The Coward's Way of War

by Nuttall, Christopher

  “I see,” Al said, wondering what had happened to Pearson. The rookie had to be scared out of his mind. “Is there any way I can talk to my family?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the doctor admitted. “We don’t want to panic them unduly. After a few days, we should be able to link you up with the other possibly-infected people, which will allow you at least something of a social life. We can arrange for television and even video games if you wish.”

  Al wanted to argue, but he knew it wouldn't get him anywhere. He sank back on the bed and sighed. “Just get me cleared and out of here as soon as possible,” he said, tiredly. It had been a long day. “I want to go home.”

  ***

  “I think that this might interest you, sir,” Mija Cat said, as she entered the editor’s office. “It’s about the developments reported last night down in that apartment block.”

  Her editor looked up with apparent interest. It was incredibly difficult to do something in complete secrecy in the modern world, not when cell phones allowed a witness to alert the media and digital cameras allowed them to record it for posterity. The New York Times had received alerts almost as soon as the police had set up a cordon around the apartment block, although they hadn't been able to find out what was actually going on, or even if it was important. The public wouldn't be interested in yet another drug bust or investigative operation. Mija, as one of the paper’s junior reporters, had been given the task of investigating the reports, if only to see if there was a story in them or not.

  “Oh good,” he said, slowly. He hadn't expected much to come of it and hadn't bothered to conceal that opinion. Mija hadn't expected anything else. As a junior reporter, without the prestige of senior reporters, she couldn't expect anything apart from the shit jobs. And, if it proved to be something newsworthy, there was a good chance that her editor would take it from her and give it to someone more experienced and popular. “What have you found out?”

  “Well, they’re saying nothing directly,” Mija admitted. She found the editor rather terrifying, even though he hadn't made a pass at her; hell, she hadn't even caught him staring at her breasts or ass. The editor blew a smoke ring and waited for her to continue. “If it was a successful operation, or even a case of mistaken identity, they would have said something, wouldn't they?”

  The editor managed to look impatient while chewing on one end of his cigar. “So I spoke to a few of our contacts in the NYPD,” Mija continued, nervously. “The ones who would talk to me said that a pair of policemen had gone into the building and then called for an ERT – an Emergency Response Team. The team was barely on its way, accompanied by a small army of policemen, when the feds came in and took over. The ERT was told to remain outside, the area was sealed and then they waited for the feds to arrive.”

  “Curious,” the editor said, thoughtfully. “And what do you deduce from that?”

  “Nothing, sir,” Mija admitted, “so I dug deeper. The feds are apparently holding everyone involved somewhere, including the policemen and some members of the ERT. The neighbours said that everyone had simply been taken away, without apparent cause. That is...odd, to say the least. There was no reason to arrest everyone...”

  “They took them all without a warrant,” the editor deduced. He smiled for the first time. Stories about abuse of government powers always went down well with the readers. “Do you know where they were all taken?”

  “No,” Mija said, “but we did get an image of one of the people being taken away.”

  She held out a printed image an amateur photographer had taken with a standard digital camera. It showed an elderly gentleman being helped into a van by a man wearing a spacesuit, while other men – wearing similar garb – stood around and waited for the locals to be removed.

  “Son of a bitch,” the editor said, in astonishment. “Those are MOPP suits.”

  Mija’s puzzlement must have shown on her face, for the editor deigned to explain. “MOPP suits are worn when there’s a biological hazard,” he explained. “A chemical spill or an infectious disease...”

  “Yes, sir,” Mija said. She hadn't known what the suits were called, but she had deduced what they were for. “I checked with a couple of our sources and discovered that the Mayor had been in conference with some of the feds, including experts from Atlanta and Washington. There’s a total black-out on news about the apartment block, but the feds are still working there, which means...”

  “That there was a biological hazard there,” the editor said. He looked up at her. “You do know what this means, don’t you?”

  Mija nodded. “I guessed that someone caught something nasty,” she said, “so I checked the building registry. There were five people in the building who could reasonably be expected to travel abroad on a regular basis. I checked with their places of employment and three of them had called in sick.”

  “Very good, Mija,” the editor said. He stood up and motioned towards the door. “We will follow this up personally and your input will be noted.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, this is my story,” Mija said. “I think that...”

  “This is not something you can follow up on,” the editor said. “You will allow me to choose a reporter who is skilled at extracting truth from government officials.”

  Mija recognised the dismissal and left his office, struggling to keep her face expressionless until she reached her cubical. The editor would assign someone else and her scoop would be stolen. Slowly, carefully, she accessed her computer and brought up her blog. The editor’s pet reporters would discover that they’d been scooped, even if they never knew who had beaten them, or why.

  It never occurred to her that, in doing so, she could cause a panic.

