Endemic: Black Directive, #1

By John L. Lynch

the darkness of the Congo, a team of special operatives sent by a shadowy organization races to find the true origin of the Ebola virus. A doctor, a scientist, a bio-engineered martial artist, a voodoo priest and a cyborg… none is prepared for the true horror that awaits them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613093559

Book preview

Prologue

Hugo Valentine walked past the abandoned playground equipment in the late afternoon sun. He carried his backpack past the empty elementary school with its shattered windows. He crunched glass shards underfoot as he passed broken-down cars stripped to their wheel hubs. Ancient brownstones rose up above sidewalks littered with smashed bottles and used syringes.

Every day Hugo made the walk to town. He told his friends he lived in the suburbs because people commuted in and out. Everyone laughed because the people commuting only came to buy drugs. Cocaine, weed, and a new drug he’d just heard about called crack. Hugo didn’t pay it no mind. They were all the same, and he didn’t want any.

The school bus didn’t come to his hood. To get there, he walked through the miles of urban blight Detroit had become. On the weekends, he worked at Mr. Wang’s grocery store two miles away. He’d lied to Mr. Wang about how old he was and Mr. Wang didn’t pay him as much as the other baggers. Hugo figured it was fair. He needed the money to escape.

He saw three boys on the corner—Mark, Jumal, and Reggie. They threw some taunts across the street, but they didn’t come over. Hugo knew they would as soon as they got over their fear of what he’d done to Lucius. He watched them carefully as he rounded the corner to his high rise.

The elevator didn’t work, and junkies and whores used it for privacy. The endless stairs up to the eighth floor were dangerous. Hugo listened for ambushes. He moved carefully to avoid stepping on litter and broken glass. And he always looked up the stairs in case someone was watching him.

When he reached his floor, he gave a long look up and down the hallway. None of the doors were ajar, waiting to be flung open as he walked by. He drew his key and carefully opened his front door.

The house stank, which he hated but could do nothing about. He was barely home from school and work, and his grandmother couldn’t remember to clean. He picked up a can of fish food from the kitchen counter so he could feed Gladys.

You home, Hugo? His grandmother sat in the living room in a dirty green chair, her tiny frame sunk low in the broken cushion. The drapes were drawn tight against the outside world, and the blue beams of the ancient black and white played on the walls.

The president was giving a speech in a yellow raincoat. He said something about an Evil Empire. Hugo paid him no mind.

Yeah, Granma, I’m home.

Keeping her eyes on the screen, she clapped her hands. Oh, good. You make sure to tell your mama to make you dinner. Don’t let her forget.

I won’t, Granma. Is Malcolm here?

No, he went out. He went to work.

All right, Granma. I’ll go to my room until Mama comes home.

Hugo’s mother was dead. Granma never remembered. For a while, Hugo had reminded her, but it was better this way. He was glad Malcolm was gone. He didn’t ‘work’ unless you counted the drugs he sold to pay for his own habit. Hugo tried not to be around when he was home. He didn’t understand why his mother’s ex-boyfriend deserved to have free rent. Hugo was sixteen and didn’t have the right to an opinion if Granma wouldn’t make Malcolm leave.

Gratefully, he drew a library book from his bag and opened his door.

Two men in suits waited inside. Hugo was surprised. They stood against the far wall leaning against his bookshelves. Hugo turned to run, but one of them said, It’s all right, Mr. Valentine. We aren’t here to arrest you.

Hugo slowly turned back. Who are you?

One of the men was tall with wide shoulders. His face was wrinkled, he wore dark sunglasses, and his hair receded from his forehead. The man next to him was black, slightly shorter, and had a full head of hair speckled with gray.

We’re not the police, said the man with the sunglasses.

Good. Then get out.

In a moment. We want to offer you an opportunity.

I ain’t interested in no drugs.

We know. We know you killed a drug dealer, Mr. Valentine.

Hugo froze. He saw all his work, his future, disappearing into a jail cell. It wasn’t fair.

And we think we know why. Why did you kill him, Mr. Valentine?

