The Demon Plagues

by David VanDyke

  “Chaos that you caused.”

  “Granted, I initiated it.” Markis rubbed his nose to dispel the itch. “And I could list the offenses of the Unionist Party as well. Let’s put aside history and recriminations, shall we? It’s time to move forward, rather than backward, for the good of everyone.”

  “We are prepared to discuss any proposals you should make.” Portmanteaux smiled reasonably, taking a carafe and a glass from a tray. He poured himself a half a glass of water.

  Markis idly wondered whether the man saw the glass half full or half empty. “Excellent. May I say I am glad they sent you, sir? I always considered you a sensible man.”

  Portmanteaux put on a smooth, pleasant expression. “And I for my part never believed the unfortunate demonization some of our more enthusiastic press agencies have made of you. So, now that we have greeted and mutually praised each other, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me just what you want.”

  Markis smiled more genuinely. “I would be honored. First you have tens of thousands of infected citizens languishing in concentration camps. You and we both view these people as political detainees. Releasing them to the Free Communities for resettlement would be an act of kindness and a public relations victory for your nation. It would also remove our incentive to make any more commando raids to free them. In short, these people and the facilities that hold them are nothing but a distraction and an embarrassment for your government.”

  “I agree. I am authorized to grant this in principle, subject to a signed agreement.” The Prime Minister folded his hands in front of him, picking idly at a loose thread in his left glove.

  “So easily? I’m shocked, but I do thank you.”

  “Oui, de rien. But I have something I want in return. I need the ongoing cyber attack on our command and control systems to stop.”

  “What makes you think we are responsible for that?”

  “Oh, come now, Mister Chairman, do not poison the atmosphere of détente that has only just sprung up between us. You either initiated the attacks or you can use your influence to stop them.”

  “All right, then. Granted, I will do my utmost to return the cyber-conflict to status quo ante at a minimum. I can’t promise more. I don’t have the authority of your Triumvirate.”

  “I realize that, but you are a powerful symbol. Your power rises and falls with the intensity of our conflict. In all frankness, my position has always been to make peace and watch your politics fall apart from your own anarchist tendencies, but I have been overruled thus far. I will continue to try to speak reason to my colleagues.”

  “Which I much appreciate. I would be happy to give up my influence, such as it is, and live a quiet life with my wife and children. I live in fear that one day one of your strategic strikes will fall on them.” Markis’ voice hardened to steel. “I am not your enemy, but on that day, should it come, I will become implacable. Some in the United Governments believe we are weak because we find it very difficult to kill, but I assure you, my conscience will not stop me from bringing everyone responsible to justice. Contemplate what would happen if – when – the entire world is finally infected. Contemplate those responsible for wholesale murders of innocent civilians rotting for centuries in solitary confinement, until they finally see the error of their ways. They might beg for death.”

  Portmanteaux leaned away from the sheer force of Markis’ declaration, finding himself convinced that at the very least the man was completely and utterly sincere. A true believer…this is why they follow him. He’s a fanatic, their own personal Joan d'Arc, and thus a dangerous, dangerous man.

  The Canadian took a moment to compose himself, allowing his opponent’s words to hang, to grow stale and to let those watching and listening to think them through again. It was a technique he had used successfully many times in the past, to just wait on his adversaries, to give them rope and, if not hang themselves, then at least lose the momentum of their arguments. When he finally spoke, his tone was mild, verbal aikido, providing no force for Markis’ argument to push against.

  “I believe ending the strikes is reasonable. But the others may not so believe. This is a large concession, for it means that you will be able to perform your weapons research unimpeded. What can you give me as an incentive to bring back to my government?”

  Markis nodded. “First, we will pledge to end our research to make the Plague airborne. If you genuinely believe, as your propaganda – pardon me, your public information campaigns claim, that you only object to the Plague because it might be foisted upon someone against their will, this will go a long way toward ending that concern.”

  “But how could we verify this?” He drummed his gloved hands on the tabletop in thought, the sound deadened by the soft cotton.

  “We can set up a regime of inspections, by a combined team of your own scientists and those of the Neutral States.”

  “This is a good idea, but it would still be too easy to conceal a biological laboratory. Unlike nuclear materials, there is no signature one can detect at a distance, no radioactive traces that cannot be hidden. Yes, this is good, but it is not enough.”

  “What more would you suggest?”

  “That you give up your research programs for missiles of greater than a certain range. The experts can wrangle over that, but those of what you call the ‘Big Three’ – coincidentally those who have true worldwide strategic strike capability – are most concerned about you dropping missiles armed with Plague upon their cities. It is enormously expensive to maintain defensive readiness against biological warfare. I believe I could convince my government to cease its strikes in exchange for a research control regime in these two areas – missiles and germ warfare.”

  Markis sighed and sniffed. That cologne was really starting to annoy his nose. He looked around the room. It didn’t seem to be bothering anyone else, but he’d always been sensitive to chemical scents and the Plague hadn’t completely done away with it. “You make that all sound so good, but it would also keep us out of space. If there is to ever be a true strategic balance and trust between our nations, we must be able to launch satellites for overhead observation, so we can look at your facilities in turn, just like the Open Skies program during and after the first Cold War.”

