“He’s not the traitor, let him go…”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Porter Nash took deep, quick breaths in the umbrage of the dimmed lights hanging over the BNA studio news desk. He scanned his notes and the rest of the panel – they returned a readied nod. He looked to the lead anchor, Adam Nichols, who remained fixated on his talking points until a stage manager came up next to the main camera and flashed five fingers.
“We’re on in five, four…” His fingers counted down to zero with no further verbal cue. The stage manager flipped his finger and pointed to the anchor.
“Welcome back to BNA live, I’m Adam Nichols. We have our panel here to speculate on the horrific events of the day.”
“So, let’s talk about the Skeptics who are behind this attack. How do they work? Why are they doing this?” The news anchor asked them. The retired CIA official offered his insight.
“An attack like this requires an internal network. This had to be a well-orchestrated plan, carried out by many people.”
“What are you implying?”
“I’m implying that this man, Harak Khan, is not the only man behind the attacks on four major targets, including the White House.”
“So, what would you say the intelligence community is looking for?” the anchor asked.
“It’s hard to say, I suggest that whoever is behind this is calculated and doing this for a purpose. You don’t pull off something so elaborate without an endgame in mind. I imagine that they function much like the Russian KGB during the Cold War. I think they have focused for years on infiltration and are lying in wait for activation.”
“Are you saying that the Skeptics could have sleeper agents?” Porter posed the question.
“Well, yes… I am. It is not uncommon for any opposing force to operate like this. If the sleepers live a seemingly normal life and don’t raise any flags, it is much easier to pull something off like this,” the retired CIA official explained. The anchor pulled his finger to his ear.
“We can get back to that theory in a second as we try to unravel this, but now let’s take you to our man in the field, Kevin Garrett, who is near one of the roadblocks now. Kevin?” The feed of the on-the-street reporter populated the monitor. Behind the reporter was a mob rising. The National Guard formed a line and equipped riot shields, while a crowd of people aggressed them.
“Thanks, Ken. I am here at the quarantine line and a mob of hundreds of people are gathering and growing more aggressive by the minute.” Shouts could be heard behind the reporter.
“You can’t keep us trapped here! It’s un-American!”
“Let us go, please!” Some indistinct voices cried pleas while others screamed protests.
“Tension is running high here, people want answers. They feel trapped and helpless, if they aren’t sick yet than they surely will be soon—” A deafening bang sounded out in the night, interrupting the reporter.
Four shots rang out.
The National Guard received an order and commenced their crowd control commands. The pleas turned to screams as the mob, scattered in every direction, some charging the quarantine line, others retreating aimlessly.
The National Guard fired rubber bullets into the crowd and heaved canisters into the center of it. A cloud of poisonous fog billowed through the crowd, striking them down to their knees. Protestors grabbed their eyes and began coughing immediately as the effects of the tear gas invaded their nervous system. The fog came closer to the camera and then after a moment, the camera itself dropped on the street, leaving the feed sideways.
“We’re going to cut from that, as the situation is getting rather ugly out there. We hope everyone is okay, including our very own crew. If anyone missed that shocking footage –in an effort to suppress the violent crowd, tear gas has been deployed on a major crowd at the edge of the quarantine zone,” the anchor said back in the studio with great difficulty as the feed cut. “Due to the amount of civil unrest in the streets, for your own safety it is of critical importance to stay inside until the turmoil has been quelled. God help those protestors. God help us all… Let’s go to commercial.”
Chapter 53
The White House
9:45PM
Vice President Johnson, still alone in the Chief of Staff’s office, finished isolating the two records relating to Henry Bosco and Caroline Keener. After saving the files on a separate file, he sat back in his chair and exhaled the stress of the impeding decision. He was not contemplating his course of action, rather coming to terms with any subtle guilt unearthing itself from his gut. He ascended to his feet and approached the bar in the corner, eyeing the stiff auburn whiskey glimmering inside a glass decanter. The Vice President sized it up and then poured himself three fingers worth.
Liquid courage.
His lips kissed the glass and a shot’s worth fell down the hatch. After slamming it down, he fingered the glass and twirled it on its end like a ballerina’s pirouette. His mind momentarily cleared and thought freely.
Henry Bosco and Caroline Keener. I haven’t seen them or heard from them in years… what do they have to do with all of this?
He poured himself another drink and then plopped down on the leather couch in the office – this one he would sip on. As he began, he recalled the events from earlier that day.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The Vice President sat in the Oval Office, wondering if the attack of today would unfold into a public panic. He checked his watch and it read 1:28 PM. The afternoon sun peered in through the tall navy-blue curtain behind the Resolute Desk. The room was beginning to get restless and rumors had begun to spread.
