by Lynn Sholes
Brennan shifted in his chair. "If you take the scripture literally, then we
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can agree. But I ask you again, what has that got to do with the suspected virus threat and the North Koreans?"
"Be patient," John said, holding his hand up. "Matthew, chapter twentyfour, verses thirty-seven through thirty-nine:But as the days of Noah were, so also will the coming of the Son of Man be."
"Some would say that the Nephilim were wiped out by the Great Flood," the President said.
"They were, but the Fallen will be with us until the End of Days. They continue to have offspring who have grown as many or more in number today as they were prior to the Flood. We're told to pay attention to how things were in Noah's day." John stared hard into Brennan's eyes. "The Nephilim do walk among us, as do the Fallen. You have to believe me. I know. I've seen it firsthand."
"John, I'll concede that there's more than enough evil in the world..." Brennan wasn't certain he wanted to hear more. And he didn't want to keep sounding negative to John's theories, even though he had no choice. He glanced over at the desk and thought of theTop Secret folder.
"So you do accept that Satan's legions exist today?" John asked.
"You know I do. You and I share the same faith." He did believe it, but he still wasn't getting the connection to the biological threat.
"What are some of the signs of the Tribulation, the terrible times we will suffer before the Second Coming?"
The President thought for a moment. "Wars, famines, earthquakes."
"Right," John said. "And false messiahs. How many of those have we seen over the last generation? But these are only the birth pangs. The end is still to come. Also from Matthew twenty-four:
There will be famines and earthquakes in various places. An increase in false messiahs, an increase in warfare, and increases in famines, plagues, and natural disasters " John paced again before stopping directly in front of Brennan.
"Plagues. I don't think it's just the North Koreans behind Black Needles. I'm certain it's much bigger than that."
Brennan blinked, and a wave of uneasiness swept over him. He had to end this discussion soon before he was pushed into a corner. John was right, there were bigger things here. Things that could irreparably harm the reputation of the United States.
"You see where I'm going, don't you, Mr. President?"
Brennan didn't answer, but simply stared at John.
"Let me bring it all together for you. The Fallen and Nephilim are still at war with God today, and what is happening now was prophesied in the book of Revelation." He turned to another page in the Bible. "Revelation, chapter sixteen, verse two:And the first went and poured out his vial upon the earth; and there fell a noisome and grievous sore upon men which had the mark of the beast... I believe that refers to Unit 731's work. Revelation, chapter sixteen, verse three: And the second angel poured out his vial upon the sea; and it became as the
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blood of a dead man. Could the sea be a reference to the Pitcairn?"
Brennan's throat and mouth went dry, and he found it hard to speak.
"Stop." His voice sounded to him like sandpaper on raw wood.
"Revelation, chapter sixteen, verses eight and nine:And the fourth angel poured out his vial upon the sun; and power was given unto him to scorch men with fire. Could the sun be the rising sun of the Japanese flag? Japan, where this disease originated? And does scorch men with fire refer to the raging fever brought on by Black Needles?" John closed the Bible and slipped it back in his pocket. "If all that isn't enough to convince you, Mr. President, then listen to one more quote from scripture."
President Brennan's throat constricted, as if a noose were tightening around it. I'm the President of the United States. How could I possibly betray my oath of office? But this... this theory of John's, if it were true, protecting the integrity of the United States would be no more than an insignificant trifling. The room suddenly seemed to lack oxygen.
This time John spoke from memory. "Revelation, chapter sixteen, verses ten and eleven: And the fifth angel poured out his vial upon the seat of the beast; and his kingdom was full of darkness; and they gnawed their tongues for pain, and blasphemed the God of heaven because of their pains and their sores, and repented not of their deeds."
Brennan sat forward. "What do you think it means?"
"It took me most of the flight to Washington to understand it. I believe it means that the North Koreans are using their own people as weapons. Helped by the Fallen, they are somehow infecting their people, then sending them out to deliver the virus to their targets. That's what I think it means byAnd the fifth angel poured out his vial upon the seat of the beast; and his Kingdom was full of darkness. They don't repent. They are like Japanese Kamikaze pilots or radical Islamic suicide bombers. But unlike those terrorists, these suicide bombers are carrying weapons that are undetectable, invisible. Their weapons are the germs inside them."
Leaning back, the President groaned, then muttered, "I need time to think."
Cotten stood. "But there isn't any time, Mr. President. The suicide bombers could be out there right now sitting next to innocent people in buses and airplanes, theaters or supermarkets, or schools—"
Brennan's head shot up as he saw a possible flaw in the theory. "No, that can't be. They'd have no way of controlling it. It would eventually infect their own countrymen as well."
"Maybe they have developed some kind of vaccine," Cotten said.
