As the plane began a gentle descent, Carl wondered what city Garcia and the kill list survivors were hiding in. Special Agent Cummings no doubt hid them all somewhere so they wouldn’t be found. Yet, when they started getting sick, she probably would have tried to care for them herself rather than letting them go to a hospital where they would risk being found by the Unit.
“Can I make a phone call on this thing?” Carl indicated the radio transmitter by pointing at his headphones.
“The flight phone is on the wall right behind your seat. It’s an open channel, though.”
He figured out how to operate the phone and dialed the number he had memorized for Garcia’s cell phone. It rang for a long time because he and Garcia had switched off voice mail, but Carl refused to hang up even after a dozen rings. He simply held the handset to his ear, hoping someone was still alive to answer it.
As he waited, sadness filled his heart. Garcia, Cummings, and the others had plenty of food and water, but they wouldn’t have any way of consuming either after the first twenty-eight hours. They might survive a day in a coma, maybe a day and a half. But without medical attention, they wouldn’t last longer than that. When the plane landed, even if the FBI or the Unit didn’t shoot him on sight, there was no way Carl would be allowed to give his friends any doses of the antidote.
Friends? Carl almost chuckled at the thought. Earlier the same week, all those people were his enemies, except Garcia. They all wanted him dead.
What a difference a week made. What a crazy world I live in now.
The ringing hit twenty and he finally accepted that no one would answer. For them, it had only been twenty hours, but Carl knew the onset of symptoms was debilitating. He replaced the handset in its wall slot.
Almost.
Right before he shoved the handset into its cradle he heard a click, so he snatched the handset back to his ear.
“Hello? Hello?”
Silence greeted him, but it was not a complete silence. He heard someone. There was a rasping sound like someone was breathing, listening, and maybe trying to talk. Then he heard a croaking voice.
Chapter 51
1711 hours MST Saturday
Albuquerque FBI Field Office
Guillermo Figueroa, the special agent in charge of the FBI’s Albuquerque field office, sat behind his desk in his office, listening intently to the live conversation emanating from his speakerphone. His executive assistant, Marshall Stewart, sat in front of the desk, along with the tactical commander, Ed Murray, and the vice president’s personal envoy, Costas Drake. They had all just listened intently to the terse exchange between the pilot of the Gulfstream, the control tower, and the air force escort pilots.
None could fathom why a highly decorated air force officer, the commander of the elite presidential fighter escort squadron, would voluntarily enlist with the world’s most wanted terrorist. Add to that team the traitor Nancy Palmer, a highly trained agent of the secretive TER agency, and the mystery was all the more baffling.
“This just doesn’t make any sense,” Figueroa muttered. “What are we missing?”
Drake said, “It doesn’t take sense to figure the man blackmailed the president.” Figueroa eyed him unconvinced, so he added, “Look, on Monday, Carl Johnson launched a spree of violence that killed or wounded nearly three dozen federal agents and local police officers. A few days later, an executive order came down through the TER making Johnson untouchable.” The man shrugged. “It’s not rocket science.”
Maybe not, Figueroa thought, but it is a mystery. The terrorist had gone on yet another killing spree, claiming the families of Aaron McGrath and Special Agent Lenore Cummings. Except there were no bodies, according to the first responders who were now mysteriously sequestered by the TER agency.
“Mr. Drake, I’m not clear why the investigations of both homes was classified.”
“National security, Agent.”
Figueroa nodded, no stranger to that trump card. He accepted that higher authorities were calling the shots in the case now. His orders were to provide investigative support and local human and technology resources to the vice president’s liaison. Costas Drake had been appointed the provisional rank of senior special agent for the duration of the operation against the terrorist. Figueroa’s standing orders were to use his assets to follow-up on specific leads and then turn that information over to the TER, specifically to Drake’s people, for analysis and processing.
Drake’s people…whoever they are.
“And Johnson’s bombing of the five buildings in Chihuahua City? What was his motive? What’s the connection between those office buildings and the death of his son? Did he have operatives in that city who informed on him or his operation? Was it about house cleaning, or was he simply demonstrating his ruthlessness again? Perhaps he was merely trying to establish his credibility more firmly in the global pecking order of terrorists.”
Drake shrugged. “I can’t give you any more information.”
Figueroa neither liked nor disliked Costas Drake. He simply understood the rules of the game. Drake was in command. The man unnerved him, though. He was a tall, thick-set man of about forty, and he seemed imposing even when sitting. His blue eyes were emotionless orbs.
“I can’t believe he’s going to surrender,” Marshall Stewart said. “It’s got to be a deception of some kind.”
“I agree,” Ed Murray, the tactical commander, said. “He could have been anywhere in the world right now. Instead, he’s flying back to the US and into certain custody. Why would he do that?”
Drake didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said. “I want complete containment of his aircraft when he lands. Our latest intel suggests he has the virus with him, instead of an antidote. We think his people have developed some kind of wide-scale delivery method. There may be some kind of booby-trap or airborne release mechanism aboard.”
