Terror At Dawn c-21

by Keith Douglass

  Like they don’t all know that already. But I like your style, putting it right out there on the table, no excuses. Tombstone studied him for a moment, taking his measure. A no-nonsense sort of guy. I’ll have a hell of a time getting paperwork out of him, but he’ll be the top guy out in the field. I wonder just how much of that fiasco was actually your fault. Not as much as your people are laying on you, I bet.

  A man from the center of the group behind Greenfield stepped forward, a pleasant expression on his face. Instead of a sports coat, he wore a dark suit with a white shirt and red tie. It looks completely natural on him, clearly tailored specifically to suit his athletic form. “A. J. Bratton, CIA. Delighted to be on board, Admiral. Although, of course, we’re just here in an advisory capacity.”

  “Right. I’ll keep that in mind. And you might keep in mind that I’m not an admiral anymore — or at least, I’m just a retired one.”

  Bratton bristled slightly. “Of course. Our intelligence resources are at your disposal. Perhaps we can fill in some of the gaps in the database.”

  I’m sure.” Out of the corner of his eye, Tombstone saw Greenfield turn to glare at the CIA officer. Clearly the two knew each other, and clearly there was no love lost between them. Whether that was a matter of personal taste or an outgrowth of the long-standing rivalry between the CIA and the FBI, he didn’t know yet. But, as closely as they would be working together, he was sure he would have an opportunity to find out.

  “Captain Adam Sands,” the Canadian officer in working uniform said, stepping forward. “I brought a couple of officers from my staff, the ones most used to working with you chaps. At least, they claim they can understand every accent in America.” That produced a chuckle from the crowd. “Happy to be working with you again, Tombstone,” the Canadian continued, using Tombstone’s old nickname easily.

  “And with you, too.” From what Tombstone could remember, Sands was one tough cookie, sharp and driven. Tombstone particularly remembered his ability to remain completely unflustered no matter what the circumstances. There was more than a small trace of British reserve in the man, and Tombstone was glad to have him on the team.

  The next man to stand up was a civilian. “Captain Bill Lawyers. I’m with the sheriff’s department, and we cover this area along with the area you’re concerned about. We’re used to working with the other jurisdictions in the state, as well as with the Indian tribal authorities. There are a couple of hoops you have to jump through on tribal grounds, but for the most part they’re pretty savvy. We can coordinate anything that needs to happen on federal lands. I’ve brought along Jim Horse Looking, from the Tribal Police.”

  “Welcome,” Tombstone said. “Mr. Horse Looking, I wasn’t expecting you, but it’s good to have you on board.” Something about the man’s bearing made him examine the Indian more closely. “Former Marine?”

  “Yes, sir. It still shows, does it?” The Indian’s voice was low and quiet, almost diffident.

  Tombstone nodded. “Yes, sir, it does.”

  There were a few other agencies present, including an attorney from the U.S. Attorney’s office, a local district attorney, and a public information specialist from the FBI who promised to coordinate all interaction with the media the minute they started showing up.

  After all the introductions were completed, Tombstone said, “Well, ladies and gentlemen. I suggest we start setting up and staffing our organization, keeping in mind that we need to be able to draw from all of the resources we have. For the CIA folks, I expect you to let us know when we are assigning you to something that might not be entirely appropriate. We’ll keep you on the sidelines, in support roles, so keep us honest.”

  Bratton waved his hand lazily, acknowledging the order. “Not to worry, Admiral. We know what we’re here for.”

  Tombstone studied for him for a moment, nonplussed. The CIA had never been his favorite of government agencies, having a tendency to secrecy and circuitous thinking that too often got men on the front lines killed. Now, operating with them in a joint task force, he was not entirely sure that he trusted them.

  “What’s your next mission?” Bratton asked.

  Your. Not our. Whether he meant to or not, he’s confirming my suspicions about the CIA’s commitment to this project.