Hugo blurted, He was hurtin’ the little kids. He made them do things for him, and he was...

But not you.

No, Hugo admitted. He did nothing to me.

Why?

Because he knew I’d kill him, Hugo said simply.

But you killed him anyway.

Because no one else was gonna do anything! Hugo roared in frustration. No one gave a shit!

The room was silent for a moment. The other man spoke. Mr. Valentine, what are your plans for the future?

I’m getting out of here as soon as I can.

You go to school. We know you never miss a day. And your grades are excellent, top of your class.

Don’t tell no one, Hugo scoffed. I don’t like getting into fights when I don’t have to.

Did killing Lucius bother you, Mr. Valentine? the man with the sunglasses asked.

Hugo said nothing and looked at the floor. He realized they must be wired, and he had already confessed. No, it didn’t. Not at all.

Why?

Because he needed killin’.’

Did you enjoy it?

No, I didn’t, he spat. He looked at both men. Why you askin’ so many questions? Don’t you have to read me my rights?

Mr. Valentine, as I said, we are not here to arrest you. The man with the sunglasses looked at the black man next to him, who nodded. He continued, We believe you may be interested in what we have to say.

All right, spill it.

We work for an organization protecting everyone, all of humanity, from things far worse than Lucius. We have met creatures which are not supposed to exist, who have come here from another world for their own purposes—

You mean like aliens? Hugo’s voice relayed his skepticism.

Yes, but far worse than anything you can imagine. If you come with us, we can tell you more.

You’re kidding, right?

No, Mr. Valentine, we are not. And this is your one and only chance to see if we are telling the truth. He pointed to Gladys in her fish bowl. Tell me, will this fish get any bigger?

No.

Why?

The bowl’s too small.

Ah, said the man with the sunglasses.

Hugo made the connections. He worried at his lip with his teeth. I have to decide now? Can I have some time to think about it?

No, I’m afraid not. When we go out the door, you’ll never see us again. It’s your choice.

The room fell silent. Hugo heard his grandmother cackling along with the laugh track in the next room.

I’ll do it.

The man with the sunglasses stood. Good. We’ll take you to a car outside. You’ll begin Phase One in two days.

What’s Phase One?

The hardest, most challenging thing you have done in your life.

What if I can’t do it?

You will.

Hugo looked around the room, Can I take anything?

No.

I didn’t think so.

The black man spoke, It’s time to go, Hugo.

Why you callin’ me by my first name?

The old man with the salt and pepper hair smiled. Because it is the only one you’ll need from now on.

Hugo gave a last look back to his goldfish. Goodbye, Gladys. He stepped over the threshold and walked out of the apartment. His granma didn’t notice him leave. He didn’t bother telling her goodbye.

On the sidewalk outside, the man with the sunglasses said to his black partner That was easy. I like it when they say ‘yes.’

Yeah, since we know what would have happened. Shot dead in two weeks. Why can’t we tell them that, Angus?

You know why. They have to choose freely.

You ever wonder what would have happened to you if you hadn’t taken this gig?

No, Bob, I don’t. Angus adjusted his sunglasses. Who’s next?

I found this French girl, a little young, but worth a look.

A woman? You know how I feel about it.

Hey, get with the times. There’s a lot of talent in the sisterhood. And they’re less likely to be missed.

She’s got no record?

None, and it’s so far back no one will notice. Before records.

All right, I’ll have a look. Let’s go.

The two men from Recruitment walked to their car. Hugo was sitting inside without being told. Angus grunted his approval as he slid into the passenger seat.

One

0901 Z JUNE 8, 1995

TO: TEAM BRAVO

FROM: CINCOP

AS OUTLINED IN OPERATION ORDER 95-123(A), PROCEED TO GOMA, ZAIRE, AND INVESTIGATE DISEASE OUTBREAK IN NORTH KIVU PROVINCE (SEE REFERENCE A, WORLD HEALTH ORGANIZATION ALERT, JUNE 1, 1995).

