The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  When the door closed behind her, he sighed and forced himself to stare at a wall with a blank expression on his face. As if he were still in a drug–induced stupor. Must keep the show going, Reginald is watching…

  He ruminated on how he could strike back at Reginald while he observed the room. No matter which angle he came at the problem, it always ended with the same resolution. Reginald would find out and Jayne or someone just like her would slip into his office and put a bullet in his head.

  He frowned. Maybe that's what I deserve? Hundreds of thousands of innocent people died in Atlanta because I gave my codes to Reginald. Doesn't that deserve some punishment? Doesn't that warrant death? Yet, a small voice of resistance replied in the back of his mind: Doesn't that warrant at least an attempt at redemption?

  He sighed again. In the end it didn't matter. He was a dead man and he knew it. When his usefulness ceased to please Reginald or when he tipped off Jayne at some point, they would come for him. He doubted they would have the courage to do it to his face. Someone would slip him a needle that he couldn't feel in the middle of the night—maybe Jayne herself—and he would never wake again. He’d become just a sad footnote in American history, if America even survived what Reginald had planned.

  An iron resolution took hold of his soul and refused to release him. He shook his head. No, I have to do something. I can't sit back and wait to die. It doesn't matter what happens to me, as long as I can stop them.

  Newfound courage filled his body with a strength he hadn't felt since before election night. He had accepted his fate and it felt good.

  He put Jayne's secret phone in the top desk drawer and reached for the phone on top of the desk. He pushed the intercom button and called out "Alice, please cancel my afternoon appointments and inform the Joint Chiefs we will not be having a briefing this afternoon." He tried to put as much confidence as possible into his voice.

  "Are you sure? Sir?"

  He was positive that Alice worked for Reginald. He was also sure that no matter what he did, Reginald was going to find out. "Absolutely," he lied. "I'm going to take a walking tour—check in with the troops."

  "Of course, sir," Alice’s voice replied, uncertainty dripping off every word. "I'll inform the Joint Chiefs, Mr. President.”

  "Thank you," Barron said and released the intercom button.

  There, now he had time to think. Now he had time to plan. The hairs lifted on the back of his neck as he realized he was being watched. He opened the drawer, reached in to grab Jayne’s cell phone, then shut it abruptly, his hand empty. He drummed his fingers on the desk a moment, trying to decide if he could actually go through with his new plan.

  After a moment, he set his jaw and opened the drawer again, ignoring the clammy sensation from his chest and picked up Jayne’s phone. He flipped open the outdated phone and looked through its contacts. Perhaps Reginald isn’t aware of this phone, after all.

  The contact list included the heads-of-state of most of the NATO member nations, high-ranking members of Congress, himself—of course—Presidents Denton and Harris, and a handful of Europeans with names he did not recognize. One of them had a note that said ‘Council’.

  Council? Council of what?

  The more he played with her phone, the more he felt it was a trap. Analysis paralysis set in. If he didn't use the phone? Would Jayne be monitoring it—would she know? What signal would that send? And if he did use the phone? Reginald surely had it tapped—he could not believe that even someone Reginald trusted as much as Jayne would be allowed to freely communicate with the enemy…

  Did that make him an enemy now?

  Barron closed the phone and put it back in the desk. He felt a headache coming on and rubbed his head—it felt like the beginnings of a monster hangover. He could feel it approach through the fog of his mind. Whatever drugs Jayne fed him on a daily basis, the aftereffects were lingering and sometimes painful.

  He stood, walked across the room, and opened a mini-fridge emblazoned with the Presidential Seal. The cool, bottled water helped clear the fog from his mind. His head still ached, but he figured he could find some aspirin somewhere. His physical problems aside, he had bigger fish to fry.

  Barron stood there, staring at his desk, the bottle halfway to his lips when it hit him. A way to contact Harris. A way to warn them of the mission that Reginald was planning. A way to throw a monkey wrench in all of Reginald's plans and quite possibly bring the entire operation to a screeching halt. A way to achieve vengeance.

