The Vice President ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed as he looked at the lower-left side of the screen, showing a detailed aerial map of Atlanta. Damage estimates and fatalities were highlighted in garish shades of red and orange.
Two-thirds of the city was just flattened rubble now, glowing with atomic heat that would take decades to dissipate. The damage, he noticed, seemed to be worse in the northeast corner of the downtown district.
“Fuck me,” he whispered in disbelief. Right there, before his eyes, there was an actual crater on the image from a passing satellite. Someone had used a damn big nuke.
On the lower-right screen, he saw a home movie from another part of the country, almost as scary as the one from Atlanta. The scene was a peaceful beach on the Atlantic coast of Florida, just north of Daytona. Someone was filming their kids playing in the surf. Then off in the distance, a splash of white on the horizon heralded something unusual had happened.
The sharp-eyed cameraman then had zoomed instantly to catch a long, black and white striped missile rise majestically from the frothing ocean. There was a puff of smoke and the missile rose on a column of smoke and fire. It headed straight up at first then arched back to the northwest over the beach.
The camera panned down to witness people on the beach pause in their frolicking and late summer sunbathing to shield eyes and stare up at the missile that was soaring high overhead. When the camera went back to the mysterious rocket, it was already shrinking to a mere point of light on a long finger of smoke, racing toward some unknown destination.
Harold put a hand to his face and rubbed away the tears that threatened to escape his eyes. His secure phone chirped in his pocket. He recognized the tune. It was Reginald.
He ripped the phone from his pocket and put it to his ear. “What the fuck did you do?” he asked in an urgent whisper.
There was a long silence before the neutral-accented, supremely confident voice of Reginald came on the line: “We did what had to be done for the plan to succeed. You are quite welcome, by the way.”
“Don’t you dare tell me that, you son of a bitch, you murdered hundreds of thousands of innocent Americans!”
There was a polite chuckle. “Mr. Vice President, I did no such thing. Not even my countrymen did this deed. No, if any one person is responsible for this deed, it is you.”
“Me? Screw you—”
“If calling me names will make you feel better, then by all means, curse away, Mr. Vice President. But remember, it was the codes that you gave me−”
“That was for getting your people inside the country, so you could release your damn flu. The flu, Reginald! I never agreed to…to…Jesus,” the Vice President said, watching the mushroom cloud spread over Atlanta again.
“On the contrary, you did precisely that. We used the codes you gave us to…ah…gain entry, so to speak to certain of your defense institutions. It wasn’t as big a window as we would have liked, but it will suffice. A few messages here, a few instructions there. When your own submarine went rogue and launched a nuclear missile—”
“What are you talking about? Nobody went rogue. That missile couldn’t have come from an American sub.” His mind raced with possibilities. Had a sub captain been turned by Reginald, too? “It’s impossible,” he said again, less convinced than ever.
“Well, I certainly did not launch it. Did you receive warning that a foreign submarine had entered your territorial waters? I hear you have quite the state of the art fleet protecting your shores these days. The reports I’m seeing on the news seem to indicate it was an American Trident-class missile, so the experts say…”
An American sub launched a missile that destroyed Atlanta? How the hell could that have happened? There was no way a sub captain would willingly destroy an American city like that. It couldn’t possibly happen. Reginald had to have tricked the sub into launching…but he would need—the codes.
Oh my God, thought the Vice President. If they can do that…
“Remember, Mr. Vice President, this was necessary for the good of—“
“What? You think destroying an American city and killing half a million innocent people—” the room started spinning. The Vice President imagined the confusion of children looking out school windows at the bright flash, the horror of parents as they saw the shock-wave destroying everything in its path and rolling toward them. He had a sudden terrible vision of thousands of suffering people with their faces accusing him of killing them, erasing all their dreams and families…men, women, children…
When would the next missile fly? Who would be the target? Did he just start World War Three? The room started to spin around him faster.
“Oh my God,” he said in a shaky voice. He quietly threw up all over the carpet.
“Mr. Vice President?” asked Reginald’s voice from the discarded cell phone on the carpet next to the weeping Vice President. “Remember, this is the only way for you to achieve your goals, for you to save your country. Half a million died today, a million will die tomorrow, ten million next week. It doesn’t matter, because nearly two hundred-fifty million will survive to see the future. Because of you. You knew this was the cost—the cost for saving your country.”
The Vice President moaned softly, his mind reeling. Two hundred and fifty-million people? That’s only half the country’s population!
“Too high,” he muttered, blindly groping for the phone. He lay on his back, eyes closed, and put the phone to his head again. “I can’t do this…” he whispered, hands shaking.
Reginald laughed, a hollow, soulless sound that sent chills down the Vice President’s spine. “My dear man, you are in too deep now to be getting cold feet. There is no turning back. Remember, you are saving your country this day. Saving it.” There was a pregnant pause. “Do not make me regret my choice in you, Mr. Vice President. You are not the only one with a lot on the line.” The thinly veiled threat pierced the Vice President’s melancholy like a lightning bolt splitting a dark night. “I would hate to see your children suffer…”
Harold Barron opened his red eyes and stared at the ceiling, seeing his little girl’s face before him. “What have I done?” he asked the empty room.
“You have done all we asked. You have done all that was required of you. And now, you need to focus on running your country.”
