Dark Grid (Book 3): Dark Coup

by David C. Waldron

  “His lawyer pulls him aside and started asking him questions, and he just kept saying no until he threatened to fire the lawyer right there, in court, in front of the judge, for cause.” Mallory smiled a little. “The lawyer shut up at that point until we were in the room to get the papers signed,” she said. “He asked ‘What made you change your mind about…’ and my ex said, ‘One more word out of you and I’ll own your practice!’ He literally didn’t say another word the entire time.”

  “You think…” Ben started to ask.

  Mallory nodded. “I didn’t put it together until almost a year later,” she said. “Which is stupid, or wishful thinking, or, I don’t know. Kyle didn’t do or say anything. I was at home, going through some things, and I came across the divorce papers and I remembered those last couple of weeks, and things finally clicked.”

  “And you never said anything to Kyle about it,” Ben asked.

  “No,” Mallory shook her head, “and he wouldn’t have wanted me to. He wasn’t like that. He never said anything and assumed I didn’t know. If he’d wanted me to know he would have told me, so I kept it to myself.” She looked Ben in the eyes, “You’re the first person I’ve ever told, and if you ever tell Kyle I knew,” she let the threat hang in the air between them.

  “Not a word,” Ben said. “Believe it or not I understand. So why didn’t anything ever happen there?”

  “Aside from the fact that I was in his chain-of-command,” Mallory asked.

  Ben gave Mallory a look that spoke volumes.

  “Okay,” Mallory said. “Because at first I wasn’t ready for a relationship–any relationship–and then I wasn’t ready for a relationship with someone who knew all about my previous relationship. Then, eventually, Kyle was just a really good friend.”

  Ben winced. “Ouch,” he said. “Relegated to the friend-zone and he never even knew it.”

  “That’s not fair,” Mallory said. “I never gave him any reason to think otherwise.”

  “Really,” Ben asked.

  Mallory was silent for several seconds.

  “You know,” Ben said, “I wanted to ask you out in the worst way when we were in boot.”

  “Why didn’t you,” she asked.

  “Well,” Ben said, “even back then you were a little intimidating.”

  “Moi,” Mallory asked, taking one of her hands back and touching her chest and feigning shock.

  “Yes you,” Ben chuckled. “Private Jensen who could do more push-ups than anyone else in the squad, and probably than the Drill Sergeant, who consistently ran everyone else into the ground when we had a ‘fun run’, and outshot the Range Master, using his own gun.”

  “To be fair to the Range Master,” Mallory said, “I’d been shooting an M1 Garand since I was nine.”

  Ben rolled his eyes. “Like any of us nineteen-year-old raw recruits gave a damn how long you’d been shooting,” he said. “You were out of our league, woman! Most men would probably still feel that way.”

  Mallory made a small frown.

  “So,” Ben said softly, “I have to ask. Am I in the dreaded friend-zone too?”

  Mallory stood up as if to walk away, but instead of pulling her other hand free, she pulled Ben up and out of the chair. Then, she put Ben’s hands on her waist and both of her hands on either side of his face, and for the first time since her ex-husband left, kissed someone. Ben didn’t wait to be invited twice, and was soon fully in command of the kiss that she had initiated.

  “No, Ben,” she whispered, when they came up for air, “you are definitely not just a friend.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  July 8, 2013 - Fort Rucker, Alabama

  Sanford tried to keep the sour expression off his face as he headed to Colonel Olsen’s office for the morning briefing with West and the Colonel. West still had no usable information on how Ben had been warned about the impending raid of several weeks ago, nor did he have any leads on where the missing vehicles or supplies had been squirreled away.

  Sanford, on the other hand, was full of information he couldn’t use or share with the Colonel. Yesterday’s session in the communications truck had been an eye-opener and he was dreading today’s briefing more than usual.

