Twenty-nine
The Centers for Disease Control
Building 21
Atlanta
Dr. Bonnie Comley was at her desk in Building 21 on the sprawling Atlanta campus of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. She worked in the new, sweeping seventeen-story secure facility, one of the tallest on the Roybal Campus. Many of its 472 laboratory and lab support personnel were either known, or suspected to be working on, the CDC’s research on parasitic diseases, foodborne diseases, and AIDS research. Some were true investigators as much as scientists; frontline detectives in the expanding realm of CW/BW, the abbreviation for Chemical Warfare and Biological Warfare. Comley was one of them.
Her professional home, architecturally dynamic, was a fortress. Building 21 was a brilliantly designed curved structure encased in blast-resistant, heavy architectural precast panels, reinforced glass, stone veneer, and metal. The construction included horizontal and vertical sunshades made from perforated metal and glass, which enhanced the natural light in the work spaces and provided for a more energy-efficient operation.
But it wasn’t the exterior that made Building 21 unique. It was the interior.
Within Building 21’s twenty thousand square feet were top secret impenetrable labs. Impenetrable so outsiders couldn’t get in and bio organisms and chemicals within couldn’t escape.
Dr. Comley worked behind three secure doors, sometimes not leaving for days. “Threats,” she told young colleagues, “don’t take time off.”
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention was formed October 27, 1997. It was preceded by The Office of National Defense, the Office of Malaria Control in War Areas, and The Communicable Disease Center, among other iterations.
The CDC has been charged with protecting the public’s health and safety by providing information, conducting research, and working to prevent the dissemination of infectious diseases, food and waterborne pathogens, and other microbial and chemical infections.
The agency was originally established in Atlanta because malaria, its earliest target, was endemic to the Southern United States. For years, more than half of the agency’s personnel focused on mosquito abatement and habitat control with the goal of eradicating the disease.
In 1946, a budget of roughly $1 million covered the 369 employees. Only seven were medical officers.
Today, it’s a very different organization, shaped by the times and the dangers. The annual budget is now well north of $7 billion and pays for the CDC’s 15,000-plus employees in 170 different occupations in multiple locations.
A great deal of its work is public in nature. But much of it exists in Level 4 Containment Labs, or BSL-4 for Biosafety Level 4.
The facilities, referred to as “Hot Labs,” belong to a subset of four distinct safety levels which deal with a scope of micro-organism designations starting at P1. The worst of the lot, P4, are highly dangerous bacterial and viral pathogens that require extreme containment.
Comley was actively screening five search windows on her computer. They were opened to online portals from regional newspapers. Each one of them backed up what she heard on the radio.
She rolled her chair backwards to a file cabinet and reached for an old Rand McNally map she stuck away years ago. Low tech and perfect for what the forty-eight-year-old scientist needed to do now.
Comley taped the map on a wall to the left of her desk, crafted flags with yellow stick-it paper and pushpins, and stuck the flags into locations that matched up to her research.
Staring at her work she deeply feared she was only scratching the surface. While the reports varied, there had to be a common variable. She ruled out contagion. Too random. But there had to be an independent factor that entered into normal life situations. What was it? she wondered.
Needing to give herself a break and seeing that her Black and Decker coffee maker was empty, Dr. Comley removed the old filter, replaced it with a new one, put in another eight scoops of Starbucks Espresso Roast, rinsed and filled the pot, and then watched the simple extraction process begin. Basic chemistry. Two heterogeneous composites coming together to form a mixture with immediate sensory impact. In that moment, as the heated water passed through the ground beans and the first dark blend dripped down, releasing a wonderful aroma, Comley was hit with a powerful, terrifying thought.
The White House
Scott Roarke had given General Johnson a great deal to think about. But Jonas Jackson Johnson wouldn’t budge. Not for the president and certainly not for Roarke.
“Before your head spins right off, we need you on another matter, Scott,” Morgan Taylor said.
“Boss, all things considered, I’ve got to get things rolling with the service and the bureau. We’ve got less than eight hours before the general’s reception, and at least I can be there and…”
“Scott, hold on. There’s something else,” the president said.
“Oh?”
“J3, your turn.”
General Johnson began slowly. “We’re keeping someone under wraps in Montana that you need to debrief. The president thinks your background is the key to the subject opening up.”
“Me? Not the FBI. We’re mixing up a whole bunch of priorities here, guys.”
“Scott, listen,” Taylor implored.
“A gang member checked himself, quite smartly I’d say, into an army recruiting office to avoid the police.”
“So?”
“He asked for asylum.”
“And this is more important than keeping you alive, General?”
“First of all, I plan on staying alive. Second, maybe yes.
“Scott, this situation requires special attention. We haven’t wanted to turn him over to the bureau…”
“Or Evans and the CIA,” added the president.
“And why is that?”
“It may be tied to the death at the Houston airport. And that moves it up the game board, immediately passing Go.”
“Don’t get me wrong, but this is one fucked day and I don’t get it.”
“We may have a terrorist threat, Scott,” Taylor stated. “Believe me, Mulligan and Evans will get a piece of this, but we need a debriefing first. You’re the perfect person to do it.”
