The Mission

CHAPTER 14

“This is our main training area,” Osebold told Duncan.

The dominating feature of the large hangar was a three-story-high water tank, almost a hundred meters in diameter. The exterior of the tank was painted a flat gray. Several ramps went up the side of the tank. There were also tracks suspended from the ceiling over the top of the tank, several having various devices hanging down from them.

There were several men gathered around the top edge of the tank, looking down at something inside. They wore shorts and black T-shirts with the trident, eagle, flintlock pistol, and anchor symbol of the Navy SEALs on the front. Each of the men looked as if he spent his entire day split between the gym and the beach — bronzed, well-muscled warriors. Captain Osebold led Duncan over to the side of the tank where his crew was.

“Aren’t you cutting it tight for launch?” Duncan asked.

As if on cue, the speaker blared once more. “Perform IMU preflight calibration.”

“We’ll make it,” Osebold said.

“How did the SEALs get tagged for this?” Duncan asked.

“Because we’re used to operating in a nonbreathing environment. Plus we have some degree of familiarity with a sort of zero-g operational area.”

Duncan knew about the SEALs. The acronym stood for sea, air, land — which pretty much had covered the three environments the naval commandos had been asked to work in up to now. Duncan wondered where they would add the “space” to their name.

SEALs were the most physically fit of all the special operations forces, taking great pride in their conditioning. They were adept at operating underwater with a variety of equipment, and it did make sense for them to be picked for a combat space force.

The SEALs had grown out of the Navy frogmen in World War II, called UDTs — underwater demolition teams — at the same time Turcotte’s Special Forces had grown out of the OSS, Office of Strategic Services. The SEALs had always been less of a sneaky-Pete type organization, more oriented toward combat. Along with Special Forces, the SEALs had been the most decorated force in Vietnam. The thing Turcotte had impressed Duncan with was that the SEALs had never in their entire history left behind one of their own — be he dead or wounded. No Navy SEAL had ever been taken prisoner.

But Duncan had to wonder why the military had been brought in on this operation. The military had run Area 51 and Dulce. Duncan returned her attention to this new unit. A rack was behind the team, holding five roughly human-shaped suits.

Osebold saw Duncan’s glance. “Those are our TASC-suits. We use them instead of NASA’s space suits.”

Duncan looked more closely at the suits. They were long, almost seven feet from the top of the helmet to the legs. The exterior seemed to be made of a hard black material with articulated joints. The helmet had no visor, just a camera and several lights and sensors on top and in the front.

The arms ended in a flat black plate instead of a glove. The same with the legs — no feet, just the plate. Before Duncan had the chance to ask, Captain Osebold was pulling her to the side.

“What is that?” Duncan demanded.

A large gray tank, like a coffin, was raised off the floor. The lid was open. It reminded Duncan very much of what they had rescued Johnny Simmons from in Majestic’s secret biolab in Dulce.

“That’s how we get fitted for the TASC-suit,” Osebold said. “A person gets in, we pump it full, and it basically makes a body cast. Much like a dentist makes a mold of your teeth — except we need the entire body.”

Duncan stared at it. “Can I ask why the military is involved in this?”

Osebold smiled, revealing even teeth. “Ma’am, I just do what I’m told to. Space Command put together my team a couple of years ago and we’ve been preparing for a combat mission in space ever since.”

“Do you anticipate combat?” Duncan was confused.

“No, ma’am. Just a recovery mission. But—” Osebold shrugged. “You never know.”

“Welcome to the bitch.” Lieutenant Terrel walked up, interrupting her train of thought. He pointed at the suits. “Getting in one of those isn’t much better than the mold tank.”

“Why does—” Duncan began, but Ms. Kopina, the mission specialist, slapped her palm on the tank.

“The TASC-suit is an exoskeleton.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the rack. “See how much thicker each one is than the human that goes inside? Once inside, a person has about four inches all around. That includes protective armor, power system, environmental system, and external suit nervous system. On top of that, a computer system gets carried on your back, but we’ll get to that in a little bit.”

Kopina walked over to the rack and stood next to one of them. “This suit has taken fifteen years of development. We put as much work into this at Space Command as the Air Force put into the Stealth bomber. This suit represents four billion dollars of research and experimentation.”

“I’m surprised I haven’t heard of this program.” “It was highly classified,” Osebold said, as if that explained everything quite satisfactorily.

It was dark inside the Cube conference room, only a single light in the corner giving any relief. Larry Kincaid had his feet up on the conference table, leaning far back in a seat, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was staring at his computer screen.