  Chapter Five

  ...Every single person expects the President to give 100% of his or her attention to their project, their concern or their interests. What complete nonsense! The President cannot afford to becoming bogged down by micromanagement, nor could even the most enthusiastic micromanager handle all of the responsibilities of being President. The President doesn't have to juggle balls. The President has to juggle chainsaws.

  - Press Secretary Fiona Dürst

  Washington DC, USA

  Day 5

  Doctor Nicolas Awad waited impatiently outside the Oval Office, barely aware of the pair of burly Secret Service agents keeping a careful eye on him. His use of a Top Secret code to gain access to the President had ensured that they let him through the security with the minimum of caution – although they had insisted on confiscating both his briefcase and the pistol he’d carried on his belt – but they weren't happy about it. Personally, Nicolas suspected that security would be tightened up considerably once they realised what was happening in New York. The chances were that there were infected people in Washington already, walking around unaware that they were dying from a disease they might never have known existed.

  The President’s personal secretary stepped out of the Oval Office and looked over at him. “Doctor, the President and her Cabinet will see you now,” she said. “If you will come with me...”

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Nicolas couldn't avoid a thrill as he stepped into the Oval Office. It was the very centre of his country’s political system, the office of the most powerful person in the world; somehow, he felt very small and tiny compared to the weight of history that hung in the air. In the Oval Office, President Bush had ordered the invasion of Iraq and planned the surge that had ended the insurgency and produced a viable post-war Iraq. President Reagan had plotted the economic destruction of the Soviet Union, while President Roosevelt had led his country against the Axis powers and President Lincoln had fought to hold his country together. The men and women facing him, the President’s Cabinet, seemed to loom large in front of him, even though they were politicians. He found himself hoping that they had the strength and resolve to get through the coming days, for he knew that only prompt action had a hope in hell of preserving the United States as a funct
ional entity. The country itself was at stake.

  “Madam President,” he said, feeling tongue-tied for the first time since he had been a very small child. The President, Head of State and Head of Government, seemed to dominate the room. He found himself speaking with more bluntness than he had intended. “The country is under attack.”

  President Paula Handley had not been expected to win the nomination, let alone the Presidency, but a damaging sexual scandal had torpedoed her rival’s campaign before he had forced her to bow out of the Presidential race. Unlike her predecessor, she had a reputation for being truthful and trustworthy – everyone’s favourite grandmother, one reporter had called her – and if there were skeletons in her closet, no one had been able to find them. The United States rarely trusted its political leaders, yet President Handley had a remarkably good and stable approval rating. Her opponent might grumble that she had won only because of third party candidates and a general lassitude among his party’s supporters, but there was no doubting her determination. Nicolas only hoped that she was competent and resolute. The smallpox crisis would be her first major test as President.

  At forty-one years old, she was a widow, much to the relief of the White House Protocol Office, who would have struggled to find a role for a First Husband. Her husband, a US Army Major, had been killed on active service, leaving an angry and determined woman to go into politics and, as she’d said in her campaign speeches, to ensure that American soldiers received the support they needed from their country. Her dark hair, which was starting to shade to grey under the pressures of her office, was tied up neatly in a bun, giving her a vague impression of being a schoolmistress. Nicolas met her blue eyes and was impressed by their firmness, although he knew that the eyes were not always the windows of the soul. Politicians, in his experience, tended always to believe the best and keep one eye on their chances of re-election. The President might balk at doing whatever was necessary to save the country.

  “Please be seated,” the President said. Her voice, with a faint New England twang, admitted of no weakness. “How exactly is the country under attack?”

  Nicolas took his seat and began to explain, skimming though the discovery of the infected victim – he had to force himself not to think of her as a person, not when they had to keep testing her to discover just how dangerous her infection actually was – and ending with a brief outline of just how dangerous smallpox had been in the past. There was no other disease, with the possible exception of the Black Death, that had had so much effect on history. The United States might not even exist without smallpox, for it had been smallpox, rather than European guns and technology, that had broken the Native American tribes.

  “The country is in terrible danger,” he concluded. “Madam President, we need you to declare a state of emergency at once.”

  The President said nothing for a long moment. She had the most remarkable poker face that Nicolas had ever seen, for she showed no sign of any emotion. She had watched him throughout his presentation, studying him carefully over her fingers, which hadn't even twitched. He would have hated to play poker with her, yet now he would have sold his soul for a clear sign of what she was thinking. Her decision could make or break the United States of America.

  “I see,” she said, finally. “How exactly do you suggest that we proceed?”

  It was on the tip of Nicolas’s tongue to point out that she had been briefed on Project Wildfire – and other such governmental programs – back when she’d been the President-Elect, but then he realised that she wanted him to outline it for her Cabinet.