"Do you know how huge an undertaking it would be to inoculate the entire population of North Korea, not to mention their allies and all those in countries whom they don't regard as enemies," Brennan said. "And on top of that, how would they keep something that huge a secret? Impossible."
"Then Dr. Chung has found a way—" Cotten suddenly stared at John. "No
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one else got infected! That's it! That's why the people around Calderon and Thelma Sutton and the others didn't get sick. Dr. Chung has somehow engineered Black Needles so it can't be passed from man to man. Like the Avian flu, or at least the way we think the bird flu is transmitted. Man can get it from a bird, but can't pass it along—yet. The suicide bombers are like the birds. Someway, they cause the infection. This is how they can pick and choose their targets." Cotten slapped her palm to her forehead. "How stupid of us. She's a biochemist after all. That's what she does." She looked at the President. "Please, Sir, you have to intervene."
The President glanced back at the desk, his hands sweaty and his skin crawling.If they had any idea what was in that folder. "I'm sorry, but despite your colorful and imaginative argument, there's really nothing I can do. You have no proof, no compelling evidence. It would be worse than the Iraq WMD
debacle. We can't make such serious accusations on a whim. John, you and I both know you can interpret scripture a million ways from here to Sunday and back."
"Damn it, don't you see?" Cotten said. "The attacks could already be underway. And when mothers start seeing their children die horrible deaths, how do you think they will feel when they find out you knew and did nothing?"
Brennan rose. It was a terrifying scenario that John painted. But the likelihood that it was true was still remote. Regardless, it was the investigation that he feared most. That's what could open up a festering sore and cause irreparable harm to the United States in the eyes of the world. He had no choice.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Stone. Thank you both for coming to me with this. Your concerns are commendable. And I promise I will weigh each fact uncovered against your points, John." He motioned to the door. "The military escort will take you back to your vehicle."
"Steve," John said, calling the President by his first name as they walked to the door. "If you don't believe me, believe your heart and the word of God. Don't wait too long to act. There's too much at stake."
***
President Steven Brennan collapsed in the armchair, blankly staring at the fire. After a few moments, he went to the desk, removed the folder, and
returned to his chair. If he allowed this whole issue of Unit 731 to resurface, the hideous secret that had been hidden away for nearly an entire generation would raise its filthy head. All he could do was pray that John's premise was wrong, that he and
Cotten Stone would realize it, and that they would drop the matter. It might prove to be the biggest gamble of his life.
He opened the folder and scanned the intelligence assessments again. 1951. America was drowning in the Korean War. A miserable war in a miserable place. MacArthur's campaign had resulted in the loss of over 60,000 United
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Nations troops in North Korea, and the American people were in a frenzy anticipating the threat of "Yellow Mongol Hordes" marching into the homeland. Something had to be done. Brennan's eyes read and reread the October 1951
order.
OPERATION CODE NAME-TAKE OFF.
The U.S. Joint Chiefs of Staff hand-delivered an order to General Ridgeway to begin experimental, limited germ warfare in Korea. It was followed by a second JCS directive in February 1952.JCS# 1837/29 authorized larger field tests. The order was given verbally so there would be no paper trail, no archival evidence.
Brennan's stomach churned at the thought as he once again reviewed some of the horrific details.
Using much of Unit 731's research, the United States had dropped their standard ordinance bombs, but then followed in the last wave of planes with germ-laden bombs. After the air raid, the North Koreans converged on the site to rescue their injured. The germs were intended for the rescuers.
But it wasn't limited to germ bombs. It was even more hideous. Infected food was dropped on major populations to kill the hungry civilians.
It wasn't until the U.S. troops accidentally became infected that it finally ended.
Brennan closed the folder, wishing he could close the book on one of the country's blackest stains as easily. He knew that the government had been vigilant in keeping it covered up. Only one other time had it come this close to being exposed to the public. It was in 1953 when a germ warfare specialist from Camp Detrick was ready to blow the whistle. He was found dead in a hotel room. Suicide. His children never accepted that their father had taken his own life. Forty years after his death, the body was exhumed and reclassified a homicide.
Brennan stared at the presidential seal above the fireplace, then dragged himself to the bar and poured three fingers of eighteen-year-old scotch. He downed it in one gulp, knowing he was faced with the biggest question of all—
what to do about Cotten Stone and John Tyler?
JET LAG
"We gave it our best shot," Cotten said to John, taking her eyes from the road a minute as they drove to Washington from Camp David.
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"But it wasn't enough." He leaned his head back against the seat.
"Maybe President Brennan just needs time to think about all that scripture you quoted before he reconsiders. It was a lot for him to take in at one time. I watched his face, his eyes, as you talked, and he definitely seemed to be grasping what you were saying. Near the end, he appeared downright nervous."
