Isabel had been stopping by General Browner’s office every day, and every day had been informed the general wasn’t in. Her purported purpose was to talk to him about some thoughts she had on Emma and her kingdom. Her ulterior motive was to ask about Rick.
She wasn’t sure what she would say to Browner about Emma if asked. Her Community was a hopeful self-organization that promised to quell the violence, at least the non-state-sponsored kind. But overflight video and still photos of men, women, even children standing in front of a ditch half filled with lye-covered bodies were horrific, even if the victims were Infecteds. However, she had reasoned silently on more charitable mornings when life seemed brighter, the detainees had presumably broken at least one of Emma’s Rules—committing murder or rape…or skipping afternoon calisthenics.
Then, there were the darker times. She hated going to bed alone. She had grown used to Rick’s body heat beside her. His smell, even when unshowered, was a comfort. His steady breathing was calming even when he snored. She would always try to edge close enough to him to hear his heart, halting her efforts when he stirred.
These days, things seemed bleaker at bedtime. She had never gotten enough work done, so sleep was an admission of defeat. There were more reports to read. More tangential facts to weigh in assessing just how dangerous a well-organized Infected state would be. Facts like their barbaric slaughter of men, women, children, and the elderly after communities resisted annexation. How could any one of those monstrous atrocities be ignored, much less numerous documented massacres? All Infecteds are evil, she concluded each night as she tossed and turned on the cot in the elevator lobby. Each morning, however, she awoke to the promise that maybe evil was too strong a word.
General Browner’s aide rose from her stoop over the desk of Browner’s camo-clad male secretary and gatekeeper. “Hello, Dr. Miller,” Ensign Somebody said.
“I know, I know,” Isabel said with a smile, “he’s not in.”
“No, he’s in. But he’s in a meeting. Do you want to leave a message?”
She had declined to do so each earlier visit. She had wanted to give Browner the opportunity to update her on Rick’s well-being. “Yeah, actually. Major Kravets thinks we need human intelligence out of southwest Virginia and ought to resume our reconnaissance missions there on the ground.”
“I’ll pass that along to General Browner.”
Isabel thanked her and returned to her work. Less than an hour later, Isabel was pouring over a long list of assets big and small located in Community territory—bridges, factories, heavy equipment yards, even the locations of underground storage tanks at corner gas stations. The assets looked more and more like a preliminary target list.
The door to the conference room opened behind where she sat. “Aaa-ten-shun!” Everyone in the room leapt to their feet. She turned to see General Browner. “Dr. Miller, may I borrow you for a sec?”
Isabel followed Browner into the corridor. People there steered a wide path around the four star Marine general. Isabel had met him days into the pandemic—Infection Date 8, when she had learned about Pandoravirus and the Severe Encephalopathic Disease it had caused in her sister. In the three months since, Browner had aged. The bags under his eyes had grown. His ruddy vigor had been replaced by a grayish pallor.
“I came by to see you,” Isabel said, “about Major Kravets saying we needed—”
“Captain Townsend is missing in action.”
It took Isabel a moment to catch the drift of his comment. To find a handle to latch onto so that she could begin to grasp what he’d said. “What…what does that mean?”
“We know he made it to his drop-off point—”
“The outpost?”
Browner shrugged. He seemed unwilling to describe it as an outpost, even though that hardly sounded as secure as a base or a fort. Isabel didn’t collapse or dissolve into tears. She wondered how many times Browner had given similarly bad news.
“Their position was overrun six hours later. We’re not sure if Townsend’s team was still there. And we’re not sure how many survivors there were.” If any, Isabel heard him imply. “Our only way of contacting Captain Townsend after that Osprey left was a longer range radio set used by the unit that was overrun. Townsend’s portable comms are all short range.”
“What about a satellite phone?” Isabel picked at details to avoid the main news.
“He doesn’t have one. The civilian system has crashed since he used it in Virginia. And our military comms are highest priority only. They didn’t have the gear.”
