.”

  Blythe and Robinson strapped themselves into their seats and promptly fell asleep. Keyes stretched out and was reading a romance novel when I looked back, probably to keep her mind off what lay ahead of us.

  Sgt. Dyson spread a faded green cloth out on the deck of the cargo bay and sat down with his gun. He began field stripping the huge rifle, cleaning it, and putting it back together, over and over again. As he worked he started to sing a series of songs about women with funny names and loose morals, and to list off the various STDs he had picked up in exotic locales. Apparently it didn’t bother him that no one was listening.