Genocide of One: A Thriller (34 page)

These people were probably the ones in the other video, he thought, and switched back
to the first screen. The image was still blurry, probably because it was taken by
someone who was running as he filmed. For an instant a muscular Caucasian man appeared
in the center of the screen. He was carrying a rifle. The man looked at the camera
and yelled, in English, “What the hell are you doing?”

Kento was startled, as if the man were yelling at him, and he closely followed the
images. “We haven’t made a connection yet,” another voice replied, and a man’s heavily
bearded face loomed into view. The man who was running with the camera. The man, wearing
a headset, stared closely at the camera, as if he could actually see Kento. “Are you
Kento Koga?” he asked.

Unsure what was going on, Kento replied in English. “Yes.”

“I can see you from here, too,” the man gasped as he continued to run, shifting in
and out of view. “This is an Internet videophone.”

Kento looked up at the top of the laptop and saw that the internal camera was lit
up. The man was seeing him in his Machida apartment in real time. “Who are you?”

“Nigel Pierce. I was a friend of your father.”

“My father?” Kento peered at the man on the screen and saw that he was agitated. His
eyes were unblinking and terrified.

“Halt!” a voice offscreen shouted, that of the man with the rifle, and the camera
stopped moving. “What’s the situation?” the deep voice said, irritated.

Pierce turned to Kento and spoke rapidly. “Switch your screen to the satellite view.
We don’t have time to check it ourselves, so just tell me what you see.”

Kento switched over the screen as Poppy had instructed him. Nigel Pierce disappeared,
replaced again by the view from the satellite. The audio, though, remained the same.

“We’re in the center of your screen. Can you see other white dots?”

“They appear and disappear.”

“What is the direction and distance?”

Kento struggled to interpret the scale. “Northeast one kilometer, and southeast nine
hundred meters. And a moment ago I saw another dot to the east.”

“Three groups?” Pierce was clearly shocked. He asked another question, but his voice
shook so badly that Kento couldn’t make out the English.

“What did you say?” he asked several times, and another voice came on. Surprisingly,
a native speaker of Japanese.

“Where are the ones to the east? What distance?”

The man’s tone sounded threatening. Kento was puzzled about who it was, but responded
in his native language.

“About two minutes ago, the distance is, uh—about five hundred meters.”

“Don’t tell me
about
, tell me
exactly
.”

Kento was offended. “I can’t tell you that.”

“You idiot,” the unseen Japanese railed. “Can you see the dots now?”

“No. They’re hidden under the trees.”

“Continue giving us updates,” the Japanese man’s voice commanded, then faded away.
Pierce was back, in English.

“Kento, did you talk with Lydia Yeager?”

Kento found it hard to follow this abrupt change in topic. “I—I did,” he finally said.

“Is her son, Justin, still alive?”

“Yes,” Kento replied, and sensed another presence in his room. Startled, he looked
up and saw Jeong-hoon standing at the front door. He’d told Jeong-hoon to just come
in without knocking. Jeong-hoon was smiling, wondering what was going on.

“Would you stay there?” Kento said, motioning to Jeong-hoon to stand back, and Pierce,
sounding suspicious, asked, “Is somebody else there with you?”

“No,” Kento quickly lied.
Do it alone, without telling anyone.
He couldn’t let them know he was betraying his father’s final instructions. “It’s
just me.”

“Okay, then. Give me another update. In English.”

“All right.”

“Are the dots getting closer to the center of the screen?”

Kento turned back to the computer display, but all he could see now was the dark shadow
of trees. “I don’t know. They’re all under the trees now.”

A groan filtered out through the speakers, a mix of distress and impatience.

“When the white dots reappear, tell me,” Pierce said, and turned to Yeager. “Justin’s
still alive.”

With all the tension he was feeling from the enemy pursuit, Yeager was caught off
guard by this news. “Who were you communicating with?”

“An ally in Japan.”

Of all people, Yeager thought bitterly. Why does it have to be Japs? If they got to
Japan, wouldn’t it all be a bunch of bastards like Mick waiting for them? “Did you
find out where the enemy is?”