“No smoking,” Major Quinn said with no emphasis on the words. He sat down across from Kincaid, several file folders under his arm.

Kincaid took another puff. “What ya got?”

“The bodies from the vats at Scorpion Base have been flown in. They’re not the same as what we got here with the two STAAR bodies.”

“What’s different?”

“These don’t have any of the Airlia genes. Just plain human clones.”

“So they were growing their own people down there?” Kincaid wasn’t surprised by much anymore.

“Looks like it.”

“And what exactly are these STAAR people?”

“Autopsy’s done on the ones we had here. Or as done as the UNAOC people can do.”

“And?”

“And those two STAAR people aren’t people, but they aren’t aliens either. Some kind of DNA combination. Mostly human”—Quinn thumbed through the papers—“eightysix percent human. Other than eyes, there’s some discrepancy in the skin pigment, the hair. That’s the obvious stuff. The not-so-obvious stuff is that the brain is a little different.”

“Different how?” Kincaid asked.

“The frontal lobe is a little bigger, and they have more connections between the two hemispheres.”

“Does that make them smarter?” Kincaid wanted to know.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Quinn smiled. “Hell, we’re doing the autopsy on them, remember, not the other way around.”

“Yeah, well, Turcotte and those USAMRIID guys are doing autopsies on some human bodies down in South America.”

“Another strange thing.”

“Yes?”

“Their genitalia are underformed. The UNAOC people think they must reproduce mechanically. Perhaps using the cloning vats.”

“They can’t have sex?” Kincaid asked.

“Doesn’t look like it was important to them.” Quinn pointed at the cigarette. “Got a spare?”

Kincaid pulled a pack out of his shirt pocket and extended it. There was only one cigarette in it.

“Damn.” Kincaid shook his head. “The stuff keeps getting deeper and deeper.” “What about South America?” Quinn asked as he fired up.

“They’ve forwarded what they’ve found to USAMRIID. Hope to get some sort of readout shortly on what the bug is. Imagery shows it’s spreading. Two more villages wiped out. Closing in on two thousand dead. Anything on Temiltepec?”

“The classified records say that the guardian was recovered at Temiltepec,” Quinn said. He ignored the look that statement garnered him from Kincaid. “But no matter how well someone tries to cover up, there’s always a loose end.”

“And what thread did you find to pull on?” Kincaid asked.

“I pulled the classified flight record for Groom Lake,” Quinn said.

“And?”

“And on those dates that the classified record shows that someone from Majestic went to Temiltepec, the flight log from the Groom Lake tower indicates an Air Force executive transport plane with a flight plan for La Paz.”

“Bolivia.”

“Long way from Mexico,” Quinn said.

“Indeed.”

“In fact, it’s pretty close to the ruins at Tiahuanaco.”

“So the guardian might have been there?”

“It’s possible.”

Kincaid thought about it. “What about The Mission?”

Quinn pulled out a file folder with a red TOP SECRET stamp at the top and bottom. “I found this in the files. The CIA rep to Majestic-12 asked the same question a couple of years ago. There’s not much here, but what is written is pretty remarkable.

“The CIA had reports of a place called The Mission in South America.” Quinn smiled. “When they chased Che Guevara, they thought that was where he was heading.”

“You’re pulling my leg,” Kincaid said. “Che Guevara?”

“I’m not kidding. This Mission place sounds like it’s been around awhile. The CIA tried backtracking it. The most current report says it might have been in Bolivia — where Che was killed — but that it moved sometime in the seventies. Current location unknown, but they think it’s still in South America somewhere.” “Come on—” Kincaid began, but Quinn cut him off.

“No, wait a second. This is interesting. This report says that before he went to Cuba. Che first spent a couple of years traveling all over South America on foot and by bicycle. He then made his living by writing articles about ruins in South America.”

“Could he have come across the guardian or The Mission?” Kincaid asked.

“I don’t know,” Quinn replied, “but according to the CIA he was heading toward a place called The Mission when he was caught by the Bolivian Army, backed up by U.S. Special Forces troops, another little fact that’s not well known.”

Quinn turned the page. “The CIA wanted to find this Mission, as they thought it might be a Communist front organization. Checking Che’s writings, they found he paid special attention to an ancient site called Tiahuanaco in Bolivia.” He scanned down the page.

“The dots are connecting,” Kincaid commented, “but I can’t figure out why.”

“Before Che, in the late forties, the OSS, the forerunner of the CIA, had interest in a place called The Mission because it was reported to be a gathering place for members of the defeated Third Reich. It’s well known that there was an escape pipeline to South America for Nazis during and after the war. The OSS/CIA heard rumors that the scientists who weren’t snatched up by our Operation Paperclip or the Russians went to The Mission,” Quinn added.

