A heavy silence descended on the room as manila envelopes were unsealed and documents scrutinized.
Chapter 18
Just as the National Guard sergeant had promised, Fort Myers was indeed open for business.
And business was booming.
Sparing no detail, as he continuously scanned the two-lane ahead for a suitable gas station, Riker filled Tara and Steve-O in on all that the sergeant had divulged to him.
“Romero? Really?” Tara said, throwing her hands up. “Naming the flippin’ virus after the King of the zombie genre?”
Riker said, “At least that explains why the soldiers the reporter overheard were calling it Romeo Victor.” He shook his head. “Romero Virus. No imagination, is right.”
Speaking in a near whisper, Tara said, “Lee, there were people in the Hertz van back at the cloverleaf.” She swallowed hard. “And I could have sworn I saw a few body bags on the grass between the Budget and Enterprise vans. Only these bags were white, not black.”
Having been focused on slaloming past debris left on the interstate by a multicar pileup, Riker hadn’t been able to get a good look at the assemblage of airport shuttles, let alone the grass infield where they were parked. So he asked the obvious question. “Did you see any movement in the bags?”
She shook her head. “Nope. But it was clear to me they were all full.”
In the backseat Steve-O was singing a song likely inspired by something Riker had said during his recounting of the conversation with the tall sergeant.
Tara turned in her seat. “‘Cleansed from the demons who were stealing my freedom.’ Damn prescient lyrics you were belting there, Steve-O. Whose are they?”
“Florida Georgia Line. From a really, really good song called H.O.L.Y.”
Together, the siblings nodded in understanding. Lord knew each had faced their share of demons. Albeit nothing like the creatures created by the aptly named Romero Virus.
The exit Riker took curled off the interstate and eventually fed onto Alico Road, which was lightly traveled in both directions. The Shelby was in the pole position at the light and all alone on the two-lane. Once the light cycled to green, Riker turned left and stayed in the far lane.
More options should evasive driving become a necessity.
The stress knot that had developed between his shoulders during the strip search was now just a dull ache. And, thankfully, the beginnings of a migraine had ebbed to that familiar throb behind his eyes.
“Should have gone right,” Tara said. “Lots of food choices that way.”
“For one, I didn’t like the vibe the mall was giving off. My gut is still telling me to stay the hell away,” Riker answered. “Besides, fuel is our first priority.”
Steve-O said, “Maybe your gut’s trying to tell you it’s hungry. Because my gut is telling me to find a cow and eat it. I am that hungry.”
“So hungry you could eat a whole cow, eh, Steve-O? I’m with you on the beef. Maybe just a ribeye or porterhouse, though. Not the whole damn bovine.”
Tara laughed for the first time in a long while.
After a few blocks, they came upon the first opportunity for gas. Seeing the long line of cars beginning at the pumps and snaking around back of the 7-Eleven, Riker shook his head.
“Eight ninety-nine a gallon for regular unleaded?” crowed Tara. “Bend us over, why don’t you.”
“You forgot the nine-tenths,” joked Riker.
“Eff their sneaky extra nine-tenths of a penny,” declared Tara as she zoomed in the map on the navigation screen a couple of stops. “Lookie here. There’s a RaceTrac station two blocks up, on our right.”
“I see it,” said Steve-O.
Riker slowed and threw on his blinker.
The pumps at the RaceTrac were all occupied. However, unlike the nearby 7-Eleven, there was no line worming out onto the street.
Where the 7-Eleven was happy to display evidence of their price-gouging on their reader board, RaceTrac’s was blank.
As Riker slalomed the Shelby onto the station’s white cement pad and parked behind the Toyota Tundra pickup currently connected to the pump, he noticed a sandwich board on the sidewalk. It faced Alico Road. NO EBT - DELI CLOSED was written in neat block letters on a sheet of paper taped to the top of the sign. NO DIESEL - REGULAR AND SUPREME ONLY - INQUIRE INSIDE FOR PRICE had been scrawled directly on the sign.
