The pathologist stepped aside and pointed to a pile of fly-crusted dung in the middle of the path. “Forest elephant. And fresh.”
Frank winced. The Gabonese rain forest was home to herds of the lumbering giants. He had been schooled about their territoriality. Not that he could blame the beasts for their temperament, especially with the number of poachers out here. Over the past decade, eighty percent of Gabon’s elephants had been killed for their ivory.
“Best move quietly from here,” Remy cautioned and stepped past the large dung pile. The man rested a palm on a holstered sidearm, a necessary precaution in the jungle—and not just against animals. While the small pistol held out no hope of stopping a bull elephant’s charge, the loud blasts might chase it away.
At least, we better pray so.
As they headed off again, Frank held his breath for long stretches, his ears piqued for any sudden trumpeting or trampling of the ground. As they continued, the forest grew ever darker, steeping the world in shadows.
Then they both heard it, coming from ahead.
A cracking of branches, the slap of leaves.
Frank froze on the path.
Remy thumbed loose the safety strap on his holster and half-pulled his weapon. He widened his stance. He whispered breathlessly, “Take off into the brush at the first sign of aggression.”
Frank swallowed and nodded.
The noises grew louder—then from around a bend in the narrow track, a beast appeared. But it wasn’t a forest elephant. Instead, a large dog stalked into view, half-hidden under the bower’s shadow. It kept its head low, ears high. A low growl flowed from it.
A moment later, a pair of armed men strode up behind the dog. They wore jungle camo and carried long rifles.
Frank’s first thought was poachers. But as they drew closer, he recognized the red caps and uniforms of the Gabonese Armed Forces. The pair led another figure, a tanned man with shaggy blond hair. He wore civilian clothes: a pair of scuffed boots, khaki combat trousers, and an airy, long-sleeved shirt, all topped by a ball cap.
The man pushed past the soldiers and crossed toward Frank and Remy. He held out an arm. “Dr. Whitaker, I presume.”
Frank scowled at the poor joke. It was a clear attempt to imitate the famous line from the Congo explorer Henry Morton Stanley: Dr. Livingstone, I presume.
Frank stepped around Remy to confront the American, a man he knew well, from when Frank had served as an army veterinarian. He gripped the man’s calloused hand, needing its firmness to reassure him that this sudden reunion in the middle of the Gabonese rain forest was real.
“Tucker, what’re you doing here?” Frank glanced to the large dog, who sidled up alongside the man, revealing a black-and-tan ruff and tall ears. “And Kane, I see. The last time I set eyes on you two was over in Baghdad, just before you left the service.”
Captain Tucker Wayne was a decorated soldier, a military war dog handler with the Army Rangers. His partner, Kane, had also earned more medals than most warriors.
Tucker shrugged. “I’m here to perform an extraction, always a specialty of ours.” He patted Kane’s side. “It seems someone’s been frantically trying to get hold of you. When that failed, word reached your bosses at the Smithsonian. Apparently, you’re a hard man to find.”
“I’ve been underground most of the day,” Frank explained. “But I don’t understand, how did you get involved?”
“I know a group affiliated with the Smithsonian. Due to the urgency, they reached out to me.” From Tucker’s sour expression, he was not thrilled at being enlisted for this assignment. “I was already here on the continent, checking on an investment in South Africa. My business partners and I were scouting a location in northern Namibia when the call came in. And when I heard who they needed me to collect . . . well, I owed you a favor after all your help with Kane during the war.”
“Still, why me? What am I needed for?”
“A U.N. relief camp in the DRC is experiencing an outbreak of some sort. Apparently, it’s growing into a desperate situation. The request for your help came from a pediatrician working out there, someone who knows you. A man named Jameson.”
It took Frank an extra moment to place the name, then he remembered the doctor he had met in Kinshasa, the capital of the DRC, a month ago. “Are you talking about Cort? Cort Jameson?”
Tucker nodded.
Frank frowned. The pediatrician had talked him into giving a speech on zoonotic diseases to a group from Doctors Without Borders. Frank had also spent the evening showing the man his operations and sampling techniques.
“Jameson called in a panicked request,” Tucker explained. “Asking for you to haul your viral lab over there to evaluate the outbreak. That initial call came in eight hours ago. Then, when I landed here, I got word of a second call. It was garbled, with gunfire in the background and screams.”
Frank cringed. He pictured the camp being attacked by bandits or raided by one of the warring militia out in the region.
Tucker continued, “The call cut off abruptly. Further attempts to make contact failed. The Congolese military are already being dispatched, but the U.N. has requested that you heed your colleague’s appeal and help evaluate what is happening out there.”
“Of course,” Frank said. “I should be able to get my lab packed up within the hour.”
“Good. I have a Cessna fueled and ready. We can get you to Kisangani and then by helicopter to the camp. Weather permitting, you should arrive by midnight local time.”
Frank waved Tucker to lead the way, but the man stopped him with a raised arm.
“What?” Frank asked, noting the hard glint to the ranger’s blue-green eyes.
“That second call. Very little could be made out. Except for your friend’s final words.
“What were they?”
Tucker stared hard at him. “‘Stay away. Dear god, don’t come out here.’”
3
April 23, 10:44 P.M. CAT
Tshopo Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
Charlotte gazed out the plastic window of the medical tent. Rain pattered across the ruins of the camp. Black puddles and pools reflected the few larger fires that had been abandoned and left burning.
Hordes of ants still streamed and clawed through the mud, covering nearly everything. A few winged ones—male drones—spun through the raindrops. Across the dark camp, mounds marked bodies, both those who had succumbed to the horde and a few others who had been shot.
Across the way, flashlights bobbled near a stack of supply crates as Jameson and the Swiss nurse, Byrne, worked with a trio of locals who carried rifles over their shoulders. They were loading gear into a pickup bed. The five men wore hooded white biohazard suits, along with goggles and masks. The cheap disposable suits offered the lowest level of protection, barely adequate against anything contagious. But they kept the worst of the muddy ants from finding any flesh.
Jameson called out a few final instructions to his team, readying for their group’s evacuation. Only a few others still remained in the camp. Tents lay toppled, crates were strewn all about.
At least the chaos and fighting has stopped.