He had just received an internal memo, charting the effects of the disease.
Coughing, twitching, bleeding. Upon completion of the autopsy of Lieutenant Walker it became apparent that the brain was too stressed, resulting in paranoia and seizure.
He imagined the innocent people dying and the horrors of their last moments. He wondered how many people in the White House had been exposed and how long they had left, but his thought was broken when his cell phone vibrated. The others in the room looked over, hoping that the call would deliver answers. But the Vice President politely excused himself and retreated into the Executive Assistant’s office.
“Yeah,” the Vice President answered shortly after entering the office.
“Vice President Johnson, it’s Marty. I am afraid it appears the President has been infected.” The Vice President leaned up against the desk, trying to hide his reaction from the quarantined of the Oval Office.
“My God…” he exhaled in consternation.
“The Spartans are still in the field and we are still running the show down here. The President is in quarantine but is not incapacitated yet. We will keep you posted.” The Chief of Staff was all business. The Vice President hadn’t adjusted from the news yet. He began nodding his head, lost in shock, and remembered he was on the phone.
“Yes… okay… I’ll do what I can from here.”
“I appreciate it, Tom. It is the President’s wish that this remains discrete for the time being.”
“I understand, keep me posted.” The Vice President brought down the phone and ended the call. He reflected for a moment on the implications.
Jack is sick. No cure. If he dies… I’m President.
The thought had always lain dormant in the recesses of his mind, but had now made its way to the surface.
His phone still frozen in his hand rang again. The vibration shook a jitter up to his elbow.
This time it was an unknown number. On a day like this, he knew he had to answer.
“Hello?”
“Vice President Tom Johnson…” The voice carried a dark, ominous tone.
“Yes, who’s speaking?”
“I am the man that released Apollo and I have a proposition for you.” Johnson stepped back and had to catch himself against the desk. It took him a brief moment to return from his shock and decipher to whom he was speaking.
; “Why are you doing this? Where is the cure?”
“By now you have heard that the President is sick.”
“How do you know that?”
“We’re listening in, Vice President. We aren’t even there, and we have seized control of the White House,” he explained with the upper hand.
“That’s impossible!” Johnson interjected.
“As impossible as breaking into the NIH and stealing a deadly disease?” Johnson didn’t answer, but merely backed off his guard. “Although I will not tell you where the next target is, I can assure you it is a public space and panic will ensue. We have the cure and are willing to give it to you at a price,” Khan enticed.
“The United States of America doesn’t negotiate with terrorists,” he responded firmly.
“We both know that’s not true… we know the darkest secrets of your government and we know your darkest secret Vice President Johnson… we know about the Ivory Tower Sessions.”
Johnson was punched in the gut by the words. After catching his breath, he trembled at the thought.
“I have no idea what you are talking about.” He feigned oblivion.
“We both know, you do. And we have proof of it. If you do not comply with our terms, we will expose you publicly,” Khan threatened.
“So, you’re blackmailing me?”
“Call it what you will. All we want is the location of two agents. Agents that can only be found on the NOC list. And yes… we know about the NOC list. The two agents in question are Henry Bosco and Caroline Keener. And you can have the cure.”
“What do you want with them?”
“That is not your concern,” the terrorist spoke plainly.
“And you think I’m just going to send the identities and locations of two of our best agents?” the Vice President countered.
“The disease will be sweeping through the city soon. Hundreds of thousands of people will most likely die, including you. Nothing can stop the disease other than the cure that we have. So, you ask yourself the question, would you trade the lives of two people for an entire city. And I would suggest not sending falsified information, because we will know, and we will disappear, letting the disease run its course.”
Johnson was enraged but couldn’t find the words.
“You have till eight thirty. I’ll be in touch.” The phone clicked dead.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The phone call played over and over in Johnson’s head. He had kept it to himself, for fear that the terrorists would know and do more wrong. He sipped again on the whiskey, he had taken from the Chief of Staff’s bar and looked at the clock. It read 8:30PM.
Time’s running out. I have to decide. How in the hell do they know about the Ivory Tower Sessions? If the President dies and that gets out, I’ll be impeached. The country needs a strong leader. One who does not shy away from hard decisions. Henry Bosco and Caroline Keener are the key now. But I can’t just sell them to the enemy, can I? But they signed up for this, didn’t they? Can I trust them to deliver the cure if I do give them this file? It doesn’t matter… I have to, there’s no other option… And the stakes are too high…
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
At feeling the buzz in his pocket, he threw back another two fingers of whiskey, inhaled a lungful of air and slammed the glass down on the side table next to him. He shifted onto his hip, freeing up his pocket. He fished out his cell phone and answered it.
“Do we have a deal?” the voice asked.
“Yes… I have the files,” the Vice President assured him.
