AVENGING ANGEL
By
Esther Carney
AVENGING ANGEL Copyright © ESTHER CARNEY 2008
Published by pacefiction at Smashwords
ISBN 978-0-9808521-0-3
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Prologue
January 1997, Kurmia, South America.
Angie Morgan stood on the rocky outcrop, long black hair plastered to her shoulders, peering through the sea of rain. Her features were tense with anxiety. In East Kurmia, it was tricky enough to land an airplane on the best of runways during a hurricane. But their base was hidden amongst the craggy mountains. To find and land on its small airstrip would be no mean feat.
The young mercenary Claude appeared at her side. ‘Quit worrying,’ he shouted in her ear. ‘The Colonel knows this place like the back of his hand. He could come in blind.’
The rain lashed down on them, driven by the wind they knew as the Zonda. Though far from cold, it had force behind it and Angie’s slender frame was braced to resist the buffeting.
‘He might have to,’ she commented grimly, ‘the way the navigation equipment’s been playing up lately.’ She took the binoculars from his hand and lifted them to her eyes, but they were totally useless in this weather. ‘He radioed ten minutes ago. He should’ve been here by now.’ She passed the binoculars back, sheltering in the lee of Claude’s body. ‘I’m going to try and raise him.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ Claude warned the bright twelve-year-old girl standing next to him. ‘The Colonel doesn’t take kindly to disobedience.’ An understatement. The last man who had broken radio silence without an explanation that Colonel Morgan considered adequate had been flogged. Even his own daughter wouldn’t get away unscathed for that offence.
‘Look,’ he reasoned, ‘your father’s a good pilot, the best there is. He’ll be all right.’
His words did nothing to reassure her. Angie fully appreciated how the natural geography of the area, with its craggy mountain peaks, was an asset as far as secrecy was concerned. It hid their large base from their enemies, but also created a death trap for any pilot who wasn’t expert, or who happened to be unlucky enough to be caught in poor weather.
It was true that, apart from Claude himself, Colonel Chad Morgan was the best pilot amongst the mercenaries in the base and it was also true that he demanded total obedience. Angie was saved from having to make a decision, for at that moment her ears detected the muffled throb of engines above the sound of the driving rain.
It took just a couple of minutes in the humvee and they were in the command building. Apart from the hangars, this was the largest structure on their base. As with all their buildings it was solid but basic, constructed of wood, topped with a tin roof covered in camouflage netting. They stood in a large room with a big wooden table in the centre.
Colonel Morgan flung his wet leather jacket over the back of a chair and sat. The storm had abated and he could speak without raising his voice. ‘Nothing doing in Africa, boys,’ he told the men who stood around expectantly. He indicated for the two men who had come back with him to sit. ‘It wasn’t a total waste of time, though. I picked up some new weapons plus our two new recruits. This is Rob Cahn,’ he said, waving his hand at the fair-haired, wiry South African. ‘And Piet Jones.’ He nodded at the smaller man he had brought in.
While Morgan introduced his men to the two new people, Cahn eyed Angie and her mother with a slight smile and thought to himself that perhaps life on this mountain base might not be so dull after all.
Morgan caught the look. ‘I’d like you gentlemen to meet my daughter, Angie, and my wife, Suzanne.’
He looked slowly from Jones to Cahn. ‘Should any man interfere with them in any way, he loses his life.’ He grinned. ‘And not too fast.’
Cahn winced inwardly. Morgan’s tone had been light-hearted but the words were clear enough.
After the announcements people stood around chatting for a while, but eventually, when the others had dispersed, the two recruits were alone. Jones and Cahn stood outside the command building breathing in a combination of cigarette smoke and the damp air.
‘I don’t like it,’ Jones muttered. He’d done his homework before signing up and knew about the Colonel’s reputation, but after the meeting he’d learnt a few more things from the regulars. Now he wasn’t so sure. ‘The guy’s a madman.’
Cahn knew he was referring to Morgan. ‘Yeah, but he pays good.’
‘Still don’t like it. He refused to sign the personal protection clause.’
