Frontier Justice - 01

by Arthur Bradley

  A gunshot sounded. Then a second, and a third. They were far enough away that Mason didn’t even stop rocking in his chair. It could easily have been a mile, maybe even a little farther. Probably hunters out chasing raccoons, he thought. While Mason had no particular love for the critters, he didn’t like the thought of a pack of dogs running down the animals until their masters could finally catch up and finish the job with a shotgun.

  In his seven years with the Marshal Service, he had been forced to fire his weapon on six different occasions, an unusually high number to be sure. In each of those cases, however, his opponent had been armed, either with a rifle, handgun, or, in one case, a machete. Taking a life under those circumstances seemed distinctly different than butchering an animal in the middle of the night for nothing more than its pelt.

  Despite his indignation, he made no move to question the illegal hunting. Not only was it unacceptably dangerous to do so, it was also a fight that he was unwilling to enter. The world had its predators and prey. Man was fortunate enough to be at the top of the food chain in most environments, and, when he wasn’t, he felt the sharp bite of whatever it was that held authority over him. Such was the way of the world. Mason wondered if one day that same world might decide that man had held the top post for long enough.

  CHAPTER

  3

  President Rosalyn Glass stood staring out the window of the Oval Office. The VH-60N helicopter, known as Marine One, whipped the grass with its massive blades as it slowly descended onto the White House South Lawn. They would be coming for her soon.

  She held a cup of tea close to her face, the steam slowly rising to condense on her glasses. Her hands trembled, and her heart pounded so violently that she wondered if others might actually be able to hear it. She tried to steady herself by sipping the hot brew, and it immediately burned her lips. She lowered the cup and licked at the tender flesh. Pain, she thought, not just for me; enough for everyone.

  She replayed the conversation that she’d had with her Chief of Staff less than a half-hour earlier, a conversation that would forever change her life and those of billions of others.

  Tom Barnes stepped into the Oval Office and announced himself.

  “Madam President.”

  “What is it?” she asked, stepping from behind the Resolute, the 19th century desk that had served nearly every president since John F. Kennedy.

  His ashen face betrayed the severity of his message.

  “Ma’am, there’s been an incident.”

  “What kind of incident?”

  He stared at her, unable or perhaps just unwilling, to put words to the catastrophe.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Talk, to me, Tom. How bad is it?” They had dealt with a host of emergencies during her first two years of presidency, and she had never seen him so shaken.

  ‘There’s been—” his voice faltered. He tried again. ‘There’s been a release of a viral contagion.”

  President Glass moved to the sofa and sat. She struggled to keep her composure.

  “Tell me.”

  Her Chief of Staff sat in a chair across from the couch, as he always did.

  “The incident occurred at the Army’s Biological Warfare Lab in Fort Detrick, Maryland. We don’t have all the details yet,” he said, shaking his head, “but what we do know is that a small amount of a viral agent was inhaled by a researcher.”

  “What exactly was inhaled,?” she asked, horrified by the thought of anyone being exposed to a biological weapon.

  “It’s known as Superpox-99. The symptoms are similar to those of smallpox: blisters, respiratory distress, blindness, limb deformation. It’s as bad as you can imagine.” He looked down to study his hands. ‘Worse than you can imagine.”

  “Why the hell were they working with something like that?” Even as she asked the question, she knew there was little point in pretending righteous outrage. Despite the country’s public signing of the Biological and Toxin Weapons Convention in 1972, advanced research had continued to identify and isolate a superbug that might prove the ultimate deterrent and thus tip the balance of modern warfare.

  Tom understood that she didn’t expect an answer, and so he offered none.

  “How deadly is this thing, Tom? Give me numbers to work with.”

  “As the name implies, if it’s not treated within the first couple of days, about ninety-nine percent of those infected die within two weeks.”

  “My Lord,” she said, covering her mouth. “And it’s contagious?”

  “Yes, Madam President, highly contagious.”

  “Please tell me it requires physical contact,” she pleaded.

  He stared at her and shook his head.

  “It can be passed through airborne transmission. People wouldn’t have to be any closer than we are right now.”

  President Glass noticed that with the addition of each horrific detail, her Chief of Staff’s voice began to sound more and more distant, as if emanating from an old phonograph player.

  “I don’t care what it takes,” she said, “the National Guard, the entire armed forces—you contain this thing Seal off Fort Detrick. Hell, seal off the entire state of Maryland if you need to. Just contain this thing. Do you hear me?”

  Tom Barnes shook his head again.

  “No ma’am.”

  Her face grew splotchy as she could no longer control her nerves.

  “No? Why not?”

  “If we’d known sooner, maybe. Now…” He let the words hang in the air like a promise that had been broken. “Now, it’s too late.”

  “What do you mean ‘if we’d known sooner?’ When did this happen?”

  He pressed back against the chair, hoping to create more distance between them. His eyes filled with tears.

  “Seven days ago.”

  “What!” President Glass leaped to her feet. “Why wasn’t l told?”

