Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

CHAPTER 23

  El Segundo, California.

  Los Angeles Air Force Base.

  MR. PRESIDENT, I URGE you—please—lay back down and relax,” pleaded Dr. Honeycutt. The Chief of Emergency Medicine rung his hands—it was clear he was not used to people disobeying his orders.

  The pounding on the other side of the thick door intensified. Brief muffled shouts drifted into the communications room. The SEALs knelt on either side of the entrance, weapons ready, but with their eyes full of questions as they looked to their leader, standing near the President.

  Brenda had a lot of questions, as well. How the hell are we going to get out of this? Did they really mean we were all traitors? I’m just a doctor…I didn’t shoot anyone…

  “Miss,” said the President gently, drawing her attention back down to the gurney where the leader of the free world lay dying. He put an emaciated hand on Brenda’s and squeezed. She had to force herself look at his face. The skin around his ears was a distinct blue color. His eyes were sunken into grayish folds of skin that on closer inspection, were just dark blue. Memories of the Blue Flu made her stagger backwards in fear.

  No…no, it can’t be back…

  “Take this thing out of my arm so I can put my coat on. Please,” the President gasped. I’ll be damned if the last image people have of me is…this.”

  “Sir,” she said, feeling her throat constrict with emotion. Here he was, a septuagenarian, on death’s doorstep from the weaponized flu, and he was worried about making sure he was wearing a proper coat to address the nation—a nation that had already given him up for dead. She tried hard to hold back the tears. She knew from The Pandemic that once an infected patient started showing signs of cyanosis, death was only a few short hours away—if they lasted that long

  “Please, sir…this tube is helping to keep you alive until—”

  Something heavy hit the door, causing everyone in the room to suddenly stop and look around with alarm. The thud echoed again through the door. Whatever they were doing, base security was determined as hell to smash the door down. She shot a glance at Cooper, the SEAL leader. He frowned. The expression didn’t make him any less handsome. Brenda averted her eyes before he noticed her stare.

  “Miss…” the hand squeezed hers again. She looked down, thankful for the distraction. The President’s grip was no stronger than a two-month old baby’s. “I know I don’t have much time.” He wheezed and coughed, a gurgling, wet sound. “I can see it in the look on your face, dear. Please let me do this my way.”

  One of the nurses—Brenda thought her name was Pam—sneezed. Everyone froze again. Brenda shot Dr. Honeycutt a look. He nodded and moved to put an arm around the poor woman. She had her hands to her face covering her mouth and a frantic look on her face.

  Does she have it? Brenda watched as Dr. Honeycutt got the nurse to sit on a dusty chair while he pulled out his stethoscope and checked her breathing. Quickly, with the practiced skill of a country-doctor, he ran his hand over her forehead. He turned to look at Brenda and frowned. A quick shake of his head.

  Shit. She’s got a fever. Her hand moved to the surgical mask over her face. Don’t think these are doing any good…we’re probably all infected already.

  “Sir, we’re all set,” said the Air Force technician across the small room. “When we send out the signal, everyone on the continent that has an antenna hooked up to a TV will see you. It may not get to every house in the country, but you’ll get to a lot of people. I’m going to be bouncing this off three different birds. I bet everyone in Washington will see you, at the very least.”

  “I’m sure they will, son,” said the President with a grandfatherly smile. He turned back to Brenda. “Help me sit up.”

  She didn’t hear the President’s soft request. Brenda was pouring over possibilities, percentages, and risks. How long before others in this little group starting showing symptoms? She looked around at the SEALs. How many of them were infected and not presenting yet? They had all been around the President, nearly as much as the medical staff…

  “Right here, sir,” said Cooper as he gently slipped an arm around the elderly man and raised him up off the gurney. Brenda jumped into motion and propped a few pillows behind the President. The Air Force sergeant put a small desktop podium across the President’s lap.

  “It doesn’t have the Presidential Seal, sir…but we’ll zoom in so it won’t matter.”

  “Very good. Thank you, Sergeant Lopez.”

  “Sir,” the airman hesitated. “I just want you to know…it’s an honor to meet you, Mr. President.”

