The Melanin Apocalypse

by Darrell Bain

  A page from one of the files was under the scanner lid. He pointed to the computer. “Take this out to the chopper. Load the prisoners and make damn certain they’re tied securely, then grab all the papers and let’s get back to Atlanta soon as we can. Where’s Captain Russell?

  “Here, sir.”

  “Good.” He pointed to one of Qualluf’s representatives. “You stay here with this man. Both of you search the place—together—and collect any other evidence you find. I’ll leave you a couple of men in case any more of these scum show up. Just sit tight after you finish searching this place and I’ll send for you when I have time.” Captain Russell was one of his finest staff officers and one of only two army men on the mission, besides himself, who realized exactly what they were after. Lieutenant Waller was the other one, and even he wasn’t in on all of it.

  Minutes later, the helicopter was in the air, heading back to the naval base where he had borrowed it and where their plane was waiting. Very soon, Christian knew he was going to either be hailed as a hero or tied to a post facing a firing squad. However, if they made it back and he got a chance to pass the information on to Craddock, and perhaps the vice president, chances were better for him to live.

  Business. Why hadn’t he gone into business?

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  “What you find out?” Qualluf said as soon as Doug’s chair was wheeled back into the room they had been using from the start of negotiations.

  “In a minute. Did you get any rest, Mr. Taylor?”

  “I took a good nap.”

  The reply was short, but Doug noticed he seemed to have lost his glower. “May I have some coffee? I got a little rest, but most of my time went into patching me up enough to keep going.”

  Surprisingly, Qualluf poured the coffee himself and brought it over to his wheelchair.

  “Where’s Fridge,” Doug asked? Qualluf had only one other man in the office, an assistant he hadn’t met yet.

  “He’s sleeping. Should I wake him?”

  “Depends. Let me call Colonel Christian and see how he’s doing. If he found what he went after, I want everyone here.”

  Qualluf nodded.

  Doug dialed Christian’s number. He answered almost immediately. “Christian.”

  “Colonel, this is Doug Craddock. Where are you?”

  “Just landed at the airport. We’ll be there shortly. Have some coffee ready. Maybe even a bottle. We might need it before the day is over.”

  The line went dead, causing Doug to smile sadly. Christian reminded him of Gene, the way he handled things so abruptly and efficiently. But a bottle? He must have found whatever he had gone for. Goddamn.

  He turned to Qualluf.

  “Do you ever have a drink, Mr. Taylor?”

  “Alcohol? I’ve been known to.”

  “The colonel says we may need one. I think he found the treasure,” Doug said, glancing at the other man.

  He didn’t know whether Qualluf’s aide was in on the secret or not.

  Qualluf noticed. “Good. The folks getting impatient. And you can trust Franklin. Frank, this is Mr.

  Craddock. He runs the security for CDC. Also, he’s got the VP’s ear.”

  Doug noticed this was the first time the preacher had used his name. Maybe it would work out yet.

  “Well, while we’re waiting, I can tell you a bit more news. The CDC Director is out of surgery and will live. Johannsen is out of surgery, but still in bad shape. He’s in intensive care and can’t talk now, but the docs think there’s a good chance he will live to be executed. You may get him yet Mr. Taylor, because—”

  Qualluf leaned forward in his chair. “Mr. Craddock, it appears we’re going to have to be working together, maybe for a while to come. I think we can dispense with formality except while outsiders are present.”

  Doug was immensely relieved. The man appeared to finally be willing to work constructively toward reducing the violence in the country. “That suits me fine. By the way, if you still want Johannsen after this if over, you can have him as far as I’m concerned. But ask me before he’s handed over. I think I’ve come up with an appropriate punishment.”

  Qualluf gave Doug the first glimmer of a smile he had ever seen the man cast his way. It wasn’t much, but it was there. “If you’ve thought of an appropriate punishment, it’s more than I’ve been able to do.’

  “I’ll let you decide. And now, I think it’s time to get Fridge back in here. The colonel should be arriving soon.”

  The next few minutes passed in idle talk, with Doug asking questions about Qualluf and the Church of Blacks. He had read the usual articles but if he was going to be working with the man, he wanted his facts direct from the source. Qualluf proved to have an interesting background. An origin in the ghettos of Chicago, juvenile detention, a mentor who had finally got him interested in learning, a wife and family that Doug realized had rarely been mentioned, even after his name and church became prominent. Like Fridge, his family had suffered. One of his grown sons was missing and presumed dead in Africa, where he had been doing environmental work, and one of his adult daughters had just shown the first signs of infection. So far, his wife and the child still at home were well, but Doug could tell by the way he talked that the disease was like a specter, always hovering in the background. He wondered how he would feel in a similar situation, where death wasn’t imminent, but loomed like a poisonous creature that would inexorably find him. When the talk died, he called the vice president’s office and asked that she be standing by.

  * * *

  “Here’s the situation,” Colonel Christian said as he tried and failed to hold back a yawn. “We’ve got proof positive that Edgar Tomlin has been mixed up with that little gang of white supremacists for years.

