by Jack Mars
“Luke, I’ve called you about a dozen times today. You never called back. You never told me you were leaving Galveston. You never said a word, you never sent a text, and you never sent an email. You know what? It’s the same old song from you, and I’m really kind of sick of it.”
Luke looked at the phone he was holding. It was the satellite phone he had obtained earlier in the day. Where was his personal cell phone? He glanced down at the clothes he was wearing. He still wore the jump suit from when they boarded Omar’s boat. He never had time to change out of it.
His cell phone was probably in his civilian clothes, which were in a locker… he looked at the building he had just walked out of. It was a low-slung office tower, with the base command center inside. The locker room where he had changed was in a flight crew dorm, near the helipads, in another part of the base. He wasn’t even sure where that was anymore.
Becca went on. “There was some kind of attack in Cuba earlier today. An American soldier got killed. I thought you might have been involved in that. Now this biological attack. There’s a news blackout on the ground.”
Luke nodded. He knew about the news blackout. He had initiated it.
“There are no images, no footage, and very little information. Only that thousands of people are trapped inside the infection zone. They’re saying thousands of people may have already died.”
“I lost my phone,” he said. As soon as he said it, he realized it was an excuse as lame as it sounded. Even so, he pressed on with the same flawed line of reasoning. “I didn’t know you were trying to call.”
“And you didn’t think to call me, right?”
“Becca…”
“Don’t, Luke. Don’t even try it.”
He stopped, and a long silence drew out between them.
“What are you doing now?” she said.
“Uh, I was just relieved of my command here. So I’m going to fly up to Charleston and look at the—”
“Luke, tell me that isn’t true. Tell me you’re not going there. I’m a biological researcher. It’s a disaster area. People are dying in droves. Do you have any idea how infectious this virus is?”
He shook his head. That was just like her. Did he know how infectious the virus was? Was she kidding? Did she think she knew more about it because she had handled a few viruses and saw an hour-long Ebola documentary on TV?
“Becca, there’s going to be another attack. This is the warm-up. The next one is a major city. I have to go to Charleston. I have to see it for myself. I can’t stop the next attack if I don’t know everything about this one.”
“I’m done with this!” she said. “I’m done. Don’t we count for anything? You’re going to save this city, and rescue that country. You’re going to fly here, you’re going to fly there. You race around, popping pills to stay awake, playing Cowboys and Indians, shooting people, getting shot yourself. Do you ever think about your own wife and son? We were here, and we didn’t know if you were alive or dead. And you know what? You didn’t know if we were, either.”
“Becca—”
“Gunner and I were kidnapped less than a week ago, Luke. Your son is traumatized. You may think he isn’t, but that’s wishful thinking. No, it’s worse. It’s selfish. You think that because it’s more convenient for you.”
Luke didn’t say a word. Of course she was right. Gunner was traumatized. Becca was, too. But what was he supposed to do? Pretend this attack hadn’t happened? Walk away from the whole thing?
“Luke, if you go to Charleston, I’m filing for a divorce. It’s that simple. I can’t live like this anymore. It’s not good for me, or my son.”
He tried again. “Becca…”
“Are you going to Charleston?”
“Yes.”
The line went dead.
He didn’t try to call her back. There was no sense in bothering. She was headstrong, and when she got angry... it was no use.
Instead of calling her again, he just stared at the phone in his hand. It was an older satellite phone, in an orange plastic casing, with a small readout screen at the top and the buttons below. It was a friendly looking phone. At the moment, it seemed like his only friend in the world.
“I’m sorry,” he told it. “I’m really, really sorry.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
7:45 p.m. – Mountain Time
Aspen, Colorado
“Doctor, do you know who I am?”
Omar and the doctor sat on the back deck of Omar’s house near the summit of Red Mountain. The locals called it “Billionaire Mountain,” and for good reason. Omar was far from the only billionaire who kept a home up here.