  The old man smiled thinly.

  Another man wearing a blue jumpsuit raised his hand and said, “Sir, two minutes until we get the signal back.” One of the panels behind him chirped and went red. He smacked it with the palm of his hand, bringing the light back to green. “Ah…that’s if it holds together.”

  Brenda looked at the impressive array of equipment in the shadows on the far side of the room. To her it looked like Mission Control at NASA, not a communications center. She marveled at the progress of technology. Forty years ago, that equipment was considered state of the art. Now, she could easily do the same thing with a cellphone—if the entire world hadn’t gone completely to hell.

  “Okay, Mr. President,” said Lopez with a hand on the President’s shoulder. “When I give you the hi-sign, start talking. You’ll have about…” he looked over his shoulder at the other airmen, manning the control stations. One looked up and held up a hand, all fingers splayed out.

  “You’ll have about five minutes of clear air time to broadcast,” continued Lopez. “After that, the satellites will be out of range and the feed will drop.”

  “How did you figure all that out so fast?” asked Dr. Honeycutt.

  The airman with his hand up stepped off-camera and said over his shoulder: “We got word from NORAD yesterday on how to backdoor some old communication and weather satellites from the ‘60s. It allowed us to re-establish contact with Washington and…well, this isn’t going to be 3D-HD or anything, but people will know the President’s still with us, that’s for sure. It wasn’t easy to get these old pieces of…” An embarrassed look came over the young man’s face. He glanced at Brenda and looked away.

  “Uh…these old computers, to work…they’re really ancient, now. But…the process is basically the same as with new equipment. Think of it like a webcam. On steroids. Just got to massage these old ones a little more.”

  “One minute!” someone called out from the bank of control panels. “I got us hooked into the base feed. Everyone here will see you now as well, sir.”

  “Okay, everybody, back out of the light,” said Lopez. “We need quiet!” He frowned in Dr. Honeycutt’s direction. The Chief of Medicine placed a comforting hand on the shoulder of the sobbing nurse next to him in order to keep her quiet.

  “Our microphone isn’t exactly Hollywood quality.” He checked his watch. “Okay…you’re sure about this, sir?” he asked.

  The pounding on the door continued unabated.

  “Yes,” said President Denton, his pale, sweaty skin making him look like a living skeleton.

  “I’ve always wanted to do this,” said Lopez with a grin. “And five…four…three…two…” the sergeant held up one finger then closed his fist and pointed at the President.

  “Good evening, my fellow Americans,” said the President weakly. He cleared his throat and spoke more forcefully: “As the saying goes, the reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.” He smiled thinly, clearly in pain. The smile faded as he stared into the camera.

  “I’m speaking to you today…” he coughed wetly and only with great effort regained his sitting position. Brenda felt a strong urge to run to him and help. That was when she noticed the pounding at the door had stopped. She looked at Cooper. He winked and nodded at the door. Brenda felt a flutter in her belly. She suddenly wanted very much to feel the texture of his stubbly beard under her fingertips.

&nbs
p; “I am sorry. To all Americans, I wish to say…” he coughed again. “I’m sorry, so terribly sorry. It was through…” he wheezed for breath. “Through my actions, my policies, and those of my party that brought this great nation…” another coughing fit. This latest one seemed to sap his strength. “It has brought us to this unfortunate moment. I see that now. I cannot express to you how very much I regret the decisions I’ve made during the course of my political career. But that is behind us. History will judge me, and me alone for that.”

  Brenda could see the outline of one of the airmen wheeling his hand to signal the President to hurry it up. She silently prayed that he would have the strength to say whatever it was he wanted to say. Behind her, the nurse sneezed again. She winced.

  “I don’t have much time with you…so I want say this: it is clear that Vice President Harold Barron has been a wolf in sheep's clothing. He has had himself sworn in as President and has taken power in Washington, D.C…in an unprecedented, illegal act. He has usurped the Constitution itself and is in the process of bending it to his will…” He slumped a little, struggling to breathe through fluid filled lungs. Brenda’s heart nearly broke at the sight of the old man fighting so hard.

