by Darrell Bain
That got a laugh.
After some final details were arranged, among them the withdrawal of the blacks from the CDC transient quarters and admin building, Qualluf stood up first. “I believe I have more work to do than you gentlemen, so I had better get busy.” He held out his hand.
Doug took it. Colonel Christian’s face lost its smile but he accepted the fact that his former enemy was suddenly an equal partner. He was a realist. He shook Qualluf’s hand and nodded.
Qualluf eyed him, remembering his psychology training. “I’m sorry about the casualties you and Doug suffered, but given the circumstances, I doubt either of you would have done much different had you been in my place—particularly after those rumors got started. And before we forget, I want to ask the vice president when I see her to investigate their origins. It… never mind. I’m sorry. A lot of good people died.”
Christian shook hands. “I’m sorry, too, Qualluf. I may not agree with some of the methods you used, but as you say… well, any of us might have reacted much the same if we were susceptible to the Harcourt virus,” Christian admitted. “If we do wind up on that council the vice president mentioned, let’s try to prevent it from ever happening again.”
“For sure,” Doug added. “He looked over at Fridge. “Old friend, I wish I could bring your family back.
As is, please try not to blame us. The majority of whites aren’t like those nut cases. And don’t let’s lose touch again, okay?”
Fridge nodded, shouldering his rifle. He took Doug’s hand, gripped it tight enough to hurt, then Doug pulled him forward and hugged him with his good arm. A wellspring of emotion prevented him from speaking for fear of bursting into a fit of crying.
They all departed, each to their respective headquarters.
* * *
The vice president’s announcement hit the country like a bombshell, taking even President Marshall by surprise. Had he known in advance, he would have tried to use the martial law edicts to prevent the media from disseminating the astounding story. But after thinking about it for a few minutes, he knew it would have gotten out anyway, either by the media refusing to obey restrictions or through propagation over the net. Give her credit, he thought. She did it exactly right—for her, damn her soul. Didn’t she understand the politics involved in something like this? It was going to mean he would either have to resign or see that martial law was clamped even more tightly on the nation. Why hadn’t she come to him first? His mind whirled with all the implications, but like most politicians, his thoughts centered on how they would affect him—and his hold on power.
He called his appointments secretary into the oval office and had him clear his calendar, then turned to Lurline. “What in hell was the woman thinking of, putting that stuff out without us approving it in advance?”
“Don’t you believe it, sir?”
“Goddamnit, yes, but there were better ways to handle it.” He tapped his fingernails on the desk, trying to think. So Edgar and the general were behind the whole thing. He wondered briefly whether they had anything to do with the second virus, the one devastating the Arab population, then decided it didn’t matter—except some of the damned ragheads were sabotaging their oil wells with radioactives, trying to make sure that if they couldn’t have them, no one else would either. Maybe having Newman and Tomlin arrested and tried by courts martial would settle the blacks and Hispanics down. But that would only mean they would begin calling for his resignation. Guilt by association, he thought, forgetting how secretly pleased he had been that so many blacks, a source of instability in the nation ever since its founding, were dying. Now it seemed as if perhaps they wouldn’t all die, after all; only about 60% of them, along with some of the country’s other dark skinned citizens. It would make for a simpler nation to govern if he could just hang on. Better to fire the crazy bastards and deny the whole story. The whites would believe him, he thought. They had a vested interest in staying on top, and this would mean far less competition.
His astute political mind knew that people believed what they wanted to believe and justified it later with religion, philosophy or other schools of thought they agreed with.
The president never stopped to think that most the problems came from whites believing darker skins meant inferior races, much like the Japanese thinking anyone other than them were barbarians, Gajin, before the country was opened; or the Romans, who believed if you weren’t a Roman, you were barely human. It was an old story when human culture was still young.
“All right, here’s what we do,” he finally said. “Fix up an announcement denying the truth of the story and put a clamp on the press. I’ll ask Tomlin and Newman to resign, then congratulate the CDC on solving the problem of the Harcourt virus, even if they aren’t completely sure yet. If Johannsen pulls through his surgery, we’ll try him in a military court and execute him publicly. The black community will like that, and since they’ll believe they all aren’t going to die now, they’ll settle down and go back to work.”
Lurline thought of all the scenes of mass burial she had seen across the country, the world; the whole devastated continent of Africa with smoldering cities and deserted villages, dead lying unburied. And now
… now, to find that officials of her own government had been involved, had started the vile disease, and that the president didn’t intend to prosecute them, simply because he wanted to hang on to power. It was the end. It would have been the end even if he hadn’t intended to announce a cure before it was certain there was one. She couldn’t work for the man any longer, not under these conditions.
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, I won’t be a party to simply sweeping this under the rug, no matter what the consequences.”
“What! Lurline, there’s nothing else to do!”
“Then you’ll have to do it on your own, Mr. President. I’m resigning, effective immediately. I hope you see fit to change your mind and do what’s right.” She rose and walked out of the office, wondering why she had stayed so long to begin with.
