Independence Day Plague

by Carla Lee Suson

  Dorado hated this colorless, sterile hell, knowing that if he were forced to work here, he’d also develop the same zombie pallor and personality void that most of the programmers had. Olsen looked different. Dressed in lime green pants and a soft yellow silk shirt, she radiated color.

  He sat down in the empty chair next to Olsen’s terminal, placing the soda and cookies on the black top conference table beside her holographic keyboard. Dorado heard her voice murmuring into the microphone as her fingers danced across the blue-lit touchpad. He shook his head slightly. He had never mastered the art of programming subvocally and through touchpad simultaneously.

  Her fingers paused only a second as she glanced through the dark hood at the peace offering then at him before returning to the touchpad. “We’re not allowed to have food near the computer tables.” She said crisply.

  “Let’s go somewhere and talk then.”

  She placed her hands in her lap, but continued to speak for a few more seconds. The light points flickered across the dark visor and then winked out. She tugged the helmet off and set it gently on the table before turning towards him. Her calm eyes, the color of deep ocean water, stared at him, impassive and unblinking; the mouth set in a grim line. “I don’t have time to socialize.”

  He smiled half-heartedly. “It's just business.”

  “Then talk.”

  “Privately. Take a break.”

  She glanced around the windowless room. Mostly older women occupied seven of the ten terminal links. Although the murmur of voices and electronic beeps floated in the background, a conversation could be easily overheard. “There’s a lunchroom at the end of the hall.” She rose and strode out of the room without looking back.

  The gray-green hall led to an unmarked door. Inside the room, harsh fluorescent lighting reflected off the neon colors of the various drink and snack machines that loomed along two walls. A five-foot conference table sat in the center with ten metal chairs. A brown couch decorated the third wall opposite the door. A flat screen TV hung over the couch and ran silently through a newscast. Olsen sat at the end of the long table, brushing crumbs off the surface. Dorado took the seat on the right side, placing a folding chair between them.

  “Whatcha need Mike?”

  He cocked his head in surprise at the use of the familiar name. They had only previously communicated through intel reports, having never talked face to face other than the occasional hello in passing. The cellophane wrap crinkled and tore down the center of the cookie bag as he ripped it open. He held out the bag to her before speaking. “I’m, putting together a task force to assess potential terrorist threats for the 250th celebration this year. I want you to be computer liaison for the team.”

  “Jacobs is department head. He deals with the special assignments.” She nibbled at the cookie in small neat bites.

  “You know how many threats we dealt with last year?”

  “72 potential, 12 actual investigations and only three serious enough for an arrest.”

  Dorado smiled. “You know your stuff.”

  She shrugged, “So does Jacobs. You don’t need me for stats.”

  “The crowds on the Mall last year were only about half a million, a smaller turnout than usual because of the rain and it being an off year. This year, the expectations are that close to three million extra people moving around somewhere inside DC. A big chunk of them will plant themselves between the Capitol Building, the Lincoln Memorial, and the White House. About a half million or more will be foreign nationals. By seven o’clock, good luck finding a square foot of ground to stand on, much less sit for the fireworks.

  “The Smithsonian Institute is pulling out all the stops on food preparation for their portion of the Folklife Festival. Nearby buildings are renting out roof spaces at $500 a person for the fireworks display. The 250th party and concert on the Capitol Steps is a logistics nightmare. The only equivalent scenario we’ve seen this century occurred twenty-six years ago at the millennium celebration. Even then, the cold weather kept many at home so only about a million folks in DC proper with equivalent crowds flowing into the other celebrations. However, this year every nut, political wanna-be, and power hungry terrorist will vie for world headlines. I need help to stop that.”

  She sipped the drink and cocked an eyebrow at him, “I agree that you need someone, but that doesn’t mean me. Jacobs has seniority and he’s good.”

  “Jacobs is great at what he does. Give him an assignment and he’s like a rat terrier, shaking it until it rips apart and the facts fall out. I need someone with more.” Dorado leaned forward. “I need someone who sees beyond the obvious facts. Someone who makes the intuitive leap others don’t see. Remember that job you helped out with about two months ago?”

  The muscles along her jaw stiffened. “I handle an average of seven researched cases a day. You need to be more specific.”

  “The Monroe case?”

  “The pawn shop murders. What about it?”

  “Cardell asked you to take the security camera tapes and blow-up the perp’s face and run it through face recognition software.”

  “It didn’t work, though. The security tapes were too low quality.”

  Dorado nodded. “Two of us worked with Cardell on that one. We hoped for some kind of scarring or ID through the mask. By the time the fourth pawnshop had been hit, we were stumped and pretty damn desperate for some kind of clue. Remember? You took the initiative. You blew up the best pictures of the knife handle. It had the carved double snakes out of ivory. After that, you ran a search on the knife and found out that it was handmade. Only two men made knives like that kind of merchandise.”

  “What about it?” her blue eyes hardened into guardedness.

  “It was the break we needed. We narrowed the suspects down to five men known to have purchased that knife style and took their pictures around to the dealers. A witness in Baltimore ID’ed the guy, which gave us enough for a warrant. We nailed the guy because you took the initiative. You looked at it with fresh eyes and saw something we didn’t see. I need someone like that. I can’t see it all and I need someone that I don’t have to spell everything out for.”