“Despite that, they weren’t able to find the exact location of The Mission. They got word from some contacts that it was originally from Spain, and that it had come over the Atlantic sometime in the fifteenth century. But beyond that, it seems like the CIA stopped the investigation.”

“Wait a second,” Kincaid said. “Columbus didn’t discover America until 1492.” “I’m just telling you what the CIA uncovered. Perhaps those date problems are why the CIA didn’t follow through on the investigation.”

“Or perhaps there was another reason they dropped the investigation.” Kincaid looked around the Cube. “Like they’ve stopped digging at Dulce.”

Quinn shut the folder. “I don’t know.” He opened another folder. “But my computer whiz kid has managed to pull something out of one of the hard drives Turcotte got out of Scorpion Base and it references The Mission.”

“What is it?” Kincaid asked.

Quinn smiled. “You think the Che Guevara stuff is weird, wait until you read this.” He slid a computer printout over to Kincaid, who picked it up and read:

“What’s TOWW?” Kincaid had finished reading.

“I have no idea,” Quinn said. “I’m having my computer guy check.”

Kincaid handed the printout back. “Geez, if they put Galileo away—” He didn’t finish the sentence, just shaking his head.

“I’m forwarding this to Dr. Duncan,” Quinn said. “She can figure out what to do with it.” He looked up at the red digits on the clock that glowed at one of the rooms. “Under four hours until they launch at the Cape and Vandenberg.” Quinn held the cigarette up. “Better get a carton.”

“I have lived many years by saying no to stupid ideas,” Lo Fa said.

“I have lived many years also,” Che Lu said. “But there is more to life than just breathing.”

“Ah, don’t start that with me.” Lo Fa tapped the side of his head with a crooked finger. “I have also had many people try to play with my mind over the years.”

Che Lu laughed. “Your mind is like a rock. Who would want to play with it?”

Lo Fa’s dark eyes were looking about the guerrilla camp. The women were gathered to one side, talking quietly among themselves, while the children played around them. The men, those who weren’t on guard, were resting. Finally his eyes returned to Che Lu.

“I will go with you. But only me. I will order the others to move west, to get away from the army.”

“How will we get in the tomb?” Che Lu asked.

“I will get us in. The same way I was able to get you away from there when the army was shooting at the Russians and Americans. You get us out once you find what you are looking for.”

“It’s a filovirus.” Kenyon had finally isolated the bug.

“A filovirus?” Turcotte asked.

“A ‘thread virus,’” Kenyon said. “Most viruses are round. A filo is long. Looks like a jumbled string. Ebola’s a filo, as is Marburg.”

“So this is a cousin to Ebola?” Yakov asked.

“We don’t know,” Kenyon said. “This thing is an emerging virus.”

“Emerging from where?” Turcotte asked.

“We don’t know,” Kenyon said.

“What do you know?” Yakov demanded.

“Where did it come from?” Turcotte asked, glancing at Yakov. “Is it man-made?”

“Man-made?” Kenyon frowned. “Why would anyone let something like this loose? Many viruses are simply nature’s defense against mankind’s incursions into places we never were before.”

“What do you mean?” Turcotte asked.

“We’re tearing up the rain forest,” Kenyon said, “and so far, most of the nastiest bugs we’ve seen — the variants of Ebola and Marburg — have come out of the rain forest in Africa. It was only a matter of time before something came out of the Amazon. Humans have upset the ecological balance, and these viruses are fighting back against humans to re-right the balance.”

“Are you saying this virus was always there in the forest and we came in and activated it?” Turcotte asked. Yakov was shaking his head.

“This virus,” Kenyon said, “is what we call an emerging one. There are three ways viruses emerge: they jump from one species — which usually they are relatively benign in — to another, which they aren’t benign in; or the virus is a new evolution from another type of virus, a mutation, basically; or it could have always existed and move from a smaller population to a larger population. In the last case, this thing could have been killing humans out in the jungle for thousands of years, but now it’s moved out into the general population.”

“Is that possible?” Turcotte asked. “Wouldn’t someone have noticed?”

“Not necessarily,” Kenyon said. “We’re now beginning to believe that the AIDS virus might have been around for quite a while. Cases as far back as forty years ago are now being uncovered. They just didn’t know what it was back there and called it something else. And it stayed in a very small population.”

“Isn’t there a fourth way a virus develops?” Yakov growled. “A man goes into a lab and tinkers with something, and out comes a virus that kills?”

