But maybe they would have been exposed anyway, even without that. There was no way to tell. It sure didn’t make any sense to be pissed at the guy who was sick.
Yeah, you do feel like you’re dying. That’s because you are, buddy. They’re not saying it but I can tell — you’re getting supportive measures, some antibiotics — but it’s not working. The fever’s getting worse, and you’re bleeding internally. Those red spots under your arm — they told me it was a bruise. Fat chance — like I believe that. It’s petechia, subcutaneous bleeding you get when your platelets are crashing. Sooner or later, unless they can get a handle on this, you start bleeding and you don’t stop. There are worse ways to go. I guess.
Over the last twenty-four hours, the fever had progressed rapidly. Nothing the doctors tried seemed to have any effect. Late-generation antibiotics were pumping full-steam into his system via three IVs, along with fluids to replace the lost blood and keep his blood pressure up. So far, they had been able to keep pace, but from what the corpsman could tell, the situation was getting worse. Unless he turned a corner soon, Griffin wasn’t going to make it.
But I’m going to make it. Hell, I’m not sick and we’re past the incubation period. No cramps, no headache — nothing. No fever. My blood counts look fine — did they really think I wouldn’t read the chart that they leave in here?
Nevertheless, he and the first sergeant remained in isolation, with the rest of the men who’d been briefly exposed in the galley kept in a separate compartment. The first sergeant wasn’t saying much, but the corpsman could see he was terrified. It was one thing to have an enemy you could reach out and touch, something you could train to defeat with weapons or superior physical force. It was another thing entirely to have something you couldn’t even see kill you. Marines were among the worse patients anyway, but the first sergeant was too scared to cause any problems.
“How you feeling?” the corpsman asked. “You look OK.”
“I’m fine.” The first sergeant didn’t bother to asking how he was, but the corpsman let it slide.
“If you were going to get sick it would have happened by now,” the corpsman said, repeating what he had been saying for the last six hours. The first sergeant would never admit it, but the corpsman thought he took some comfort in the reassurances. “It hit him less than six hours after you guys came back. It’s been six times that. This is just a safety precaution.”
The first sergeant pointed at Griffin. “Safety precaution, with us stuck in here with with him?”
That was the one point the corpsman hadn’t been able to figure out, either. If they really thought Griffin might have some sort of plaguelike disease, why would they leave anyone in the same room with him? There was only two conclusions: Either they thought what Griffin had was not contagious, or it was so serious that they were pretty sure neither the first sergeant or the corpsman would leave the isolation room alive.
The corpsman heard a small squeak, and turned around to see Griffin in a full-scale grand-mal seizure. His bed bucked violently as his massive body slammed against it, contracted into a sitting position, then slammed down again. One elbow restraint broke, then the wristband on the same arm. The IV popped loose, spewing a thin stream of liquid on the deck. Blood down ran down Griffin’s arm. “Hold him down,” the corpsman said, and darted to the head of the bed, trying to keep Griffin from striking his head against the bed railing.
“Hell, no,” the first sergeant snapped. “Don’t you ever learn? That’s what landed you a bed in here in the first place.”
Finally, the convulsions subsided. Griffin lay limp and barely breathng on the sweat-stained sheets. The interior of the air-locked doors opened, and a doctor came in, hastily garbed.
Griffin’s breathing took on an odd rhythm, and the corpsman felt his heart sink. Agonal breathing — the last stage before death. He glanced across at the doctor, and saw pity and understanding in her eyes. She shook her head solemnly.
Thirty minutes later, it was all over. Griffin took a long, shuddering breath, then simply stopped. The corpsman folded his hands peacefully on his chest.
The doctor said, “We’ll try to move him as soon as we can. There are precautions we have to take. You understand.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She turned to look at the first sergeant. “If you were going to get sick, you would’ve done so by now. I’m going to move you to separate rooms, probably keep you in quarantine for another forty-eight hours. If you’re showing no signs or symptoms after that, I’ll consider releasing you.” The first sergeant nodded his understanding, not looking at her, cowering in the corner.
The doctor turned to leave, then caught sight of the corpsman’s hand. She grabbed his elbow, pulled him over to the sink, and dumped a bottle of hydrogen peroxide over his hand. He stared down, aghast, at the spatter of blood from the IV on his skin. “It’s probably not transmitted by blood, whatever it is,” she said.
He nodded, not believing her. Inhalation anthrax — okay, that’s one that’s not transmitted by contact. He tried to think of other examples, but his mind kept summoning up lists of diseases that were transmitted by blood. HIV, Ebola, the plague — just about anything. She was scrubbing his hand now with a small brush, scrubbing him as thoroughly as she would for surgery. When she finally finished, she rinsed his skin once again with hydrogen peroxide.
It’s not transmitted by blood. It can’t be. He stared after her as she left, hopeless.
ELEVEN
The White House
1230 local (GMT -5)
“Mr. President,” the Director of Homeland Security said warmly, striding with confidence into the Oval Office. “Thank you for”—he caught sight of the man already seated in front of the President’s desk, and finished, after a noticeable pause—“seeing me.”