  “So it worked for the East and West before, eh, and now you want to settle into Cold War II? You are more of a pragmatist than I gave you credit for.” Portmanteaux seemed slightly smug, as if he had already gained a victory of some sort and was merely being agreeable.

  The serpent in the back of DJ’s head stirred for the first time in a while, rustling around in the back of his subconscious. Markis’ mind woke up to the fact that there was some deeper game that the Prime Minister was playing – or thought he was playing – and he had better be careful or he’d end up selling the store on the cheap.

  I’ve been slipping, feeling like this guy is on our side, when I should know he’s not. I’m sure that’s what he hoped. He may not be as cold and bloodyminded as the Mexican or American presidents, but he is still a politician and he’s as slick as they come.

  “Thank you for your kind words. If we cannot give up the space program – yes, I realize it is difficult to distinguish it from a missile program – perhaps a similar inspection regime could be devised for the research and launches, to show you we are not designing weapons, but rather only space vehicles for peaceful purposes.”

  Portmanteaux nodded. “There will have to be guarantees you will not militarize your observation satellites.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Then let me bring these proposals back to the Triumvirate and the Cabinet. We will see how much they will agree to and whatever adjustments they wish made.”

  Markis stood, then sneezed. “Pardon me, I am sensitive to someone’s cologne.”

  The Prime Minister and all the staffers stood up immediately. Portmaneaux bowed this time. “Forgive me, it was a gift from my wife. Ah…I would have thought the Plague would solve this problem?” />
  “Contrary to popular myth, Mister Prime Minister, there are some things even the Plague cannot do. Shall we say tomorrow, at a similar time?”

  “Parfait. I look forward to it, Mister Chairman.”

  The two parties turned to leave at the same time. Karl spoke with one of the Swiss security guards, lagging behind as the principals and their staffs cleared the room. He asked a few innocuous questions about the arrangements until they were the only two in the chamber. Blocking the man’s view with his body, Karl casually slipped two thick fingers into the inside of the Prime Minister’s drinking glass and slid it into his pocket, politely taking his leave right away.

  He caught up with the rest at the limousine. “I’ll ride with the Chairman this time,” he said. Bettina moved out of the way, her eyes questioning. He shook his head.

  On the ride back to the hotel he interrupted Markis’ contemplation. “Sir, are you still feeling a reaction to that cologne?”

  DJ looked at him sharply, and then sniffed. “No, not really. It seems to be dying down.”

  “Good.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, sir. Just the paranoid mind of your security chief.”

  DJ laughed. “Good, that frees me to be Pollyannaish. Oh yeah, I know what they say behind my back. The boss is too trusting, too good-natured.”

  “Maybe that’s your role, sir. What you’re good at. I may be just a dumb old Marine but I’m smart enough to know that you should do what you’re good at and ignore the rest.”

  Markis clapped Karl on the shoulder. “Sounds pretty smart to me. I’m for the sauna, how about you?”

  “Yeah, the Europeans have some coed naked ones.”

  “You’ll have to have fun with that one on your own,” Markis said. They laughed together.

  “Just kidding, sir.”

  A minute went by, then DJ spoke. “Long way from trying to kill me on Watts Island, huh?”

  “Yes sir. Long way.” Karl stared out the window at the Swiss streets. “Sorry about that.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  -15-

  The trombone case rested in the back of the Fiat, lying on the folded-down back seats at an angle. On top of it were a used backpack, a long coat, a sweater, a bedroll, a couple of pillows, two moderately interesting paintings and some other bric-a-brac that he had obtained at the massive flea market held yesterday at the Plainpaleis. It was all tossed carelessly in, the better to withstand scrutiny if he was checked for any reason.

  Driving carefully within the speed limits, he eventually parked in a paid place north of the airport, watching for the faint light of dawn coming up in the east over Lake Geneva. He had enjoyed his day off yesterday, just relaxing, the first such day in many years, where he didn’t have to be concerned about thugs with knives or raids by the SS. Maybe when he retired, if he ever did, he would retire to Switzerland. Its precision, its discretion, its cleanliness and order conformed to and epitomized the values of the sniper. It agreed with him.

  Loading the backpack, he slid the trombone case into it and wrapped the blanket around its protruding end. He packed water bottles and food into the pockets – wonderful bread baked fresh that morning, butter from wildflower-hay-fed Swiss milch cows, cold cut Black Forest ham, Gruyere cheese, chocolate and fresh fruit. It might be a long day. Or two.

  The most important thing he packed was his ghillie jacket. He did not have the time nor need to make a full suit, so he had contented himself with taking a commercial hooded jacket of dark grey and stapling torn strips of green and brown material to it.

  He hoisted the heavy mass easily; there was no need to save weight, as he would probably abandon most of the gear in place. In the faint growing light he covered the half-mile through the woods to his chosen hide, a hut perched on a hill overlooking the flight path of all of the aircraft flying in and out of Geneva.

  The lowing of cattle mingled with the clanging of copper cowbells as he crossed an open pasture surrounded by thin strips of woods. The animals ignored him, well used to humans and their movements. One curious cow and calf had to be shooed away as he walked up to the wooden structure he had chosen.

