She couldn't help wondering what he planned to use the weapons for. She'd killed more people than she could count, but unleashing a nuke wasn't in her plans. She'd always figured that Cimil disappeared into the jungle for some sort of religious thing. Certainly he talked about the glory of the Maya enough. But now she suspected there was more to it. His increasing references to the end of the fourth world, now less than a month away, didn't help.
So she followed Cimil, despite his order not to pry into these excursions. She had managed to place a tracking device on one of the feathers in his elaborate costume, and she'd wound up at this secluded temple, watching the ceremony with little doubt how it would end. A ritual killing somehow seemed more violent, more raw than firing a gun. But it obtained a similar result. She didn't cringe when Cimil held the severed head high or when the crowd roared its fevered approval. She did jump when she felt the barrel of a gun press into the small of her back.
“Senora Schmidt. Halach Uinic would like a word with you. Please come this way.”
Two men with M95's led her around the back of the pyramid. One of them had been in the truck that day at the port. She'd heard them use that term, Halach Uinic, to describe Cimil before. She'd looked it up, and it meant something like supreme ruler of all Maya. Not a shock given Cimil's ego.
The two men led her into a dark passageway, then into a chamber lit only with torches. Cimil sat on a stone bench, stripped to his waist with his torso bathed in sweat. He motioned for her to sit, and the two men left them alone.
“So, Andrea, you disobeyed me. What do you think I should do about that?”
She felt only a small measure of fear. She'd lived with the possibility of an unexpected bullet in the brain for too long to worry about it now. “Perhaps you should have me killed.”
He laughed. “True to form, even facing death. Do I need to kill you? Are you going to betray me?”
“Depends on what you mean by betray. I'm not going to blab about your little ritual, or even about the nukes that you seem to have allocated for personal use. But I can't be in charge of security and stay in the dark about these issues. How am I supposed to assess the risks?”
Cimil considered this. “I can't argue with your logic. I want you to follow orders, but I agree, you need to know more. So let me tell you all about it.”
He talked for thirty minutes. Some of it she knew already, but some of it required all of her resolve to keep from arguing.
“Why do you think I talked to Richards separately? It wasn't just so I could get her into bed. The woman and I are kindred spirits. She won't make it to the Fifth World of course, but she will prove useful. Now that she has lost the election, we have agreed that we must proceed with the kidnapping.”
The kidnapping didn't concern Andrea. His plans for afterwards, how he would use the nukes, well that was a whole different matter. But the most disturbing thing he mentioned only in passing, something about a guy in South America.
The guy who would provide Cimil with a cure for the virus.
ON THE AIRWAVES: CNN Headline News
The news anchor straightened her blond hair and stared at the camera. The camera operator counted down from five to one, and she readied her game face. Serious yet engaging, the faintest trace of a smile on her collagen-enhanced lips.
“And on this date seventy-one years ago, the Russians bombed Pearl Harbor.”
“Cut!” The voice boomed from the shadows.
Her smile disappeared. “What'd I do?”
The program director shook his head and spoke into the microphone. “Never mind, darlin'. Never mind. A problem with the teleprompter.”
He picked up the phone and didn't wait for the recipient to speak. “I don't want to hear a god-damned word. Someone screwed up, and it's almost worse if it was an accident. Fix it now.”
He hung up and pressed a button on his keyboard. The corrected text rolled across his monitor. The countdown from five began again.
“… the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. A day that will live in infamy. That attack drew the U.S into World War Two, and—hold it we have a breaking story to report. We're gonna go live to Maria Grant in Washington.”
It had taken about two minutes to splice this into the Headline News feed, but CNN liked to maintain the illusion of breaking into a broadcast. The reporter Maria Grant appeared on the screen.
“We've gotten word that President Richards will be addressing a joint session of Congress on December twelfth at seven PM Eastern Time. Just minutes ago, she made the rare request to the leaders of both the Senate and the House. Apparently, she gave no specifics beyond saying that it involved the security of every American. Congress is in an uproar, with some going so far as to question whether they would comply. We'll have more on this as the details come in. Back to you, Nancy.”
Now live, the anchor picked up the conversation. “Thank you for that report, Maria. I guess the question of the hour is, what does President Richards intend to say?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
December 7th, 2012: In the Amazon Basin
Ronin Gonzales raised his voice. That didn't happen often, especially not here. After all, the others would know he was angry before he opened his mouth. That was both the gift and the curse of his people, from well before the days on the island. After the disaster in Yucatan centuries ago, barely enough of them remained with unmixed blood to rebuild the community.
Perhaps it was the time spent in Georgia and Guatemala. The humans thought so differently, and the strain of regular interaction exhausted him. They possessed no guile, and no emotional consideration either. Intellectually he knew they didn't possess the necessary brain chemistry, but that knowledge couldn't eliminate his frustration.
“We haven't heard from all the distributors yet. Time is getting short.”