  “We have to put the entire country into lockdown, Madam President,” he said. “We must shut down all transport, from road traffic to the railroads and civil airlines. We must not allow the disease a chance to spread further.”

  There was uproar from the Cabinet. “Madam President,” the Secretary of the Treasury - Gayle Freeman – protested, “if we shut down the country, the economy will crash completely.” Her voice hardened. “It would destroy us as a global power.”

  “This outbreak of smallpox could also destroy us as a global power,” the Secretary of Defence growled. Nicolas was relieved to see him, for he knew Scott Rudziński from his days working for USAMRIID. Rudziński might have come from the 3rd Infantry Division before he’d retired and been tapped to serve as Secretary of Defence, but he wouldn't underestimate the seriousness of the situation. “There is no point in having an economy if we’re all dead.”

  “Absurd,” the Secretary of the Treasury snapped. “This isn't a Third World state without a proper medical system. This is America!”

  The President nodded to Nicolas. “Perhaps you could explain, Doctor,” she said, calmly. “I suggest you stick to layman’s terms.”

  Nicolas nodded thoughtfully. “A serious disease - a contagious disease, which means one that can be spread from person to person – tends to go through four distinct stages,” he said. “First, the victim is infected, but shows no symptoms and is not actually contagious. They will not be infecting anyone else or spreading the disease further. Second, they will become contagious, but they will not be showing any – or many – symptoms. Third, they will start to suffer from unmistakable symptoms and will attempt to seek medical attention. Fourth, depending on the disease, they will either die or recover, if their immune system can beat the disease.

  “What this means is that anyone who is undergoing the second stage is spreading the disease, unaware that they are infecting everyone they encounter,” he continued. “Smallpox – and many other serious diseases – starts out with fairly minor symptoms, ones more reminiscent of flu or the common cold. By the time the third stage begins, when pustules start appearing and it becomes apparent that something is seriously wrong, they may have infected hundreds of other people, who will, in turn, spread the infection further.

  “Just how far a disease spreads depends on various factors. Although diseases are harmful to us, it is probably best to think of them as parasites rather than outright monsters. A parasite that harms its host is not actually contributing to its own success. Diseases like the common cold are extremely hard to eradicate because they don’t kill their hosts, allowing them to spread from person to person and then back again in a constant round of colds. They make us ill, but they do not inflict permanent harm – or death. On the other side, a disease like Ebola kills so quickly that it burns through its reservoir of hosts and can be prevented from spreading further.”

  He paused. “The real nightmare in the biological weapons field, Madam President, is a disease that has a long period of being contagious without any symptoms before it finally turns lethal,” he concluded. “A disease that was airborne, with a year’s period of incubation, would almost certainly depopulate the entire planet. This outbreak of smallpox is not that dangerous, I believe, but if we allow it to spread unchecked, it will devastate America. We must act now.”

  The President considered it for a long moment. “So we put the country into lockdown,” she said. “What do we do then?”

  “We find out, as quickly as possible, if our smallpox vaccine is effective against this particular variant of the disease,” Nicolas said. “If it is, we start massive immunisations of everyone, starting with medical personal and disaster relief specialists. If the vaccine is not effective against the disease, we start developing one that is effective, quickly.”

  “There are people who would object to being vaccinated,” the Secretary of State pointed out, mildly. “Don’t we get groups that refuse to be vaccinated because of religious reasons?”

  “Then they will die,” Nicolas said, flatly. He looked up at him. Allan Ross was a political genius, or so the media claimed, but he wasn't a decisive personality. With one eye always fixed on political advantage, he would seek to water down Nicolas’s proposals in order to maintain his ability to get elected. It couldn't be tolerated, yet how could he be prevented from destroying the country’s only hope of survival? “Do you know how much of
the country is immunised against smallpox?”

  He didn't wait for the answer. “Outside the military and some aid workers, only a very small percentage of the population is immune to smallpox,” he said. “We abandoned mass vaccination programs in the 1970s after smallpox was declared exterminated in the wild and never restarted them, even after 9/11. The Bush Administration looked at the possibility, but there were too many question marks hanging over the whole affair – and there was no immediate need to go forward – and the whole project was cancelled.

  “What that means, sir, is that less than thirty percent of the American population is immune to smallpox,” he continued. “It may well be less than that, for there are colossal question marks surrounding the older vaccines and just how effective they are in the long term. For the rest of the population, we could be looking at what we in the trade call a virgin field epidemic, one that sweeps through the population and kills – or cripples – most of the people. There will be so many infected people that we will be unable to provide hospital beds for them, forcing them to remain at home until they die, whereupon we will have to burn the bodies to stop them from infecting others if they are ever uncovered. Our entire society will collapse under the weight of the dead.”