  And it all hinged on his authorization code. The same random string of numbers and letters that had allowed Reginald access to the nuclear submarine and America's defense network. The same code that had brought so much death and destruction into the world, might now be used for retribution.

  A smile spread across his mouth. He would offer his code to Harris and use it as proof of his good intentions.

  A frown creased his face. But how to get a message out? He looked around the Bunker’s Oval Office. A windowless box—the largest office in the underground complex, to be sure, but still little more than a gilded cage. He glanced at the ceiling and for the first time understood that he was six floors underground. The crushing weight of all that dirt and concrete above him sent a trembling ripple of claustrophobic fear down the backs of his legs.

  His office was a prison. No—a tomb. Barron frowned and took another drink. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage. He folded his arms around the water bottle and paced the room thinking.

  He had been briefed by the Secret Service when first elected on the survivability of the White House Bunker. It was stocked with more than a year's worth of food for a hundred people. There were plenty of supplies. But, the area immediately surrounding the White House remained under strict quarantine from the Secret Service and Capitol Police—two agencies fiercely loyal to the office of the President.

  The Secret Service escorted people in and out of the Bunker whenever a document needed to be retrieved from the surface or a satellite link needed to be repaired. There may be a way to get a message to Harris without Reginald knowing…

  A soft tap at the door interrupted his thoughts. A young agent poked his head in the door. The President cursed himself for being unable to remember the man's name. He had been with them since day one of the campaign. Before he’d ever met Jayne, before anything seemed abnormal.

  It was a risk, but no greater and possibly a lot less than just picking up Jayne's phone—or even his own phone—and making a call. To Colorado.

  The man's name suddenly hit him. "James," the President said.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. President. Just checking in. Is there anything you need, sir? Would you like some lunch?"

  “Didn’t you tell me that your father was in the Army?"

  The young man smiled. "Yes, sir, I did. That’s kind of you to remember, sir."

  Barron smiled. "Tell me again about your family’s service to the nation? It’s been a long morning and I need to decompress.”

  James looked over his shoulder and nodded at his partner. The other agent stood at ease and placed his back to the wall on the outside of the door. James shut the door behind him. "Well, sir my family has fought in every American war going back to French and Indian War. 1760s, I think.”

  The pride in his voice was evident and unmistakable.

  Barron smiled as James rattled off facts and history to answer the questions asked of him. Barron had found his carrier pigeon.

  He may not be loyal to me personally, but loyalty to America is in his blood.

  CHAPTER 27

  Denver, Colorado.

  Emergency National Reserve Operations Center.

  The Cave.

  THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT LOOKED up from her clipboard. “Excuse me, sir?”

  Boatner, the only one not wearing a biohazard suit, sighed. “Susan, please help Mr. Huntley get out of that suit.”

  Susan turned to look at another doctor Chad had never seen before wearing a blue bio
hazard suit. She didn’t look very comfortable with the idea of letting him out, either, but she nodded anyway. “Go ahead, lieutenant.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” was the muffled response.

  Chad felt the cool air kiss his face as his bubble-helmet was removed. He couldn’t help but smile. God, but it felt good to get out of that thing. He figured there must be at least a quart of sweat in his suit.

  “It’s good to see you too, Chad,” said Boatner. “May I introduce Major Brenda Alston?” he said, gesturing toward the woman in the blue biohazard suit.

  “Call me Brenda,” she said, reaching out a gloved hand.

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Chad said as he shook hands. He paused, still holding her hand. “You aren’t Captain Alston’s sister, are you?” He saw by the look on her face his words hit home. “Ma’am, I’m so sorry. He saved my life more than once—I thought you were in Los Angeles?”

  She tried to smile but it looked broken. “Yes, I was.” She glanced at Boatner. “Don’t worry about Derek—now that he’s here, we’re going to do everything we can for him.” She looked back to her clipboard quickly. “Were you hurt in the crash?” she asked, not meeting his eyes.

