The Pandemic Sequence (Book 2): The Tilian Effect

by Tom Calen

  Stepping back into the living room, Senora Sardina’s face had lost some of its hardness. Her stare would still freeze a stranger to the bone, but Michelle could see the subtle softening of the woman’s features.

  “Nunca confiar en que el gobierno!” she spat with distaste. Michelle’s Spanish was strong enough to understand what the matronly woman had said. Never trust the government! Switching to English, though more broken than Tumelo’s speech, the woman stepped to Michelle and placed a calloused hand on the girl’s cheek. “You no worry, mija. We find a boat. Then you see to your friend, and you help him.”

  Michelle’s reaction only rivaled Tumelo’s own as he looked at his wife in stunned awe. The couple conversed in Spanish, speaking too quickly for Michelle to catch more than a few snippets. Abruptly, Tumelo kissed his wife on the cheek and took his coat from the hook by the door and left. From what she did catch, Michelle understood that Tumelo went to find a man named Mateo, who apparently owned a boat.

  While they waited for him to return, Senora Sardina instructed Michelle to remove the wrapping around her ankle. With deft and strong hands, the woman began to feel the injury before remarking that it was in fact a sprain, and no bones were broken. She then set two dishpans, both several inches deep, in front of her. The left pan held iced water, while the other was filled with water just hot enough to stand without pain. Michelle was instructed to place her injured ankle in one and trace the alphabet with her foot. The chill of the water, forced a gasp from Michelle, but she followed the woman’s directions. When she reached Z, she then placed her foot into the second pan. Though at first the swelling made it difficult to move her foot, after several repetitions, the exercise became easier. After thirty minutes, she could already see a noticeable reduction in the size of her ankle and foot. With the water treatment completed, Senora Sardina wrapped a long bandage around the dried injury.

  “Gracias, Senora,” Michelle offered.

  The older woman’s eyes closed softly and she returned Michelle’s thanks with a congenial nod of her head. “Itza,” she said then. “Itza for Maritza, my name.”

  Overwhelmed with sentiment, Michelle replied, “Gracias, Itza.” She knew the woman understood that the words of gratitude were for more than the sprained ankle home remedy.

  Once the procedure was over, she looked to Erik and Andrew only to find them both fast asleep, Erik on the couch and Andrew slumped awkwardly in a formal wing-back armchair. Seeing them made Michelle realize that she had in fact been fighting off exhaustion for over half a day. With the throbbing of her ankle slowly abating, and her stomach stuffed with thick slices of toast and jam, Michelle rested her head against the back of the chair and let her eyes close. Just for a minute, she told herself.

  --

  That minute grew to hours, and when she woke up she found that not only had Tumelo returned with Mateo in tow, but Mike had also reached the house after his meeting with Dr. Marena. Everyone had gathered in the kitchen and was talking in hushed tones to allow her to continue sleeping. Wrapping up in the blanket she assumed Senora Sardina—Itza—had placed on her, Michelle rose from the chair and walked to the kitchen. As she did, she tested her ankle by putting gentle weight on it. To her joy, the injury did not flare in pain as it had earlier.

  Heads turned as she entered the kitchen and Andrew quickly offered her his chair. Accepting it, she sat down as Tumelo made introductions.

  “Senorita Michelle, this is Mateo. He will be carrying you to America,” Tumelo informed her.

  “Well, my boat will do the carrying,” the man said with a smile. Michelle figured him to be of an age with herself, maybe a year or two more, though certainly not beyond thirty. By his speech, she realized he was American, though the dark brown loose curls of his hair and tanned skin could have easily marked him as Cuban. His smile was bright, as were his blue eyes, and both put her at immediate ease. “And, it’s Matt. Matt Locke.”

  “Michelle Lafkin,” she told him as they shook hands. Turning to Mike, she asked, “How did it go with Marena?”

  Her former teacher detailed the encounter, and shared his visible anger when he told her that Marena had been part of the Ira Project from its inception. The news of the evolved Tils did not shock her after seeing them firsthand the night before. Michelle did gape openly at the news that Lisa Velazquez also worked with the Project.

