“Samantha C-Cole, most call me S-S-Sam,” she stuttered. She was still scared, but there was a warmth in the voice of Riley Mulhaven—a warmth to give her some hope. Mulhaven led her back to the motor home, where Margaret waited. She would see that Samantha was made comfortable with a hot coffee or a bowl of noodles.
Elliot’s eyes were fixed on the Humvee—particularly the M249 mounted on top. He questioned whether they should take two of the Humvees.
“I’d be against it, even if it has plenty of ammo.”
“Why would you be against extra firepower, Chuck?”
“Well, firepower doesn’t mean much, Elliot, as you have just witnessed.” The Tall Man pointed.
When Elliot looked back along the drive of the trailer park, the reality of what had happened hit him like a punch to the gut. Their group of six had killed almost thirty men, and not one of them got off as much as a single shot. The look of the Tall Man and the calm voice suggested this wasn’t the first time he’d faced an enemy in greater numbers and dealt with them similarly.
Was he really the Rock of Gibraltar, as Mulhaven suggested, or the ice man, Elliot wondered.
“Well, maybe you’re right, but I was thinking of the extra firepower.”
“I know, Elliot. It looks like it would fit our needs, but these military Humvees are heavier and slower, and we don’t need that. Ammunition will be impossible to come by. That includes all weapons, but especially military weapons.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think of that,” Elliot acknowledged.
“There’s bound to be more of these guys around, and no doubt some will be better trained. If they see us from a distance in a National Guard Humvee, they’ll assume we killed the occupants and took the vehicle. They’ll fire on us with rockets or armor-piercing weapons. I’d prefer to avoid that scenario if at all possible.” He gave Elliot a wink.
“We still need to fuel up our Hummer and the van before we move, Chuck,” Allan was quick to remind him.
“After all that gunfire, I’d rather get a move on. I don’t want to hang around any longer than we have to. If we’ve got enough gas for an hour of travel, let’s put some distance between us and this town.”
“I agree,” Mulhaven said. “You wanna take the Hummer? I can if you want to take a break,” Mulhaven asked the Tall Man.
“I’d like to get the hell outta here before I even think about a rest.”
“Okay, you take the Hummer. I’ll take the van, and David, you take the motor home. When we get out on the open highway, keep a watch for any abandoned cars. It’ll be time-consuming but safer.” Mulhaven took one more look at the bloodshed around him. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen this before, but the taste in his mouth wasn’t any more palatable.
“Okay, let’s roll,” the Tall Man roared.
Seventeen
“Two days from now?” the president queried. “Isn’t that a bit soon?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but the estimation we have based on …”
The president cut General Stodge off.
“Estimations be damned, General.”
Stodge had kept his position as chairman of the joint chiefs after he was made aware of the possible treason charges. He was a career military man, and if nothing else, he was loyal to the United States of America. He couldn’t bear the thought of his wife and children living with the knowledge that their husband and father was a traitor.
“Mr. President, I don’t like how it sounds either, but we simply have no choice.”
The meeting with Stodge, Transky, Secretary Weisman, and Director Conner in the Oval Office had been called to discuss a new plan to combat the legions of undead in Idaho. Conner had never been in Hadlee’s corner, but had led him to believe so. Conner had played a major role in the downfall of Shaun Hadlee. Stodge had come forward with a plan of using fire. “We’ll burn the bastards out, sir.”
“If the estimations are correct, these foamers will have advanced as far as Northern California, Nevada, Montana, Washington, and into Canada in less than a week. Do you have any idea of how many we are talking, general?”
“Yes, sir, err … unfortunately, I do,” Stodge answered Director Conner hesitantly, but added, “It’s why we have to act now. There’s no denying the damage, it’ll take years to rebuild, but it’s still far better than the nuclear option, which would have left a toxic wasteland forever.”
The Oval Office went quiet as Stodge’s words were considered. Hadlee’s “limited nuclear strike” was off the table, but the United States was without a viable response of any sort. To show his trust—but against Tom’s advice—the president had invited Stodge to the meeting. When the chairman of the JCS arrived, he had brought with him a new battle plan. He told everyone present that fire was an old remedy used to eradicate disease. He referenced the plague of the mid-fourteenth century in Europe and how infected houses, villages, and bodies were burned to control it.
“We should treat these … foamers … as plague victims and call them such. We’ll be in a better position to ease the population’s concerns if we release a statement that identifies the disease as a mutated form of cholera and dismiss all reports it’s related to the experimental potato crop as anti—establishment propaganda.”
The president rose and went to a cabinet beside of the famous Resolute desk. He took a bottle of twenty-year-old bourbon from within.
“Gentlemen, General Stodge is correct. It would be preferable to a nuclear strike.” The president placed the bottle on the table in front of them. “And Director Conner is also correct about the number of … plague victims. We have to do something and do it quick.”
As Tom poured drinks for everyone, Stodge outlined his initial plan. He admitted time was a luxury they couldn’t afford, but said they nevertheless needed to mobilize forces from eastern and southern states with “whatever they damn well got!” Air Force jets and helicopters outfitted with napalm rockets and bombs would be used to push the vile creatures back and keep them in Idaho.