She nodded. “He’s probably gone to his uncle’s farm. It’s in Wisconsin. His family is there. Just go pick him up.”
While torture would be too dramatic a description, her words at least bothered Browner. “We know about his parents’ farm and his uncle’s farm. I’m sorry, Dr. Miller—Isabel—but there’s nothing we can do right now.”
“You can’t fly someone up there to pick him up?”
He sighed. “It would take another Osprey running on high engine hours. Two, to be safe, in case of a mechanical failure. With no fuel at their destination, they’d need midair refueling on the way there, and more on the way back. Those packages would need at least four standby combat search and rescue teams, at least two of those prepositioned in infected territory and holding their ground for the better part of a day. That means fixed-wing ground attack support aircraft waiting on calls, more midair refueling, more CSAR.”
“What you’re saying is that it can be done, but Rick’s just not worth it.”
“I’m saying I’d be putting all those lives at risk on nothing more than a hope that Captain Townsend succeeded in escaping the overrun and in leading his men across a hundred miles of hostile territory to his uncle’s farm. He wouldn’t even be there yet if they were on foot. And every one of those men and women I’d be sending out there, Isabel, has loved ones worried sick about them, too. Yes, it’s a risk/reward or cost/benefit calculation, and it doesn’t tilt in favor right now of a rescue attempt and may never. But that’s not because I don’t value the lives of Captain Townsend and his men. I assure you that I do, very much.”
“How about an overflight? Or satellite photos? You’ve still got satellites, right?”
“Some. One. It’s running low on maneuvering fuel, but…I’ll check into it.”
“He’ll be fine,” she said to reassure the general, though he looked back at her in sympathy. “He’s been through worse. And now he’s somewhere in Wisconsin, not China.”
By the time Browner departed with a gentle squeeze of her arm, Isabel had almost talked herself into optimism. She went to the bathroom, closed the stall door, and waited. Surely now she would cry. She sat on the toilet seat fully clothed, staring at the door. No tears came. Rick was still alive, she realized, and as long as that fact was true she was okay.
Back in the conference room, she replied, “Nothing,” repeatedly to questions about General Browner’s surprise visit. As the day wore on, however, her dread grew. Night was approaching, and with it…bedtime.
Chapter 46
NEW ROANOKE, VIRGINIA
Infection Date 117, 1330 GMT (9:30 a.m. Local)
Emma and Samantha watched people disperse after publication of the daily Rules. “They only read the changes,” Samantha said. “And I didn’t see anyone who acted like they’re leaving. That must mean they were okay with today’s Rules.”
“The Infecteds don’t appreciate what the testing means,” Emma suggested, watching the first of the people whose names appeared on the training calendar head for the church. “Once they do, there could be trouble.”
“The testing is designed so that their best chance, each step of the way, is to go along with the process to the end.”
“Until,” Emma noted, “the moment they realize they’re failing. It has always bothered me that they fail by getting too agitated to control themse
lves. Is that the best time to euthanize them? When their adrenal response is surging?”
“Is there a better time?” Samantha had either asked a straightforward question, or learned to use rhetorical remarks in speech…like an Uninfected. Emma couldn’t tell which.
“Do you feel more at home with Infecteds,” Emma asked the girl, “or Uninfecteds?”
“What does feel more at home mean?”
“I don’t know. It seemed like a question that made sense. Never mind. Who did you end up putting in charge of the executions of Rule breakers and test failures?”
“Dwayne has temporarily taken over the SE police.”
Emma surveyed Samantha. There was something different about her. Granted, Emma increasingly had no contact with other Infecteds or with Uninfecteds. The latter thankless duty—typically listening to some mixture of angry demands and none too veiled threats—she now left to Angela Stoddard. As for meeting Infecteds, Emma realized that she either saw the stumbling, semi-brain-dead condemned on their way to execution, or quiet functionaries like Dwayne doing their uninspired best. Were there Infected geniuses out there plowing the fields? Were any exhibiting the first stirrings of whatever was going on in Samantha’s head? A primitive, budding sense of self? The faint distracting call of some long ago feelings like love and admiration and those other words?
