Plains Of Fire. Don Pendleton
Cruz smiled. “Yes, he is a terrifying opponent. Don’t forget, you’re allied with Thor and me.”
“And the two of you actually possess the powers of gods?” Sharpova asked.
“Yes, we do,” Cruz answered. He spread his hands, his fingertips tracing a globe in the air. “The two of us can halve the population of an entire continent at a whim. A continent full of teeming resources that would be lost or destroyed by any other means. Diamonds, oil, precious metals and nuclear materials litter Africa. Such a prize is beyond anyone’s dreams.”
Sharpova swallowed.
“You look very tense for a man who can tame the wild renegades of the Commonwealth of Independent States and open up a whole new frontier of limitless resources,” Cruz noted.
Sharpova took another sip, shifting to get comfortable in his body armor. “But the devil is stalking us like a hungry lion.”
“My brother knows how to deal with lions, and is himself a devil, my friend,” Cruz said.
Sharpova grimaced. “I have some men on hand. Highly trained commandos. A small army at your beckoning if you need them.”
Cruz nodded, acknowledging the Russian’s generosity. “And I have my own highly trained security force. Throw in Thor’s militia and the allies coming to him as we speak, and we can sweep away any minor irritant.”
“Do not see this devil as one man, Alonzo. He is a force of nature, and he is simply not to be underestimated. We have done that in the past, and suffered greatly for it,” Sharpova warned.
Cruz sighed. “I’m not stupid, Igor.”
Sharpova looked around nervously. “Others have said that. They aren’t around anymore. Keep that in mind.”
The Russian excused himself and left.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
HAL BROGNOLA LOOKED at the data the Executioner and his two Phoenix Force allies had gathered over the course of their operations in Alexandria. The men were sitting in front of their laptop in a video conference, grim-faced as they were displayed, twice normal size, on the video monitor wall. Brognola could tell why the trio was unhappy. The implications of their discovery left the big Fed’s gut knotted as he saw the potential for tragedy. Mixing black-market military weaponry, a murderous plague and the ethnically charged slaughter occurring in the Darfur region meant a death toll that could easily top six figures in the space of a few days. The presence of Bitturumba’s Thunder Lion militia was a disturbing note.
“Weaponized Ebola in the hands of a violent, radical Islamic group,” Brognola said out loud, looking at Barbara Price, the Stony Man mission controller. She’d been infected with an artificially manufactured version of Ebola and would have died had not a treatment been developed by the CDC’s researchers thanks to intel gathered by Kurtzman and his cyberteam.
Price cleared her throat, remembering her near brush with death. “We need to see if this current variant is vulnerable to the same treatments that helped me out. Regular Ebola Zaire has proved resistant to any vaccines or countermeasures developed off the designer variant utilized on me. This version might be based off the same DNA blueprint, or even have been recovered from a stockpile used by the Imam.”
“I knew something wasn’t kosher when the Russians loaded up an arms shipment for Alexandria,” Bolan said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have called in Cal and Rafe. This situation is about as bad as it gets. If the Thunder Lions succeed at their goals in the Sudan, we can see a lot more of viral outbreaks like the one at the refugee camp.”
“We’d be talking global nightmares,” Price agreed. “The only saving graces are that you have almost a one-in-two chance of surviving infection, and once the virus has been dispersed and settles, it goes inert and is no longer infectious. It’s only contagious in human respiration, and it either kills or fades out after twenty-four hours. Those who aren’t killed aren’t infectious, but they look like they’ve been run over by a truck.”
“It’s no longer infectious, or just dormant?” Bolan asked. “Who knows how long this brand of virus can remain valid in soil or groundwater.”
“So far, the WHO hasn’t found any residual virus in soil samples. The microbe breaks down quickly. So far, we don’t have a viable, living virus to test anything against,” Price noted.
“We’ll head in,” Bolan announced. “Our USAMRIID backgrounds are already with the World Health Organization, right? Cal can lend us credibility as a medical emergency investigation team.”
Brognola bristled. “You’ll be right at ground zero for an epidemic.”
“Trouble is, Hal, we have what looks like an artificially manufactured virus out in the Sudan. If it’s manufactured, then that means there is a strong possibility that there will be a form of treatment or a vaccine to grant immunity. Even if there isn’t, we can intercept the means of dispersal and destroy them before they claim any more victims,” Bolan countered. “We’ve encountered designer diseases enough times in the past, and the scientists who bred them leave a back door to treatment, if only for their own personal safety. The fabricators of these diseases aren’t suicidal, no matter who they give this particular loaded gun to.”
“Some things are just plain incurable,” Brognola mentioned. “Remember the incident in Utah?”
“I do,” Bolan answered. “But what should we do in that case? I’m not going to hide my head in the sand and hope the disease goes away. I’m going in, and if I can’t help locate a cure, then I’ll at least bring down every member of Bitturumba’s murderous militia. However, I am going to make sure that I can slam the lid on this box before any more demons escape. It’s a few countries over, and Darfur has been on my to-do list for too damn long.”
“Good luck, Striker,” Brognola said. “The WHO has your package and they’re vetting you. Bear’s set it up, as always. You’ll be bought hook, line and sinker unless you start acting like the professional ass-kicker you are.”
“I hope we’re not there long enough for them to look at us that closely,” Bolan replied. “But once we get there, I have a feeling that we’ll have the time to attract more attention than the Thunder Lions and their disease.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Darfur, Sudan
Elee Aslin wasn’t keen on leaving Tanya Marshall’s side, not when she was pushing herself to the edge of a breakdown as she sought a solution to the origin of the latest viral outbreak. Unfortunately, Aslin’s job description was transport pilot, not Marshall’s personal morale coach. She had a job to do, and she did it, picking up the three American USAMRIID operatives. The trio was being sent by the Army’s Medical Institute of Infectious Diseases to assist in the current crisis, as their focus was the use of diseases as biological weapons. As she leaned against her helicopter, an old workhorse UH-1 Huey, she spotted them. The highest-ranking officer in the group wasn’t a doctor. The only doctor in the group was Calvin Farrow, and he was accompanied by two vaguely described assistants. Aslin kept her suspicions silent, but she was aware that this could just be a cover for a covert operation to investigate the source behind the bioweapon releases in Darfur. She remembered her compatriots from the Nairobi branch of the WHO talking about the apocalyptic assault on their headquarters.
A three-man team of commandos had come in and prevented the theft of multiple contagion samples, which would have begun a worldwide pandemic. The trio had come to the rescue with a U.S. Ranger contingent, supposedly, but one of the rescued staff members felt that the trio had been much more than mere Army personnel. However, the three men who approached the helicopter didn’t match the descriptions. All of those men had been white, of average height, and one had a marked British accent.
Calvin Farrow was an African-American, tall and lanky. The men with him were another tall, powerfully built man with jet-black hair and cold blue eyes and a stocky, handsome Hispanic man with