It was agreed it was the best they could do, but the question was whether it could be done on such short notice.
“I’ll damn well see it’s done. All military bases go on full war alert as of right now. We also need to evacuate people, unaffected people, from the surrounding states.”
“I’ll get onto it right away, Mr. President.” Tom stood up.
“Wait, Tom,” the President called. “To success, gentlemen.”
Everyone raised their glasses and downed them in a single swig. No one noticed, or, at least, made mention of the fact that Shaun Hadlee wasn’t present, or Richard Holmes for that matter.
Eighteen
Taking the most indirect way they could, the team—as they thought of themselves—went around the outskirts of Missoula. The Tall Man was proud of the skill shown by the ragtag group, but if they ran into a firefight every time they went through a populated area, they wouldn’t always come out unscathed. They stopped to siphon gas from abandoned cars where they could, and going around Missoula took too long—way too long.
When they were five or so miles from Flathead Lake, they decided against going any farther. They were running out of daylight and would have to travel through the towns of Kalispell and Whitefish, one after the other. Just hours earlier, they’d survived a major assault, and they didn’t want to chance another. Not before they had made an attempt to cross the border.
The plan was to follow a dirt trail from the 93 and go back through a wooded area far enough that they wouldn’t be seen by marauding looters or rogue military units. They’d replenished the gas stocks with fuel from abandoned cars along the way, and the weather hadn’t turned so cold that they needed to make their destination before they got snowed in. Rest and recuperation were vital before they traveled any farther.
“It might be in our best interests to rest up for a day or so,” Mulhaven said to no one in particular after they parked.
“Well, I think we should kick on through, but I know what yo
u mean, Riley,” the Tall Man said.
“Yes, it won’t hurt to take a break for a day or so, and I know one young girl who would appreciate it,” Margaret Grigsby said, referring to Sam Cole. The group still didn’t know her full story, but whenever she was ready, she’d tell it. “Maybe you guys can go down to the lake and scare up a few fish?”
“Now, some fresh fish would be different!” Mulhaven said enthusiastically and smiled.
“But we don’t have any rods,” Roger chimed in.
“What about those survival kits you packed? Don’t they have line and hooks?” The Tall Man asked as he surveyed the lake.
“Yeah, I think they do. Maybe we can catch a fish or two, huh?”
“You don’t suppose the fish could be… well you know,” Cindy’s reservation was obvious.
“Well, if we catch any that are foaming green we’ll toss ’em right back in!” The Tall Man tried to ease her concern with some light humor but it didn’t work.
“No I don’t think so Cindy,” Elliot added when the Tall Man’s wisecrack failed to hit the target. “If you’re unsure, you don’t have to eat any.”
“Okay, but we’ll do it tomorrow, and we’ll all go down to the lake. No splitting up,” Mulhaven declared. “And if the fishing’s any good, we might just stay longer.”
A cheer resounded around the disparate group of four teenagers, each different from the older members of the group: a Gulf War veteran turned cop, two middle-aged organic-food-growing hippies, and, of course, the Tall Man, perhaps the most mysterious of all. However, it was almost like normal times—a group of friends who got together to fish for the weekend.
“I don’t think it’s necessary to post guards tonight. We should all get some rest.”
“No arguments from me, Sarge,” Elliot said before he realized he hadn’t called Mulhaven that for days.
Elliot was showing signs of fatigue. Mulhaven and the Tall Man recognized it, and although neither said so, they hoped it was the travel and lack of good sleep that were the cause and not shell shock.
What would it be called, foamer fear? Mulhaven mused.
Nineteen
Hadlee still retained some supporters, lower-level agents from homeland who weren’t aware the president had called for his resignation. He knew it was only a matter of time before a warrant for his arrest would be issued. With the crisis dominating every move of the cabinet, he doubted it would be at the forefront of the president’s mind. It would give him time. He would take his supporters and fly to Wyoming. If he arrived in time, he could convince a National Guard unit to follow his directives, of that he was sure. His mind was occupied with such thoughts when a knock at the door interrupted.
Who the fuck could that be?
After he’d fled the White House, he had grabbed a few personal items from his house: keys, documents, cards, and passport—not that any planes were leaving the United States or were permitted to arrive, but you never knew—and moved to his girlfriend’s apartment. He kept their relationship hidden from the prying eyes of other government employees and, of course, from Mrs. Hadlee.
“One moment, I … err…” he opened the door with some caution, “Holmes! What are you doing here and how did you …”
Hadlee was so shocked to see Richard Holmes standing in his doorway he stumbled backward a step.
“Never mind that, Shaun. Are you going to invite me in or do you want to risk being seen?”
Hadlee asked his visitor inside. He remembered that his unexpected visitor was always security-conscious. Hadlee’s mind was so occupied with how he had been found, he didn’t notice Holmes kept his hands in his pockets the entire time.
“How were you able to locate me, Richard?”
“Are we alone?” Holmes ignored the question.
“Yes, we are … but you already know that, don’t you? Let me fix you a drink.” Hadlee turned his back on his guest and went to the fridge.
