by Darrell Bain
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Emilee Bailey’s black face showed a patina of perspiration under the harsh camera lights. Her speech to the United Nations assembly had gone over about as well as she had expected, perhaps better. She had been interrupted only three times by shouts of violent disagreement and outright disbelief. At the end, there was only a smattering of applause. She didn’t blame the delegates for their less than enthusiastic reception because she didn’t believe half the words she had just spoken herself.
As she stood before the podium, ready to take questions, she wondered again why she hadn’t simply resigned—or better yet, disclaimed some of what she had been ordered to say. In the end, she had decided to go along. If she hadn’t, she would simply have been replaced and someone else put in her place to make the same speech—and she thought she very well might have been permanently silenced and her death attributed to the Harcourt virus. Her newly appointed “aide” sat behind her, a constant reminder of how extensive were the powers granted the president under martial law. He was an agent of the Homeland Security Council, there to be sure she said what she was supposed to—and to let her know that the surviving members of her family could be locked up indefinitely without charges if that was what it took to keep her in line.
Emilee doubted that much would get done in any case. Most countries had a percentage of blacks and dark skinned citizens and were busy at home, just like the United States was. She could look out over the chamber and see that almost every seat was filled—but she knew that some of those ambassadors no longer served effective governments. In some of their countries, there was no government left at all.
Phrases from the speech she had just given were still running through her mind.…demand that Israel cease all offensive operations immediately… stand ready to offer unconditional assistance to the beleaguered continent of Africa and all other areas afflicted by the Harcourt virus… no territorial ambitions in Africa nor designs on the Arab world… stridently deny providing assistance to Israel in carrying out their air strikes… must put our own house in order… deny in the strongest possible terms that the United States government had anything whatsoever to do with instigating the Harcourt virus. The proof should be apparent in the fact that our country is also suffering grievously from… have no knowledge concerning the new virus that has cropped up in the Middle East… That statement had been inserted into her speech at the last moment as news of the new virus became public knowledge.
There was more, but it all went into a summation of how the United States was making every effort to restrain Israel, find a cure for the Harcourt virus, render aid to Africa and other afflicted nations, help Russia and the European powers to secure nuclear power plants that were at risk of being abandoned, and in general tell the world how benevolent and helpful her country’s efforts during the crisis were. Parts of the speech were true, but other facts had been shaded and she knew she had uttered some outright lies. Modern diplomacy, she thought with bitter self loathing.
Her answers to the questions were little more than a recap of the text of her speech. As quickly as she decently could, she declined to provide any more answers and took her seat. She did her best to ignore the derogatory remarks coming to her translator earphone during the debate that followed. Fortunately it didn’t last but another hour, then was suspended until the next day. After that, she had a short break before meeting with the Permanent Security Council members, where the real decisions would be made.
Not that she thought much would be accomplished there, either.
* * *
Doug’s platoon was on the three to eleven shift. He was tired but not impossibly so when he arrived back at the apartment that he and June were already beginning to call home. During the day he would have been amused at the sight of men and women in white coats carrying their own trash out to the dumpsters had it not been a portent of how many vacancies there were for workers who performed the mundane but necessary housekeeping tasks all over the country. The cafeteria food was suffering from the same shortage. The potatoes at dinner had been lumpy and undercooked and the meatloaf had an odd taste to it that he didn’t care for, as if it had been diluted with too many crackers or bread to make it go further.
June was awake and watching the news when he came in, wearing a thin yellow silk robe, a souvenir from a mission to Thailand a few years ago. It shimmered as she stood up to greet him, some of the fabric clinging to the curves of her body as if attached to her, while others parts of the material flowed with her movements, presenting as pretty a picture of a new bride as he could ever wish for.
“I thought you would be in bed by now,” he said, leaning his rifle carefully against the wall and taking her into his arms.
“I was, but I set the alarm so I’d be awake when you came home. Have you eaten?”
“I had a bite at work. Don’t worry about it. How was the rest of your day?”
She pointed to the wall screen. “About like that. I didn’t feel like reading, so I watched how the world is going to hell until I couldn’t stand it any more, then turned it off. Are you ready for your drink?”
“If you don’t mind. I need something to perk me up; it’s been a long, long day.”
“Go ahead and get your shower; I’ll make it for you.”
“You’re a doll. Also a dutiful wife. And a beautiful one. Make it a double because I’m only going to have one.” He winked, kissed her in a manner that promised much more later and headed for the bedroom, unbuckling his holster belt as he went.
When Doug returned a few minutes later, feeling clean and somewhat refreshed, June had turned off the news and was sitting in quiet silence.
Doug sat down and took a big sip of his bourbon and water, savoring the bite and the warmth it started in his middle. “Anything good on the news?” He slid his free hand in under the hem of her robe and caressed her thigh with gentle motions.
“Not on the news, but Amelia got something good in the feed from Washington. It’s not being made public yet, though. Remember that scientist who created the virus for those Nazi skinhead nutcases we executed?”
