The Outlaws: a Presidential Agent novel

by W. E. B. Griffin; William E. Butterworth; IV

  “Why don’t I believe that, Aloysius?” Torine asked softly.

  “Probably because you’re an old fart like me, and have learned that when things are as black as they can possibly get, they invariably get worse.”

  [TWO]

  U.S. Army Medical Research Institute

  Fort Detrick, Maryland

  0905 4 February 2007

  The declaration of a Potential Level Four Disaster at Fort Detrick by Colonel J. Porter Hamilton, MC, caused a series of standing operating procedures to kick in—something akin to a row of dominoes tumbling, one domino knocking over the one adjacent, but in this instance damned faster.

  When Master Sergeant Dennis called the post duty officer, he actually called the garrison duty officer. On coming to work for Colonel Hamilton, Dennis had quickly learned that the colonel often had trouble with Army bureaucracy and that it was his job to provide the colonel with what he wanted, which often was not what he asked for.

  The garrison duty officer immediately expressed doubt that Master Sergeant Dennis was actually asking for what he said he was.

  “A Potential Level Four Disaster? You sure about that, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. Colonel Hamilton said he was declaring a Potential Level Four Disaster.”

  The garrison duty officer consulted his SOP dealing with disasters, and checked who was authorized to declare one.

  There were three people who could on their own authority declare a Potential Level Four Disaster: the garrison commander, Colonel J. Porter Hamilton, and the garrison duty officer.

  “Let me speak to Colonel Hamilton, Sergeant,” the garrison duty officer said.

  “He’s on his phone, Major. Now, do you want to send a Level Four van over here, personnel in Level One hazmat suits, or should I call for it?”

  “You have that authority?”

  “Yes, sir. I do. And I have authority to have Level Four BioLab Two opened and on standby. You want me to do that, too, sir?”

  “Why don’t you do that, Sergeant, while I bring the garrison commander up to speed on this. And, Sergeant, see if you can have Colonel Hamilton call her.”

  “Yes, sir,” Master Sergeant Dennis said.

  The duty officer called the garrison commander.

  “Major Lott, ma’am. Ma’am, we seem to have a problem.”

  “What kind of a problem?”

  “Ma’am, Colonel Hamilton’s sergeant just called and said the colonel wanted to declare a Potential Level Four Disaster.”

  There was a pause. Then the garrison commander said, “Let me make sure I understand the situation. You say Colonel Hamilton’s sergeant called and told you Colonel Hamilton wants to declare a Potential Level Four Disaster? Is that it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s it. I thought I’d better bring you up to speed on this, ma’am.”

  The garrison commander thought: What you were supposed to do, you stupid sonofabitch, was sound the goddamned alarm sirens, get a Level Four van over to Hamilton, get a Level Four BioLab on emergency standby and then—and only then—call me.

  And you’re a goddamn major?

  Jesus H. Christ.

  She said calmly: “Listen carefully. What I want you to do, Major, is first sound the alarm sirens. Then send a Level Four van to Colonel Hamilton’s laboratory, and when you’ve done that, get a Level Four BioLab on emergency standby. Got all that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then do it,” the garrison commander said, and broke the connection.

  Major Lott raised the cover of the alarm activation switch and then pressed on the switch. Sirens all over began to howl.

  He then consulted the standing operating procedure to see what else was required of him to do—thus knocking over the first of the dominoes.

  The provost marshal was notified. The first thing listed on his SOP was to lock down the fort. Nobody in. Nobody out. He did so. The second thing on his list was to notify the garrison medical facility to prepare for casualties. The third thing listed was to notify the Secret Service detachment on the base. He did so, and then continued to work down his list.

  The first thing on the Secret Service Detachment SOP was to notify local law enforcement agencies. With Fort Detrick equidistant between Washington, D.C. (forty-five miles), and Baltimore, Maryland (forty-six miles), there was a large number of law enforcement agencies in that area, each of which was entitled to know of the problem at Fort Detrick.