Pierce shook his head, his face pale. “They disappeared under the trees.”

“Quiet,” Mick said, concerned about what was to the east. “Those militia troops must
be on to us. They might catch up with us any minute.”

They were now facing three different groups of enemies. Other armed groups approaching
from north and south of Amanbere village had entered the jungle to hunt them down.

“Then let’s head southwest.”

Pierce translated Yeager’s command to Esimo, who replied in a low voice. Pierce frowned
and quietly told the rest of them what he’d said. “Hold on. Esimo said we should sit
tight. He seems to have pinpointed the enemies’ positions.”

“What’d you say?”

The mercenaries looked down at the little man, no bigger than a child to them. Esimo
was like a changed person, down on one knee, unmoving. The usual sad expression on
his face had vanished, replaced by a distant, aloof sense, as if the mysterious power
of the jungle now resided within him. Eyes narrowed, he slowly moved his head from
side to side like an antenna. Yeager realized he was heightening his sense of hearing.

Esimo reached out an arm, pointed in three directions—northeast, east, and southeast—and
whispered something to Pierce.

“The enemy to the east is the closest,” Pierce said, interpreting. The terrified anthropologist’s
shoulders were trembling as he slowly lay down on the ground. “They’re within the
range where the Pygmies use nets, within two hundred meters.”

The others all got down low and aimed their rifles at the dense trees.

“Yeager.”

At Meyers’s whisper Yeager turned to the side and found Akili tugging at the sleeve
of the medic’s combat uniform. “Seems like Akili wants to say something.”

Pierce pushed the small laptop in front of Akili. The boy began typing, and Yeager
read out the message.

Yeager immediately knew what Akili was thinking. A diversion. Yeager was amazed a
tiny child could come up with an idea like this.

“Will it work?”

The three-year-old tactician nodded.

“Are you sure? Won’t it just give away our position?” he insisted, but Akili’s face
remained full of confidence. Yeager was overwhelmed by the glint of brutality in his
eyes. Yeager was uneasy, apprehensive that a hatred toward humans was quickly growing
in the child’s heart.

Akili gave a second command.
Throw the grenades fifty meters in front of you. Hurry.

Yeager, rifle in hand, quietly made his way into the jungle. The remaining three mercenaries
took up a defensive position. Yeager started to hear the approaching militia. The
enemy was less than a hundred meters away.

He removed a grenade from his tactical gear, pulled the pin, and threw it, aiming
for the spot Akili had designated. As the grenade described a parabola above them,
they all hit the ground. The grenade soundlessly dropped onto the humus-rich soil;
there was a second of silence, then the explosion hit. Countless metal fragments ripped
through the surrounding trees and immediately, diagonally left and forward of his
position, at ten o’clock, there was a roar of automatic fire. The militia, which had
come so close to them, were firing in the direction of the grenade explosion. The
hail of bullets from the side ripped apart the leaves on the trees, sending them swirling
to the ground. More firing came from the front, but this time from the right. Two
armed groups approaching from different directions were firing, shooting at each other
over the spot where the grenade exploded.

From partial information Akili had correctly predicted the movement of these two groups.
Astonished at the child’s ability, Yeager made his way back to the others. He didn’t
need to worry about making any noise now. The group left this spot and headed toward
the southwest.

They ran on, so hard they could feel their muscles groan as they plunged through the
forest. Pierce, communicating with their Japanese “ally,” reported that the third
enemy group, to the northeast, was heading their way. But as they forged ahead under
the thick foliage, trying to avoid detection by the satellite, they couldn’t determine
their present location. Without an accurate readout of latitude and longitude, they
had no idea how far away or in what direction the enemy was positioned.

Esimo’s sense of direction was all they could rely on. The Mbuti, adapted to life
in the jungle, was able, to an amazing degree, to retrace the route they had taken
in the morning. One by one he gathered up the leaves he’d used as markers at strategic
points, and an hour into their flight the jungle finally came to an end and they emerged
on the banks of the Ituri River.