  “I was so angry with him that I had forgotten to ask about Paul’s mission,” Mike explained. “So, for him to offer it up… well, I believe he’s telling the truth.”

  Nodding wordlessly, Michelle realized that she had been so preoccupied with Duncan and the mysterious Ira Project that she had not given much thought to whom he had been speaking with that night in the library. She did not need Mike’s assurance of the doctor’s honesty, the knowledge of the second speaker’s identity was correct the moment Mike told her. In hindsight, she could hear Lisa’s manner of speech in the hushed tones of the shadowed figure on the balcony.

  “So, what’s the plan?” she asked, mostly to take her mind from Lisa’s past and future betrayals.

  Mike motioned her to the map on the table. “Matt can get us as far as the southern tip of Florida. He’s more familiar with the route to Miami, but I am not risking running into the same group that tried to keep us from the rescue boat.”

  Michelle stole a glance at him while he talked. A member of the militia that had attacked them on the day of the rescue had shot Mike, nearly killing him. By the tightness of his eyes she could see that he was struggling with simply speaking of the incident. What will happen when we are back there? How will he manage? Selfishly, she prayed. Just hold out until we find Paul, Mike.

  “Which means we’ll make land on the west side of the peninsula,” he continued. “Erik spoke with Paul before he left, and from what Erik can remember—” Because he was drunk, Michelle thought sourly. “—the mission was going to start in Texas and work its way to Louisiana, which is where Fort Polk is.”

  “Fort Polk?” Michelle asked.

  “Right, Fort Polk is where the Ira Project was based. Marena believed it was the only facility where work on the virus was conducted. Which means Lisa’s target is likely at that base.”

  It’s going to take time to think of her as the enemy, Michelle told herself. God, I asked her to be my maid of honor!

  “Once we hit Florida, we make a straight run to the base. Only problem is, from what Erik remembers, Fort Polk is not on the mission specs, but three other neighboring Louisiana cities are.”

  “So, we don’t know when she’ll make her move?” Michelle asked. It was easier to use the pronoun than her friend’s name.

  “Exactly,” Mike affirmed.

  “So, when do we leave?” she said with a sarcastic joviality.

  “Tonight,” he replied. His tone, the meeting, their situation, all of it worked to transport Michelle back seven years in time, to a small faculty room where the same man had once decided a similar fate. Please let him be the same man, her mind whispered.

  --

  “The damn son of a bitch!” General Reed cursed as he slammed the door to his office, shaking the varied frames that hung on the wall. He usually kept a tight grip on his temper, but once his eyes had fallen on the report, the heat in his veins neared boiling. And Councilor Duncan’s too-practiced attempts to soothe his anger had only increased it. Pacing quickly around his office, Reed struggled to regain a semblance of serenity. Almost involuntarily, his hands clenched and loosed in quick succession as he stomped from one end of the room to the other. The problem had begun some thirty minutes earlier when the general first stormed into Duncan’s plush office.

  “Where in the hell do you get the authority to reassign my men without my knowledge?” Reed began, before he caught the startled faces turning towards him. He had not thought to check if the councilor was alone, but then his anger was such that it allowed for very little thought at all.

  With the barest slip in his controlled demeanor, Dunca
n addressed the two sitting opposite him across the desk. “If you will excuse me, please, we will continue this meeting later. I must speak with General Reed.” Needing little motivation, the two people hastily grabbed their paperwork before scurrying out of the office.

  “The door, please,” Duncan called after them, a smile frozen on his face. Not waiting for the sound of it closing, Reed repeated his initial statement.

  “General Reed, I understand your dissatisfaction. Time was of the essence, and regrettably certain protocols were forced to be overlooked. I apologize, as your rank of Lieutenant General certainly deserves greater respect than was shown.”

  “Protocols my ass, Duncan. You run rip-shod over everyone in this place,” Reed countered. He knew that whatever his rank, Duncan disliked showing respect to any he considered beneath him. “But, when you start giving orders to my men, you have crossed the damn line! What was so time sensitive that I did not get informed?”