‘Well, if I get shot through the spine I don’t want anyone carrying me out,’ Cahn said. ‘I’m in it for a good time, not a long time.’
‘I’ll stay for a year or two,’ Jones said. ‘I need the cash.’
Angie wandered past and waved.
‘Hey, kid,’ Cahn called to her.
‘My name’s Angie,’ she said walking over to them.
‘What’re you doing on this base? This ain’t no place for a kid.’
‘I work here.’
Cahn snorted. ‘Yeah, sure. What d’ya do?’
Pushing back her long dark hair she said, ‘I’m one of the Colonel’s snipers amongst other things.’
‘You? You couldn’t even lift a rifle. And even if you fired it a little thing like you would shatter your shoulder.’
‘Well, I can’t shoot the M107 from my shoulder easily, but we normally fix and mount it in position when I’m using it. Mostly for taking out vehicles or other material. It’s very accurate. When we do fire from the shoulder we use an AK. It’s not that heavy and it’s fine for closer work but no good for my stuff. I can fire it easily though. I have it properly seated against my shoulder, and it’s got less of a kick than a twelve-gauge. More of a push. I’ve never broken my shoulder firing one or even got bruised. Even our M40A1 isn’t that heavy. Just under fifteen pounds. We’ve got a couple of military-version Russian SVDs which are light and accurate too.’
‘Yeah, I don’t mind the Dragonov,’ Cahn said. ‘They’ve got a good range on ‘em.’
‘Accurate out to a thousand yards or more,’ Angie noted. ‘And useful when we need a semi-auto. But multiple shots help the enemy find you. For my sniper work I like the Remington 700 bolt action rifle in .308 NATO the best. The ammo is universal. The recoil is manageable and it’s easy for me to carry. I’ve even got the dies and press for it, and reload the cartridges myself. The recoil’s a bit more than the AK but not much.’
‘So can you hit a barn door at ten yards then?’ Cahn asked.
‘I’ve been brought up with guns.’ She eyed him steadily. ‘You?’
‘I know my shit. You’ll all be glad I’m here.’ His eyes fell on her hip holster. ‘What’s your sidearm?’
She took it out and held it for him to see without letting him touch it. ‘A Lady Colt. Present from my dad.’
‘A 45,’ Cahn noted. ‘And you fire that without breaking your hand?’
‘I fired my first 45 Colt when I was eight,’ Jones cut in. ‘Didn’t break my wrist, but the noise when it went off made me gun-shy of it afterwards.’
‘You didn’t like the noise, and now your deal is explosives,’ Cahn said laughing. ‘Kind of funny really.’
‘I like the noise of a .45,’ Angie said. ‘That’s why I wanted one. I thought about trying a .44 Magnum once for the noise, but I watched a guy here fire one and found the revolver about fifteen feet behind him. Left a bruise on his forehead. I like my .45, and I can even fire it one-handed,’ she added. ‘Left and right. Can’t show you here though. It’s not allowed.’
‘Why would you want to?’ Jones asked.
She grinned. ‘Saw it on a movie. It looked really cool.’
‘You realize movies aren’t real, don’t you?’ Cahn asked with a grin.
‘Seems that way. I can’t hit much with one hand, but I like trying.’ As she put her gun away she added a little more quietly, ‘And yes, I get a sore wrist. So, what do you think of our place?’
She’d addressed Cahn, but Jones answered. ‘Never thought I’d sign on with a warlord.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘The Colonel’s a merc!’
‘I ain’t never seen a merc destroy a village with all the civvies still in it.’
‘Well, unfortunately the rebels put their bases in amongst the civilians deliberately. My dad tries to stop it and sometimes killing is the only way. We do humanitarian things too, you know. We once built an airstrip for a village so the Red Cross could get supplies in.’
‘You sure have a taste for big things, girlie,’ Cahn said. ‘Big guns, big words. What else do you like big?’ He dropped his cigarette butt on the ground. ‘Wanta know something, kid? There ain’t nothin’ humanitarian ’bout it. It’s called strategy. Getting the locals onside.’
