American Conspiracy

by M. J. Polelle

  “What about the older Bayh-Dole Act?” asked the secretary of homeland security. “Since Promethean Pharma developed Anoflix and obtained a patent with federal funding, the act compels Promethean Pharma to issue a license to other drug companies to produce Anoflix where health concerns justify the move.”

  She had a fond spot for her inherited secretary of homeland security. An obese ex-CIA deputy director and chain smoker, he knew his stuff. He made it his business to know the ins and outs of whatever came before the cabinet and what bureaucratic wires had to be pulled to make government work. He was an ally who joined her for an occasional bourbon and branch water.

  “I like compulsory licensing too,” the attorney general said, “but I prefer to hold that big cannon in reserve if we lose on the injunction. Compulsory licensing hasn’t been tested in the courts. We don’t know how much federal funding is necessary to trigger the compulsory license provision, and we don’t have an actual coronavirus outbreak in the United States . . . only a possible threat from China. The issue will raise a hornets’ nest of legal and political problems.”

  “I see your point.” The secretary of homeland security cocked his ear. “I can already hear Senex yelling socialism.”

  “That’s it, then. Injunction now, compulsory licensing if needed.” Taylor rubbed her hands and picked up her papers. “I’m off to another meeting.”

  A Justice Department messenger bent over to whisper in the attorney general’s ear.

  The attorney general reported, “It’s about the Promethean Pharma case. Excuse me.” She turned her ear back to the messenger.

  The whispers back and forth between messenger and the attorney general buzzed louder until the president couldn’t stand the suspense. “What’s going on? We’d all like to be in on it.”

  “Sorry, Madam President.” The attorney general dismissed the messenger and stood up. She looked at Taylor sitting at the head of the table and then turned to the others in their seats. “I have news.”

  “Good news?” asked Taylor.

  “Afraid not. Senex has just issued a national press release. Promethean Pharma has ceased the production, marketing, and distribution of Anoflix. We can’t enjoin them to negotiate the price of a product they no longer produce.”

  “Senex is playing a game of chicken. And I’m not turning tail,” she told her cabinet. “Go get that compulsory license.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  “I say let’s go.” Jim Murphy looked over the exterior of the Kinzie Steel mill. Weeds grew around the building. Rust streaks and soot splotched the exterior. Broken windows let in the wind. “The property’s abandoned. We don’t need a warrant.”

  “The judge did not think Mora’s hearsay death note sufficient for a search warrant.” Marco looked away from the mill to his partner. “The mill has a new owner. I do not think we should enter without judicial permission.”

  “They haven’t occupied it yet.”

  “But they have legal title. They purchased it from Promethean Pharma.”

  A black Cadillac drove up and pulled to a stop in the parking lot section reserved for management. Out of the luxury sedan came a pair of Chinese men with matching black suits and alligator briefcases.

  They introduced themselves as engineers employed by the Chinese corporation that had purchased the mill from Promethean Pharma. With the utmost courtesy they asked permission to enter the mill to prepare its renovation and reopening.

  “Where’s your identification?” Murphy asked. He had to preserve whatever evidence remained in the steel mill to incriminate Sebastian Senex.

  The men showed passports.

  “Not good enough.” Murphy handed them back. “How do I know you represent the owner? I don’t know you from Adam. I need proof of your authority.”

  They wanted to know who Adam was.

  “Not important,” he replied.

  They showed a document written in Chinese.

  “This won’t work either. I only speak and read English.”

  Agitated, the executives spoke to each other in rapid-fire Chinese.

  “You’d better go back and check with your boss. I need proof you’re who you say you are. Right, partner?”

  Leone returned a hesitant nod.

  They apologized in English for the inconvenience and departed.

  As the detectives watched the Cadillac leave, Marco said, “You have only delayed events. They will return.”

  “I know but I had to stall. We can’t have them disturbing any evidence inside.” He shook his head. “If only my rubber-stamp judge hadn’t retired, I could have gotten a warrant in a heartbeat.”

  “Do you still wish to search without a warrant?”

  “You convinced me, partner.” He patted Marco on the back. “Too risky. If we do find something today, a court might throw it out as an illegal police search.”

  “So . . . what is our next step?”

  “Yes, that’s it,” he said more to himself than to Marco. His face lit up. “I know what I’m going to do.”

  The next week, after supervising roll call, Jim Murphy received a communication from the legal department of the city of Chicago. Sebastian Senex and the Chinese corporation had obtained a preliminary injunction against the Chicago Police Department from further prohibiting or delaying entry of duly authorized representatives of the Chinese corporation . . . or of Promethean Pharma personnel as agents of the Chinese corporation . . . onto the premises of the Kinzie Steel mill.

  The inclusion of Promethean Pharma in the order supported what Murphy suspected. Sebastian Senex had something to hide from the police. Later that day, Murphy received a call from the head of security for Promethean Pharma: Senex himself planned to enter the mill tomorrow and expected no further police interference. Something crucial had to be in the mill. And he had better find out what that something was before Senex got to it first.

