Callsign: King

4.

As he climbed out of the pick-up, King glanced at his watch. Although it felt like hours had passed since he’d left the ambush, according to his Timex, it had been more like ten minutes.

The drive had seemed interminably long. The unfamiliar environment was a flood of new sensory information that had to be interpreted and categorized. At the same time, he wrestled with the mystery of the attack.

His mind was like a computer, sorting what he knew and what he suspected, running through all the possible explanations to see which made the most sense, and like a computer running a complex program, the activity slowed down his processing speed.

He was certain that the four shooters were private contractors, and knew that, once he could establish contact with Deep Blue he’d be able to pin down exactly who they were. The trucks and other equipment would have left a money trail. But because the attackers were in all likelihood hired guns, there was no guarantee that the trail would lead back to the person or organization that had ordered the attack. A connection to Sara’s mission in Africa was by no means explicit, but none of the alternative explanations made any sense.

Dead end, he thought. I need more information.

He contemplated calling Deep Blue then and there on the dedicated Chess Team satellite phone stashed in his bag, but he wasn’t even sure what questions to ask.

He jogged the half-block from where he’d parked the truck to the hospital’s main entrance, his senses on alert for any hint of trouble. The first few steps were excruciating. His body was a mass of bruises from the crash, and as the adrenaline drained away, pain and stiffness had set in with a vengeance. For a few minutes, he moved like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz, creaky with rust. But he was no stranger to pain. He didn’t think he’d suffered any internal injuries, and the muscle soreness would eventually pass. He’d found a first-aid kit in truck, and had used it to clean and bandage the worst of his lacerations, including the wound on his arm where a bullet had grazed him. He had also downed an 800 mg Motrin tablet.

There would be time to rest and heal once he knew that Sara was not in danger.

He entered the hospital building on high alert, his right hand close to the MP5 concealed in the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, but nothing appeared to be amiss. Despite the language barrier, he managed to convey to the woman at the reception desk that he was looking for the CDC team, and a few minutes later, he opened the door to the conference room where the disease detectives had set up a command post.

The room was a hive of activity. Five people-Caucasians all, wearing familiar American clothes-were hastily unpacking computer and laboratory equipment from a stack of plastic containers lined up near the back wall. There was no sign of Sara.

A kindly looking older man noticed him. “Can I help you?”

King frowned. He hadn’t anticipated having to deal with Sara’s co-workers. The last thing he needed right now was to be given the runaround. He strode across the room, getting close enough to the man to be able to speak in low voice, barely louder than a whisper. “I need to speak with Dr. Fogg. It’s urgent.”

The man flashed a patient smile that suggested he was used to hearing people make such claims for the sake of expediency. “I’m Kerry Frey, Dr. Fogg’s assistant in charge of personnel. She’s busy right now.”

“I need to speak with her. I…” He took a deep breath, wondering how much to reveal. “My name is Jack Sigler. She asked me to come here.”

A gleam of recognition dawned in the other man’s eyes. “So you’re Jack. Sara has spoken of you. She’s with the patient in the isolation room on the fourth floor…”

Frey’s voice trailed off as something else in the room grabbed his attention. King turned, following the direction of the other man’s gaze to the door through which he had just entered.

Because he was trained to deal with surprises, King did not lapse into the same paralysis that now afflicted Frey, but he was nevertheless taken aback by the pair of figures, all in black from the soles of their combat boots to the tops of the balaclavas which almost completely covered their faces. A curse formed on his lips, but before he could speak the word, the two figures, in perfect synchronization, each tossed something into the room.

“Shit!”

Even though the objects were tumbling through the air, King recognized them immediately. Black metal tubes about three inches long, an inch in diameter, and perforated with a Swiss cheese pattern of holes.

Flash-bangs! Shit!

There was no time to seek cover, no time to even shout a warning. King did the only thing he could think of: he dropped to the floor, curling up like a hedgehog. He pressed his face into his thighs, and covered his ears with his forearms.

Suddenly, the world was transformed into pure light and noise. It was like being inside a lightning bolt. The flash of the magnesium/ammonium nitrate pyrotechnic charge in the M84 stun grenade lit up every fiber of King’s body; even with his eyes covered, he “saw” the flare as a red-yellow blaze. Simultaneously, the detonation produced a wave of sound that drove through his head like a freight train.

But King had been trained to deal with the after-effects of a flash-bang; he knew how to cope with the disorientation of sensory overload, and more importantly, knew the consequences of not taking immediate defensive action.

When he opened his eyes, the room seemed dark, as if all the lights had been switched off, but King could see two shapes moving through the room. One of the figures stopped and a tongue of flame erupted from his outstretched arm. Even through the ringing in his ears, King could hear the sound of gunfire.

His hand found the grip of his MP5 and he triggered a burst in the direction of the nearest gunmen. The shots hit center-mass, driving the man back a few steps but he didn’t go down.

Body armor. Shit, shit, shit!

King got his feet under him and scrambled to the back of the room. He could just make out the chest-high stack of equipment crates, and while he knew they probably wouldn’t stop a bullet, they would at least afford him a degree of concealment. He crouched low, scanning both angles of approach, and waited for the killers to make their move.

The attack didn’t come.

His vision and hearing were both returning by degrees, but neither sense gave him any hint of what was happening on the other side of stacked containers. No more shots were fired, and if the gunmen were speaking to each other, their voices were too soft for him to discern. Shouldering the MP5, he rose out of his crouch for just an instant, and peered over the top of the barrier.

The shooters were gone. King cautiously emerged from concealment, sweeping the room with the barrel of his machine pistol, but his first assessment was correct; the assault force had finished their grisly task and fallen back. King was alone with the dead.

He spied the unmoving form of the older man he had first spoken with. A ragged hole had been torn in his chest, almost certainly the result of a several bullets in a tight grouping.

Kerry Frey, he thought. He had a name. He probably had a family and friends. He worked with Sara…

Sara!

King started for the exit, but before he could cross half the distance, he saw another pair grenades sail through the air in the room. Not flash-bangs this time, but cylinders-like stubby aerosol cans-gray in color, marked with purple bands.

Incendiary grenades.

Shit.