“Johannsen? Sure. Did someone finally pop him?”
“Even better. He’s been captured.”
“Why is that better? We’ll just execute him, same as those other Aryan supremacist bastards. For my money, he ought to be hung up by his balls and beat to death with rusty barbed wire.”
“Amelia thinks he might be able to help find a cure, or a treatment. Possibly a vaccine. She’s requested that he be brought here and put to work under armed guard.”
Doug wasn’t a scientist but he tried to keep up with developments, particularly since taking his present job. He couldn’t follow the reasoning. “What can he do that the scientists here can’t?”
“I don’t know the details, but Amelia said he might be able to help by re-creating the steps he took to alter the virus in the first place. I haven’t got the knowledge to judge, but if she says so, I’ll trust her.”
“Well, yeah. Still it’s too bad that madman is going to be allowed to live longer than he should just because of what he knows.”
“I agree but he’ll certainly have our scientists right beside him, hurrying him up. And when we’re finished with him, the army gets him and he can join his companions in hell.”
Doug grinned humorlessly. “If there’s any blacks left in the army, I sure wouldn’t let any of them be on his guard detail.” He thought a moment. “For that matter, I wouldn’t let any of the blacks still left in the lab get close to him. He might wind up being injected with a lethal dose of bubonic plague or something similar.”
“I think I’d inject him myself if I knew we were through with him. I just can’t understand how anyone could do what he did.”
Doug finished the last of his drink. “Don’t try to understand psychopaths like that. You can’t.” He stood up and reached down a hand to help her up. When she was standing he stroked her back with one hand and fondled he
r breasts through the thin silk material of her robe with the other. “This robe makes you look even more beautiful than you already were. Too bad you’re going to have to discard it so soon.”
June’s hands were already clasped together behind his neck. She smiled. “I’ll just have to suffer. It’s not like you can’t see me in it again. The itinerary for any new bride includes lots of dressing and undressing.
And fun in between, so let’s go try the in-between part.”
“Spoken like a true bride. And the groom won’t put up a bit of resistance. Shucks, he may even help a bit.”
“He’d better!” June laughed. They almost bumped into the bedroom door from not being able to take their eyes off each other while heading toward the bedroom.
* * *
Qualluf Taylor was well satisfied with the results so far. He had taken over the reins of Mustafa Jones’
large sect when its founder died in Shreveport; from the Harcourt virus as the church biography had it, but in reality from a simple heart attack. Qualluf did nothing to discourage the church version of his demise. With its followers and his own Church of Blacks, he now headed the largest and most militant black organization in America. He was an accomplished preacher, an activist, and had both a degree in theology and a PhD in psychology from Yale. He used his knowledge of the factors which motivated human behavior to good effect with the church. In this case, he knew that thinking the death of Mustafa Jones came from the Harcourt virus impelled his followers to heights of rage that dying of a simple heart attack could ever have done.
Qualluf Taylor was an educated man but he had little problem convincing himself that the virus had been developed by the CDC, not after his son had contacted it in Africa then disappeared into the chaos there, nor in believing they possessed a cure they weren’t sharing with the world. Even if he hadn’t thought the rumors were true, he would have used the prevailing beliefs of the black community to lead the Church of Blacks on their crusade, for if they weren’t true, what else was left for the black community except vengeance? Virus aside, he would finally get revenge for his brother, a bad apple who had been sentenced to life in prison, then killed there while his white companion got only ten years for the same offense. Wayward or not, the difference in the punishment was grossly unfair. That was what had started him on this road to begin with, long years ago.
His penetrating gaze held the members of the church council in thrall while he explained what came next.
“The airport is in our hands so the white army can’t bring in reinforcements by air. Now we have to take the CDC before that bug kills us all. They got the cure all right. All we got to do is capture the scientists and wring their scrawny white necks until they be glad to tell us. That means no killing except the guards.
We going to wipe out every single one of them motherfuckers, then wipe our asses on they clean white underwear, but leave the scientists alive.” Qualluf could speak perfectly correct English but always threw in some black patois when in the company of his fellow blacks. Perfect English marked a brother as a white toady, no matter what his feelings.
Qualluf scanned the faces again, seeing the anticipation and anger on every face there. He thought of the millions of dark skinned bodies buried in mass graves around the world and the anger rose in him as well.
The scientists would die, too, just as soon as they disgorged their secrets. And if they didn’t give them up, they would die anyway. The small closed room reeked of stale food and body odor, a legacy of the long drive from Louisiana to Georgia. No matter. He would shower tonight, but not until he finished with the white woman. Let her shrink from his smell; let her cry and wail all she pleased; the more the better so long as others heard her. Qualluf didn’t really enjoy the experience; in fact, he felt sorry for the woman.
She had nothing to do with starting the violence, but that wouldn’t stop him. She was guilty by association, and he had to show his followers how heartless he could be, how ruthless and uncaring about any disaster befalling a white person. Besides, nothing could compare with the disaster his people were suffering.
