The Ares Decision (24 page)

T
HE SUN HAD ESCAPED
the horizon and was now pounding down on the chaotic morning traffic outside of Entebbe. Mehrak Omidi swerved to prevent someone in a seventies-era pickup from passing him on the shoulder but then mentally reprimanded himself. Now wasn’t the time to let his frustration get the better of him.

A quick glance through the broken back window confirmed that the situation was still under control. Van Keuren and De Vries were bound and gagged in the truck’s canvas-covered bed, and Dahab was at the back flap watching for anyone following. Much of the power and grace the Sudanese had demonstrated in Bahame’s camp was gone, though. He was struggling to keep his balance in the swaying truck, and his immaculate robe was damp with sweat.

It was to be expected. Soon his usefulness as a host for the parasite would be over and he would have to die—a fate known to him since the beginning. He would be delivered into the hands of God a martyr.

“I see them!” Dahab shouted suddenly.

“What are you talking about?” Omidi responded, looking into one of the side-view mirrors at the traffic behind them.

The African’s English was limited and he jabbed a finger at the now closed canvas flap. “I see the white men!”

Omidi kept his eyes on the mirror but put a hand on the pistol next to him. There had been no outward signs of confusion. Had he simply not noticed their onset? Was the Sudanese becoming delusional?

Then he saw it: an open army jeep ten cars back swerving dangerously into oncoming traffic in an attempt to pass. Omidi wiped the dust from the mirror and concentrated on the image of the two men. It was impossible to make out individual features, but he felt a dull jolt of adrenaline when he cataloged their general builds, clothing, and hair color. It couldn’t be, but it was. Jon Smith and Peter Howell.

They tried to pass again, this time on the left, and were forced to veer back into the line of traffic by a gap in the shoulder that fell away into a ditch.

Omidi took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to quell the panic building inside him. He couldn’t fail now. Not when he was this close.

Ahead, he could see a plane rising into the air and arcing out over Lake Victoria. Entebbe was no more than twenty kilometers away, but his ultimate destination—a private airstrip where a jet was waiting for him—was well beyond that. Eventually, the men chasing him would leapfrog the cars in front of them—a maneuver he wouldn’t be able to match in the lumbering truck.

Omidi took his hand off the pistol and picked up a phone, dialing Charles Sembutu’s personal number. It was picked up almost immediately.

“Mr. President. I’m on the Entebbe road nearing Kisubi. Smith and Howell are behind me. I—”

“How is this my problem, Mehrak?”

Omidi tried to keep his voice calm and respectful. “I need you to intervene. They are driving dangerously in an open jeep. Have your police pull them over. Fifteen minutes is all I need.”

“I arrested and questioned Smith and Howell for you. But that wasn’t enough. I delivered them into your hands in the north country. But still this wasn’t enough. The fact that you failed to deal with them is—”

“And
I
delivered Bahame and his people, which allowed you to put an end to an insurgency that would have destroyed you.”

“Then we have both honorably lived up to our agreements. I wish you good fortune.”

The phone went dead, and Omidi slammed it down on the seat. Coward.

A quick check of his mirror confirmed that the ailing jeep still hadn’t managed to pass and now there was steam rolling from under the hood. They were still moving, though, and the military truck would be easy to track.

“Dahab!”

The African lurched through the back of the truck and came to the window.

“There’s been a change of plans,” Omidi said, enunciating carefully so the African would understand. “Do it now.”

Dahab grabbed De Vries and rolled him onto his stomach, ignoring his muffled screams as he carved a deep gash in his back. Van Keuren tried to kick out as the African put a similar cut in his own thumb and then ground it into the aging physician’s wound.

It didn’t take De Vries long to comprehend what had happened—that there was nothing left to fight against. His body convulsed gently as he began to sob through his gag.

Satisfied, Omidi turned his full attention back to the road. “Dahab, you’re getting out at the Entebbe airport. Do you understand?”

“I understand. What are my instructions?”

S
TOP HERE,” SMITH SAID,
standing so that he could see over the steam coming from the jeep’s radiator. The truck Omidi was driving had turned off for the airport, but then they’d lost sight of him while they were stuck crawling along the congested road.

“Is he up there?” Howell said as he let the vehicle coast to a halt close enough to see the terminal and parking area but not so close as to draw the attention of security. Two beat-up white men driving around in an old army jeep coated in dried blood was bound to generate unwanted attention.

“No,” Smith said, falling back into his seat.

“Then what’s the plan, boss?”

He thought about it for a few moments, but no brilliant ideas presented themselves. Just desperate ones.

“We go into the airport,” he said, using water from their last bottle to try to clean the dirt, soot, and blood from his face and hands.

“You think Omidi’s going to try to get Sarie on a commercial flight?”

Smith passed the bottle. “No, but they may handle private planes here. And even if they don’t, you should be able to find someone who’s familiar with the private airstrips in the area.”

“And what will you be doing while I’m playing detective?”

“Making a phone call.”

