“What about our new friend here?” Melvin asked True.
“Garret came by this morning. He had some translation software on his laptop so we could talk a little bit. From what I understand, Dong was a farmer’s kid. Came from a family of rice farmers. He lived in some rural village that I can’t even pronounce. They were isolated, none of his family got infected. The villagers, there were only a dozen or so, knew something bad had happened, so they kept themselves separated. It was like that for a few years, but then soldiers came and rounded them up. He was in a camp for several days and then they were conscripted into the military and brought to America by ship. He was told that the Americans created the plague and they had to wipe it out. He claimed not to know anything else.”
“Have you figured out how old he is?” Melvin asked.
“He said he thinks he’s nineteen, which means he was just a snot-nosed kid when everything went bad,” True said.
Melvin had been casually studying Dong as True spoke. Dong in turn stared intensely at True, occasionally nodding. Melvin couldn’t decide if it was an act, if Dong did indeed understand what True was saying, or if he was acting like he understood in an attempt to fit in.
“What do you think, Dong?” Melvin asked.
Dong grinned and bobbed his head, causing Prairie to grin. Melvin smiled, but continued studying the little man. He sensed Dong was holding back. If that was the case, he wondered if it was going to be necessary to use other means to get him to talk.
He could waterboard the man. Back when he was on the teams, he watched some CIA goons do it to a high-ranking Taliban scumbag. It was a rather simple method of torture and left no permanent physical damage. He watched as Dong made a goofy face at Prairie, who was not giggling uncontrollably.
Melvin found himself grinning as well. No, he wouldn’t torture the man. Any pertinent information the little man may have, they were going to tease it out of him. It would take a while, but it’d work. He’d work out the details with True later.
“Alright, the little princess and I are going to grab a mid-morning snack at the cafeteria. You guys want me to bring you anything?”
“Snack?” Dong asked with a hopeful expression.
Melvin smirked. “Yeah, I got it. I’ll be back in a few.”
Chapter 41 – The Big Meeting
Captain Justin Smithson and Doctor Stephen Kincaid stopped their vehicle at the main gate of Mount Weather. Justin rolled down his window as Melvin and True walked out. Little Prairie was tagging along, along with a small framed Asian man they did not recognize. All were dressed for warmth, including the Asian man who was wearing a brown jacket with sleeves that were at least six inches longer than his arms.
“Good morning,” Justin greeted.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Melvin rejoined.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Prairie repeated.
Justin grinned at the little girl and eyed Dong. “Is this the one I’ve heard about?”
“Yep, his name’s Dong,” Melvin said.
“I’m Dong,” Dong repeated with his usual grin.
“You guys let him run around free?”
“Nope. One of us is always with him. Right, Dong?” Melvin asked. Dong grinned and bobbed his head up and down.
“Does he understand?” Justin asked.
“A little bit. We can talk more about it later.”
“Yeah, I’d like that. I haven’t seen the mission report,” Justin said.
Melvin stared a moment, and then at Prairie. “Sweetie, True and I are going to step away for a few minutes. You and Dong stay here. If anyone drives up, let me know.”
“Okay,” Prairie said sweetly.
The four men walked several yards away before Melvin spoke. “I gave VanAllen and Rhinehart a briefing earlier this morning. I had a detailed report, but they insisted I keep it short. They weren’t interested in the details.”
“I’d like to hear about it,” Justin said.
“Me too,” Stephen said.
Melvin and True spent the next ten minutes telling them about Cincinnati. They paused in conversation as they watched a dirty black Chevy Tahoe approaching. It stopped behind Justin’s SUV and two men got out.
“Lookee there, it’s Roscoe and Johnny G,” Melvin remarked. “There’s nothing on today’s schedule saying they’re coming. Let’s go say hello and see what’s up.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Roscoe greeted as soon as the men approached.
“Same to you. Were you guys called to the meeting too?” Justin asked.
“Yep, and we were not told what it’s about, unless you’re going to give a mission summary,” Roscoe said to Melvin.
“I honestly don’t know if I am or not,” Melvin replied. “Before you guys drove up, I was telling the Captain I gave the prez and veep a briefing this morning, but it was by no means complete.” Melvin recounted the briefing, which took all of five minutes.
“So, they’re all infected?” Johnny G asked.
“All except him,” Melvin said, pointing at Dong and explained why Dong was now at Mount Weather and not an infected zed.
“What’s he saying?” Johnny G asked.
“Not a whole lot,” Melvin replied and repeated what they had learned from Dong.
“We haven’t gotten a lot out of him because of the language barrier. He acts like he only knows a few words of English here and there. Time will tell if he’s genuinely ignorant or he’s good at playing dumb and there’s more to him.”