“You still seeing that boy?” Emma asked Sam. It was a pretty nimble attempt at subterfuge, Emma thought—and it worked.
“What boy?”
Aha. She is seeing some boy. Emma tried fishing again. “That Uninfected boy?”
Samantha couldn’t hold Emma’s gaze. That seemed odd. What could be preventing her eyes meeting Emma’s? “Is there a Rule against Infecteds and Uninfecteds hanging out?”
“Should there be?”
“No.”
“What’s his name?”
“Why? You’re not going to kill him, are you?”
“Why would I do that?”
“I dunno.” Samantha’s trim shoulders rose and fell.
Sam said I a lot. All the time, in fact. “Can I ask what you see in whoever he is?”
“Yes. I’d like to tell you. He’s cute. Tall. Has a nice face. He’s been teaching me how to smile.” Samantha bared her teeth, still squinting. “He likes music. He pretends to play the guitar and drums when there’s a loud song on, but I took him to the high school’s band room and he didn’t know what to do with a real guitar or drums. That’s interesting, don’t you think?”
“How old is he?”
“Almost sixteen.”
“You’re going to be careful, right?”
“I know the Rules. I wrote them, remember? But eighteen is kind of old. You said we could use more babies.”
“Years from now we can use them. Right now, they’re another burden.”
“Speaking of babies….” Samantha said, going on to describe Dorothy’s progress in setting up an orphanage for Infected children and infants. She had read Emma’s mind. That’s what it seemed like—like that old expression Emma remembered from pre-outbreak. To Emma’s knowledge, Samantha was the only Infected with that kind of insight. “I asked Dorothy if we should call it an orphanage if their parents are still alive, but she didn’t understand. I suppose, though, that if your parents are Infected, they’ve sort of automatically abandoned you, right? And abandoned children—”
“Foundlings,” Emma supplied from distant memory. “That’s what they’re called.”
“How about calling Dorothy’s centers foundling homes?”
“Orphanage is fine. No sense wasting resources making up new names for things.”
There was a single gunshot from the opposite side of the church. “That was quick,” Emma said. “They just got started testing. Wanta go watch the next execution?”
“Sure.” Off they went toward the far side of the testing center.
Chapter 47
HOUSTON, TX
Infection Date 118, 1330 GMT (9:30 a.m. Local)
Task Force Dixie’s report to General Browner was as divided as its member’s opinions were conflicted. On the whole, Isabel observed, it was an exercise in evenhandedness. On the one hand, Emma was pacifying lawless infected areas. On the other, she was doing it through mass murder. They enumerated reasons to ally themselves with Emma, and to nuke her to smithereens. As important as the decision was—for Emma, for the million odd residents of The Community, and for Isabel—she grew impatient for any news Browner might share with her about Rick, his whereabouts, and whether or not he was still alive.
“So you’ve achieved no consensus?” Browner summed up.
“Unfortunately, no, sir,” said Major Kravets. “The Community’s paramilitary forces pose no current threat to our troops, but they are overwhelming holdout uninfected towns with ease, and when a fight does ensue, they’re unleashing abhorrent levels of butchery. Their forces will, however, continue to scale up, and we see no natural obstacles restricting their growth throughout the Southeast north of South Florida, west of Norfolk, and east of the Appalachians. That could conceivably entail up to a ten X, even a twenty X growth in population and might ultimately even encompass Atlanta, Charlotte, Jacksonville, and Tampa. That’s before we factor in any expansion into the Northeast and Upper Midwest. On the other hand, based on the latest recon out of those areas, it would be difficult to imagine a situation that bad not being improved upon pacification by The Community.”
