Independence Day Plague

by Carla Lee Suson

  Charro continued, “Six months ago, very few bills floated around. It’s like some new contenders entered the market.”

  “Not counterfeit?”

  “The bad-asses getting the cash know to check for that and kill any son of a bitch that tries it.”

  Dorado nodded. “Could be foreigners bringing it back to the country.”

  Taylor replied, “Yeah, but don't they just turn it in for credit? The money’s worth more as a direct credit exchange. Why stay underground with it?”

  “Good question.” Dorado mused for a minute before continuing, “It’s curious but not necessarily sinister.”

  Taylor replied, “Sometimes the high dollar foreigners bring it in and use it to stay off the computer grid when they don’t want their activities tracked. Some Arab prince wants to move quietly through the less legal levels of society, he uses greenbacks or African gold. Hell, many of those types enjoy carrying a suitcase of coins for the feeling of power. Terrorists worked with the greenbacks until it became an obvious red flag for Homeland Security.”

  “I’ll ask around the other agencies to see what they say. In the meantime, if any of you get the chance, check it out. Let’s see what kind of answers we get.” Dorado sat back in his chair. “That’s all for this morning.”

  As the meeting broke up, Mike called to McAfee and Olsen to stay behind. Dorado gestured for them to sit again. “Brian, keep me online about the wirehead case. Sherrie’s done some background on the disease and tells me it was the bioterrorism drug about thirty years ago. I’ve got a feeling about this one.”

  “Sure, chief.”

  “Sherrie, I’ve give this some thought. We need more about what it takes to make this disease. Call a medical school or the CDC. Explain to them about our concern. Ask them if a lab exists, how big would the factory need to be? What kind of special equipment do they use? I can't picture a person cooking up a batch of anthrax over a kitchen stove. Ask if there's a smell or smoke from the factory. After all, a meth lab reeks across its entire block.”

  Sherrie nodded, “Sure, how soon do you want it?”

  “By the evening if possible.”

  “Okay, boss. Good thinking.” She flashed him a quick smile before walking out the door that McAfee held open.

  He closed it and pivoted comically on one foot towards the table. “Boss?” He said with a quirky lilt. “What did you do to get the ice queen to thaw?”

  Dorado gave him a sharp look, “I don’t know, maybe treated her with respect. Come on, Brian, let’s get to work. It’s going to be a long day.”

  “Sure thing, Chief.”

  Further, in the news today, Chinese health officials are requesting the help of the World Health Organization in investigating an outbreak of a new flu-like disease in the Hubei Province. Officials claim that the outbreak is contained in the southern city of Hefeng and travel in and out of that region is now restricted. Currently Chinese health officials state there are 150 cases of the disease with seven deaths. So far, the disease has not been positively identified as any one strain of flu.

  Mitchell lost the rest of the broadcast as he stepped from the station platform onto the subway train. Once the plan started, the days drifted by with little to do. For the first time in his career, he had time to simply exist. DC looked different, more weathered and crowded, than he remembered from his graduate days at Johns Hopkins but even then, he never played the tourist. Now he spent hours riding the different trains of the Metro, wandering through neighborhoods, museums, gardens, and federal buildings. With no one to share it with, he didn’t absorb much. Nothing seemed real enough to care about.

  The subway trips helped ease his sorrow. The Metro became an analogy of life. A person enters when they're born, the stops pass by unnoticed. Looking out the window, the events blur by. They relish the brief interludes with others. The trip feels endless for the moment yet when the time comes to exit, they see that the time flew past in a vague memory and now the minutes are gone forever. He watched people enter and leave, wondering if they remembered anything or anyone at all from the trip.

  His presence among people anchored him into reality. He thought of their lives. Did this woman have children? Would that boy grow into a good man or a criminal? Did the man fingering his wedding ring love his wife or worry about cheating on her? Mitchell wandered mentally through their lives because his felt so empty. His darkness, the void, pressed against every waking thought. Nevertheless, he had patience. He knew the darkness in his soul would extract its time too. Then he'd fall into the void, unfeeling, uncaring, and forever away from the grief he felt now.