  Chad understood—he’d seen that reaction before from survivors. He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I got banged up some—”

  She looked at the clipboard in her hands and turned a page. “Says here you hurt your ribs pretty bad?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Chad again. “Sgt. Garza wrapped me up pretty good, but they hurt a lot more now, after that big cop—Perkins—roughed me up in the alley.”

  “You’ve had quite the trip getting here,” observed Boatner as he helped Chad step out of his sweat-drenched suit. “I don’t like the way he’s holding this arm, Brenda.”

  “I’ll order up the x-rays.” She glanced at the nurse, Susan.

  “Right away, ma’am,” said Susan. She turned and left the exam room.

  “Okay,” Chad said. He blinked in the glow of all the computers and wall-mounted screens. Everywhere he looked, he saw data tables, casualty statistics, infection maps, and images of the virus. How can you stare at this stuff all day?

  Boatner slapped him on the back. “You’ve filled out since I last saw you—a scrawny teenager plucked from north Texas. Now look at you!”

  Chad smiled. Boatner had always tried to protect him from the other scientists who—if left unchecked—would have liked nothing more than to have bled Chad dry during the Great Pandemic. Boatner had always been gentle with not only the needles but understanding when Chad had grown frustrated and restless. The life of a lab rat was neither glamorous nor exciting.

  Boatner suddenly grew serious. “I suppose you know why what happens next…” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yep,” Chad said, glancing at the machine that would soon begin drawing his blood. “But I’d sure like to know if my…uh, friend is doing okay.”

  Boatner arched an eyebrow. “Friend?”

  “I don’t know her name—”

  “Her?” asked Boatner with a crooked smile as he retrieved an empty vial.

  Chad felt the heat rush into his cheeks. “Yeah, her. She—”

  “You must be talking about the young woman they brought off the plane with you and the Rangers.” Boatner put his hands in his white lab coat and shrugged. “I haven’t seen her. My top priority was you. Where did she come from?”

  It was Chad’s turn to shrug. “The Russians caught her like they did me.” He glanced at Brenda. “Captain Alston and his men rescued us both from that airport in South Carolina.” Brenda smiled sadly. “ I don’t even know her name,” Chad confessed.

  “Indeed?” Boatner glanced at Brenda. “Hardly a way to a woman’s heart, not bothering to learn her name.”

  Brenda’s smile finally reached her eyes and she turned to prep the machine.

  Chad shrugged. “Well, she calls herself 13.”

  Boatner’s face paled—an impressive feat given how pasty the older man normally looked. “What did you say?”

  That conversation also got the other doctor’s attention. She turned and watched with curiosity written on her face.

  “13.”

  “Her name is 13? That’s strange,” muttered Brenda. She stood there watching Boatner break into a sweat and put a pair of empty, prepped vials on the table. “Maurice, are you okay?”

  Boatner rushed past her to the nearest phone. He ripped the receiver off the all and spoke: “Yes, this is Dr. Boatner. I need to speak with General Daniels. No I am not aware what time it is—I haven’t seen the sun in—fine. She’s right here.” He held out the phone. “Brenda.”

  “What’s going on?” she asked as she walked over. “Maurice, talk to me.”

  “I need to speak with Albert. Now. Mind throwing your rank around a little?” He grimaced and handed her the phone. “She says he’s sleeping.”

  Brenda frowned and took the phone, connecting her suit to the phone’s input jack with a small cable that hung at her side. “This is Major Alston,” she said in a commanding voice. “I need to speak with General Daniels, immediately.” She waited a moment, then nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

  Boatner took the phone and rolled his eyes as he unplugged it from Dr. Alston’s suit. “That’s fine—Albert! There you are. It’s Maurice—yes, yes, I’m well aware of what time it is.” He waved an arm in exasperation at Brenda and Chad. “Did you know 13 was on the flight with Huntley from South Carolina?”

  Chad heard a loud squawk from the receiver. Evidently, the General was now fully awake. “Right here with me. He’s fine, yes—but we need 13 down here.” Boatner paused, listening. A nod. “Agreed. We’re in exam room three.” Boatner hung up the phone and sighed.

