American Terrorist Trilogy

by Jeffrey Poston

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Colonel.” Carl waited until the pilot looked over at him again. “I’ve already stopped him. Problem is, he doesn’t know it yet.” He smiled, but it was without humor. “You said back at that airport, Breen was rushing his path to become president because of me. Even though Mallory is incapacitated, I can’t see how Breen can become president so quickly. He’d have to convince the nation there’s no hope for her recovery.”

  The colonel nodded. “Only way to do that is if she dies sooner than Monday.”

  Carl nodded. “He’s going to have someone kill her.”

  Chapter 49

  Time: Unknown, Day: Unknown

  Nuevo Casas Grandes Airport, Mexico

  Agent Nancy Palmer’s slow journey back to consciousness felt like a torturous crawl up a steep slope of razor-sharp volcanic glass with no shoes and no clothes. She was aware of a full-body pain. It was a living, breathing entity enflaming every cell of her body, and it intensified with even the tiniest movement. The pain was accompanied by a ravenous hunger and a parching thirst. The pain, hunger, and thirst were so intense she wanted to scream. In all her deployments in harsh training environments and in actual field operations, she’d never felt such hunger or thirst or pain.

  As she drifted into consciousness, she didn’t move and she didn’t scream. She bore her body’s pain and cravings because there was one more consideration that trumped those—safety. She kept her eyes closed and listened to the silence of the room around her.

  She was aware of the labored breathing of other people. She heard the swishing sound of material—nylon, perhaps. She heard the clunky shuffling of footsteps moving around the room, as if the person wore oversized rubber boots. She smelled the pungent aroma of antiseptic and instantly knew where she was. She was in a quarantine room along with other infected patients. The typical hospital sounds were lacking—the medical banter between doctors and nurses, and the beeping of medical equipment—so she figured she was in a hastily set up isolation or treatment facility, maybe a school gym or a warehouse building.

  Johnson and Reichert had touched the airport superintendent, who had touched others, creating second-generation infected. The second-gen victims had spread the virus to many others—family members, associates, coworkers, friends, schoolmates, and maybe even first responders and hospital staff who had treated them. Palmer figured the total number of local people infected could easily be in the hundreds or thousands, depending on how long she’d been out. Judging by the many people she heard struggling to breath, the contagion had clearly spread beyond the TER covert operation at the municipal airport.

  A fear crept into her gut as she considered infected people who may have flown from local airports into and then out of Mexico City’s international airport before the nature of the contagion was understood. Palmer was familiar with the characteristics of viral spread. In the first few days of an outbreak in which symptoms didn’t manifest for half a day, the number of infected could multiply almost beyond imagination. The CDC and the US military had classified contingencies ranging from containment to treatment to sterilization—the eradication of infected populations that could not be saved.

  Even with a relatively small number of first-gen victims, say one thousand, and with each victim contaminating only a dozen people in the course of their daily lives, the total number of infected after only a few days could number in the millions. If only a tiny fraction of those people traveled internationally before quarantines were implemented, a catastrophe of global proportions would erupt wherever new hotspots flared.

  First-world countries would adapt quickly once they were given the formula to manufacture the antidote. Second- and third-world countries without adequate viral containment procedures could lose up to ninety percent of their populations. The world could literally lose two-thirds or more of the human race.

  There was a point of no return in any contagion where the spread of the virus would outpace the ability of technology to manufacture and distribute a cure. At that point, civilization would be lost. Under such a scenario, countries would be forced to close their borders, and economies would collapse while the surviving nations waited for the epidemic to run its course.

  For such a persistent contagion, the viral point of no return would be measured in days, not weeks. It was well known that while the first-world nations would survive the viral outbreak, none would survive the financial devastation that would occur when global economies collapsed like dominoes. Natural resources would become scarce or even unavailable, trade would stop, and limited stockpiles would be consumed quickly as the few remaining countries fought over much needed supplies.

  There was no such thing as a truly independent nation—not in the twenty-first century. Strategic war initiated ultimately by a failing country would become a very real possibility.

  Palmer had seen on the news that Vice President Breen’s call for martial law came early, so that action undoubtedly curtailed the spread of the virus in the US. The infected government officials had been isolated as soon as the first members fell to the virus. The presidential flight crew that had carried President Mallory back east had been quarantined as soon as the outbreak was publicly known, but by then the president was back aboard Air Force One with a new flight crew, flying back to Las Cruces to be with her daughter. As soon as Mallory began to show symptoms, the entire town and the hospital were quarantined, as was the base where Air Force One was parked.

  That, Palmer now knew, was part of Breen’s plan from the beginning. He wanted to eliminate the government, not the general population, so he had containment protocols in place even before the president was infected. Unfortunately, Breen and his team couldn’t control every possible variable of his scenario; something that any good chaos theoretician would have told him if asked. Maybe they did tell him. Maybe he just ignored them.

  All these thoughts raced through Palmer’s mind as she took stock of her body. Her discomfort began to fade as she began her mental exercises to control the pain, hunger, and thirst. Without moving, she inventoried her muscles and joints, tensing and flexing each limb, finger, and toe. She found everything fully functional.