  A pretty, blond child watched him with wide eyes as she clutched her mom’s skirt. The passengers rocked together to the jerking wave that moved from the train’s wheels up through their backbone. After I’m done, you’ll never feel safe again, he thought as he smiled back. The world will be forever changed, bleaker, rougher and far more empty. The child responded shyly and waved when he stood to get off as the train slowed into the Arlington cemetery station.

  Because of the muggy eighty-two degree weekday, the crowds stayed away from the Cemetery, leaving it relatively empty. Mitchell walked, the wreath in hand, along the path that split the white tombstone-filled sections. He'd meet Macon again in two hours, plenty of time for this walk.

  Of all the people on Geller’s list of resources, Macon proved to be the most expensive yet necessary goldmine. The information on Forester had been overwhelming, much more than he had hoped for. General Talbot’s life story as well as his actions with USAMRIID, the Army’s medical research institute, also yielded to the onslaught of Macon's digital intrusion. Macon jacked the prices but he paid it in the old bills, far more valuable than he ever estimated.

  As Mitchell walked along the pathway, he drew curious glances from the other tourists. He wore his usual cream-colored button down shirt and black trousers, very dated and out of place here but comfortable. Fashionable ten years ago, now the clothes made him stand out opposite of the current dark, high-collared fashions. The middle-aged couple that scurried down the path ahead of him represented a fine example. Mitchell snorted as they passed, noting the navy blue, high collars with gold piping frillery which looked ridiculous with the short sleeves. The woman even had a pillbox hat with small brim, a recent style that hadn’t been popular for seventy-five years. Mitchell wondered if anyone noticed the clear connection to uniforms from the Japanese Imperial Navy, circa 1940s, the U.S.’s one-time enemy. Truly ironic, he mused, that we adopted this dress when relations with China heated to a critical point. We are, by our fashion mentality, waving the red flag and telling the world we’re ready for the fray.

  As the couple moved off, Mitchell quietly followed the signs down the quiet tree-lined path to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The wreath consisted of real red roses and ivy twisted around a wire frame rather than the plastic variety so often used. He felt that the flowers needed to be real. He owed the soldiers this one last memorial act. It was part of the bigger plan laid out so clearly before him.

  He walked up the steps to the platform and sat with a sprinkling of other tourists on the tomb steps above the guard’s platform. The soldier paid little attention to the small crowd as she continued on her stylized march back and forth in front of the tomb. He watched for an hour as the guard moved and then changed, all in stylized beat and grace. The stress eased out of his shoulders on those quiet white steps. The trip brought a serenity that rarely occurred. Finally, he rose off the upper steps of the memorial and walked stiffly down to the step area below the soldier. A few other wreaths mounted on tripods decorated the area. He kneeled and placed his wreath against the legs of the large center arrangement. Running fingers across the red rose, he smiled sadly and whispered, “The dead deserved the best.” The card fluttered in the breeze so he pushed it deeper into the metal and ivy framework. The handwritten message in black ink read: “To the Army Flight 796 and the brave men who didn’t know what they were get
ting into.”

  “I cheated death once. I escaped as you burned my people. Then I left you behind in Dakota. I escaped death again because you didn’t know you were destined to die, crashing into the Utah desert. You men were the only witnesses they had left. You died because you participated in our massacre.” He whispered. “I should hate you. You came in, burned my home, and destroyed everything I knew.” He let out a long shuddering sigh. “I find all I can do is feel pity for you. You didn’t know what you were doing any more than we did. I’m sorry you had to be sacrificed.” He sat there for a while on the white stone stairs; slow tears trickled down his face as the guard’s pendulum gait continued above.

