by Justin Bell
***
Agent Wakefield walked down the tile hallway, shoes clacking on the floor, Craig and Bryce close behind him.
“Calling a meeting? Now?” Craig asked.
Wakefield nodded. “That’s what they said. We need to dial in from the conference room here. They don’t want us leaving this building if we can possibly help it.”
“Things are that bad, huh?” Bryce asked.
“Worse.” Wakefield gestured to his right, indicating a long hallway branching off from the main passage and they veered off that way, progressing deeper into the bowels of Fort Detrick. Craig’s head swiveled, searching for familiar trademarks, but saw none. He’d worked in and around Detrick for a few years now, and had never been in this wing of the sub-basement, though Wakefield seemed to know exactly where he was going.
“What is this meeting about?” Craig asked, his voice a low whisper above the clopping echoes of polished shoes on tile.
“Conference room is right up here,” Wakefield replied. “We’ll all find out in a few minutes.”
They didn’t speak for the remaining half of the hallway, reaching the conference room and pushing their way inside. It was a small room with a single rectangular table of dark wood and a glass surface with only six chairs situated around it. No one else was inside, but a starfish-shaped conference phone sat in the center of the table. The three agents scattered around the perimeter of the surface, and just as Craig settled down into the faux leather swivel chair, the starfish phone chirped a brief bird-like series of chimes. Wakefield reached over and thumbed the green answer button.
“AgentsWakefield, Craig, and Bryce on the line at Detrick,” he said. A short chorus of voices responded from other areas around the country, most of them situated in the northeast and Washington, DC. Craig couldn’t help but notice that it seemed like a small group.
A cool, tinny voice reported back, “You are on hold for the director.”
“Director of what?” Craig mouthed to Wakefield. He shot him a narrow, darting look that clamped Craig’s lips closed.
“Good afternoon,” a deep voice said. “Thank you all for getting on this call on such short notice. I appreciate how hectic things are for everyone right now.”
“Director, this is Agent Wakefield down at Fort Detrick. Thank you for keeping us in the loop. We are at the command center coordinating the Team Ten operation within city limits.”
“Excellent, glad you made the call, Agent. We can debrief on that in a moment, first I want to provide a status update to the entire group.”
Entire group made it sound like a large crowd, but Craig had only heard maybe a handful of other voices report in on the call. Maybe others were listening in?
“As you all are aware,” the director started, “the past forty-eight hours have been a trying period for the city of Boston and indeed for our entire nation.”
“We have been a bit in the dark on the entirety of the situation,” a voice reported from the other side, a voice that was not the director’s.
“I understand, and apologize. Things have been a moving target since they started.” The director was patient and calculated, he sounded very executive. Craig couldn’t help but notice they hadn’t even called him by name yet, and he still wasn’t sure what exactly he was the director of.
“Approximately forty-eight hours ago, several incidents occurred throughout our entire nation, though most of the attention has been focused squarely on Boston where the most significant issues occurred. We believe these incidents have all been tied back to a malicious biological attack on the United States of America.”
A murmur of voices scattered throughout the conference call, somewhat frantic, though low in number.
“We are still working to trace back to the source of the initial attack, but based on reports coming in we are estimating a wide scale, targeted terrorist incident that has already crippled the northeast and is swiftly impacting infrastructure throughout the nation. All flights are grounded, and have been, interstate transport has been terminated and we are coordinating with the CDC to establish several quarantine zones around the hardest hit areas of our nation.”
“Quarantine zones?” asked Craig. “Is this some kind of viral outbreak?”
“We do not yet know. We were hoping Team Ten would report back and provide some insight from the site in Quincy.”
“We haven’t heard from Team Ten since they crossed into Boston,” replied Wakefield, “but we received a ping from their Blackhawk transport several hours ago. Two aircraft were dispatched from Chicopee Air Force Base to execute rescue and recovery operations. Unfortunately they’re the only team we’ve got that can perform this work. I shudder to think what’s going on at some of the other incident sites. We’ll have to deal with that as the time comes.”
“Good. Please keep me posted,” the director said simply. “I cannot over-emphasize enough the importance of what we are doing. What we do today, tomorrow, and the next day could very well draw the road map of the future of our entire country. We are at a critical juncture. Already several systemic failures have cascaded into a series of dramatic collapses in infrastructure nationwide and we need to work together to stop the bleeding.”
“Do we have international support?” a voice asked from one of the other few live circuits into the call.
“At this moment, the United Nations is proceeding with an abundance of caution. Several ambassadors have been called back to their home countries or diverted from potential entry into the United States out of fear of cross-boundary contamination.”
The only reply was another frantic murmur of conversation, not seeming to be directed at anyone in particular, just in general.
“Interestingly,” the director continued, “even though many of these ambassadors were in afflicted areas, no foreign dignitaries have been reported to have been ill as a result of these attacks.”
“How is that possible?” Wakefield asked.
“Again, something we’re hoping Team Ten can tell us.”