  When the President at last raised his head, a trickle of blood was tracing a line out of his nose. “You people in Boston, New York, Philadelphia and the other occupied cites of the east…you know this all too well,” he said in a wheeze. He swallowed and coughed again.

  “I want you all—all Americans loyal to the Constitution, to the foundation, the history, the very essence of our society—I want you to know, I hereby appoint the Speaker of the House, Orren Harris, as my legitimate successor, until such time as a special election can be held. I have heard of the actions Vice President Barron has taken and ordered to be taken…I…” he shook his head and coughed.

  “It is beyond me why this man has acted in this unlawful and unpatriotic manner. But what really breaks my heart, is that so many people are…allowing it, or condoning it with outright apathy, if not direct support. The doling out of American soil to foreign powers is…anathema to our very way of life!”

  “One minute, Mr. President!” warned one of the Air Force men off-camera.

  The President shook his head. “Not enough damn time.” He looked up at the camera and what strength was lacking from his sallow face and fever-kissed skin, was made up with the burning resolution in his eyes. Visibly summoning every ounce of strength, the President said in a strong voice:

  “I ask you to do one thing, America. Rise.” He paused in a vain attempt to clear his flooded lungs. Weakly, he continued, leaning heavily on the podium across his lap.

  Jesus, he’s got blood coming from his ear now… Brenda put a hand to her mouth and bumped her mask. She stood helpless as tears spilled down her face.

  “Rise, America, rise against this bald grab for power. Rise in defense of your rights, your homes, your country, and your fellow citizens. Rise, as one nation, one people, and fight off the tyrants, oppressors, and invaders of this sacred land.” He coughed violently and couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Brenda moved to help him but he looked up and raised a gaunt hand to keep her away. There was a pink-tinged froth dribbling from his mouth. The flu was destroying his lungs right before her eyes.

  “Rise, America—and fight—every man, woman, and child…every minute of every day…in any way that you can…with every fiber of your being…to the very last breath in your body.

  “You have my blessing and authority to take whatever actions necessary to defeat the illegal occupations, defeat the Koreans and defeat those who support Vice President Barron.” He slumped forward on the podium, breathing raggedly yet trying to lift his head up. After a few excruciating seconds, he pushed himself up again and squared his shoulders, panting with the effort.

  “Rise, America. Rise, and wake the sleeping giant!” A cadaverous arm went up, the gaunt, blue-tinted fist pointed at the sky.

  “RISE!!!”

  “Annnnnnd, we’ve lost signal,” called out someone in the shadows. The red light above the camera winked out.

  “Did he just start a civil war?” asked Lopez quietly. No one answered him.

  The President gasped, his eyes rolled up and he fell back with a thud onto the gurney. Brenda and Dr. Honeycutt were immediately at his side, stethoscopes out and checking vitals.

  The pounding on the door resumed, with vigor. There was a loud boom, and a dent appeared in the center of the steel door. Boom, boom, boom and the metal began to stretch. Brenda stared in horror. The tip of an ax had forced its way through the middle section of the door.

  “We’re gonna have company real soon, Chief,” said one of the SEALs.

  “Sweet Jesus,” said Dr. Honeycutt, head cocked, listening to his stethoscope. “His pulse is through the roof.”

  Brenda was shining a pen-light in the President’s eye. “Pupils non responsive, I’ve got blood from the nose and ears—we’re losing him,” she said.

  “Sub-conjunctival bleeding,” muttered Dr. Honeycutt, using a flashlight to examine the President’s suddenly blood-red eyes.

  Another crash from the door and a small piece broke away when the ax was pulled free. “Open this goddamn door!” a voice snarled. Threats of courts martial and firing squads were shouted in at them through the half-inch wide hole in the door.

  “Leave…leave me in peace,” the exhausted President exhaled in a gurgle of air and bloody froth.

  “But—” said Brenda.

  “No,” he said, limply raising his right hand. “Too late…you did good…” he tried to find her hand. She gripped his paper thin, weak hand in both of hers. “Sweet girl.”