  Palmer heard a sound like the swish of coarse nylon rubbing against coarse nylon nearby and felt a presence hovering over her. When the observer moved on, Palmer opened her eyes and realized she was in the same huge hangar where the colonel had parked the Gulfstream. Without moving her head, she studied the gray corrugated metal wall to her left. She recognized the Spanish-language red-and-white aircraft safety poster on the wall next to the door to the inner office where she and Carl’s team had taken refuge. The door was open, but the lights and the TV were off.

  A bank of industrial flood lights were distantly spaced around the floor of the hangar and cast the collection of beds near her in dim pools of light. She heard the distant hum of the generator powering the lights. She gazed into the darkness above her, but the pools of light near the floor cast the roof of the structure in deep shadows so that she could not make out the metal rafters supporting the hangar roof far above.

  Palmer turned her head slightly to her left, then to her right. There were easily two or three hundred beds in the hangar and they were all occupied. Since her hangar was completely filled, she knew hers wasn’t the only quarantine room. No doubt, the other hangars were being used also.

  The beds were aligned in an orderly matrix and her bed was fourth from the wall and third from massive door that could be powered open to admit planes for maintenance. The big aircraft door was closed. A quick study revealed only two attendants clad in red biological spacesuits. That surprised her. She expected more. The hangar was a maintenance building that could accommodate corporate-size jets and measured maybe sixty feet by one hundred. She counted nine rows of cots arranged lengthwise, and perhaps thirty or more columns marched off toward the opposite side of the hangar.

  Two attendants were not nearly adequate to treat three hundred patients, but t
hen she realized she was not in a treatment center. Since the cure to the virus was not yet available, she knew she was in a “keep-them-comfortable-until-they-die” center. In fact, there was a forest of clear liquid IV bags on posts by the beds, each attached to the head of a cot, and drip lines were taped to the arm of each patient.

  She noticed a commotion at the other end of the room and for a moment, Palmer thought she’d been seen moving. Three figures clad in white bio-suits entered through the personnel access door in the hangar door and converged on one of the attendants in red. One of the newcomers disconnected the IV from the arm of Red’s patient, and the other two picked up the lifeless person by the arms and legs and hauled him or her out.

  The attendants were there only to make sure everyone was still alive. That’s why there were only two of them. The remaining attendant quickly stripped the sheet from the bed and produced a neatly folded sheet wrapped in plastic from beneath the bed. The attendant ripped the plastic open, spread the new sheet, and tucked it in, all in the space of sixty seconds. Red then pulled the existing needle from the plastic tubing hanging from the IV bag and installed a new one. The other two attendants in white reentered the hangar hauling another patient, who they dumped unceremoniously onto the bed. The guys in white left and Red arranged the new patient on the bed and hooked him or her up to the IV line.

  When she was certain no one was watching her, Palmer rolled off the bed, careful not to pull the IV bag and its post down and make noise. She peeled the tape from her arm and pulled out the needle. Then she froze. She felt something out of the ordinary. When she glanced down, she saw the waistline of her black fatigues was unbuttoned and her fly was partially unzipped. She zipped, buttoned up, and checked her inventory. She’d removed her shirt and tactical vest, so she wore only a black tactical sports bra. Her pants pockets were all empty, so she had no weapons.

  When the emergency response team had been called in to contain the outbreak, they’d found Palmer and the others armed for combat and carrying no identification. No doubt, the first responders would report the presence of weapons to their authorities. Since they were infected and comatose there was no need for them to be arrested or separated from the other patients, or even placed under special guard.

  Palmer thought about searching for her other mercs or for Luisa and Julia Reyes, but quickly dismissed that idea. She had no guarantee they’d be bedded near her or even in the same hangar, and she likely had only a few minutes before the attendants made their next round and discovered her bed empty.

  She remained low to the floor. A quick glance revealed both attendants at the far end of the hangar, checking on patients with their backs to her. So she made a dash into the dark office. She stood in the darkness beside the doorway and tried to figure out her next move, but she had several options. Escape and evasion topped the list. She needed to find Carl and coordinate with him. Get a mission update. Compare objectives.

  She looked around the room. Even in the darkness, she could see that the room had been completely searched top to bottom. All the chairs and couches were overturned, and every drawer and cabinet had been emptied. Junk from those storage appliances littered the floor, but their laptop and all the notes and the reports they’d stolen from Orizaga’s residence were gone.

  There was nowhere Carl could have left a message or clue for her that would not have been discovered, except one. She smiled in the darkness, as she recalled her unbuttoned pants. He must have known the Unit would not strip-search her. She was safe because she was contagious. Reaching inside her panties, she found a folded piece of paper. Palmer held the unfolded letter so the glare from the hospital room allowed her to read it.

  Check the OJ. If I fail, get to the president any way possible—Carl

  It was completely Carl Johnson’s style to have a contingency plan in case he was captured or killed. Agent Palmer quickly crossed the small office, careful to avoid the debris littering the floor, and opened the refrigerator door just a tiny fraction of an inch to guard against the flood of light attracting attention from the attendants in the hangar. But Carl had foreseen that obstacle also. The light did not come on, and when Palmer pulled the door wide open, she saw the light bulb had been unscrewed but left in place, leaving the illusion of possibly a burned-out bulb.