Holmes was grateful for the thick carpet underneath as he shadowed Shaun Hadlee’s every step. He freed his hands from his pockets as he came up behind.
Twenty
Elliot sat on a fallen tree and looked into the night sky toward Idaho.
“Hey, Elliot …”
“Oh shit!” He jumped up and automatically grabbed for the Redhawk on his hip.
“Easy. It’s me, Chuck!”
“Jesus, Chuck. You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”
“I wasn’t. I think you were so deep in thought you didn’t hear me.”
“Well, yeah, you could be right.”
“Thinking of home?”
“Yeah, and all that’s happened, and how damn fast it’s happened, and Cindy, of course … I can’t help but think I’m responsible for getting her into this.”
“Cindy wouldn’t be alive now if it weren’t for you. Don’t you think anything different, either,” the Tall Man said.
“There’s just so many …” Elliot wiped a hand across his eyes.
“I know. One question leads to another.”
“Exactly. I started off thinking about the damn growth hormone,” Elliot concentrated on the moment, “and those french fries, and then the first time we saw those things…. That’s when you came up behind me.”
“Well, you’re right about the hormone being responsible. I was there, remember?” The Tall Man had, until now, avoided discussing this. As much as he trusted the group and felt a part of it, talking about his involvement with Baer wouldn’t be in his best interests.
“What did you do at Baer Industries, if you don’t mind me asking?” Elliot had wanted to ask since the Tall Man had joined up and had told them he worked there.
“Internal security for a man named Langlie. I met Baer himself on just a few occasions. He didn’t impress me at all.” The Tall Man rubbed the three-day-old stubble on his face.
“Did you have any idea about the growth hormone?”
The Tall Man gave the young man credit for having the respect and patience to wait until an appropriate time to ask. He deserved an answer, which the Tall Man was about to give when a glow on the horizon caught his attention.
“What the hell have we got here?”
Elliot didn’t know what the Tall Man meant, until he stood up.
“A fire?” Elliot asked when he saw the glow on the horizon.
“Yeah, a big one. Back toward Missoula.”
“Foamers, or …?”
“Don’t know, Elliot, but if it gets a foothold into these woods …”
“I’ll get everybody up.” Elliot didn’t need to have it spelled out.
Twenty-One
The president stepped out through the east doors of the Oval Office and into the Rose Garden. He turned to the lone Secret Service agent, and after a moment, told him to proceed. The agent stepped back a few feet and nodded toward the corner of the building. Richard Holmes then appeared, escorted by another agent. When Holmes reached the president, the agents were dismissed.
“Mr. Holmes.” The president acknowledged him coldly.
“Come now, Mr. President, after all we’ve been through? Call me Richard.”
The president stared at the hand offered by Holmes for a few seconds before he accepted it.
“The deed is done, sir, you won’t hear of …”
The president held his palm out and shook his head. “No. I don’t want to know any of it.”
“As you wish, Mr. President.”
The thought of what he’d sanctioned disgusted him, but there was little choice. Hadlee’s plans had been scuttled and he’d been removed from his office, but as long as he remained alive, he was a danger.
“I know you have much work to do, Mr. President, and it’s way past my bedtime, so I’ll bid you goodnight.”
“Yes, goodnight, Mr. Holmes,” the president responded.
It had been a good night, Holmes thought, a very good night.
* * *
In Moscow, the Russian president was alarmed by the reports he’d
received on the Idaho crisis. Russia didn’t have to rely on reports from the Internet for its information. The countries own satellites—all of them operational—had picked up high-resolution pictures of the pandemonium occurring in the northwestern United States. Russia was better informed than the United States on the matter.
Friend and confidant Yuri Anteleski had advised the Russian president to remain calm and not to consider any drastic action. It was a hard position to take for Yuri, as an insider. He not only knew the level of the man-made atrocity in Idaho, he was a party to it. He believed the blood of the suffering in Idaho was on his hands. He was right.
“It could be just part of one of their movie celebrations, Mr. President, you know how Americans are.”
Anteleski’s secure phone rang before the president answered.
“Excuse me, Mr. President, we may have the information we are seeking right here.”
“You cannot answer it in front of you own president, Yuri?”
“It is best I find out what it is before I tell you, is it not, comrade?”
The president agreed. Yuri knew the ways of the West better than he—their mannerisms, phrases, when they joked, and when they did not.
* * *
“Sorry for the delay, my dear Mr. Etheridge, but I was with the president,” Yuri said into the phone after he had stepped into the hallway.
“That’s fine, my dear Yuri. How is the old boy anyway?”
“He is a worried man. He has seen satellite pictures of Idaho. I must also add that I am not all that comfortable either, tovarish.”
An uneasy pause followed. Etheridge gave the appearance of a man always prepared, but sometimes even he had to take a few seconds.
“You knew of the risks then, and you know of the consequences now. It’s too late for remorse, my dear man.”
When Milton Etheridge uttered words to that effect, you knew a black mark would go against your name. Too many black marks in the Chamber, and…
The Beginning of the End (Book 2): Toward the Brink II Page 6