  He checked cell messages, which had backed up on his phone because of all the crime-wave emergencies he had to resolve. Ollie, the quirky chemist from Vulcan Metallurgy, had returned his call and left a message: The answer is 5,463°F for Ta and 3,463°F for Zr.

  Bingo. Things were falling into place. He remembered a few abbreviations from his high school chemistry class. It was a long shot but he had to go with his gut. He tapped Nicole’s telephone number on his cell.

  “It’s me. You and Daisy have to move today before Senex gets there.”

  “We’re on our way as we speak,” Nicole said. “What if it’s not in the steel mill?”

  “Then check out the slag heap next to the mill. Can you do that?”

  “I’ve examined many ancient slag heaps during my archaeological digs. A modern one should be a breeze.”

  “Will Daisy testify she entered the mill freely? And not because the police asked her?”

  “We’ve gone through this.” He felt the exasperation in her voice. “Daisy wants to take her father down for Vince’s murder. It’s her choice.”

  “Good.” He rubbed his chin. “And she asked you to come along?”

  “Of course. Why is all this so important?”

  “Because if she’s doing this at the request of the CPD, Senex might exclude any evidence you find as part of an illegal search. If she’s doing this without police pressure, we should be clear.”

  “Here’s another reason,” Nicole said. “Daisy is temporarily working part-time in the human relations department at Promethean Pharma. Her father wanted her to have a job in the real world, as he put it. She may qualify as a Promethean representative with permission to enter under the judge’s order.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “The luck of the Irish, right?” He heard Daisy in the background telling Nicole they had arrived. “We’re here and ready to enter.”

  “Here’s to more luck inside.” He had the luck of the Irish
all right. His luck was knowing Nicole.

  Waiting to hear from Nicole, Murphy thought of the gray, glassy heaps of rocky slag, like a mini moonscape, piled up in the fenced yard next to the steel mill. It was a long shot, but without Daisy he would have had no shot. He could still see the fire in Daisy’s eyes as she told him she would help. Love and hate were two complementary emotions, and one of the worst hates was family love gone bad. She wanted vengeance for her father’s complicity in the death of Vinnie Palomba.

  He took his mind off waiting by reading a report on the latest crime statistics. The special strike force he had organized came to an unwelcome conclusion. Carjackings had spiked mainly because the bad guys needed them to carry out untraceable drive-by shootings. Social media crackled with boastful accounts of which gang had stolen the most expensive car. Even the superintendent of police had his Lexus stolen outside headquarters for use in a gangland murder.

  For the rest of the day, Murphy spent his declining energy in the conference room, now turned into a war room, to issue orders to district police about the explosion of gang wars across the city. Afterward they filed out, leaving him alone with half-eaten sandwiches and stale doughnuts together with cold coffee. He wasn’t sure the police had the manpower or the firepower to maintain peace in a city convulsing with violence.

  How long can the city hold out without outside help?

  Leone had warned him. He who commands has no rest.

  Murphy laid his head in his hands with elbows propped on the conference table. He slumped forward in his chair, trying to fight off sleep. His eyes closed.

  His cell buzz jolted him awake. Nicole.

  “I found it in the slag heap.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  “If I want another bourbon and branch water, I’ll damn well have it.” At the head of the conference table in the Situation Room, President Dallas Taylor caught the attention of the waiter. Retired general Horatio A. Harrison, secretary of defense, held his out his hand to stop the approaching waiter.

  “Let him pass . . . Hard-Ass.”

  “I don’t appreciate that name.”

  “And I don’t appreciate being told what to drink.”

  “This is a crisis situation, Madam Acting President.” Harrison panned the faces of colleagues in their high-backed leather chairs. “We need sobriety.”

  “I am the president. Let him pass.”

  He let the waiter pass.

  “Back to business.” She opened the daily morning book with the latest intelligence on political hot spots around the world. She had a fight on her hands. If it were just Hard-Ass aching for a military counterstrike, she could handle him.

  The military brass in the room were on his side. The director of national intelligence and the director of the CIA were leaning his way. Besides those two, the other civilian members of the National Security Council were lying low to protect their behinds. She had inherited her cabinet from the prior administration with no time to vet them. “What’s the current situation?” she asked.

  “I have the admiral of the Pacific Fleet on tap to update us.” The national security advisor pointed to the videoconferencing screen flickering on the wall at the foot of the table. The admiral’s image appeared on the screen in full dress uniform.

  “Can you hear me, Admiral?” Taylor asked. “What’s going on?”

  “Loud and clear,” he responded. “No new developments. Naval forces from the People’s Republic of China have landed on Taiping Island in the Spratly Islands chain and taken control from Taiwanese personnel. Any orders?”

  “Keep me informed on further developments.” She waved to the screen. “Thank you, Admiral.” The screen want blank.

  She looked down the table at the two rows of faces on either side. “The catalyst for this Chinese provocation is Sebastian Senex. He’s stopped producing Anoflix both in China and the United States. So they’re running out of Anoflix to snuff out their COVID-28 outbreak. They blame me. The Chinese president doesn’t understand why we allow his defiance.” She crossed her arms. “And frankly neither do I.”

