by Steve Alten
She looked around, desperate. The dumpster beckoned. She tossed the attaché case inside and hurried off. The case popped open as it landed inside the empty steel bin with a loud crash.
She hustled out of the alley. Turned left, headed east on 46th Street.
Bubonic Mary quickened her pace as the infectious combination of toxins quickly seeped through her bloodstream.
VA Medical Center
Manhattan, New York
9:03 A.M.
Leigh Nelson sat behind her desk, sipping the microwave-heated cup of coffee. Thursday morning, no reprimands. Her coat remained on, her bones still chilled from the four-block walk. Thirty degrees out, ten with the windchill, and they have to pick today to start construction on the staff parking lot.
Opening her laptop, she logged onto the Internet and checked her e-mail, progressively deleting the obvious spam. She stopped at the subject line: lost person inquiry and clicked on the e-mail.
Dr. Nelson:
Thank you for your inquiry regarding the whereabouts of BEATRICE SHEPHERD, age 30–38, ONE CHILD (female) age 14–16. TOP 5 Search States Requested: NY. NJ. CT. MA. PA. The following positive matches were found:
Manhattan, New York: Ms. Beatrice Shepherd
Vineland, New Jersey: Mrs. Beatrice Shepherd
See also: Mrs. B. Shepherd (NY — 4)
Mrs. B. Shepherd (NJ — 1)
Mrs. B. Shepherd (MA — 6)
Mrs. B. Shepherd (PA — 14)
To provide you with the highest-quality results, we suggest our LEVEL 2 Detective Service. Fee: $149.95.
Nelson’s eyes locked onto the Manhattan match. She clicked on the link:
Shepherd, Beatrice—201 West Thames Street, Battery Park City, NY. Daughter: Karen (age unknown).
Phone: (212) 798-0847 (new listing)
Marital Status: Married (separated)
Click for MAP:
She printed the information. Checked the time. Cursing under her breath, she grabbed her clipboard and headed out, ten minutes late for her morning rounds.
The sound of catcalls and hollering could be heard clear down the hall. Leigh Nelson quickened her pace into a jog, bursting through the double doors of Ward 27.
The veterans were chanting from their beds. Those with hands were clenching fistfuls of money, those without were just as animated. At the center of the spectacle was Alex Steven Timmer, a US Marine Corps veteran. The single-leg amputee was balancing on his right leg and left prosthetic, a baseball bat cocked over his right shoulder. The breakfast tray by his feet served as home plate, a mattress leaning against the bathroom door was the backstop. An aluminum bedpan tied around the mattress was the strike zone, one baseball already caught in its well.
On the other side of the ward, standing in the center aisle sixty feet away, was Patrick Shepherd. Strangely imposing. A baseball gripped loosely in his right paw.
“What the hell is going on in here? This is a hospital ward, not Yankee Stadium!”
The men grew quiet. Shep looked away.
Master Sergeant Rocky Trett addressed the angry woman from his bed. “Timmer played college baseball for the Miami Hurricanes. Claims he hit.379 in the College World Series and that Shep couldn’t strike him out on his best day. Naturally, we felt a wager was in order.”
“Come on, Pouty Lips, give us two more pitches so we can finish the bet!”
“Yeah!” The men started cheering again.
Alex Timmer nodded at the brunette. “Two more pitches, Doc. Let us settle this like men.”
“Two more pitches! Two more pitches! Two more pitches!”
“Enough!” She looked around, measuring her patients’ needs against the reality of losing her job. “Two more pitches. Then I want everything back to normal.”
The men cheered wildly as she walked down the center aisle to speak with Patrick. “Can you even throw a baseball with only one arm? Won’t you lose your balance?”
“I’m okay. Sort of been practicing in the basement.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Timmer. “He looks like he can hit. Can you get him out without breaking anything?”
Shep offered a wry smile.
“Strangler! Strangler! Strangler!”
“Two pitches.” She took cover behind the nurses’ station alongside Amanda Gregory. The nurse offered a shrug. “Could be worse. At least they’re not thinking about the war.”
Alex Timmer pointed his bat at Shep, Babe Ruth style. “Bring it, hotshot. Right over the plate.”