Four other men and five women nodded, the other members of the Leadership Council. They sat in a large room in Gonzales' dwelling unit, a group of five chambers in the extensive series of caves where he and his people lived. Leadership of the Council rotated among the ten members, and Gonzales would hold that position until the following spring. During that time, his living space served as their headquarters.
The caves had formed naturally, nestled in the vast rain-forest south and east of the Brazilian border with Venezuela and Ecuador. Some of the most remote territory on Earth, although the past four decades had seen the level of seclusion erode. Which was part of why they pursued the nukes and the virus. The continuing enhancements and expansion of Google Earth were another reason.
The caves may have been natural, but the interiors were well-finished. Gonzales and his people had simple needs. A combination of jungle and natural caves gave the perfect camouflage from satellites and curious visitors alike.
One of the older Council members, a scientist named Katin, spoke in soothing tones. He didn't speak English, of course. The language was one that hadn't changed at all for over two-thousand years, a derivative of Phoenecian. “Ronin, my friend, please ease your mind. They are not due to report until the end of the day. There is no need to unsettle all of us. We leave that to the humans.”
“My apologies.” The others could sense his genuine remorse. In a society where one could not hide feelings, or even the general shape of thoughts, giving voice to tension proved disruptive. “I fear the culmination of our plans has made me anxious. I suppose I also harbor some small doubt about whether our anti-viral serum will truly protect us, especially if it begins mutating as it spreads among the humans.”
Katin inclined his chin slowly. “Do not worry, Ronin. We have engineered the cure to hinder the process by which the virus spreads. That is unlikely to change.”
They sat in silence for several seconds. Another part of the etiquette needed for their unique physiological gifts. Their term for this state could be roughly translated as “Intuitive Silence.” It allowed individuals time to consider the knowledge and gather their thoughts and feelings. To consider the feelin
gs of the other group members as well. The next person to speak would do so only when the process reached a certain unspoken consensus. In this case, the speaker was the youngest member of the group, Yurix, a woman whose amber hair stood out in such a homogeneous population.
“Will anyone in Guatemala survive?”
Gonzales looked around the room. She wasn't the only one with that question. “You mean aside from the half percent natural survival rate? Perhaps some traces of our people remain there, but it seems unlikely. Anyone who carried the disease and wasn't of pure blood perished a millennium ago.”
More silence. Then Katin again. “My only concern is what Cimil will do when he finds out we gave him a cure that doesn't work.”
Gonzales said, “I suspect Cimil will not survive long enough to find out. The Americans will know where to find him. Last time we spoke, I could tell he was not concerned, but there simply is nowhere for him to hide after setting off a device like that.”
Calm settled among the members. All decisions used the process of consensus as opposed to a democratic vote. No one could hide disagreement, so the domination of one individual, group, or viewpoint proved impossible. On some occasions, fundamental differences of opinion did exist, but the evolution of their society had given them a greater ability to resolve these differences. Just as a human child gradually learns not to cry at every disappointment, their children learned to let go of jealousy and resentment. Instead of peer pressure and scolding as deterrents, their children lived with the knowledge that these insecurities could not be hidden.
Even the composition of the Council itself was based on consensus. Once each year, at the vernal equinox, the group would gather deep in the bowels of the earth in their largest subterranean chamber. By the time of the gathering, the identity of the two individuals who would rotate onto the Council was usually settled in their collective minds. Any remaining disagreement resolved itself through a combination of discussion and intuitive silence. Aside from this annual function, the Council decided and spoke for the whole group. This arrangement had worked for nearly a millennium, since the time of the rapid departure from Guatemala.
Gonzales stood up. His lips trembled as he pictured the future. “This is the end for most of the world. For us, it's just the beginning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
December 10th, 2012: Langley, Virginia
Simon sat in his office, staring at the ceiling. He had a decision to make. For months, he'd been beating his head against the same brick wall. Yum Cimil. He knew that revenge often made for stupid decisions, but he couldn't help himself in pursuing the man. At least he'd try to be honest about it, and not pretend he wanted Cimil for anything other than personal reasons.
The situation was hopeless, relying on phone intercepts to tell them something, anything, about Cimil and his nukes. Now he figured he'd had enough. It was time to go home to Hadley and let this thing play out on its own. He realized that he'd already decided, just didn't want to admit it. His cell phone rang, a rare enough occurrence since only two or three people had the number.
“Hello?”
“Simon Gray? This is Andrea Schmidt. Do you remember me?”
Did he remember her? He couldn't decide whether the shots fired at him or the gun in his nostril was more memorable.
“You could say that. To what do I owe the … pleasure?”
“We need to talk. There's some things you need to know. In two days, meet me at the Baltimore airport on the first incoming flight from the connection location you'd expect. Tell no one. And be there.”
Andrea hung up. Simon smiled. Isn't that always the way? Sitting feeling sorry for himself and something happens to shake things up. He'd meet her, of course. No question about that. An American airport was the last place for any kind of ambush. He couldn't imagine what she'd have to say, but he'd listen. After all, what did he have to lose?