The last piece of information gave Riker pause. For it was likely the reason the lines at the pumps were nonexistent. In his experience, word usually traveled fast when it came to both good and bad deals.
Stabbing a finger at her window, Tara said, “Look at that. There’s no price per gallon on the pumps, either. Last time I checked, a bunch of zeros all in a row was still zero.”
Steve-O said, “Woo hoo! Looks like gas is free today.”
Talking over his shoulder, Riker said, “Nothing in life is free, Steve-O.” He regarded Tara. “I’m going to leave the keys. Make sure you lock up right away. And keep a close eye on our stuff in back.”
“On it,” said Steve-O. Nerf gun in hand, he unbuckled and went to his knees on the seat.
“Good job, bud,” said Riker. Then he took orders for snacks and drinks.
The glass in the door to the RaceTrac minimart was streaked with who knew what. So Riker barged through, elbow leading the way. A bell dinged and the door closed behind him.
Off to Riker’s right, two men stood before a counter cluttered with all manner of small items for sale. Shoehorned in among the clutter was a cash register and lottery machine. Behind the counter was a man with a deep tan. He was average-sized and wore a blue tunic with RaceTrac across the front. The cashier’s short hair was coal black, parted down the middle, and glistened under the overhead fluorescent lights.
When the bell dinged, the customers turned their attention from the transaction at hand to cast identical glares at Riker.
Ignoring the men, Riker grabbed a plastic basket from the floor by the door, wove his way between the aisles, and filled it up with items from the list he’d just committed to memory. After cruising the back of the store and adding cold beverages atop the snack items, he spotted, lined up side-by-side on a low shelf, a half-dozen five-gallon gasoline cans. Seeing no price tags, he slipped the basket handles over one arm, grabbed two cans per hand, then got in the checkout line.
Standing before the counter, an empty newspaper rack crowding him on the left, and two middle-aged wheeler-dealer types on his right, Riker passed the time by listening to the men haggling over prices and watching the television above the stoic cashier’s left shoulder.
The young guard sergeant’s insider info was confirmed when on the Chyron below a scene showing a roadblock somewhere in Middle America, Riker read the words Operation Vigilant Sweep. As the ticker scrolled on, he learned that a high-level official turned whistleblower had mailed to a number of news outlets proof of a cover-up that went all the way to the top. A cover-up that was confirmed when a number of thumb drives containing footage shot in various places in the Central and Eastern parts of the United States showed up in the mailrooms of many of the same news outlets.
Clearly the cat was out of the bag nationwide. And Tara was partly responsible. Though Riker couldn’t be sure, it was highly probable the thumb drives alluded to were the ones his sister had mailed out to news outlets days ago. This new revelation made Riker wonder just how long the President would let the charade continue before he was forced to declare Martial Law.
As the men at the counter continued to bitch at the cashier about his pricing, Riker kept one eye on the lookout for anything that might indicate he was about to be in the middle of a holdup, and the other on the television. Just as the smaller of the two men gave in to whatever his issue was, and slapped cash and coins on the counter, a balding man wearing a white dress shirt and red power tie filled up the television screen.
The man loosened his tie and popped the top two buttons on his shirt. He donned a pair of readers
and began to slowly unfold a sheet of paper. During all of this he didn’t speak or look directly at the camera filming him. When the man finally lifted his gaze and looked into the camera, it dawned on Riker exactly who he was staring at.
“Aleksei Volkov,” Riker muttered. “What does that dick want?”
No sooner had Riker voiced it than a graphic popped up on the screen with the Russian President’s name and a tag indicating the feed was live and being shot in an undisclosed location somewhere in Russia. Then the graphic was replaced by the words: Russian President Aleksei Volkov accuses U.S. of releasing bio-warfare agent on Russia soil.
Not caring who was listening, Riker said aloud the words he was reading on the crawl. “Volkov officially declares he has put his military and nuclear forces on Elevated Combat Readiness—third highest level.”
“I would bet that putting the Motherland on a true war footing is next on his list,” said one of the men ahead of Riker as the shorter of the two grabbed their bags and headed for the door.
