The agent nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Just in the last couple of days we've noticed not only an increase in the number of people who’ve come back to the hospital and that they’re much sicker than before. Higher fevers, a deep, racking cough, discharge from the nose, and in some cases…cyanosis."
Brenda took it all in without reaction, writing furiously on her notepad. "Any increase in fatalities?" she asked without looking up.
She could hear the sadness in the agent's voice. "Yes, ma'am. We had a handful of people pass in the time I’ve been here. But in the last 48 hours, we’ve had 28 deaths. Brikston only has a couple thousand people. I'd say there's only a couple hundred folks left standing on their feet at this point. Almost every doctor and nurse we had is sick and most probably won't make it through the night."
Brenda looked up from her notes and regarded the man on the screen with a clinical stare. Other than the beating he’d taken, the agent seemed fine. "You seem to be in fairly good health. How are you feeling?"
The agent cleared his throat and glanced at Director Stylau. “I’ve felt worse.”
Brenda squinted critically at the man on the screen. “Did you get sick during The Pandemic?”
“Yes, ma’am, I got it pretty bad—I barely survived. I figure that gives me some sort of immunity against this… Right?" He looked at Director Stylau again.
"What happened to your face, son?" asked the President.
"After we, ah, took care of the NKor sleeper, one of the people I trusted turned on me."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Brenda said.
The agent shrugged. "This flu, it'll do things to you ma'am. This is like the early days of the Blue Flu.” He looked off-camera. “Brikston's turning into a real ghost town. Can't find too many people walking the streets anymore. No food on the shelves, no restaurants open…”
“Mr. President, is there anything we can do to help those poor people?” asked the Secretary of State.
“With all due respect, sir, those that’re too sick to get out of bed better start making peace with the Lord…” The agent looked genuinely upset.
Brenda nodded. “He’s right.” Everyone turned away from the screen to look at her and she felt her breath catch in her throat. “If they don't have anybody to take care of them, they’ll probably starve to death over the next week. It’s the same pattern from ten years ago.”
"My God," said the President, “this is terrible.“
Brenda cleared her throat. "Sir, as much as I wish I could tell you otherwise, it’s going to get worse. I feel I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t explain to you the danger we face at this point." She tried to ignore the faces watching her. “What he’s describing to us right now is a classic antigen drift scenario. Things will get exponentially worse if we see an antigen shift."
"An antigen shift?" asked the President. “Like during The Pandemic?”
Brenda nodded. “Sort of. In a shift scenario, the virus mutates so much that the body can't recognize it as a threat it’s encountered before. In effect, the immune system becomes completely exposed and vulnerable. If, by some lucky happenstance, the person is able to survive and fight off the virus, those genetic markers would then be tagged and remembered. But…as we saw with the Great Pandemic, it underwent a series of significant drifts and was enough to nearly depopulate entire countries without ever progressing to a true shift.”
“My God," whispered President Harris again. "Is there any way we can predict—”
“I'm afraid not, sir.” Brenda looked at the pen in her hands and felt useless. All she could do was track the deaths and warn of more to come. She needed Boatner’s data and experience. She needed Huntley’s blood. She needed time. "Perhaps, if we still had satellite communications, personnel in the field in every city in the country, doctors reporting to us as they discovered new cases, all of the data pouring into the CDC…" Brenda grew quiet as she realized the impossibility of that statement ever happening again in their lifetimes. The CDC and most of Atlanta was gone, just a giant hole in the ground tended by the ghosts of hundreds of thousands of innocent victims. Brenda shook that thought off—she had more immediate things to worry about.
"I wouldn't be able to predict when a shift occurs—if it occurs—and I must emphasize the if here, sir. Viruses are incredibly hard to predict.”
The President removed his glasses. He suddenly looked twenty years older. “How fatal is this strain, Major? What are we looking at?”
Brenda sighed. "Exponential numbers, sir. The way this bug has been modified…if it mutates on its own before it burns itself out, we could be looking at anything from the Great Pandemic to a full blown ELE.”
“ELE?” asked Director Vacher. She glanced at the President. “I don’t think we need to go that far, sir…”
"This is the damn Pandemic all over again," muttered Admiral Bennet. "Biblical end times, part two."
“I’m sorry, ‘Elle’?” asked Secretary Thaler. “Mr. President, we can’t base national policy on guesses and what if’s—”
“Sam, she’s talking about an Extinction Level Event,” said the Director Stylau. “She’s not wrong, you know.”
The only sound Brenda heard was the beating of her own heart and the gentle hiss of the circulated air from the ceiling vent. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but the best I can do is give you an educated guess on when a shift occurs and where. We would look for sudden, sharp, high rates of death."
"Like what we’re seeing in Brikston?" asked the agent.
Brenda tilted her head. "Sort of. You're seeing a sharp increase in the number of deaths—28 out of a few thousand is a pretty significant number in 48 hours. However, I’m talking something on the order of a few hundred in 48 hours."
"Jesus," muttered Admiral Bennet. He looked at the other Chiefs of Staff. "Something like that hits just one of our bases…"
Director Stylau bestirred himself and cleared his throat. “Mr. President, I think it's time to discuss other options.”