  The only reason I can see that it never got out is that his contacts never put anything on a computer or used email.”

  “Then how did they keep in touch or coordinate anything?” Doug asked.

  Christian grinned. “I wondered the same thing, but on the way back I… persuaded… Shane Stevenson to spill his guts. He didn’t want to at first, but when I threatened to kick him out of the plane without a parachute, he got real vocal. Those guys kept things so damn simple we might have never found them out.”

  “How?” Doug, Fridge and Qualluf asked almost simultaneously.

  “The bastards used the post office! Anyone who opened their mail could have found them out, but who would have thought of that?” He shook his head in disgust at the irony of it.

  “Be damned. I would never have suspected them of sending such sensitive material through the mail,”

  Doug admitted.

  “That was the beauty of it. No one else would have, either.” Christian took a big swallow of coffee laced with bourbon. “God, I needed this. The galley on the plane was out of coffee, and soda doesn’t do it for me. Okay, he said lots of things and I’ve got it all recorded. One matter is so sensitive we need to make copies of our conversation along with copies of the paper and computer files and put them in a very safe place, one where no one would ever think to look—or can get to if they do. Suggestions?”

  “How about the CDC safe for our copies. Qualluf?”

  “I got a place. It would take the whole damn army to get into the bowels of the church. But… if it’s that important, I think we need a second party in on it.” It pained him to make that admission, but he hadn’t got where he was by being a fool.

  “The vice president,” Doug said emphatically. “If we can’t trust her, we may as well all go turn ourselves in.”

  “Okay, but I talk to her,” Qualluf insisted. “What is it you found, colonel?”

  Christian surveyed the room. “Anyone can be made to talk. How about just us three for right now, with copies for each of us?” He eyed Qualluf’s aide whom he had just been introduced to. “That’s no reflection on your dependability, Mr. Franklin. It’s just… well, I’ll let your boss decide after I tell him, and he can select one o
ther person to conceal a copy of the documents. How’s that?”

  “Fair enough,” Franklin admitted. He left the room while Doug sucked in cool air, thankful that the staff had got the power working again.

  Christian sighed and let it out. “Tomlin has been working with General Newman, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.”

  Dead silence reigned while the others absorbed the impact of Christian’s announcement. “Yeah,” he said as he saw their reaction. “That’s how I took it, too. At first. After that I got so mad I wanted to kill the son of a bitch. And before any of you ask, there’s very little chance the information has been planted. It’s all true.”

  “I’d better call Santes,” Doug finally said.

  “Wait. Let’s decide what we want her to do first.”

  “Do?” Fridge asked emphatically. “Do? We need to court martial the bastard and execute him!”

  “How? Christian said. “That’s done by the military. Pretty hard task to get the boss of the whole military establishment to submit to a court martial, don’t you think?”

  Doug understood. “The president has to relieve him from duty and order it done. But… damn, I hate to say it, but the president is such a political animal, I’m not sure he would do it. Oh, he might relieve the general of his duties, but even that would make him look bad. He might just try to cover it all up.”

  “Or worse,” Qualluf said.

  “Yeah, as much as I hate to say it, Qualluf, he might do worse than that. I just don’t trust the man like I do Santes.”

  “But can Santes do anything? The vice president has no real authority, you know,” Christian said.

  “Marshall will do it if we make this whole thing public,” Qualluf said. He clinched a fist, indicating his determination. “Especially if we let Santes in on it.”

  “If General Newman isn’t on to us already,” Christian said. “He’s a smart son of a bitch, even if he did get where he is through politics. I guess we better go with the VP if no one has a better idea. Maybe she’ll come up with a way to handle this, but God help us if she’s in on the plot, too.”

  No one had a better idea. If Doug could have crossed his fingers while dialing the vice president with one hand, he would have. While he was talking to her, Christian was on his military phone, advising his deputy commander that he was back at CDC headquarters and Qualluf was talking with the Church of Blacks authorities, giving them instructions to stay calm a little longer—and to exhort the rest of the black community to do the same.

  * * *

  Santes sat quietly in her soft, form-fitting chair in her prestigious but powerless office. She waved away an aide, saying she needed to think for a few minutes. She had two concerns. First, would President Marshall take constructive action or simply try to cover up, even deny what had taken place; and secondly, could Qualluf Taylor be trusted? One thing she knew that needed doing immediately was to inform her most trusted assistant where the duplicates of the paper and computer would be stored. She pressed a button on her desk and only a minute later, Baron O’Keefe IV entered.

  Santes smiled to herself at all the amusing barbs and political cartoons she had seen since taking office. A Hispanic vice president with a man carrying one of the most aristocratic names of the eastern establishment working so easily and casually with her was grounds for endless speculation on the political strategy involved in placing him in that position. In reality, there was no strategy; Baron O’Keefe was simply one of the best political operatives in Washington, though he had mostly worked for the other party. When she got a chance to sign him on, she hadn’t hesitated in calling him for an interview, then hiring him halfway through it. She had found no cause so far to regret the decision.