  Every morning ended the same way; with Olsen fuming and Lt. Colonel West storming out of the office, yelling for this aide or that assistant so he could look like he was getting something done. Nothing would change, and the process would repeat itself the next morning. Lieutenant Colonel West was living proof of the Peter Principle; he had risen to the level of his incompetence and would rise no further.

  West was already waiting at the Colonel’s door and Sanford followed him into the office. Colonel Olsen was standing with his back to them, overlooking the base through his office windows.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen,” Olsen said.

  “Major Sanford,” Olsen began. “Tell me what you know about the state of the morale of our troops.”

  For a split second, Sanford thought the Colonel knew about his meetings with Hodges and Tuttle and was on a fishing expedition. Then he remembered that morale and well-being of the troops were his responsibilities and started breathing again.

  “Sir,” Sanford said, stalling, “that’s a tricky question to answer at the best of times. Right now, there’s a lot that would go into the answer. Is there something specific you are referring to?”

  “I’m referring,” Olsen said, as he turned around and leaned on his desk, “to the overall morale of the troops; here and at the other bases that don’t seem to be in active revolt against the directives we’ve sent out regarding ARCLiTE.”

  Sanford nodded slightly as he swallowed. “The longer this goes on,” Sanford said, “the more questions they’re asking, Sir. More and more in the enlisted ranks are questioning how long we’re expected to keep this current posture, or when we’re going to start moving forward with whatever the next steps should be.”

  Olsen was clenching his jaw by the time Sanford was finished and it had taken less than a minute to put him into his normal state–just shy of raving.

  “They don’t have to understand,” Olsen said through gritted teeth.

  “With all due respect, Sir,” West interrupted, “there comes a point where they do. What they don’t have to do is like it. They aren’t automatons, Sir. These are people; many of them men and women with families here on base. They understand the need to follow orders and know what it takes to get the job done but there’s a difference between obedience and blind obedience.”

  Olsen winced just slightly at the last remark from West.

  West, who was surprising Sanford with his insight, continued. “We put a lot of trust and faith in our NCOs because we know that they, more than the rest, know the importance of discipline and duty. They’ve been putting out fires for the better part of six months, though, and even they are starting to ask some of those same questions now.”

  Olsen stood back up and started pacing in front of his window; a thoughtful expression on his face, hands clasped behind him.

  “They need a mission, Sir,” Sanford said.

  “We’re at war,” Olsen snapped.

  “Sir,” West asked. “I’m sorry, but with whom? American citizens, the other bases that aren’t implementing ARCLiTE, zombies, who? I’m not even questioning the fact, sir,” although the ‘fact’ could certainly be up for debate in just about anyone’s mind.

  Olsen had turned on West when he’d been challenged, but backed off a little once he realized that it wasn’t so much his assertion of war that was being questioned, but who they were fighting.

  “Is it really a war,” Sanford asked, “and if so, are we even going about prosecuting it correctly?”

  “Yes,” Olsen said as he stopped behind his desk and glared at Sanford and West. “It’s a war in every sense of the word, against everything you mentioned.”

  Sanford realized, almost too late, that West had included zombies in the list of things they were at war against
and Olsen had said yes to everything, and had to literally bite his lip to keep from smiling. This really wasn’t a laughing matter, but the Colonel was all. over. the. map!

  “Then we have to treat it like one,” West said. “Quit telling the men that we’re at war and let them go fight in some actual battles instead of just these, these one-off skirmishes that don’t mean anything.”

  West shook his head for a second. “But they’re going to need a reason to fight at this point,” he said. “This has been going on for long enough that even though they’ll do what they’re told, they won’t be as effective unless they have a reason.”

  “Then give them one,” Olsen said.

  “But what,” Sanford asked.

  “I honestly don’t care,” Olsen said. “Make one up if you have to but do it, do it now, and make it convincing.”

  Sanford’s stomach lurched.