IF DISEASE OUTBREAK IS FOUND TO BE EBOLA HEMORRAGHIC FEVER, IT IS IMPERATIVE YOU DETERMINE VECTOR OF DISEASE.

FINDING THE NATIVE NON-HUMAN HOST OF THE EBOLA DISEASE (IF ANY) IS FIRST PRIORITY, NOT REPEAT NOT TREATMENT OF VICTIMS.

TAKE ALL NECESSARY PRECAUTIONS TO AVOID INFECTION OF TEAM MEMBERS.  SAFETY OF TEAM PERSONNEL IS SECONDARY TO COMPLETION OF MISSION.

RESEARCH DEPARTMENT BELIEVES EBOLA DISEASE TO BE NOT REPEAT NOT NATURALLY OCCURRING BASED ON ANALYSIS OF EBOLA ZAIRE GENOME.  THE POSSIBILITY OF AN ENGINEERED BIOLOGICAL WARFARE AGENT IS TO BE CONSIDERED (SEE REFERENCE B, RESEARCH DEPARTMENT REPORT 1995-M-12).

WORLDWIDE EBOLA ZAIRE OUTBREAK IS CLASSIFIED AS A LEVEL 2 THREAT TO HUMAN SPECIES.  TAKE ALL NECESSARY MEASURES TO PREVENT SPREAD OF DISEASE BEYOND ENVIRONS OF NORTH KIVU PROVINCE, ZAIRE.

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT OPTION ALPHA.  ALL NECESSARY FORCE IS AUTHORIZED TO COMPLETE THE MISSION, UP TO AND INCLUDING USE OF OVERT FORCE AGAINST LEGITIMATE GOVERNMENT AUTHORITIES.

USE OF SPECIAL WEAPONS AND EQUIPMENT IS AUTHORIZED.

NORMAL PRECAUTIONS TO PREVENT REVALATION OF DEPARTMENT ACTIVITIES WILL BE OBSERVED.

SORRY YOU GET THE TOUGH ONES, BUT I KNOW YOU CAN HANDLE IT.

GOOD HUNTING,

CHIEF OF OPERATIONS.

THE BIG ANTONOV TRANSPORT cast a long shadow on the taxiway as the sun set over the mountains. A ramp led into the fuselage through an open cargo door. Men worked with flashlights and forklifts to load the plane with pallets piled with wooden crates.

Hugo spoke to a man on the tarmac. Behind him, the sunrise revealed the red Cyrillic letters on the fuselage. The sun brought no heat.

Business is a good thing to have right now. With NATO here, there isn’t much for me to do anymore. He pronounced the acronym nahto. The squat man spoke beneath a wool knit cap. His middle-aged paunch hid beneath a thick black sweater. His breath condensed in the cold. Where are you going, if I can ask? The man smiled with broken teeth.

You can ask, Hugo forced a smile. His gravel voice continued, And I will tell you exactly what the paperwork says: the Syrian Arab Republic.

Hah! That would be rich. Me selling guns to Muslims! He spat on the concrete. For my own conscience, I refuse to believe you! But, my friend, business is business. If the Muslims wish to kill each other, who am I to stop them? He started walking to the terminal. Behind him, Hugo could read the signs on the building, old and new.

WELCOME TO BANJA LUKA

And, in new paint,

REPUBLIKA SRPSKA

Hugo had already made the financial arrangements. The Deutschmarks would be transferred to a numbered account from the front company in the Ukraine. One thing about his employers, they always paid on time. It’s easier to allay suspicions without angry creditors.

He turned around and walked toward the cargo plane. It also belonged to a Ukrainian company, a cargo outfit taking advantage of the glut of former Soviet transports to compete in the world air freight market. They worked cheap and didn’t ask questions. One way they saved money was by deferring maintenance.

Hugo spotted Chuck and Thelmia balanced on ladders leaning against the right outboard engine. The cowling lay on the runway. Hugo walked under the wing and looked up at the bare engine. Chuck climbed halfway down. Grease covered his coveralls, and he held a toolkit in his right hand.

