by Bobby Akart
“I’m Captain Brant.”
“Okay, Captain. My name is Dr. Harper Randolph. Everyone in this room works for the CDC. If this quarantine is related to the infectious disease, you don’t want us on lockdown. We’re here to—”
The captain cut her off, raising his right hand with his palm only a foot from Harper’s face. “No exceptions. We have our orders.”
Becker became incensed and her protective nature immediately kicked in. She pushed past Harper and stood as tall as her five-foot-three petite frame would allow.
She began pointing toward the much larger man’s chest. “Do you have any idea who you are talking to, Mister Captain? You can’t hold us here, especially Dr. Randolph.”
The two armed guardsmen stepped forward to intervene. “Back off, miss,” one of them ordered.
This enraged Becker further. “I am not a miss. I am a doctor. And you need to back the hell off. You have no right to treat us this way. Our job is outside this room. You need us now more than ever.”
She pointed at each of the men who towered over her. As she screamed, the captain gradually backed up and allowed his men to raise their rifles slightly.
“We have our orders, ma’am. If you’re to be released, I’m sure my superiors will let us know. For now, I suggest you calm down and get comfortable.”
“I am calm!” screamed an increasingly unhinged Becker. Harper stepped forward and gently tugged her assistant by the elbow.
“Let them go,” Harper said in a whisper. She hoped her calm voice would have a similar effect on the fiery Becker. “We’ll call Atlanta and get this sorted out.”
The guardsmen retreated from the fight and slammed the doors closed. Becker, however, wasn’t done yet.
“I have to pee, assholes!”
Strangely, Harper found this to be hilarious. Perhaps it was the tension of the moment or watching her attack dog attempt to take a bite out of the backside of the big bad guardsmen. Either way, her laughter became contagious, and rather than joining Becker in outrage, the hostile mood of the epidemiologists who’d gathered around her turned into snickers.
Harper turned to her charges. “Listen, obviously there’s been some kind of mistake. There’s no way that Atlanta, or Washington, would’ve ordered a quarantine without discussing it with us first. As we all know, there is insufficient evidence to order a quarantine of the hotel.”
One of the epidemiologists spoke up. “He mentioned the governor. Is it possible they’ve overreacted to what’s happened here?”
“That’s my guess,” replied Harper. “I have another theory, but I need to call Atlanta first. Let’s get comfortable, as the man said. I’ll place the call.”
Harper was impressed with the way the group was handling the abrupt disruption and revelation that the hotel was under the control of the National Guard. She thought she might be able to diffuse the situation by talking to her boss, Dr. Berger Reitherman.
As the group chatted among themselves, Harper asked, “Other than Becker, does anyone else need to use the restroom?”
Becker answered first. “I don’t really have to go. I was just pissed off, so it was all I could come up with.”
Harper shook her head and chuckled. “Okay, Becker was faking. Does anybody need a break right now?”
All of them seemed content staying put under the circumstances. More than a few had been intimidated by the guardsmen and their slightly raised weapons.
Harper continued. “Y’all give me a moment to call Dr. Reitherman, and maybe we can get out of here.”
She turned to walk away, but Becker hustled to catch up to her.
“Do you want me to get in contact with Joe?”
Harper stopped and shook her head vigorously. “No. Definitely not. He can’t get involved in this.”
“Why not?” asked Becker with a bewildered look on her face. “He could probably make one phone call and this crap would be squashed.”
“Maybe,” replied Harper hesitantly. She wasn’t so sure. “I think, for now, we should let Atlanta handle it. There might be more to—” She cut herself off.
A curious look came over Becker’s face. “What?”
“Nothing. Listen, keep the others calm. And yourself, please.”
Becker smiled and waved as she began to walk away. “Yeah. Yeah. They’d better let me out, or else!”
Harper wasn’t sure what or else entailed, but she was certain it would be entertaining. She slipped to a corner of the conference room and pulled up a chair. She pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and was about to call Reitherman when her phone vibrated. His ears must’ve been ringing. She dispensed with the formalities.
“Have you heard?”
“Yes, I was just informed. Where are you?”
“I was with the entire CDC contingent in a conference room, going over our case notes and findings on this disease, when the three National Guard guys burst into the room. They’ve got us locked down.”
“What do you mean? Locked down as in your movement is restricted?”
Harper laughed. “I suppose you could put it that way. It was really more like nobody’s going anywhere until the governor says so. That kinda lockdown.”
Dr. Reitherman paused for a moment and then let out a noticeable sigh. “I received a call from their head of the DPBH earlier today. I gave him what we know and advised him we’ve barely scratched the surface as to what we’re dealing with here. He specifically asked whether a quarantine was in order, and my response was no, not at this juncture.” The Nevada Department of Public and Behavioral Health was a part of the Department of Health and Human Services in Nevada.
“Yet they did it anyway,” interjected Harper. Her mind raced as she recalled the conversation with the president.
“Yes, they did. The entire Fremont Street Experience is cordoned off.”