  “Sir,” West said into the uncomfortable silence that followed Olsen’s order. “In some cases, an enemy isn’t going to be enough. Again, we’ve been at an elevated state of readiness for so long that simply putting a face on the opposition may not do it for some of the troops.”

  Olsen glared at West but didn’t say anything, so West continued.

  “We,” West indicated the three of them, “have been Officers, and out of direct fire and combat, long enough to have forgotten what it’s like to live on the edge for an extended period of time. They either need to stand down for a while–which they clearly can’t do–or be presented with something so overwhelming that they’re willing to crank it up a notch one last time.”

  Olsen didn’t like what he was hearing, but he knew West was right. He’d mavericked from enlisted to his commission over twenty years ago and even though he hadn’t seen combat in almost that long, he could remember the feeling West was describing without too much effort.

  “We’ll come up with something else, too,” Olsen said. “Not just the face of the enemy but a real threat, a threat to us, not just the country or our way of life. I don’t care if you even have to stage a crisis right on base to get their attention, but get it done.”

  …

  “Put the President on,” Olsen said.

  “I told you last time,” the voice on the other end said, “that isn’t going to happen.”

  “I don’t care about last time,” Olsen said. “This is now, and you’re putting him on.”

  “Much better,” the voice said. “No room for misunderstanding, taking charge of the situation. Not at all like last time…”

  “Put,” Olsen said, cutting off the other side, “the. President. on.”

  “No,” was the response.

  Olsen was taken aback by the icy venom in the tone.

  “Don’t ever interrupt me again,” the voice said. “I have been as patient with you as I am willing to be, but even that has an end. You may deal with your underlings and your peers however you wish, but I am neither. I am your Better and you will never forget it.”

  Olsen didn’t dare respond.

  “Better,” the voice said. “Now, what is the meaning of this call? We weren’t scheduled to speak again for another week.”

  “I may still have…issues with some of my own people,” Olsen said. “Just putting a face on the enemy, giving them someone to finally fight, isn’t going to be enough. Like you said last time, this threat has been out there for so long that they’re going to need a reason to attack, they’re going to need something specific to defend.”

  The voice laughed. “This,” he said, “should not be a problem. There will always be dissention, skepticism, those that won’t be completely on-board. There’s nothing you can do about that. What you can do is mold the perceptions of those that want to believe.”

  “I know that, but how,” Olsen asked.

  “The same way we have been doing it for decades,” the voice said. “You’ve already determined that you control what remains of the media, in all its forms. Propaganda is a tool that comes in many shapes and sizes.”

  Olsen was silent and considering what should be obvious, but still wasn’t.

  “You have men and women under your command with families,” the voice asked.

  “Of course,” Olsen said.

  “There are schools,” the voice said. “Use them. A child’s mind is a fertile field; sow it with the seeds of your choosing.”

  Olsen nodded, not conscious of the fact that he couldn’t be seen by the person on the other end.

  “And should all else fail,” the voice said, “have them do it for the children. They are, after all, our one true hope for a better world, a shining tomorrow, the future.”

  The voice had said the last with such passion, such conviction; Olsen was asking his question before he realized he was speaking.

  “Do you have any children,” Olsen asked.

  “Absolutely not,” the voice said. “Don’t be ridiculous. They are an utter waste of time and money.”

  Olsen was shocked back to reality and realized how quickly he’d been lulled, simply by the right words at the right time.

  “I see,” Olsen said.

  “Yes,” the voice said. “I believe you do.”

  “What happens if I can’t get things under control in time,” Olsen asked.

  “You don’t want to know,” the voice said. Something about the way he said it bothered Olsen. It sounded like a cross between eagerness to tell and disgust at having to contemplate it.

  “I think I need to know,” Olsen said.

  The voice was silent for several seconds before responding.

  “We have a contingency plan for our contingency plan,” the voice said. “We refer to it as The Outbreak.”

  Olsen could hear the capital letters, even over the radio, and it gave him the chills.

