Kingdom of Bones, page 5
Charlotte bit her lower lip, searching for any excuse to delay their departure until Benjie could return. The tent had been emptied of most patients. One ICCN truck had already departed with Dr. Poll and the first load. The second truck waited for the last of the patients.
Only one remained in the tent.
Charlotte glanced over to the Luba mother and her son. The woman had refused to leave Charlotte’s side, clearly intent on holding the doctor to her promise to help the child.
Jameson waved Byrne over to the cot. “Get these two into the truck.”
The tall Swiss nurse, soaked and bedraggled in his coveralls, crossed brusquely over. The mother leaned away, shifting her child protectively to the side.
Charlotte blocked the nurse. “I’ll help them. You grab anything else that we might need.”
Byrne looked to Jameson for approval, which rankled Charlotte.
The pediatrician flung his arms in exasperation. “Whatever. Fine. But we’re outta here in five.”
Charlotte shifted over to the mother and gently coaxed her from the bed. “Disanka, hebu tuende. We’ll get your kitwana somewhere safe.”
The mother slid her legs off the cot, cradling her boy. She started to stand—when a flurry of commotion at the tent flap made her flinch back.
Charlotte turned as Ndaye, the leader of the ICCN team, rushed into the tent. The thin, muscular man, in his midthirties, wore a uniform of green camo, a matching cap, and black boots. He carried a rifle slung over a shoulder.
Charlotte looked hopefully at him. The only concession she had managed to get out of Jameson was to allow Ndaye and one of his men to head into the rainy jungle to search for Benjie. Another man followed Ndaye into the tent, but it wasn’t the grad student. The stranger unfolded his gaunt frame, straightening with a dignity that spoke of authority. His exact age was hard to determine, but from his gray braids—swept back by a brightly beaded headband—he had to be in his late seventies or eighties. He wore loose pants and a half-buttoned shirt, exposing a thick necklace that matched his headband.
“This is Woko Bosh,” Ndaye introduced. “An elder shaman of the Kuba—a people who live to the west of here.”
Charlotte noted the glint of sharp intelligence in the man’s eyes. His dress and demeanor were far from what she had expected of such a shaman, whom many still referred to as witch doctors. His calm gaze swept across the tent and settled on Disanka and her child. The man turned back and called sharply past the tent flap.
Ndaye explained, “I found the shaman and his apprentice headed toward our camp in a truck. He had already been en route to this region, drawn two days ago by rumors of a great sickness, one spreading through the forest, afflicting both men and the jungle itself.”
“So, this must be happening in other places, too,” Jameson said.
“Apparently,” Ndaye confirmed. His eyes shone with worry. The ICCN leader had grown up here, but he had also been educated in England for a time, earning a degree in anthropology. He had returned with a bit of a British accent. “Despite the various tribes and warring factions out here, the jungle has an efficient means of communication. It always has. Spreading from mouth to mouth, news can travel swiftly throughout the forest.”
Charlotte stepped closer. “But why did the shaman travel to our camp?”
“According to him, he sought to confirm the presence of an ancient enemy. One his people fought long ago. He claims to—”
Thunder boomed outside, cutting off the man’s words. Winds kicked up, shaking the tent’s fabric.
“Enough,” Jameson said as the gust ended. “We don’t have time for this nonsense.”
Charlotte held up a hand, willing to listen—not that she necessarily believed any of this, but if it bought Benjie more time to get back to camp, all the better. “We should hear him out. The indigenous people of the Congo have lived in these forests for millennia on end. If they have any knowledge about what’s happening here, we shouldn’t discount it.”
Ndaye concurred. “The tribes have an ageless oral tradition, going back to a time blurred between history and mythology.”
Charlotte nodded. Before coming here, she had read about the Congo’s past. The earliest inhabitants—the pygmy tribes—had arrived during the Upper Paleolithic Period, around forty thousand years ago.