Shep turned away, adjusting his grip on the ball, using his upper thigh as leverage. Unable to maintain his balance in a full windup, he had to pitch from the stretch. He set himself, then, ignoring the batter, focused his eyes on the target. His left leg kicked, driving his knee up to his chest before extending forward into a powerful stride that simultaneously unfurled his right arm, a slingshot that hurled a spinning white blur through the air down the center aisle past the flummoxed batter a full second before he completed his awkward uppercut of a swing, the two-seam fastball denting the bedpan at its center point.
Strike two.
The men went crazy. Money was exchanged, a few tempers flared — the batter’s among them. “One more, Shepherd, give me one more fastball. You’d better duck, this one’s coming back up the middle.”
Shep retrieved the last ball from one of the veterans. He set a slightly different grip on the seams, his expression rivaling the best poker faces in Vegas.
Nothing changed. Not the speed of the delivery or the angle of his arm or the release — just the grip. The white Taser flew past a sea of steel beds en route to the makeshift plate and the awaiting batter before the baseball suddenly nosedived into a breaking slider that slipped ten inches beneath Alex Timmer’s whirling lumber — his swing rendered so violently off kilter that it corkscrewed the one-legged veteran 360 degrees. Ash wood met prosthetic leg, the device shattering into shards of aluminum and steel, landing Timmer hard on his buttocks. He howled as a slice of metal punctured his left butt cheek.
Silence stole across the crowd. Dr. Nelson stood by the nurses’ station, her complexion as pale as her lab coat.
“Damn it, Shepherd! I waited eight months for this leg! Eight months! Now what am I supposed to do?”
Shep shrugged. “Next time, bunt.”
The men whooped and hollered with laughter.
Grabbing the closest walker, the one-legged man pulled himself off the linoleum floor and limped up the aisle, intent on assaulting the one-armed man. Dr. Nelson remained frozen in place, watching dumbfounded as her interns hurried to intervene.
Her pager reverberated in her pocket. She fumbled for the instrument. Read the text message:
the vips have arrived.
United Nations Plaza
9:06 A.M.
Her leap of faith was waning, replaced by a sense of dread. Heaviness weighed in her lungs. Nausea rose in her stomach. A dull pain took root in her temples, the headache made worse by the incessant ringing of bells. The Christmas sound grew louder as she approached the crossroad of 46th Street and First Avenue, the United Nations Plaza looming into view.
* * *
Heath Shelby stopped ringing the bell. Pulling off one glove, he scratched his face beneath the annoying Santa Claus beard. A freelance writer, Shelby also did voice-over for local radio spots. He had been a volunteer with the Salvation Army for two years — one of his wife Jennifer’s requirements when she agreed to uproot their family from Arkansas.
Heath had no problem with charity work. The Salvation Army provided emergency services and hot meals to the less fortunate, along with gifts to children on Christmas. What he hated was wearing the cumbersome fat suit and the itchy white beard and the imitation-leather Santa boots that offered little to no insulation against the frozen sidewalk. He had been standing on the corner with his donation pot and bell since seven o’clock this morning. His feet and lower back ached. Worse, his throat was getting sore. With three new radio spots
set up for next week, the last thing he needed now was a cold.
Screw this. Toss a twenty in the bucket and call it a day. Better yet, catch a cab down to Battery Park and work on the boat. A few more hours of repairs and she should be seaworthy. Can’t wait to see Collin’s face… kid hasn’t been fishing since we left Possum Grape. Pick up another case of fiberglass resin before you head over and—
Ignoring the flashing do not walk sign, the pregnant redhead stepped off the curb and into traffic. A horn blared. The taxi skidded—
— Heath grabbed the woman by her elbow, dragging her out of harm’s way. “You okay?”
Mary looked up at Santa Claus, dumbfounded. “I can’t be late.”
“Late’s better than dead. You gotta watch the signs. Are you sure you’re all right? You look kind of pale.”
Mary nodded. Coughing violently, she rooted through her coat pocket, tossed loose change and lint into Santa’s bucket. The light turned green again, and she followed a fresh wave of pedestrians across the First Avenue intersection.