  A half hour later, O’Keefe loosened his tie and accepted the small snifter of brandy Santes offered him.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I can’t recall a time when I’ve felt the need of a drink more. This is almost unbelievable.”

  “Not to me it isn’t. You haven’t been around Newman and Tomlin nearly as much as I have. Now Baron, the big question is, do we let the president in on this or simply announce it first and then ask him for cooperation?”

  O’Keefe rubbed a hand across his receding hairline while he sipped at the brandy and thought.

  Santes knew better than to hurry him. He had a mind that could integrate facts, figures, behavior and implications of political equations better than anyone in Washington—or the whole country, for that matter. Not only that, he was seldom wrong in his astute judgment of people and how they might react under given circumstances.

  O’Keefe stood up and paced a few steps, then sat back down. “There’s only one way to do this,” he decided. “Go ahead and announce. I think he’ll try to deny the whole thing publicly; it makes him look stupid for appointing both men. Privately, he’ll ask them to submit their resignations “in the best interests of the nation”. However, just doing that won’t fly with blacks and Hispanics, and particularly not with Qualluf Taylor. I’ve met the man. He’s no dummy; in fact, he’s brilliant. He and his staff are going to want Newman, Tomlin and Johannsen’s heads on a platter. You’d better tell the president what we predict will happen if we don’t hand them over; what’s left of the black community will go after his balls like a shark after blood. After the announcement, I think you should meet with the men and women down there who broke the story and wrap the rest of it up then.”

  “Doug has already told me he offered to give up Johannsen as soon as the CDC’s finished with him. That was part of their terms even though it may not be strictly legal. But you think we should go ahead anyway? Announcements, then the meeting to wrap it up?”

  “Certainly, even though it puts them all in danger. Men who would instigate such a world wide catastrophe will have no compunctions about killing those three men and the CDC Director. They’ll stop at nothing, and remember, we don’t know everyone involved in this affair. Those five jerks we executed were just the scum on the pond. The fish with teeth are still swimming around free. Now here’s how I’d work it: First, release enough information to keep the rioting and violence down. Give the poor souls some hope with the possibility of a cure. Next, ask for a national hookup in your name, then bring them all to Washington to introduce them—no, I have a better idea. You fly to Atlanta for that. It will go over better if it comes from the site where the plot by Tomlin and Newman and the white supremacists was first unraveled. That will be more effective politically, especially if the Director of the CDC is recovered enough to attend.”

  Santes had been taking notes on her PDA, the stylus moving busily over the screen in her distinctive handwriting. When he was finished she looked up. “I’ve got it all, but I want one change. I’m going to release everything, including what we know about Newman and Tomlin, before I leave for Atlanta tomorrow morning. The meeting there will be simply for reinforcement and also to give everyone some heroes to look up to for a change. Telling it all first is also a precaution, in case someone has managed to tap into any of our conversations. Don’t announce that I’m going to Atlanta. Don’t even let the president know or he may try to stop me. And thank you Baron; as usual, you’ve got it right. It was a good day for the country when you came to work for me.”

  “I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. I wonder if those people in Atlanta know how famous they’re going to be? And how much they’re going to be loved by some—and loathed by others?”

  Santes had Baron O’Keefe begin preparations for a flight to Atlanta, with her recorded announcement to be made just before departure.

  “Why there and then?”

  “Just as I said, Baron. I’m afraid President Marshall might try stopping me by ordering my plane grounded on some pretext or another, or do something even more drastic. I guess what it comes down to is that I simply don’t trust the man.”

  Baron O’Keefe nodded his agreement with her opinion of the president, then left to arrange her flight and prepare the groundwork for her anno
uncement.

  Vice President Santes dialed Doug’s number in Atlanta, where she knew they were waiting for her to decide what to do. If this didn’t settle the country down, she didn’t think there was much hope of anything else doing it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Doug made notes on his PDA while June held the phone to his ear. Christian and Qualluf hung on his every word, even though they could only hear one side of the conversation. It didn’t take long. He put the phone up, grinning broadly.

  “Okay, folks, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Vice President Santes is going to announce everything we told her to the whole damned country tomorrow morning, then…”

  “Great!” “Wonderful”

  He held up his hand. “There’s more. She’s flying to Atlanta right afterwards and wants all three of us, as well as Amelia, present tomorrow evening to repeat the same thing and to congratulate us all—on national television. Then she’s going to ask all of us to serve on a council that she wants to use to solve other problems elsewhere, even after martial law is lifted. She’ll ask for the council to be empowered by Congress to take action so it won’t wind up being just another talkathon. And by the way, she’s also going to recommend that martial law be lifted, beginning immediately, but in stages to make sure local authorities can handle affairs as the stand-down progresses.” He grinned again, even more broadly. “I guess she liked the way we finally decided to work together instead of fighting.” He yawned and that set off a chain reaction.

  “I think we all better check with our deputies then get cleaned up and be presentable before we see the vice president,” Christian said. He sniffed the air near an armpit stained with successive layers of perspiration. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I think I’m becoming personally offensive. The TV announcers won’t come near me the way I smell now.”