* * *
“I’m glad to meet you sir,” Captain Foley said after saluting properly.
Christian eyed the baby faced captain, the newest member of his headquarters staff. Foley had arrived while he was absent. He would have much preferred keeping Captain Russell rather than this newcomer, but he was still back in Charleston at Shane Stevenson’s erstwhile residence examining the captured documents. “Welcome aboard, Captain. Have you been orientated and issued all the equipment you’ll need here?”
“Yes, sir. The staff took care of me very well.” He shifted his pistol belt up a notch, wishing for a shoulder holster as he normally wore—but normally his assignments called for civilian clothes. Right now he was wondering how he could possibly carry out the latest orders he had received; to take out the colonel at the earliest opportunity.
“Fine. I’ll have the XO assign you some duties tomorrow. Right now, just get familiar with the status and disposition of our forces and see Sergeant Major Brannigan first thing in the morning, or before then if he has time for you. He’ll brief you on the civilian situation and how the civic affairs teams are organized.”
“Yes, sir,” Foley answered, unintentionally showing his displeasure that he, an officer, might have to adjust his schedule to that of a sergeant.
“Good. Now I need to get some rest. We have a big day coming up tomorrow. Rutledge, I’ll want the various commanders here at 0600 hours tomorrow for a briefing. God night.” He strode off, hoping he could stay awake long enough to shower and brush his teeth before collapsing.
* * *
Qualluf and Fridge had to browbeat some of their more militant compatriots to make them see reason, but after learning they would get Johannsen to do with as they pleased and that Qualluf would be part of a government council assigned to solve problems—and that the vice president was on their side, they finally agreed. Then both of them went off to get some food, sleep and a bath.
* * *
Doug
had called ahead. He was both dragging and hurting as his chair was wheeled back into the Science building, where June was waiting for him in a temporary office. He knew Amelia was still in a hospital bed, but she had arranged for a networked computer to be brought to her room. She was conferring with medical centers all over the world, pleading for updates on the progression of the Harcourt virus and information from the Arab world where the other virus was still raging unchecked.
June was running the routine administrative affairs while Amelia concentrated her efforts on the broader picture. She was in the computer alcove, her back turned to the room, as she worked with suppliers to arrange for replacement of all the goods that had surely been destroyed or stolen at their former offices and those of all the other clerks and supervisors who kept the huge facility running efficiently. New computers to download their backups into and food to restock the cafeterias were her primary concerns.
She heard the door opening but kept her eyes on the computer monitor. Her administrative assistant, a young, efficient man of Vietnamese ancestry called out to her.
“June, you’ve got a visitor.”
She rolled her chair away from her work station and swiveled around to see who it was.
“Doug!” She got up and ran to him, tears gathering and blurring her vision at his appearance. He looked as if he was about at the limit of endurance. He had bags under his eyes and unwashed hair plastered to his head, making it look almost black rather than brown. The lines on his face seemed to have grown more prominent almost overnight. She didn’t know they were mainly a result of his avoiding any more pain medicine in order to stay awake. “Doug, you look terrible!” She put an arm around his shoulders, ignoring his body odor.
Doug kept his mouth closed as she kissed him, feeling the tacky taste of teeth gone unbrushed too long.
“I’m fine, I just need some sleep. I have to talk to you and Amelia a moment first, though, if Amelia is free.”
“She’s working from her bed, but I can get her on a conference line from here.”
June sat back down and played with the computer keyboard. The big wall screen across the room brightened and came into focus.
I’m not he only one who looks terrible, Doug thought. Amelia was sitting upright in a hospital bed with a sheet covering her to the waist. Her thin nightgown showed darker and lighter areas of her body beneath it, the result of bruises from the beating she had taken. Her face was still swollen and discolored. An IV
line was hooked securely into her forearm, with the line moving this way and that as her hands played with her computer controls. The swelling around her eyes had gone down somewhat and she no longer had to peer through slits between her eyelids in order to see.
“Doug, you don’t look very good. You need some rest.”
“Look who’s talking—and I intend to get some rest very shortly. I just wanted to update you and June, then borrow June for a little while, if I may. I have to have some help getting cleaned up.”
“I should think so. Go ahead, just give me a quick summary of anything the vice president didn’t cover in her speech.”
Doug went through the essentials quickly, just in case Amelia had missed any of it. Then he told her of the impending vice presidential visit and the proposed council.
“Oh, goodness! My chance for fame and look at my face!”
Doug was glad to see she still retained a sense of humor. “Don’t worry about your face. Amelia, having you with us will reinforce the need of someone besides the military to ride herd on the civilian population if she convinces the president to start lifting martial law. You’ll be perfect. Everyone I know trusts you.
Even Qualluf Taylor has decided you’re sincere.”
“Thanks to you. All right, you go ahead and rest; I’ve had some already. June, you needn’t come back until in the morning. Just let your Ky know where you’re at and I’ll drop what I’m doing and take up where you left off. I’m about ready to turn this mess here over to the statistics group anyway. Oh—I’ll also borrow Ky from you to help arrange the TV interview here. They’ll have to if they want me involved.