“Okay, tomorrow be the big push. We going to take casualties but we got the power and we got the guns and we still got the bodies. You all listen to Fridge and do like he say. You know he been in the military and he know how to handle them wimpy white army boys. Just remember, do what you like to the guards and the army but don’t hurt the people inside. We got to have them if we going to live.”
Qualluf sat back and let Ali “Fridge” Green take over.
Ali was nicknamed after an old professional football player who had been called “The Refrigerator”
because of his size and irresistible momentum once he got going. Ali was a recently retired infantry Sergeant Major with more combat experience than most active duty soldiers in this era of terrorism and guerrilla tactics. His specialty had been urban warfare.
The Fridge took over and began going over the routes toward the CDC with his lieutenants, the known army positions and what they could expect in the way of resistance. He knew almost to the inch where the army guard posts were located, how they were manned and how many soldiers were on duty at any given minute. All this information was being fed to him by a lighter skinned black serving with the small army unit guarding the CDC complex. The man relished passing the data to the Church of Blacks; his wife had died three weeks ago from the Harcourt virus.
The only part of the operation that Fridge didn’t care for was that it had to be carried out during daylight hours; there was no way to compete with soldiers who had access to night vision equipment. Fortunately, the airport had been relatively easy; the small army contingent was too busy holding the lid on Atlanta proper to think of the airport, a very stupid mistake on someone’s part. With the airport in his hands, he felt like they had a good chance of succeeding. They would have the CDC complex in hand well before army reinforcements with heavy weapons could arrive. Anything coming in by chopper, he thought they could handle with the half dozen shoulder-fired missiles in their possession. Adding to that advantage, most of the metropolitan police force had disintegrated with the loss of so many blacks and the deaths of so many others trying to keep the city under control. What few were left kept to the white precincts and simply tried to limit the damage there. The black neighborhoods were left to their own devices and the whites were sticking as close to home and work as they could, fearful of being assaulted by angry and frightened blacks, or even white miscreants taking advantage of the lawlessness.
Shortly before dawn, thousands of dark skinned men and women began marching toward the CDC
complex, intent on either beating the cure out of their white scientists or putting them to death, the very same fate they believed every dark skinned human on earth faced in the near future.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
General Newman couldn’t help but be satisfied that the armed forces were finally going to be built up to a level he and the other members of the Joint Chiefs considered adequate, even if it was coming about as a result of a world wide calamity. He worried a bit about the enormous task of integrating all the recalled former servicemen and women back into the service and getting the new draftees trained and into the field, but that was what subordinates were for. His main concern was stability in the nations possessing nuclear weapons—or biowarfare agents such as the Harcourt virus, or that new one, the Goldwater virus, named after the first patient known to have died from it. He thought it was ironic that the first person to succumb had been an Israeli citizen of mixed Arab and European ancestry who had the bad luck to inherit the wrong gene from his Jewish father and Arab mother. The man had been even more unlucky to be a passenger on the aircraft harboring Nabil Hassan and his little spray bottles loaded with the deadly brew. He knew that Nabil Hassan had been caught with the goods on him and executed.
General Newman chuckled to himself, thinking that Goldwater would much rather have lived than have his name immortalized after his deat
h as the Goldwater virus, though it was seldom called that except among professionals and those who avoided derogatory language. It was more commonly referred to, especially in casual conversation, as “The Arab Virus”, after the group it infected. In truth, he knew it was lethal even to some non-Arabs such as Iranians because of their common ancestry. And he had to give the Jews credit—they had loosed the bug even knowing it would infect some of their own citizens.
General Newman realized he couldn’t predict which nation might produce the next pandemic, though the intelligence agencies pointed to several with the possible capability. He couldn’t order them nuked, though, no matter how much he might think it would eliminate a risk. There was too much of a chance for escalation. Maybe later, if things worked out.
His primary concern now was holding the country together in the face of the increasing disruption of supplies and continuing violence in the big cities. Part of Los Angeles had burned to the ground before the bitter, vengeance-bound rioting of its black citizens had been subdued, and part of Chicago was heading in the same direction. He shuffled requests for troops and reinforcements from around the country with an eye on vital areas of industry or transportation hubs. Those received priority. Then there were the nuclear power plants.
Already, he had been forced to send reinforcements to the few plants in Africa his soldiers and airmen were guarding; White faces were anathema in that continent, and there were still plenty of revenge-minded blacks left alive. The whites of South Africa at last report had been wiped out almost to the man, though not without some fierce battles. And now that the Goldwater virus was getting up steam, he was going to be forced to send more troops, these into the Middle East, and have others ready. Israel might help later, but right now they had their hands full fighting off the Egyptian, Syrian and Jordanian armies, the same old antagonists who had been slugging it out for well over half a century. Whatever else happened, he had to try to keep any of those nuclear plants from melting down and contaminating the whole world.
