The First Bird: Episode 1 tfb-1 Read online

  While the group was gathered together, Max Steinberg got to his feet and cleared his throat. “Good a time as any for the morning’s briefing. I hope everyone slept well?” He grinned, and for the first time Matt noticed that his teeth were a mix of blinding white, gold, and silver. This told him two things. One, this was probably why the man rarely seemed to smile, and two, perhaps it’s not just his teeth. Perhaps the entire man is metal inside — a robot sent from the future to make movies and annoy the CDC.

  Steinberg held out his mug to Kurt, who immediately refilled it. Without waiting for a response to his question, he went on.

  “It will take us about a week, give or take a day, to reach the area where we believe our predecessor encountered the indigenous tribe. Those days will be extremely hazardous, and our guides,” he nodded to both Kurt and Moema, “will be talking to all of you about the rules. I don’t need to mention that you should avoid wandering off from the group, and don’t touch or eat anything that the guys haven’t checked out first.” He paused, looking at each of them individually and nodding, as if expecting everyone to reply with a nod and a “yes, sir!”

  He pointed to Kurt, who was holding what looked like a solar light for the garden — about a foot in length, with a bulb at one end and a plastic spike at the other. “We will be leaving GPS markers as we go. Although the heavy forest canopy means we’re invisible to visual satellite imagers, our mission will still be tracked and mapped, in case we need to call for help — God forbid.” He grinned briefly before once again becoming serious.

  “This here is base camp. Where we’re going is inaccessible from the air. The jungle treetops extend nearly two hundred feet straight up, and do not lend themselves to helicopter landings, so … no chopper is going to be able to land, or even hoist us out. We need to make it back to this point — as I said, our base camp.” He grinned his shiny smile once more. “Should be a walk in the park. Oh, and by the way, when we leave, we leave. If you want to wander off or get lost, then please make your own arrangements for traveling home.” He raised his eyebrows, looking at each individual in turn. No one doubted for a second that he was serious. Beside him, Kurt smirked and looked at Matt.

  Steinberg motioned to his large bodyguard, then stepped back a pace. “If you please, Mr. Douglas.”

  Kurt nodded to his boss, then stepped forward with his hands on his hips, looking like a big-game hunter about to regale them with tales of bagging a killer rhino in Kenya. “How many of you have been in a jungle before?” Most hands were raised. “Good. Okay, now, how many of you have been in the Amazon jungle before?” All hands went down except Matt’s, which Kurt ignored. “Well, this is real life down here. Sitting in an air-conditioned office in New York, or eating sushi in California is not living … this is.”

  Matt heard Jian groan under his breath, and tried hard to suppress a laugh, knowing that he was already on Kurt’s shit list. He didn’t fancy making the guide a real adversary, especially given that he was twice Matt’s size.

  Kurt squared his shoulders and paced, keeping his eyes on the group. “There are no jungles like the Pantanal. This here is one of the last unexplored areas of jungle left in the world. The Amazon is roughly four million square miles. Two hundred and fifty of those are still just a green question mark on a map. That’s where we are now. I guarantee none of you will forget your time in the Gran Chaco Boreal.”

  Matt could tell he was warming to his role — a closet martinet. He nudged Megan, but she ignored him. Kurt had her attention one hundred percent.

  Kurt stopped pacing and stood with his legs planted and arms folded. “The round trip should take no more than twenty days, depending on what we find, and how long we need to kill, capture, or catalog our specimen.”

  “Excuse me. I’d like to remind you that before anyone handles the specimen we need to examine it. That is, if you ever plan to get it back into the United States.” Carla, sitting ramrod straight, directed her question past Kurt to Max Steinberg.

  “Yes, yes, yes.” Steinberg waved his hand dismissively, as though shooing a fly off his lunch. Carla tried to hold his gaze, but Steinberg turned away, bored with the line of questioning. He nodded to Kurt, who cleared his throat. Matt saw Carla’s eyes narrow and her jaws move, as though she was grinding her teeth. He could read the annoyance and distrust, plain on her features. He also wondered briefly who she was referring to when she said “we”.

