The thought of his wife pulled him to his feet and he staggered into the shower, praying that there was water in the tank. Water services in New York had become erratic over the past week – a combination of terrorist attacks and workers terrified of catching Henderson’s Disease - but there was enough cold water in the tank to sober him up. He tore off the sodden remains of his outfit and hosed himself down, before climbing out of the shower and towelling himself dry. A new purpose was glimmering in his mind. He would dress, report to the FOB, pick up his deployment orders and head out to Kuwait.
Lindsey’s face – his final sight of his wife of nineteen years – seemed to shimmer in front of him, pockmarked by the deadly traces of Henderson’s Disease. The inhuman swine who had unleashed it on America, unleashed it on the entire world, were going to pay, whatever it took. Doug silently swore a vow to the shade of his wife and all of the others who had died, before taking one last look around his home. Somehow, he was sure that he would never see it again.
***
“Mister Policeman, it hurts!”
Al gripped Cami’s hand tightly as she shivered, lying in bed. It had been sheer luck that he and his new partner had been patrolling in the area – and had heard her desperate cries – but it had been the luck of the devil, for there was nothing they could do for her. Cami was a pretty young girl, around eight years old by Al’s reckoning, yet she would never grow up into an adult. Her face, what parts of it weren't covered with evil red pustules, held hints of a mature beauty to come...
He shook his head bitterly. Cami would never become a teenager, never discover the wonderful world of boyfriends and girlfriends and never share a first kiss. She would never fall in love or have her heart broken, never find a partner and get married, never have children or see them grow up into adulthood. Her sweating palm was proof enough that she was deathly ill, yet her family had abandoned her in the house. They’d just fled, leaving their daughter behind. It had probably been too late to save them from Henderson’s Disease. By the time their daughter manifested overt symptoms, she would have been contagious for several days.
“I know,” he said, cursing his own helplessness. “You just have to be brave.”
Cami whimpered. The sound tore at his heart. If the city had been normal, they could have called for an ambulance and medical personnel, but no one would come now if they called. Even if they did, there would be nothing they could do for Cami, apart from prolonging her agony. He reached out and felt the girl’s forehead, only to recoil when he felt her temperature. She was burning up from the inside.
“Mom always used to tell me to be brave,” Cami said. Her voice was weak, failing. “I never used to listen.”
“I never listened either,” Al said, hoping that it would amuse her. He’d seen death before, the savage death that comes from battle and the sudden death of senseless training accidents, but this was worse. He had never seen a small girl fade away in front of him. Cami shifted uncomfortably and her blanket fell away, revealing a semi-transparent nightgown and dark marks on her skin. Al examined one of them and swore. Her body was becoming a terrifying mass of Henderson’s Disease. She had very little unblemished skin left. “My Drill Sergeant used to shout at me for not obeying orders.”
He grinned. “And when we graduated from Boot Camp, a few of us went to stay in Alaska for a week,” he added. “We built a snowman, placed a Smoky the Bear hat on it and named it after the DI. And then we threw snowballs at it.”
Cami giggled. It had been a puerile joke by young men who had survived the worst that the DI’s had thrown at them, unaware – or unbelieving – why they’d been trained so hard and or why so many had been allowed to drop out and return to civilian life. In the years that had followed, Al had served in a dozen countries, each one populated by people who hated Westerners, Americans in particular. His training had saved his life, yet others hadn't been so lucky...or perhaps they had been the lucky ones. They were up guarding the gates of Heaven, while he was watching a small girl die in front of him.
Her giggles broke off suddenly into gasps of pain, great hacking coughs that spewed a bloody mass across the bed. Al stared at her for a long moment and made up his mind. “Pray with me,” he urged, pulling Cami into a hug. She felt so tiny against his greater bulk. “As I lay me down to sleep...”
“I pray the Lord, my soul to keep,” Cami echoed. “And if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord, my soul to take.”
Al snapped her neck. Her body lolled back against his and he vomited, almost unwilling to believe what he had done. There had been no choice, or so he told himself, yet it felt as if he had crossed a line. Gently, he placed her down on her bed and closed her eyes with his fingers. Somewhere, he hoped her soul would find peace; if such a young child had committed any real sins in her life, the pain she'd suffered at the end of her days would pay for them. Or so he told himself.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered to the girl’s shade. He thought, briefly, of drawing his pistol and following her into death, but he had his duty. The NYPD was critically undermanned as it was, even without officers committing suicide at will. “I’m so sorry.”
Leaving a red flag to mark the house as a infected building, one that would have to be sterilised once the body was removed, he stepped outside and, waving to his partner, set off towards the nearest decontamination centre. His uniform was covered with Henderson’s Disease and he had to be decontaminated before he approached anyone who wasn't vaccinated. And then, he knew, he would have to report to his superior and admit what he had done. Who knew what would happen then?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The important thing to bear in mind about the Arabs is that they are the single most arrogant, the single most convinced of their own superiority, people on Earth. Forget the French, forget the Germans, forget the Colonial British...the Arabs are convinced that they are the greatest. They even consider themselves vastly superior to their fellow non-Arab Muslims, who are barely even considered Muslim. Part of this is that an Arab – particularly an Arab leader – can never admit fault or accept blame. It would be seen as a sign of weakness.
