Patient Zero_ A Joe Ledger Novel Part 13

"Yes."

I shook my head. "Not going to happen. If my guys are going to have to go in alone, then we train alone. Show them some respect."

I was aware of having said "my guys," and Church was aware of it, too. He smiled. "Fine then." He signaled to Grace. "Captain Ledger will be using the gym floor. Take your team to the small arms range."

She hesitated and then nodded, called to her team and led them away.

Church walked over to a chair on which was a stack of thick folders. He handed the top four folders to me. "These are the records for your team. These are the men who have the best overall qualifications and whom we could get on site in time to meet you. I have a few others on their way here from the field, but the earliest ETA from that group would be thirty hours. These other folders are possibles. I'm having them all brought in and if you have time I want you to review the candidates and make your selections."

"Who do I have to clear them with?"

He shook his head. "No red tape in the DMS, Captain. Your team, your call."

Jesus Christ, I thought. No pressure there. I said, "Listen, Church, since you yanked me out of my life and stuck me with this job, and since you seem to want to give me a lot of personal freedom of action and authority, I hope you're as good as your word when I want to do things my way."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, as of this moment there's the police department way, the federal law enforcement way, the military way and my way. If you want me to function at my best then you're going to have to accept that I'm going to have to make up some of my own rules. I don't know enough about your playbook and, quite frankly, I don't like the way you operate. If I'm not a cop anymore then I'm something else, something new. Okay, then from here on out I'll decide what that is; and that includes building, shaping, and leading my team. My team, my rules."

We stood there like a couple of mountain gorillas, eyeing each other to see if this was going to be a fight or a collaborative hunt. He smiled. "If you're looking for an argument, Captain, you're wasting your breath and you're wasting your own training time."

"Do I have to salute you?" I asked, keeping the smile off my face.

"I would prefer not."

"What about my job? I'm supposed to report back to work tomorrow and I have to let someone know at the precinct. And my-"

He cut me off. "If time allows, you and I can sit down and go over whatever details need seeing to. I'll even have someone go and feed your cat. All of that is beside the point. Right now, I need you to step up and be the team leader."

"I want to see Rudy."

"Dr. Sanchez and I will have a talk first. You can see him later."

"Can you tell me one thing at least?"

"Make it quick."

"Who the h.e.l.l are you?" When he didn't respond I said, "Will you at least tell me your first name?"

"As far as you're concerned, it's 'Mister.' " Blindsiding this guy was never going to be easy. "Have fun getting to know your men, Captain Ledger," he said. "I'm sure they're all dying to get to know you better."

With that he turned and left.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," I said softly and turned to face my team.

Chapter Thirty-Five.

HMS HECLA / Royal Navy Hospital Ship / Four days ago THE MEDIVAC CHOPPER airlifted the wounded British soldiers from the field hospital at Bastion, across Pakistani airs.p.a.ce into the Gulf of Oman where it touched down on the helipad at the stern of the HMS Hecla, a hospital ship, and an hour later the ship headed out of the Gulf into the Arabian Sea and steered west toward the Gulf of Aden and then turned northwest into the Red Sea.

Within forty minutes of the transfer of wounded from the helicopter to the Hecla, Lieutenant Nigel Griffith was in surgery. Griffith survived the operation but coded in recovery. The ICU team brought him back once, then again, and finally Griffith's heart simply failed.

Corporal Ian Potts was treated and made comfortable, but the doctors were already planning the amputations of his hand and leg.

Of the third man from the ambush, Sergeant Gareth Henderson, it was later reported that he died as a result of head trauma. His death was observed and recorded by Nurse Rachel Anders and Dr. Michael O'Malley, both of whom were temporary medical staff from the Red Cross, coming off a six-month volunteer stint aboard and expecting to transfer off the Hecla to join an international infectious disease medical research team stationed in the Great Bitter Lake region of Egypt. His body was wrapped in a body bag and transferred to the cold room in the ship's hold, along with forty-one other corpses from the meat grinders in Iraq and Afghanistan.

At 2:55 that morning a second helicopter landed on the stern of the Hecla, and Nurse Anders and Dr. O'Malley boarded the chopper along with four very large wheeled metal equipment cases. Drugs and medical supplies for the research team. The helo lifted off and flew east toward the lake. When it landed, Anders, O'Malley, and the two others were greeted warmly by the research team, all of whom were strangers but each of whom were happy to have their team strengthened.