  “This has nothing to do with Senex,” the director of national intelligence said. “Our intelligence sources report Chinese scientists have pirated the Anoflix patent. They’ll produce their own vaccine without Promethean Pharma. They just wanted to test our military response in seizing Taiping Island.”

  “It doesn’t change facts,” she said. “Sebastian Senex has worsened our relationship with China and held hostage the health of the American people.”

  “Be that as it may, we can’t let personal animosities get in the way of our foreign policy,” said the director of national intelligence. “The Chinese Communists are taking advantage of our constitutional crisis. They’re exploiting the bitter divisions in the country. They see the inaction of the House of Representatives in picking a president.” He turned to Taylor. “No offense, Madam Acting President, but you are not that president.”

  “I am the president until the House elects one. And where I come from, if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, we call it a duck.” She couldn’t afford to appear petty. “But use whatever title you want . . . as long as you all know that I have all the powers of a president. If that’s a problem, you’re free to resign.”

  “I say we bomb the hell out of the invasion force.” All eyes turned to the speaker, Secretary of Defense Harrison.

  “If we do that, we’d better prepare for a full-scale war.” She rolled her eyes. “The Chinese won’t stand down.”

  “Yes they will,” said General John Klaine, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “They’re not ready yet. Hit ’em, I say, before they are. Hit them with overpowering force. This is the perfect time to draw the line.”

  She respected the chairman. A bionic prosthesis replaced his right leg, which was amputated after bomb fragments ripped apart the leg in Vietnam. He had worked his way to the top through merit and courage. They didn’t usually agree, certainly not when she had ordered him to lower DEFCON level three to level four, but at least he was open to what she had to say.

  “I can’t agree.” Taylor folded her hands in front of her. “The Chinese didn’t back away in the Korean War. I see your point, but I don’t think we should draw the line here and now. Let’s wait a bit longer.”

  “Are you saying,” Harrison said, “we should back down? They’ll smell our weakness and hit us harder. And then the Russians and North Koreans will move in on the kill . . . as we remain paralyzed . . . like a mouse mesmerized by the rattlesnake ready to pounce.”

  “This Texas girl, General, knows a thing or two about rattlesnakes.” Just like some rattlesnakes in this room, she thought. “It’s just a myth about rattlesnakes mesmerizing mice.” She folded her arms. “Sort of like the myth about the domino theory your predecessors created to rationalize intervention in Vietnam.”

  “This South China Sea confrontation is no myth.” The director of the CIA went on: “The Chinese, North Koreans, and Russians are meeting. They’re developing a united strategy against us. The Chinese takeover of Taiping Island is the first step. We should nip it in the bud.”

  “They’re testing us,” the secretary of state said. “I suggest we first build an international coalition. Not only Taiwan, but the Philippines and Vietnam have their own claims to the Spratly Islands. Along with other countries, they’ll object to the Chinese incursion.”

  “Incursion? Object to? Wait to build an international coalition?” asked the Homeland Security advisor. “The Chinese are creating irreversible facts on the ground. International handwringing won’t stop them. Only force.”

  “The Chinese claim the Taiwan government intentionally sank their fishing boats near the island,” Taylor said. “The Taiwanese claim it was an accident.”

  “Are you going to believe our enemy over our friend?” asked Harrison.r />
  Taylor opened the morning book. “It says here”—she ran her finger down the page—“the People’s Republic claims it will . . . temporarily . . . occupy Taiping Island to settle the incident with the Taiwanese officials.”

  “And you believe them?” asked the secretary of defense.

  “I don’t see harm in waiting a bit,” the secretary of state said.

  “We need time to gather allies,” said the director of national intelligence. “I have a plan to freeze the status quo while pursuing that option.” He pointed to the dark screen. “May I talk to the admiral of the Pacific Fleet, Madam Acting President?”

  She nodded agreement. The admiral materialized on the screen.

  “Admiral, this is the director of national intelligence. Could we blockade Taiping Island with the Seventh Fleet?”

  “Most certainly.” The screen voice sounded eager for action. “Taiping is an insignificant island compared to blockading Cuba. China won’t take on the Seventh Fleet just to stay on Taiping.”

  “That may be true, Admiral.” Taylor stood up. “But the Russians had nuclear weapons in Cuba and didn’t promise to stay only temporarily.”

  “I come back to my question,” asked Harrison. “Why do you believe the Chinese? They have taken land specks in the ocean and transformed them into artificial islands with military potential. They’re relentless, like army ants.”

  “We can afford to wait,” the secretary of state said. “We can always revisit the blockade option later and even set a deadline if they don’t withdraw as promised.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Taylor said, glancing at the wall clock. Another crisis awaited. Gathering the morning book into her hands she stood up to leave.

  “We should do something now before they reinforce the island.” The secretary of defense crossed his arms and glared at Taylor. “You’re letting the Chinese humiliate us.”

  “There’s a Texas saying. Don’t rile the wagon master.” She glared at retired general Horatio A. Harrison. “Back off, Hard-Ass.”