by Mark Rounds
“You asked to see me sir?” asked Lassiter.
“Yes,” said Antonopoulos. “We have that damned staff meeting tomorrow and I want there to be no doubt that you have a strong hand on the intel side. What have you learned about our operations?”
“Honestly, sir,” said Lassiter, “I had no idea it was that big. You have more than a dozen reporting stations.”
“Fifteen,” said Antonopoulos, “when you count the two new ones the Stricklands recruited.”
“Yes, sir,” said Lassiter. “It appears the state is fragmenting into approximately fifty small enclaves. Some are disease free …”
“There are fifty seven that we have identified,” said Gen Antonopoulos.
“Damn it!” exclaimed Lassiter testily, “whose briefing is this anyway?”
“Yours,” said Maj Gen Antonopoulos. “But you need to have your facts cold or some of the people in that room will trap you in a corner. Remember, the ‘real’ intel folks are still mad at LTG Buckley and by extension me for setting up a human intel organization outside their turf. If they can find holes in what you do, they will stick it to you. Now continue.”
“We have determined that TWELVE of these enclaves are disease free,” said Lassiter emphasizing the detailed number, “and that sixteen more are mixed. The rest, which is nineteen, are almost completely infected and we believe that they are keeping the infection in check with Slash.
"The situation at Fairchild Air Force Base has become dire. They do not have the resources we have to protect their perimeter. Since the plan to clear an overland route through Interstate 90 was cancelled, I recommend that we begin airlifting troops and supplies via C-17s.”
“POL?” asked Gen Antonopoulos.
“We couldn’t maintain an airlift indefinitely,” said Lassiter casting his eyes down, “but sir, I think we have an obligation to try and help them.”
“At what cost, Captain?” asked Gen Antonopoulos almost to himself. “What else is happening?”
“We are currently involved in setting up a logistics network to support our regional intel sites,” said CAPT Lassiter. “I can now see why you needed my drones, I just wished we had discussed this at the time, maybe ADM Turner would still be alive.”
“If wishes were fishes,” said Gen Antonopoulos. “I hope the other thing you are learning about is our operational security problem, which was why I couldn’t have that talk with you. It takes at most hours before the contents of our briefings are known to the opposition. We have a leak as big as a firehose.”
“So, don’t trust anyone,” said Lassiter with resignation, “even me.”
“Even you,” said Gen Antonopoulos. “But I do need to tell you something. The details of the discussion we had about Harðnefr were broadcast from this base recently.”
“If you are telling me,” said CAPT Lassiter warily, “that means that you suspect Maj Gen Johnson?’
“Partially,” said Antonopoulos. “You are getting the hang of this. So what else?”
“Or you could suspect me,” said Lassiter, “and you are waiting to see what happens to the message traffic when I leave this room.”
“Also correct,” said Antonopoulos.
“Why are you doing this?” asked Lassiter who was clearly frustrated.
“Because, until I clear either you or Johnson,” said Maj Gen Antonopoulos, “I can’t really take over as commander and frankly, I am not sure which of you would be more damaging. Gen Johnson knows all about our operations before they happen, but you know all about our human intelligence network. I call this wrong and I am screwed, as are most of the folks in Washington State.”
“So I suspect that you will be dropping some sort of intel bomb on Johnson soon to see how he twitches?”
“You know, if you are clean, you really show an aptitude for this,” said Gen Antonopoulos slyly. “You are cleared to go, Captain. See you tomorrow at the staff meeting.”
“Jeesh, how do you sleep nights?” asked Lassiter.
“There will be plenty of time to sleep when we are dead, CAPT Lassiter,” said Gen Antonopoulos wearily. “Good night.”
On his way home, Antonopoulos noted Maj Gen Johnson's light was still on in his office. Since the accident with AMD Turner, he had stopped riding his bike to work and was driven home in an MRAP. He asked his driver to stop, and he got out and went into the building. It was quite dark, except for the General’s Office.
