Page 67 of Soul on Fire
“It’s not the Chinese government. It was an officer in their intelligence division who was compromised. They want this attack to stop as much as we do.”
“Wonderful. But their government still has the ability to penetrate our base. How?”
“Bai said they’d found a loophole in the base access software. They can backdoor into the database that allows on-base access to civilian personnel and insert their own records. All they have to do after that is create a fake ID. They’ve been sending civilian staff in for years.”
“I have to call the president. And then I need to contact the Joint Chiefs, DOD, the commander of Fifth Fleet, and about six thousand other people. Are you certain, Elliot, dead certain, that your intel is solid?”
“Yes sir. You can review it yourself, Admiral. I can’t say I trust the source.” He stared across the aisle at Bai. Bai seemed humored by what he said. A small smile spread on his lips. “But I trust the motivations behind him. China doesn’t want us invading the Congo and fucking up their resources grab. Saving Syrian lives is just a side effect of that.”
Kline cursed under his breath. “Where are you headed, Elliot?”
“We’re en route to Bahrain. Bai believes the shoot-out at the airport with Carla and Jim was the North Koreans getting out of Kisangani with Majambu.”
“Reports on the ground say the shooters were two white men and that they boarded a decrepit Russian hauler. People were shocked it even got off the ground.”
“Russian smugglers. They’re all over Kisangani and the Congo. If you want to move something in or out of the Congo, they’re who you call. Our guy was on that bird. I know it.”
“Are you willing to bet thousands of lives on that, Elliot?”
It was a mirror of what Kline had asked him in the beginning. Was he willing to bet his life on Ikolo? He had taken that bet, led by a bone-deep certainty inside of him that knew following Ikolo was the right choice, the right move to make.
He felt it again, that gut-thickening certainty. He’d always relied on that feeling on missions when he needed to make the hard calls, when he needed to engage or evade. Now he felt it when he looked at Ikolo. When he thought about Ikolo and what they might become if given the chance. “Yes. I am.”
“Then I’ve got six thousand people to call, starting with the president. Get to Fifth Fleet Headquarters and connect with Vice Admiral Mallory. She’ll be waiting for you.”
“Wilco.” Shorthand, will comply.
“If you’re right. If this works…” Kline’s voice trailed off. “No one could make the calls you’ve made on this, Elliot. Not a soul on the planet.”
He looked at Ikolo sitting next to him in the quadrant of chairs facing each other on Bai’s plane. Ikolo had his hand on the armrest, fingers dangling above Elliot’s thigh. Enough to almost feel, almost imagine they were touching. “There is someone else, Admiral. Someone far better than me.” He took Ikolo’s hand and locked their fingers together, holding his hand with their arms balanced on the arm rest.
Ikolo’s wide, round eyes met his.
Elliot smiled and lifted their joined hands to his lips.
* * *
Three hours from Manama,Bahrain, Ikolo slipped from his seat and padded down the aisle to the plane’s restroom. Bai and Elliot were passed out, heads lolled back on the headrests and snoring deeply. Ikolo and Elliot had showered earlier, finally getting the grit of the blast off their skin. Ikolo had bandaged Elliot’s hands and braced his knee, too.
He slid the door shut and locked it, and then sagged against the tiny plastic sink. Pitching forward, he rested his burning forehead on the cool mirror. It felt like ice against his skin.
He didn’t want to look.
Ikolo opened his eyes slowly, staring into his own reflection.
There it was. His eyeballs, usually bright white, sometimes bloodshot from lack of sleep but never jaundiced or blue-tinted from anemia, were turning bloodred. A circle of blood ringed his iris, and when he pulled down his lower lid, it seemed like a puddle of blood was growing there, bubbling up from the bottom of his eyeball.
He sagged against the mirror again, closing his eyes. He hadn’t wanted to face the possibility. He hadn’t wanted to think it. But he couldn’t escape the truth.
He was infected with Ebola.
When? How? From Majambu’s flight through the forest or from one of his patients at the hospital? He had always been careful in the tents, but he’d also been exhausted. Had he slipped up? Was it Matenda? The little girl? Or was it the LRA soldiers?
It could have been anywhere and anyone. Ebola was burning through eastern Congo, and now with Majambu’s flight—and their pursuit—the disease was spreading on a fire line from east to west.
His head throbbed, an ache that wouldn’t quit, and his body was on fire, lava moving beneath the surface of his skin. He wanted to lay down. He wanted to press his whole body to the mirror, let the glass bathe his searing flesh.
No. He couldn’t give up. Not yet.