A small shape burst into the tent, but it wasn’t a pygmy native. It was a young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen. He was soaked, his boots muddy, wearing only shorts and a T-shirt, and a blue JanSport backpack. He spoke rapidly in a dialect that Charlotte didn’t know. He held aloft a tarp-wrapped parcel.
“This is Faraji,” Ndaye introduced. “Woko Bosh’s nephew and apprentice.”
The shaman took the package, knelt down, and unwrapped it. Inside was an intricately carved wooden mask, maybe a funereal object. It was elaborately decorated in shells, ivory, and painted seeds. It was also adorned with filigreed iron, and a few brighter strands that had to be gold, delineating eyebrows and eyelashes. It was a stunning masterwork of tribal craftsmanship, though the subject was unusual.
While the mask’s face was similar to most African figures, done in a stylized form, the carving depicted no ceremonial headdress or crown. Instead, the bust was topped by a domed helmet, all adorned in white shells. It looked more colonial than tribal.
Before Charlotte could comment on it, Woko lifted off the mask’s face, revealing the object was actually a hollow case of some sort.
Ndaye softly gasped. “It is a ngedi nu ntey . . .”
Charlotte glanced to him.
“A sacred Kuba Box,” he explained. “Their people are known for crafting such objects, many of which adorn museums around the world. They use the boxes to preserve tukula, ritual pastes and powders, along with other ceremonial tools used in healing, burials, anything of high importance.”
Woko reached inside and removed a carved idol, which he passed to his apprentice. Faraji held the object as if it were a deadly viper, barely letting his fingers touch it. It was a wooden figure of a man standing stiff and tall. The face had been ebonized to a dark sheen, while the stylized outfit was painted white, flecked by age. Again, the clothing did not look tribal, more like a suit and a pith helmet.
This must be the man depicted on the mask.
Ndaye nodded to it. “A ndop figure. Such depictions are reserved for the kings of the tribe.”
“Who is it, then?” Charlotte asked.
Faraji overheard her and answered in English, proving his fluency. “He shepherd.”
Charlotte frowned. Why did the Kuba carve a figure of a shepherd? She tipped higher on her toes to peer into the box. From its apparent age, it looked to be a relic from another century, possibly dating back to colonial times. The wood also looked unusual, maybe ebony, but veined in silver, tiny knots of which formed the figure’s eyes.
Inside the box, the figurine had been holding down a stack of small squarish papers, stiff and yellowed with age. She spotted a few scribbled lines of writing on the topmost one.
As Woko rooted at one end of the box, the neat stack shifted, revealing a corner of an old black-and-white photo. The entire pile below appeared to be more of the same. Except, under the stack, a folded print of a colored map had been tucked at the bottom.
Before she could discern more, Woko stood up and blocked her view. He turned, holding aloft a stoppered glass vial filled with a grainy yellow powder.
Charlotte remembered Ndaye’s description of these ngedi nu ntey, how such boxes preserved sacred pastes and powders.
What was it?
With strong, deft fingers, Woko twisted out the rubber stopper. He shoved through the gathered group and crossed toward Disanka and her baby. As he approached the cot, he shook a drab of powder into his palm. He spoke softly but firmly to the mother, who at first looked scared, then began to nod.
If nothing else, this witch doctor had a better bedside manner than Jameson.
“What does he think he’s doing?” the pediatrician asked, looking ready to intervene.
Charlotte stopped him with a touch. “Leave them be.”
She sensed Western medicine had no place here.
Disanka cupped the back of her son’s head and lifted his little face higher. The child showed no sign of awareness, not even an eyelid blinked.
Woko leaned closer and blew the powder across the boy’s lips and into his nose. Charlotte hoped for a sneeze, for any sign of a reaction from the child. But nothing happened. Disanka stared down at her son, clearly praying for the same, but even she grew forlorn at the lack of response.
Jameson scoffed. “We’re wasting time. Let the shaman come with us if he wants, but we’re leaving now.”