Jeremiah Horton was a large man who looked like the college linebacker he had been. He had a reputation as a gruff no-nonsense man, one who was more comfortable as a manager than as a leader. Like many men in the current Administration, he had had no military service. However, a distinguished career in the Senate had led to his appointment to the newly formed Homeland Security and Defense Office. He enjoyed the challenge of setting up the new cabinet-level post, and he prided himself on the exceptionally smooth integration of HSD with the rest of the President’s Administration.
Nevertheless, the birth of HSD had not been without problems. Notably among them, the man he was now surprised to see. Carl Chassen, FBI director of operations, his counterpart — although a lesser rank, since his was not a Cabinet-level post — had been a continual thorn in his side. The FBI saw conspiracies everywhere. Most particularly now, they were focused on what they believed was a plot to strip the FBI of its powers in domestic law enforcement.
Publicly, HSD had repeatedly assured both the FBI and the public that nothing was further from the truth. HSD would merely serve as a clearinghouse, a coordinator of the various agencies having law-enforcement responsibilities within the U.S.
Privately, the struggle for control of domestic intelligence operations was another matter altogether. The FBI, the DEA, and the ATF all viewed every “coordinating policy” as an infringement on their territories. Each one guarded its turf jealously, sharing information with its sister agencies only when there was something they wanted in exchange or when they were forced to. In the last week, the situation had escalated, with the CIA treating a simple overture for cooperation of operations like a frontline assault. No matter that it had been a simple request for information coupled with an informal suggestion that HSD quite reasonably had an interest in those matters occurring overseas that were likely in the immediate future to affect the United States internally. No matter that the artificial boundaries created by legislation between the various agencies only serve to drain off resources that the fledgling HSD coveted. But last week, ah — that had been the kicker. The CIA, noting the HSD’s growing stature within the Administration, seemed to have instituted a new policy of complete no
ncooperation. In at least one private conversation, the director of the CIA had blandly suggested that for security reasons it made more sense, in some situations originating overseas, for the CIA to be the lead agency when the action moved into the United States itself.
Horton had been outraged. The CIA’s maneuver was clearly a grab for power, one that overstepped the bounds of its charter. The CIA was explicitly forbidden to have any role in domestic security. Yet here they were, suggesting that HSD was not to be trusted with highly classified and sensitive information developed from the CIA sources. No matter that everyone in HSD had undergone rigorous security screenings, and that their administrative procedures and security measures were modeled on the very best techniques now in use in other agencies. No, it was a daring move, but one that would fail. There was no way that the President would let the CIA assume control of any operations inside the United States.
The FBI, however, was another matter entirely. Horton knew that they were frothing at the mouth over HSD’s charter role inside the United States. It was, the FBI had argued, the essence of their charter — law enforcement inside the United States, most particularly those matters that constituted crimes. And weren’t all terrorist acts and preparation for them criminal acts? Why reinvent the wheel? The FBI was hoping, not so secretly, that Horton and his crew would fall on their faces. The FBI would be ready to step and to take over their role.
Chassen was the primary instigator. He had always been ruthlessly power-hungry, as far back as Horton could remember. Now, to see him sitting in on what Horton had fondly anticipated as a private meeting with the President was an unexpected slap in the face.
“Horton, come on in,” the President said easily, pointedly ignoring the brief spasm of distaste that had floated across the other man’s face. “We were just talking about the situation in the Middle East.”
“Will there never be an end to it?” Horton said, shutting the door behind him and walking over to the unoccupied chair. He settled into it lightly with surprising grace. “If only they could settle their differences and bring some peace to that part of the world — I wonder if it will happen in our lifetime.”
He saw similar expressions of cynicism on the face of both the President and the FBI director. “No. Of course not,” the FBI director said, as though surprised Horton would even suggest it. “Why should they start now? War is the natural state of affairs for them.”
“You have a cynical view of the world,” Horton said stiffly.
“Don’t you?” the President asked. “Come on, Jeremiah. Have you seen anything in the last twenty years — hell, make that the last two hundred years — to suggest that there’s any possibility of peace in that region? Even if Israel disappeared, the Shiites and Suni Muslims would still fight. And they’d exterminate the same Palestinians they claim Israel is persecuting now, if indeed there are any such people, on their own.”
Horton wished desperately he been in on whatever conversation had preceded his arrival. Clearly the President and the FBI director were singing the same tune, and he wondered what had led up to it. “One can always hope and pray for peace, Mr. President,” he said gravely. “Is that what you wanted to see me about?”
“No, of course not,” the President said, looking at Horton with a slightly bemused expression on his face. “Not unless I transferred you over to State and forgot about it.”
Horton joined in the general laughter that followed that weak attempt at a joke. “I’ll expect to see an increase in my travel budget, then,” he added.
“Those frequent-flier miles to Idaho can really add up,” the FBI director said.