"Maybe," John said.
"You look tired. Why don't you use this time to rest a little? Jet lag has to be hitting you."
Without lifting his head from the headrest, John turned to look at her.
"I'm okay."
"Yeah, right. It wouldn't kill you to doze off while I drive. Then I won't feel bad about asking you to go with me to dinner when we get to the city." She grinned at him. "Go on. Humor me."
Cotten turned on the radio and found a station playing smooth jazz. The light piano and strings hummed along with the song of the tires on the road. A few minutes later she looked over at John. His beautiful blue eyes were closed.
***
They checked in at the Washington Dulles Airport Marriott, both of their rooms on the second floor.
"Say in about forty-five minutes," Cotten said as they got off the elevator.
"I need to freshen up first. We can just grab a bite in the hotel restaurant if you like."
"Better idea," John said. "There's a great Japanese restaurant about two miles from here. Feel like sushi?"
"Perfect. I'll knock on your door when I'm fit to go out in public. How's that?"
"Sounds like a plan."
Cotten slipped her card key in her door lock then swiftly removed it. The small green light flashed on, and she opened the door. "See you in a bit," she said.
Over the years of reporting from every corner of the globe, she had gotten used to living out of a suitcase. Like always, she packed light and only clothes that didn't wrinkle.
Cotten pulled the long-sleeved, black jersey sheath from the suitcase and hung it up in the bathroom to steam while she showered.
Poor John, she thought, turning on the water and adjusting the temperature to a comfortable hot. She stripped and stepped in the shower, letting the water cascade over her from the crown of her head to her toes.He was ragged from the trip from Rome to DC. He hadn't stopped since early this morning, and he had added an additional six hours to a normal twenty-four because of the time zone difference.
After shampooing, lathering up, and shaving her legs, Cotten wrapped a
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towel around her head, turban style, and another around her body and got out of the shower. She stared at the steamed-up mirror. Someone who had stayed in the room previously had apparently steamed up the mirror during their stay and drawn a heart in the condensation. Like magic, the heart and the initials reappeared in the fog on the mirror. Maybe it was a honeymoon couple or a teenager missing her beau while she and family vacationed. There were hundreds of stories she could imagine.
Cotten dried her hair and got dressed. She didn't wear much makeup, just some blush, mascara, and lipstick. She smoothed the clinging jersey dress over her hips.
Satisfied she was ready, Cotten picked up her handbag and left the room, heading down the hall to John's.
She stopped in front of his door and knocked. When he didn't answer she knocked again and called his name.Probably had the television on and didn't hear her.
The door finally cracked open.
"John?"
He stepped out from behind the door, wearing his bathrobe.
"You take a nap, sleepyhead?"
"Yeah, I did. I hate to do this, but I think I'm going to have to beg off."
"Boy, jet lag really took its toll." Cotten stepped into the room, closed the door, and tossed her purse on the dresser. "Want me to order something from downstairs?"
"No, thanks. You go ahead. I think I'm going to call it a day. Sorry. I'm just whipped."
"No problem. How about if I bring you something back when I come up?"
"No, no. I'm fine. Breakfast in the morning?"
"You got it," Cotten said, retrieving her purse. "You call me when you get up." She gave him a hug. "See you mañana."
***
Cotten sat curled up in the chair watching the SNN late news and sipping on an Absolut over ice she picked up at the bar. She had on her comfort pajamas—a lightweight sweatshirt, sweatpants, and socks. The black dress lay in a heap on the floor at the foot of the bed. One black heel on its side, the other upright, her stockings and bra next to the shoes. She was disappointed they hadn't gone to dinner, and she kicked herself for feeling that way. The poor man was exhausted.
She wondered if she had guessed right about Black Needles and the method it would be delivered. Had the attacks already started? Would Brennan see the light and launch measures to protect the country? She fully understood his hesitation. After all, it was only conjecture and speculation. But she knew that once the element of the Fallen was added into the equation, conjecture
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could easily become tragedy. Where would she and John turn next? Who else would listen?
The vodka warmed her, and she felt her body loosen the kinks it had acquired during the day. She was tired, too. Downing the last of her drink, Cotten set
the glass on the nightstand and crawled under the covers. When she clicked off the TV with the remote, the room fell into darkness and almost as quickly, she drifted off.
***
The sharp jangle of the phone ripped Cotten out of a heavy dream that she couldn't remember. She fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand and switched it on. The digital clock radio display read 3:47.
Cotten lifted the receiver. "Hello." Her voice was husky with sleep.
"Cotten?"
"John, what is it?" She sat up. "What's wrong?"
"I'm not sure," he said. "I think... maybe... I'm coming down with something."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm sick."
Cotten swung her legs over the bed. "John, open your room door. I'm coming down."