He and the good doctor were enjoying some red wine and gazing out at the green ski runs on Aspen Mountain, perhaps a mile across the valley. The sun lowered in the sky. It was a crisp early evening, but the winter snow was all gone.
Three of Omar’s bodyguards stood behind them, as well as two servants waiting for instructions.
The doctor nodded. “Of course I do. You are Omar bin Khalid, of the House of Saud. It has been an honor to treat you.”
“And what exactly did you treat me for?”
The doctor seemed confused. “For what ailment?”
Omar nodded gently. “Yes.”
The young doctor was from Mexico, and from all the evidence presented was highly skilled. He was fluent in English and had in fact attended medical school in New York City. He had been waiting at the airport in Ciudad Juarez when Omar’s plane came in.
The plane taxied into a hangar to confuse anyone who might be watching by satellite. Omar and his party, under cover of the hangar, transferred to a different airplane, waited twenty minutes, and then flew here to Aspen. They brought the doctor with them.
“Well, I treated you for what is clearly a gunshot wound to the right hand. I cleaned and disinfected the wound, and stabilized the injury. It appears to me that you will need, and I definitely recommend, further treatment at a hospital.”
Omar was feeling buzzed already. It had been a long day, he was tired, and he had been quite drunk when the Americans so rudely interrupted his party.
“Can you describe the extent of my injury?” he said.
The doctor shrugged. “I explained this to your assistant, but I’m happy to explain again. In addition to the traumatic entry and exit wounds, you’ve sustained fractures of the bones of the hand and small bones of the fingers, some bone loss, soft tissue injuries to the muscles and related structures, as well as significant damage to the nerves and blood vessels. As you know, I’ve provided you with an opiate for pain management, and an oral antibiotic to reduce the chance of infection. Since I brought these with me from Mexico, you’re going to need a prescription for similar medications here in the United States when these run out, which they will do.”
“Do you know where I sustained this injury?”
The doctor held up his glass. A servant stepped up from behind them and refilled it with wine. The wine was dark. Like blood.
“You told me yourself. You were aboard your yacht on the Cuban coast.”
“Very good,” Omar said. “Now I want to ask you a few personal questions, if you don’t mind.”
It seemed the doctor must also be drunk, because he smiled. “I don’t mind at all.”
“Are you married? Do you have children?”
The doctor looked at Omar with a sly glint in his eyes. “So far I am married to my work. And I haven’t, as you may understand, felt the urge to commit to any one woman.”
“But did you tell anyone where you were going today?” Omar said.
“I was instructed to act in utmost secrecy.”
The answer annoyed Omar, but perhaps only a touch. He smiled at the futility of it. It was a little bit cagey, and that was all. A non-answer masquerading as an answer.
“Did you?” he said.
The smile on the doctor’s face began to fade. “Did I what?”
“Act in utmost secrecy.”
&n
bsp; “Yes. Of course.”
“Good,” Omar said. He rose from his chair. “I want to thank you for your fine work. I would shake your hand, but…” He raised his bandaged hand. “I’m unable at the moment.”
He turned to go inside. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you.”
From the corner of his eye, Omar saw two of his bodyguards move in, seize the doctor, and drag him out of his chair. They quickly gagged him and handcuffed him. The doctor was either so surprised or so frightened, he didn’t make a sound, and he offered only the most token resistance.
They pulled him ten feet away and pushed him to the polished marble of the deck. One of the bodyguards pulled a silenced pistol, raised the doctor by the hair, and shot him through the head. He did it at an angle, so as not to harm the stonework. The gunshot itself made a simple clack, like an office stapler. The bullet whined off into the wilderness.
Omar went inside the house. He passed down a long hallway, his servants following behind. He noticed the throbbing in his hand. It had eased somewhat, whether from the wine or the doctor’s opiate, he wasn’t sure. The wine and the opiate made a nice combination, though. In his head, he was definitely starting to feel that little concoction.