Isabel awaited an eruption of frustration from the Marine general. But Browner remained calm. Perhaps he had known that their conclusions would be equivocal.
“I’m not going to ask for a show of hands,” Browner said, “or for a vote on a course of action this nation should take in addressing The Community.” For whatever reason, his stressing of words put verbal air quotes around the name. Maybe it was simply a new term to those outside Task Force Dixie. Or maybe its continued existence was very much in doubt so why formally recognize it diplomatically or cartographically. “But I do have a thought exercise for you. Assuming that Emma Miller’s Community does avoid direct conflict with our forces in order to stave off open warfare with us, but assuming also that it expands everywhere across the map that we aren’t—unconstrained by mountains or rivers or national, state, or county lines—where would that leave us?”
Heads turned but ended up staring mutely at their task force’s leader. “We would be surrounded, sir,” replied the army major, “and vastly outnumbered.” Browner scanned the conference table for any disagreement, but that conclusion appeared unanimous. Even Isabel bobbed her head once in agreement.
“And if they surround and outnumber us,” Browner said, “with control over all the resources we don’t stake out and defend, they will ultimately be capable of challenging and possibly defeating us militarily. If that’s the case, the only things missing are their intentions. Emma Miller’s intentions. Would she be an ally? A neutral third party with whom we could trade and have a reliable nonaggression pact? Or an existential threat to be defeated lest they defeat us first? What do we know about her current plans?”
The task force commander turned to Isabel, but she had no intention of answering. “We don’t know anything about her intentions, sir,” Major Kravets replied. “It’s easy to count vehicles and personnel, track movements and expanding boundaries, monitor economic production, demographics, crops in the fields. But they obviously don’t publish white papers, have legislative debates, or produce analyses by a semi informed press or best guess punditry. And given the changes to Infecteds’ decision making faculties, it’s fair to say we know less about their intentions than we ever did about the Soviet Union, or Communist China, or North Korea. The leaders of those countries were, at least….”
When he faltered, Isabel said, “…normal?” She turned to Browner. “I’m afraid I have to concur, sir.”
Browner rocked
back in his chair at the head of the table while drawing a deep breath. “I presume you all know what the National Security Council will have to advise the president in this situation, don’t you? When we know that The Community may soon grow into a peer competitor that has the capability of defeating us militarily, but we have no idea what its intentions are?” His sweeping gaze ended on Isabel.
“Assume the worst?” she replied.
“Exactly. In the absence of intentions, all we’ve got to go on are capabilities. And given that theirs are rising and ours are falling, time is not on our side. We have to make a go/no go decision soon. We should either engage in diplomacy with them, or prevent their rise before it’s too late. That might mean a decapitation strike and materiel support for a follow-on insurgency, unrestricted strategic bombing, or both.”
The conference room remained totally silent. No one, especially Isabel, offered Browner any advice. This was far above their pay grades.
“If I wasn’t clear,” Browner said, “I’m inviting you to propose ways that we can learn Emma’s intentions so that I don’t, solely due to the absence of that knowledge, have to obliterate the better part of a million people, half uninfected. So…ideas?”
Kravets gamely gave it a try. “They’re getting radio and TV back on the air for several hours a day, and we’re monitoring everything they broadcast. But so far it’s just news, weather, job postings, and Rules, nothing like analysis or political talk or even propaganda that might hint at their plans. The only anomaly is that they have begun re-airing some old sitcoms, movies, and sporting events, which could only be for the purpose of entertaining their uninfected population. That may suggest that their longer term plans are to cater to the needs of, and to maintain, their uninfected members. But as you know, signal intel and overflights don’t tell us everything we need to know about intentions. Nor does observation from a distance by ground recon missions. We need better human intel.”
Isabel pointedly avoided returning any of the half dozen looks from around the table. She did, however, note that Browner’s gaze was not among them.
Resistance: Pandora, Book 3 Page 29