  Chapter 10

  June 23, 2026

  Dorado sipped cooling coffee from the chipped mug. His eyes flickered to his watch. Groaning inwardly, he resisted the urge to slam the cup down. Due any minute, McAfee had called an hour ago, wanting to talk to Dorado tonight about his report. However, Dorado felt the work of the day through the tiredness of his back. At eight o’clock at night, his stomach growled with hunger.

  He had spent the afternoon drinking bad coffee and going through the never-ending reports on his desk. The group’s raid on the Church of the Pure Blood yesterday led to nine arrests, a basement full of assorted assault rifles, guns, ammunition, knives and even a handheld antique bazooka, complete with two rounds. Most of the weapons were registered but a few were not. The officers also found newspaper clippings and notes about the Chinese delegation and hand drawn maps of the Smithsonian Mall area. This provided enough evidence to bring in Homeland Security. Once notified, the Feds took custody of the suspects and at least one started talking. Over the next few hours, the departments worked together to mop up the rest of the group. They worked on getting five more warrants to search private residences and planned more arrests on conspiracy of the top leadership of the church.

  Charro’s report was less successful. The Takando gang members stayed quiet about their plans. What little Charro got out of the leaders implied the stockpile was more turf war oriented and not involving the upcoming celebrations. They needed to raid the place but had little evidence to support the issue of more warrants. In addition, by the time the warrants were issued, the gang knew to move the contraband weapons. DCPD knew some of the larger gangs kept hackers and police band monitors scanning the official airwaves. In the past, the police forces attempted to shut down the hacker stations but with little success. Any notice of raids through standard channels gave the gangs plenty of time to change locations. Thus, everything had to be done off the grid, which slowed the investigation down. The police viewed it as one of the curses of the interconnected world that interfered with the job. Dorado marked the file for Starker to reassign to one of the regular grunts.

  Notes on the greenbacks were tacked on to the end of his reports. The gang knew about, and profited by the increased circulation of old bills. The currency hadn’t been used in the neighborhoods for the last couple of years. A large portion of the cash appeared in Anacostia and smaller amounts in Oxen Hills and central DC. The currency drove up prices of the illegal pharmaceutical trades. The informers stated that the cash came from a few locals buying contraband IDs, debit cards, and electronics. Charro traced one set back to an electronics dealer who claimed he cashed in on his long-hoarded retirement fund. An Anacostia-based gang that was heavily into the drug trade also traded in large sources of bills. Charro didn’t recommend going in there for talks in anything less than a tank. Dorado pondered this for a while. Lots of old money from only one source rang right with high dollar items like drugs and guns. Fake IDs and debit cards usually meant a large-scale electronic scam. Only a few people provided those products but again, nothing linked it to the July Fourth events. He wrote a note on the file to pass it on.

  Brian McAfee banged into the conference room. “Yo, chief, thanks for waiting for me.”

  Dorado looked at his computer clock one more time and growled, “About damn time. Did the kid give you anything?”

  “No, he died about an hour ago without waking. That’s part of what took me so long.” He slumped down in a chair and ran his fingers through his dark red hair. “You eaten yet?”

  Dorado shook his head.

  “Let’s go grab some grub and I’ll tell you what I found out.”

  Half-hour later, the men sat in a quiet booth in a dark bar and grill. Although many of the restaurants already overflowed with customers, this bar and grill had a chipped-paint exterior and a dark, greasy inside. The less picky locals knew that the Flame and Suds didn't look like much but served decent steaks and burgers.

  They quickly ordered their steaks and ice teas. Once the waiter left, Dorado leaned forward, “Okay Brian, tell me what you’ve got.”

  “Jeez amigo, this is some case you gave me. Cardell really fucked up with not getting this kid to a doctor sooner. His parents state that the boy told the officers he had trouble breathing at the time of arrest. They're now talking about suing the department. The kid's a typical high school party kid. He had no priors but, according to his buddies, liked to dabble in the recreational powders. He had relatively new implants but they looked like the typical sex-sensory stuff. “

  “Could the disease come from the implants?”