  “We don’t know yet,” Tombstone said offhandedly, being careful not to let his face reflects his thoughts. Tombstone took his nickname from the impassive expression normally on his face.

  “Then why are we all here?” Bratton said easily, indicating that he thought it was a waste of time until there was an actual mission.

  “Best to iron things out before we have a specific mission,” Greenfield observed gruffly. “Once the shooting starts, there’s no time for chain-of-command concerns.” He shot Tombstone a dark look. “Speaking of chain of command — what is it?”

  And there it was, right out on the table. No need to wonder where Greenfield stood on any issue. Tombstone found his admiration for the man deepening.

  “Yes, do tell,” Bratton said. The local man from the sheriff’s department and the tribal police officer shared a dark look in the back.

  “That’s one of the concerns,” Tombstone admitted.

  “Posse commitatus,” Greenfield said.

  “Exactly. For right now, we’re operating under the exception that allows military forces to coordinate training exercises and participate in dual disaster-relief exercises.” Tombstone saw the cynical look on Greenfield’s face and nodded. “I know. Exactly my position as well. But my information is that we’re going to see some more direct guidance coming down from the White House in the next couple of days. It’ll be his call as to how the chain of command works.”

  “His call as Commander in Chief? Or as Chief Executive?” Greenfield asked.

  “Or as head of a sovereign nation?” Horse Looking paused, making his point clear. “If they cross into our lands, that becomes an issue, too.”

  “Will your nation require a formal declaration of war?” Bratton asked in a mocking tone of voice. “Surely you’re not going to confuse the issue further with this sort of nonsense.”

  “If you plan on simply invading as your people did originally, perhaps we should. CIA, FBI — you are so fond of initials. We will not have the issue of Indian sovereignty simply treated as dispensable when you find it convenient.”

  “As soon as your people are self-supporting in some way besides gambling, you may be entitled to—”

  “Gentlemen!” Tombstone snapped, cutting them off. “Enough of that. Officer Horse Looking, you have a point. I will depend on you to alert me to any potential issues. For the rest of you, as soon as I get any word, I’ll pass it on. For now, since we do have authorization to conduct training exercises, we will stay off Indian lands. As far as our approach, I want to run this as if it was a military operation, but it’s strictly a civilian one.”

  “But you’re not military,” Bratton observed. “And that makes it a bit awkward, doesn’t it?”

  “I am retired, as is my uncle,” Tombstone acknowledged. “But we’re both members of the Fleet Reserve, and there is at least an argument that we would still be considered military forces. Right now, though, we’re here as representatives of Advanced Analysis to coordinate operations.”

  “I’d like to see the precedent for that,” Greenfield said.

  “There is none that I can think of, except perhaps in contracting federal prison security to outside organizations. But,” Tombstone continued, “there’s not much precedent for what were facing now, is there?”

  That brought a hush to the room. None of them would ever forget where they had been on that day in September when cowardly terrorism had sent aircraft crashing into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.

  “So,” Tombstone continued after a moment, “I’d ask you to cut me a little slack on the question of chain of command. For now, you can consider me the team leader, or officer in charge, or commanding officer, or whatever term you u
sed to describe the person in charge. It may be that the President will decide that the FBI is better suited to control the operation.”

  “Not likely,” someone said quietly in the back of the room. Greenfield’s face turned red, but he had no comment.

  Tombstone debated on whether or not to let the comment pass, then decided to tackle the issue head-on. “The first thing I’ll require here is that you all put aside any previous interagency rivalries. We all know what happened at Bull Run, and I see no point in harping on it other than to review any operational lessons we may glean from it. It did not go well — understatement, right? Haven’t all of you had an operation turned into a real clusterfuck right under your noses? I know I have.” And in one of those I lost my wife. “So, I don’t want to hear any cheap shots.” He let that sink in, and then turned to Greenfield. “You and I don’t know each other very well yet, although I suspect that will change over the next few weeks. At some point in the very near future, I’ll expect a thorough and brutal rundown on what happened. My guess is you got shoved into moving before you wanted to move, probably based on pretty crappy intelligence. I’m not going to ask you to make excuses for what happened, but I do expect everybody to learn something from it. That okay with you?”

