“You’re suggesting the troops enforcing the quarantine execute the population, aren’t you? Th-that’s f-fucking genocide!”
“No. I am not. The virus, this pestilence will do that. I’m sorry, it’s not a pretty picture, but it’s just the way it is. Your troops will be needed to prevent any escapes. We can’t allow uncontrolled spread of the virus outside of the area at this stage.”
“Well now,” Thorncroft’s contact found an opening, “if the vaccine sent out first didn’t contain the live virus, we wouldn’t be in the shithole we’re in.”
Thorncroft had to stop and gather himself. He wasn’t used to being spoken to like this. When this is all over and this fool no longer has a purpose…
“That why the Level 4 suits will be needed. But you might be able to organize helicopter drops of medical relief into the city before it—”
“What kind of relief do you mean, Thorncroft?”
“Whatever will remove the pain and suffering—I’ll leave the details up to you.”
“All right, anything else before I go?”
“You might want to see about strengthening the deployment around Des Moines, we can’t have what’s taking place there get out. You know what I mean, right?”
“Yes, yes I do. I’ll see to it.”
Thorncroft smiled for the first time in several hours, after ending the call. “This might just work out after all,” he said and took a drink from his glass of wine.
“Jason, where are you, my good man? Time to celebrate.”
Thorncroft rose from his chair and grabbed his wine. He untied the belt on his robe and let it fall open as he wandered to the bedroom.
A naked Jason knelt on the red satin sheets of the king-size bed, with his face buried into the sheets. His arms were bent behind his back, folded at the elbow where layers of thick, black rope stretched from his wrist and halfway up his forearms. His legs had been handcuffed to the ends of a wooden pole about three feet in length, which kept his thighs conveniently apart. Convenient for Thorncroft.
“Ah, there you are, right where I left you!” Thorncroft said, placing his glass of wine on the nightstand and letting the robe fall to the heavily carpeted floor.
“Yes, I’ve been patiently waiting for you to get your business over and done with.”
Thorncroft climbed onto the bed on his knees behind Jason. “Yes, you’re a good boy,” Thorncroft said through heavy breaths, “a very good boy!”
In Washington, at about the same time as Thorncroft was enjoying himself with his young concubine, an emergency meeting of the cabinet was in session in the cabinet room of the West Wing.
“Ladies, gentleman.” The president stood at the head of the table. “We are faced with a situation unlike that of any administration in the history of America. We effectively have no choice but to abandon an entire city. My advisors have just informed me that a rescue attempt would be foolish and costly. We cannot allow these infected people to escape into the population surrounding Des Moines.”
“Mr. President, are we to keep them quarantined until they die from the flu or starvation?” Mel Andersson, the Secretary of Health and Human Services asked.
“No, Miss Andersson, but I’m glad you asked.” President Galtieri had a close and casual relationship with his cabinet members and addressed everyone by first name—except for the three female members. “I recently received the suggestion of air dropping medicine that would alleviate the suffering of the population.”
“Mr. President, effectively you mean suicide pills, am I correct?” Joel Hendle, the Secretary of Homeland Security, stood and asked.
“Yes, Joel, if we’re to be blunt about it.”
A hushed murmur went around the table as cabinet members leaned to their right or left and whispered into the ear of their colleague in the next seat.
“Please, please, some quiet please!” Chief of Staff Leonard Chiang called for order before the president continued.
“It’s not pleasant, but if anyone has a better plan, I’m more than happy to hear it. Just remember, what’s happening right now in Des Moines could very well be happening across the entire country in the space of a few months if we don’t keep it contained.”
When no one spoke up, the president moved right along and proposed an emergency order to send in army units from Camp Dodge and Fort Des Moines to bolster the National Guard and police forces manning the barricades. A healthy debate ensued with regards to the Posse Comitatus Act, which specifically restricts the use of the federal military in any law-enforcement activity.
“This, as I see it, is not law-enforcement but protection of Americans from an insidious invader. Make no mistake, this Baltic flu is just as much an invader as a million armed soldiers of a foreign power landing on our shores. And just like a war,” President Galtieri looked every one of his cabinet members in the eye before continuing, “there are civilian casualties. There is no other way to save the majority of Americans—none.”
The cabinet ratified the finer points, including the availability of a drug that could “ease the suffering,” and as distasteful as it was, the cabinet fully agreed with the president’s summation of the situation.
One cabinet member was heard to say as he left the meeting, “I feel like I just stepped back in time and sat in on the Final Solution discussion at the Reichstag.”
Other questions being asked by members of the cabinet were, “Who exactly is advising the president?”
While it had been noted that the president was seen more and more in the company of the NSA and CIA directors and agents as the crisis worsened in Des Moines, no one dared believe the Commander-in-Chief took personal advice from either of those sources.
Not on this matter. There were possible security situations which could arise but for most part, any physical security of the POTUS would be the prerogative of the Secret Service. Cabinet members, the House and the Senate would have to rely on the FBI, US Marines, and law-enforcement personnel for their safety.
