by Darrell Bain
The nurse nodded dubiously, but went to ask, wondering what had gone on in that closed room she had been barred from. Something very important, evidently.
* * *
Tomlin was barely listening to the president. Damn it, that was my last best chance to take him out, he thought. Now what? Security, that’s the key. The guard force at the CDC must have taken lots of casualties. Maybe if he got authority to augment it with his own agents? No, better yet, get the Santes bitch out of the way and have the military take over dealing with the blacks. Then…
“Edgar, what’s wrong with you?” the president asked irritably. He was suffering badly from lack of sleep and his National Security Director was off in la-la land.
“Oh, sorry, Mr. President. I was just thinking, now that the situation in Atlanta has calmed down, perhaps Vice president Santes could be relieved of those duties and given something else to do.” Anything to get her out of the way.
“Like what? There’s nothing else she can do that I can’t do better. Besides, she said there’s still a lot of issues to be resolved. I extended the deadline for her and the army until the end of the week. So long as she’s doing well there, why move her?” Marshall was grudgingly sincere in his praise, despite never having liked the idea of a woman in a position to take over running the country. He was so depleted of energy that he didn’t question why his national security director was so interested in removing the vice president from the Atlanta impasse.
“Well, all right, but I really think…”
“No, and that’s the end of it. I need your attention concentrated on security for the whole country, not just one little segment of it. Don’t you understand yet how violent and unpredictable the blacks are? The ones still alive, that is. Besides, Santes as much as hinted that the CDC security director might be able to come up with a solution that will quiet that damned Church of Blacks down. I sure don’t want to spoil her chances if that’s true. If we can stop their agitation, we can use the army to better purposes elsewhere.
Now let’s get back on track here. I have to go on the hookup to the U.N. in an hour.”
“Yes, sir,” Tomlin responded, trying desperately to sound matter-of-fact while inwardly he roiled with fear of being found out.
“Good. Now go over your border security again. I don’t want some damn Arab sneaking in here and popping me just because the Jews are killing them all. Why haven’t we been able to close our borders?”
Tomlin knew the president was asking him to fix a problem that had been ignored or given short shrift by congress for the last hundred years. There was no fix, not until the draft expanded the army by orders of magnitude and that couldn’t be done overnight. “Mr. President, it’s a better bet to increase your security rather than try to keep the borders sealed. We still can’t do it. And to keep Arabs out, we’d just about have to shut down airline travel completely. Half the security staff at the airports were black and half our southern border guards were Hispanic. We’ve lost a lot of them to the virus and some more from them simply quitting their jobs. Fortunately, air travel is down drastically, but that doesn’t cover it all. I’m sorry sir, but you know we’ve never been able to stop illegal immigrants crossing from Mexico and Canada.”
“Damn wimpy congress wanting Hispanic votes too damn much,” General Newman added. “By the way, the army has temporarily lost contact with the brigade commander in Atlanta. Something about a crucial trip he had to make. You know anything about that?”
“No,” Tomlin said. Crucial trip? Now what?
“Vice President Santes gave him the authority. I wonder where he’s off to?”
“He didn’t say. He simply informed his deputy that he was going after information vital to national security and would return within a day or so. I’m going to have his ass if I find out he’s lying.”
“Forget that,” Marshall commanded. He focused his next question on Lurline. “What’s the state of our transportation now? Is there anything else I need to do? Any executive orders?”
“Actually, since Atlanta calmed down yesterday, the violence has tapered off elsewhere and road and rail traffic is moving well enough. It’s like everyone is waiting to see what Qualluf Taylor has to say. All he’s done so far is issue a statement urging calm “for the time being” and promised a major announcement soon.”
“Fine, fine.” The president laughed briefly. “Maybe we need to bring those folks who did the negotiating into government. They seem to know what they’re doing, and they got it done fast. General, how about you?”
“We have some problems with the media on a few of the martial law edicts, but nothing serious yet. It could become an issue for them, though. Damn jackals.”
Marshall ignored the comment about the press, and he knew which issues were causing trouble. He disliked reporters but knew they were as necessary in modern-day politics as campaign funds. “Lurline, is there a spot open where I could have a brief press conference? I’ll try calming their jitters. And General, maybe you could instruct the other chiefs to pass the word down from the top that I’m displeased with the use of so much force.”
The general nodded. Lurline said “I’ll make some time, sir. They’ll want to talk to you after your U.N.
speech in any case and we can take care of both at the same time.” Lurline had to admit that President Marshall was performing better under pressure than she ever expected—but she still would much rather have seen Marlene Santes sitting behind the desk in the oval office. Marshall scared her the way he depended so much on General Newman, and delegated so much power to the man.
* * *
All Colonel Christian had to go on was a name and city, Shane Stevenson and Charleston. The internet had quickly tracked down the only two persons with that name, assuming that the city referred to was Charleston, South Carolina.