If only they could cross the river they could shake off the enemy’s pursuit. But as
they took a short breather Yeager looked over at the opposite shore, about a hundred
meters away, and was shocked to see the dugout canoe over there. Local people had
apparently used the boat themselves to cross over and had left it there.

“Where’s another boat?” Yeager asked Esimo, through Pierce’s translation.

Pierce translated his response into English. “There are boats upstream and downstream,
but they’re far away. It’ll take too long to walk there.”

“I’ve pinpointed our location,” Garrett said, pointing to a bend in the river on the
map. “We’re right here. What’s the enemy doing?”

Through his headset Pierce communicated with Japan and then looked at the map. “This
is info from three minutes ago. The enemy is here.”

He pointed to a spot two kilometers behind their position. It was along the same route
they’d taken.

“They’re on our trail,” Mick said. “We have twenty minutes before they catch up.”

Yeager exchanged glances with the others and was conscious of eyes watching him. Two
huge eyes silently observing this human being. Yeager began taking off his heavy equipment
and laying it on the ground. “I’ll go get the boat.”

Pierce raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to swim? I told you—there are crocodiles.”

“Then say a prayer for me.”

With just his pistol in his leg holster Yeager stood on the muddy bank. The rough
surface of the river rushed downstream. The water was too dirty to see what lay beneath
it.

As he stepped into the lukewarm water in his trekking boots Meyers yelled for him
to stop. “Insurance,” he said. “Fire in the hole!”

Meyers threw a grenade about ten meters offshore. There was a muffled explosion, and,
with a flash, the water rose up, a bulge becoming a straight line. A pack of crocodiles,
about ten of them. Half of them twisted their huge bodies and slithered up the banks.
The mercenaries held up their rifles and formed a protective circle around Pierce
and the Mbuti father and son. Yeager was grateful to Meyers for his quick thinking
and plunged into the river.

He did the crawl, moving through the muddy water. The current was much stronger than
it had looked. If he relaxed for even an instant he’d be dragged far downstream. As
he swam with every ounce of strength through the opaque water, something bumped against
his stomach. He could feel through his shirt that it was something alive. Probably
a fish. Not a crocodile. He focused on his goal, holding the panic in check. He had
to reach the far shore and save his companions. He had to show Akili that people like
this did exist.

As he passed the middle of the wide river his clothes started getting waterlogged.
Strangely, the physical pain made him accept everything else he’d ever suffered in
his life. His parents’ divorce, signing up for the army, his precious son’s battle
with an incurable disease—all he had struggled with in life was condensed in the weight
and pressure of this muddy water.
Fine
. Yeager spat out the word as he struggled through the water. I
will
cross this river. Not for anyone else, but for Justin.

If only he could show Justin, not Akili, what he was doing. This is what your father
is willing to do for you—risk drowning in order to save your life.

He treaded water, greedily gulping down air, and when he wiped the dirty water off
his face the shore was surprisingly close. Less than twenty meters. He willed himself
the rest of the way, until finally his feet and hands touched the muddy bottom. On
all fours, gasping for breath, Yeager pulled himself to his feet. He looked left and
right to see where he’d swum to. He’d drifted far downstream, away from the canoe.
He needed to hurry across in the boat and get Akili and the others to the other side.

Yeager was running through the muddy shallows when in front of him a huge mouth opened
wide. The crocodile’s mammoth snout closed and opened like a spring-loaded trap and
darted forward to snap at its prey. Yeager, pistol already drawn, pointed it at the
croc’s head and fired rapidly. The first five shots shredded its nervous system. Its
brain function gone, the huge, writhing body sent up a sheet of spray as it leaped
into the air. Yeager fired off a coup de grâce of five more shots.

Yeager looked down at motionless monster, its hard skin dripping blood. “That’s what
you get for messing with me,” he muttered.

Kento had been staring at the satellite image so long that he had no idea how the
Congo war on the ground was going. The occasional voices came over the speakers, but
a low, groaning background noise drowned them out, and he couldn’t catch what they
were saying.