O'Malley oversaw the unloading of the metal cases personally while Anders loitered outside the tent, smoking a cigarette, ostensibly relaxing after a harrowing tour. Two men approached: a tall sandy-haired man in a lightweight white suit and a slightly shorter dark-haired man in dun-colored trousers and a Polo shirt. The tall man bent and kissed her on both cheeks. "It's good to see you, Rachel. I trust the flight was without incident."

"Everything went well," she said, exhaling as she spoke.

"Jolly good." The man gave her a wink and then slipped in through the tent flaps. The shorter man lingered for a moment to survey the surroundings before following his companion inside. In the tent the doctor looked up suddenly from behind one of the cases, but his face changed from alarm to pleasure instantly.

"You gentlemen are up and about early," O'Malley said, rising and extending his hand.

"Early bird and all that," the tall man said. He nodded to the case behind which the doctor stood. "Still snug in there?"

"I was just about to open it."

"Oooh, I just can't wait," murmured the shorter man with asperity.

The doctor undid the locks and lifted the lid, then swung open the side doors so that the contents were revealed. Inside the case a large man lay in a fetal curl, his head swathed in white bandages. He turned his face toward the newcomer and opened his eyes, which were red-rimmed with fatigue and pain.

"Sebastian," he whispered.

Gault smiled down at him and then extended his hands; together he and Dr. O'Malley helped El Mujahid to his feet while Toys hung back by the tent entrance and watched; he wore a smile but it did not reach as far as his cold cat-green eyes. The Fighter was a little unsteady and his bandages were stained with blood seepage, but for all that he still exuded an aura of great animal strength. They helped him into a chair and O'Malley set to work removing the soiled wrappings. The gash was ugly and it disfigured the Fighter's face. Gault privately thought that El Mujahid might have done too thorough a job because his lip had a sneering curl, proof that nerves and muscles had been damaged. All that had really been required was a disfiguring wound; but, he reflected, never tell a tradesman how to do his own job, and El Mujahid's job was mayhem and slaughter. He flicked a glance at Toys, who appeared to be mildly disgusted, but whether it was from the ugly wound or the man whose features it distorted was not clear. Gault figured it was both.

O'Malley gave him a shot for the pain, though El Mujahid appeared not to need it; and he gave him vitamins, antibiotics, and a stimulant. When he had applied a fresh dressing Gault thanked him and suggested the doctor join Nurse Anders outside for a smoke. Toys went with him.

When they were alone, Gault pulled over a folding chair and sat down, bending close to the Fighter. "You did yourself quite a nasty, my friend. Are you sure you can complete the mission? It will be a lot of travel. Another helicopter, a ship, trucks, and all of it in a few quick days. That's enough to tire the average bloke, but with that injury "

The Fighter grunted. "Pain is a tool; it is a whetstone to sharpen resolve."

Gault wasn't sure if that was a quote from scripture, but it sounded good.

"The trigger device is already in the States," Gault said, "in a safe in the hotel room we've booked for you. The combination is Amirah's birthday."

Gault looked for the flash of anger in El Mujahid's eyes, saw it, and mentally nodded to himself. Yes, he thought, he knows about us. It was something Gault had begun to suspect, but he didn't yet understand why El Mujahid was leaving the matter off the table.

Aloud he said, "I suggest you leave it in the safe until the very last minute. We wouldn't want an accident, would we?"

"No," said the Fighter in a soft voice, "we wouldn't want that."

TOYS STOOD JUST beyond the campfire light, lost in the deep black shadows cast by a stand of date palms. He was staring at the entrance to the tent where Gault and El Mujahid were deep in conversation. As soon as he had left the tent his smile had vanished as surely as if some hand had reached into his mind and flicked off a switch. His features changed in the absence of observation. He became a different kind of creature.

"Amirah," he murmured aloud, his lips curling into a feral sneer at the taste of the name. Before Gault had met her, before he'd allowed himself to fall in love with that woman, his friend and employer had been perfect. Brilliant, wonderfully ruthless, efficient and inflexible. In short-beautiful. Now Gault was getting sloppy and he was getting far too confident. Overconfident. Against Toys's frequent cautions Gault was taking unnecessary risks, spinning plans within plans, and all of it because of that mad witch.

"Amirah," he said again.

G.o.d, how he would love to see her bleed.

Chapter Thirty-Six.

Baltimore, Maryland / Tuesday, June 30; 3:25 P.M.

THE FOUR OF them stared at me. Half an hour ago we were strangers and I was beating the c.r.a.p out of them; now I was supposed to lead them on an urban infiltration mission against unknown odds and, very likely, plague-carrying walking corpses. How could I open a dialogue with these men with all of that hanging in the air?

Okay, I thought, if you're going to do this, Buddy boy, then you'd better get it right the first time.