How long? Hugo growled. He clasped the cold metal ladder. He looked up at the legs sticking out of the engine.

From inside the engine, Thelmia said, A few more minutes. No one has worked on this for months. They just did the dailies, looks like. Dumb. These old Russian planes need more attention, not less. Her gloved hand reached out, and Chuck handed her a wrench.

Hugo shook his head and strode over to the ramp. He wore a leather trench coat against the cold. His heavy boots, bald head, and dark skin helped his cover identity. He stepped into the fuselage. Inside, the workmen stopped talking. A cigarette hung from one man’s fingers. They looked at Hugo. He let out a low grunt, then turned away and walked to the front of the plane. The loaders resumed their work, looking at each other and speaking in low tones.

Hugo reached into his coat and pulled out a flashlight. The beam sparkled across the frost growing on the aircraft’s skin. He walked to the front of the plane. Ice crunched under his boots.

A warm gust washed out of the cockpit when Hugo opened the door. Cid sat with his feet propped on the copilot’s seat. He tipped his cowboy hat up to look at Hugo behind his large square sunglasses. You need me for anything?

No. Cid was human-shaped, but more than a cursory look revealed his plastic skin. His body was not natural. His hat, glasses, and gloves wouldn’t hide it for long. Hugo had told him to stay in the cockpit. Thelmia and Chuck will have the number four engine fixed soon. They both looked at the blinking red light on the instrument panel. It went out. Looking out the cockpit window, Hugo saw Thelmia pushing the cowling back into place.

Were you born in a barn? Cid laughed. Hugo looked annoyed.

It means ‘close the door.’ Cid slid the cockpit door closed with his foot. It’s cold out there. Cid could tolerate much colder temperatures than a human being. Hugo didn’t laugh.

Shaking his head, Cid spun his feet under him, and Hugo sat down. He put on his headset and began the preflight checklist. Chuck opened the cockpit door just as Thelmia threw the switch to close the cargo doors in the rear of the plane. The ramp retracted and the clamshells closed. Ice crunched in the door seal.

The plane is ready to go, Chuck reported. Hugo nodded to Cid. Cid switched on the big turboprops. The drone filled the metal fuselage. Thelmia put in her ribbed orange earplugs.

Cid spoke to the tower, Srpska control, this is Kharkov Ukrainya Airways seven-zero-one, permission for taxi. No breath escaped his mouth.

The Slavic voice answered, Granted, Kharkov Ukrainya seven-zero-one.

The transport plane crawled to the runway. There was no traffic. They passed several derelict airplanes permanently parked outside. At the end of the runway, Cid asked, Srpska control, Ukrainya seven-zero-one, permission for takeoff.

Granted, Ukrainya seven-zero-one. Transfer to Belgrade control once you reach angels two-zero.

Cid thought traffic control in Bosnia was lax but not as lax as where they were going. He pulled the throttles to full, and the roar became deafening.

THE NEXT RUNWAY WAS warm beneath Chuck’s boots. The sun had set hours before above the bleached concrete and the surrounding desert. Utter darkness blanketed the flat and featureless landscape. Beneath a streetlamp, Chuck walked away from a man with a headscarf beside a small cluster of modern but rapidly decaying concrete and steel buildings. Entering the plane did nothing to cool him off. The metal fuselage trapped heat and his clothes were drenched with sweat. The ice had long since melted off, leaving puddles on the cargo bay floor. The plane had become sticky with humidity.

Hugo and Thelmia sweated with him. Cid, back in the cockpit, only had to endure slightly higher than normal temperature readings in his visual display.

He wants a cut.

Huh. Big surprise. Hugo liked the Third World. There was an endless hassle from corrupt officials, but it was always easy to smooth over with money. In more honest countries you never knew who you could bribe. Here, honesty was just a negotiating ploy. OK, tell him a thousand dollars American and one crate.

Chuck grimaced. It’s less cash for the mission.

Cost of doing business.