  The President slowly rolled his head to the left and his unfocused eyes sought the SEAL commander. “Will…it…will it work?” he whispered, blood, mucus and lung fluid leaking from the President’s mouth onto his suit jacket. Despite everything, Brenda’s breath caught at the desperate hope in the man’s eyes.

  Master Chief Braaten, bristling with weapons, approached and knelt at the side of his Commander-in-Chief without a mask, apparently unafraid of the microbial killer so close at hand. There was an MP-5 in a combat sling harness on his side. A sidearm in the holster on his leg. A grenade launcher on his back, a big knife on his tactical vest. He stared at his clenched hands for a moment. When he looked up, his eyes were distant and empty. She caught herself once more thinking that he had a very handsome face…

  “OPEN THIS DOOR!” echoed behind them. Brenda flinched, her mind ripped back to the crisis at hand.

  I need sleep…hard to focus.

  “It—I’d say…yes, sir. I think it worked, sir.” Master Chief Braaten wiped his nose on the back of a thick forearm. He sniffed. “If I was a civilian, I’d be loading up my shotgun right now.”

  The President sighed and looked at the ceiling. “So this is how it ends…” he coughed, a wet, sucking sound.

  That cough made Brenda cringe. She knew this was the end. Of what, though? His life? America? She wondered idly if the North Koreans could track the location of their signal and hone in on where they were hiding, deep under the Los Angeles Air Force Base.

  “Never wanted…” the President said quietly. “This…” A tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek and mixed with the blood from his nose. He closed his red eyes and sobbed in silence.

  “We’ll get out of this, sir, don’t worry,” promised the SEAL commander. “America will survive this and we’ll return, stronger than ever. It’s what we do.”

  “I hope…” the old man said, face streaked with tears. His eyes were still closed tight in pain. He was very still for a long time. Brenda moved to check his wrist for a pulse. Suddenly the President’s eyes bulged and his body stiffened.

  “Oh my−what are you doing here?” he said in a voice that sounded eerily normal. Then his body relaxed. His blood-red eyes were still staring straight ahead. The breath slowly escaped his body in a bubbling gurgle. His chest fell one last
time and did not rise again.

  Brenda felt for a pulse, glanced at Dr. Honeycutt and shook her head, tears running down her face. “He’s gone,” she said, her voice cracking.

  A thud behind her announced the infected nurse had passed out. She glanced over her shoulder to see Dr. Fletcher kneel beside the stricken woman. “She’s burning up,” he reported calmly.

  The SEAL placed a hand on the President’s shallow chest and lowered his head. “Hail to the Chief,” he mumbled. Brenda had to wipe the tears from her eyes to see. Or was it sweat? In a panic she felt her own forehead. It was warm, but that could have been caused by all the people stuffed into the room.

  Dr. Honeycutt gently passed his hands over the President’s eyes. “Time of death…” he glanced at his watch. Brenda could the see the face of the expensive looking watch was a spiderweb of cracks. “It’s broken,” he said with a sad smile.

  The Chief of Medicine for All Saints Hospital stifled a laugh. He looked up, “Anyone have a watch?”

  “Eight-teen twenty-one,” said a voice choked with emotion in the darkened part of the room. The room was absent of sound except for the continual banging on the entrance door. Everyone had their heads bowed.

  Dr. Honeycutt nodded. “Time of death, 6:21pm.”

  “IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR, SO HELP ME—”

  The SEAL commander stood up and with an expression of pure rage on his face pulled the MP-5 free from his side. He ripped the cocking handle on the small carbine back with a vicious pull and brought it to his shoulder. That one movement was so practiced, so smooth, it looked as if he could have done it in his sleep.

  Brenda knew what was going to happen next, and pitied the men on the other side of the door. She had seen that look in other Americans’ eyes before, back in the Sandbox.

  “Yo Coop! What we doin’, man?” asked the tall black SEAL by the door, as he glanced over his shoulder.

  “Jax,” replied Master Chief Braaten, switching on his laser sight. “We’re going to follow orders.”