  “I will not go into details right now,” the voice said, “but suffice it to say, you don’t want to fail. Even we would prefer that you not fail, but we will do what we must.”

  “I understand,” Olsen said.

  …

  Sanford was rubbing his temples. “Can the man not think for himself,” he asked. “He didn’t even wait twenty-four hours before parroting back what his handler said to West and I when he ordered us to begin a propaganda campaign. He even used the exact same words as his handler when he did it.”

  “As disconcerting as that is,” Hodges said, “I’m more concerned with their alternate contingency plan.”

  Sanford looked up at Hodges. “You don’t think that was just a threat,” he asked.

  “No,” Hodges said. “Not given the history of the CDC.”

  Sanford closed his eyes. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know,” he said. “On a scale of one to ten, where ten is little grey men,” Sanford looked at Tuttle who made a show of looking anywhere in the truck but at Sanford, “where does this one sit for unbelievability?”

  “Probably a six,” Hodges said, “unless you’re willing to believe the worst of humanity, then it’s more like a three.”

  “Go ahead,” Sanford said.

  “First, you need some additional background on the CDC,” Hodges said. “It was originally called the Communicable Disease Center and was founded in 1946. Initially, its sole purpose was the eradication of malaria and it was based in Atlanta due to the prevalence of malaria in the Southeast.”

  Hodges leaned forward and looked back and forth between Sanford and Tuttle as he got into his lecture. “Over the first several years,” he continued, “the CDC, as a branch of the U.S. Public Health Service, which would later become the Department of Health and Human Services–which is important–sprayed as many as six-and-a-half-million homes with chemicals–including DDT–in an effort to kill mosquitos that might have been carriers of malaria.”

  “Wasn’t DDT considered safe for use in the 40’s,” Sanford asked.

  “Yes and no,” Hodges said. “By the early 40’s, scientists were already questioning its safety, but when the CDC was started, only seven of the 3
69 employees were medical officers. Even if one of the doctors had had questions about the use of DDT around people, it wouldn’t have gotten any traction because the bulk of the employees were entomologists and engineers.”

  Sanford cocked his head to the side as though to ask a question.

  “Yeah,” Hodges said, “but remember, when they started they were only tasked with eradicating malaria.”

  “It didn’t take long for them to take over a lot more though,” Hodges said. “After less than a year, the CDC ‘bought’ fifteen acres of land from Emory University for a new headquarters. Supposedly, employees of the CDC collected the money to make the purchase, which was for ten dollars, but the real benefactor was the chairman of the board of one of the largest soft drink manufacturers on the planet.”

  “And that’s bad because,” Sanford prompted, gently reminding Hodges that he wasn’t nearly as steeped in this conspiracy stuff as Hodges was.

  Hodges paused for a few seconds to, once again, prepare a short history lesson. “Okay, more background. How many companies, would you say, controlled the majority of the food production in the United States,” he asked.

  Sanford shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, “a couple dozen?”

  Hodges shook his head. “Less,” he said.

  “Fifteen,” Sanford asked.

  “Ten,” Hodges said. “Ten parent companies, including said soda manufacturer, controlled over ninety percent of all prepared food and ‘health’ products manufactured and distributed in the U.S. before the power went out.”

  “What about organic foods,” Sanford asked.

  Hodges couldn’t help but bark a short laugh. “That’s either almost as bad or far worse, depending on how you look at it,” he said. “As of 2009, seven of the top-twelve distributors of organic food were the same companies that owned ninety percent of the prepared food industry.”

  Sanford rolled his eyes.

  “The point is,” Hodges continued, “that over the course of the last hundred years or so, more and more aspects of our everyday life were being managed and controlled by a smaller and smaller group of individuals. Sure they owned companies, but those companies were run by people. The same ‘power elite’, if you will, that funded virtually all of the SuperPACs, lobbied Congress for more restrictions on our rights, and ultimately were waiting for an event just like this to put their final plans in motion.”