  There were only three items inside on the topmost of two steel wire shelves. There was an old apple that was fading to brown. It looked like it would burst open and ooze gooey slime at the slightest touch. There was half of a foot-long sandwich in a wrapper from Subway and it looked to be in pretty much the same condition as the apple. And there was a half-pint carton of orange juice turned on its side with the pour spout open.

  She carefully poured the remaining juice into the sink. Then she shook out two tiny vials of blue liquid—one antidote for the president and one for her daughter. There was a sliver of paper wrapped around the vials and when she pulled them out of the carton, the paper fell off. On its soaked surface was smeared ink.

  <55F!!!

  She put the vials back in the OJ carton and put it back in the fridge until she was ready to make her move.

  What is it about that man? Talk about hiding something in plain sight.

  He had amazing instincts, identifying problems and inventing unpredictable solutions. Anyone searching the fridge would see the rotten food and the nearly over-turned juice carton and assume there was nothing in the fridge of interest.

  As Palmer scanned the dark room for resources, she realized Carl Johnson reminded her a lot of Aaron McGrath. While McGrath was a great leader and mentor, he kept tight control of his emotions. In the year she had served with McGrath, the only time she’d seen him display any emotional reaction at all was four days ago when he thought his daughter was in the building Carl blew up.

  Carl, on the other hand, was equal parts love and hatred and had no qualms about showing his heart or his fury. He had recently turned into a stone-cold killer, and she recalled how he had beheaded Agent Klipser with a tree saw. He said he did it to prove he could. He said he was training himself to be ruthless. The very next day he rushed to rescue the president’s sixteen-year-old daughter, but he could only save her by forming an instant empathic connection to her. And, he’d succeeded in reaching the wounded girl.

  Palmer had also personally seen how Julia Reyes, a girl Carl had known only two days, had responded to his loving embrace. He was flawed and he knew it, yet he knew when to ask for help and when to show emotion. Palmer found his raw emotions attractive and a little bit exciting.

  And that kiss!

  He’d ignited a fire in her she hadn’t felt in years. He had her by twenty-six years, but he possessed qualities and traits that made him seem much younger than fifty-three. The momentary fantasy ended abruptly as she physically shook herself back to the task at hand. There was no way she could act on her feelings. Neither of them could, and they both understood that.

  She turned her attention to escape. She assumed the Unit would have discovered her and the mercs’ identities when the first responders reported their weapons. First, she needed weapons because she knew the Unit would be dispatched to take her into custody, or kill her, when they found her empty cot. Second, she needed an escape route off the airport. Third, she needed transportation to the president’s hospital. Fourth, she needed a way into the hospital, hopefully without killing American service men or women.

  Palmer crossed the dark room to the office’s exterior entry door. She unlatched the deadbolt and eased the door open, intending to scout military security, when a piercing scream erupted from inside the hangar where she’d just awoken.

  Chapter 50

  1710 hours MST Saturday

  Albuquerque, NM

  Carl started chuckling and the colonel glanced over at him.

  “What’s funny?”

  “This is the TER’s covert ops plane, and Palmer has plenty of guns back there. She gave me a tour. If this were a movie, I’d open up the door and spray
those jets with some automatic rifle fire. They’re close enough, I could get all Rambo and shoot ‘em both down.”

  Colonel joined him in a brief laugh. “If you opened a door at this altitude and speed, you’d get sucked right out the plane. Besides, those are F-22 Raptors. They aren’t armored, but it’ll take a lot more than a rifle to put a dent in their skins.”

  The humorous moment faded quickly and Carl found himself wondering what Aaron McGrath would do in his place. What ruthless gambit would the man employ to save his president and his country? What would Agent Palmer do? He wished she were on the plane with him. He needed her tactical knowledge because he didn’t know what to do.

  Carl glanced out his window again at the jet. The air force was not the Unit. Breen could not order the officers to open fire, destroy the Gulfstream, and risk killing hundreds of civilians on the ground with flaming wreckage. But even if Carl managed to get on the ground and avoid capture, what could he do with the antidote? Who could he contact that the Unit couldn’t kill or intimidate? What hospital could he get the antidote to that Breen’s people did not control? How could he get the cure into the hands of the president’s doctors?

  No answers came to Carl as the plane sped south over the western foothills of the Sandia Mountains. Out the left window, he saw the red warning lights atop Sandia Peak from the antenna farm that broadcast television and radio signals across the land. Out the right window, he saw the shimmering lights of Albuquerque’s Northeast Heights. Something was missing, though, and the city looked eerily still from four thousand feet up. He quickly realized the anomaly.

  There is no auto traffic on any of the streets or highways!

  On a Saturday night, just an hour after sunset, he should have seen a constant stream of red taillights and white headlights on every major artery in the city. Instead, the streets were completely vacant, except for the occasional emergency vehicle with its strobe lights flashing. It was a military curfew because of the infections he had spread throughout the city. It had to be.