by Mark Rounds
“What do you need to fix this?” asked Gen Antonopoulos.
“Five hundred gallons of diesel would help,” said Dave. “That would run generators long enough to fill all the water storage tanks and pump the sewage. We are working a scheme to use cooking oil and salvaged cooking grease to at least get some water but that only buys us a couple of weeks. We are also working on some … manual methods to pump the sewage, but that is also not a long-term solution.”
“Any good news?” asked Gen Antonopoulos.
“Actually we do have some,” said Dave. “Chad is working with Don Yates, the Pullman Chief of Police. They have a college athlete in custody, secretly, who might be able to finger Henderson's pusher. We have reason to believe that Henderson is being run the same way Nesmith was.”
“So maybe you can just roll him up?” asked Gen Antonopoulos.
“It's not that easy,” said Dave. “Henderson has too many folks following him. If we bust him like we should, and take him out of power, after the water issue and some other things that have gone down, it will look like a coup. I am afraid we are going to have to negotiate with him unless we can catch him red-handed.”
“I don't like it,” said Gen Antonopoulos.
“Neither do I,” said Dave. “But if we have to leave him in power, then I will be his source for Slash and we will be ruthless in finding other 'freelancers' so we should be OK. When the next election rolls around, Henderson will quietly retire. It's the best I can do.”
“Make it happen, Major,” said Gen Antonopoulos.
July 5th, Sunday, 11:12 pm PDT
A Farmer's field west of Moscow, ID
The Hammer made his way across the state line into Washington north of the airport and well away from any of the check-points. There was an abandoned farmstead from the Depression. The family that had owned it had left so long ago that the house was in ruins and the shelter belt of trees was overgrown and dying. He approached the ruins with caution, as there were always problems with first contacts. Chad had wanted to take this mission, but the Hammer's field craft was much better so he volunteered. He entered the shelter belt and watched. As per prearrangment with Chief Yates, someone lit two candles and put them in the window.
As the Hammer started into the building, he saw through the doorway a young man, tied to a chair. He was large enough to be the one that he had been briefed about. Hammer had a feeling that things were not as they seemed and looked around in time to see three large men, all in their early twenties, carrying clubs. One had a revolver in a holster. The fourth young man was smaller, built more like the Hammer.
“Are you the guy from the Air Force?” asked the smaller man.
“Who's asking?” said the Hammer. He had his pistol in the small of his back and his tool belt where he kept his hammer in the open.
“Funny guy,” said the smaller man, “you know the deal. The guy you want is in there.”
“Apparently you don't 'know the deal' because he isn't the one,” said the Hammer as he turned and began to walk away. “Deal's off.”
“Not so fast,” said the smaller man. “Boys, get him!”
The three young men went for the Hammer. They were obviously amateur tough guys because they didn't spread out, they just rushed him. The Hammer was not only quick with a hammer, he was fast on his feet, and he ran away from the shelter belt at an angle getting to the outside of the three toughs. The one packing the revolver started to draw his piece but made the mistake of stopping to aim. There was a loud crack and the young man crumpled to the ground.
The two remaining toughs stopped for a second, stunned by the shot. Hammer took advantage and closed on the outside man who saw him coming and took a swing at him with his club. The Hammer stepped inside the swing and hit him in the knee, which crumpled, taking the thug to the ground. The third young man rounded on the Hammer but where he swung his club, the Hammer wasn't. The Hammer let the momentum of the swing carry his adversary around, and then he hit him hard on the temple, sending him down in a crumpled heap.
The Hammer heard a strangled sound and turned to see Sayla, holding the smaller man bodily off the ground by his throat, his other hand controlling the Cobra .380 that the young man had drawn.
The first man the Hammer had taken down tried to get up, but met with the Hammer's 9mm.
“Let's everyone get nice and comfy,” said the Hammer. “Sayla, don't kill him, we need to talk to him.”