  Brian shook his head, “Not likely. The implants are legal, tattoo-parlor quality, no deep spinal or brain stem stuff. His parents said he got them put in about five months ago. According to the doctor, that’s too long of incubation for the disease. In addition, I had Olsen check the records this afternoon. The parlor he went to passed all its health inspection.”

  He paused, taking a large sip of ice tea. “That sweet lady is warming up to me, I think.”

  Dorado cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, she said something?”

  McAfee grinned, “Nah, but she was almost pleasant to work with. Didn’t actually smile but thawed a bit on the ice bitch routine. Actually wished me good luck on the investigation.”

  “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Did the parents preapprove the implants?”

  McAfee snorted, “Yeah, they even paid for them. Seems Thayor convinced them it would keep him out of drugs. The boy had a serious future as a salesman.”

  “These folks must be real stupid.”

  “Upper-middle class corporate clones.” McAfee shrugged, “Not the best on the parenting scale.”

  “Well, if the kid didn’t get it from doing the cyber-implant, then it’s got to be the drugs.”

  “Yeah and no. You can get the disease other ways but when it affects the lungs so quickly, the doctor says that's from spores. It’s logical that the shit was mixed into the drugs, but why isn’t anyone else sick? Cardell busted a party of about eighteen kids. It turns out he’s a friend of one of the kid’s parents. They asked him to scare the hell out of the teenagers in hopes they’ll go straight. None of the other kids show any symptoms and most of them were high during the bust. Cardell has arrest records on all of them. I visited each kid and their family and saw no symptoms or any indications of a factory. I wasn’t the only one either. When the doctors discovered Cabbot had anthrax, they pulled in all the kids and tested them. No other positive results."

  “So I figure it must be something in the kid’s home or someplace the kid went. I talked to the dad who let me search their house. I brought in a forensics team this morning and we did swabs all over the place. Other than an overload of prescription Valium and Prozac, there’s nothing outside of the kid’s room. The parents barely talk to each other and I’m guessing Thayor had a lot of unsupervised free time.”

  “So it’s a dead end. Shit.” Dorado shifted in the hard wooden seat. “Sherrie told me that anthrax shows symptoms anywhere from one to six days after infection. The party was busted on the 26th and the kid went to the hospital on the 29th. So it had to be something anywhere from the 23rd on.”

  “Okay. Tell you what though, chief, this is nasty shit. They had Thayor with tubes doing all his breathing and he just k
ept getting bluer and bluer until he stopped. The doctor told me that this crap is very contagious from person to person and from cow to person in the right form. It’s a real nasty way to die.”

  “What’s the right form?”

  “White powder.”

  Dorado sighed, “Like nose candy.”

  “Yeah.”

  Their steaks arrived and the men ate in silence for a while. Dorado frowned as he stirred a French fry in ketchup. “It doesn’t add up. It looks like the kid got it from the rec drugs but none of the other kids are sick. What about his supplier? What if Thayor bought something that he decided not to share with the rest of the party?”

  McAfee nodded, “I checked on that. Cabbot’s suffering made the others real talkative. The girls didn’t know anything. They claim that they didn’t even know about the rec drugs. One of their parents hinted that Cardell was giving them trouble so we might want to keep an eye on that. Evidently Cardell runs quite an industry in dealing in favors.” McAfee munched on another fry before continuing. “But this other kid knew a bit more. He calls himself Spyder. He claims to be Cabbot’s best friend. He said all the guys kicked in for the supplies but only Cabbot knew where to get them. He gave me two names of likely suppliers: Lloyd Thompson and a guy named Arnie Noonan. Spyder didn't know how to contact either dude. I ran Thompson and got some hits on possession with intent. He’s the main supplier for the Prince George area and he did a little time but nothing in his file indicates that he worked with biologicals.”