‘What would you know?’ she asked before walking away.
When Angie was out of earshot Jones said, ‘He’s even teaching his daughter the trade. Has to be a nut, eh?’
‘Sure he is, but a smart one.’
‘Crazy! His little girl? The man’s a total wack.’
‘What’s your problem anyway? You knew his rep before you signed up.’
Jones shrugged. ‘One outfit I worked for used child soldiers. In Africa. Those local kids were value. You fill ‘em up with cocaine, give ‘em names like Killer, and Dark Shadow, and they feel important and do anything. We used to put ‘em in the front line all the time. But what sort of man keeps his own wife and child on a military base?’ he asked, drawing back on his cigarette.
‘All I care about is he pays good. Much more than any other place I’ve ever worked.’
‘Money’s not much use if you’re dead,’ Jones commented. ‘I really don’t like the PP clause not being in the contract. You could sprain an ankle, and your own men will turn round and butcher you.’
‘Doubt it. Did you hear the story ‘bout their guy with the bullet through the spine? They carried him for miles to get him out. Lot of good it did the poor bastard too. Anyway, I never work for anyone I haven’t researched thoroughly, and from what I’ve heard, the Colonel’s a top strategist. Hardly ever loses a man. Be safer than the last crowd we worked for, and far more lucrative. Probably more interesting too.’
‘Yeah, if you like killing people.’
Cahn smiled. He’d heard Morgan’s military encounters were particularly savage and bloody, but for him that was all part of the appeal. ‘I’ll do anything as long as it pays good.’
***
‘Oh, cool!’ Angie exclaimed as she opened the box on her bed. Enthusiastically she pulled out the books and compact disks which Morgan had brought back for her.
‘This’s the music all the kids are listening to these days,’ Morgan said, picking up one of the CDs. ‘So they tell me anyway.’
She’s an attractive little kid, he thought to himself. Her hair was long, straight and shiny, matching her long eyelashes. It was dark, the color of his own, and hung loosely about her shoulders. She never bothered to tie it back unless she was accompanying him on a mission. She had a cute, slightly mischievous smile and a small pert nose that fitted in perfectly with the rest of her face. Although slight of build, she was solidly muscled due to the rigorous physical training which he’d made a part of her daily routine from a very early age. He smiled at her childish delight in the presents.
It was difficult to reconcile this present image with the memory of her in the last unarmed combat training session two months back, when he had proudly watched her take on Croft, a man twice her size and with twice her experience. That was one thing about Angie, she wasn’t afraid to tackle anyone or anything, a quality he admired but also tried to temper with some common sense. Well, Croft always was a little on the slow side, and Angie, on the other hand, had reflexes like lightning. He’d taught her from an early age how to take advantage of an enemy’s weaknesses and turn them against him, and she’d learned well. She’d stayed out of the way until her opponent tired. Croft had lunged at her several times and she’d tripped him with her feet or darted out of the way, and once she’d even flicked him in the face with a sapling then kicked him in the belly causing him to fall. If she had a few more inches on her, he doubted Croft would have finally caught her with his arm and wrestled her to the ground as he had. Truly, she was his daughter, and a reasonable substitute for the son he had wanted but so far failed to conceive.
‘You got me the gun encyclopedia!’ she said happily as she pulled out the three volumes from the bottom of the box, and began flicking through one of them. ‘It even tells you how you can use parts of some types of gun on other ones.’ She checked the bottom of the box to ensure she hadn’t missed anything. ‘What’s our next target?’ she inquired, looking up from her presents.
‘Military,’ he replied.
‘I’m taking up a plane,’ she said firmly, looking him directly in the eyes.
‘Not this time, baby. They’ve got anti-aircraft rocket launchers. It’s too risky for you.’
‘Crap.’ She stood up and faced him. ‘You know I’m one of your best pilots.’