The first had proven to be a dud, a mild mannered retired postman who seemed overawed at the gang of military men and women swarming around his home, mixed with a medley of blacks dressed in everything from suits to jeans. He was entirely cooperative and friendly once he got over being scared. Christian couldn’t know for certain the man was innocent, but he gave him a presumptive pass. Just to be safe, he left one of his sergeants to stay with him while the other suspect was checked out.
The helicopter lifted off from the street in front of the first address and headed toward the outskirts of Charleston, where the other Shane Stevenson lived. As soon as it settled in to a landing, the colonel’s troops began the drill, spreading out to surround the old frame home with the red brick chimney. It was located in a shabby neighborhood and isolated from its neighbors by an abandoned two story structure of brick on one side and an overgrown vacant lot on the other. Colonel Christian let his men perform their tasks with a minimum of supervision, as befitted a good commander, while he followed with his aide and the representatives from the Church of Blacks.
His men were still outside the front door when he noticed the incongruity. Smoke shouldn’t be coming from a chimney on a day this hot!
“Take the house! Now!” he yelled and began running. He saw the door being kicked in before he got there, sick at the thought they might be too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Doug gritted his teeth and did his best to bear the pain without complaining and with a minimum of pain killers. Even in the cool atmosphere of the operating room, he was sweating heavily by the time his wounds had been cleaned up, sutured, re-bandaged and his broken left arm immobilized in a solid cast with an opening that could be lifted to examine the wound then latched back closed.
The doctor stripped off his gloves and tossed them aside. “Mr. Craddock, that should do you. Check in every day for my nurse to change the dressing and check your wounds. The nurse will give you some pills for pain. And you be sure you take all of the antibiotics I gave you. Don’t stop until they’re gone.
Understand?”
“Got it doc. Thanks.”
“That’s all r
ight. I’m sorry I had to hurt you.”
Doug forced a grin. “I asked for it. Where’s June?”
“Your wife? With the Director, I believe.”
“Amelia’s awake?” Doug felt his pulse leap in his chest.
“Yes. She’s doing fine. Still a little groggy at last report. It’s a good thing you got her over here when you did. She had a ruptured spleen that was bleeding into her abdominal cavity. Her surgeon had to remove it.”
“Thanks again.”
“Thank you again for getting her back for us. She’s doing a fine job.” The doctor strode out, peeling off his gown as he went, headed to yet another room and another patient.
The medical people are the real heroes, he thought, watching the doctor leave. They had risked their lives to help defend their patients, then gone right back to work.
“Slide over here Mr. Craddock,” the nurse said, easing the familiar gurney next to the operating room table.
“Where am I going now?”
“Just outside the door to a wheelchair. Then you’re on your own.”
“I can walk, I think.”
“Maybe you can, but you aren’t. Not after all the trouble I went through to find you that wheelchair.”
* * *
“I don’t like it,” Tomlin said to the person on the other end of the line. “What’s he up to?”
“Nothing that concerns us, Edgar. Just be cool. And damn it, don’t call me at this number again.”
“I can’t help it; I’m worried. I’ve only got one man left at CDC and he’s not an agent. He can’t do anything but report or maybe pass a weapon on to someone in position where they can take action. And speaking of reporting, he just sent word that Craddock has headed back to meet with the preacher again and Christian again.”
There was a silence. After a moment a sigh. “All right, if it will make you feel better, I’ll send someone I can trust to Christian’s headquarters unit with orders from me to keep an eye on him and to eliminate him if I give the order. So far as anyone will know, it will be a simple transfer. Now don’t call me again. Use our regular contact methods.”
Tomlin switched off the phone, still dissatisfied. Regular contacts! They always took at least twenty four hours and frequently longer to get data to the right person. He looked down at his hands. His nails were bitten back to nothing. I never bit my nails before. Why now? But of course he knew why.
* * *
Amelia had the head of her bed elevated at about a fifteen degree angle, enough to make good eye contact with anyone she was talking to. She was still pretty groggy from the anesthetic and the painkiller drip in her I.V., but not so much that she couldn’t reason or know what was going on around her. “Hello, Doug,” She smiled as he pushed his wheelchair into her room. “I heard what happened to you. Aren’t we a pair?”
The sound of Doug’s name woke June from her nap. She got up from a chair on the other side of the bed where she had been dozing and came around to Doug.
“Mmmm,” he when she finally removed her lips from his. “That’s better than medicine. One more like that and you’ll have me up and running around the room.” He brushed a tear from her lashes with his forefinger.
“What have you two been talking about?”
“Johannsen,” they both said at once.
He raised his brows. Information about the scientist was what he had come for. “Good. Amelia, I hate to rush you, but I’ve got to get back to the other building and try to keep the pot from boiling over again.
When we were talking right before you went into surgery, you mentioned something else you had found out about Johannsen. Do you remember what it was?”