“Me?”
“He’s you, Scott. Nearly twenty years ago,” the president explained. “Which is why I want you to talk with him. Find out what and why and everything in between. We’ll have a plane waiting for you at Andrews. 1930 hrs sharp. You tell us what’s going on. We’ve got a sinking feeling it’s not good, and it’s in our own backyard.”
“But tonight?” Roarke asked again.
“Tonight,” J3 stated. “I can take care of myself in my own home.”
Roarke had a very different opinion.
The Oval Office
Minutes later
With Roarke excused, General Johnson complained to the president. “If a national security issue exists, a member of my staff should be on that plane to Montana, Mr. President.”
“My man will get what we need. He’ll connect. They’ve got something in common.” Taylor explained why.
Roarke had come out of a gang in Los Angeles. It certainly didn’t have the reputation of MS-13 or any other branch of Mara Salvatrucha. His life of crime was short-lived and inauspicious—a convenience store theft, almost too insignificant to qualify as a gang initiation, but a crime nonetheless. He was nabbed by a Los Angeles policeman. The officer let him stew in the backseat of his squad car. On his way to be booked, the officer gave him a choice: jail, a police record, and whatever punishment his father determined appropriate, or study under a martial arts master.
Scared straight, Roarke chose Tae Kwon Do, training with a taekwondo master. It was transformational.
Roarke learned discipline, a culture of physical fitness, and ultimately respect. He had reached a fork in life’s road and chose correctly. He dropped out of the gang and graduated with honors. His policeman friend never told Roarke’s father what happened
, and Roarke, in turn, learned the importance of honor, helping others, and keeping secrets.
It all led to more levels of training, courtesy of the U.S. Army Special Forces, and a seminal rescue assignment in Iraq which brought Commander Morgan Taylor out alive.
“If anyone can reach this guy, it’s Roarke,” Taylor confidently told General Johnson. “Count on it. This subject has smarts. Hell, he turned himself into an army recruiter. He’ll listen to someone who he can relate to. More than that, he’ll talk. Then we’ll have a real understanding of what we’re dealing with.”
General Johnson had seen Roarke in action before. The president was right. “Okay, we’ll go with your man,” the vice presidential-designee said.
“Good. Now let’s talk about how we keep you alive tonight.”
Thirty
Later
Roarke made a swing back to his apartment to pick up a knapsack he always had packed and ready. Always. Two shirts, a sweater, socks and briefs, jeans, and four magazines for his Sig Sauer. Enough to duck in and duck out of almost anywhere for anything.
Outside, a Lincoln Navigator was waiting with a young, talkative Air Force driver. Roarke wasn’t in any mood to converse. He kept mulling over what a bad idea this was and how much he was feeling like a yo-yo—emotionally and physically.
En route to JB Andrews, Roarke called Katie.
“The boss has me on another sales trip,” he explained.
Sales trip in their couples’ language meant she didn’t have to worry. Nothing Rambo.
Just to make sure, she asked, “With or without your goodies?”
He always had his goodies. His 9mm pistol, a knife, and a combination key chain with an assortment of hidden compartments which included twenty inches of wire, picks, and files that could be used for any number of purposes. He called it “spy stuff.” That was more than partly true. It came from Jack Evans, director of national intelligence; a gift, ordered by the president.
“Got ‘em. Won’t need ‘em. I’m just visiting.”
Katie couldn’t ask where. If she was really worried, she might be able to convince Louise Swingle to share something. However, considering Roarke indicated he was going on a sales trip, she’d wait it out.
“Oh, hon, thanks for last night.”
“Thank you. I needed you,” Roarke added, recalling the overwhelming release he felt.
“I know. Trust me. There’s more where that came from.”
Unconsciously, Roarke looked at his right hand. Christine Slocum’s phone number was still on it. There was obviously more someplace else, too.
Hunting Ridge Lane
McLean, Virginia
The same time
The general’s three-story home sat on a cul-de-sac in one of Washington’s primo upscale communities. The white brick colonial was more house than he ever needed, but his wife had had enough of barracks life, barracks schools, and barracks kitchens. This was where she wanted to stay and retire. But Morgan Taylor had another move in mind. With Senate confirmation, the Johnsons would pack up again and take up official residency in the United States Naval Observatory at Number One Observatory Circle.
General Johnson liked McLean. It meant nothing to him that this was also where many high-ranking government officials, members of Congress, and foreign diplomats resided. It did mean something that the CIA was located nearby, along with some of the country’s major defense contractors and consulting groups.
McLean was situated between the George Washington Parkway and the town of Vienna, Virginia. It was named for John Roll McLean, the former publisher and owner of the Washington Post. Today, it would be like naming a town for Rupert Murdoch.
Here, in this prestigious Washington suburb, where the median income was well north of $150,000 per year, the Johnsons were hosting their last party for at least three years. Tonight’s was the easiest in quite some time. Colette Johnson wasn’t preparing a thing, though she loved to take charge of the kitchen the way her husband ran so much of the army. A venerable and approved Washington catering company took over, freeing Mrs. Johnson to mingle; something she would have to get better at as the vice president’s wife.