  “Yeah.” Greenfield was staring off in the distance somewhere, as though he was seeing Bull Run go down again. “And thanks for the sensitivity training, but I’d bet my ass that there’s not a man in here who could say anything worse than what I’ve said to myself.”

  “Well, then.” Tombstone turned back to the rest of the room. “We’ll make up the following departments, I think. Administration, operations, intelligence, and logistics. If we need any other departments, we’ll put them together as required. For now that ought to get us started.”

  “Any word on the first target?” Bratton asked again.

  “No. Like I said, as soon as I hear something.”

  The men and women assembled soon sorted themselves out into four major groups, each one determining who was the senior person present and starting a list of requirements. Tombstone watched, fielded questions as they came to him, and was not surprised when Bratton eventually ambled over to him with a quizzical look on his face. “If you’re going to run this as a military organization, then you’re going to need an executive officer. Who’ve you got in mind?”

  “You volunteering?” Tombstone asked.

  Bratton smiled slightly. “Of course not, Admiral,” he said, stressing the last word ever so slightly. “We’re prohibited from assuming any direct command of operations inside the United States. Just like the military is.”

  Tombstone nodded, acknowledging the contradiction. “Things change. Like I said — you volunteering?”

  Bratton held his gaze steadily, letting the pleasant, supercilious expression drop from his face. Tombstone, for the first time, saw the steel underneath the polished surface. This man had actual operational experience in many places that Tombstone was familiar with, and on some level he could sense that a lot of it had been more close-in and dirty than Tombstone had ever seen. “I could, I suppose,” Bratton said finally. “But let’s face it — you know I’m not used operating in this theater. Greenfield is.” He nodded toward the FBI agent, immersed in setting up the operations department. “He’ll be good for you there. And he’s the only one who really has much experience inside the United States. Not to mention at Bull Run.”

  “Well, now that’s impressive,” Tombstone said. He didn’t elaborate — he didn’t have to. “I’ll take your advice under consideration, Mr. Bratton. And I appreciate your insight. Let’s just leave the matter open for now, how about it?”

  The supercilious expression was back on Bratton’s face. “You’re the boss,” he said in a good-natured voice. “Just thought I’d bring it up.”

  FIFTEEN

  USS United States

  2100 local (GMT +3)

  The Navy Intelligence petty officer conducting the third briefing of the staff sergeant was clearly at the end of a long day. He was thorough, the staff sergeant thought, going through the postmission checklist and asking every pertinent question, but it was obvious his heart wasn’t in it. After all, the Sergeant had already conserved every question earlier. Still, he did his job. It was only when they got to the description of the truck and its deceased occupants that his ears pricked up.

  “Ten, you say?” he asked, pausing from his scribbling, a look of interest on his face.

  “Yes. I counted them.” The staff sergeant repressed a shudder as the men’s faces loomed before him, blackened and distorted. “Twice.”

  “And two in the front seat.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  The sergeant put down his pencil and shut his eyes, rubbing his fingers at the corners. A frown creased his forehead and he sighed. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’ve been using patrols composed of seven men. You’ve got twelve in the truck. That tells me it’s not two patrols and it’s not one. Were they all roughly in the same state of decomposition?”

  “Looked like it.”

  “Were the keys in the truck?”

  The staff sergeant stared at him. “I don’t know. I didn’t look.”

  “Think about it.”

  The staff sergeant shut his eyes, picturing the interior of the vehicle. Worn, more than it should have been. There had been a crack in the windshield, something they should have fixed. One side window missing, along with part of the instrument panel. And there, where the ignition should have been—“Gone,” he said, opening his eyes. “No keys.”