He thought about telling Braxton. By all rights, he should. But hadn't Andrea said to tell no one? Cimil needed to pay, and Simon wanted to be the one extracting compensation. Memories of his trip to Guatemala almost three decades earlier swept into his consciousness. He clenched his eyes shut and his breath caught as he remembered. The blood. The pain. An image of death and loss burned forever in his cerebrum. He should have stood up to Cimil back then, and the shame of his inaction had haunted him since that night.
Well, better late than never.
Back in Guatemala, Andrea snapped the phone shut. She looked at the tiny object, a powerful two ounce conduit to the rest of the world. The phone did not belong to her, nor did the office in which she stood. She didn't know whether Cimil truly considered her a threat, but she felt safe enough using his phone for a minute when he was out of the compound. As head of security, she pretty much had the run of the place. And she figured that his personal satellite phone would be the last place he'd put a tap. All she had to do was clear out the call from the log afterwards.
Now she needed to figure out how to get out of the country without his knowing. His reach into the Guatemalan government certainly extended far enough to find out about flights out of the country, but he was occupied with his plans. She'd travel under a different name, one she hadn't used in a long time. All in all, she couldn't have picked a better time to leave. She just hoped it wouldn't be too late.
She knew Cimil lacked mental stability. Unlike so many others in the same situation, he now had the means to take a lot of people down when he crashed. She couldn't let that happen. She'd have to find out if Simon Gray could help.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
December 10th, 2012: Los Angeles, CA
It took four days for Calvin Logworth to suspect he was dying. The effects of the Mexican food had worn off in a few hours, but a couple of days later, he started feeling weak and his sinuses clogged up. He developed sores in his mouth. He hadn't eaten for three days, and even water felt like acid going down his throat. Now, he just wanted the pain to stop.
Oddly, he didn't have a fever. The doctor told him he had hand, foot, and mouth disease and he needed to drink a lot, take ibuprofin, and use a cough spray to deaden the nerves. It didn't work.
Then yesterday he developed the rash.
First on his hands and feet. But this morning, the angry blotches appeared around his groin. No itching, but it burned. Not unusual, the nurse had said over the phone, something's going around. He needed to drink lots of water.
Then he vomited blood.
The funny thing was, his stomach hadn't been hurting. He couldn't eat, but that was because of the sores and the fever. Secretly, he hoped he might shed ten or fifteen pounds and salvage something out of this misery. Those thoughts evaporated into fear when the mixture of bile and blood rode a wave of reverse peristalsis onto the new Berber carpet.
Rita was at work and their son, Brandon, wouldn't be home from school for another two hours. He sensed that he couldn't wait, so he dragged himself up the stairs to put on some clothes. He couldn't go to the hospital in his boxers. His legs buckled a few times, and he cursed the weakness. When he got better, he was finally gonna get in shape.
If he got better.
He slapped on the blue and gold UCLA Bruins sweatpants and a Budweiser t-shirt. Then he slipped on the top step of the stairs and tumbled headfirst into unconsciousness.
“Dad, Jesus, wake up!”
Logworth's eyes drifted open, and he saw a blurry figure kneeling next to him. His mouth tasted like the blue mold you cut off the bread, and he could smell the rot on his own breath. Only a substantial effort enabled him to rise onto his forearms.
“Dad, what the hell happened to you? Are you all right?”
Logworth felt like he was talking normally, but the words came out in a sluggish jumble.
“I'm s-sick.”
“No shit, dad. Let me drive you to the hospital.”
He didn't argue, or criticize the profanity. He only made it to the car by leaning heavily on his son. Now his stomach hurt. Not nau
sea, but the real thing, a cauldron bubbling with knives. He couldn't believe he'd whined before about the sores and the rash on his balls and how it hurt to drink. Mere nuisances compared to what he felt now.
They lived in West Hollywood, and the traffic was mercifully light as they made the ten minute drive to Cedars Sinai Hospital. The Hospital to the Stars. By the time they arrived, Logworth was no longer lethargic. The pain had given him a burst of energy and as Brandon opened the car door, Logworth leaped out, screaming.
Enid Stanley, R.N., caught a five minute break during a lull in activity at the Cedars Emergency Room. She was only halfway through a twelve hour shift, but she needed to sleep for at least a day straight. The beginning of flu season seemed particularly bad this year. She thrived on the fast pace and constant challenges of a big city E.R., but she felt some unease at a level below conscious thought. For the past two days, several dozen patients had shown up complaining of flu-like symptoms. Stuffy nose, cough, weakness, loss of appetite.
Several dozen wasn't an unusual number in December, but most of them did not have the usual fever associated with the flu. That's how the body fought an unknown invader, by raising the internal temperature to kill it off. Also, most of these patients had sores in their mouth, another atypical symptom. She figured that this year's strain of the virus was simply different, but a small part of her harbored concern.
The banging of opening doors caused her head to turn towards the noise. Two aides pushed a gurney containing a man strapped down by his chest, arms, hips, and legs. His screams shattered whatever illusions of calm Stanley had harbored. One of the aides sported a black eye and called out to her.
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