He shot one of the men through the head, pushing aside any concerns he might have had about using deadly force. The civil liberties groups might complain, but when there was an armed and dangerous shooter, the orders were to take him down as quickly as possible, before he could harm or kill innocent civilians. He swore as he realised that the other ambulances and the coach were also decoys, unloading dozens of armed men into the general area. He shot his pistol dry and started to reload, but it was too late. Three bullets ripped through his chest and the world went away in a burst of burning pain.
***
Dispatcher Charlotte Gains loved her job, even though she knew that it could be incredibly stressful. The NYPD officers on the streets needed the men and women back at One Police Plaza to coordinate their activities, even if they did gripe and moan about ‘rear-echelon mother-fuckers’ when they thought the dispatchers couldn't hear. Working in the emergency command centre was the most stressful of all, something that had only grown worse when Henderson’s Disease had exploded onto the streets of New York.
One moment, the board was as quiet as it ever got; the next it lit up with hundreds of red lights. Charlotte found herself staring as hundreds of emergency alerts came in, some clearly concentrated in the same area and therefore likely to be one problem, others scattered all over the city. The reports were vague; bombings, shootings and riots. She knew that the first few minutes after a crisis – be it a bomb explosion or something more mundane – were always the worst, yet she felt that the crisis was already slipping out of hand. Her supervisor was barking orders, forcing the dispatchers to return to work and focus on collecting data. She concentrated, as per her orders, on attempting to divert patrol cars towards the crisis points in her sector. As the data rolled in, one picture was becoming clear; a number of hospitals were under attack. Who, she asked herself, would be stupid enough to do that?
***
Lindsey Mann pushed her way through the chemical mist, carefully removed her mask and protective garments and finally slumped into a chair in the restroom. Tears – harsh bitter tears – welled up within her eyes, yet she fought hard to blink them away before anyone saw them. A good cry would be just what she needed, she told herself, but she had to set an example to the younger nurses. Many of them looked up to her and she couldn’t let them down, even by letting the young women see her cry. She had to be strong.
And yet, it was so hard to be strong. Only fifteen minutes ago, she had watched helplessly as a young girl, barely older than her daughter, died on a makeshift bed. Henderson’s Disease had ravaged her system, leaving her coughing up blood and choking before it had finally killed her. There had been little that Lindsey could do for the girl, for the hospital’s supply of painkillers and other medical drugs were tightly rationed. The doctors had convinced the police to confiscate all the painkillers they could find from the local stores, yet most of them were useless against Henderson’s Disease. The best they could do, so far, was make a person’s last hours more comfortable. It wasn't enough. The doctors had experimented with alcohol, medical marijuana and even illegal drugs, yet the results had not been promising. Lindsey had heard from one of the doctors that the real kick lay in how the disease tore through the victim’s body. With proper medical care, a person might last for weeks before they died, if they were kept in intensive care. The city didn't have the resources to do that for the entire population.
She ran her hand through her hair, wishing that she didn't feel so grimy. The last shower she’d had had been two days ago and she knew that she probably smelled to high heaven. There was so much disinfectant in the air that no one could smell her, or so she devoutly hoped, yet she knew and it galled her. Basic hygiene alone was a life-saver, a lesson that doctors had proven surprisingly unwilling to learn, and her hygiene – everyone’s hygiene – was slipping badly. They might just beat Henderson’s Disease only to lose patients to some lesser disease, spread by the doctors themselves. No one had any time to rest.
The door opened and Susan, a young black nurse, looked in. “You’re needed in Room Three,” she said. Lindsey wasn't surprised. They were all meant to have at least some hours off every day, yet there were so many patients and so few medical staff. At least nine people had simply walked out of the building and gone back home to their families. Lindsey worried that they had probably taken an unwanted guest with them, Henderson’s Disease. “Doctor McDougal would like...”
She broke off. “Do those sound like gunshots?”
Lindsey looked up tiredly as the sounds echoed in the air. Susan was right; they did sound like gunshots, coming from outside the building. They also seemed to be growing louder, and closer. It was so hard to muster the energy to stand up, but with Susan’s help she managed to come to her feet and pick up her gown. She could hear shouting now, cries of rage and pain and fear – as well as angry orders, obviously delivered at gunpoint. The hospital staff had drilled on what to do if terrorists attacked – a hospital would make a good site for an atrocity, the building security staff had warned – but none of them had practiced escaping the terrorists when the building was crammed full of patients. The moment’s hesitation was too long. Before either of them could react, a man kicked the door down and burst in, swinging a rifle ahead of him.
“Hands in the air, now,” he barked. Lindsey complied, numbly. The man was wearing a mask, but no gloves; his dark hands twitching uncomfortably around the trigger. She couldn't decide if he was ill, on drugs or simply nervous. His eyes seemed almost intensely focused on what he was doing. “Turn around and place your hands behind your backs, now!”