  The Secret Service agent instead first called his special agent in charge at the Department of Homeland Security at the Nebraska Avenue complex in the District of Columbia. He told him about the Potential Level Four Disaster, but had to confess that was all he knew.

  “I’ll handle it,” the SAC said.

  The Secret Service agent began calling the numbers on his list of law enforcement agencies to be notified.

  The SAC at Homeland Security attempted to contact the secretary of Homeland Security but was told he was in Chicago with Mayor Daley. He then got the assistant secretary for enforcement on the telephone and told him about the Potential Level Four Disaster at Fort Detrick.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “I’ll handle it.”

  He contacted the garrison commander on a hotline.

  “Assistant Homeland Security Secretary Andrews, Colonel,” he said. “I understand you’ve got a little problem over there.”

  The garrison commander had by then spoken with Master Sergeant Dennis, who had told her about the container that had arrived with the morning FedEx shipment.

  When she had told Andrews this, he said, “I’ll take immediate action.”

  Andrews then called the SAC back, told him to get on the horn to his people at Detrick, and have them grab the container and not let anybody else near it.

  “How’s the quickest way for me to get there?” the assistant secretary asked.

  “It would probably be quicker in one of our Yukons than trying to get a chopper, Mr. Secretary. I can have one at your door in ninety seconds.”

  “Do it.”

  Five and a half minutes later, a black Secret Service Yukon—red and blue lights flashing from behind its grille and with another magnet-based blue light flashing on the roof—skidded to a stop in front of the main building and picked up Assistant Secretary Andrews. The SAC was in the front seat, where the assistant secretary preferred to ride.

  Andrews thought: Ninety seconds, my ass.

  That took five minutes plus, and we need to roll.

  “Get in the back,” he said.

  Only then did the assistant secretary remember he had had another option. He could have told the SAC to get out.

  But it was too late. He took a seat in the second row and, siren screaming and lights flashing, they were on their way to the Potential Level Four Disaster at Fort Detrick.

  [THREE]

  Office of the Presidential Press Secretary

  The White House

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  1020 4 February 2007

  There were a half-dozen television monitors mounted on the wall of John David “Porky” Parker’s office, one for each of the major television networks, and the other three for the “major” cable news programs.

  The sound of only one was on, the volume low but on.

  Porky Parker was more or less addicted to watching/listening to Wolf News. Not because he liked it, but the opposite. He hated it. Wolf News gave him the most trouble. It seemed to be dedicated to the proposition that all politicians, from POTUS down, were scoundrels, mountebanks, and fools, and that it was Wolf News’s noble duty to bring every proof—or suggestion—of this to the attention of the American people.

  The problem was compounded for Porky by the fact that the people of Wolf News were very good at what they did, and with great skill went after the scoundrels, mountebanks, and fools regardless of political affiliation.

  Wolf News used the fourth and final part of Gioacchino Antonio Rossin
i’s (1792-1868) “William Tell Overture” to catch people’s attention whenever there was “breaking news.” Most people recognized the music as the theme for the Lone Ranger motion picture and television series.

  That was happening now, and when Porky faintly heard the stirring music, he reached for the remote control as a Pavlovian reaction and raised his eyes to the screen. He had the sound turned up in time to see and hear the Wolf News anchor-on-duty proclaim, “There is breaking news! Wolf News is on top of it! Back in sixty seconds ...”

  There then followed a sixty-second commercial offering The Wall Street Journal delivered to one’s home for only pennies a day.

  Then the screen showed what looked like the scene of a major traffic accident. There were at least thirty police cars, all with their red and blue lights flashing. It had been taken from a helicopter. At the upper right corner of the screen, a message unnecessarily flashed, LIVE! LIVE! FROM A WOLF NEWS CHOPPER!