Harper took a deep breath and relayed her encounter with the president. “Dr. Reitherman, there may be another reason for what has happened.” After several minutes of explanation, Reitherman issued his orders.
“I still have friends in President Taylor’s administration. Let me look for a connection between the governor’s knee-jerk reaction and your conversation. On the surface, it appears they didn’t get what they wanted from me, so they roped you into Air Force One to try a different angle.”
“That’s bullshit, sir.”
“It is. Sit tight and let me find a way for you to get out of there. For now, you might be safer in that conference room anyway.”
“Why’s that?” asked Harper as she whipped her head around to the double doors leading to the hallway.
Dr. Reitherman lowered his voice. “In a word, chaos.”
Chapter Two
Gold Palace Hotel
Fremont Street Experience
Downtown Las Vegas, Nevada
“Dr. Randolph! You’ve gotta see this!”
As soon as Harper disconnected the call and paused to gather her thoughts, one of her epidemiologists called for her. They were all hovered around Becker, who sat near the refreshments with her iPad held in front of her.
KSNV News 3 in Las Vegas, the NBC affiliate, was broadcasting live from the Fremont Street Experience. Their reporter, his producer, and a cameraman had been covering the Poker Stars tournament. They braved the melee to provide a live report from just outside the Gold Palace.
“Make room for Dr. Randolph,” ordered Becker. The group created an opening, and Harper eased in behind Becker to look over her shoulder.
“Turn it up, please,” someone in the back asked. Becker obliged as the reporter responded to the news anchor’s questions.
“I’ve never seen anything like this in my twenty years of covering news here in the valley. Even the 2017 shooting, as horrific and fear-inducing as it was, paled in comparison to what people are experiencing here on Fremont Street at the moment.”
The news anchor interrupted with a question. “How does it differ?”
“
Well, Reed, you and I both covered the MGM shooting, and we commented to one another that the outside venue helped reduce loss of life and injuries. There were many places to exit the concert grounds during the panic.
“That is not the case tonight. As word spread, gamblers and hotel guests poured out of the casinos’ exits. They tried to escape into the Fremont Street Experience but were prevented from doing so.
“The hotels began to lock their entry doors for security reasons, leaving many thousands of people running throughout Fremont Street, seeking an exit. Then shots were fired. It’s unknown whether the gunfire came from the weapons of the National Guard or not, but the 2017 shooting is still fresh in everyone’s mind, as you know.”
Reed Cowan, award-winning journalist and a highly respected fixture in Las Vegas, asked, “Was there any kind of announcement by the Guard or the Fremont Street management team as to the reason behind the action?”
The reporter couldn’t hear the question due to the screaming and shouting. The female producer ran to his side and cupped her hands over his left ear to shout the question to him.
“No, Reed. None it all. In fact, they still haven’t. This is purely speculation on my part, but it’s as if they were as much in the dark about this decision as the hotels and their guests.”
Cowan furrowed his brow as he addressed the reporter. “I can tell you, from our end, there has been no formal statement from the governor’s office or local law enforcement. We’ve reached out to the mayor’s office, and they’ve not responded other than saying the situation is, quote, fluid.”
The reporter spun around and the camera panned the crowd in the street. People were pushing and shoving one another. The elderly could be seen being knocked to the ground, and very few bothered to assist them to their feet. Many people exhibited superficial wounds like bruises and cuts, although one person in the camera’s view had a bloodied nose.
“Fluid is not the word I’d use to describe the scene here. Mayhem, bedlam, or pandemonium seem more appropriate. Back to you, Reed.”
As the reporter outside the hotel handed the broadcast back to the newsroom, Harper patted Becker on the shoulder and stepped away from the group. Seconds later, Becker joined her side.
“What are we gonna do? We can’t just sit in here.”
“I don’t know that we have a choice,” replied Harper.
“I think we have an option,” said Becker. She pointed to a side exit door that led through a partition wall into another conference room. “When I discussed the room choices with Figueroa, he said these partition walls could be removed to give us more space if we needed it.”
Alejandro Figueroa was the Gold Palace’s chief of security and had been very cooperative with the CDC personnel during their investigation. His level of professionalism stood in stark contrast to Donald Wallace, the ill-tempered general manager of the hotel and casino, who was more interested in profits than the protection of his guests.
Harper asked, “Have you tried to call him?”
“Yes, but I just get his voicemail box, which is full. I can’t even leave a message.”
“I don’t think we can break through the partition without our friends outside hearing us,” said Harper.
“I have another idea,” said Becker. She allowed herself a sly grin and then looked directly over her head.
“Divine intervention?” asked Harper.
“No, ductwork.”
Harper looked up at the two-foot-by-three-foot air-conditioning vent blowing cool air onto their heads. She rolled her eyes and laughed. “This isn’t the movies, Becker. You can’t crawl through the air ducts to freedom. You’ll get stuck.”
“I’m already stuck,” Becker countered.
“This is different and you know it,” said Harper, pointing to the ceiling. “That’s a different kind of stuck.”