Johnny G understood and stared at Dong, who seemed embarrassed by the attention.
“Say, do you speak Mandarin?” Melvin asked Johnny G.
Johnny shrugged. “Only a word or two. Not enough to give him a thorough interview.”
“I know you two will figure him out,” Roscoe said and changed the subject.
“Well, the meeting is in thirty minutes. I’d like to go by the cafeteria and get some of that spiced tea first.”
“You know, I have a hankering for another cup myself,” Melvin said. He then turned to True. “If you’d rather sit in on the meeting, I can spell you here.”
True shook his head. “Dong is better company than some of those people.”
The men parked their vehicles in the designated area and walked with Melvin to the cafeteria. There was a dozen or so present, but the ambience seemed reserved, somber. Roscoe looked around.
“Doesn’t seem to be much in the way of a Thanksgiving atmosphere,” he said.
Melvin grunted. “It didn’t come from me, but Lydia said VanAllen told her to not organize any kind of event or feast. He told her a lot of people had complained about having to go through an outdated ritual, but I don’t believe it. A few folks are giving us a welcome home party later this evening, but that’s it.”
“Everyone seems tense,” Johnny G murmured.
“Yeah,” Melvin replied but offered no opinion why.
“It’d be nice to have been given advance notice of what the talking points are going to be about,” Roscoe said in the same hushed voice.
“All I can say is that I was told my presence was welcome, but not needed. Savannah said last night the man was in the cafeteria going on a drunken rant about Zach. It seems he’s become obsessed with the man. I’m not sure, but I think I caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath during this morning’s briefing. Things are different around here nowadays.” Melvin glanced at the clock on the wall. “Anyway, it’s almost ten.”
The five men got glasses of spiced tea and quickstepped to the big conference room. They found seats and looked around.
“There’s a lot of people here,” Johnny G whispered to Roscoe, who merely nodded.
“I thought this was going to be a small meeting between us and the president,” Stephen said in a low voice.
“Yeah, me too,” Justin said.
He caught Senator Bob Duckworth staring at him. Justin started to get up and walk over to him, but Bob gave a subtle shake of his head and followed it up with an eve
n more subtle hand signal. It was a hand signal they used during military ops. It meant he was to wait or stand by. Justin gave a slight nod, indicating he understood, and casually looked away. He resumed scanning the room and tried to appear relaxed as he waved or nodded to friends. Nobody seemed to be in a festive Thanksgiving mood, which was troubling. Past Thanksgivings had always been cheerful around here. It was giving him a bad vibe.
He did not know it, but the other men were getting a bad vibe as well. Stephen voiced what they were all thinking.
“Something doesn’t seem right,” he said.
There were a couple of grunts of assent, but before any of them could comment, the doors opened. President Gil VanAllen then walked in, followed by his ever-present bodyguards, Ruby and D-Day. William Rhinehart was deferentially walking ten feet behind them but still had his ever-present sour expression.
“All rise!” D-Day shouted.
Everyone stood, although many felt it was an unnecessary act. Justin noted a couple of frowns and smirked when he saw D-Day. Ever since Fred had given him a beating, he had taken to carrying a sawed-off shotgun with him everywhere he went. Gil stood in front of his chair, an elegant leather chair that was larger than the others. Justin idly wondered where they’d found it. D-Day shouted again.
“This meeting is hereby called to order! God save this Country and the President of the United States!”
Gil sat and then nodded at his bodyguard.
“Be seated!” D-Day barked.
Gil opened his laptop and read over something before speaking. “Let’s get started. We will have no preamble today. The first order of business will be Fort Detrick,” Rhinehart said.
Justin knew it. This was not a meeting about the recon missions. This was something else entirely. It only took a moment for him to see Rhinehart pointedly staring. His anxiety kicked up a notch and his palms started to sweat. He forced himself to remain impassive and take slow breaths.
“Please stand, Captain Smithson. You too, Doctor Kincaid,” he directed.
The two men glanced at each other before doing so. Rhinehart waited several seconds before speaking again.
“President VanAllen wants to be apprised of the status of Fort Detrick since the attack. Specifically, he wants to be brought up to speed on any and all scientific research.”
Justin cleared his throat. “I submitted our weekly report three days ago, sir. Are there any supplemental questions you may have that was not covered in the report?”
President VanAllen fixed Justin with an unfriendly stare. “I have read your report, Captain. It is full of information. You have described the ongoing repairs and updates to Fort Detrick. You have notated food and water consumption. You have documented the minutest of issues with Fort Detrick personnel, like, let’s see…” he paused to put on some bifocals and peer at his laptop’s screen. “Ah, yes. A member under your command sustained an injury during a training session.”
“Yes, sir,” Justin answered.