Susan looked shocked. “But, sir...”
The man slapped her across the face, sending her tumbling to the floor. Lindsey felt a sudden rush of anger which was tempered by him shoving his rifle in her face. She wanted to kick him in the groin, but it would certainly result in him pulling the trigger. He barked his orders again and she mutely complied, praying that he didn't intend to kill them outright. A moment later, her hands were held in a powerful grip and secured behind her back with a plastic tie.
“Stay there,” the man ordered, as he bent over Susan. The weeping girl offered no resistance as he rolled her over and secured her hands, before pulling her to her feet and shoving her against the wall. He looked over at Lindsey and gestured towards the door. “That way, now!”
Lindsey stared at him. “Sir,” she said, as calmly as she could, “that is not a clean place. You might already be infected...”
He backhanded her. “Shut up, bitch,” he snarled. “The government has the cure. The government will give us the cure or we’ll start cutting pieces off your pretty face to convince them to change their minds.”
Lindsey thought fast. With their hands tied, there was no hope of escape or overpowering him. They would have to do as he said, carefully. “Sir,” she said. “Can we at least put on our masks?”
“No,” he sneered. He took her shoulder and pushed her towards the door. “Move!”
He forced them to walk down the passageway and into one of the larger rooms. His gang – or whoever they were – seemed to have taken every doctor and nurse in the building, leaving most of them lying helplessly on the floor and guarded by heavily-armed terrorists. Lindsey realised that most of them had made the same deduction she had; without their masks, they were easy prey for Henderson’s Disease. The odds were that they would be infected quickly, simply by breathing in droplets drifting through the air. The terrorists would also be infected too, but she couldn't take too much pleasure in that. The disease wouldn't discriminate between the good and the bad.
“You will all be staying here until we are given our righteous demands,” a voice proclaimed. The speaker was an older black man, who wore no mask. Lindsey didn't recognise him, but he looked oddly familiar, as if she’d seen him before on television. “And if they don’t give us what we want, you will merely be the first to die.”
Lindsey shivered as she was pushed down and forced to si
t on the floor. Her position as an army wife, many years ago, had included some lessons on what to do in an emergency. Her trainers had been at pains to warn them that the first few moments of any dangerous situation were always the worst. The hostage-takers would be as nervous as their victims. Given time, they could be calmed down and outside forces could negotiate or plot their release. She glanced around, hoping and praying that none of the others would do something stupid. If they couldn't escape, they had to be as quiet as mice. Their time would come.
***
The hellfire missile blasted into one of the buildings, sending most of the enemy fighters scurrying for cover. A pair of police helicopters flew overhead, the door gunners firing down long streaks of tracer fire into the surrounding buildings. Doug allowed himself a moment of relief as the enemy fighters melted away, unwilling to confront such firepower directly. The few who tried to shoot up at the helicopters were swiftly dispatched by their hovering foe.
“We lost three men,” he said, speaking to his CO. He'd arranged for the men to be bagged up and placed in the rear of the vehicles, for there hadn't been time for anything more formal. It was American soil and he was treating it like the sandbox or the desert of death. If the situation hadn't been quite so surreal, he might have started to laugh. “Two more are injured, but insist that they can carry on.”
“Understood,” the CO said. He sounded tired and badly stressed. “You weren’t the only target, Sergeant. They hit multiple targets right across the city. The police, the emergency services, us...it feels like fucking Baghdad out there.”
Doug swallowed, feeling his throat constrict. The situation was insane. Who in their right mind would be insane enough to try to destroy or steal the vaccine? The answer, once he thought about it, was obvious. The prime suspects were the ones who believed that they wouldn't be vaccinated, ever, no matter what they did. Thanks to the Mayor, that description fitted most of the city. He looked over at the barricade as a handful of police vehicles pushed it aside, after checking it carefully for booby-traps and finding nothing. The media had been claiming for years that New York’s gangs had been gathering firepower and studying insurgency tactics that had confounded and defeated armies across the globe. Doug hadn't believed them – the few gang members he had met had been unimpressive – but now he wondered. Could someone have been planning an insurgency in America's streets?
“Yes, sir,” he said, finally. “Do you wish us to continue with distribution?”
“No, Sergeant,” the CO said. “I’m uploading you a set of coordinates. Your primary destination has been taken by the terrorists. You are to take the vaccine to the safe area, where it will be stored until it can be distributed.”
Doug felt his blood run cold. The designated distribution area was Brooklyn Hospital Centre, where Lindsey worked. He had hoped, childishly, that he could see her, if only for a few seconds. If it had been attacked, his wife could be dead, or worse. He wanted to take the soldiers to the hospital and liberate it, but he had to follow orders.
“Yes, sir,” he said. If the insurgents, or whatever they were, had harmed his wife, he’d do whatever it took to make them pay. “We’re on our way.”