Woko ignored him and stepped past the pediatrician. Charlotte expected the shaman to return to the box, but instead, he whispered to his apprentice and continued to the front of the tent. Faraji returned the figurine to its case and carefully replaced the lid. As the boy set about rewrapping the mask and returning it to his backpack, Woko bent down by the tent flap, which had been left open.
Trails of ants had already invaded the space, seeking refuge from the rain, exploring in all directions. Woko gathered a pinch of the powder in his fingertips, then sprinkled the grains over one of the black trails. The effect was instantaneous. The ants fled in all directions, scurrying madly to get away. A few simply curled up dead.
Woko studied his work for a breath, then nodded, as if satisfied. Still, when he straightened and turned, lines of worry etched his face.
Jameson sighed loudly, plainly done with all this. “Big deal. So it’s some sort of insecticide or ant repellant. So what?”
The answer came from behind them all.
A loud bawling rose from the cot. They all turned. Disanka clutched her boy harder. The child still lay dazed and weak in her arms, but his eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth wailed, revealing a tiny curl of pink tongue.
Charlotte gasped. “The powder . . . it’s waking him. Maybe it’s a cure of some sort.”
Jameson scowled his disdain. “We can’t know that. It might just be a nasal irritant that triggered a pained response. Either way, we must—”
A loud slap of boots on mud drew them all around. A shape skidded past the flap opening—then scrambled back into the tent’s pool of lamplight. A gunshot cracked in the distance as Benjie shoved inside. His coveralls were torn; a mini GoPro camera hung crookedly by his ear. Panic blanched his face. He shouted one word of warning.
“Run!”
4
April 23, 9:15 P.M. GMT
Airborne over the North Atlantic Ocean
From the height of thirty thousand feet, Commander Gray Pierce watched the shadowy coastline of Africa grow steadily ahead of him, lit by the glow of a small coastal town. The private jet—a Cessna Citation X+—raced across the black waters of the Atlantic toward those lights, but they wouldn’t be stopping at that town.
An hour ago, they had touched down and refueled at the Cape Verde islands, the midpoint of their journey to the Democratic Republic of the Congo. They still had another five hours of flying to reach the town of Kisangani, almost smack-dab in the middle of the continent.
The literal heart of Africa . . .
A chime sounded from the digital pad propped up on the small teak table in front of his leather chair. He sighed as the encrypted satellite connection was made to Sigma command in D.C. He straightened and picked up the pad. A window opened on the screen, and an image pixelated, then settled into the familiar face of Director Painter Crowe.
Gray’s boss sat behind his desk. The director had shed his usual blue suit jacket and sat with his tie pulled loose and his shirt’s top button undone. He looked exasperated and combed fingers through his black hair and shifted a single white lock behind an ear, as if tucking in an eagle feather. Painter’s Native American heritage shone from the burnished planes of his face, though his silver-blue eyes marked his multiracial heritage.
“Director, we’re almost to the coast,” Gray said. “You said to check in for any change in status with the situation on the ground.”
“Good. I have a few updates. Disturbing ones, in fact. I’m waiting for Kat to loop in. In the meantime, how’s our medical team faring?”
“They’re boning up as quickly they can, trying to cover all their bases before we land.”
Gray glanced to the pair of chairs at the cabin’s front. His friend and fellow Sigma teammate, Monk Kokkalis, had his head bent across a table from Dr. Lisa Cummings, the director’s wife. The woman had a background in medicine and epidemiology. If whatever was happening in that dark heart of Africa was truly a contagion, then her knowledge of diseases and patterns of transmission could prove vital.
Monk, on the other hand, was former Special Forces. Though he had shed his uniform with the Green Berets years ago, he still maintained his muscular bulk and kept his head shaved smooth. He now wore jeans, boots, and a tight-fitted T-shirt with a bulldog growling on it, a countenance not all that dissimilar to the man’s own face. But that tough exterior hid a mind as sharp and quick as any chess champion. After joining Sigma, the former medic had been retrained in the biological sciences, earning a master’s degree in biomedicine. He also played a mean pickup game, often besting Gray on the court, even though Monk only stood shoulder-high to Gray.