It was a small prevarication. They’d gotten up a competitive snowball fight a few days ago and Shooter had somehow broken his pinkie finger. It was a minor injury, but the protocol required even the smallest of injuries to be reported. It was true that he wrote it up as a training accident, but they did not need to know the real circumstances.
“Here is what I do not see in this report or any previous reports since the attack. I do not see anything regarding scientific research.”
Doctor Kincaid spoke up. “Mister President, I can assure you we are conducting research and various tests almost every day.”
“Oh, I see. So, tell me, Doctor Kincaid, tell us all. What kind of scientific breakthroughs have you and your colleagues accomplished lately?”
“Um, well,” Doctor Kincaid stammered. “We’ve observed some interesting phenomena with Patient Eve’s blood and are continuing to analyze our data.”
“Yes, that’s old news, Doctor. Tell us what you have achieved lately. Let me answer for you. Nothing. You and your people have done nothing. Not one damn thing.”
The doctor replied immediately. “Not true, sir. We have numerous experiments ongoing. One cannot simply have a scientific breakthrough after every test. Proper analysis of research takes time.”
“How much time?” the president asked.
“Days, weeks, years,” Doctor Kincaid replied. “There is no definitive timeframe.”
“Doctor Kincaid, you sound like a typical lazy bureaucrat attempting to use vague expressions in order to hide your nonexistent productivity.”
“I strongly disagree, sir. I…”
President VanAllen interrupted him with an upraised hand and turned his head toward Justin.
“Captain Smithson, you are hereby ordered to close Fort Detrick. You will have seven days to complete this task. All food supplies and other materiel will be transferred back to Mount Weather for proper dispersal.”
Justin felt the blood going to his face. He was incredulous but had the forethought to take a deep breath before speaking. “Sir, this is a terrible idea. I can list a dozen reasons off the top of my head why…”
President VanAllen interrupted Justin in the same manner he had interrupted Doctor Kincaid.
“It is not a suggestion, Captain. It is an order. An order I expect you to carry out. Unless you perhaps intend to commit treason?”
Justin felt his blood pumping harder and there was a strong desire to jump over the conference table that separated them and beat some sense into the man, but he knew he would have to kill the husband-wife bodyguard team first. He took another deep breath and regained his bearing.
“No sir, I have no intention of committing treason. Your orders will be carried out.”
“Excellent. I expect you want to get started immediately and have it completed within,” he paused and looked over at Vice President Rhinehart. The old man took his cue.
“Three weeks is more than ample time,” he said.
“Excellent. We expect you to have this task completed by Christmas. You’re dismissed.” The president paused only long enough to adjust his bifocals and read something on his computer before speaking again.
“Our next order of business is Marcus Hook, correct, Mister Vice President?”
“That is correct, Mister President.” Rhinehart faced Roscoe and Johnny G. “Please stand, gentlemen.”
The two men glanced at each other as they stood, wondering what they were about to face.
“We submitted our own report three days ago as well,” Roscoe said. “We don’t have any scientific breakthroughs to report. Of course, we aren’t conducting any experiments.”
There were a few guffaws from the crowd. Even President VanAllen smiled a little.
“No, Roscoe, I’m sure you aren’t. But there are other matters of importance we need to discuss. First, let’s discuss the unfortunate death of one of your residents. What was his name? Ringo?”
“His real name was Marcus Anthony Starr,” Roscoe said.
“Marcus Anthony Starr,” VanAllen repeated. “Commonly known as Ringo. He fell victim to the zeds, am I correct?”
“Yes, Mister President,” Roscoe replied.
“And he was killed as a result of a foolish foray into an unexplored section of Philadelphia, correct?”
“In retrospect, the mission could have used more manpower. Unfortunately, we have a limited number of personnel, a situation in which the president is aware of.”
“Tell us more about this so-called pipeline,” Vice President Rhinehart directed.
This time Roscoe felt his face redden. Not from shame or embarrassment, but from anger. The pipeline, or secure route, had been in the works for over a year. Everyone knew about it. President Stark was an advocate of it.
“Please indulge the rest of the audience, Roscoe,” the president directed.
“As I have discussed before, we have created a secure route down the I-95 corridor into the heart of Philadelphia. The roadway is covered in various forms
of protection such as concertina, barbed wire, fencing, and the like. This has enabled us to venture further into the city than previously. If you have read the reports, you would know all about it.”
“I know a man has needlessly died,” Rhinehart retorted.
“There are always risks in this day and age,” Roscoe rejoined. He did not mention the fact that the men had forgone wearing protective headgear and Ringo did not have his protective coveralls pulled all the way up.
Zombie Rules | Book 8 | Who The Hell Is That? Page 23