-Ambassador Andrew C. Madsen
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Day 30
Ambassador Andrew C. Madsen heard the chanting as the ambassadorial car drove from the American Embassy towards the Saudi Foreign Ministry. The capital city of Saudi Arabia was no stranger to protests – all seemingly random, in fact organised by the regime and its clerical allies – and most of them were directed against the United States or Israel. There were Ambassadors in Saudi Arabia who had been known to quip that a country wasn't really important until the Arabs had held protest marches against it, a joke that had grown increasingly less amusing as everything Islamic opinion found offensive led to violence across the Arab world, directed at people who had had nothing to do with the so-called offence.
“Death to America; God is Great! Death to Israel; God is Great!”
The car turned the corner and passed the shouting protesters, some of whom recognised the American flag and took a moment to hurl their shoes towards the vehicle. Andrew didn't show any reaction; the car had been carefully built to be almost as heavily armoured as a light tank and it would have required grenades or high explosive to inflict any serious damage on the vehicle. The protesters temper tantrum didn't seem as if it was going to abate any time soon; the chaos in the United States and Europe had brought the radical fringe onto the streets in force. The nervous-looking policemen eyed the crowd, clearly wondering if this was the day when they would turn violent and lash out at the House of Saud.
Andrew smiled bitterly at the thought. People had been predicting the demise of the House of Saud for decades, yet the Princes had shown remarkable resilience. They played the different tribes off against one another, supported a clerical establishment that imposed their version of Islamic Law on the civilian population and had an alliance with the United States that protected them against their hostile and
envious neighbours. Even now, prior to Henderson’s Disease, there had been understandings between the United States and Saudi Arabia, a state that was an offence against everything America stood for. Now, he knew, all such understandings were deader than the dodo.
He caught sight of a young bearded man shouting abuse towards the American vehicle and smiled again, knowing that the protesters would barely be able to see his face through the tinted glass. The young man would have grown up subjected to a barrage of propaganda and perhaps studied Islam at the local universities, only to discover that it was no help when it came to finding a job. He would have had nothing to do, but sit on his backside and study the finer points of Islam – and consider, as so many others had, just how carefully the House of Saud followed Islamic Law. In public, the House of Saud was the most religious body in the world; in private, they acted more like the American oilmen they’d come to know, over fifty years ago. The Saudis imported more Scotch and French Wines than almost any other country, even the United States. The younger princes would cross the causeway to Bahrain and indulge themselves with drink and women; the princesses would travel to Europe and America – where they did not have to be veiled – and purchase millions of dollars worth of clothes and jewels. Some of the greedier princesses were reputed to own vast collections of cars, even though Saudi women were not allowed to drive. It was no wonder that their subjects grew increasingly restive under their yoke, watching eagerly for any shift in the balance of power.
Andrew shook his head as the car passed through the gates, a final volley of shoes bouncing off the rear windows. The protesters were packed close together, perhaps for moral support in the face of the police and National Guardsmen, yet the Arabs had little concept of social distance. They hugged and embraced each other regularly, something that would be sure to spread Henderson’s Disease through an unprepared population like wildfire. The Saudis were saying nothing, but Andrew would have been astonished if they hadn't had a few cases of Henderson’s Disease before Patient Zero had been discovered in New York. One of the other problems with biological warfare time bombs was that they could never be counted on to go off when you wanted them to detonate. A thousand different factors could accelerate or delay detonation.
The door opened, allowing him to breathe in the hot dry air of the city. The Saudis might just be luckier than they deserved, for Henderson’s Disease wasn't fond of direct sunlight. Andrew would have hated to count on it, but it was just possible that the rate of infection would be slower, even without an immunisation program. Even so, it would eventually burn through Saudi Arabia as well, which would be ironic. He steeled himself as he stepped out of the car and allowed the Foreign Minister’s male secretary to welcome him into the building. The President’s orders had been clear and, even though Andrew was no career diplomat – he had received the post because he wasn't tightly linked into the State Department – he had winced at their bluntness. But then, with hundreds of thousands – perhaps millions – of Americans infected with Henderson’s Disease, there was no time to be indirect. The Saudis had to be made to understand that they finally had to choose a side.
The thought made him scowl, for Saudi money hadn't just corrupted the Arabs. The Saudis had invested heavily in Washington, using everything short of outright bribery to build up a Saudi Lobby that put the Jewish Lobby in the shade. Indeed, the Saudis had bought controlling interests in many media outlets in both America and Europe and used them to mount a constant propaganda barrage against the Jewish State. Israel had been permanently painted as a villain, with everything they did portrayed as unreasonable aggression, while their enemies had been depicted as helpless civilians. Even outside the media, there were so many people who were – directly or indirectly – on the Saudi payroll that the State Department had been warped out of shape by their pressure. Their pressure had cost the United States dearly over the years.