  Porky was a second from muting the sound when the voice of the on-duty Wolf News anchor announced, “What we’re looking at, from a Wolf News chopper, is the main gate of Fort Detrick, Maryland. We don’t know, yet, what exactly is going on here. But we do know that the post has been closed down, nobody gets in or out, and that the director of the Central Intelligence Agency just choppered in and a ‘senior official’ of the Department of Homeland Security not yet identified just arrived in a vehicle with a screaming siren ...”

  In another Pavlovian reflex, Porky reached for his White House telephone and told the operator to get him the commanding general of Fort Detrick on a secure line.

  “Colonel Russell.”

  “This is the White House switchboard. This line is secure. Mr. Parker wishes to speak with the commanding general.”

  “This is the garrison commander.”

  “Mr. Parker wishes to speak with the commanding general.”

  “We don’t have a commanding general. I’m the senior officer, the garrison commander.”

  “One moment please.”

  “Colonel, this is John Parker, the President’s press secretary.”

  “This is Colonel Florence Russell. What can I do for you, Mr. Parker?”

  “What’s going on down there?”

  The garrison commander for a moment considered correcting the pompous political lackey with “What’s going on up here, Porky. Fort Detrick is damn near due north of D.C. ...” but instead said, “We have a Potential Level Four biological hazard disaster, Mr. Parker.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?

  “The operative word is ‘potential.’ We may have, repeat may have, a biological hazard disaster, Level Four. The most serious kind.”

  “What happened?”

  “All I can tell you, Mr. Parker, is that our chief scientific officer, Colonel J. Porter Hamilton, has declared a Potential Level Four biological hazard disaster, and we have taken the necessary actions to deal with that.”

  “Colonel Russell, I repeat: What does that mean?”

  “Per SOP, we have shut down the post, alerted the hospital, and notified the proper authorities. Until we hear from Colonel Hamilton, that’s all we can do.”

  “May I speak with Colonel Hamilton, please?”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment, Mr. Parker.”

  “Why not?”

  “Colonel Hamilton is in Level Four BioLab Two.”

  “And there’s no telephone in there?”

  “There’s a telephone. He’s not answering it.”

  “Perhaps if you told him the White House is calling, he might change his mind.”

  “To do that, Mr. Parker, I would have to get him on the line. And he’s not picking up.”

  “Can you tell me what he’s doing?”

  “I can tell you what I think he’s doing. A package was delivered to him shortly before he declared the potential disaster. I think it’s reasonable to presume he’s examining the contents of that package.”

  “To what end, Colonel?”

  “To see if what it contains justifies changing the current status from ‘potential’ to ‘actual.’ Or from ‘Potential Level Four’ to a lesser threat designation. We won’t know until he tells us.”

  “The President, Colonel, is going to want to know.”

  “Colonel Hamilton is not answering the telephone in the laboratory, Mr. Parker.”

  “I understand DCI Powell is there.”

  “Yes, he is. Would you like to speak with him, Mr. Parker?”

  “Not right now. Colonel, you understand that I’m going to have to tell the President that the only person who seems to know what’s going on won’t answer his telephone?”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Colonel Russell said.

  “I’ll get back to you, Colonel,” Parker said, and then feverishly tapped the switchhook in the telephone handset cradle to get the switchboard operator back on the line.

  “Yes, Mr. Parker?”

  “Get me DCI Powell.”

  “Powell.”

  “Mr. Parker is calling, Mr. Powell. The line is secure.”

  “Mr. Powell, John Parker. What the hell is going on over there?”

  “John ...” the director of Central Intelligence began, and then stopped. After a long moment, he resumed: “John, I was just about to call the President. I think it would be best if he decided what to tell you about this.”

  Parker heard the click that told him Powell had just broken the connection.

  Porky Parker normally had unquestioned access to the President, anywhere, at any time. But now when he approached the door to the Oval Office, one of the two Secret Service men on duty put on an insincere smile and held up his hand to bar him.