Morgan regarded his pretty twelve-year-old daughter thoughtfully. He was used to his word being taken as final. None of his men ever dared to give him any backtalk, yet somehow Angie always seemed to get away with it. He stared at her silently for a moment. She actually was a good pilot. Claude had taught her well and Morgan was also aware that she had a natural aptitude for flying. When she’d first started out she had to stretch to see over the nose, and had to slide forward in the seat to reach full rudders. Since they’d created a demountable seat extension for her, so she could reach the rudder pedals and hand controls more easily, it was impossible to keep her on the ground. If she’d been a boy he would have encouraged him to fight by his side, to follow in his footsteps. Even to lose a son in battle would not be unbearable. Everyone died eventually, and what better way to go than as a warrior?
However, Angie as a mercenary? He didn’t really like the idea, but Angie was keen to do as he did, and there was something flattering about this. He thought about his wife Suzanne. Suzanne was gentle and beautiful. Tall and lithe with shoulder-length blonde locks of silky soft hair. He’d always found her very attractive. Even with age, her beauty had only been enhanced. Before she dropped out of the sky and landed in his lap he had known nothing but war. No woman before Suzanne had ever given herself to him willingly, and prior to Angie’s birth, he had never held a baby in his arms, although he had sent many an infant to an untimely death.
He was inclined to tell Angie no, but they needed a sniper for this next job and Angie actually was the best they had. Her skills with guns really were remarkable, unrivalled in their base, earning her much admiration from the men, and a degree of jealousy too.
Morgan sighed. ‘Well, kid, you’re twelve now. I guess you’re old enough to know what you want, but if you get yourself killed, I’ll damn well murder you.’ He started to leave, then turned back in the doorway. ‘And you can explain it to your mother because I’m not going to do it.’
She smiled. ‘You’re scared of her, aren’t you?’
‘A touch,’ he reluctantly agreed. ‘You know,’ he said after a moment. ‘She’s still keen on you going back to school.’
Angie frowned. She’d spent a whole year at the Swiss boarding school at the age of seven, returning home only for holidays. It had been the longest year of her life.
‘I’m never going back there. I hated every minute of it.’ The last statement was not quite true. She had enjoyed the company of the other children and had learned to skate and ski. But the class lessons had been dull for someone of her intellect and for much of the time she had been bored stiff.
‘Well, you can explain that to your mother too.’
‘She knows I’m not going back to school. We’ve got a deal. As long as I do my homework, I stay here.’
When he was gone, she sat on her bed with her back to the wall, still smiling at the thought of the great Colonel Chad Morgan being scared of her mother. She picked up his photograph and looked at it. He was younger then, but although now forty-three years old, he still had muscles of iron and a will to match. He remained as handsome now as he ever had been. Even the scar down the left side of his face didn’t detract from his looks. If anything it made him more handsome, more rugged and tough looking. Although everyone told her she had her mother’s eyes, she had her father’s dark hair, and she also shared his passion for action and adventure.
She considered going to tell her mother the news about her mission, then decided it could wait until tomorrow to save her mother at least one sleepless night. Thinking about her mother reminded her that she hadn’t started her homework and, not wishing to displease her more than was absolutely necessary, she sat down with her textbooks and stayed up most of the night studying. For Angie, with a memory that was nearly photographic, studying wasn’t all that hard.
‘Sorry, Mom,’ Angie said firmly after telling her mother the news the next morning. ‘I’m not asking for your permission. Think of it this way. The more experience I get now, the less likely I am to get myself killed later on.’
Suzanne placed Angie’s homework on the table and stood facing her daughter, twisting her fingers together nervously. ‘Angie, I …’ She looked into the distance, as if trying very carefully to find the right words. ‘Don’t you feel anything when you drop those bombs from your airplane? Don’t you ever think about the people below? Your victims?’
‘That’s war, Mom. There’s no room for sentiment.’ She was quoting Morgan as she spoke. ‘It’s our livelihood. Anyway, they’re not victims, they’re the enemy.’ It was not that Angie thought war was a good thing. Some did, she knew. Some of the younger men seemed to really enjoy fighting. The main reason she wanted to be fully involved was because it was what her father, the man she admired most in the whole world, did. Besides that, she wanted to earn her father’s respect.