He entered his study. It was a solarium, with a glass bubble ceiling, and floor to ceiling windows on three sides, taking in astounding views of the surrounding mountains. There was a large telescope in the corner by one window. Omar was a stargazer when the mood struck. His assistant, Ismail, was here, sitting in a chair and studying a half-played chess game on the table in front of him.
He smiled when Omar walked in. “Omar, I have very good news for you.”
“Yes, please. I need some good news.”
“My eyes are everywhere,” Ismail said. “Even in the den of the viper itself.”
“Do tell.”
“A private plane left Washington, DC, moments ago, en route to Los Angeles. It has some very special passengers on board. The husband of the President of the United States, himself one of the richest men on Earth, and their two lovely daughters. The plane has a six-seat capacity, which means there are three Secret Service agents on board, at most four, if there’s a cockpit jump seat.”
“Four Secret Service agents?” Omar said.
“At most. Three is more likely.”
“Can we defeat that many?”
“In an unsecured location? We can defeat five times that many.”
“And our presence in Los Angeles?”
Ismail nodded. His smile was contagious. “I would think that should be obvious. There is a robust presence. We have people moving into position even as you and I enjoy ourselves in this glorious mountain retreat.”
“That sounds very good.”
“It is very good,” Ismail said. “Very, very good.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
10:21 p.m. – Eastern Time
Charleston, South Carolina
The pilots called the plane FRED.
It was a military acronym, short for “Fucking Ridiculous Environmental/Economic Disaster.” It was the C5 Galaxy, a fuel hog, and one of the largest airplanes in the world. Luke rode in the cockpit for most of the flight, but he went back to the cargo hold for a little while just to marvel at the amount the plane could carry.
The plane was a resource mover. Its enormous hold was 120 feet long, a foot longer than the Wright Brothers’ first powered flight. The hold was full. Four Humvees were parked in there. Thousands of meals-ready-to-eat, packed on pallets. Cots, tents, more hazmat suits. Tens of thousands of pounds of medical consumables—disposable thermometers, syringes, rubber gloves, disinfectant wipes, plastic tubs, and more. It was hard to believe the thing could even get off the ground.
A light rain was falling when they arrived.
A young Army lieutenant met him on the tarmac. “Agent Stone? We’ve got a vehicle waiting, sir.”
The road from the airport was empty except for military vehicles. The Jeep’s windshield wipers slapped out a slow tempo. In the dark, they passed a convoy of troop carriers going the other way. Luke drifted into a dreamlike state.
In ten minutes, they passed through a checkpoint. Then a moment later, another. They passed him hand to hand until he reached the barricades. He had seen video of the area, but not of the barricades themselves. They were a makeshift tangle of sandbags, hurricane fencing, and looping razor wire, extending in either direction as far as the eye could see. Two- and three-story watchtowers had been quickly erected all down the line.
Bulldozers were working under cover of darkness, knocking down buildings across the street to create an open zone where no one could hide.
He found himself in a tower, about twenty feet above a long line of people moving slowly between barbed-wire-topped fencing. The fencing ran along a long wall of wire-mesh sand-filled Hesco bastion portable barriers, stacked two high. The Hescos were like giant sandbags, each one four feet high, and the wall of them probably went three hundred yards. There were hundreds of people here, the line itself snaking back into the gloom. Three riflemen stood in the bird’s nest with him. They watched the line move, hands on their guns.
The head of the line was just below them. Half a dozen men in full white hazmat suits stood at a long desk. They held yellow infrared thermometers, which they pointed at each person who came up in line. Then they directed the person either right or left.
“What’s the setup here?” Luke said to one of the gunmen.