Murray shook his head. “This is Albuquerque. We don’t have even a million people here. If tactical release was his goal, he could have been over the Dallas metropolis by now, where he could tally a real body count.”
The voice of the tactical communications officer down in the basement operations center came through the telephone speaker on the SAC’s desk.
“Agent Figueroa,” she said. “I’m monitoring an inflight call from Johnson’s plane to a local cell phone. We’re tracing it now. It rang for two minutes before there was a pickup, but…”
“What is it, Agent?”
“I think it’s…um, you should hear this, sir.”
“Put it through.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll play it from the beginning.”
There was a click and then voices emanated from the speakerphone.
“Hello? Hello?” The men in the room recognized Carl Johnson’s voice.
“Carl, is that you?” The woman’s voice was raspy, like it came from someone parched with thirst. The voice was well-known to the FBI men in the room.
Figueroa jumped out of his chair. “Christ! Is that Cummings?”
Carl’s voice continued, “Is everyone sick?”
“I…I think Garcia’s baby is dead. Maybe his wife, too.”
“What about Lisette?”
There was a long pause and some noises, like Cummings was fumbling with the cell phone and checking on her daughter.
“She’s still alive.” She was silent and Figueroa got the impression she was looking around a room, maybe checking others. “The Chapmans are still breathing. The teenager, Tony, was taking care of them for a while. Then he also got sick.”
Johnson’s voice sounded like he was choked up. “Lenore, I’m sorry I did this to you. I didn’t know I was infected. I was trying to save you and I messed it up. I made things worse.”
“How long do we have?”
“Maybe eight more hours until you’re all in a coma. Then three days max.”
“Okay.” Cummings’s voice grated. “What is our prognosis? Can I save my daughter?”
“
No, I’m sorry,” Johnson said. “I’ve seen their research. It’s one hundred percent lethal.”
Cummings coughed. “If you infected us, why aren’t you sick?”
“I was the carrier. I got it from Melissa. I gave it to the president. Then she gave it to the government. And I spread it all over Albuquerque and northern Mexico. Everybody’s dying because of me.” Johnson paused. “I didn’t save Melissa. They were going to release her anyway.”
Cummings said, “It was Vice President Breen, wasn’t it? He was the highest-ranking cabinet member not at the president’s speech.”
“I can’t prove it,” Carl said. “But he certainly didn’t do it by himself. He had high-level help and a lot of it. He paid a Mexican political group called the Triad to develop the virus and kidnap Melissa Mallory so they could infect her.” Cummings coughed again and Johnson said, “Tell me where you are. There are people listening who can get you to a hospital.”
“They’ll kill us.”
“The FBI can get to you first. Besides, the Unit will have me in a few minutes, so they don’t need you anymore. I’m landing at the Sunport and I have the antidote with me. I’m going to surrender and try to reach someone who can get the antidote to the president. Everyone can’t be blinded by Breen’s bullshit. Somebody has to listen.”
“You can’t surrender. They’ll kill you.” Cummings took several deep ragged breaths. “You have to stop Breen.”
Carl Johnson’s voice was silent for a long time. “I already have, Lenore. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“The Triad double-crossed Breen and his people. They developed a much more virulent airborne version of the virus. That’s why I bombed their lab in Chihuahua.” Johnson’s voice paused. “I released it, Lenore. I let it loose three hours ago and now it’s spreading unchecked all over Mexico. It’s probably in Europe and Asia by now. By this time tomorrow, there’ll be too many people around the world infected. No one will be able to stop the contagion.”
“Oh my god, Carl! Why would you do such a thing?”
“Breen started this. I simply raised the stakes.” Carl paused for a moment. “I destroyed the Triad’s supply of the antidote when I bombed that building. Now Breen’s stockpile is all that’s left. If he waits until the president dies, then there’ll be too many people all over the world infected with the airborne virus, and no one will be able to stop it.”
“But millions could die, Carl. Maybe billions.”
Carl Johnson’s voice grated from the speakerphone, and Agent Figueroa felt a dark dread creep into his soul. “They made me into a terrorist, Lenore. McGrath did. The government did. The Triad did. This airborne contagion is the only weapon I have against Walter Breen. He has to give up his supply of the antidote before the airborne contagion is out of control and unstoppable. That means the president will be the first to get an antidote.”
Cummings coughed again. “But what if he doesn’t?”
“When we land, the Unit is going to try to kill me, but your friends at the FBI better make sure I stay alive. Because I know where Breen’s antidote stockpile is located. If Shirley Mallory dies, I won’t try to stop it. If she dies, everyone on the planet dies with her. It’s up to Breen now.”
Johnson paused for a moment. Then he said, “Tell me where you are so the FBI can find you and get you to a hospital.”
“Okay.” She coughed some more. “We’re at the East Central Motor Lodge. Room one-twenty-nine.”
“What city?”
Cummings’s voice sounded tired and groggy, like she had just come out of a very deep sleep.