Looming ahead, rising from what had once been the north lawn, was the new United Nations Conference Building, still partially under construction. On its right was the Secretariat Building, its gleaming green glass and marble facade towering thirty-eight stories, its lower floors connecting it with the old Conference Building, the South Annex, the library… and her target — the General Assembly Building.
Mary stared at the curved rectangular structure and its central-roof dome. Just like in my dreams. She followed the sidewalk to the plaza, shocked to see the size of the awaiting flock.
A thousand protesters infested the Dag Hammarskjöld eighteen-acre plaza. Tea baggers. Picket signs. Chants over bullhorns. Encouraged by a dozen film crews recording everything for the News at Noon. So dense was this sea of humanity that Mary could barely gauge her surroundings. She was aiming for the General Assembly Building and its barricade of policemen in riot gear when white specks of light impeded her vision, churning the nausea mustering in her gut.
Must hurry now, before the bacilli enter my liver and spleen.
She cloaked her mouth and nose with her wool scarf, guarding her protruding belly with her free arm as she pushed through the crowd. Unseen elbows collided with her shoulders and skull. The gray winter sky disappeared behind a wall of humanity that jostled her to the cold pavement and swallowed her whole. On hands and knees, she emerged at the barricade, her cries for assistance silenced by the overwhelming decibel level of the crowd. Desperate, she regained her feet, shoving her identification badge at the row of helmets and body armor forming the gauntlet.
Mucus thickened in her lungs. A fit of coughs took her as the crowd surged at her back and she went down again, pushed beneath the wood obstruction.
A police officer dragged her to her feet, his brass tag identifying him as beck. He was shouting to her, pulling her on his side of the barricade, and suddenly she could see again.
“Go!” He pointed to the entrance.
Mary waved her thanks and hurried to the next security checkpoint, the pathogen raging through her body.
USAMRIID MEDEVAC Units Alpha & Delta
187 miles southwest of Manhattan
9:07 A.M.
The two Sikorsky UH-60Q Blackhawk helicopters soared over rural Maryland, their airspeeds approaching 150 knots. Each Aeromedical Isolation Team (A.I.T.) was equipped with a portable biohazard containment laboratory and mobile patient transportation isolator. The flight crew included an Army physician, a nurse, and three medics. The other members of these rapid response teams were Special Ops officers trained to deal with lethal contagious diseases, biological weapons, and patient isolation — the latter often the determining factor in whether a local population lived or died.
In charge of the two chopper response teams were Captains Jay and Jesse Zwawa, both men younger brothers of Colonel John Zwawa, USAMRIID’s commanding officer. Jay Zwawa, the Alpha Team field commander, was an Army veteran who had served three years in Iraq. Known in his barracks as “Z” or the “Polish Pimp Dog,” Jay stood six feet four inches and weighed an imposing 260 pounds. Covered in tattoos, the former Army sniper was a certified Gatling gun operator and diesel engine mechanic, and had earned a reputation as a practical jokester. When riled, however, Z had been known to knock out with one punch anyone who challenged him.
Younger brother Jesse was smaller than his two older brothers but was considered the smartest of the three Zwawa boys, at least by their sister, Christine. The two A.I.T. commanders were situated in the cargo hold of the lead chopper, assisting one another into their Racal suits — orange polyvinyl chloride protective garments possessing sealed hoods and self-powered breathing systems. The Zwawa siblings knew their destination but had not been briefed on the nature of the mission. Whatever older brother John had in mind, the colonel was taking no chances. The two crews flying into Manhattan were heavily armed, with orders that allowed them to supersede the police department, fire and rescue, and all branches of local government.
9:11 A.M.
The detail of armed guards stood at attention in front of the door to the General Assembly Hall, where the Security Council was meeting to accommodate all those who wished to attend. Mary rocked back on her heels, waiting while her forged identification card was scrutinized by a UN security officer. His partner searched her purse.
“Thank you, Dr. Petrova. Arms up, please, I need to pat you down for weapons.” He hesitated to touch her swollen belly.”
“It’s okay, he likes you.” She took the police officer’s hand and pressed it to her stomach in time to feel the baby kick.