Sayla took the pistol from the young man's hand and tossed him contemptuously to the ground.
“You were supposed to come alone!” shouted the smaller man. “Let me go and the Mayor doesn't have to hear about this.”
“Phillip Masterson,” said the Hammer, “I am a Special Agent for the United States Government and you are now in Federal custody. Sayla, please check the cabin.”
Sayla drew his Colt Delta and went over to the cabin and looked in. James was still tied to the chair, his eyes bulging. On the floor lay the police officer who was supposed to meet the Hammer to take custody of James. Sayla checked him. He was bruised and had a hell of a lump on his head, but he was still breathing.
“He’s alive,” said Sayla.
“That's good for you,” said the Hammer to Masterson, “because we would be happy to add murder to the list of crimes you will be charged with.”
“You guys are in Washington,” screamed Phillip, who was really starting to get scared. “You have no jurisdiction here!”
“We are federal officers,” said the Hammer. “Sorry, that doesn't play.”
“Well, where did that shot come from?” asked Masterson. “There is no cover for a thousand yards.”
“From Major David Tippet,” said the Hammer. “He has made shots at least twice that far, so even if you had been able to get away from Sayla, which is very unlikely, he would have killed you.”
“And this guy,” said Masterson, gesturing at Sayla. “We are in a shelter belt surrounded by a fucking wheat field. How did he get behind us?”
“I walked where you weren't looking,” said Sayla mysteriously, and then he grinned.
July 6th, Monday, 8:02 am PDT
The National Guard Armory, Moscow ID
“I have been informed,” said First Sergeant Michael Borden, “that you have all volunteered for the militia, which is part of the Idaho National Guard. In fact, I was informed that it was a special squad, just the three of you. So I came out here to see what the cat had dragged in, and what do I find. Two kids both fresh out of the hospital, and an old man.”
Sergeant Borden stopped pacing in front of the three new recruits, and pointed at the older of the three.
“They tell me you were an NCO,” said Borden.
“Yes, sergeant,” said Harold Gibson. “A Marine NCO, sergeant!”
“Well, it’s not a given that you will get your old rank back,” said Borden. “But we do need NCOs. If you can still cut it, we can use you.”
Borden took a step forward and peered into the eyes of a young man in his twenties, slightly under average height but fit.
“They tell me you were a Pullman cop,” said Borden. “Why are you here?”
“Mayor Henderson is nuts, sir,” said Tom Pederson.
“I am not an officer!” screamed Sergeant Borden. “I am an Army First Sergeant and I work for a living. Drop and given me twenty!”
Pederson assumed the prone position and began pumping out pushups. While he counted, Sergeant Borden moved over to his last recruit.
“They say your daddy is an Air Force Captain,” said Sergeant Borden. “That will cut you no slack around here, son.”
“I expected none, Sergeant,” said Connor Strickland.
“They also say you killed a biker with a baseball bat,” said Borden, looking into Connor’s eyes with a flinty-eyed stare sergeants have used since Roman times to see if Connor would flinch.
“No, sergeant, my mother finished him off with a twelve gauge,” said Chad. His Uncle Dave had warned him about
this trick so he kept his eyes locked on the clock on the far wall and made sure to tell the whole and absolute truth.
“Your mother isn't going to come save you this time, Strickland,” said Borden. “How many men have you killed, just you, recruit?”
“Five for certain, Sergeant,” said Connor.
“I wish I could say you won't have to kill any more,” said Borden suddenly softer. “But in times like these, we will all get more than our fair share.”
Pederson finished his pushups and quickly got up and back in line.
“So what I have here are three of the most experienced recruits in the 116th Provisional Infantry Battalion,” said Sergeant Borden. “We need you, but you need to do this the Army way. Not the Marine Corps way, not the Pullman PD way, but the Army way, so we will in-process you today. We have precious little to issue you in the way of equipment, though I understand both Gibson and Strickland are bringing Privately Owned Weapons. Once your paperwork is filled out we will drill you and give you some weapons training.
