Project Apollo

by B. B. Gallagher

  How could anyone do this? What does he want? Who is really behind all of this? Is he just another pawn?

  The members of his joint task force entered through the large red doors of the PEOC, breaking his concentration. Agent Callahan muttered in the President’s ear.

  “We are ready to seal the bunker.” President Hooper nodded his head.

  Callahan scanned his fingerprint to prompt the large red doors. They snapped closed, sending a resounding boom to echo through the bunker. They were now sealed off from the outside world. There was a feeling of intense trepidation in the air as the bunker’s tenants gazed at their surroundings. Most had never been there before and the President had the foreboding thought that they may never return above ground.

  The President rotated in his chair turning from the doors back to the room. His task force looked up to the platform where their leader stood, battered by the events of the last thirty minutes, but strong.

  The President then spoke.

  “We have our best resources in this room. My Chief of Staff and best friend, Marty Jacobs; my National Security Advisor, Janet Powers; the Director of the NIH, Michelle Fernandez; one of the America’s best kept secrets, Colonel Jackson Hardy, who created the most successful covert division we’ve ever had in our intelligence community; Director of the FBI John Fangold; NSA director Ben Deacon; CIA director Peter Hunterson; Special Agent Jack Callahan of the Secret Service and three of his finest…” The President finished his roll call and one by one found eye contact with the men and women looking onward.

  “You all are the best resources I have right now... We have to stop this maniac before he kills more Americans. These reinforced walls are designed to protect us from any type of explosion and it could even protect us from a nuclear attack on Washington, DC. But these walls don’t mean anything when it comes to a bacterial disease, because we are the weapon. Someone in this bunker could be infected with the disease right now… The only thing that we can do at this point is stop Ezra from infecting more targets and finding the cure.” President Hooper paused and consulted the floor for a moment.

  A switch flipped in him as he turned fiercer than they had ever seen. His jaw clenched, his lips tightened – his grave eyes raised back up to the room.

  “We are locked in a hole, 120 feet down in the ground… the only way we climb out of this alive is to keep digging for answers.”

  Chapter 27

  Theodore Roosevelt Island

  11AM

  Porter Nash jogged across the long footbridge stretching over the Potomac to connect to the eighty-eight and half acre expanse of Theodore Roosevelt Island. Maintained by the National Park Service, the island serves as another hidden in plain sight gem of DC and its surrounding areas. Its natural beauty provides a haven for Northern Virginian residents from the busy commotion of highway living.

  The stormy clouds in the afternoon sky had begun to brew overhead. The breeze had picked up off the Potomac’s current, as Porter proceeded down the footbridge further and further. Reaching the bridge’s end, he stepped on the fresh dirt of the pathway, leading inland. The tree leaves had surrendered to the oranges and reds of autumn and speckled the trail like a painter’s palette.

  The journalist’s pace slowed as he searched the trees of the thinning landscape for any sign of contact. He had met informants before but none under such cryptic circumstances. He had been working around the clock, hunting down the big story that could put him on a news desk. He knew he was on the brink of the biggest story of the year – he could smell it. He was Bob Woodward and he was meeting Deepthroat.

  This contact has something on the four scientists and judging by how I was contacted it’s got to be big. Stay sharp and bold.

  He checked his surroundings over and over again, feeling the weight of the moment. His head then fell to his pacing feet as he questioned the meet all together.

  Am I really doing this? What if this guy is a mass-murderer?

  His eyes lifted to a large grove where a seventeen-foot statue stood of the 26th President of the United States for whom the island was named. Surveying the courtyard, only a few distant tourist families were scattered about.

  Witnesses… in case this guy slits my throat.

  Porter seated himself down on a stone bench next to the statue. With his knees touching, he huddled over himself, guarding his vulnerable self. A rustle in the trees sounded behind him, he spun to his back-side, fully alert. His eyes roamed the brush until they located the source of the noise – a squirrel.

  Porter exhaled the tension building in his gut. As soon as he paused in a moment of relief, a hooded figure approached from one of the side trails, leading further inland.

  The figure’s hood hung low over his eyes. Judging by his chin – the informant was Caucasian but that was all he could tell. His hands were down in his pockets.

  Porter froze as he watched the anonymous man approach closer. Paralyzed by fear, he waited for the hooded man to make the first move. He did so by sitting on the opposite side of the bench. Facing in the other direction, the meet was on.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Porter could see the informant’s mouth begin to move.

  “I know that you have been investigating the four missing scientists for the last three months. But I have something for you that is much more pressing.” The informant’s words sent a chill through Porter’s spine.

  “Like what?”

  “There is a terrorist attack underway right now in the city. The White House has been targeted and it is now in lockdown. They are fully aware that more targets in the city will be hit today, but they are covering it up. The organization I represent is not behind these attacks. We are always watching though. We have intercepted this Intel and believe that the public must be warned,” the informant spoke like a concerned citizen.