And I suppose the Secret Service will be around, too, checking on security.”
“Ky always knows what I’m doing. He’ll catch you up quick, then do whatever else you need. The man is so efficient he scares me sometimes.”
“Good. If that’s all, then shoo. Go to bed.”
June wheeled Doug out.
“Where are we sleeping?” he asked. “We can’t go back to our apartment yet; the bomb squad has to sweep it for booby traps, though Qualluf said he would try to have any that his men know of disarmed.”
“There’s a little room near the Chief Scientist’s suite designed for when an overnight stay at the office is necessary. Amelia appropriated it for us. We can manage there. I’ve already got it equipped with everything you’ll need, including clean clothes that Teresa sent over.”
“Which reminds me, I’ve got to…”
“You don’t have to do anything. Teresa is as efficient as Ky. If my husband is going to be meeting the vice president, I want him to look like he’s still living instead of something the cat dragged in. Right now you could just about pass for a corpse.”
True to her word, the little room was ready, complete even to a shower. June had even thought far enough ahead to procure plastic bags to protect the cast on his arm and the wounds in his lower leg. By the time he had brushed his teeth and showered, with June stripping his clothes and helping him as he sat on the seat inside, he was nearly gone. He would have been, had it not been for the pain. A pill took care of that and he fell asleep in mid-sentence. He never did remember what he had been talking about.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
“What do you mean she’s gone! Where in hell is she!” President Marshall roared at his new, temporary Chief of Staff. With Lurline gone, he felt as if he was foundering, unable to keep what needed to be done separated from what could just as easily be either postponed or cancelled entirely.
“I don’t know sir. I didn’t know she had gone anywhere until you asked me to contact her. Ms. Tedd didn’t leave any instructions for me in order to assure continuity. I…”
“Well, get her on the phone, you fool! No wait. Have you heard from General Newman?”
“Was I supposed to, sir? I didn’t know. And do you mean call the vice president or Ms. Tedd?”
Marshall avoided an explosion of temper by the barest of margins. He buried his head in his hands, then massaged his temples to calm himself down. It wasn’t Credence’s fault. Lurline had been so efficient she had rarely relied on her assistant for backup and as a result the man was totally lost. The president raised his head, wishing he could have a drink. He glanced at his watch. Hell, it was late enough. One wouldn’t hurt.
“Make me a drink—no, come watch me while I do it so you can see how I like it.”
As President Marshall carefully measured out precisely three quarters of a shot glass of hundred proof premium bourbon, he gave Credence instructions on what to do next.
“First try to get in touch with General Newman and tell him I want his resignation immediately. If you can’t reach him, get the joint chiefs together for a conference call and notify me when they’re ready.” He poured the shot glass of bourbon over two ice cubes in a small water glass and added enough water to bring it three quarters of the way from the rim. “Next, try to reach the vice president. No, try to find her first. See if her plane has left. Whenever you reach her, notify me immediately. I want to talk to that bi…
that lady.” He stirred his drink, tasted by downing a third of it, then held still for a moment while it burned its way down and began warming his body.
Back behind his desk, the president continued. “Call my quarters and tell the family I’ll be staying here overnight. There’s too much going on to leave the office. I’ll try to get a nap here if I can. Get the speechwriters and press secretary. Have them fix up a denial of Santes�
�� story, but include a statement that both of those crazy fools involved with the Harcourt virus are leaving office ‘for the good of the country’, but don’t phrase it that way. The speech writers will know what I mean. And finally, get that colonel in Atlanta on the phone. I have some orders for him. That’s all; now get busy.”
Mylan Credence left the president sitting at his desk, sipping bourbon and sifting through briefs that had been stacking up. The president was rubbing his eyes as he closed the door behind him. Then Credence began trying to sort through everything the president wanted done while thinking that maybe Lurline had the right idea. Resignation was beginning to sound like a preferable option to this madhouse.
* * *
“Mr. President, I won’t help you brush this under the table. I joined the ticket because I honestly felt it would help our party govern better. I’m sorry to see I made a mistake. I won’t deny this story under any circumstances, and I won’t return to Washington.”
“But Marlene, we’ll be thrown out of office.”
“Perhaps, but I swore an oath to defend the constitution, not the office. This is the right thing to do. Edgar and General Newman should be arrested and tried.”
“I’ve asked for their resignations.”
“And have you gotten them?”
There was silence at the other end of the line, allowing Santes to hear the barely audible hum of the big jet she was on descending toward Atlanta. When the president came back on the line he simply said “I’ll talk to you later.”
Thoughtfully, she handed the phone back to an aide and considered what to do. “Call the local media in Atlanta. Tell them I’m having a followup press conference at the CDC. Give them approximate times. Tell them to contact the CDC for more details. Then send the press back here. I’ll want to talk to them before even stepping off the plane.”
* * *