“After that, you are on call should any emergencies arise. You will report to me, if recalled, and I will assign you where you will do the most good. Otherwise, you will drill two days a week. For you three, that will be Tuesday and Thursday. The rest of the time you will have to yourself to do what you can to survive. If you make the grade, we will move you to regular squads. That's all I have for you. This isn't as strict as a normal in-briefing, but you guys are out of the ordinary. Go see the company clerk for your paperwork and then get back here. Let's see if we can get a full day’s training in.”
July 6th, Monday, 9:13 am PDT
Room 326 in Albertson Hall, University of Idaho, Moscow ID
It was a small office cluttered with books from the previous occupant. Other than the bookcases, most of the furniture had been moved out. In the center, sitting in an office chair with his arms bound, was Phillip Masterson. Seated in chairs near him were Capt Chad Strickland and Corporal Terry Taylor from the Idaho National Guard. The corporal was running a digital recorder on a laptop computer for this interrogation session and providing security. Standing behind them was Sayla with his arms folded, looking menacing.
“Look,” said Masterson looking up fearfully at Sayla, “I'll tell you everything. Henderson is dirty. He is infected and a Slash user. He has been using City Resources to ...”
“We know all of that, Masterson,” said Chad, interrupting him. “Henderson is old news. We want to know where you get the Slash. You aren't smart enough to make it, so some one must be delivering. Who is it? Where do you meet? What price do you pay?”
“They will kill me if I tell,” said a panicky Masterson.
“Let me tell you how we are going to handle this interrogation,” said Chad smiling. “We tested you so we know you are infected and covering with Slash. I will ask you one more time, nicely, to tell me everything you know about your Slash deliveries, who your clientele is, who works for you, and anything else that enters that pea brain of yours. Give me any grief, and I just walk and you will stay tied to the chair with Sayla watching so you don't escape or try to kill yourself.
“It's been a while since you had a fix, say a day, judging from the way you are sweating? So we will just wait. I figure by noon, you will start feeling the Plague. By two, you should start to be irrational. I think that would be a good time to question you again, so what will it be? Will you talk now or do we wait? It doesn't matter to me at all. Bear in mind that next door, we are questioning your associate James. If you lie, we will find out.”
There was a loud thump from next door followed by a voice that had to be James pleading not to hit him anymore.
“James is being stubborn,” said Chad. “My commanding officer, Major Tippet, is questioning him. He is not as nice as I am.”
“Look, I got rights,” said Masterson whose voice was rising in both pitch and volume. “You can't beat me like that.”
“You are enemy combatants who are not wearing uniforms,” said Chad, pausing for another crash from next door. “That means you are spies. We can shoot you straight up if it pleases us.”
“I don't know who delivers the Slash, at least I don't have a name anyway,” said Masterson, talking fast.
“I think it's time we took a little walk, Corporal Taylor,” said Chad getting up to leave. “Perhaps this piece of whale slime will be more talkative in a couple of hours.”
“NO, wait,” said Masterson as his voice suddenly pitched to a higher register. “This is the truth, you gotta believe me. On Thursdays at midnight, in a little farmhouse west of Pullman, a man with no name meets me. I have asked him what I should call him a bunch of times, and he doesn't even answer, like he didn't hear the question. I give him a couple of thousand for each balloon. He gives me like fifty of them, enough to keep my customers happy until the next time we meet. If I need more, I tell him. I tried once to inflate what I needed and he slapped me around good. He has spies and they know just how much I sell.”
“Now I know you are lying,” said Chad, “What does he want the money for? It's not like you can buy much with it.”
“I know, right, but money I can get, so I don't ask questions,” said Masterson twitching as something hard slapped up against the wall next door. “They also have things they want me to do. They tell me and I make them happen. Usually getting information about the police from Henderson or about you guys.”