Howell frowned at the cryptic answer. “Might I suggest the cavalry?”

They strolled into the airport wearing matching T-shirts silk-screened with the Ugandan flag—the only thing the souvenir vender outside stocked in their size. Smith immediately split off toward a bank of pay phones, smiling casually and smoothing his wet hair as he passed a mildly curious, but extremely well-armed guard. When he reached the phones, he immediately picked one up and pressed it to his ear. No dial tone. Same with the second one he tried. And the third.

“They don’t work.”

The woman was wearing a neatly pressed airport uniform and spoke with a light African accent. “I’m sorry. We had a fire recently and they haven’t been fixed. Apparently, it’s not a priority because so many people carry their own phones now.”

He managed a polite smile. “I really need to contact my family. Are there any phones that do work?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Do you have a phone I could use? I’d be happy to pay you.”

“I do, but it isn’t capable of making international calls. I think your only option would be to buy a cell phone and—”

“Buy a phone,” he interjected. “There’s somewhere I can do that here?”

“Of course. Just follow this corridor to the end and turn left. You can’t miss it.”

The store was right where she said it was, but there was only one person working and five customers in line. Based on the impatient tone of the man in front of the counter and the bored expression of the woman behind it, progress could be stalled for hours.

“Jon?”

He spun and saw Howell at the entrance to the shop, waving him over. They retreated to the terminal’s far wall, out of earshot of the people flowing back and forth.

“We’ve got a problem, mate.”

“What? Are there other airstrips?”

“No. But I found that tall bloke from the cave.”

“The one who infected himself ?”

Howell nodded.

“Where?”

“Going through security. He’s getting on a direct flight to Brussels and he doesn’t look like he’s feeling all that well.”

Smith blinked hard, calculating how long the man had been infected and adding the time it would take to fly to Belgium.

“Even using De Vries’s most optimistic estimate, he’s going to go fully symptomatic on that plane,” Smith said. “When he starts attacking the other passengers, they’ll most likely think he’s a terrorist. There’s no telling how many people he’ll infect before they get control of him.”

“Boarding has already started,” Howell prompted. “We don’t have much time. Can you get in touch with someone who can bring that plane down somewhere safe?”

“He’s a decoy, Peter. Omidi infected someone else and left Dahab here as a diversion.”

“No question. But you have to admit, it’s one hell of a
good
diversion.”

He was right. Omidi could be anywhere—waiting for his jet to arrive in a private lounge a hundred yards away, on his way to a remote airstrip in a hired helicopter, or heading for the border in an unmarked car full of Iranian security personnel. Their chances of finding him at this point were hovering around zero.

Smith looked at the man still arguing about his phone and the mild interest they were getting from yet another machine-gun-toting guard. Trying to cut in line would be pointless—it wouldn’t get him the phone any faster and would certainly bring airport security down on them. Explaining to the guard that the Sudanese had to be prevented from getting on that flight would likely accomplish nothing but involving an ever-increasing number of supervisors and setting into motion the glacial African bureaucracy.

“Boss?” Howell prompted.

“I’m entertaining suggestions.”

“If we can get into the boarding area fast enough, we may be able to find a way to take him.”

Smith shook his head. “Too much possibility of blood getting thrown around. We’d be killed or arrested, and someone infected could get on that plane or out into Kampala. Are there seats left on the flight?”

“Probably, but I seem to have misplaced my travel documents.”

Smith pulled his, Howell’s, and Sarie’s passports from his pocket. “They were still in the glove box. The one thing a child soldier living in the jungle would have no use for.”

“So we’re going to let him get on a plane to Europe?”

“You see a plane; I see an airtight quarantine with a good international communication system and only a couple hundred people at risk.”

Howell shrugged, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “It’s your party. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Me too,” Smith said, starting for the Brussels Airlines counter.

P
ADSHAH GOHLAM LOOKED DOWN
at his watch, but the hands had ceased glowing. The movement of the stars suggested that it was past two a.m. and the aches beginning in his young body supported that estimate.

His training for this mission had begun almost the day he was born in a remote part of central Afghanistan. The mountains of the Hindu Kush were more barren but had the same penetrating cold, the same overwhelming solitude. His father, a great and pious man, had taught him to move silently and invisibly through the desolation, avoiding the Americans’ technology and ambushing their special forces as they tried to claim his country for Christendom.

When his father died, the Americans, who still believed the fiction that he was a supporter of the infidel invasion, had given the young Padshah a visa to study in Maryland. And he had suffered through it—the arrogant professors, the women sitting unashamed next to him in his classes, the curriculum devoid of God. In truth, though, he’d only been waiting to be called upon. Waiting for this night.

He reached up and gently folded back a branch of the tree he was sitting in, examining the tiny farmhouse a hundred meters away. Much of it was obscured by foliage, but there was a natural hole that revealed the driveway and part of the icy path to the front door. Once again, God had provided.