  It was one of many hutte that dotted the landscape, each a kind of mini-barn the size of a two-storey cabin with an overhanging roof. They held tools and implements of the farmer’s craft – cowbells on spare collars, scythes to cut any hay that machines could not reach, stakes and fenceposts and rolls of barbed wire and hammers and pliers and gloves, all conveniently stored for use. The upper floor of this one was perfectly sited, its small square window overlooking his field of fire out to six hundred meters, encompassing the eastern half of the airport and the flight approach.

  He was ready to break in but found no lock or barrier at all. Slipping inside, he put down the pack and climbed the ladder, hearing the rustle of some small animal, perhaps a bird. The shed smelled musty and, mixed with the scents of cowpies and wood, reminded him of childhood visits to his uncle’s farm in Oregon.

  Back on the ground floor he retrieved an ancient hatchet from its peg above a workbench, reaching up with his long arms and placing it on the loft floor to the left side of the ladder. He then fastened a short line to the pack and, climbing once more to the loft through the small hatchway, he hoisted its weight up carefully and quietly.

  After putting on soft-faced knee pads, he cleared a space in front of the window, on the rough boards of the loft that comprised the second storey. He unrolled his camping pad, then his bedroll, and unpacked his bulging backpack to set out his food and the trombone case in the growing light. The window faced south so the breaking dawn angled its glow slantwise. Slivers and circles of sunshine poked through the cracks and holes in the walls, though not in the well-maintained metal roof.

  He took out the Zeiss binoculars, the best optical model he had found. He didn’t trust the new electronic models, even though they could do fancy things like interface with computers, take pictures and video. Besides, he had the camcorder for that work.

  He set the two devices up on tripods, the camcorder in the direction of the airport, the binoculars down toward the farmland and broken woods, both well back from the window so no glint would be seen. Adjusting the camcorder, he linked it to the airweight computer he had purchased yesterday. Soon he had a continuous recording feeding the hard drive, showing the front of the hangar containing the Chairman’s airplane. He didn’t have to work very hard to figure out which one it was. To a trained observer, with a Swiss security force of at least twenty personnel and eight vehicles they might as well have put up a neon sign pointing right at it.

  Next he spent some time surveilling the ground under the flight path, ignoring the airplanes taking off and landing from time to time. There were only three real possibilities for his enemies to place their forces.

  Two were private farmhouse complexes, each composed of a main house and several outbuildings and barns in a rough rectangle, all connected by the traditional whitewashed brick or stone wall. This arrangement turned the farms into fortresses, and had been effective from the Dark Ages through Napoleonic times and even into the mechanized wars of the Twentieth Century. Each Swiss male and his family was ready to defend his country against all invaders at a moment’s notice; it was this commitment to heavily armed neutrality that had kept the Swiss safe and prosperous for centuries.

  My kind of place.

  The other location was some kind of light industrial affair, a cluster of buildings, a half-dozen two-ton trucks and stacks of materials. Closer examination through the binoculars confirmed that it was some kind of building materials and contracting yard. He didn’t see any untoward activity at any of the three; that was a good sign. It meant he had time.

  He took a break to finish his coffee and eat sparingly, then prepared the tools of his trade.

  Opening the trombone case, he gazed at the musical instrument inside. It was old but appeared functional, another flea-market purchase. If need be, he could even blow a fe
w notes on it. There was no telling if he would have had to show it to a curious policeman or security officer, but fortunately he had never been stopped. Even so, there was a mouthpiece, polishing rag, a mute, and a bottle of mineral oil, half-filled, in the accessories niche.

  Releasing a hidden catch, he lifted the whole arrangement out to reveal the SIG SG 510 beneath. Its front half had been wrapped in ghillie rags that broke up its outline but did not impair its functionality. There were two full twenty-round magazines and the remainder of the hundred rounds were stored in holders nose-down, ready to be loaded. He swung down the arms of the bipod attached near the front, to place their feet firmly on the floor of the loft. Lining the weapon up roughly in the direction of the materials yard, he then fixed the day sight to the top. He tapped the angle cosine indicator, a device fixed next to the sight that indicated the vertical angle of the barrel, to make sure it was floating freely. It would give him an instant reading of the down-angle as he set up the shots.

  Now came the most dangerous part of the exercise short of its execution. To ensure proper zeroing of the weapon, he eventually had to fire it. If possible, a sniper always fired several rounds after any adjustment in the weapon – for example, having affixed a new, untested sight. There had been no chance to do that. In fact, Skull did not want to take the risk of visiting a firing range to try it out. Besides, the results might have been misleading, since he would have, by law, had to purchase and fire new, unmatched ammunition from that range, using it all up before leaving.

  However, it simply had to be done; perhaps with one shot, but best with two. He settled himself in behind the weapon, feeding in the first magazine filled with the best ammunition selected by the deliberately unnamed old armorer, and choosing a point of aim high up on a tree trunk well away from any human being, at a distance of about five hundred meters. He pushed disposable foam earplugs into his ears to save his hearing, then noted the angle on the cosine indicator; about twelve degrees down.