  He sat back against the hard folding chair as she took another cookie. The silence filled with the pop machine hum as she ate. “Cardell refused to look at the pictures. He almost had me fired for getting creative with those tapes and some of the other facts in that case before the arrest was made. He said I wasn’t paid to think, just take orders.”

  Dorado remembered Sherrie emailing the pictures to all of them and Cardell being furious about it because he blamed her for the facial photos not coming out. Cardell was a bastard of titanic proportions. Most of the senior officers refused to work with him. Dorado nodded. “Yeah, he took all the credit for the bust in front of the news services despite the fact four people worked the case. Bet the asshole never apologized to you either.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Sherrie smiled slightly.

  “I’m not Cardell. I work with my people and I give credit where it is due. More importantly, I need creativity on this project, Sherrie. If you find something, I will want to see it.”

  “If I screw up, I’ll be looking for another job.”

  Dorado grinned with his mouth set in a hard, flat line. “If we screw up, we’ll all probably have bigger things to worry about than jobs. If we stop the guy with the nuke or the sarin gas then you could be sitting in Jacobs’ chair next year.”

  She sat silent nibbling on another cookie without looking at him. Dorado waited while drinking the tepid coffee.

  “Cardell in on this?”

  “Hell no! I wouldn’t be able to get anyone else to work in the group if he was.”

  Finally, she grinned for the first time Dorado could remember. Her face lit up with it. “Okay, I’m in. When do I start?”

  “Tomorrow. Pass your caseload off because we already have threats to assess. I’ll let Jacobs know.” He stood and picked up the half-empty ceramic cup. “Th
e group meets at nine, day after tomorrow, in my office.”

  He turned to go then, but stopped as she spoke.

  “Mike thanks for the snack.” Her voice was softer this time.

  Hand on the knob, he looked back and nodded. She continued, “You have pretty eyes. They’re like old silver.”

  Dorado left the room before the rising heat flush of his skin became noticeable.

  Chapter 2

  May 30, 2026

  Mitchell stared at the microphone, tracing the wire connection to the back of the computer with his eyes. He sighed heavily and got up to make himself another drink. As rum splashed heavily over the ice, he mentally shook himself up. This was the hardest task; harder than building the explosive unit, harder than facing all the people he would infect and ultimately kill. A tear trickled down his cheek. None of it would be any good unless they knew why. He had to relive those last terrifying days. He had to create his testament. Caf followed the rum over the ice and then he sat in front of the recorder again. The memories flowed in his head, jaggedly sharp and agonizing. After a few moments, he wiped the tears away and turned the machine on.

  “The day after the party was the last day of hope for the people of BL-4. Forester and his men had been thorough at keeping us there and letting us die….”

  Mitchell woke at a little past eight to the sound of hammering at the front door. Caroline groaned beside him as he rolled out of bed. Throwing on a robe, he rubbed his whiskered face as he answered the door. Clark stood decked out in sweat pants and matching jacket with a black knitted cap against the thirty-five degree weather. Hints of the expected massive hangover only showed in his blood shot eyes.

  “Geez, what time is it?” Mitchell squinted into the dull, yellow light streaming in.

  “Around seven,” responded Clark with his breathing showing on every syllable. “Hey man, you gotta see this. The front gate’s locked.”

  “What?”

  Clark gestured at the distant north exit, “The damn gate. Some assholes put a chain and padlock on it.” Clark squeezed past him into the house. “I’ll wait until you get dressed.”

  Both men turned at the slight footsteps. “Morning, Caroline, Katie,” Clark nodded and blew into his gloved hands.

  “Jim, what’s wrong?” his wife pulled her robe tighter around her, fighting off the chill Clark had let into their household.

  “I'm sure it’s nothing. Why don’t both of you head back to bed?”

  “Good idea,” Katie sighed. “My head’s killing me.”

  It only took a few minutes to throw on jeans, a blue sweater, and an overcoat. Even in April, the North Dakota air cut sharply with each chilly morning breeze. The smells were crisp and clean as Mitchell watched his breath come out in puffs. The muddy ground froze again overnight but the two men stuck to the street, avoiding the icy patches. Very few people were outside in the cloudy weather. Moving Day activities kept people inside packing and the road predictably deserted. The first group of families were scheduled to leave today, following moving trucks first to another Army base and then to their new cities.

  When they arrived at the inner gate, they weaved around the yellow electric car humming quietly, blocking the entrance. Sarah Mendoza, a secretary from the administration office, stood next to Alberto Sanchez from information systems and, a short distance away, Ray Geller. The inner gate stood closed and padlocked, something Mitchell had never seen in the many years he'd lived there. Twenty feet away, the outer gate's electric lock appeared engaged as well with the yellow barrier bar being down next to the white guardhouse. Something seemed out of place, itching at the back of Mitchell's mind.

  “I checked out one of the base cars to drive to Dawson for tea bags. John’s feeling ill and the Commissary’s closed. Why can’t we leave?” Sarah’s shrill voice cut through the dawn air.