  Kurt went on. “Remember where you are. Things live and die fast down here … and they die hard. Sure, people enter the Pantanal and come back to tell the story — Mr. Jorghanson showed us that. But for every hundred assholes who wander into the Gran Chaco, only a few ever come back. And Mr. Jorghanson also showed us what can happen to those who do come back. He disrespected the jungle, and it caught up with him … rather unpleasantly, I hear.” Kurt paused and studied their faces before continuing.

  “Okay team, here are the rules. Rule one — down here I make the rules. That’s all you need to know for now.” Kurt grinned. “I’ll tell you the rest as we go. Listen to them, follow them, and hopefully we all find what we’re looking for and be home in a few weeks, sipping champagne and toasting our success.”

  He looked across at Moema and motioned for him to approach. The Brazilian had been standing to one side of the group holding a large roll of paper. Kurt took it and let it unfurl, then handed it back and had the smaller man hold it up, acting as his human clipboard, his small brown fingers clamped around each upper edge. It was a large satellite image of the jungle. Though it showed rivers, some lumpy mountains, and shadows of depressions that could have been valleys, basin plains, or just bad lighting, it was largely green — just green. Kurt tapped the center with his knuckle.

  “Basically, we’re here … and we need to get here.” He moved his finger a couple of inches.

  It didn’t seem like much of a hassle, Matt thought, when you looked at it from a few hundred miles above.

  Kurt tapped again. “We will need to push through plenty of virgin jungle, on foot, of course, and without a track. We will also need to cross a river. We’re heading into the wet season — it hasn’t hit yet, but the river will still be fast flowing, and as you’ve probably noticed, we didn’t bring a canoe.”

  Matt raised his hand. “Will we make them when we get there?”

  Kurt laughed and pulled an incredulous face. “Do I look like MacGyver?”

  Matt nodded vigorously.

  The biologist, van Onertson, looked confused and mouthed, “Who?” to Matt, before shaking his head.

  “No, Professor Kearns, we will be finding shallows and wading … and yes, there will be piranhas, leeches, and crocodiles.” Kurt smiled as Matt’s eyebrows shot up. “In fact, there’s half a dozen species, ranging from the tiny dwarf caiman to the big black river crocs. They can be twenty feet long and as wide as a Buick. And once the wet season hits, you’ve really gotta worry. That’s when they tend to move up and away from the rivers. Makes for a nice surprise, having one of those big fuckers poke its head into your tent at night.”

  He grinned at Matt. “That’d sure interrupt any sweet lovemaking going on.” Kurt straightened, and Matt felt his face go hot. “Okay, if we respect the jungle, it might just respect us back. We pack up now, and I’ll do an inspection before we set off in …” he looked at his wristwatch, “… thirty minutes. Questions?”

  Joop tentatively raised his hand. “How will we know when we’ve arrived?”

  Kurt shook his head and his lip curled momentarily in derision. “Arrived? Jewp, we’ve already arrived.”

  To his credit, the biologist didn’t give up. “But is there an actual destination? How will we know when to stop trekking? Will it be when we find the Ndege Watu, the specimen, or when we run out of patience?” He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head.

  It was a good question; Matt had been wondering the same thing. He doubted they’d come across a sign that said, “You are here”, with a big red arrow pointing to
the ground. Also, lost tribes tended to be a little shy — they were funny like that. That’s probably why they were lost in the first place.

  Kurt started to speak, but Steinberg stepped toward the front of the group and laid his hand on the bigger man’s forearm. “We have Mr. Moema Paraiba and we have Jorghanson’s trip journal, which details the coordinates of his starting point, and gives the directions and timing of his travels. From that, we are able to form a basic travel plan. The rest is in the hands of old lady luck. We need to find the Ndege Watu so they can show us the way to the home of the fantastic creature Dr. Jorghanson brought back, God rest his soul… the creature our CDC friends destroyed.”