The snow started again, and he had to admit to himself that the Western hunting clothing he’d purchased was far superior to what he grew up with. So many of his enemies were still alive because of a slight cold-induced tremor in his hands. But not tonight.

He saw headlights for the first time in hours and lifted his rifle, sighting through the scope at the vehicle turning into the driveway. The door was thrown open and a shock of blond hair gleamed in the dome light as the woman pulled herself unsteadily from the car.

Probably drunk, he thought. Without the supervision of a father or husband, who knew what she might have been doing? This was what the Americans wanted to do to his people—strip them of their identity and turn their daughters into whores. How could a country that was unable to control its women ever hope to control Afghanistan?

She moved awkwardly along the slick ground, turning up the collar of her long coat as she picked her way toward the door. This was the great Randi Russell? The woman who had killed so many of his Taliban brothers? It was almost impossible to believe the stories now that he saw her in person.

She was initially in profile, and he waited until she turned toward the door, unwittingly squaring her back in his crosshairs. Gohlam took a breath and held it, quelling his excitement and concentrating on not subconsciously anticipating the rifle’s recoil.

The crack of it seemed impossibly loud amid the falling snow, echoing through the forest for a moment before fading into the ringing in his ears. Russell pitched forward, bouncing off the door before collapsing into the snow piled at the edge of the walkway.

Gohlam chambered another round before sweeping the scope across her blood-spattered back, finally letting the crosshairs stop on the back of her head. A silent prayer for the men who had fallen to her was on his lips as his finger began to tense again on the trigger.

The sound of the shot was all wrong, and instead of the satisfying impact of the butt against his shoulder, he felt the hot sting of wood shards penetrating his cheek.

It took him only a moment to understand what was happening, and he threw himself to the right, narrowly avoiding a second bullet that exploded against the tree trunk he’d been leaning against. Branches buffeted him as he fell, slowing his descent enough that when he hit the ground, he was able to immediately roll to his feet and start running. Another shot sounded and he waited for it to carry him to God, but instead it hissed harmlessly past.

Randi Russell tried to move, instinct telling her to get to cover when virtually every other system had shut down. She could hear shouting and gunshots but couldn’t feel her arms or legs. The flair of pain in her back had disappeared into numbness, and she found it impossible to discern whether or not she was breathing. The snow next to her had turned red and she tried to grasp what that meant.

“Randi!”

A sense of weightlessness came over her as she was dragged away from the house.

“Hold on, Randi!”

But she couldn’t. Not this time. She closed her eyes and the sense of weightlessness grew. They’d planned this so carefully. How the hell had she ended up being the one lying facedown in the snow?

Eric Ivers had Randi’s collar in one hand and his gun in the other, firing it in the general direction of the woods as the man he’d set up on the roof took much more careful shots.

“Almost there, Randi! Hold on!” he said, leaving a crimson trail as he dragged her behind her car. His partner sprinted across the street and disappeared into the woods as the voice of his sniper came over the radio. “I no longer have line of sight. The shooter is uninjured.”

Ivers swore under his breath as he eased Randi onto the driveway, unsure what else to do. He was a combat specialist, not a medic. In the end, he just rolled her onto her stomach so that if she vomited her passageway would remain clear, and then set off after his partner.

“Karen, do you have anything?” he said into his throat mike.

“Easy tracking because of the fresh snow. But I could use some backup.”

“On my way.”

Ivers entered the trees twenty-five yards south of where she had and ran hard, risking the use of open ground to make time.

He saw a muzzle flash ahead and adjusted his trajectory to take him into the darkness just behind it.

“I got him!” he heard Karen say over the radio. “The shooter is down. I repeat, the shooter is down.”

Ivers came in from the side, spotting her creeping toward a man lying across an icy log. He was on his back, struggling to sit up while she screamed at him to stay down.

The man released the rifle he no longer had the strength to wield and rolled far enough left that Karen wouldn’t be able to see his hands. From the opposite angle, though, Ivers saw him pull a metallic tube from the pocket of his camouflage parka.

“Bomb!” Ivers shouted. “Karen, get dow—”

He covered his eyes to protect them from the flash, dropping into the snow as a hot gale washed over him.

When he looked up, his partner was on the ground, clearly injured but not so badly that she couldn’t give him a shaky thumbs-up. Satisfied that she was all right, Ivers switched his radio to a separate encrypted channel.

“Mr. Klein. Are you there?”

“I’m here. Go ahead.”

“Randi’s down—she took a bullet dead between the shoulder blades. The shooter was booby-trapped and there’s not much left of him.”

“How did he get close enough to the cabin to take a shot?”

“I don’t know, sir. But I take full responsibility. The rest of the team was flawless.”

“This isn’t the time to start allocating blame, Eric. Is your situation stable?”

“We’ve got the start of a forest fire up here, Mr. Klein. I’m not sure the snow’s going to stop it.”

“Understood. An extraction helicopter is four minutes out. Burn the cabin and Randi’s car, then get out. The better we can obscure what happened there, the more time it buys us.”