President Harris turned to regard the older man. "What are you suggesting, Adrian?”
"It may be time to implement the Atlas Protocol."
Brenda watched as Admiral Bennet paled. "Mr. President,” he said, his voice urgent, "I don't believe we should be having this discussion in front of unauthorized personnel."
President Harris glanced around the room. “Yes” he said, a fair amount of uncertainty in his voice, "I suppose you're right." He stood. Everyone around the conference table got to their feet, gathering papers and coffee cups.
"Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll reconvene after lunch, starting with afternoon status updates from the department heads." The President sat back down, meeting adjourned.
Brenda turned and glanced at Director Stylau as she gathered her papers. She filed out behind the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security and was two paces beyond the door when she thought of one final question.
The Marine guard stepped in front of her and blocked her path. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Your presence is no longer requested; you should return to your duties.”
When she stared blankly at his face and didn’t move, his eyes narrowed. “Please step back, ma’am.” It wasn’t a request.
Brenda blinked in surprise at the corporal "Oh–of course," she said. "Thank you.”
She walked down the hallway with a nervous glance over her shoulder. Thank you? Really? The Marine returned to his at ease position, arms behind his back, eyes staring straight ahead.
Wonder what the Atlas Protocol is…
The voice of one of her newly appointed lab assistants rang out at the far end of the corridor. She paused and watched as Lieutenant Digen ran forward, white lab coat flapping against his back.
"Major Alston—thank God your briefing’s over!"
"Why? What is it? Have we lost another patient?" she asked, one hand reaching out to grab Digen’s arm. She didn't know if it was to steady him or herself. Now what?
"They're here�
��he just landed,” Digen said.
“Who's here? I don't understand…"
"Boatner!" he said in exasperation. "They’ve brought Dr. Boatner. They just landed!"
CHAPTER 18
I ASSURE YOU, MY lord, things are going even better than I had planned. I—"
The imposing image of Alfred, Lord Stirling frowned. “You do not seem to understand, Reginald,” he said scornfully. “It is precisely your assurance that has us vexed.”
Reginald leaned back in his chair and stared at the aristocrat on the screen. "My assurance, Lord Stirling," he said quietly, "should be more than adequate to assuage your fears. I've told you what this plan entails. I have delivered my part of the plan. I have done more than you have asked and—I daresay—I have done so with such style that the Americans are still clueless."
"Yes, that is another matter we need to discuss—" said Jean-Claude Legrand, the Frenchman.
"Discuss?" asked Reginald.
“Oui—the means with which you are achieving the Council's goals are too flamboyant.”
Anger flashed inside Reginald but he let nothing show on the surface. "I admit, orchestrating a nuclear strike on American soil may be construed as flamboyant,” he said as he stared at the individual screens depicting the faces of the Council. Most of them were wrinkled, stoic, and impassive. The only women on the Council, one old, one young, stared at him with hawk-like intensity.
“However, the flamboyance of my methods are precisely why they are working. The scale of an attack on so many fronts—medical, economic, political—the Americans aren’t even considering the idea that one group could be behind it all,” Reginald said.
“We’re all quite aware of the fact that the Americans turned the tide against us in World War I,” said Legrand.
“And that they botched our designs for the Cold War,” added Lord Stirling. “Be that as it may—nuclear weapons? You may go too far—”
“We’re in agreement then,” Reginald said, arms wide, “that for our Cause to prevail, the United States must be so totally consumed by internal conflict they will be unable to render aid to the Pretender.” Reginald watched the screens arrayed in front of him. Not a single blink.
He pressed on: “I own the President—he does what I tell him and I tell him to do the will of this Council." He leaned toward the camera on his desk. “The pieces have been put into play—our time has finally arrived.”
Shunsuke Murata—a long-retired electronics mogul—cleared his throat. “Your argument is persuasive,” Murata said quietly in his cultured, heavily-accented voice. “Alas, it is irrelevant."
Reginald leaned back from the camera. "Irrelevant? We have crippled the infrastructure of the United States in preparation for the virus unleashed by—"
“What you fail to understand,” began Murata-san in a patient tone, “is that drastic measures like this only lead to entanglements we can ill-afford. The United Nations will have to investigate the use of—”
“I fear you have too little faith in the loyalty of our assets within the United Nations,” soothed Reginald.
“You may have too much,” replied Murata.
Reginald continued, ignoring the comment. “Lord Stirling has more than enough influence with the IAEA to delay any in-depth investigation of the Atlanta strike. By the time they begin to sniff around, His Majesty shall be safely ensconced on the throne of Great Britain and we will be well on our way to recovery from the Cleansing.”
Despite their fixation on the aftermath in Atlanta, Reginald knew precisely why the Council had summoned him on such short notice: the mutated bio-weapon flu had crossed the Atlantic. He glanced down at a stack of fresh dispatches. German soldiers retreating from Boston had brought the virus back to Berlin.
“If you will only—” he began.
"Damarinasai!”