  Steinberg avoided looking at the bristling Carla. His mouth was turned down, almost wistfully. “That’s if we can find them, and if we can persuade them to show us the way … and if we can find another specimen … There are a lot of ‘if’s. But by being here, onsite, we give ourselves a good chance of success. Sitting home in LA, we give ourselves nothing more than interesting dinner conversation.”

  Most of the group nodded. They knew he was right. He turned and raised his eyebrows at Kurt, who looked again at his watch.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, final inspection is now in … twenty-six minutes.”

  CHAPTER 11

  CDC headquarters, Druid Hills, Atlanta

  The CDC headquarters was an enormous modern building with an impressive double curved frontage on Houston Mill Road. But the impressive façade masked its true character, which was better identified from the rear. It was a disease-fighting factory, complete with industrial piping and high-intensity incinerator smoke stacks.

  Doctor Francis “Hew” Hewson sat in a long white corridor, bored but still nervous as he waited to be called. He gazed at the rows of historical photographs on the walls — probably intended more as intimidation than decoration.

  The CDC was created under President Roosevelt in 1942, during World War II, as the Office of National Defense and Malaria Control. Malaria had proved a major problem for the US troops fighting in jungles, and was hitching a ride back to the States when the wounded warriors returned home.

  The office changed its name to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, or CDC, in 1992. Its multi-billion dollar budget and expanded brief meant it had now become the nation’s watchdog for almost everything, from food poisoning and occupational health and safety to modern bioterrorism.

  Hew stared hard at the double wooden doors, willing them to open. His foot tapped on the ground and he shifted in the hard seat. Just twelve hours ago he had forwarded his research and results, along with his concerns, to the office of the director. Within an hour he had received a short reply; a few sentences that boiled down to “get here now and explain yourself.”

  He expected, or hoped, that headquarters was as alarmed as he was. Now it was his job to fill in the details, and perhaps be involved in spearheading some sort of national operation.

  His foot tapped faster, from heel to toe now. He wished Carla were here; this was her domain. He leaned forward onto his knees and rubbed his face, thinking of his boss. She would march in, pin them with that gaze of hers, and then blow them out of the room with her forceful logic.

  He sat back. Unfortunately she was down in the jungle, so it was up to him. He hated this part — the politicking, the negotiating and the selling. He guessed that dozens, maybe even hundreds, of scientists and doctors in the field had raised alerts, but probably few had requested what he had — national mobilization. Now it was up to him to justify his request. Dammit, he thought again. Carla should be doing this. She’d twist these guys around her little finger. If only I’d …

  The thought froze in his brain as the doors opened soundlessly, and a smiling woman motioned with her finger and then breathed a few sentences he couldn’t quite hear. Why did she need to whisper? Was the Pope inside? Hew got to his feet and swallowed, making his prominent Adam’s apple bobble on his thin neck. The woman turned and disappeared inside, and he followed.

  Several older men and women were standing around talking quietly, pouring coffee into good-quality bone china. The lengthy wooden table running down the center of the room held piles of notes in front of each seat. As Hew stood waiting, he could see his research on top of the pile.

  The smiling woman silently moved her lips again and led him to the front of the room. Sunk into the table was a recessed electronic panel and a small screen. He looked it over for a few seconds then nodded — he knew what was expected. The panel contained various plug-ins for a dozen different types of media. He pulled a stack of paper and a small memory stick from his briefcase and inserted it into the appropriate jack. Immediately the screen came to life.

  Hew’s fingers moved rapidly over the small keys as he found his information. A flicker from behind told him that his technical fumbling was working — whether he liked it or not, his presentation had begun. He swallowed once again, and sucked in a huge juddering breath. You never get a second chance to make a first impression, his father used to say. Better make the most of it. He worked to slow his breathing.

