The Atlantis Plague (The Origin Mystery, #2)(90)

“Yes.”

“Bring them. Let’s leave a surprise for Sloane.”





Five minutes later, David sat in the helicopter, calmly watching the ground of Isla de Alborán float away. The view changed to open sea, and Kamau adjusted the helicopter’s path. The life raft that held Kate and the three men had drifted a bit, but it was still easy to find.

They followed the protocol David had laid out on the yacht: Kate and the bag with the guns and computer equipment came up first, followed by Chang, Janus, and Shaw—in that order.

When everyone was aboard, Kamau spoke over the radio in David’s helmet. “Where to?”

In truth, David had no idea. But… they couldn’t go north toward Spain, or south toward Morocco, or west to the Atlantic. “East. Stay low.”





CHAPTER 75


Isla de Alborán


Dorian saw the two thick columns of smoke long before the tiny island of Isla de Alborán came into view.

The pilot stopped Dorian’s lead helicopter to hover a half kilometer from the island, allowing everyone in the three-helicopter convoy to survey the outpost.

A massive yacht burned at the dock. A stone and concrete two-story building with an attached lighthouse also burned violently. Dorian hadn’t missed them by much. Maybe an hour.

“Sir,” the pilot said, “it looks like we missed the party.”

The man was clearly suffering from “compulsive state-the-obvious syndrome”—a situation Dorian felt had grown to epidemic proportions among the men surrounding him.

“Very perceptive. You should have been an analyst,” Dorian mumbled, pondering what to do.

“Bravo-leader, this is Bravo-three. Our fuel is down to forty percent. Request permission to put down and acquire fuel—”

“Negative, Bravo-three,” Dorian barked into the helmet.

“Sir?” The pilot in his own helicopter turned to face him. “We’re at less than fifty percent as well—”

“Bravo formation: maintain your distance from the outpost. Bravo-three, light up the closest helicopter.”

The adjacent helicopter launched a missile that decimated one of the two remaining helicopters on the island’s helipad. A split second after the impact, a second, more violent eruption spewed from the island.

“They booby-trapped the helicopters?” the pilot said.

“Yes. Hit the other one too,” Dorian said. “What’s our closest fuel source?”

“Marbella or Grenada. The invasion force reports both areas are secured—”

“They’re going east.”

“How do you—”

“Because they know we’re behind them, and they have nowhere else to go.” Dorian focused on Kosta, his assistant, who sat across from him. “Do we have a plague barge in the area—to the east?”

Kosta typed feverishly on his laptop. “Yes, but it’s almost to port in Cartagena.”

“Turn it around. Tell them to head south on an intercept course with us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any word from him?” Dorian asked. The last message had said Isla de Alborán. Hurry. Was he in danger?

“No, sir.” Kosta glanced out the window, down at the burning island. “He could be KIA—”

“Don’t ever say that to me, Kosta.”





Dr. Paul Brenner was sleeping on the couch in his office when the door burst open, slamming into the wall, practically scaring him to death.

Paul pushed up from the couch and fumbled for his glasses on the coffee table. He was groggy, disoriented. The hours of sleep were the best he had had in… quite some time.

“What—”

“You need to see this, sir.” The lab tech’s voice was shaky.

Excitement? Fear? By the time Paul got his glasses on, the man had fled the room.

Paul raced out after him, down the hall of the CDC bunker, to the infirmary. Rows of beds surrounded by plastic tents spread out before him. Paul could see only blurry glimpses of what lay inside each plastic box. What he didn’t see scared him most. No motion, no lights, no rhythmic “beep, beep, beep.”

He walked deeper into the room. He pulled the plastic back at the closest bed. The cardiac monitor was silent, dead, turned off. The patient that lay below it was still. Blood flowed from her mouth, staining the white sheets.

Paul slowly walked over to his sister’s bed. The same.

“Survival rate?” he asked the technician in a lifeless tone.

“Zero percent.”

Paul trudged out of the wing, dreading every step, forcing himself to go on. He was hollow, truly hopeless, for the first time since the outbreak had begun, since Martin Grey had invited him to Geneva twenty years ago and told him that he needed his help with a project that could save humanity in its darkest hour.

At the Orchid Ops room, the glass doors parted again. The screens that had displayed the Symphony algorithm result a few hours earlier had been replaced with a map of the world. It bled red with the casualty statistics from around the globe.

The faces around the room reflected the quiet horror of the image on the screen. Solemn stares greeted Paul as he stepped inside. There were fewer faces peering at him than there had been. Some members of the team were plague survivors, immune, just as Paul was. But for most, Orchid was their key to survival, and it had finally failed them. Those team members were in the infirmary. Or the morgue.