The Atlantis Plague (The Origin Mystery, #2)(62)

He inspected the wound. He was bleeding, but he would be all right. Right now he had bigger problems to deal with.

Even in the night sky, he could see three columns of smoke rising above the trees, the remains of the helicopter fleet burning.

Ceuta had no air support—it had all been deployed to southern Spain, but whoever had taken the base obviously had plenty of ground troops. Would they send them?

He got to his feet.

Screams—from the crash site. His instincts took over. He grabbed his helmet and body armor and ran toward the burning wreckage.

The helicopter had set fire to the forest and it burned violently, a wall of flame Dorian couldn’t see through. The screams grew louder, but Dorian couldn’t make out the words.

He donned the body armor, then the helmet, and ran around the perimeter of the fire, looking for a way through. On the other side, the fire wasn’t as thick, but he still had no clear line of sight to the helicopter. He thought he could make it through.

He drew his sidearm and tossed it on the ground, along with the spare magazines. He also placed his satellite phone on the ground. He tucked his hands in the armor and stepped to the edge of the blaze. The boots, suit, and helmet were fire-resistant, but there were limits to how much heat they could take, and then there were the parts of his body that the armor didn’t cover.

He drew a deep breath and raced into the fire. His feet pounded the ground. The burn was overwhelming. He held his breath, and… broke through the fire, into a small clearing. Dorian saw it now: three of the helicopters had gone down close to each other and their fires had joined, creating the ring. Each of the helicopters was in full blaze. Dorian wouldn’t get anything from them, and the screams hadn’t come from anyone inside.

Another wave of screams erupted. Dorian spun and found their source. The pilot’s black Immari armor made him almost impossible to see against the dark earth and pitch-black night, even through the light of the fires.

Dorian ran to him. The man’s leg lay at an unnatural angle and there was a deep cut up the side. The man had already tied it off at his thigh, and that had saved his life, but Dorian wasn’t sure that was good news. The man had been able to crawl from the burning helicopter, but he couldn’t run, or so much as stand.

“Help!” he screamed.

“Shut up,” Dorian said mechanically from behind his dark helmet. What to do? The man had lost too much blood already, and there were no medical supplies. Dorian automatically reached for his sidearm, then remembered he had left it beyond the fire. Put him out of his misery and move on. The enemy will be here soon, searching the area. He’ll get you killed. But Dorian couldn’t do it, couldn’t bring himself to leave the man, to leave one of his own soldiers to the fire. He bent and took the man’s arm.

“Thank you, sir,” the pilot said, panting.

Dorian paused for a moment, then stood from the man, walked over to his helmet and returned with it. “Keep this on. We’re going through the fire.”

Dorian braced himself for the pain as he hoisted the man onto his shoulder. The wound in his side raged, cutting him, jabbing him. It felt like he was ripping apart.

He ran to the edge of the flames, drew a breath, then moved into them. He charged on more slowly this time, but with every ounce of energy he had.

When he cleared the fire, he threw the man to the ground and collapsed himself. The blaze was moving the other way, with the wind. They were safe for now.

Dorian was breathless, and he wanted to puke from the pain. The agony was total. He couldn’t even identify where it hurt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the gun, magazines, and phone lying there. He could end this man’s misery if he could reach it… Dorian tried to push up, but the pain and exhaustion met him, holding him against the ground, forcing him to lie still.

The pilot crawled over to Dorian and began doing something. Dorian tried to shove him off, but the pilot fought him back. Another jolt of pain surged up his legs. The man was torturing him. Dorian tried to kick his legs, but the man threw his body across them. The pain swelled, moving up Dorian like a wave. It would drown him, was drowning him. The woods faded.





When Dorian awoke, it was still dark, but there was no fire at the helicopter crash site, only smoke. And pain. But he could move again. Beside him, the pilot lay asleep.

Dorian sat up, grimacing with every move. His feet. They were a burned, mottled mess. The unlaced, melted boots lay close by. The bottoms were smooth where the rubber had turned to liquid, flowing onto and over his feet. The pilot had removed them, likely saving Dorian’s feet. How long would it have taken the melting rubber to cool? If the boots had stayed on, Dorian may have never walked again.

An untouched pair of boots lay just beyond Dorian’s charred set.

Dorian glanced over at the snoring pilot again. He was barefooted. Dorian held the boots up to his feet. A little small, but they would do, depending on how far he had to go. And he needed to find that out.

He crawled over to his sidearm and sat phone. He glanced again at the pilot, and considered his next move. The area around the gash in the pilot’s leg already showed signs of infection.

Dorian punched the phone.

“Fleet Ops.”

“It’s Sloane—”

“Sir, we’ve—”

“Shut up. Put Captain Williams on.”

“General—”