This was the event of the night in Washington; a chance for Washington elite to hobnob with the usually isolated general, overhear a few conversations, and try to sift through what was real.
Servers, all in black except for white gloves, greeted guests at the door with a 2012 Cantine Maschio Prosecco. Right after a coat check, which utilized the den as storage, invitees—all checked in with picture IDs—proceeded through an elegant and open entranceway to a large formal living room decorated with warm floral wallpaper. The wallpaper definitely was not of the general’s choosing. Once inside, there was seemingly no end to the appetizers, from delicious canapés and stuffed mushrooms to mini lobster rolls with a hint of truffle oil.
This was the first time most of the guests had seen the house. As a consequence, Collette spent a lot of her time giving tours. Had it been summer, the party would have expanded through the French doors to the backyard that abutted the woods. Beyond the trees, Kirby and Old Dominion Roads.
A few men actually braved the cold in order to smoke the general’s full-bodied imported Diplomáticos Cuban cigars and sip his Glen Livet 18-year scotch. That was until the Secret Service found it too hard to split attention and called them in.
The woods made it prime property, a great place for kids to hide and also a natural killing field.
It happened just as Roarke stopped at the Joint Base Andrews security gate. A guard shined his flashlight into Roarke’s eyes, momentarily blinding him. In that instant an indelible image of Richard Cooper burned into his consciousness, and along with it, the realization that he was the only man who might recognize the assassin.
“You’re cleared for Hangar 14,” the guard said after approving Roarke’s ID. “There’s a C-37A up ahead, sir.” The C-37A is the military designation for the Gulfstream GV business jet. The guard told the Air Force chauffeur to wait for a jeep with a FOLLOW ME sign.
Two minutes of waiting gave Roarke two minutes more of worrying. He couldn’t get the idea out of his head that the president had made an error in judgment; a potentially fatal error in judgment. That concern was still front of mind when the jeep pulled up and the procession began.
They took an access road past a row of hangars. They stopped twice to give the right of way to departing F-18s and then continued toward the transport. A hundred yards from the C-37A, they gave a wide berth to a helicopter that was fueling. Suddenly Roarke yelled.
“Stop!”
“What?”
“Stop. Right there,” he tapped the driver’s shoulder and pointed. “In front of that bird.”
“Sir, I can’t do that. I’m following the jeep.”
“Right. And you can stop following the jeep by pulling over.”
The driver did not obey. “I have orders, sir.”
“Your orders have just changed. Stop the damned car!”
Security was especially tight. But this wasn’t a problem for someone who had every reason to be there.
Luke Sader was an apt bartender who, when in town over the past few years, had occasionally freelanced for the caterer. The firm would have used him more. He was that good, but he traveled a lot and wasn’t always available. When he phoned in the other day, the owner gratefully put him on for the general’s party. “Perfect timing,” he was told, “my regular came down with something.”
Sader knew exactly what the go-to bartender was suffering from. A broken nose and a cracked rib following a mugging.
“So sorry to hear that. Happy to help,” he said, calling in just at the right time to pick up the gig.
As a trusted freelancer and previously vetted member of the caterer’s team, he passed White House clearance without question. Plus, some of the barflies actually remembered him and his expertise with mixed drinks and bottle juggling. One commented that he flipped and tossed the vodka as adep
tly as a knife thrower would his knives. Ironic, almost comical, he thought.
The bartender, looking to be in his early fifties, had wavy brown hair, contemporary gun metal glasses, and the required black outfit. He kept everything moving; mixing, pouring, and refilling with a smile. His conversations were all filtered through a slight Scottish accent. That made him more appealing, easy to converse with, and obviously not a threat to the Secret Service officers milling around the room.
“I need a ride,” Roarke demanded.
The lieutenant on duty wasn’t about to open up a shuttle service without reason.
“And you would be?”
“Roarke, Secret Service. A C-37A was going to ferry me, but I have a sudden change of plans.”
“We’re going to need approval, sir.”
“I’ll get it,” Roarke replied, hoping he would. He pressed a button on his cell and turned his back on the pilot. Some heated conversation followed which the Air Force pilot tried to follow. A minute later, Roarke handed his phone to the officer.
“It’s for you.”
“For me? Who is it?”
Roarke didn’t explain. He shoved the BlackBerry in his hand.
“Hello,” the officer said, clearly annoyed.
“Hello, son. What’s your name?” the voice asked with obvious command of the moment.
“Gerstad. Latham Gerstad, LT USAF. And who am I talking to?”
“To whom, lieutenant. It’s to whom.”
“Whatever. I’m busy and if this is going to turn into a grammar lesson the conversation is over.”
“Not grammar, LT Anderson. Command.”
“I take commands from…”
“The commander in chief.”
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but…”
Roarke used “The P Bomb;” the president live on the phone.
“Morgan Taylor, son.”
The name in isolation didn’t register to the annoyed pilot.
Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command Page 18