  The second Secret Service agent then opened the door, and called in, “Mr. President, Mr. Parker?”

  Parker heard President Clendennen’s impatient reply: “Not now.”

  Then he heard another male voice: “Mr. President, may I respectfully suggest that we’re going to need Parker.”

  After a moment, Parker recognized the voice as that of Ambassador Charles M. Montvale, the director of National Intelligence.

  There was a brief pause, and then Clendennen, even more impatiently, drawled, “All right. Let him in.”

  The Secret Service agent at the door waved Parker into the Oval Office.

  The President was at his desk, slumped back in his high-backed blue leather-upholstered judge’s chair. Ambassador Montvale was sitting in an armchair looking up at the wall-mounted television monitor. Secretary of State Natalie Cohen was sitting sideward on the couch facing Montvale, also looking at the television.

  The President looked at Parker and pointed to the television. Parker moved to the opposite wall, leaned on it, and looked up at the television.

  Surprising Parker not at all, the President was watching Wolf News.

  There was a flashing banner across the bottom on the screen: BREAKING NEWS! BREAKING NEWS!

  The Wolf News anchor-on-duty was sitting at his desk, facing C. Harry Whelan, Jr. A banner read: C. HARRY WHELAN, JR., WOLF NEWS DISTINGUISHED CONTRIBUTOR.

  Whelan was answering a question, and although he hadn’t heard it, Parker knew what the question was: “What’s going on at Fort Detrick?”

  “Well, of course I don’t know, Steven,” C. Harry Whelan, Jr., said, somewhat pontifically, “but it seems to me, with the director of Central Intelligence there—plus that unnamed senior official from Homeland Security—that the situation there, whatever it is, is under control. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say we have a case of high-level arf-arf.”

  “‘Arf-arf,’ Harry?”

  “You don’t know the term?” Whelan asked, surprised.

  The anchor-on-duty shook his head.

  “Well, far be it from me to suggest anything at all that would cast any aspersion whatever on my good friend, Central Intelligence Agency Director Jack Powell—or for that matter on the unidentified senior Homeland Security official—but, hypot
hetically speaking, if President Clendennen had two dogs—say, a Labrador and a cocker spaniel—and they started chasing their tails, the sound they would be making would be arf-arf.”

  The camera paused for a moment on Mr. Whelan’s face—he looked very pleased with himself—and then a picture of the front page of The Wall Street Journal replaced it and a voice-over deeply intoned, “For only pennies a day ...”

  The screen went black.

  “I hate that sonofabitch,” President Clendennen said.

  A full thirty seconds later, Porky Parker broke the silence: “May I ask what’s going on at Fort Detrick?”

  President Clendennen glared at him.

  Secretary of State Natalie Cohen came to his rescue.

  “Mr. President, you’re either going to have to make a statement, or have Jack make one in your name.”

  “That might prove to be difficult, Madam Secretary,” President Clendennen said sarcastically, “as we don’t seem to have the first goddamn clue about what’s going on at Fort Detrick.”

  He let that sink in, and then went on: “And if what the DCI has just told me is true, I don’t think we should broadcast that little gem from the White House.”

  “Mr. President, what exactly did DCI Powell say?” Ambassador Montvale asked.

  “He said this colonel had gotten word to him that he ‘strongly suspects’ that the attack we made on the quote unquote Fish Farm in the Congo—the attack that brought us this close”—he held his thumb and index fingers perhaps a quarter of an inch apart—“to a nuclear exchange—did not kill all the fishes.”

  “You’re talking about Colonel Hamilton, Mr. President?” Montvale asked.

  The President nodded.

  “How could he know that?”

  “That’s what Powell said; that he got a message to that effect from Hamilton.”

  “What does Hamilton say?”

  “He’s not answering his telephone,” the President said bitterly, then picked up his telephone.

  “Get me Powell,” he ordered, and then, not twenty seconds later, said, “Is he still not answering his phone?”