The day Spike died had really brought home to her what war was all about. Spike had been the camp comedian. His real name was Guy Ellis. Angie never knew how he’d even come to earn the nickname. But that’s what everyone always called him. Spike had been someone who always had a funny story about everything. No matter how miserable you felt, he’d always be able to make you laugh. Everyone on the base liked him.
She recalled the day he died. Six men had returned from a mission. Spike had taken a bullet in the belly and, although conscious, had been unable to move or feel his legs. They’d carried him back over several miles of rough terrain. On returning to base they’d put him in the sick room on a bed. Morgan, who hadn’t gone on the mission, remarked to her that he would have given him a bullet and finished the poor bastard off. At the time she’d been horrified, but in the end her father had proved to be right as usual. Their doctor filled Spike with morphine, giving him injections every hour. The bullet had severed his spinal cord as well as other internal damage. Besides the morphine, the doctor could do nothing and informed them all that even moving him to a hospital would not save him. Despite his horrific injuries, Spike had still joked around with the many concerned friends who kept vigil by his bedside. It was a tribute to his strength of character that even as he lay dying he could still jest.
But eventually Spike asked for a cigarette, asked for whisky, then for courtesy. Angie was glad he had not requested this last favor from her. He’d asked his best friend Billy Bergmann to do the honors. She was glad it was Billy. Well, if Spike had asked her, she would have done it. She would have had to. Amongst their group it was not done to refuse that sort of request. But it would have been hard. Very hard.
That evening, many of the men sat quietly around the campfire, drinking and sharing stories about their memories of Spike.
No, war wasn’t good, she’d decided that night. It didn’t do anything for the world. It gave nothing to anyone. It just took. But, it was there. She couldn’t make it go away, just by wishing. And since it was there, and people were fighting, she would fight too. She couldn’t stand being left out. And she wouldn’t be thought a coward. Not by herself, nor by anyone on the base. If it meant dying, then so be it. Everyone died sooner or later. Besides, she admitted, there were times when it was exciting. Exhilarating even. She knew, with continued training, she could be as good as any man on the base. Morgan would be so proud.
The day after Spike died, they tracked his killer to a small village in the foothills. Morgan’s forces razed the village to the ground. And, although Morgan had not allowed her to get within a hundred yards of the village, she’d helped as eagerly as every other member of the assault team. By the end of the day the enemy had been completely wiped out and the village burnt to the ground. There were no survivors. Angie felt sorry for all the innocent people who’d died, but at least Spike had been avenged. She missed Spike with his funny stories and lighthearted easygoing manner. He’d been a good friend, and the retaliation hadn’t brought him back.
‘I want you to stop and think, Angie.’ Her mother sat on the bench and motioned Angie to join her. ‘Each person in the world has his own life. His dreams, ambitions and loves. He has people who will miss him when he’s gone. He had parents who changed his diapers when he was little, worked hard to see he got everything he needed. They worried about him, protected him from all the stupid little dangers children get themselves into.’
‘No one lives forever,’ Angie commented flatly.
Suzanne frowned. ‘The books I get Dad to bring home to you … haven’t they taught you anything?’
Angie shrugged, not understanding. ‘I like those books, especially the one about Robert,’ she said referring to one of her favorite fiction heroes. ‘He’s just like Dad.’
Her mother didn’t know what to say. Would now be the time to tell her daughter the truth? It was tempting. Tell Angie everything and flee this hellhole. Start a new life. Yet if she did explain the situation, would Angie have the reasoning to know what to do? She was bright but so very young, and so much under Morgan’s sway. Besides, if she waited a few more years, then Angie would acquire more skills. The capabilities she would need to set them both free. And if her daughter were older then perhaps it would be easier to explain the situation to her. But if she waited, maybe Angie would be drawn even further into this abhorrent lifestyle. Become even harder and less receptive to her own way of thinking.