  “Unfortunately, General, that information is classified to the Council,” Duncan replied smoothly. Reed thought he could almost see the hint of a smirk on the man’s face. He knew Duncan’s reputation for maneuvering and politicking. Reed silently cautioned himself to tread carefully, even with his rage still fueling him.

  “Classified?”

  “I’m afraid so, General. I can assure you, however, that as soon as the situation has been dealt with, your men can resume their normal routine.”

  Reed paused for a moment. Even with the unexpected visit and outburst, Duncan maintained his remarkable calm and poise. He understood that if he were going to get anywhere with the man, brute force might be too easily deflected. Use a razor, not an ax, he told himself.

  “Very well, Councilor.” he began. “I will submit the paperwork to the Council for the temporary reassignment of however many troops you need.” Turning back to the door, Reed held his breath as he began to exit the office. Thinking he had failed to catch the other man in a snare, he was almost through the doorway when Duncan called after him.

  “General Reed, a moment before you go.”

  Returning to the center of the office, he stood patiently waiting for the councilor to speak.

  “As I have told you, the operation to which your men have been assigned is classified. The Council believes, and I myself agree, that in these matters documentation would only serve to create unnecessary concern, even panic, if the general public should learn of what we do,” Duncan explained, though the smile that once broke across his face was most noticeably absent.

  “And what exactly is it that we do, Councilor?” Reed asked rhetorically. “Ah, right, that’s classified. Problem here is, Councilor, so much of what we do is classified, classified even from me, that I am not sure how fully secure the island is.”

  “General Reed, I can assure you that the Council does not doubt your ability, nor your results, in securing and protecting this island. We would not have granted you full authority over the island’s security if there were such doubts.”

  Reed forced his own face to remain still, though it yearned to grin. “Full authority, yet my men are involved in an operation I have no knowledge of. Full authority, yet there is a whole section of the island closed off to me.” He did not need to say Guantanamo Bay for Duncan to understand his meaning. Before the councilor could speak, Reed pushed ahead and let the snare close. “If it is full authority, then I will conduct a tour of the Gitmo facility in order to better understand the security needs of the island. If the Council objects, they have until tomorrow morning.”

  Turning on his heel, he left the office with as steady a pace as his emotions had allowed. Steady, but with enough subtle haste to be beyond earshot should Duncan decide to recall him. The short distance to his own office had been almost intolerable as the reined-in anger stretched the limits of his restraint. Only upon ensconcing himself in his own office, did Reed finally let his irritation storm.

  From a crystal decanter on the far bookshelf, he poured himself a generous amount of whiskey before lowering himself into the leather armchair he used for reading. The first swallow burned slightly, but was quickly followed by relaxing warmth that spread from his stomach outward to the tips of his toes and fingers. Breathing deeply, he turned his mind to Duncan’s potential next move. He doubted that the Council had any knowledge of the reassignment of his men. Duncan had used his vast intellectual prowess to gain considerable leverage over the other Councilors.

  Those as highly placed as Reed knew that Duncan was the Council in all but name. Even as that may be, he surmised and hoped. The Council would have no grounds to refuse a tour of Gitmo. Doubting Duncan would even take the situation to the Council, he knew that if he was prevented from entering the facility tomorrow, it would be solely on the wishes of Duncan. If that’s the case… Reed thought. Well, if that’s the case, then I’ll go in by force, expose whatever he has going on in there, and…. He knew where that would lead. And potentially destroy the fragile stability we have here.

  Too long alone with his somber thoughts, he finished his drink, placed several files into his briefcase, and made his way outside the building. As expected, and as it had been every day since the Council was established, a car and driver waited to deliver him to his home. The young man saluted as he held the door to the black sedan, but Reed simply returned it with a nod as he entered the rear seat. Though the distance was short, he was forced to admit he was grateful for the chauffeur. Not as young as I need to be, he mused.