The kid gestured with his head. “The line below us is people who want out. They were vetted at an armed checkpoint further back. They’re mostly docile. Regular citizens, we hope. No crazy people. No weapons. Also, no sneezing, no coughing, no bleeding. No obvious symptoms. They’re behind that Hesco berm because we’ve been taking fire from across the way. You see those guys in the space suits? They’re taking everybody’s temperature. If it’s too high, you go to the left. If it’s normal, you go to the right. Left is a field hospital. It’s hell on Earth over there. Right is a containment zone. Right is for the lucky duckies. You get a cot and a blanket and a bite to eat. You’re under a big tent. You stay the hell away from everybody else, and in the morning, if you’re still normal, you get to leave. That’s the plan anyway. Personally, I think it’s better if they hold them a few days, but they tell me the containment zone is already filling up. Anyway, all those people standing around in the rain down there? Who wouldn’t have a fever by now?”
“What’s your assignment?” Luke said.
“We’re here to keep the guys in the space suits alive. They lost a few earlier this afternoon. It was pretty much chaos setting up these checkpoints. Things are a lot more orderly now.”
Just then, a commotion started at the desk. A young black woman hugging a small boy was surrounded by men in white suits. She started screaming.
“No! He doesn’t have it! I know he doesn’t have it!”
Two men in white suits were pulling the child away from her. Two men tried to subdue her. She fell to her knees as they pulled the boy away.
“No! Don’t take him! Eddie! No! Wait a minute. It’s me! I have the virus. Please! I have it! He doesn’t have it!”
Next to Luke, the kid raised his rifle and sighted the woman.
“Easy,” Luke said. “Easy.”
In the next second, the woman bounced to her feet. She was fast, and strong. She broke from the men behind her. She ran at the two men who had her child. She crashed into them, ripping and clawing at their suits. The suits were made of light vinyl. She tore a huge hole down the front of one. The men tried to back away. She ripped and tore. The man fell backwards, onto the ground. She climbed on top of him.
The man on his feet swept the boy up in his arms and ran with him down the walkway between fences.
The woman ripped and clawed at the man on the ground. “You leave my boy alone, you hear me? Eddie! You come away from that man!”
Next to Luke, the kid fired.
Boom… Boom… Boom.
His upper body jerked from the recoil.
People screamed. The entire line of people dove for the ground. Near the table, the woman had fallen into the mud. She lay there, barely moving.
A voice came over a loudspeaker. “Everyone stay on the ground. Remain calm. Do not move. Repeat, do not move. Remain calm.”
The man in the white suit crawled away from the woman, then climbed to his feet. Luke could hear him. His voice was panicked. “Shit! I’m bleeding. Oh, man. She scratched me. Jesus!”
The kid kept his gun trained on the woman. “She’s fine,” he said. He spoke fast, seemingly to himself. “I’m firing rubber bullets. I didn’t kill her just now. She’s still moving. She’s going to be fine.”
A burst of automatic gunfire erupted off to the left, and the kid flinched. The crowd screamed again. The kid kept his gun trained on the woman. She writhed in agony on the ground, arms and legs slowly pushing mud.
A tracer went up from the barricade, lighting up the streets just across the way. As the tracer came down, it cast eerie shadows on the walls. It was really raining now.
“Can somebody please kill that guy already?”
Luke caught the light signature from the gun barrel. It was coming from a shattered second-story window of an old five-story apartment building. The building was set back in a courtyard. The bulldozers hadn’t made it over there yet. Small arms fire from the barricade pelted the brickwork of the building.
A burst came from the window again. Automatic gunfire strafed the checkpoint a hundred yards down from Luke’s tower.
“Everyone stay down!” the loudspeaker repeated. “Remain calm.”
“The guy’s a maniac,” the kid said. “He’s got an Uzi or a chopped Tec-9, and he keeps popping up in different places. He must have a million rounds. He’s already killed about half a dozen people. I don’t know what the hell his problem is.”
Luke marked the window. “Do you guys have any heavy weaponry here? I can take him out.”
“If we did, don’t you think we would have done it by now? All we have is dum-dums for the rifles, and a few guys have sidearms. Not much good from here. We’ve called for a sniper, a mortar, an air strike, anything at all, but we don’t get one. I don’t know who set this thing up, but it’s a hundred percent FUBAR. We’re sitting ducks in these towers. The people on the ground are better off than we are.”