  Mitchell stood next to Sarah. “What’s wrong with John?”

  “He woke up with a raw throat.” She gestured at the twelve-foot gate. “Is this an April Fool’s joke?”

  “If it is, it’s not very funny.” Clark growled.

  “Do the codes work?” Mitchell inquired, his eyes meeting each of the other’s in open question.

  Al joined them and gestured at the two-inch thick-corded wire wrapped around the poles. “The codes won’t do anybody any good until we get those off.”

  Geller waved to Mitchell and seemed to be talking to himself. The ear-set and tiny mike looked almost invisible, sticking slightly out of the man’s ear. Geller removed the phone and then walked over, mouth pressed into a thin line.

  “Stegan doesn’t know anything about it. He’ll be here in a minute with some bolt cutters.” Colonel and Doctor Darryl Stegan was the formal head of BL-4. Although officially a military person, he rarely wore a uniform since he split his work between administration and virology.

  After a ten-minute chilly wait, Stegan drove up with machinist Tyler Barnes in tow in one of the electronic carts used by maintenance. Together, the men examined the plastic coated cord wire and padlock. They talked quietly for a few minutes, heads bent together. Finally, Barnes retrieved long handled bolt cutters from the back of the cart. They did little more than dent the padlock loop before bending deep groves in the blades.

  “I don’t know what this is, titanium or something, but we’re going to have to get some serious laser tools to deal with it.” Barnes tossed the ruined cutters into the trunk of the maintenance cart.

  “What about the back gate?” Stegan fingered the plastic wrapped coil thoughtfully.

  “It’s the same.” Sarah replied. “I tried it there first because it’s closer to our house. I thought the MPs locked the back to control access in and out because of the big move.”

  “That’s it! The MPs are missing.” Mitchell snapped his fingers. His exclamation was loud enough and random enough to surprise a fair number of those gathered. “I’ve been wondering what seems wrong other than the chain. Look, the booth door is shut. The MPs are always on duty. I can’t think of when I’ve ever not seen them at the gate.”

  Everyone turned to look at the booth, shame on their faces for failing to realize it earlier.

  “Clark, run over and check the barracks and call me back.” Stegan ordered after clearing his throat to regain his composure. Clark nodded in reply and jogged off to the two-story building down the main road. Stegan turned towards Barnes. “Do we have a laser cutter?”

  His six foot, three-inch frame hunched over in thought. “Yeah, I can get my hands on one. It’s gonna take some time to set up though. I gotta figure out the power supply somehow but I think I can do it.”

  “Get to it as fast as you can.” Stegan turned to Sarah, “We’ll need this car out of the way. Go back home and I’ll call you when we have it open.”

  The men watched her back up the car and turn around before anyone spoke. Alberto broke the silence. “Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. Everyone’s concerned about cutting through the gate. Why don’t we just cut a hole in the fencing? Surely that would be easier?”

  Stegan frowned, “Don’t you hear it?”

  The men stood silent for a moment. The low vibration normally ignorable in the background now buzzed at the back of the skull. Stegan looked around and then picked up a large stick still covered in early morning frost. “Back up,” he said before hurling it over the first ten-foot fence and into the second outlying fence wire. It hit and exploded in a shower of sparks.

  “When the hell did that happen?” Alberto swore and then pointed.

  “It’s always been there.” Stegan replied; his face set in grim lines. “Not many know about it because we turn it on after midnight when everyone’s accounted for. It goes off by five a.m. It’s for security, to stop any one from sneaking into the base during the night. The fact it’s still on means that there’s something seriously wrong here.”

  “It also stops anyone from sneaking out.” Mitchell replied.

  Stegan gave him a glare before
answering. “Yes, it keeps people from sneaking out. It’s standard on all level one security bases.”

  “Okay, so where’s the cut-off switch?” Alberto had to ask.

  Stegan gestured towards the booth. “In there. There’s always a guard so we didn’t see it as a problem. The generator sits inside the two fences, behind the Administration Building. There's probably a cut-off switch in the building but I’m not sure where. The MPs know. If nothing else, maybe we can cut the electric feed to the fence and kill the power that way.” The small phone in his hand gave a loud jangle. “Stegan. Yeah, Clark. How many are there? All sick? Okay, we’ll check on them later.” He snapped the phone shut and clipped it on his belt. He frowned for a few moments.

  “Al, please send an email to everyone telling them that both the gates are locked. Tell them as little as possible but ask them to keep everyone inside, including pets. It’s only going to get up in the mid-fifties today so that’s not asking too much. Ask them to send one family representative to the auditorium at ten-thirty. Hopefully we’ll have some more answers for everyone then.”

  Al nodded and walked towards the eastern housing division. Stegan turned to go. He found himself blocked by Mitchell and Geller. “Why keep people inside?” Mitchell asked.

  Stegan paused before replying quietly, “There’s a procedure for this kind of lock-down. It’s supposed to only happen in the case of a leak or contamination. In that event, no one leaves until help comes. I don’t think we've got a leak but I need time to find out who triggered the lock-down.”