  “Well, I need evidence. If you don’t have evidence, you’re nothing more than a conspiracy theorist,” Porter explained.

  “It’s all on this flash drive.” The informant placed the small memory stick between them on the bench.

  “What do you want?” Porter asked as he reached for the memory stick. The informant’s hand covered the stick, guarding it from Porter.

  “I want you to do your job. Inform the American public.” The informant awaited a nod; he received one and then released the flash drive for Porter to have.

  Porter brought the memory stick to his view; he focused in on the mysterious device before him.

  What is on it? Are we really under attack? How so?

  Just then, a black hawk helicopter flew overhead toward the city. Porter knew it was restricted air space and wondered if the informant had something. Just as he turned to ask a question, he noticed an empty seat next to him.

  His informant was gone.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Catherine and Tobias continued their autopsy of each vital organ, probing the cadaver of Lieutenant Walker for any clues related to the disease. Their inflated suits closed them off from the acrid smell emitting from the body, while a row of Petri dishes held the extracted organs. Catherine inspected each organ, as Tobias continued to biopsy samples and place them in growth mediums lined next to them.

  “You okay? Haven’t talked much today…” Tobias finally mustered the courage up to talk to her.

  “I guess this whole plague-on-the-loose thing has me on edge…” She pushed the words off her chest.

  “I heard your sister died from a seizure, similar to Lieutenant Walker here?” Tobias ventured onto unchartered waters. She stopped for a moment and connected eyes with the unassuming scientist before her. His eyes flashed a compassionate sincerity that pierced through her protective suit.

  “Yeah… she was only nine… I was eleven. She had been complaining of headaches ever since summer camp. She was my best friend… I came home from Primary School and found her shaking on the sitting room floor. My mum was out… and I couldn’t do anything to stop her. And then she just died… right there… I d
idn’t understand how her brain could just revolt on her and take over her body like that. That was the day I decided I wanted to cure diseases,” she explained, through solemn, distant words.

  “Well, from what I hear, you are damn good at it.” Catherine dismissed the compliment with bashful humility and offered one herself.

  “Well, you’re not half bad yourself.” She winked at him.

  “So, where are you from?” Tobias asked, trying to steer her away from the memories of her sister’s death.

  “Highgate, just north of London” Catherine answered.

  “What’s your team?”

  “Arsenal, of course.” She smiled at him with a straight and narrow English grin. “What about you?”

  “As you can see…” he held his arms out. “I’m not the biggest sports fan…” She feigned a chuckle. Tobias noticed that she could not escape the melancholy.

  His focus returned to the body on the table. His plastic gloves burrowed further through the innards, until they found something rigid. He paused upon contact and looked up at Catherine working at the next table. He smiled at a thought – one last chance to cheer her up.

  “So, what did the skeleton order at a restaurant?” He asked her, his hand inside the opened cadaver.

  “What?” Catherine stopped reluctantly, sensing a joke.

  “Spare ribs.” He lifted his hand out holding a thin curved bone. The joke forced an irresistible grin over her face.

  First, her eyes fell to her work – and then back up to Tobias where her smile cracked wider. She dropped her head as if trying to conceal it.

  “Okay, what did one eye say to the other eye?” Catherine fired one back. Tobias smiled wide at Catherine, awaiting the punch-line.

  “Just between the two of us… something smells.” Tobias chuckled. Their laughter harmonized – their eyes connected.

  After a moment of intimate warmth, the garage door screeched open and Tobias shrank back to his usual nervous state. He shuffled across the lab table for a small power saw as Xander and company’s blurred silhouettes formed through the isolation unit’s translucent curtains. Tobias fired up the power saw.

  “Let’s see, what’s going on in that head of his…” Catherine nodded her go-ahead.

  Tobias lowered the saw to the cadaver’s cranium. He began to move the spinning blade from temple to temple, careful to split the skull but not to pierce the brain. After one precise revolution around the head, Catherine wiped away the residual blood still standing idle in the punctured blood vessels. Tobias turned the saw off and placed both hands on the side of the head.

  “Is it weird, that this is my favorite part?” he asked her.

  “Not at all, it’s mine too…” Catherine responded.

  “You’re so weird, Catherine.” She laughed and nudged him in a flirty way. Tobias’s face broke out into a crimson blush. He pulled up on the skull and it opened like a Russian egg – inside was the brain. The blush faded from Tobias’s face immediately.

  Catherine’s complexion went pale.

  She angled toward the opened skull.

  Her mouth gaped in befuddlement.

  “What the hell....”

  Chapter 28

  The Oval Office

  11:15AM

  Vice President Johnson opened the door to the Chief of Staff’s office. He offered the two Secret Service guards a nod thanking them for the escort across the locked down West Wing. After he closed the door, now alone in the dimly lit office, he picked up the phone. He punched a couple of buttons on the dial pad and a young voice answered on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, this is the Vice President, I’d like to speak to the President.”