Reginald blinked in surprise and stared at the monitor of the infuriated Japanese statesmen. You will soon rue the day you order me to shut up, old man. Murata’s face remained impassive, yet the expression in his eyes and the tone of his voice when he barked that single word indicated he believed himself to be in charge. A single arched brow dared Reginald to question his authority.
Reginald’s anger flared anew and he tamped it down ruthlessly to maintain his poise. He had not risen through the ranks and outshone his father to take the family seat on the Council without mastering self-control.
"It is a grave insult to speak when your superiors are speaking."
"Enough of this!” barked the stern-faced man on the largest screen, front and center in the bank of Reginald’s displays. The exiled King—known among the Council and most of the powers behind the scenes in Europe as His Majesty King Charles James Henry Scott Stuart-Monmouth. He was the last scion of the line of Stuart kings who had once ruled Great Britain.
Reginald nodded in immediate submission to the King’s voice and thought for a moment how strikingly similar to his distant regal ancestor, Charles II, this current exiled monarch appeared. He had a large nose, sad, almost bulbous eyes, and a square forehead. The dark hair he’d worn long in his youth had been replaced with a statesmanlike style in steel-gray. The current King Charles was the last in a long line descended from the 1st Duke of Monmouth—himself the bastard son of Charles II and one of his many mistresses.
The glowering face on the screen belonged to a cultured man of Europe who was inconceivably wealthy. He moved in the highest circles in Europe and was a member of more secret societies than Reginald likely knew existed. His family had chaired the Council since its inception and ruled over its domain with an iron fist. He owned several major international conglomerates outright. During the chaos of the Aftermath, he had managed to expand his commercial empire tenfold. Charles Stuart-Monmouth was not a man to be taken lightly. When he ordered silence, even the Council obeyed.
Reginald had always believed in the old adage that it was better to retreat and live to fight another day. He struck a formal bow and acquiesced immediately to the King’s wishes.
"This bickering and arguing amongst ourselves will get us nowhere and lead only to divisiveness and weakness. We are so very close to realizing our ultimate goals—now is not the time to claw at each others’ throats.”
The iron countenance of the King shifted in an instant to the concerned monarch—a worried father of a nation. “My friends, we are on the cusp of all that we have sought our entire lives and the lives of those before us, may they rest in peace.” He stared off into the distance, absently fingering the signet ring of Charles II.
“We are so close to achieving our goal. We simply cannot afford this foolishness."
The clipped British accent and well-chosen words stung more than any physical rebuke. Reginald felt warmth rise up his neck.
"Of course, Majesty," he said. As he dipped his head, he glanced out the corner of his eye and saw the old samurai break his stoic countenance with a slight smile.
You’re on my list, old man.
The King glanced off screen. Reginald idly wondered where the King currently held court. The Windsors had known about the Monmouth family’s existence for hundreds of years and had come close more than a few times of snuffing out the troublesome line of Stuarts. The assassins of MI6 were some of the best in the world—they never rested and neither could the King. Thus, His Highness continually moved from property to property, all heavily guarded by the best mercenaries and ex-special forces soldiers money could buy.
“We will cement our grip on global power with help of events that are unfolding in the not-so United States. We are after all, at a crossroads," he said, one articulate eyebrow perfectly arched. The King was nothing if not charismatic.
Reginald wondered what Great Britain would look like, how efficient and prosperous it might be if King Charles IV sat on the throne instead of the current Usurper. He wondered what course history might have taken had the sons of Charles II held the throne over the past few centuries. Would any of them even be here now? The Un
ited States would undoubtedly not even exist. The Stuarts couldn’t possibly have bungled the Revolution any worse than the Hanoverian Windsors.
There was an interesting thought: no United States. Reginald’s family might still be alive today—his older brother William would still be jet-setting across the Continent, enjoying his freedom before he was welcomed into the Council. Reginald thought about the mansions, the people he employed, his personal wealth—all of it came to him unexpectedly at the expense of his family, thanks to the government of the United States.
Reginald hid a frown. U.S. intelligence had decided that Archibald Tillcott, 8th Earl of Dunkeith, had significant ties to terrorist organizations and needed to be arrested. Reginald ground his teeth. They had succeeded in eliminating a terrorist threat in France but had killed his father in the process before he could be detained. His mother overdosed on barbiturates shortly thereafter. The medical examiner had ruled her death accidental but Reginald had always suspected her shame at her husband’s actions had been too much to bear. The international press had hailed the mission as a resounding success, ignoring the fact that the United States had eviscerated his family and left him an orphan.
This had been both a blessing and a curse—as second son, Reginald’s brother had been groomed to follow in his father’s footsteps. George was supposed to be the one to join the Council and inherit the family fortune. At first Reginald had raged against the injustice and callousness with which his family had been destroyed, but as time went on and he grew accustomed to his new position, Reginald began to accept what fate had handed him.
The Earls of Dunkeith had been staunch supporters of the Stuarts for centuries. They’d remained loyal to the true heirs of Charles II at the cost of life and liberty for a dozen generations. Now all that remained of the proud bloodline was Reginald. He promised himself as soon as the Cleansing was over, he’d get about finding a suitable mate—perhaps a few concubines as well—and ensure the family continued into the next generation.
The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga Page 21