He smiled as he entered the Foreign Minster’s personal office. Despite claims that the Saudi Government was economising, there was never any trace of restraint in their offices, no sense that the cents had been counted carefully. The office was a strange cross between an ordinary office – one that might have belonged to a CEO – and a desert tent, one that might have been used by a tribe crossing the desert. Tasteless artworks littered the walls, while a massive pot of coffee bubbled away in one corner. Hundreds of executive toys had been scattered around the desks; computers had been placed against the wall, where they showed a constant live feed from outside. Andrew felt his lips twitch as he saw one of the protesters waving a sign that read – in Arabic – YOUR TIME HAS COME. He wondered if it meant America's time, or that of the House of Saud.
“My friend,” Prince Ibrahim said, as he rose to his feet. The Saudi Minister of Foreign Affairs looked nervous, his dark eyes twitching from side to side. He had put on weight, Andrew noted dispassionately, eating well while many of his people starved. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
Andrew looked at the extended hand and refused to shake it. Normally, there would be some food and drink and polite – if insincere – enquiries into the health of each other’s families, but the President’s orders had been clear. The Arab habit of procrastinating – in the hope that Allah would take away whatever was bothering them if they pretended it didn't exist – could not be allowed to distract them from the import of his message. Prince Ibrahim looked puzzled, and then waved Andrew to a Western-style chair.
“You must be tired,” he said. “I shall have my Secretary bring us both some coffee...”
Andrew studied him evenly, for he’d read the file the CIA had compiled on Prince Ibrahim over the years. He'd studied in America and had had at least one illegitimate son in the United States, the result of a brief affair with an American woman. He’d never acknowledged his son and the CIA wasn't sure if he even knew that the brat existed. He’d even experimented with drugs and alcohol, something he’d kept on drinking even after a return to his country and starting his long climb up through the ranks of the House of Saud. His three wives – Islam allowed a man to have four wives, although some members of the House of Saud had been known to marry far more than four women – had borne him seventeen children, nine of whom were studying in the United States. One of them had nearly been lynched following the outbreak of Henderson’s Disease; they had all been taken into protective custody. If the police had known what Andrew knew, they might have lynched the kids themselves.
“I won’t be staying,” Andrew said, bluntly. It would have been rude in America, let alone in Saudi Arabia, but part of him felt darkly amused at pushing the Saudi so hard. Prince Ibrahim had to know something – the rush of American troops into Kuwait and three entire carrier battle groups heading towards the Middle East could hardly be concealed – but what did he know, or suspect? “I have been tasked with delivering a message from the President.”
He sat back in his chair and studied Prince Ibrahim for a long moment. The Saudi was practiced in concealing his emotions, yet he still looked deeply concerned, even nervous. Andrew smiled inwardly, making no attempt to conceal his thoughts, and leaned forward. It was vitally important that there were no misunderstandings, nothing that would allow the Saudis to try to wriggle out from their obligations.
“We have discovered that the biological weapon deployed against the United States – a Weapon of Mass Destruction – was launched from Saudi Arabia,” he said, flatly. “We have furthermore discovered that elements within the Saudi Government were...involved in launching the attack.”
He reached into his briefcase and dumped a set of papers on the desk. “We have a list of demands,” he continued. “We will accept nothing less than complete and total compliance with our demands. If you refuse to submit, we will launch a military invasion of your country, remove the House of Saud from power and impose our own order. Your country launched a biological attack against the United States. We will not allow that to go unpunished, nor will anyone else.
“You will immedia
tely surrender the persons named in this document,” he said, tapping the papers on the desk. “You will allow FBI and CIA teams to operate within your country at will, without impedance, to find and arrest all members of extremist groups within the country. You will allow us to make a public examination of your finances and determine exactly where the money is going. You will disband the religious police and remove most of the restrictions on your citizens. You will put a stop to the flow of anti-American, anti-European and anti-Israeli propaganda within your country. And you will grant your guest workers full rights as citizens of your nation.
“If you refuse these demands, there will be no further negotiation,” he concluded. “The next American official you will see will be the commanding officer of the 3rd Infantry Division as he takes your surrender in the ruins of this office. Or perhaps you won’t survive so long. Your population isn't vaccinated against Henderson’s Disease, is it?”
He smiled, darkly, at the Saudi’s expression. “There are two other things you need to know,” he added. “The first one is that there is a field of thought in Washington that demands that we use our own WMD in response to the attack you launched. Your cities are defenceless against nukes. Bear that in mind. The second is that our NATO allies are with us on this. Your mansions in Europe will be seized; the money your princes have salted away for a rainy day has been frozen. There is nowhere to hide any longer.
The Coward's Way of War Page 26