“Next,” said the cashier.
As he moved forward and looked down on the cashier, Riker saw that Enrique was embroidered in red on the left breast of his RaceTrac work shirt. And the name made perfect sense, because it went with the cashier’s thick Cuban accent.
Riker placed the gas cans on the floor, then set the overflowing basket on the counter. Meeting Enrique’s hard stare, he said, “This stuff in the basket, the four gas cans on the floor … and I’ll need to gas up the truck at pump four.”
Enrique didn’t say a word. He went to work, taking the items from the basket and placing them one at a time in a pair of large paper sacks.
Riker watched for a moment, noted the man wasn’t using the register to his left to add up the items, then returned his attention to the television.
Seeing Riker staring past him, the cashier glanced at the television. At once, words dripping with venom, he said, “Aleksei Volkov … the defender wolf. He is nothing of the sort his name would suggest. Wolf? For sure. Defender? Of only his own interests.”
Snapping back to the moment, Riker said, “Regarding your sign out front. I’m guessing the answer is along the lines of If you have to ask. You probably can’t—”
“Afford it,” interrupted Enrique. “That’s your problem, not mine. Twenty bucks a gallon. Unleaded, supreme—same price.”
Good thing for you Tara’s not here, Riker thought.
But out loud, he said, “I’m coming from Miami. We have a long slog north. Sure there’s no flexibility in price?”
The bell above the door rang and a man and woman entered the store. He was carrying a plastic gas can. She immediately peeled off and fast-walked toward the rear of the store.
Enrique regarded the couple, then his eyes made a quick lap of the security mirrors positioned about the store. Finished, he returned his gaze to Riker. “Last fuel truck came this morning. If there will be another shipment, it won’t happen until next week. See where I’m coming from?”
Riker shrugged. “I figure my rig needs twenty gallons. It’ll take the same to fill these cans.”
“A hundred and eighty dollars for the groceries.”
Six-hundred-percent markup, Riker thought. Still, he matched the cashier’s stoic demeanor and went on staring at the television as the Russian President blamed every one of the Motherland’s woes over the last twenty years on the United States and her allies. Volkov had just gotten around to blasting President Tillman personally for the Romero virus reaching Russian shores when Enrique said, “Your total is one thousand, one hundred and eighty dollars.”
As Riker dragged out his wallet—a new hand-tooled leather item he’d picked up at a truck stop outside of Fayetteville—the bell rang again and two African American teenagers entered the store.
Riker slapped his debit card on the counter. “Answer me this, Enrique. What’s the extra two hundred bucks for? Your kid’s college fund?”
“Cash only,” Enrique demanded. He stood on his toes, head craned toward the rear of the store, and watched the teens’ every move.
Finding himself being totally ignored, Riker cleared his throat.
Enrique looked sidelong at Riker. “The two hundred is for the gas cans,” he sneered. “Nothing is free in this world, my man.”
My man?
Fifty bucks apiece for a fifteen-dollar item?
Riker didn’t like the man’s attitude and was beginning to feel the slow burn of anger he knew all too well.
Looking up at Riker, Enrique said, “Pay my prices or go shop somewhere else.”
Violating Riker’s personal space, the teens reached past him and slammed down a pair of forty-ounce bottles of Budweiser. Rattling the glass counter, the artillery-shell-shaped bottles ended up just inches from his hand.
No apologies followed.
Riker closed his eyes and looked toward the ceiling. When he opened them a moment later, he happened to be looking at the television and couldn’t help but read on the bottom crawl that the Russian president was considering the release of the Romero virus as “tantamount to an act of war.”
This asshole to my fore.
These assholes to my left.
And that asshole on the television.
Out of the blue, something Riker had heard in a song long ago came to him. So he hummed a few bars, then sang, “Stuck in the middle with you.”
“Better keep your day job, brother,” said one of the teens. The top of his head came up to Riker’s shoulder, with the expertly picked-out afro extending a few inches beyond.