The General's junior aide, Lt Hanson, was in the outer office. He had clearly been reading a report but had dropped off and was now sound asleep. Gen Antonopoulos walked quietly around his desk and tapped lightly on Gen Johnson's door.
“Gen Johnson?” asked Andy as he slowly opened the door.
“Hi, Andy,” said Johnson. “You don't have to call me Gen Johnson anymore. You are my commander, remember?”
“Sorry sir … shit,” said Andy with embarrassment. “This general thing is all still really new to me. I have spent the last twenty-four years of my life learning to salute generals and call them sir. It's hard training to break.”
“No worries,” said Johnson. “What can I do for you and shouldn't that pup Hanson be screening my office?”
“He should,” said Andy. “But he has his nose stuck in Air Force Policy Directive 10-39, Safeguarding Biological Select Agents and Toxins. It had the same effect on him as it did me.”
“Ok,” laughed. Johnson. “I will admit to absorbing more than one manual by osmosis, but covering up for my aide isn't why you dropped in, is it?”
“Nope,” said Andy “I want you to lay on an operation for me. It will be a fairly large one, but you have to keep the details quiet. Most especially, you need to keep it out of Navy channels.”
“I will do what I can,” said Johnson wearily, “but I have got to say, I am getting sick and tired of these games. Don't think I don't know what you're doing; dropping one datum to one of us and not the other. Why not just bring in two new officers and get on with it?”
“Because,” said Andy choosing his words carefully, “you are both competent as hell and I need you. Besides that, if there is a bloodletting at the highest levels on base, there will be morale repercussions that after ADM Turner's death, I don’t think we can survive. I think I can afford to lose one of you, but not both of you.”
“Well, I for one am heartily sick of these accusations ...” said Gen Johnson who then paused and controlled himself. “But you’re the boss. It's your hand to play. What do you need?”
“I am laying on a mission to Fairchild,” said Andy. He felt uncomfortable after the last exchange but he had to go through with it. “I am still nominally in charge of air operations so I have laid on three C-17's. I have a list of spare parts and critical supplies they need. Given the load parameters of the C-17 which are here in Frag Order 7, I will need to come up with the best balance I can, given what we can produce. I also need a platoon of good troops to act as security while we are down there.”
“We?” asked Johnson raising one eyebrow.
“Yep,” said Antonopoulos, “I’m on this mission.”
“Sir,” said Maj Gen Johnson, choosing his words carefully, “with respect, I just heard a senior officer tell me we couldn’t afford to lose two senior officers for fear of morale repercussions, does not the same logic apply to him? The only officer who is considered unbiased enough to keep things on an even keel, as our Navy brethren sometimes say?”
“Your concern is noted, General,” said Antonopoulos. “However the situation at Fairchild is dire, more than the supplies, which they need critically, they need to know that there is something bigger out there, so I am going for morale purposes as much as to eyeball the situation.”
“I realize that you are peering under the bed enough for the two of us,” said Gen Johnson, “but consider where your information about the situation at Fairchild is coming from. If somebody, say a certain Navy Intel chief, wanted to put you in harm’s way, maybe to set up an assassination attempt,
might he put a bug in your ear about the morale issues there?”
“Again, your concern is duly noted, General,” said Antonopoulos. “That’s why you best pick a good team for me. For security reasons, the exact launch time will be known only by me. Get everything ready and put them on standby. This call is mine; I expect to see a draft of an operations order by 0800 Wednesday morning, clear?”
“As a bell, sir,” said Johnson.
Chapter 14
June 10th, Monday, 11:13 pm PDT
A compound north of Winifred, MT
Macklin collapsed into bed. His normally locked window was open but he was too tired to care. Today, his tormentors had begun running tactical problems on him. They had him in the brush, attempting to hide or ambush them, and they would come out of nowhere to tag him. Discipline was exacting and physical. He was unsure if he could last the week. Then, silent as a thought, a huge fighting knife was pressed against his throat and his mouth was covered by a hand that had a grip like a vise.