The changes were already happening and it broke her heart to see them. Angie used to be such a sweet innocent child. Now she was becoming tough and cruel. Like Morgan. She killed, seemingly without thinking. If she had any sympathy at all for the enemy, she kept it well hidden. She shared the same bravado as all the men on the base.
Suzanne couldn’t even remember the last time she’d seen Angie cry, even when she’d been hurt. Although not yet as barbaric as Chad Morgan, it was only a matter of time. And the moment Angie learned the truth, Suzanne knew they’d both be plunged into immediate and mortal danger. Nobody crossed Morgan and got away with it. Maybe it was this last aspect which held the most weight in her decision making. If she just had herself to consider she wouldn’t hesitate. Wouldn’t hesitate? Hesitate to do what? Who was she kidding? It would be easier for her to kill herself than to kill Morgan. If she somehow did escape and left him alive he would hunt her down.
Unlike Angie, Suzanne had never held a gun in her life. Morgan had tried to show her once, and it would have been in her interests to try, but the object totally repulsed her and she couldn’t bring herself to even touch the weapon. She hated herself for being so weak. A stronger woman would have done Morgan in and escaped by now. And what was she doing to help their situation? Waiting for her little girl to grow up and take care of it for her. This was crazy. They should leave now.
But to put Angie in so much more danger when she was still so young?
Suzanne’s brow furrowed and she opened her mouth to speak, then stopped. She sighed, then hugged Angie. Perhaps a miracle would happen. Morgan would be killed in battle. United Nations soldiers would rescue them. She just needed to be patient.
‘Look after yourself, honey.’
‘Of course I’ll be careful, Mom,’ Angie said with a smile. She pulled away. ‘Hey, can you come and throw some cans for me. I’ve got a new trick.’
‘What’s that?’ her mother asked, recalling the session last week. Angie had shot tin cans backwards, using both left and right hands, whilst looking at a mirror.
‘Well,’ she replied, her eyes shining with enthusiasm, ‘you know that tyre I swing from? I can shoot the cans while I swing. Left and right handed.’
Suzanne shook her head sadly. ‘I have to mark your homework. You go and show your Dad. But first, let’s see you finish your exercises. You’ve still got a hundred push-ups and ten chin-ups to do today.’ Morgan wanted Angie to be physically fit, and this was one point on which Suzanne never disagreed. Angie had to be strong, both mentally and physically. It was her and Angie’s only chance.
‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ Angie replied with a smile and walked away.
Her mother picked up her daughter’s homework folder and sat down. As she marked she thought back to the days when she used to lecture in physics at Harvard. Many of the first-year students had poorer understanding of the work than Angie did. It just demonstrated that concentrated one-to-one learning was so much more effective than the classroom or the lecture theatre. No, she knew it was more than that. Angie grasped scientific concepts so easily. Her mind just seemed to devour knowledge like a hungry animal. Well, she herself had always liked and excelled at science. That’s why she’d ended up teaching it. But Angie’s abilities were phenomenal. If she hadn’t been born in Kurmia, she could have achieved so much. A brilliant child. And Suzanne was certain that wasn’t merely the subjective opinion of a proud mother. Yet, despite her academic brilliance, Angie was still very much a child. Still simplistic and naive in many ways. And still so very much under the influence of the Colonel.
Suzanne recalled a lecture series she had attended during her university training as part of her curriculum. God, how far away those days seemed now. There had been a very good speaker named Dr Jack Sutherland, from Berkeley, California. ‘The Superchild Lectures: Myth, Method, or Road to Madness’ had been the title of his presentation. And the quote came back to her like it was yesterday. She clearly remembered writing it in her notebook and wondering about the implications.
‘It has been proven that when ethical and emotional constraints are removed, the development of the child can reach unheard-of heights, with, of course, a consequent danger of falling from those same heights.’
Well, if anyone ever was a ‘superchild’, Angie was. She’d have to take Angie to meet Dr Sutherland. He would be fascinated, truly fascinated, and Suzanne knew enough from her studies of childhood development to understand that Angie was going to need extensive deprogramming to get back to some semblance of normality. Perhaps Sutherland would help with that, or if not, at least he would be able to recommend someone who could.