“Wait,” another voice began on the other end, “a wide scale biological attack that does not seem to be impacting foreign ambassadors?”
“We cannot confirm that one hundred percent,” replied the director, “but in these early stages that certainly appears to be the case.”
“So what are our next steps?” asked Agent Bryce, leaning in toward the conference phone.
“Team Ten is critical to establishing what happens next,” the director replied. “We need whatever data they collected from Boston and we need it now. Without knowing what we’re dealing with, it will be impossible to design countermeasures. Meanwhile, we have to consider some very hard decisions over the next few days, decisions that may seem callous and harsh, but ultimately may lead to the salvaging of our nation at large.”
Craig glanced at Bryce. The words had been very ominous, and he wasn’t sure he liked what they were implying.
“Thank you all again for joining the call,” the director said. “We understand and appreciate the sacrifices you are all making at this difficult time as you worry about your families, your homes, and your very way of life. Know that the work you are doing right here and now is moving toward the safety and security of all our nation’s citizens.”
“Director, if I may ask,” said Wakefield. “Do we have a casualty count at this point?”
There was a disturbing moment of silence on the other end, as if the director was chewing some bitter words that he was hesitant to spit out.
“We do not know as of yet,” he finally replied. “Early estimates show the results to be… catastrophic.”
The line went quiet. Deadly quiet, barely anyone even breathed into the static of the open call.
“So, are we all on the same page now?” the director asked. “Do we all appreciate what needs to be done?”
Acknowledgment echoed from the other lines until finally Wakefield nodded, even though the director couldn’t see it. “Detrick is on boar
d, sir. You can count on us.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” the voice replied. “Much of what we do from here on out relies on you.”
There was a click and the call closed, leaving Wakefield, Bryce and Craig to sit in silence.
Agent Craig tried to put together the events in his head, tried to find some kind of connective tissue between it all. He’d earned his place in signals intelligence straight out of college, landing an entry level spot in the National Security Agency at a relatively young age, and here he was, less than two years into his placement with quite possibly the biggest catastrophe America had ever faced. Still, he considered himself one of the fortunate ones. His mother was dead, five years now, and his father was battling Alzheimer’s at a nursing home outside of Baltimore. He was not married, and the girl he was seeing he’d only known for a few months and wasn’t yet particularly attached. He didn’t even have any brothers or sisters. From a family perspective he had nothing left to lose, and if he could somehow help navigate these impossibly rough waters, he had a lot to gain.
He looked over at Wakefield, who remained seated, the normally composed agent looking pale and vacant, staring at some invisible thing in a dark corner of the conference room. Bryce stared down at his hands, twisted together on top of the table, his shoulders moving evenly with his steady breathing. Craig wondered who they had at home. Who or what they were worried about, and would those worries potentially limit their capacity to help this national tragedy?
The young agent stiffened his shoulders and drew in a deep breath, feeling suddenly and strangely empowered by this revelation that he might contain some sort of emotional impassiveness that many others would not. He could approach this clinically and analytically, without worrying about loved ones being caught in the crossfire. Everything that happened from here on out could depend on him.
He’d make sure he was ready.
Chapter 6
The narrow shadows of skeleton trees flickered in the flames, the light cast by the small fire making it look like they were surrounded by tall, bony giants. Melinda tucked her knees tighter to her chest and pressed closer to Javier, hugging herself tightly in the cool evening. Night hadn’t yet fallen, they were still a few hours from darkness, but the persistent growing cold drove them to stop and set a fire. Melinda had been shivering to the point of concern.
It had taken Broderick less than ten minutes to get the fire going, and while the surrounding trees with countless bare limbs were intimidating in the low light, they also made for good kindling. They huddled around the growing flames, soaking in the warmth as it battled back the approaching winter winds. Clark and Broderick sat on one side, Javier and Melinda on the other, while Jackson had volunteered to scout ahead, looking for any other signs of civilization.
Clark looked over at Broderick who stared vacantly into the flickering flames. “You doing all right, man?” Clark asked. “Got family you’re worried about?”
Broderick didn’t acknowledge his question, just continued staring into the fire.
“Broderick?” Clark asked.
He finally turned. “Sorry, Clark,” he whispered. “I’m doing all right. I think I’m just still in a bit of shock over the whole thing.”
“Boston?”
“Everything. How quickly it all fell apart. My team. Major Chaboth.”
“She knew the risks,” Clark said. “We all did when we joined up.”
“You don’t understand.”
“So help me understand.”
Broderick closed his eyes, running a hand over the hard scraggle of beard that was starting to fill in.
“Look, man,” Clark continued, “like it or not, we need you. Not just us, but maybe this whole stinking country. You’re the only one left who saw where this all started. We need you intact.”
“I’m intact, all right? I’ll be fine.”
“Bull.”
“Is this what we’re doing here?” Broderick asked, looking at him. “We’re picking the end of civilization to open up ourselves and bare our souls to each other?”