The big cargo doors were opened once more and one pallet removed. A swarthy forklift operator with a suspicious scowl drove it over to the man with a headscarf. Chuck shuffled down the cargo ramp into the darkness and walked back to the island of light. He presented an envelope to the man. The man kissed him on the cheek, which Chuck endured, and walked back to the hanger past green signs with white Arabic script. The forklift carrying the pallet followed both of them into the hanger.

The forklift returned, pushing a shipping container up the ramp into the aircraft's cargo bay. Chuck reappeared a few minutes later driving a Mercedes G-wagon, a top end off-road vehicle. Thelmia walked down onto the runway as he drove the green four-wheel drive slowly up the ramp. The engine was purring, perfectly tuned. The forklift driver and the other man ogled Thelmia as she walked past. She emerged from the hanger in the driver’s seat of a red Land Cruiser. Once she drove on the plane, she got out and pulled the switch to close the aircraft cargo door.

All four of them worked to properly stow the container and vehicles. They anchored the vehicles to cargo pallets and secured them to the struts of the airframe with thick straps. Hugo didn’t like the look of the local freight handlers, and any more curiosity might mean a larger bribe. He didn’t have infinite resources for the mission.

The turboprops blasted a cloud of sand behind them when they lifted off into the night.

CID LOOKED DOWN AT the approaching tarmac. There were no landing aids here. The sun had just begun to brighten the sky to his left, but there were no runway lights. Cid switched his vision to gather more light, and everything took on a greenish tint. The runway lay engulfed inside a sprawling, low city. Shanties were built up to and over the airport fence. On the runway, two small children fled from the blast of noise as Cid guided the huge plane downward. With a jolt, the plane bounced onto the ground. Cid throttled back the engines and looked for a place to park.

In the cargo bay, humidity condensed on the metal fuselage. Drops fell from the sides of the shipping container. Thelmia checked the container locks. They wouldn’t keep out anyone determined, but they would stop a casual thief with bolt cutters. Cid and Chuck looked out the cockpit into the sunset. The airport had changed hands a few times, and each wave of invaders had left something destroyed. Most buildings had no intact windows, and the top floor of the control tower was shattered and roofless. Air traffic control was really simple here. Land and hope they didn’t shoot you. Supposedly, they were expected.

After they taxied to a stop, two vehicles sped toward them. One was an old Land Rover covered with gray spray paint. The second was an ancient six-wheeled Ural military truck. The canvas cover had rotted away, but the frame was still in place. Six armed men stood in the back of the truck, holding onto the metal ribs.

Hugo got up and headed for the back of the aircraft. Thelmia and Chuck followed. Before Thelmia lowered the ramp, they were all armed.

The men came into view as the ramp lowered. They had shaved heads. All wore sunglasses. Each wore a Los Angeles Lakers jersey over a track suit. As the ramp reached the ground, Thelmia saw their Converse sneakers.

The four of them looked at the Africans. The Lakers looked back. Finally, number 8 stepped forward.

I am Kobe. Welcome to the Congo. He spread his arms and smiled. His bright white teeth were perfect.

Hugo smiled back and stepped down the ramp. The two embraced. Holding each other at arm’s length, Kobe asked, So, what have you brought for me?

Ten crates of AKs, one of RPGs, and ammo for both, Hugo spoke with a heavy Caribbean accent.

Surely, you did not need such a large plane just for this? Kobe peered into the dark cargo bay.

No, my friend! We have something for you. Hugo waved to Chuck. Chuck trotted back into the plane.

Thelmia kept her hand on the Uzi. The rest of the Lakers had not moved at all. They mechanically smiled in unison.

They heard an engine from inside. Chuck drove the G-wagon to the edge of the ramp. Kobe and the Lakers stepped to the side.

Kobe smiled at the German luxury SUV. Chuck parked it next to the Land Rover.

You are too kind, Kobe nodded. His team walked over to study their new ride. Their dismissive attitude had broken.

It has GPS! Number 34 exclaimed.

Yes, Shaq, you know they all come with it. Kobe downplayed his enthusiasm. Go park it in the hanger.