The question anyone with any knowledge might ask was, “How do you safeguard against a virus of this magnitude?”
“That went better than I expected,” Len Chiang said to President Galtieri when the room was empty.
“Yes, it did, but there was an underlying contempt for the decision—and for me.”
“As you said, Mr. President, what else can be done? Attempt to rescue those at Des Moines and risk the entire country or…”
“I know, Len, I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”
The Chief of Staff agreed, then told President Galtieri he would inform the Joint Chiefs of the decision to reinforce the National Guard with the Army.
The two army bases were not far from the city, with Ft. Des Moines itself just outside the quarantined zone. It wouldn’t take long at all to mobilize units once the order was given.
The decision to close the door on the people of Des Moines had been made. It wasn’t taken lightly and should America come out of this plague in one piece, it would be a decision that would have far-reaching consequences—Galtieri’s Presidency being the first and most obvious. He couldn’t worry about his re-election chances, not now, at a time like this.
Galtieri likened this meeting to sitting in with Hitler, Himmler, Goebbels, et al., as they discussed the final solution. He had effectively ordered the execution of nearly a quarter of a million Americans.
Yes, he too felt like he was at that Reichstag meeting—only he was chairing it.
The cell phone appropriated a few nights back woke Delaney from her dozing. The tension had caught up with her—and the others—and after the soothing shower, she took to the bed in the master bedroom.
“Yeah,” she answered urgently.
“It’s Calgleef. I have the results of the test.”
Delaney rubbed a hand through her thick—and now unkempt—hair and over her face, then took a gulp of water from the cup on the nightstand. She needed to be wide awake for this.
“
And what did you find?”
“It’s as expected, the vaccine contains the live virus. I didn’t order an extensive test, just enough to get some confirmation and this looks like it. Interestingly, it looks like a mutated strain of the H1N1 virus.”
“That would make sense. Every pharmaceutical company has access to that—and I doubt it mutated by itself. Good work, Calgleef. What’s the next step?”
Calgleef told her that he’d managed to keep the information of the test to only a handful of people. That they understood the necessity of keeping the results of the test to themselves until Calgleef could present it to President Galtieri.
“I’m on my way to the airport now. I have a plane left at my disposal by the NSA.”
“The NSA?” Grace Delaney was confused. “What do they have to do with this? It’s a health crisis, not a national security issue.”
“Yes, well, I can tell you they—and their pals in the CIA—have been in the background from the very beginning.”
That explained their covert arrest, the dark warehouse where she and her colleagues were held, and the even stranger guards on duty. “Was it the NSA that had me arrested?” Grace asked, genuinely curious.
“The facility was a hidden NSA/CIA joint interrogation site, but the order definitely came from the NSA. The guards were nothing but mercenaries from Hall and Burton Security International.”
That doesn’t explain it completely, Grace considered for a moment, the NSA had to get their information from somewhere and could only have come from…
Grace understood her former director, who gave her the role at the hospital, would be best placed to provide such details.
Keep an eye on him, Grace, keep an eye on him.
“How long will it take?”
“I’ll be inside the White House in two hours.” Calgleef confidently said.
If he’s still trying to gain my confidence and find my location, then he’s going about it all wrong.
“All right then. Once you inform the president, you must get him to issue a pardon—even temporary—on my colleagues and me. You got it?”
“Of course, of course. Your testimony from a personal experience will be invaluable and corroborate the test results. I know how politicians think, Miss Delaney. Results on paper mean little and can always be ignored, but first-hand involvement cannot.”
“I won’t hold you any longer, then.”
Perhaps she would cut him some slack, let it be. After all, he was doing the legwork and putting himself in considerable danger at the same time.
Once the conspiracy was unmasked and America saved, would it matter that the director was part of it all and had been instrumental in signing her death warrant?
Grace Delaney didn’t answer her question—not yet. Calgleef had a way to go before he proved himself.
20
Twenty
Grace strode from the bedroom to bring the news to the others, who were all waiting in the kitchen.
“That was Calgleef, he has the results and is on his way to the capital. He should be speaking with the president in about two hours.”
“That’s great, isn’t it?” Steve asked.
“Yeah, well, I guess my suspicions were wrong,” Mike admitted. “About Calgleef, I mean.”
“He was able to confirm that it was the NSA who had us secretly arrested.”
“The NSA?” Tilford showed surprise. “Why them?”
“Don’t know, but Calgleef did say they and the CIA had been conspicuous in their involvement in this from the beginning.”
“How’s he getting to DC so fast?” Mike asked.
“He has a plane on standby, left to him by…”
“What, what is it?”
“The NSA, the fucking NSA left a plane for him. Bastards!” Grace stuck a bent index finger into her mouth and bit down as she considered the possibilities.
“You don’t think they’d try anything—” Steve began.
“Oh, you bet I do. They were about to kill all of us and dump our bodies somewhere—never to be found.”