Horton nodded gravely. “Bull Run, of course. I have to tell you, Mr. President, we don’t like the way things are looking up there. From the reports we’re getting, there’s a good deal of potential for civil unrest. You know that with the mind-set up there and the militia presence, I wouldn’t be surprised if—”
“It’s not just the locals,” Chassen interrupted. He shot Horton a sardonic look. “Abraham Carter — you know the name?”
Horton didn’t but he had no intention of admitting it. “What is his involvement?” he asked, trying for a knowing, world-weary tone.
Chassen ignored the question. “Abraham Carter — with his son, he’s active in the Free America Now organization. We’ve been following their purchases and tracking their movements over the last month. All at once — Bull Run — and they go to ground.”
“We’re on the lookout for them.” Horton said, as though it was old news.
“You won’t find them.”
“Because you didn’t?”
“Exactly.” Chassen turned back to the President, who wore an impatient expression. “Sir, our intelligence indicates they’re planning a major move of some sort. Something to call attention to the government abuse of power in summarily executing that family and the kids. From what we know, it could be on the order of Oklahoma City.”
“Or Waco. Or Ruby Ridge,” Horton said. “For that matter, Bull Run.”
“Gentlemen,” the President snapped. “I did not ask for your presence in order to oversee a playground squabble. Frankly, we would have had this meeting earlier if I had had the time and patience. I, for one — and I’m the only one you have to worry about — am tired of seeing your infighting unfold on ACN. There will be no more of that — do I make myself clear?”
Horton’s heart sank. He’d been expecting to be at the President’s side as he dealt with Bull Run, and he was getting an ass-chewing instead. And in front of the FBI at that.
Both men were wise enough to not pretend ignorance. “OK,” the President continued. “Now, Bull Run — a major foul-up all around. It’s done, we screwed the pooch, and now we need to clean up after ourselves. No coverups, no casting blame, no turning this into political fodder. I will admit that the missions of HSD and the FBI overlap in a number of areas. I expect and I intended for there to be that overlap.” Horton started to point out that Bull Run had been an FBI operation from start to finish. HSD, despite their protests — and a good thing that was now, in retrospect — had had no input into the mission. Neither the President nor the FBI knew that HSD had intended to mount a far more aggressive mission than the FBI had actually executed.
“We are going to learn from our mistakes,” the President continued. “You know as well as I do that the whole concept of posse commitatus is under review now. I have signed an order authorizing a limited suspension of posse commitatus for the limited purpose of responding to anything else that may happen at Bull Run. Now, I don’t want this misinterpreted, not by you or by the press. We screwed up. We’ll take responsibility for it. But if Carter and his people are up to something”—and his tone of voice indicated that the President was more familiar with them than Horton was—“then we’ll be ready for it. And because both of you have an ox to gore, particularly if military force is used inside the United States, I plan on using an independent entity to coordinate operations there.”
“An independent agency?” Horton asked, incredulous.
“An independent entity,” the President said, emphasizing the last word. “This will be a trial run integrating military active and reserve forces with all our intelligence and law-enforcement agencies to quell a potential civil disturbance. I’m taking the rather radical approach of assigning a a civilian defense contractor to conduct a threat analysis and propose an operational plan.”
Horton’s jaw dropped. “Civilians? What sort of civilians? You mean like military reserve officers?”
“In a manner of speaking. The initial planning stages will be under the control of a defense contractor known as Advanced Analysis.”
The President waited, smiling slightly as he saw both men rapidly sift through their memories, trying to place the name. Chassen got it first, as the President had expected. “The Magruders, right? Nephew and uncle? They were in on that mission last year when we—”
“Need to know,” the President cautioned,
shooting the FBI director a sharp look.
Now Horton was seriously worried. What had the Magruders — and, yes, now he remembered who they were — been involved in that he didn’t know about? That the FBI did? Inside the United States, or outside? And if the latter, why did the FBI know at all?
“Between them, these two men have well over sixty years of combat experience,” the President continued. “I was impressed with them both when they were on active duty, and even more so since then. So, to prevent what should be a relatively simple planning operation from turning into a turf war, they’re my guys.”
“But the actual execution of any plan—” Horton began.
The President cut him off. “May be completely unnecessary. If we get to that point—if—I’ll make my decision then. Clear? And I might point out that one factor I will consider is how well both of you have worked with the Magruders.” He fixed them with a steely glare. “You both work for me. You do remember that, don’t you?”
“Of course, Mr. President,” Horton murmured, echoed immediately by the FBI man.
“Well, then.” The President leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “There’s no need for either of you to contact the Magruders just yet. I told them that you are both completely at their disposal the moment they have any requirements. Information, resources, even advice — they ask for it, you ante up. Got it?”
A Cabinet-level appointee and he’s treating me like I’m a schoolchild. Horton glanced over to see how the FBI was taking it, but could learn nothing from the man’s expression.
Clearly, they were dismissed. Both men rose and almost in unison said, “Thank you, Mr. President.” They filed out of the office.
They were silent until they were outside the Oval Office and well down the corridor. Then the FBI officer glanced up at Horton, a much larger man, and said, “Guess we just got sent to detention.”
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