  The woman leaned in close and placed a glass of water next to his hand. He strained his ears. She smiled, her lips opened, and he waited for something: “good luck”, or “you’ll be fine.” Instead, she whispered, “please be brief,” then turned to one of the silver-haired men and whispered something to him. The man glanced briefly at the screen, then nodded to the woman.

  His gaze returned to Hew, and he spoke, his voice deep and warm. “Dr. Francis Hewson, ready to commence, I believe?” His silver eyebrows were raised.

  Hew nodded, and gave a weak smile.

  “Good man. My name is Dr. Thomas Mason; I have the fortunate — some would say unfortunate — responsibility of being lead director of the CDC.” As he spoke, he walked back to the long table and sat at its head, at the farthest point from the screen. Responding to the signal, the rest of the group ambled over, balancing cups and saucers as they came.

  Hew nodded and smiled some more. He knew the name, but had never seen the man in person. Mason was large and barrel-chested. That could have meant a matching barrel stomach, but that was expertly hidden by the expensive tailoring of his suit. He looked like he’d be quite at home sipping wine at Martha’s Vineyard, or heading up a large corporation in New York, or anywhere in the world, really.

  The older man had a commanding air, but Hew wasn’t going to call him “sir” just yet. He needed to create a sense of authority — he needed them to respect him, and, more importantly, listen to him. He tried to think of how Carla would deal with them, then he nodded to the older man and spoke with as much gravitas as he could muster. “Dr. Mason.”

  Mason motioned open-handed to the screen and sat. He didn’t bother introducing anyone else, and no one seemed in any way inclined to be introduced. The motion was clear enough — begin.

  Hew coughed into his fist and stood back from the screen. He folded his arms, then immediately unfolded them. His nerves were beginning to overcome his attempt at coolness. He lifted the electronic click pointer, and cleared his throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen …” Nerves made his voice higher than it should be. He made a conscious effort to compress his vocal cords and take it down a few octaves. He started again. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a serious problem.”

  * * *

  Jimmy Ruiz slowed as he came to the border crossing. Maria had his American employment card and their passports ready on her lap, but crossing from the USA into Mexico was never a problem. Judging by the small number of cars banked up, their wait would be little more than ten minutes or so — nothing compared to what they’d encounter when they returned.

  Ruiz kept the windows up and the air conditioning on full blast. Already the outside temperature was pushing ninety degrees, and a yellowy haze lifted dryly from the dust and exhaust of the idling vehicles. He touched the temperature knob again, managing to find another hair’s breadth of turn in the dia
l.

  Maria pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders and sneezed theatrically. She had given up asking him to turn it down, instead sitting in irritated, rugged-up silence. Now she had reached the final stage of protest — the physical demonstration of her discomfort by feigning illness.

  Ruiz ignored her. There was no way he could turn down the cooling artificial breeze — it was the only thing giving him relief from the damned itch. His skin crawled, from the roots of his hair all the way down to his greasy scrotum.

  He shifted in his seat, winced, and cursed under his breath. A few days back he had visited one of the local brothels after downing a few beers with his friends. His favorite girl, all big hips and long red hair, had made him feel special, and young, instead of pushing forty with a growing gut and thinning hair. If she had given him something … he cursed some more, this time the soft words passing his lips.

  “What?” Maria broke her silence and turned with a scowl.

  “Nothing, my sweet.” He shifted in his seat and sniffed. He needed a shower; he stunk.

  * * *

  Hew had been speaking for around fifteen minutes, and had only just covered the suspected origination point of the parasite, its primary symptoms and multiple transmission mechanisms. He knew he was going to go over his allotted time, so he spoke faster as he clicked his pointer at the screen, preparing to outline his recommended treatments.

  Mason held up his hand like a traffic cop.

  “Number of deaths to date, Dr. Hewson?”

  “Ahh, forty-eight … known deaths.”

  Mason nodded. “Number currently afflicted?”