Amelia looked puzzled for a moment, trying to recall the memories. Suddenly her face brightened. “Oh! I remember now. I told you there was a possibility of a vaccine, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“And that a couple of drugs are showing promise of being at least partially effective in limiting the level of quinol in the blood from the…” Seeing his frown, she smiled. “Let’s just say we might have a treatment, if not a cure. It’s not certain yet, though. And of course even if we do develop a vaccine, it will be too late for most blacks.”
“Nothing seems to be very certain with virology, does it?”
“No, that’s the nature of the little demons. But here’s the good part of what Jenkins got out of Johannsen at their first meeting. He said that during his initial lab experiments, the Harcourt virus began attenuating after its hiatus in the cells first infected. He thinks that will probably happen with humans, too.”
“What do you mean, attenuated?”
“Sorry. That means it changes and even if it still causes the same disease, it’s not as serious. We also know it has mutated somewhat, because it’s not migrating to the liver of people with secondary infections.
The people who’re catching it now go right on and present with the symptoms after a short time, weeks instead of two years or so. Also, from what few reports we have so far, it appears that most patients are recovering from the disease caused by the secondary rather than primary infection. That’s what was so important. Just bear in mind, this is from a very limited amount of data. We’ve lost contact with all the medical teams in Africa, ours and the U.N. both. That’s where the disease was first spread but we can’t get any reports from there. The whole continent is a disaster zone, medical and otherwise.”
As she related that news, Doug’s face was a study in conflicting emotions; first smiling with delight, then the smile descending into a frown. When she finished, he sighed. “But again, you’re not sure, huh?”
“No, but on this subject, we should know more in a short while.”
“Well, I guess that’s good news. It will be great if it works out like that. All right, I’ll have to be satisfied.
Thanks. Can you spare June long enough to wheel me to the front exit?”
“Certainly. But if she’s not back in a half hour, I’m going to send someone to find her.” Amelia watched as June pushed Doug’s wheelchair out the door. What a perfect couple they make, she thought; then sadly, began wondering why she had never married.
* * *
Before leaving the building, Doug paused to call Vice President Santes. Somehow, he had to bring her into the drama, especially if Christian found proof of Tomlin’s involvement with Johannsen. Had he been asked, he wouldn’t have been able to say exactly why he didn’t trust the White House. Maybe I just don’t like the guy in office, he thought, then discarded the idea. That wasn’t it. His distrust went deeper, down to the visceral level. He didn’t necessarily believe Marshall was involved, but he doubted the man would be willing to do anything to hurt his reelection chances; to his eyes, he was obviously a man who enjoyed the exercise of power. Making public Johannsen’s and Tomlin’s collusion, if it proved to be true, would probably force him to resign. Doug would conceal the knowledge if he could, until the right time to release it. Or perhaps not. He would probably have to trust Santes in the end. No one else had the clout to protect them. He raised the white flag on its slender pole and one of the black security guards came to meet them.
* * *
Colonel Christian was glad he had ordered his men to break the door down. The occupant was in front of the fireplace, tossing papers and folders into the fire.
“Get that fire put out!” he roared, but a quick thinking sergeant was already ahead of him. He emptied his canteen onto the smoldering papers, bypassing the time it would have taken to run water from the faucet and carry it back.
While that was going on, both soldiers and blacks swarmed over the man doing the burning.
“Don’t kill him! Jerry, Kilgore! Check the computer and grab all the backups you can find. Waller, help me sort through these papers. Quickly, now!
Shane Stevenson, as the man owning the house indeed proved to be, had fortunately been in too much of a hurry. He threw enough documents into the fireplace to almost smother the first
flames he started, and he hadn’t gotten the fire going good again when the water put it out.
Lieutenant Waller knelt beside the colonel, with a black man in a suit coat but no tie on his other side. A moment later he raised his eyes to Christian. “Sir, no wonder those white supremacists we executed didn’t leave a trail to their lair. Everything is right here. Files on the whole organization, from years back.”
Christian took the papers and shuffled through a few of them. “These are good, but not all I want. Go make sure the computer records are secured. Hurry.”
Puzzled, the lieutenant went off to comply, wondering why the colonel wanted him there. Two men and two women were already doing that.
As quickly as the lieutenant was out of sight in the spare bedroom that had been turned into an office, Christian, nodded. “Here it is.” He caught the eye of the man representing Qualluf. “See it?”
“I see. I got something else here, too. Look.”
Colonel Christian’s face paled as he read. “Good God! Keep this quiet or every one of us will be shot!”
“Is it true, though? Why would anyone leave records like this laying around when they could have it all on a portable drive they could just throw away?”
“I don’t know. Hell, maybe they do. We’ve got what we came for, though. Now…”
“Sir! Colonel!”
Christian looked up. His troopers were holding a second captive. One of the men was grinning. “He drove right up before he realized what was going on.”
Christian’s quick mind sorted out the difference between his two prisoners. The one who had been burning the documents looked to be past sixty. The one being held by the grinning PFC was much younger. Probably the older man had kept paper records and the younger one had been in the process of scanning them into computer files, then decided to run an errand. A quick look at the printer confirmed it.