“What can we do?” Tilford said.
“Nothing. We can’t do a thing from here or anywhere else for that matter. We’ll have to just wait and see.”
“You’re right, Mike. If we don’t hear from Calgleef in three hours—maximum—then we can assume it’s all over.”
Silence gripped the room after Grace’s last words. They carried with them a heavy load.
“And what do we do if—” Richard began but was interrupted by a car backfiring or gunshots.
“Please tell me that was a car.”
“Sorry, Steve. Too sharp for a backfire, gunshots sounded like a thirty-eight to me.” Mike was the most experienced with firearms of the five.
“Same here.” Grace knew the sounds of handguns—.38 caliber especially.
“Stay low,” Mike told everyone as he crouched and made his way to the large living room window. It was late afternoon in Iowa now and with the curtains drawn and no lights on, it would be difficult to see inside. However, Grace assumed from his training it was better to be safe than sorry.
The dull echo of a 12-gauge shotgun sounded just as Mike looked up and down both sides of the street.
“I can’t see anything and judging by the dull sound of a shotgun, it came from one of the nearby houses.”
“Jesus, what in the hell are they shooting at?”
“I don’t know, Steve. But I have a bad feeling about this!” Mike told him bluntly.
Everyone looked to Grace for answers and directions through most of this ordeal. And better still, they all listened to her—even Steve Donalds, the self-promoting TV reporter. But when it came to the action, Mike was the man.
He didn’t flinch when it came to dealing with the two assassins that took him and the others on their last ride. He was aware of the shockwaves it sent, but it had to be done. Mike didn’t think about it—hadn’t had time to, really—but one thing it did was show Steve Donalds the he, Mike Weaver, wasn’t going to take his shit any longer.
“Damn! Richard, where’s the pistol?” Mike called.
“In the pickup. I’ll go get it.”
“All right,” Mike said then added, “and lock the garage door while you’re there.”
“What do you see?” Tilford asked the moment Mike called for the gun.
“Nothing yet, but that shotgun blast was close. I don’t want to be unarmed in case—” Mike threw up an open hand.
“What? In case of what?”
“Quiet, damn you!” Mike shook his outstretched hand at Steve.
“Here we go.” Richard came back a moment later with the 9mm pistol.
Mike was impressed to see the camera operator knew enough to hand the pistol to him butt-first.
“Thanks, Rich. You keep an eye on the back of the house but stay low. You,” Mike pointed to Tilford, “keep an eye on the side. And Grace, you keep watch from that side of the window, okay?”
After receiving their instructions, all three nodded once and went to their assigned positions.
“What about me, what do you want me to do?” Steve asked.
“Just try not to panic or get in my way,” Mike said. There was more than just a touch of contempt in his voice.
“Mike, Mike. Look, down this way!” Grace pointed to the side of the street she had a better view of.
Mike scuttled over to the other side of the window and peered through the sheer curtains. He saw a middle-aged man in a blue-and-white-checked flannel shirt and black tack pants, carrying an auto shotgun run into the street.
“There’s our shooter,” Mike said.
“Can you tell if he’s been infected?” Tilford called from a side window in as low a voice as he could.
“No, I can’t. But I doubt he is,” Grace said.
“I realize you’re a doctor, Grace, but how can you tell from here?” Steve asked.
“So far the infected we’ve seen haven’t been capable of anything much
more than attacking like wild animals. I doubt they’d remember how to use any man-made objects or have a use for it.”
“Then what the hell was he shooting at?” Mike said, but it almost seemed as if he was asking himself.
“Maybe his family had become infected. He looks very distraught.”
The man in the flannel shirt moved further along the street, closer now to where Grace and Mike watched from the window.
“Help! Somebody help me!” he started screaming and fell to his knees.
“Oh, my God!”
“If he’s not infected, we should get him in. We could certainly use that shotgun.” Mike knew how callous it sounded, but he was thinking of their survival.
“He might not show any symptoms yet, but…” Grace began, then looked back out at the forlorn figure sobbing in the middle of a once-quiet neighborhood street.
“If any of those he shot had the virus and he got blood on him, he’ll become symptomatic. If they were family, then he’s been living with them—eating, sleeping, kissing, having sex—you get the picture. He’s as good as infected now, I’d say.” Tilford, acting more like a doctor again, came into the living room and gave his quick diagnosis.
“Then it’s too risky, we have—”
“Why not just pop him from a distance and take the shotgun? Be doing him a favor if he’s infected, and especially if he just wiped out his family,” Steve calmly added. When it came to looking out for number one, Mike knew there was none better at it than Steve Donalds.
“Because he’s not a threat to us.”
“You had no trouble with those two guys back at—”
“Now just hold it right there, pal. They were about to kill us and it had to be done—no other choice.” Mike got up and moved menacingly toward the reporter, who remained on the couch.
Pestilence Boxed Set [Books 1 & 2] Page 26