  “It seems no one bothered to inform General Daniels that 13 was on the plane with you,” he said.

  “Why would they?” asked Brenda. “The Source was who we—”

  “She’s almost as valuable as Chad,” said Boatner as he looked at Chad. “Just in different ways.”

  “Excuse me,” said Chad, holding up a hand. “Can you tell me if anyone made it out of Atlanta? I have friends at the CDC—”

  “So did we all,” muttered Boatner. “I’m sorry, son. Atlanta was a total loss.”

  Chad stared at the floor. “I don’t believe it…I mean, Captain Alston told me, but I never…”

  “There’s a lot you need to catch up on.” Boatner placed a hand on Chad’s shoulder. “We’ll have plenty of time for that later.” He hesitated a moment. “I hate to ask you, but you know what needs to happen now, don’t you?”

  Chad swallowed. “Yeah.” He stared at the cold, metal slab of an exam table, the arm restraints, and the IV machine in the corner. He started to remove his shirt.

  “Just a sleeve, please, it’s rather chilly down here.” said Boatner absently. He moved to the workstation behind the table and began to put on gloves. “Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold, now, would we?” Boatner smiled thinly at his own joke.

  Chad didn’t return the smile, but he was grateful for Boatner’s bedside manner nonetheless. Unlike most of the doctors, Boatner had always done the initial stick himself. He didn’t even feel the bite of the needle when Boatner slipped it in his arm. Chad was glad some things didn’t change. He smiled as Boatner hummed some nonsensical tune from his youth.

  "So tell me about the young woman you know as 13,” Boatner said as he fiddled with instruments on the workstation behind Chad's head. Chad could hear the clank of vials and the hum of machinery as Boatner moved back and forth preparing for the first samples.

  “What kind of a name is 13, anyway?” asked Brenda as she assisted Boatner.

  "I met her in the Russian prison in South Carolina. I guess about the third day after they started taking my blood…"

  Boatner froze. He took two steps and appeared in Chad's peripheral vision. "The Russians have your blood?"

  Chad looked at him and nodded. "Yeah, well, they did. I'm pretty sure before we esc
aped the base, 13 and I were able to destroy all the samples they’d taken."

  Brenda appeared on his other side. “You’re sure?”

  Chad turned to look at her. “Yes, ma’am. They had a refrigerated case and me and 13 threw all the samples on the floor. Made a helluva mess.”

  Boatner squeezed Chad’s shoulder in approval. "Good man. So, it seems you and 13 were thrown together by the Russians…that's interesting."

  "How's that?" asked Chad. He looked down and watched the line of blood appear in the tubing that snaked out of his right arm. The tubing worked its way across the space between the table and the workstation and ended in a cylindrical device that held eight different sample vials, not unlike a centrifuge. Though Chad had been through similar procedures countless times during the last ten years, he was still fascinated with the process. He watched as the first vial filled up before the machine whirred and clicked a couple of times. The vials rotated and a fresh, empty vial was loaded into place.

  "Dr. Boatner?"

  Boatner paused in his tinkering. He looked over his shoulder Chad. "Yes?"

  “What the hell is going on?"

  Boatner removed his glasses and looked at Brenda. “It’s…complicated.”

  "Let me guess," Boatner said, "the soldiers sent to retrieve and protect you have been a little less than forthcoming with information. Right?"

  “How’d you know?"

  Boatner laughed. "Because I've been working with military types for most of my career.”

  "It's the North Koreans,” Brenda said. “They took a sample of the Great Pandemic flu strain and then modified its genetic makeup—they made it into something a lot more dangerous.”

  Boatner nodded and crossed his arms. “She’s right.” He started to wipe the lenses and squinted at Chad. “When they created their bio-weapon, the North Koreans knew how dangerous it was. Up until now, they’ve been able to hold off the effects of the virus by using a mish-mash of drugs they probably got from China. This temporary vaccine gave their soldiers lots of energy and made them temporarily resistant to the virus.”