***
The terrorists – or so Al decided to call them – had really done a number on the NYPD forces that had been supposed to be guarding the hospital. When he pulled up in his squad car, he’d discovered only a handful of survivors, many injured and in a state of shock. He’d taken command and withdrawn them from easy sniper range, pressing newcomers into service and sealing off the Brooklyn Hospital Centre. Sooner or later, a senior officer would arrive and take command, but until then it was him. He wasn't the type of person to sit on his ass and wait for orders.
“Sergeant,” a voice said. Al looked up to see Doctor McCoy. McCoy wasn't in his chain of command, but it had been made clear that anyone with Project Wildfire clearance was not only cleared for almost everything, but authorised to issue whatever orders they say fit. “Did they get the vaccine as well?”
“I don’t think so,” Al admitted. That had been sheer luck. If the terrorists had struck an hour later, they would have been able to capture thousands of doses of vaccine. “I think that the army dudes were getting diverted somewhere.”
“Never mind that,” McCoy said. “Those men in there, whoever they are, they’re not going to be vaccinated, are they?” Al shook his head. “And many of them might be on drugs, or have AIDS, or something else that will weaken them.”
Al looked up at him, puzzled.
“They’re in one of the most contagious places in the city,” McCoy said. “And, if they’re on drugs or ill, they will start to show symptoms pretty damned quickly. And, once they get ill, they won’t hesitate to harm the people inside. I think we’d better start plotting to liberate the hospital quickly.”
Al couldn't disagree.
Chapter Eighteen
I have a dream that, one day, my people will rise up and take what we are owed from the White Establishment that rules over us. I have a dream that Uncle Toms like President Obama and Colin Powell, George Bush’s lapdog, will hang from the lampposts as the black population of America rises to revenge ourselves upon the whites. I have a dream that the Black America Movement will lead us to victory, for have we not suffered yet have been denied the Promised Land?
-Reverend Johnston
Washington DC, USA
Day 17
“Gentlemen, be seated,” the President ordered, as she took her seat at the end of the table. The secure conference room, deep beneath the White House, felt very empty to her, for two-thirds of her Cabinet were attending electronically. Their faces appeared on the screens as the secure links to various command posts and underground bunkers were established, lending them a virtual presence that was not reflected in reality. They could talk, and contribute, but the President felt as if they were not really there.
The Cabinet, and the handful of briefing officers, took their seats at her command. “Madam President,” Spencer said. “All hell has broken loose across the country.”
The President rubbed her eyes tiredly, feeling the effects of too little sleep. It was easy to understand why so many occupants of the White House became micromanagers, because – fundamentally – the buck stopped with them. There were limits to what the President could do – and on what the President could accomplish quickly – yet few outside the office ever realised that truth. They saw only the most powerful man – or woman – in the world and never asked themselves about the limits on that power. No man could hope to control every aspect of American life – even American government – personally.
“So I understand,” she said. No one even commented on how the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had taken the lead on briefing the President. The Pentagon was deeply involved now in civil matters, something unthinkable outside a state of national emergency. “What exactly is going on in New York?”
Spencer’s grim expression darkened. “The troubles have spread out of New York,” he said. “We’re looking at major riots and civil unrest in a dozen cities, from Chicago to San Francisco. The worst of the incidents amount to either outright terrorism or a declaration of civil war. I fear that we may be only looking at the beginning of a wave of incidents.”
He tapped the remote control and a map of New York appeared on the display. “The first wave of incidents came as a set of ambushes targeted against both military and civil police units in New York,” he began. “A convoy transporting medical supplies into the city was ambushed and would have been overrun, were it not for the quick thinking of the officer on the spot. Other convoys were not as lucky; they, along with several police stations, were overrun and destroyed. The supplies they were carrying were stolen.
“Incredible as it seems, those attacks were seemingly cover for a series of far more dangerous attacks,” he continued. “The most dangerous was an attack on the Brooklyn Medical Hospital in New York. The hospital was attacked by a number of armed men
and taken, with most of the personnel within the hospital captured and used as hostages. There was a second attack on the CDC building in Atlanta, but they had an Army battalion on defence duty and the attackers were repelled with heavy casualties. The Brooklyn Medical Hospital, however, remains in enemy hands. There has been no attempt, as yet, to dislodge them.”
The President stared down at the featureless table. She was used to being briefed on remarkably destructive and bold terrorist attacks in Pakistan, Afghanistan and a dozen other unstable countries, but somehow it was impossible to grasp that such social anarchy had come to America. There might have been social and political ferment in the country, as a result of Henderson’s Disease and the military blockade, yet she had believed that they were under control. It seemed that she had been wrong.
She shook her head in disbelief and looked up at Spencer. “Who is responsible for this?”
“The Reverend Johnston,” Spencer said, tiredly. He looked drained, as if he was unable to believe his eyes. “As soon as his forces overran the hospital, he started streaming his call to arms over the internet. As you can see...”
The Coward's Way of War Page 17