“Focus on you paying the man,” said the other teen. “I wanna get my drink on.”
The couple that had entered before the teens got into line. She was loaded down with two baskets overflowing with junk food. He was still carrying the gas can and had picked up a case of beer and a big bag of ice.
Riker met the man’s gaze. Saw that the man was scared of something, and it wasn’t him. Because the man said, “You need to hurry the fuck up. Things are happening out there as you idiots dilly-dally in here.”
Crack jokes, not bones, was what one of Riker’s anger management counselors urged him to remember during encounters such as these. And bolstering that sage advice, in just about every self-help book Riker had ever read on the subject, rule number one to getting the most dangerous of emotions in check called for diffusing the situation with humor.
Demanding payment, Enrique waggled his fingers at Riker.
As Riker dragged a thick wad of hundreds from a pocket, maybe five thousand dollars’ worth, Volkov’s likeness was replaced on the television by a graphic showing a colorful storm tracking north by west across the Caribbean. Superimposed over the graphic was a local weatherman. Reading the crawl, Riker learned that a developing tropical storm named Owen was being upgraded to hurricane status. As the rotund Hispanic reporter went on to describe the actions Floridians were taking to prepare, Riker slowly peeled off twelve crisp hundred-dollar bills and gently deposited them on the counter next to the fiery Cuban’s upturned hand.
Turning the other cheek is better than going to jail, Riker reminded himself as he looked the impatient group over, one by one. Settling his gaze back on the proprietor, who was waving a limp twenty-dollar bill in his face, Riker said, “What did the leper say to the prostitute when he was finished?”
Still holding the twenty, Enrique said, “Spit it out.”
“You’re real close, Enrique.” After a brief pause, during which Riker grabbed his bags and corralled the empty gas cans, he said, “Keep the tip.”
Leaving Enrique holding the Andrew Jackson, the teens staring slack-jawed at each other, and the middle-aged man and woman laughing hysterically, Riker strolled out of the store all the richer for it.
Chapter 19
White House Situation Room
The six men and two women assembled around the rectangular table had remained silent for several minutes as they pored over the top-secret documents.
S
ixty-year-old Speaker of the House, Carter Ashe, spoke first. Looking over the top of his bifocals, he said, “Splitting the government up and relocating it to the Greenbrier, Mountain Weather, and … Site R, makes sense for continuity. However, I have two questions. One, why aren’t we utilizing NORAD headquarters in Colorado? It’s arguably our most secure site.” He pointed to the map. “And there’s more green than red in Wyoming and the surrounding states. The sites mentioned in the brief are all near major population centers whose hospitals have already fallen, or are on the verge of doing so.” He paused to sip from a bottled water. Resuming, he said, “The hospitals in Colorado Springs are all still operational. Plus, you have Fort Kit Carson, and a couple of Air Force Bases just a short helicopter ride from the Cheyenne Mountain Complex.”
Marigold raised a hand, silencing Ashe. “With all due respect, Mister Speaker. Your points are valid. However, Colorado Springs is too far removed from D.C. We relocate there and the majority of the population will think we’re abandoning them. That we’re leaving them to fend for themselves.”
“Isn’t that essentially what we’re doing by leaving the White House?” said Ashe. “Hell, moving the Joint Chiefs from the Pentagon to this Site R all but screams we surrender.”
The President said quietly but emphatically, “That’s all settled.” Regarding the Speaker, he asked, “Did you have anything else to add?”
Leaning forward in his chair, Ashe said, “Refresh my memory. What is this Site R?”
“Site locations and assignments are on page three,” said Marigold testily. “But to save you the trouble of looking for yourself, it’s short for Raven Rock Mountain Complex. It’s in Pennsylvania. Near Blue Ridge Summit.”
Ashe made a dismissive gesture at the SecDef. “I’ve toured it before,” he admitted. “All the military speak and designators are lost on me. At any rate, I don’t like it at all. First time POTUS broadcasts from Raven Rock, the jig is up.”
The Plan Page 11