“Good…”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The Vice President followed the voice on the phone’s instructions step by step, uploading the data to an untraceable IP address. He watched the computer with baited breath as the bar that read ‘Data Transfer’ filled. It slowly crept from 78% to its completion. After the data transfer was complete, a pop up message confirmed its successful upload.
“Okay… I’ve done my part. A plague is running lose in the city – it is time to end this madness. Release the cure!” the Vice President barked into the phone, regretting what he had just done.
“This is how it will work from here…” the voice hissed.
“If you double-cross me, you son-of-a-bitch!” the Vice President yelled.
“Don’t worry, so long as this file provides us with the locations of Henry Bosco and Caroline Keener, you will have your cure. And the black stain of your past – the Ivory Tower Sessions will remain confidential. We will vet the data and once it is confirmed to be accurate, we will provide you with the warehouse location where twenty thousand doses will be waiting. Nice doing business with you…” Khan hung up the phone, leaving the Vice President to drown in his guilt.
You had to do this to have a fighting chance of getting the cure for the city. But the chances of him delivering are only as good as the integrity of a terrorist.
What happened next shook him even more than the events of the prior ten minutes.
Three Secret Service agents barged into the room. The Vice President stood up and closed the lap top computer.
“What is the meaning of this?!” he exclaimed, off guard.
“We are sorry to interrupt, Mr. President.”
It was the first time he had heard his new title and he knew what it had meant.
Chapter 54
Tobias’s Laboratory
10:00PM
Catherine Mueller and Tobias Greene stood before the television, wearing deflated contamination suits – the headpiece detached. They watched as riots spread throughout the city and listened to the endless speculations as to the whereabouts of the cure. The sights and sounds of the news were breathtaking. So much so that Catherine dropped her hand from her mouth and grasped Tobias’s.
Tobias looked over at his new companion – they had already been through more than most couples experience in a lifetime.
Then the news broke abruptly. Adam Nichols, the anchor at BNA, listened carefully in his ear, appearing as if he was not ready for the camera to be on him. The camera too made quick adjustments, as if someone had just grabbed it and turned it on. Eventually the camera steadied and zoomed in on Nichols, cutting off the rest of the panel.
The camera awaited Nichols to speak, but he did not at first. Rather, he asked a muted question off camera to confirm the report he had just heard. After receiving confirmation, Nichols sighed gravely, needing a moment to collect himself. Flooding with emotion before the American people, he lifted his head.
His watering eyes stared down the camera, piercing the television sets before each American family.
“We have… we have just received word from the White House… that at approximately 9:20 tonight, President George Hooper passed away, due to complications from illness… again, the President has passed away.” Nichols’s head fell, leaving the updated Breaking News banner at the bottom of the telecast to update any new viewers.
Catherine and Tobias’s wide-eyed gaze met each other. They remained breathless and paralyzed, experiencing the shock each American was feeling at that very moment. Catherine’s grip on Tobias’s hand tightened, seeking some inkling of refuge from the horror of the day.
“Tobias…” Catherine gasped.
“Yeah,” Tobias exhaled, not expecting the words that would come next.
“They’re winning…” He knew she was right and so his hand tightened around hers, worried of what was to come.
And then another change came over the news.
The screen quickly turned to black and the same message from earlier that day populated every television set in America: We interrupt this program to bring you Breaking News.
After a few moments, the screen turned to the next text slide.
Remember, democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts and murders itself. There is never a democracy that did not commit suicide.
-John Adams
The same distorted voice from earlier that day read the words as they disp
layed on the screen.
All four targets have now been hit by the Skeptics. Your city is in chaos.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Rachel Norton could not believe her eyes as the video played over their channel again, despite the virus having been extracted from their server.
“What the fuck is going on?!” she yelled over the bullpen.
“I don’t know! We took that off our servers! How is it still playing?” a BNA tech yelled back.
This country has been infected by years of dirty politics and dysfunctional democracy. We at the Collective have recovered the cure and will disperse it to all infected zones.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The quarantined members of the Oval Office, still in emotional collapse at the news of the President’s death, watched as the distorted voice spoke to the American public, offering a glimmer of hope in the darkest day since 9/11.
“They have the cure!” a staffer rejoiced in the back of the room. His hope was matched by the others in the room.
Although we are not responsible for this attack we are skeptical of America’s integrity and strength as a nation. You cannot change the government from within, the democracy is broken. The voice of the citizen has been muted and severed from DC politicians.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Mac and Cusick paced through the apartment as the video played on the news playing on the TV. They considered what the end game of the Collective was.
“Why are they doing this?” Mac asked unable to see the point of it all.
“They are building trust with the American public.”
Project Apollo Page 29