“Wow, that’s… that’s amazing.” He turned to his partner. “She’s cleared, let her through.” The officer handed her back the laminated card, never questioning her phony Russian accent or the fact that she was pale and sweating profusely, her perspiration giving off a soured musk.
The auditorium was buzzing, its capacity crowd waiting to hear from Iran’s Supreme Leader. Mary weaved down one of the main aisles. Through watering eyes, she gazed at the stage. A mural of a phoenix rising from the battlefield served as the backdrop to a specially installed horseshoe configuration of chairs, all surrounding a rectangular table reserved for the fifteen members of the Security Council.
I am the phoenix rising…
The chamber spun. Mary shook her head, fighting to maintain control. Inseminate the carriers. She coughed phlegm into each palm. Innocently touched a French delegate as she squeezed past his table. Infested England and Denmark with a sneeze. Coughed in the direction of Brazil and Bulgaria. Cut back across another aisle and headed for a table of Arabs in dark business suits. A placard identified them as Iraqis.
Onstage, the Iranian mullah took his place at the podium, his words simultaneously translated into dozens of languages via headphones. “Excellencies, I come to you today in the hopes of averting a conflict that will lead to another war. I plead my case to the General Assembly, knowing that the Security Council has been corrupted by the occupiers of Afghanistan and Iraq…”
Mary tapped the shoulder of an Iraqi delegate heading for his seat. “Please? Where is the Iranian delegation?”
The dead-man-walking glanced at her swollen belly. Pointed to an empty table.
A wave of panic sent her pulse to race. The meek shall inherit the earth, not the mullahs. She hustled out of the chamber, returning to the security desk. “Please, I am late to meet with the Iranian delegation. Where can I find them?”
The woman at the desk scanned her clipboard. “Room 415.” She pointed down the hall. “Take the elevator up to the fourth floor.”
“Spasibo!” Mary hurried down the corridor, coughing up a thick wad of phlegm into her hand. She checked it for blood, wiped it off on her jacket, then pressed the up button and waited, her internal clock ticking.
VA Medical Center
East Side, Manhattan
9:13 A.M.
Leigh Nelson led her V.I.P., his two gu
ests, and their security detail down the hallway to Ward 27, praying all signs of the early-morning baseball wager had been removed.
Bertrand DeBorn’s visit to the VA hospital was far more than just a photo op. While President Kogelo was scheduled to address the United Nations later this morning, hoping to quell hawkish demands for an Iranian invasion, the new secretary of defense was seeding a privately funded covert campaign designed to recruit a new generation of young Americans to the military.
Two prolonged wars required altering the public’s perception of combat. Working in conjunction with one of New York’s biggest advertising firms, DeBorn intended to present America’s wounded veteran as the nation’s new elite — a true patriot whose financial needs were met, his health care guaranteed, his family’s future bright. Slap the Stars and Stripes on it, and even a turd could be sold as smelling sweet… provided the chosen poster boy fit the image.
DeBorn caught up to the female physician and grabbed the petite brunette by her elbow, the back of his hand pressing against her right breast in the process. “No more paraplegics or cancer patients, Doctor. The ideal candidate must be good-looking and middle-class, preferably Caucasian, God-fearing, and Christian. As for the wounds, they can be visible without the gross-out factor. No head wounds or missing eyes.”
Leigh ground her teeth, brushing aside the secretary of defense’s lingering hand. “I was told to show you our wounded vets. Whom you select for your recruitment campaign is up to you.”
Sheridan Ernstmeyer joined in on the conversation. “What about mental clarity?”
DeBorn weighed the question. “I don’t know. Colonel, you’re the expert. What do you think?”
Lieutenant Colonel Philip Argenti, an ordained minister, was the highest-ranking man of the cloth in the Armed Forces and DeBorn’s handpicked selection to lead the military’s new recruitment campaign. Toting a Bible in one hand and a rifle in the other, Argenti aimed to target families still reeling from the recession as well as military stalwarts — apple-pie-eating, flag-bearing rural Southern folk who still viewed service in the military as the ultimate definition of patriotism. “Mental clarity is certainly desired, but not entirely necessary, Mister Secretary. We’ll keep everything to sound bites and tweets.”