Shaq and Dennis Rodman took the keys from Chuck, sat down heavily, and roared off. Soukous music blared from the speakers.

Now, what can I do for my good friends?

We have business here, Hugo said.

Business? With me?

No.

Kobe laughed. Ah, you are new here. All business is with me. There is no one else. His smile disappeared. The other three Lakers tensed and lost their smiles, too.

Chuck shifted his stance, pivoting on his ankle. He tensed his right leg. Thelmia's hand closed on the Uzi's plastic grip beneath her vest. At the top of the plane's cargo ramp, Cid splayed the fingers on his right hand. A panel opened on his forearm, revealing his revolver in a recessed compartment.

Hugo drew himself up and pulled his shoulders back. He slowly raised his right hand and flipped up his sunglasses. His dark bare eyes stared into Kobe's tinted lenses. Kobe's hand twitched, and he looked down into his pocket. He pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. The sun broke over the horizon.

Hugo spoke quietly, We just need some peace and quiet. It is a vacation.

Ah! A working vacation. Perhaps to see the gorillas? I hear there are a few left. Kobe fumbled with the lighter.

Yes, the gorillas. Hugo stood perfectly still. His mouth hardened.

Kobe lit the cigarette on his second try. He was sweating.

Well, this will help you in your journey. Kobe turned and snapped a command in Swahili. Number 9 ran up with a black duffel bag. Kobe snatched it away and thrust it into Hugo's stomach. Now, I must go and attend to my business. I have no vacations. Kobe rushed back to the truck he came in. The rest of the team jumped in the back.

Five Lakers’ back-benchers came to unload the plane. Hugo drew one aside.

I need a semi. A tractor-trailer. The man looked at him dumbly. Hugo pointed to the shipping container. Truck, Hugo pantomimed driving. The man nodded quickly and smiled. He turned and yelled in Swahili. Another man ran to the edge of the runway. Hugo watched him enter the steel hanger building, and return with another man. This man had gray hair and wore a stained coverall. I find truck, he smiled through three teeth.

Hugo reached into the gym bag and pressed a wad of cash into his outstretched hand.

RAJIV PASSED ROW UPON row of dusty shelves. Wooden boxes and drawers were stacked upon each other eight feet high. He’d entered the basement through a chain link gate at the end of a long-tiled hallway. He wore a GUEST badge with his picture and a name which was not his.

Dr. Singh, said the tall, thin man walking with him, we haven’t had a request for this particular specimen for a long time... His bushy eyebrows and pale skin hung on his skeletal frame.

Yes, there is some new research shining new light upon its meaning. Rajiv spoke with a British accent. He didn’t have to. Among the many languages at his disposal was American Standard English. Dr. Singh, however, had gone to Cambridge. Rajiv looked enough like him that nothing short of calling the real Dr. Singh would reveal the deception.

They came to the next to last row. The curator walked to the middle of the row and crouched down as he read the drawer labels. Yes, this one. He pulled out the box. They walked back to the gate together. Rajiv took the box to a small room, taking his one notebook and pencil with him. He placed the box on a metal table and opened it. The curator watched as Rajiv set the lid aside.

Inside were bones. Rajiv set them carefully on the metal surface. After arranging them all, he photographed them. The dingy walls absorbed the camera flash. The table reflected it. The curator blinked twice, and Rajiv got what he came for.

Two

Hugo's new semi had originally been painted green. Most of the paint had flaked off and had been replaced by rust. No one had bothered to cover the faded Zairian army markings on the bumpers. Hugo pounded the engine start button with the heel of his hand. The engine stuttered and exhaled foul black exhaust. Thelmia closed the greasy passenger window against the fumes. The noise was deafening. Hugo revved the engine twice, then stomped the clutch and slammed the gear shift forward. The truck lurched into motion.

Hugo passed wordlessly through the airport gate checkpoint, handing over his improvised travel documents from Kobe. Three very young men dressed like hip-hop stars and waving AK-47s