  “No one was, Madam President. The researcher didn’t report his infection. In fact, he went to great lengths to hide it.”

  “Are you telling me this was an act of domestic terrorism?”

  He shrugged. “There’s no way to know for sure at this point, but, yes, it’s possible.”

  “No, no, no,” she said, more to herself than to him. “Seven days?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “And the researcher? Where is he now?”

  “He’s in a quarantine unit at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore.”

  “We need to question him, find out where he’s been, who he might have injected.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s unable to speak and is expected to die within a few hours.” The Chief of Staff pulled a glossy photograph from his jacket pocket and passed it to her.

  After a quick glance, President Glass let the photo fall to the floor.

  “He doesn’t even look human.”

  “No ma’am,” he said, picking up the photo.

  She sat for nearly a minute without speaking.

  “What are we going to do, Tom?”

  He shrugged again.

  “What we can. We’ve alerted the CDC, FEMA, Homeland Security, and most other agencies. The Joint Chiefs are taking protective measures to keep our military viable.”

  “And the broader civilian population? Can we provide a vaccination or at least some antiviral treatment?”

  “There is no vaccine, Madam President. The CDC will work around the clock to develop one, but that will take weeks or months. As for the antiviral medicines, the generals are requesting the nation’s full stockpile.”

  “All of it?”

  “Yes ma’am. There’s barely enough to treat a million people. Even if they begin treating every soldier on active or reserve duty, most will still die.”

  “What are you telling me, Tom?” she asked with a nervous smile. “That the world is about to end?”

  Tom Barnes closed his eyes and began to weep.

  “Yes, Madam President. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  Th
e Chief of Staff had told President Glass that her husband and eleven-year-old daughter would be temporarily quarantined in a secure underground facility in Colorado. The president herself would be immediately transported to the Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center in Bluemont, Virginia. Despite everyone’s best efforts, however, there was no guarantee that any of them would survive. Precautions would be taken: protective suits, careful screening of those with whom they came into contact, and immediate dosing with antiviral medicines. But none of that would matter much if they had already been infected. Infection all but ensured death. Ninety-nine percent if left untreated. Slightly better than that if carefully monitored, but still, the odds were far from being in anyone’s favor.

  President Glass wasn’t sure what was eating at her the most, that the world that she knew was ending, or that it was doing so on her watch. She had failed the country. Probably the entire world. If the experts were right, the planet would be systematically wiped clean of nearly all of mankind in a few short weeks. Save for the remotest regions, every corner of the planet would be decimated. Most people would never know how or where it had started, and by the time suspicions could be confirmed, it would be too late.

  Placing her cup of tea on a small table, President Glass did the only thing she could. She dropped to both knees and began to pray.

  Dear God, in this time of great suffering, I ask only one thing. Please spare my little girl.

  CHAPTER

  4

  For three relaxing weeks, Mason enjoyed the isolation of the Blue Ridge Mountains from the comfort of his family’s cabin. He completed a host of fix-it projects, caught more fish than he could eat, and practiced with a 1911 semi-automatic pistol. The handgun, a Wilson Combat Tactical Supergrade in .45 caliber, was arguably one of the finest pistols currently in production. Unfortunately, it was also one of the most expensive. Marshal Leroy Tucker, a friend and avid gun buff, had loaned it to him to try out over his vacation. With more than five hundred rounds passing through the match grade barrel while in his brief care, that was exactly what Mason had done.

  Mason was normally required to carry the Marshal Service’s standard issue Glock .40 because of its ease in handling and high reliability. He was surprised at how walking around with the Supergrade on his hip felt so natural. It was certainly a more beautiful weapon, albeit a bit more complicated to operate in a gunfight. The thrill of carrying such a fine firearm would be short-lived, however, as he had to return it to Marshal Tucker the following Monday.

  It took him nearly a full hour to secure the cabin, locking the windows and doors, hanging the shutters, latching the cabinets to prevent unwanted four-legged visitors, covering the generator and wood pile, and tying down everything outside that he didn’t want blown halfway across the county. He loaded his bags into the back of the truck, including a few days of extra food and drinks that he hadn’t consumed. When everything was loaded and secured, he took one last trip around the cabin to make sure that nothing had been overlooked. Once he deemed the property ready to weather another six months without attention, Mason climbed in his truck and started the seven-hour drive back to his apartment in northern Brunswick.

  The drive from the cabin to his first coffee stop in Boone started on a narrow scenic road that saw very little traffic in the offseason. Cracks and potholes ensured that no one got in too big of a hurry. Giant trees stretched their limbs out over the road, their protective canopies letting in only the occasional slivers of fresh sunlight. Mason gave the drive his full attention because deer, possums, and the occasional flock of wild turkeys were frequent early morning jaywalkers.

  He was surprised to come across an old blue Chevrolet pickup sitting halfway off the small road, its wheels resting in deep ruts left by logging trucks. His first thought was that hikers had braved the early morning chill to see Silver Stretch Falls, a scenic waterfall that spilled into the Watauga Reservoir. He slowed and pulled around the truck, instinctively glancing into the cab as he passed. While he caught only a glimpse, what he saw was something more suited to a drug-infested ghetto than a quiet country road.