  Once in his home, he climbed the wide marble staircase to the master bedroom suite. Few houses in New Cuba rivaled the opulence of his, save for the homes of the Councilors. Reed had no need for the decadence, in fact preferring more spartan furnishings. The Council had insisted, however, that the head of the island’s military be housed in a distinctive, and thereby overly-expensive, home.

  Opening the ornate double doors leading into the bedroom, Reed turned on the lights as he walked over to the stand mirror, undoing his tie mid-stride. For a brief second he glanced at his reflection, which seemed to underscore that he was truly no longer as young as he needed to be, before noticing the shadowed reflection in the mirror’s right corner. Acceptance followed closely on the heels of surprise as he turned to face the intruder across the room.

  “You came to do it yourself?” Reed asked as his eyes took in the silenced firearm pointed at him.

  “A Lieutenant General deserves a certain amount of respect,” sneered the cool voice with its Cajun accent.

  Never did like Cajun food, Reed thought, surprised that his last living thought would have been so trivial. He had no time for another, though, before the muzzle flashed and his body slumped to the ground.

  Chapter Sixteen

  He could not recall how long his hands had been sorting the rubble, lifting collapsed portions of floor and ceiling, digging through inches-thick mounds of ash. Whatever the duration, it had been long enough for his hands to once again feel pain. Paul’s flesh had numbed at the first signs of smoke and fire. At the start, Hicks had tried to pull him from his crazed exploration of the debris, but he had shrugged free of the man. With his body now near collapse, he examined the tattered remains of his hands. The skin of each was a gruesome blend of burns and soot, dried blood and fresh. A nail on his left hand had ripped away from the flesh, though he had no memory of when or how it had occurred.

  Exploiting his current stillness and exhaustion, Hicks and Nieves placed firm hands on his arms and steered he away from the hotel’s ruins. Both his mind and body were fatigued to the point where Paul did not—could not—stop them. Once back inside the remaining Stryker, he let Hicks clean and bandage his hands.

  “You’ve made a mess of these,” the man growled through lips that clenched a needle. After much of the grime and blood had been washed clean, Hicks mercilessly set to stitching the three deepest cuts. Paul silently wished for the numbness of his body to return as he grit his teeth and held back a wince each time the needle pressed through his
skin. While Hicks worked, Paul let his eyes examine the men in his company. Though he was by far in the worst condition, it seemed the others had also been searching through the rubble.

  Nieves’ face was covered in streaks of black from where he had wiped away sweat. Scott Barcolm and Martin West, both early members of the rescue team, were equally caked in sweat and ash. To Paul’s surprise, even Hicks showed signs of searching, his dark clothing torn in several places, revealing numerous shallow cuts.

  Once the last of the bandages was wound around his hands, Hicks warned, or threatened as Paul heard it. “Don’t go digging back into that crap out there. Those cuts were almost to bone and without the Med Stryker we don’t have much to treat an infection. The stitches ain’t pretty, but they’ll hold long enough to heal unless you do something stupid.”

  As the man moved to the rear of the vehicle, Paul muttered a word of thanks, but the sentiment was fouled by feeling like a scolded child. Turning the subject, he asked them all, “What did you find?”

  Nieves answered first, though the head shaking of the others told Paul their results were the same. “No survivors. They moved with heavy artillery, and they did it fast. Our people maybe had minutes to react. The two Strykers in the river were probably the first and only ones in the action. The rest most likely remained unmanned.”

  “Which means it was well planned,” Paul interjected.

  “No doubt. They knew what we had, they knew how to get in close, and they knew they had to strike fast,” Nieves agreed.

  “And… the women?” Paul asked, though he was sure his companions knew which woman in particular he meant.

  “Accounted for. With the exception of Lisa. I think they were mostly after weaponry.”

  From the back, Hicks joined the conversation. “You think? Both tanks, two anti-tank missile trucks, the Med-Evac. The only two they hit was the Mobile Gun System and an Infantry Carrier. Man, if they weren’t armed before, they sure as hell are now.”