Becker pulled her shoulders back in an attempt to lock eyes with the much taller Harper. “I’ve done it before.”
“When?”
“In college. The girls’ dorm was adjacent to the guys’. We figured out that we could crawl through the air-conditioning duct to bypass the RAs in the common area.”
“You snuck through the ductwork to hook up with your boyfriend?” Harper shook her head in amazement.
“No! Of course not. We, um, were studying.”
“Aw, shit, Becker. Regardless, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to crawl around up there.”
Becker insisted, “I can do it. I swear. I just need a table, a chair, and a boost. Leave the rest to me.”
“And then what?”
“Well, I’ll try to unlock the partition-wall door, and we’ll find a way around those goons. If not, I’ll go to Figueroa’s office or find another friendly face. I’m not going to sit around here and do nothing.”
Harper knew she wouldn’t be able to stop the strong-willed Becker from the hairbrained idea. She studied the vent opening and then looked at her assistant. She sighed and shrugged. Becker might just be able to pull it off.
Becker rallied the troops and they cleared off one of the banquet tables. Next, they positioned a chair under the vent. With the assistance of the guys, she was hoisted upward to pull the small latches holding the vent grate in place. It swung open, revealing the boxy, sheet-metal HVAC duct.
Less than a minute later, with her cell phone’s flashlight feature illuminated, Becker was crawling along the sheet metal using her elbows and feet to propel her forward. Her movements could be tracked by the sounds emanating from the ceiling. With each movement, the sound of a bass drum echoed through the vent and into the conference room.
Suddenly, her movements stopped and the bass drum stopped playing. Everyone in the room looked to one another out of concern for Becker’s safety. The group pushed closer to the opening in the ceiling and looked up. And then Becker’s voice changed. It was her best Arnold Schwarzenegger impression.
“I’ll be back.”
Chapter Three
Office of Congressman Joe Mills
Longworth House Office Building
Washington, DC
Joe had exchanged text messages with Harper earlier that day before she boarded the CDC Learjet to return to Las Vegas. This was what their life together was like.
When Congress was in session, he spent every waking hour working on the business of the congressional committees he chaired and every politician’s primary job—fundraising. From the moment a congressman was elected, he began working on his re-election. Their term of office was two years, the shortest of any Washington elected official, and therefore required an inordinate amount of time and money to maintain their campaign coffers.
Joe was well-liked in the 6th Congressional District located in the northeastern suburbs of Atlanta. He’d not had a serious challenge since his first campaign, but he wasn’t one to rest on his laurels. That evening, following another contentious budget hearing in which he tortuously challenged the Taylor administration’s budget director over perceived fuzzy math and political paybacks, he turned in early for the night.
Like a handful of other congressmen before him, Joe opted to live in his office while he was in Washington. Literally. He’d splurged, to put it mildly, on a Restoration Hardware sleeper sofa. The plush Belgian linen was so luxurious that most visitors to his office hesitated to sit on it, opting instead for the two chairs that flanked his desk.
Joe’s work could be mentally and emotionally draining. He always had to be on his toes, which required him to be well-informed of events domestically and internationally. There was always a reporter lurking around every corner with a gotcha question meant to embarrass politicians. His hearings often included in-depth research performed by the Taylor administration and his opponents across the aisle. If he was caught unaware about a topic, the media would have a field day at his expense.
He’d instructed his chief of staff, Andy Spangler, to keep him up to speed on current events, as well as Washington rumors. Joe vowed to avoid
being blindsided and the embarrassing task of explaining why he was uninformed.
There had been times in the past when Chief of Staff Spangler had phoned him in the middle of the night. Typically, this occurred during significant international events or potential catastrophes like the discovery of a threat posed by an asteroid dubbed IM86 several years ago. Through the great work of NASA and a true American hero, the diversion and destruction methods had been successful in breaking up the potential planet killer. The nation had come together to respond, much like it had tried to do during the COVID-19 pandemic.
The back-to-back natural disasters were a reminder to Joe that you could never let your guard down when it came to catastrophic events. He recalled having a conversation with Harper about the asteroid.
The day before, they’d spent time with her family at Randolph House, visiting local museums and enjoying pork barbecue in the backyard. The next day, after Spangler had notified him of the threat, they were watching the skies, wondering if it would fall upon them, as Chicken Little had warned. He’d quipped, you just never know when the day before is the day before.
So when Spangler gently tapped on his office door and opened it without calling first, Joe’s half-awake state of mind assumed the worst. Now what?
“Joe, are you awake?” The two longtime friends and associates were on a first-name basis with each other when in private.
“Andy? Um, yeah. What’s up?” Joe sat up in bed and reached over the arm of the sofa to turn on a tabletop lamp. The subdued amber glow lit up the room.
“I’m sorry to wake you like this,” he began. “I kinda figured Harper wouldn’t call you.”
“Wait. What? Is Harper okay?”
Joe jumped out of bed and raced to his desk in search of his phone. He was wearing a pair of gym shorts and an Atlanta Braves tee shirt.