Maclin’s first thought was that it was another damned test that he had failed and would be beaten for, but whoever it was remained silent until he stopped struggling.
“You ready to listen, chebon?” said a familiar voice from the dark.
Macklin nodded slowly.
“OK, let me tell you what I am going to do,” said the voice. “I am going to move my hand so you and I can have a little chat. Say anything louder than a whisper, and I cut your throat and scalp you before your clumsy guards can get here. You will be a bloody smear and I will be gone.”
“You’re Little Bear,” said Macklin very quietly.
“I ain’t Custer,” said Little Bear.
“How did you get here?” asked Macklin. “That old truck wouldn’t …”
The knife tightened at Macklin’s throat.
“I am the Ghost Who Walks,” said Little Bear menacingly. “Wherever my people are, I am there too. Never forget that.”
“What do you want?” asked Macklin.
“Everything,” said Little Bear. “I want to know about your boss, Nergüi. I want to know how you traveled here, I want to know what your resources are, but to start, who is this woman that Nergüi wants so bad? Where is she and why does he want her?”
“They’ll kill me for telling you that!” whispered Macklin frantically.
“I will kill you if you don’t,” said Little Bear. “I suspect your lifespan is pretty short no matter what you do, but you can extend it a little by telling me, now, what I want.”
“Her name is Amber, Amber Hoskins,” said Macklin, stalling for time. “She was a cop in Pasco before the Plague, she was a ….. urgh!”
The knife moved for a split second and then the pommel came down hard on Macklin’s testicles. Stretched out as he was, there was no way he could shield himself from the blow. It was all he could do not to cry out in pain. Then the knife was at his throat and the vise like hand covered his mouth.
“I ain’t got time for this treaty talk,” said Little Bear menacingly then his tone softened.
“Look, chebon,” said Little Bear quietly, “that was a love tap compared to what's coming your way if you keep stalling. Where is she?”
“We have some unconfirmed reports,” said Macklin gasping for breath. “She could be anywhere!”
Little Bear violently wrenched Macklin's head around brutally and put his knife underneath Macklin's left ear.
“I think I'll take this ear first,” said Little Bear menacingly. “Then maybe a finger ...”
“She’s in Idaho, a place called Moscow, they have a University there…” screeched Macklin.
“Quiet white man!” whispered Little Bear and the knife moved from Macklin's ear. This time the blow was to his solar plexus. Macklin gasped and then couldn't breathe for a moment while his diaphragm spasmed.
Whatever else he had to say was interrupted when Macklin’s door burst open and Ngengi burst in wearing only gym trunks but carrying a Desert Eagle in .50 caliber magnum. He was at least a foot taller than Little Bear and had him by more than a hundred pounds, but that didn’t stop Little Bear from attacking him before Ngengi got used to the lack of light in Macklin’s room.
Little Bear rose and took two steps towards Ngengi, driving his shoulder hard into the black man’s midsection, doubling him over. His knife flashed out and only Ngengi’s lightening quick reactions saved him from having his throat cut. As it was, razor sharp knife took off the tip of his nose.
The distraction gave Macklin the opportunity to draw his .40 caliber pistol from under his pillow and begin firing. Unfortunately, every place he aimed, Little Bear wasn’t. The blow to his testicles and his solar plexus had left him in pain and his eyes had trouble focusing, so his grasp of the situation wasn’t perfect, but in the little bedroom, there was no way he could miss. But he did, three times. Ngengi got over his shock after a second and also began firing but with the same result. After perhaps ten seconds of gymnastics in the small room Little Bear vaulted through the open window and out into the night.
“See if you can catch that bastard on the infrared!” shouted Ngengi out of the open door.
“There is no one out there!” shouted Carlos, who had opened up his laptop and was checking the feeds outside the building.
“He just jumped out the fucking window!” said Ngengi. “He can’t be out of range!”
The compound lights came on as Carlos accessed the control net.
“There is no one!” shouted Carlos in return.