“We doubled back,” she said. “I figured the Unit would set up road blocks, searching all the highways to the major cities. That’s what I’d do. I’d assume fugitives would try to hide in a city of millions, but this is the last place they’d look.” She took a deep rasping breath. “Yours is the first plane I’ve heard all day. You’re flying right over us.”
“What? You’re in Albuquerque?” There was a slight pause on the line, then Johnson’s voice said. “I’m coming for you, Lenore. I’m coming for you right now!” Then the line went dead.
Chapter 52
1712 hours MST Saturday
Undisclosed Security Bunker
Walter Breen nodded at the aide, who took his cue to disconnect the secure video link. Each of Breen’s senior advisors processed Costas Drake’s report in his own way, but Breen stood up and paced behind the conference table of the concrete bunker’s control center. He was aware every set of eyes was following his movements. He was aware everyone was waiting for his trademark explosion of anger. He didn’t care. Instead, he stopped pacing and just shook his head. He had no more anger inside him, only admiration.
“Brilliant. Absolutely, positively fucking brilliant.” Breen paused. “With all the money, assets, and personnel we have dedicated to this program, this one man has managed to derail us at every turn. Somebody try to convince me now that Carl Johnson is just a grieving father.” He stopped pacing and spread his hands wide. “Anybody?”
No one spoke. They all heard the communication intercept from Johnson’s Gulfstream jet.
Director Drummond said, “If he’s telling the truth, it’s a good thing we didn’t shoot his plane down before he told us what he has done. We would have found out far too late to stop the epidemic.”
Breen said, “Dr. Murphy, is he telling the truth? I would have thought the explosion would vaporize the viral samples. Could the airborne version have been released?”
The CDC scientist cleared his throat. “The lab has countermeasures employed to prevent the release of any viral pathogens.” He fell silent for a moment as he consulted his laptop. Then he looked around the table. “Had countermeasures. The final fail-safe was a gas that burns at three thousand degrees Fahrenheit. That temperature can incinerate any living substance—viral or organic. The gas should have been released into the containment room and ignited by computer at the first sign that any viral pathogens escaped containment.
“Part of our agreement with the Triad is that I personally monitor the lab’s computer control system data on a continual basis, so I’ve seen the data from the final few seconds. Johnson used so much C4 on the roof, the collapse of the building damaged the gas delivery pipes and ignition system almost half a second before the containment vessels were breached.”
General Vickers cleared his throat. “How much pathogen was stored at the facility? Was it enough to do what Johnson suggests?”
Dr. Murphy nodded slowly. “We were never told the exact amount, but our intel suggests they had several gallons of the pathogen. A significant portion of the released liquid would have been aerosolized. It likely spread over several square miles with the initial dust cloud from the blast.
“When the first responders arrived to begin rescue efforts and triage, they instantly were infected, as were the doctors and nurses who worked at the hospitals the victims in the immediate area were taken to. The hospitals were overloaded with minor wounded so they triaged those folks and sent them home with bandages to make room for the seriously wounded.
“And don’t forget, the particulates would have been carried into the local wind patterns, and we’ve been told the pathogen can survive outside of containment for up to three hours. By now, thousands are infected outside the blast zone, and they don’t even know it.”
General Vickers said, “How can it be stopped?”
Dr. Salazar looked at Walter Breen and said, “Like Johnson said, we have to release the antidote. We have to push for complete martial law in every country on the planet, and quarantine every outbreak with military troops as fast as possible. We have to shut down all international air traffic. We have to detect the virus, contain the virus, and cure the virus.”
Breen nodded and began pacing again. “Director Drummond, how close is August Spoke to the hospital?”
“About two hours, give or take.”
�
�General, I want Johnson’s plane shot out of the sky as soon as he passes over military property at the east end of that airport. I’ve had just about enough of this man.”
Breen focused on Chief of Staff Martine Scallow. “As soon as Johnson is dead, announce that we’ve located an existing supply of antiviral medication that is effective against the virus and that we’re rounding up supplies for distribution to the affected areas. Of course, we’ll send immediate supplies to our neighbors to the south first.”
“Do it within three hours, Mr. Vice President,” Murphy said.
Breen looked at the slender scientist and tented his eyebrows. “You issuing orders around here now, Doctor?”
“Sir, we only have eight million doses of the antidote. If the airborne virus gets loose in a major population center, like Mexico City with its ten million people, humanity is lost. People will start dying in five hours, but computer projections show that a significant outbreak will consume all of our doses in as little as three hours.”
Breen nodded. “General Vickers, make sure your guy in command at the hospital—what’s his name?”
“Angus Caruthers is in command of the National Guard forces there, sir.”
“Yes. Make sure General Caruthers allows August Spoke access to the hospital, and assign a Unit detachment there also. One way or another, I want Shirley Mallory dead inside two hours. If the antidote is going to become available, it’s because I make it so.”
Breen stood silently for a moment, then said, “General, a word please.” General Vickers stood and walked around the big conference table so the two men could talk privately. “John, it’s time to consider our secondary strategy.”
Chapter 53
1712 hours MST Saturday
American Terrorist Trilogy Page 61