"Attennnn-hun!"

They shot to their feet and snapped to attention with all the speed and precision of career military. I walked up to stand in front of them and gave them all a hard, steady look. "I don't make threats and I don't like speeches, so this one will be short. If you're here then you know what's going on. Maybe some of you know more about this than I do. Whatever. You four are supposed to be the best of a good lot, all active military. Until this afternoon I was a Baltimore police detective. Church says that I'm a captain, but I haven't seen any bars on my collar or a paycheck with 'Captain' Ledger on it, so it might still sound hypothetical to some of you. But from this point on I'm in charge of Echo Team. Anyone who doesn't like it, or doesn't think they can work with me can leave right now without prejudice. Otherwise hold your line. You have one second to decide."

n.o.body moved a muscle.

"That's settled then. Stand at ease." I gave them a quick rundown of my military and law enforcement career, and then told them about my martial arts background. I wrapped it up by saying, "I don't do martial arts for trophies or for fun. I'm a fighter, and I train to win any fight I'm in. I don't believe in rules and I don't believe in fair fights. You want a fair fight, join a boxing club. I also don't believe in dying for my country. I have a kind of General Patton take on that: I think the other guy should die for his. Any of you have problems with that?"

"Hooah," murmured Sergeant Rock, which was more or less Ranger slang for "f.u.c.king-A."

"We may actually be doing a field op as early as tomorrow. We don't have time for male bonding and long nights around a campfire telling tales and listening to a harmonica. They brought us on board to be field ops. First-liners and shooters. We're going to try a quiet infiltration, but if we get a kill order then scared or not we're going to put hair on the walls. When we lock and load, gentlemen, then those living dead motherf.u.c.kers had better start being scared of us because, by G.o.d, sooner or later we are going to wipe them out. Not hurt 'em, not slow 'em down we are going to kill them all. End of speech."

I shifted to stand in front of Sergeant Rock. His dark brown skin was crisscrossed with scars, old and new. "Name and rank."

"First Sergeant Bradley Sims, U.S. Army Rangers, sir."

Sir. That would take some getting used to. "Okay, Top, why are you here?"

"To serve my country, sir." He had that noncom knack of looking straight through an officer without actually making real eye contact.

"Don't kiss my a.s.s. Why are you here?"

Now he looked at me, right into me, and there were all kinds of fires burning in his dark brown eyes. "Few years ago I stepped back from active duty to take a training post at Camp Merrill. While I was there my son Henry was killed in Iraq on the third day of the war. Six days before his nineteenth birthday." He paused. "My daughter Monique lost both her legs in Baghdad last Christmas when a mine blew up under her Bradley. I got no more kids to throw at this thing. I need to tear off a piece of this myself."

"For revenge?"

"I got a nephew in junior year of high school. He wants to join the army. His choice if he enlists or not, but maybe I can do something about the number of threats he might have to face."

I nodded and stepped to the next man. Scarface. "Name and rank."

"Second Lieutenant Oliver Brown, Army, sir."

"Duty?"

"Two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan."

"Action?"

"I was at Debecka Pa.s.s."

That was one of the most significant battles of the second Iraq War. I'd heard a general on CNN call it a "hero maker," and yet the mainstream news barely mentioned it. "Special Forces?"

He nodded. He did it the right way, just an acknowledgment without puffing up with pride. I liked that. "That where you picked up the scar?"

"No, sir, my daddy gave me that when I was sixteen." That was the only time he didn't meet my eyes.

I moved on. Joker. "Read it out," I said.

"CPO Samuel Tyler. U.S. Navy. Friends call me Skip, sir."

"Why?"

He blinked. "Nickname from when I was a kid, sir."

"Let me guess. Your dad was a captain and they called you 'Little Skipper.' "

He flushed bright red. Hole in one.

"SEALS?"

"No, sir. I washed out during h.e.l.l Week."

"Why?"

"They said I was too tall and heavy to be a SEAL."

"You are." Then I threw him a bone. "But I don't think we're going to be doing much long-distance swimming. I need sonsab.i.t.c.hes that can hit hard, hit fast, and hit last. Can you do that?"

"You d.a.m.n right," he said, and then added, "Sir."

I looked at the last guy. Jolly Green Giant. He towered several inches over me and had to go two-sixty, all chest and shoulders, tiny waist. Yet for all the ma.s.s he looked quick rather than bulky. Not like Apeman. One side of his face was still red and swollen from where I'd hit him.

"Give it to me."

"Bunny Rabbit, Force Recon, sir."

I shot him a look. "You think you're f.u.c.king funny?"