Kenyon stared at the Russian. “The sophistication to produce a biological agent of this order is beyond our capabilities.”

“The key word is our,” Yakov said. “We haven’t built a ship capable of interstellar travel either.”

“Which do you think this thing is?” Turcotte pressed Kenyon. “How did it evolve?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Kenyon said. “To find that out I need patient zero.”

“Patient zero?”

“Patient zero is the disease’s human starting point. If we can backtrack and find patient zero, then backtrack patient zero’s steps, we can find what and where the disease jumped from to get to humans and we would be that much further on our way to understanding not only the disease itself, but how it started.

“A virus has to have a ‘reservoir’—a living organism that it resides in that it doesn’t kill — or at least kill as quickly as the filoviruses kill humans. Otherwise the parasite would destroy its own source of survival. If we can find the reservoir, we might find out how that organism held off the effects of the virus, and that might point in the direction of a vaccine or cure. It has to be the village that Harrison talked about.”

Turcotte stared at Kenyon in disbelief. “Are you nuts? We don’t have any time to be coming up with vaccinations!”

Kenyon returned the look in kind. “We’ve got to find where it came from or else this thing will burn and it will only stop burning until it kills everything and there are no more hosts for it to consume.”

“The satellite,” Yakov said.

“What satellite?” Kenyon demanded.

Turcotte explained about the satellite that came down west of their location.

“You think this came from a satellite?” Kenyon asked. “What is this Kourou place?”

“It’s the launch site for Ariane, the European Space Consortium,” Yakov said. “It’s located on the coast of French Guiana.”

“Why is the European Space Port located in South America?” Kenyon asked.

“Several reasons,” Yakov said. “First, it’s got a low population density. Second, it’s located near the equator, which is advantageous for a space launch. Third, it’s right on the ocean, so rockets can go up over water instead of land. And fourth, there’s little likelihood of hurricane or earthquake in that specific area.

“Even though it’s run by the European Space Consortium,” Yakov continued, “anyone with enough money can buy a rocket and a launch window from them. Many U.S. firms launch their commercial satellites from Kourou.”

“Do you have proof that this virus came off a satellite?” Kenyon demanded.

“We need to find exactly where Harrison and his crew picked up this thing from. That will help prove or disprove what Yakov says,” Turcotte said. “He said in the video that he went upriver, but there’s a lot of rivers here.”

“What do you suggest?” Norward asked.

Turcotte tapped the scientist on the chest. “You and I go to the boat, try to see if there’s a map or anything on board that shows where they found the dead village.”

Guide Parker stood on top of a dune, looking down at the encampment of the chosen. Only one hundred and forty had made the commitment to leave behind all they knew and follow him to the desert.

This was the place. They had left the last hard surface road at Alice Springs, the center of Australia, and followed an old mining track into the Gibson Desert. Even that had disappeared hours before, but the Guide Parker had kept his people moving through the desert, the sun beating down on the roofs of the four-wheel-drive vehicles that made up the makeshift convoy.

When he arrived at the right spot, he had just known. He’d ordered them to stop and set up camp. Then he had walked out of the camp and up this dune.

Parker looked around. He saw no sign of life other than the tents his people had pitched. He dropped to his knees, feeling the sand shift beneath them. He looked up to the sky.

“We are here,” he whispered to the clear night sky. “We are here. Come take us away.”

He didn’t notice the drops of blood coming out of his nose, falling to the sand and being absorbed immediately.

Duncan read the report from Major Quinn once more. The Mission was real and STAAR had been investigating it. That was important, but did little to help the situation right now. It did back up Yakov’s story about the existence of The Mission and that The Mission had obviously interfered with mankind in the past. She called Quinn and told him to get his computer experts working on finding the current location of The Mission and whether there was any connection between The Mission and the Black Death.

Duncan punched in another number on her SATPhone. The other end was picked up on the third ring.

“USAMRIID,” the voice pulled the letters into one word.

“Colonel Carmen, please,” Duncan said.

“Who is calling?”

Duncan paused — this was Carmen’s direct number. “I’d like to talk to Colonel Carmen.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”

“Why not?”

“Colonel Carmen had an accident.”

Duncan’s hand gripped the SATPhone tighter. “Is she all right?”

“I’m afraid the accident occurred on the Level Four containment facility. The entire base has been quarantined. Colonel Carmen is dead. There’s a Colonel Zenas here from the Pentagon, and he’s taken over. Would you like to speak to him?”

Duncan pushed the off button. She stood in the shadow of the space shuttle Endeavor for several minutes, waiting until she could stop her hand from shaking.