Ngengi’s focus turned towards Macklin who was in a fetal position trying to master the pain from Little Bear’s blows.
“So who the fuck was that, Fresh Meat?” said Ngengi menacing Macklin with his pistol.
“His name is Little Bear,” wheezed Macklin who had learned it was no good to lie, plus he hurt too bad and was too tired to care. He mastered his pain and continued. “I met him one time and had an uncomfortable two hours, sitting between him and Nergüi in a noisy old Ford pickup. He spent most of the time alternatively castigating Nergüi who seemed to enjoy it and explaining in grand and glorious detail how the white government in Washington had screwed the Indians. Go ask Nergüi if you don’t believe me.”
“We will,” said Ngengi. “So what did he want to know? Why was he in here?”
“He was holding a knife to my throat,” said Macklin, “and he was interrogating me about Nergüi. When he didn’t get the answers he wanted, he punched me in the nuts. That’s when you interrupted him. I don’t even know how he knew I was here.”
“I do,” said Carlos. “I also know who Little Bear is, you poor bastard. He and Nergüi have been feuding on and off for at least the last seventy-five years. Little Bear will sometimes help us if it clearly benefits his cause. He is also the only known link we have to the ‘Others,’ another group of Plague survivors. He will help them too if it makes sense to him.”
“Shit,” said Ngengi, stepping back as if Macklin were now somehow radioactive, “you’re bait.”
“Nergüi will do damn near anything to get data on the Others,” said Carlos. “So listen, Fresh Meat, we are going to continue to train you, make you as hard as we can, but Little Bear can find you anytime he wants. He will show up when you are feeling safe and haunt your nightmares for the rest of your rather short life. If you don’t give him the information he wants, he’ll kill you. Nergüi will likely feed you information to give him, but if Little Bear finds out then, again, he will kill you. If Nergüi finds out you are telling more than you should, he will kill you. If you try to play some game where you play them off against each other and we find out, we will kill you.
“Unfortunately, if Little Bear or our little group kills you too soon, well, let’s say it won’t go well for us either. The only way to extend your life even a little bit is for us to try and make you as tough as possible so you will survive long enough when Little Bear does try to kill you for some of us to come help you, but you have so damned far to go …”
June 11th, Tuesday, 9:08 am PDT
East of Moscow, ID
Chad was walking down the Moscow-Pullman highway just past the entrance of the Busch Fuel and Lubricant distribution center. With him was one of his PJ’s, ostensibly to do Plague testing, but in reality also providing personal security. Chad also had Sergeant Alred and his technicians with him to provide communications. They had their Air Force radios and now, with the help of the generator at the University to charge up batteries, they had some radios out with the militia and the National Guard units.
A couple of patrols that had been sent out earlier in the morning had reported that the Pullman Police and Mayor Henderson’s Militia had sealed off the border at the state line between the two cities. LTC Amos was adamant that they not provoke an incident, so Chad asked to go out on a routine patrol to personally observe the situation and report back. No one could believe that the police were actually supporting Henderson and the Sovereign State of Pullman.
As they rounded the corner, Chad spotted the familiar silhouette of an MRAP. He quickly halted the patrol.
“Ok, what do we know about this?” said a rather perplexed Chad.
“They got that MRAP after a student riot they had in the nineties,” said the National Guard Sergeant who was local and old enough to remember the incident. “The Pullman Police are actually pretty well-stocked.”
“That would explain why they are still organized,” said Chad.
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. “No one really wanted to leave all of that equipment out there for the taking.”
They stopped about a hundred feet from the MRAP. Chad could see that there was no weapon in the turret, but the vehicle was still formidable.
“That’s far enough,” said a police sergeant. “I have been ordered by Mayor Henderson, the President of the Sovereign State of Pullman to stop all traffic between Moscow and Pullman. No traffic of any kind is allowed between the two cities.”
“What is the official reason?” asked Chad.
“Contain the infection, sir,” said the police sergeant who recognized Chad’s rank.