“And you tell them?” asked Chad.
“Yeah, I have informants everywhere,” said Masterson. “Secret users who are desperate to keep their secrets. They will do whatever I want for their next fix.”
“So tell me why,” said Chad quietly, “or I should have Sayla here give you the same treatment James is getting next door?”
“Look, if I don't get out there and be active,” said Masterson, “you know, out there selling, they will know I am out of circulation and then no one will show up. There will be repercussions.”
“Oh, you'll be out there all right,” said Chad chillingly. “And you will do everything just as you normally would. Don't try and run because several of my men will be around you at all times, a couple of them as tough as Sayla here. They will be watching and will bring you back if you run and then my boss will question you and you don't want that.”
Next door, there was a scream, followed by a man's whimpering voice talking just loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to be understood.
“It sounds like your friend James is starting to be reasonable,” said Chad. “So who are your 'employees' and how much do you pay them?”
As Chad worked through his list of questions, Phil began to babble the answers. Several times Chad had to slow him down while Corporal Taylor looked at his notes and made sure the story was consistent. After two hours Phil was crying and incoherent. He had clearly told everything he knew and was afraid that it wasn't enough. Chad nodded at Sayla who opened the door to the office and waved in the PJ who was waiting outside. He injected Masterson with a large dose of Slash, enough to make him insensible. As soon as he passed out, they hauled him to the County Jail.
Chad went next door and tapped on the door.
“Hey Dave, you guys can lay off now,” said Chad.
“It's about time,” said Dave, who was sweating profusely and had a police baton in his hand.
Chad opened the door further and saw James, also sweating, holding a karate punching target that was clearly the worse for wear.
“That was some pretty fine acting, young man,” said Chad to James.
“It was worth it to hear Masterson lose it,” said James. “The Major here was able to go over to our place and get Emily, just like you said. She’s being taken care of at the hospital. I’ve been promised visitation and a job away from that slimeball.”
“Let's knock off and get some lunch,” said Chad. “Interrogating can build up a powerful appetite.”
July 7th, Tuesday, 7:22 am PDT
Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
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br /> Col Dan Phillips walked to his office at the Headquarters building on Fairchild Air Force base. Since he had banned the use of gasoline-powered vehicles on base except for emergencies last week, he was walking the mile and a half from his house to the office building that was also base headquarters. It was good exercise and it gave him time to clear his mind. He was worried about the food situation. He had stockpiled as much as he could as soon as he was authorized, but the influx of retired and recently separated military members and their families was stretching those resources thin. He was very concerned that the plan to open a land corridor from Fort Lewis had been postponed again.
The accident, if it could be called that, which had taken ADM Turner’s life had also shaken up the command structure at Fort Lewis, but the situation at Fairchild was becoming dire. They did not have the resources to take all the people in the area who wanted refuge the way Fort Lewis had, but they tried. The scene at the gates for the first couple of weeks of the crisis was pitiful. It had slowly improved since the distance between the base and the main part of Spokane made walking difficult. After the gasoline dried up, fewer and fewer people made it to the gate. They had tried to follow the rules set forth by LTG Buckley, but with only a little more than five thousand airmen on base and a much higher ratio of tail to teeth, as was normally the case for an all-Air Force installation, it was all they could do to maintain their perimeter.
“What have you got for me, Wesley?” asked Col Phillips as he entered his office and took off his hat. His Headquarters Squadron Commander, Capt Twitchell, was a studious young man who always beat the Colonel to his office.
“There is something requiring your attention, sir,” said Twitchell. “We have three more Plague cases. I don't understand how we keep getting more. We sealed the gates weeks ago. The vet thinks it may be either contaminated food that we bought right before the wheels fell off, or perhaps people are supplementing their diets with wild-caught meat.”
“I thought that epidemiologist, Grieb, at Fort Lewis said that animals couldn't be infected and so were not a vector,” said Phillips.