  “No keys,” the intelligence sergeant echoed, now frowning. He stood up abruptly and said, “Wait here. The intelligence officer is going to want to talk to you.”

  The officer. But why? Just because there weren’t keys in the ignition? The staff sergeant ran through the possibilities, trying to decide what it was that alarmed the other sergeant. He had just concluded that he didn’t know when the sergeant returned, an Army captain following him.

  “Captain Henry,” the officer said by way of introduction. He slid into the seat opposite the staff sergeant. “Sergeant has been telling me what happened. I have a few questions for you.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “When you examine the truck cab — no keys, right? Was it in gear or neutral? And was the parking brake set?”

  The staff sergeant shut his eyes, visualizing the hellish interior once again. “Neutral, I think. And no parking brake. Not that they’d need it on that terrain.”

  “Shit.” The officer stood, backing away from them. “Staff Sergeant, where are the rest of your men?”

  “Probably at chow,” the staff sergeant said, now growing alarmed. “You don’t think that—?”

  “I don’t know.” He grabbed his own sergeant by the arm, and they backed away until they stood at the doorway. “You understand, I’ll have to ask you not to leave this room.” With that, he left. Moments later, the staff sergeant heard the loudspeaker summoning the rest of his squad to sick bay.

  Cold fear ran through his veins. It all made sense now — the odd number of men, no keys, the truck left in neutral. It hadn’t been driven there — it had been towed. And left to be discovered.

  What had they been thinking? Why were they so certain that somebody would examine the damned thing before an air strike took it out? What were the odds of that? Had we been close enough to — to—

  To catch it. Whatever they had, whatever they were infected with, whatever had killed them. How did they know we would be close enough to breathe the air, that we wouldn’t take precautions — that we wouldn’t be suspicious?

  Biological warfare, the thing that struck terror into the hearts of most ground soldiers. If they could see it, they could kill it, and if they died trying, so be it. But this form of warfare, the invisible, deadly weapon of bacteria and spores, that was something else. You couldn’t see it — you didn’t ev
en know when you were exposed. And once you had been exposed, there was very little you could do.

  From outside the doors, he could hear the beginnings of an uproar. The receding steps on hard linoleum, the rustle of uniforms, muffled orders to clear the area. Still the staff sergeant waited, motionless. He knew the order to clear the area didn’t apply to him.

  Moments later, two soldiers clad in full NBC warfare gear came into the office. They walked over to him slowly and stood beside him. No words were necessary. “Lead the way, boys,” he said, standing up. The movement made him slightly light-headed, and he felt a flash of annoyance at what he thought was fear. He rested one hand on the table to steady himself. But the blackness continued encroaching on his sight, narrowing his field of vision down to a narrow tunnel that seem to be filled by the two monstrous men. He staggered again, and after a moment’s hesitation, one of them reached out and caught him by the elbow. The other darted to a telephone and punched the numbers in with fingers made clumsy by the gloves. “We’ll need a gurney. And make sure the rest of the squad is in isolation — quarantine — immediately.”

  The staff sergeant heard the words coming as though from a long distance away. A loud buzzing filled his ears, drowning out everything else. He sank slowly to the floor, then crumpled. One of the soldiers unfolded him and stretched him out on his back. The staff sergeant coughed and the soldier jerked back.

  By the time the gurney arrived, the staff sergeant had long since lost consciousness. Blood was seeping from his ears and nose and other orifices, and even the whites of his eyes were turning red. He was coughing up blood, too, when he had the strength to do so, but it continued to seep into his lungs at an alarming rate. No energy, no energy to fight it off. Slowly, quietly, he suffocated in his own blood.

  Two days later, infectious disease specialists at Walter Reed Army Hospital would confirm what both the intelligence officer and his sergeant had suspected. The plague — the black death. And by that time, more than one hundred soldiers had been exposed to the deadly disease.