  “Yes sir, one moment please.” The Vice President scanned Marty Jacobs’s pictures and degrees, hanging on the wall. He checked the door to ensure it was closed.

  “Tom, how are you?” The President’s voice was direct.

  “Fine. Can I assume that this lockdown is related to the issue of Ezra Gonet?”

  “Yes, you can,” he answered gravely.

  “He’s targeted the White House, hasn’t he?” From his many years in politics, the Vice President could connect the dots and portend how schemes would play out before they hatched.

  “Yes, he has,” the President affirmed.

  “Obviously we need to try to keep this under wraps; we don’t want to stir a panic. I’ll keep telling everyone it’s a routine lockdown, just a suspicious backpack outside the gate… the First Lady is here. Should I inform her of the situation?”

  “No, not yet. I don’t want her worrying about me down here.”

  “I will manage AMRIID. I already have them on alert, digging for anything they can on the bacteria. They are checking their inventory for any infectious diseases that cause coughing and seizures.”

  “Do you think it’s likely they will have anything? Any treatment? Any cure?” Each question grew more desperate in the President’s voice.

  “I don’t know… we have so many biological weapons there we won’t be able to narrow it down until we have a full work up on the disease. The Spartans have a sample of the bacteria, correct?”

  “Yes, they do.” The President elevated his volume, hoping his Vice President had a plan.

  “When they are done profiling the bacteria, please have them send me their findings and I will relay those to the AMRIID. I need the latest in case they altered the disease since it struck in the Congo.” The Vice President was firm in his orders.

  “You got it, Tom. I’ll have them sent your way. Thank you and keep me posted.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Ashton, we need a map of the city. If this attack is confined to the metro area we need to start tracking our progress. Seamus, the President has offered us as much support as we need but if a SWAT team flies in, I want to be right there with them. We need tactical gear. Find us some,” Xander spoke swiftly to his colleagues. He knew he needed time to block out everything and digest the events of the day.

  Ezra’s words echoed in his head.

  Don’t you see Xander? All of this… training… the Fourth of July… everything… all has led to this moment, and the next and the next…

  The disease is lies, Xander – lies. We live a life of lies. Our government hides our identities and our service – our very existence is a lie. We don’t even exist… As you know, Apollo is the God of light and knowledge, Xander. And this disease will show you the light that is why I have named it as such.

  The cure, Xander… is truth.

  His hand instinctually grasped his crucifix that hid under his shirt.

  For a moment, he remembered his time at Project Sparta, hunting with Ezra late at night. They had gravitated towards each other instantly in the Compound. He had encouraged him to pursue Fiona, despite any Compound rules and had become a close ally through training. It wasn’t until one night midway through the training program that his house exploded and his apparent suicide was faked. Little did Xander and the others know, it wasn’t a suicide at all, rather an extraction.

  Seamus broke his recollection, approaching with a pile of gear for the day. Among the pile were respirators with air filtration cartridges affixed to them, bullet proof vests, gloves and other articles of tactical clothing. Atop the gear was Xander’s marquee jean jacket, which he dusted off and flung on over a brown leather shoulder holster – his Glock poked out from his ribs behind his jacket.

  “You better suit up. We should get down to central DC before the clue comes. If word gets out about a killer bacteria loose in the city, there’s no telling what the streets will be like.” Ashton circled back, smacking a wad of gum as she talked. She handed Xander the respirator off the top of the pile but fumbled the hand off. It crashed to the floor.

  “Oh sorry, Xander.” She hastened to pick it up, but Xander knelt first. After picking it up, he lifted his head to see Ashton’s hanging locks of hair.

  Xander froze at the sight, focused in on i
t.

  And then found himself somewhere else.

  He was now in the backseat of the station wagon staring at his mother’s dangling hair, which hung low behind the back of the passenger seat. Xander’s mind had fully transported to the memory, he only saw the memory. The wood paneling of the interior of the car, the faded blue fabric of the seats, every detail exactly the same. He then remembered how the details of the car were not the only thing the exact same each time. His parents recited the same script each time and the truck would hit them at the exact same moment. It always ended in tragedy – he wanted a different outcome just once, even if it was just a dream.

  But what if I could change this dream? Act on it and have it react to me?

  “Isn’t that right, Xander?” It was the same beginning as always. The question came from the front seat.

  “You’re about to say, ‘and we love you, Xander. You are so sweet’,” he answered, anticipating their next line. His mom propped herself on her knees as usual and smiled over the head rest.

  “And we love you, Xander. You are so sweet.” Her delivery was as robotic as before, the fact that Xander had just strayed from script did not faze her.

  No matter what I say, they still repeat the same things. My imagination should be able to alter this scenario, shouldn’t it? They should be confused right now.

  “Why can’t I change anything?” He asked aloud to his parents, hoping they would react.

  “We’re right here Xander,” they spoke as a broken record on repeat.

  “If I can’t change this, is it a dream at all?”