“Hey, I’m the last guy to get all touchy feely,” Clark continued, “that’s Jackson’s gig. He’s the tai chi, Dao sensitive dude. But if we’re going to make it through this, and we need to make it through this, everyone needs to know what’s going on with everyone else. What our strengths are. Our weaknesses. Like it or not, we need to operate as a well-oiled machine.”
There was a quiet sniffle to Clark’s right, and he looked over, seeing Melinda huddled there next to Javier. Immediately a tight pinch of guilt gripped at him, a reminder that they were travelling with a young child.
“Hey, Broderick, let’s table this. We don’t need to rehash shooting deaths and other gruesome details in front of young ears, right?”
“You’re absolutely right,” Broderick replied, also looking over towards Melinda. She looked so small and innocent there next to Javier, a tiny beacon of purity amidst a decidedly ravaged and impure world. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s cool.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, the flames reaching out toward the trees, the approaching dusk settling around them.
“She wasn’t just our team lead,” Broderick said finally.
Clark narrowed his eyes for a moment, trying to understand what he was getting at. “Major Chaboth?” he asked.
Broderick nodded. “We… uh… we had a relationship.”
Clark nodded softly, some sense of realization finally approaching. “Was that an issue with the Army?”
Broderick chuckled. “It would have been, if they’d known.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “I mean with her it was cool. Her husband had died a few years before. But she was my commanding officer, and leadership would not have been happy.”
“Did the rest of your team know?”
“I don’t think so. At least I hope not. If they did, they made no indication of it. My wife, on the other hand…”
“Ah.”
“Yeah. She found out about six months ago. Packed her stuff and moved out. Took my son with her. Last I knew they had moved out of state.”
“She was allowed to do that? Isn’t there legal crap to deal with? Custody and everything?”
Broderick nodded. “Yeah. I was so consumed by work, and with the affair and everything, she was able to get sole custody pretty easily. I got the paperwork and pretty much just signed it away. I thought it was what was best for everyone.”
Flames danced in the reflection of Broderick’s eyes, which had grown moist as he thought back to the past year’s events. Across the fire, he could see Javier looking over at him, his arm wrapped tight around Melinda’s narrow shoulders. Broderick thought he could feel the hot glare of judgment even through the flames.
“Is there a problem?” he asked Javier through the snapping tongues of the fire.
Javier shook his head unconvincingly.
“I sense some tension there,” Clark said low enough for Javier not to hear.
“The crew that killed the major… he was along for the ride.”
“So I’ve heard. But if I understand it right, he didn’t actually fire his weapon. And he gave up willingly.”
Broderick didn’t reply for a moment, but then turned toward Clark. “I broke several containment protocols by letting him go. Caused friction with my team. I believe that may be part of the reason we walked into that ambush. We were unfocused. Priorities were skewed. I blame myself for that.”
“Well cut that out,” Clark said flatly. “The time for blame has long since gone, man. If you’re going to get through this, if we’re all going to get through this, it’s time to stop looking back and start looking forward, or there won’t be anything to look forward to.”
“Is there anything to look forward to?” Broderick asked. “At this point, what are we fighting for?”
Clark gestured toward Melinda, whose head rested against Javier’s shoulder. “That’s not
enough encouragement for you?”
Broderick nodded softly, seeming to understand Clark’s point. His eyes fluttered lightly as if they might ease closed, might possibly shut out what this world had become, if even for an hour or two. The world blinked in and out of consciousness.
Then he heard it. All around them the trees shook and rustled, feet crunched on stone, branches pushed aside, muffled voices barking. Broderick’s eyes sprang open and they burst through the trees, a whole crowd of them, at least eight men, if not twelve, pressing through the woods, coming upon them.
“Hey!” shouted one of them. “Don’t move!” shouted another. The throng of newcomers spread apart into a wide arc, encircling the fire and the people around it.
Broderick twisted, his eyes locking on the canvas bag of weaponry, but it was at least six feet away and the new arrivals were spreading apart throughout the packed dirt path, bracketing them all.
“We mean no harm!” shouted Clark, holding his hands out. Several of the men emerging from the trees held weapons in hand, at least three rifles and two pistols, but they moved so quickly, Clark had a hard time tracking who was holding what.
“Please!” shouted Broderick, climbing to his feet. “We have a child here—”
He didn’t have a chance to finish the sentence. Two of the men charged forward, one of them slamming the butt of a rifle deep into his stomach, doubling him over, shooting a punch of air from pursed lips.
“Shut up, Army boy! We’ve seen what you and your kind have been doing!”
A second man came forward, a night stick seeming to appear out of nowhere, and he swung it down in a tight arc, bringing the baton down hard on the back of Broderick’s neck. He grunted and slumped to the ground as Clark scrambled to his feet.
“Stop!” he shouted. “We’re not Army! We—”
Two more men stepped forward, lifting the rifles. “That’s enough,” one of them barked. “Whether you’re Army or not, this access road leads to our town, and our town is our territory. We can’t afford to let anyone else within our borders. You might be sick.”