Painter glanced to the side. “Looks like Kat’s ready.” Another window opened on the screen, revealing the slightly freckled countenance and dark auburn coif of Kathryn Bryant, Sigma’s intelligence analyst. “Maybe you’d better call Monk and Lisa over to listen to what she has to say.”
“Will do.”
Gray motioned to the two, who had already overheard the director’s suggestion. They took the seats opposite Gray, while he shifted the pad, so they could all get a proper view.
Monk waved to Kat. The pair were married, with two young girls. “How’re Harriet and Penny?”
“Missing their daddy already. I think they blame me for you leaving again.”
“Duty calls,” he said with an apologetic smile.
“More like the Smithsonian demands,” she countered.
After a frantic call had reached D.C. from a U.N. relief camp, word of a possible viral contagion had spread throughout the Institution’s network. With much of the world still recovering from the last pandemic, the scientific community had become hypervigilant. No one was going to risk another plague sweeping the world.
The director of the Smithsonian Global Health Program—a board-certified zoo veterinarian—had first sounded the alarm. Global Health was part of the Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute, affiliated with the National Zoo. Their mission was to address the rising health crises involving humans, wildlife, and the greater environment. They named their approach One Health, recognizing how inextricably bound humans and animals were to the well-being of all. In fact, 75 percent of all emerging diseases in the past century—Ebola, HIV, COVID-19—all passed to the human population from animals, a method known as zoonotic transmission. So, it only made sense to continually monitor wildlife populations and prepare for the next threat.
Like what might be happening in the Congo.
Still, this investigation might prove to be a false alarm. For the moment, it was only a potential threat. Sigma had only become involved because of its own intimate ties with the Smithsonian Institution. Sigma’s headquarters were buried beneath the Smithsonian Castle on the National Mall. The location was chosen due to its proximity to both the extensive research labs of the Institution and to the neighboring halls of power in D.C., which served the group well.
Sigma Force operated covertly under the auspices of DARPA, the Defense Department’s research-and-development agency. They were all former Special Forces soldiers, recruited in secret by Sigma and trained in various scientific disciplines to act as field agents, protecting the United States and the globe against all manner of threats. Their name arose from the Greek letter ∑, which represented the “sum of the best,” the merging of brain and brawn, of soldier and scientist. Their motto was a simple one: Be there first.
Following that directive, Director Crowe had rallied Sigma when word reached the Smithsonian about a possible emerging threat. He had immediately enlisted an associate who had helped them in the past—a former Army Ranger—who was already in Africa. Captain Tucker Wayne had agreed to secure the Global Health veterinarian and get him onsite until Sigma could reach the continent. Whether this threat proved to be real or not, Sigma intended to be there first, ready to find out.
“Any word from Captain Wayne?” Lisa asked, leaning closer. She had her blond hair tied back in a ponytail. A pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. “Was he able to find Dr. Whitaker?”
Painter nodded. “They’re already en route to Kisangani. They should be landing within the hour and will airlift via helicopter to the campsite.”
“Wait,” Monk said. “I thought the plan was for all of us to rendezvous at the University of Kisangani and set up a base of operations there first.”
“You’re still five hours out,” Painter explained. “And a series of thunderstorms is rolling through the area. All that lightning will ground any helicopters. To avoid any further delay, Tucker has agreed to try to duck under that storm before it hits. Especially after the latest word out of the camp.”
“What word?” Gray asked.
“Two hours ago, there was another garbled radio call. From the same doctor working there. Gunfire could be heard in the background. The doctor warned against anyone going out to that camp.”
“Then maybe Tucker should wait for us,” Gray warned. “Who knows what mess he and that researcher might be flying into?”
“I’ve taken that into account. FARDC—the Congolese military—is flying in ahead of them. Everyone’s rushing that storm. Only after an all-clear from the Congolese army will Tucker proceed. The FARDC team should be lifting off from Kisangani as we speak.”