  He hit the brakes hard, stopping about ten feet in front of the Chevrolet. Leaving the engine running, he stepped out of his truck and took a look around. Nothing moved, and the only sound was the wind whistling through the trees as if a mountain giant was working out a tune on his favorite harmonica.

  Parting his sport coat so that his badge was visible on his belt, he placed his hand on the grip of the Supergrade and slowly approached the truck. He was careful to maintain a clear view of the windshield and both doors because, despite the finality of what he had seen, it didn’t mean there wasn’t still some danger lurking within. He personally knew several peace officers who had been killed or injured as the result of letting their guard down when approaching a crime scene.

  As he stepped up to the driver’s side window, the carnage inside came into full view. Three bodies lay sprawled across the cloth bucket seats. The driver, a man in his mid-fifties, had a gunshot wound to his right temple. His head lay forward against the steering wheel, a large spray of blood and brains peppering the windshield. To his right sat two women, one about his age and another perhaps thirty years younger. Both were shot through the heart. Three shots: three dead.

  Not wanting to disturb the crime scene, Mason left the vehicle doors closed and worked his way cautiously around the truck, looking in the various windows for clues as to what had happened. He spotted a .38 revolver dangling from the right hand of the lifeless driver. Murder suicide? It certainly appeared so. What it didn’t explain was why the two women hadn’t put up a fight. The shots were precise, and there were dark circular powder burns on their shirts, indicating that they had allowed their attacker to carefully place the pistol against their chests before firing. The evidence pointed to a triple suicide, which was extremely rare.

  The bodies had already passed through rigor mortis and were lying limp on the seats, like noodles that had boiled too long. Soon, gases would build up in their gastrointestinal and respiratory systems, causing skin to swell and blood to spew from their noses. Eventually the skin would rupture along their arms and legs, splitting open to spill their gory contents. The fact that they hadn’t yet started to swell meant that they’d been dead for less than two or three days.

  Mason checked around the pickup to see if there were any footprints to indicate that someone else might have been involved. Everywhere he looked, the ground was undisturbed. For whatever reason, these people had brought about their own bloody end. He released his weapon and walked back to his truck. As he climbed back in, it occurred to him that he now knew the source of the shots he had heard the other night. It had been something much more disturbing than simple midnight poachers.

  He clicked on his two-way police radio, but, surprisingly, only static sounded. He pressed the microphone button and said, “This is Deputy U.S. Marshal Raines requesting assistance, over.”

  There was no reply.

  The radio was a modern wideband digital transceiver, so there was no manual channel control. Everything was automatic. It either worked or it didn’t. His transmission was frequency coded such that any law enforcement officer within range would hear it. The complete lack of activity over the air could only mean that his radio was inoperable.

  A quick check of his cell phone revealed that it too had no service available. That, however, wasn’t particularly surprising given his remote location. Cell coverage was spotty at best in the mountains and could remain that way almost all the way down to Boone. His best bet was probably just to drive to town and contact the local police. The biggest risk was that someone might come upon the crime scene and inadvertently destroy key evidence. Given that it appeared to be a mass suicide, however, even if that happened, it probably wouldn’t change the outcome.

  Just to be on the safe side, he walked around the pickup one final time and snapped a few photos with the camera on his cell phone. Once Mason was sure that he had
enough evidence for local authorities to get to the bottom of what had happened, he tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and continued his drive to Boone.

  For the next ten minutes, Mason didn’t see a single car on the road. That in itself was a little surprising because the area was frequented by outdoorsmen hoping to pull in a few trout as well as young mountain bikers hitting the trails.

  As he came around a long bend that opened up to a popular scenic stop, he discovered two cars involved in a head-on collision. The larger vehicle, a white Lincoln Town Car that looked as if it belonged at the yacht club, clearly got the better of a much smaller Honda compact. The windows were wet with condensation No one stood beside either car; neither were there any police or tow trucks present.

  Mason stopped his truck in the center of the road, blocking off any potential traffic that might approach from behind. A quick check of his cell phone showed that service was still unavailable. He climbed out of his truck and approached the accident with a disconcerting feeling of dèjá vu. Given that the collision must have happened hours earlier, he was surprised that the accident had not yet been discovered and reported to the highway patrol or local authorities.

  The Town Car had only a twisted bumper and broken headlight, and no one was sitting inside. The driver’s door was wide open, suggesting that he may have quickly fled the scene, as was often the case when an accident involved a drunk driver. The Honda had not fared nearly as well. The entire front end was crumpled, and a large puddle of antifreeze and oil had pooled beneath it like blood from an injured warhorse. Two people were sitting in the front seats. Both were badly mangled, and there was no doubt that they were stone-cold dead. From the awkward positioning of the bodies, Mason assumed that they were still in rigor mortis, which aligned well with his conclusion that the accident had occurred sometime in the night.