Whoa, slow down, she thought. I’m getting ahead of myself. First things first. Above everything else they had to get out of here. There would be plenty of time later to sort out all the other problems.
***
‘Hey,’ Angie said to Morgan. ‘I’ve got a new gun trick. Want to see it?’
‘Sure.’ He followed her to the riverbank.
‘Howzat?’ Angie asked Morgan after demonstrating her shooting from the swinging tyre.
‘Yeah, good. I’ve got another one for you.’ He took out his revolver and handed it to her butt first, then spun it around suddenly into a firing grip.
‘Hey, that’s good.’
He grinned. ‘It’s called the border roll or road agent’s spin. They used it in the Wild West. Like it?’
‘Show me?’
Morgan showed Angie how to offer the gun in a display of surrender, whilst keeping her finger in the trigger guard.
She tried several times but kept dropping the weapon.
‘Here, look,’ Morgan said, showing her again. ‘Like this.’
Eventually, after several more tries, Angie managed to perform the maneuver without dropping her gun.
‘That’s it. You just need to practise. And speed it up a bit.’ He grinned. ‘Hope you never need to use it.’
The monsoons finally ended and the dry season began. Now the beautiful lush green surroundings gradually gave way to a more arid landscape. Angie learned well the trade of the mercenary. Her wits became sharper, her body became stronger. To please her mother she continued to study her schoolbooks although her interests lay with outdoor activities.
Although it was the dry season, freak storms were one of the vagaries of their tropical climate, and recently there had been several.
One day, a party of mercenaries returned to the base. Among them Angie and Morgan, exhausted after several weeks spent laying mines and ambushing army supply vehicles. On arrival they were greeted with the news there had been an outbreak of fever. Already some of the men had died.
‘Suzanne?’ Morgan asked, his face a mask of anxiety.
‘Yes, she’s got it too,’ the man replied.
‘Where is she?’ he demanded.
‘You can’t see her, the Doc’s put everyone who’s sick in isolation in case it’s contagious.’
Morgan grabbed the man by the collar, practically lifting him off the ground. ‘Where is she?’
‘In hangar three,’ the man gasped. ‘We’ve turned it into a hospital.’
Angie followed Morgan as he ran towards the hangar.
Inside, the room was full of people, some lying on stretchers, some on mats on the floor. When Angie picked out her mother’s face amongst all the others, she was horrified to see how thin and wasted she was. Her eyes were sunken pebbles and her cheeks were hollow and pale yellow.
‘What is this illness?’ Angie asked the doctor, while Morgan knelt by her mother’s side.
‘My microscope was broken. I’ve only just proven it’s malaria but it ain’t responding to quinine. The men just keep dropping no matter what I do. Quinine doesn’t help. Nothing helps.’ His voice was tired. He seemed ten years older than when she had last seen him. ‘At least we don’t need to worry about isolation anymore, now we know what it is.’
‘Has anyone recovered?’ Angie asked the doctor, a cold dread clutching at her heart.
‘Some do. The strong ones.’
‘But it’s only malaria,’ Angie said, not understanding. There’d been a malaria outbreak once before when they’d run out of the preventative medicines. No one had died. ‘You made everyone better last time.’
‘Last time it was Vivax. This time it’s Falciparin, which is a much nastier strain.’
‘But why can’t you cure it?’ she persisted.
‘For the same fucking reason everyone’s got it. It’s resistant to cholorquine.’
Morgan stood up, his eyes ablaze with anger. ‘Why wasn’t she taken to a hospital?’
‘I-It was against orders,’ the doctor stammered. All medivacs had to be approved by Morgan, but because of recent enemy activity near their base he’d requested radio silence.
‘Put her in my plane.’
‘You’ll kill her. She’s too sick now to be moved.’
‘What then? There must be something!’
The doctor nodded. ‘Take a blood sample to the city hospital in West Kurmia and they may be able to analyse it and suggest a treatment.’