“What are you talking about? I’m in my bunker.” He looked around, nearly delirious with guilt. The plush carpet, the paintings, the books with gilded edges, the alcohol. People were going to start dying. People had already died. His people.
“The President is still in charge. I’m just—”
“The President will be dead by Monday.”
Harold sat up, for the first time smelling the vomit that smeared his shirt. “That wasn’t supposed to—”
“I know. It’s shocking. The virus strain that was released has proven to be a bit more…aggressive…than even my employers expected. Believe you me, it put a crimp in our plans. But, that is to be expected in situations such as this, is it not? Sadly our friend the President chose to continue his campaign stops in California this week and has come down with the flu. Quite tragic.”
“Oh my God,” breathed Harold. “How do you know?”
Reginald chuckled. “Please do not ask me that. I have my sources. The President is only a matter of minutes from being admitted to a hospital in Los Angeles.”
“But, surely they’d fly him to Andrews or some other base—”
“Sadly the President’s condition is too critical for transport. His inner circle is trying to get him stabilized first. I believe that he will not leave that hospital. As I said the last time we spoke, the President has set himself up quite nicely. So! Our timeline is stepped forward. This time next week you will likely be the President of the United States. Your economy will begin to collapse and my friends at the United Nations will invite themselves to your country to stabilize the global financial network. You must be ready to welcome them with open arms in th
e cause of peace.”
“I…this can’t be happening…no…”
“Relax, my friend. There is nothing to worry about. We just discovered some information that may complicate things, but it will be handled.”
“What? Complicated? How much more fucking complicated can this all get?” asked the Vice President, fear suddenly making his heart hammer in his chest. What city was next? New York? How many millions more would die because of him?
“I should not tell you this…” Reginald paused. “But you are nervous and rattled, and I am sympathetic. Perhaps I am too friendly with you. Some of my colleagues tell me— ‘Reginald, you care too much.’ But that is me. All heart.”
The Vice President frowned but held his tongue. He nearly broke the phone in a death grip. The arrogance of this little—
“This information will hopefully renew your somewhat shaken confidence as you come to understand the depth of our reach. A mid-level scientist at the now defunct CDC may have figured out what we are about. He contacted a certain man that, thanks to the codes you provided, we have determined to be a part of your elite special forces. I believe you call them SEALs. Such a silly name, for a highly over-rated military force,” Reginald chuckled.
“This SEAL and his comrades will be dealt with, as will your President. Do not worry. Whatever he knows will die with him. And as for your President…my employers will handle him if the flu doesn’t.”
“If someone knows about this…if they find out I had anything…oh my God…” the world was closing in on him. A sudden tightening in his chest was restricting his breathing. “What…what are you going to do?
“Mr. Vice President. Calm yourself.” Reginald crooned smoothly. “The situation will be handled. By the time you go to bed tomorrow, you will be the President of the United States. I want you to relax, Mr. Vice President—I can still hear your breathing. My colleagues covered their tracks. No one will ever be able to trace the codes used to bring such ruin on your country back to you. I assure you, the only people who know the truth are my employers and yourself. Now, I know just what you need. Go and clean yourself up—“
The Vice President looked around in a panic. How did Reginald know he had thrown up? There had to be a camera in here. How damn far did Reginald’s influence go? He got up, not listening to the man who controlled his destiny any more. He pulled some books off a bookshelf and tossed them on the floor, searching.
“When you have finished wasting your time looking for a camera, I think you will be pleasantly surprised by what you actually find…”
“What?” he asked. The Vice President noticed a faint but achingly familiar scent was circulating within the recycled air of his bunker under the Naval Observatory. The phone forgotten, he inhaled deeply, soaking up the fragrance.
Jayne.
The Vice President turned, as if in a dream, feeling his pulse quicken. Everything became a little brighter, a little louder. He was pulled by her scent toward the bathroom. He could see a glow coming from the marble tiled room he hadn’t noticed before. As walked in, he caught himself in the mirror.
His dark hair was disheveled about his head, mired with sweat and traces of the vomit that was also smeared his chin and shirt. His eyes looked haunted, his pupils dilated. His skin had a glossy sheen to it. He looked a proper mess. Movement in the mirror to his right caused him to look upon a vision that could only have escaped out of Heaven itself.
In the massive whirlpool tub, overflowing with bubbles, she waited for him with a bottle of champagne. She was surrounded by perhaps fifty candles. Her tanned, soft skin seemed to glow.
Jayne slowly got up on her knees in the tub, the bubbles caressing her body to the bottom of her perfect breasts, dripping with lather. The white bubbles contrasted with her perfectly tanned skin and reflected the candlelight in the room. Her golden hair had been pulled into a ragged bun behind her head, the dim light of the candles that surrounded the tub caused her blue eyes to shine with an almost unearthly, angelic light.
His breath came ragged now, his heart thundered in his ears. His mouth suddenly dry as his pulse quickened and his senses became heightened and focused on Jayne. Every fiber of his being directed him to tear his clothes off and launch himself at her. He started to disrobe, watching her watch him with those sultry half-closed eyes. Atlanta, Reginald, the flu attack, all those dead Americans, the guilt…everything simply drained away and disappeared. There was only Jayne.
Yet, somewhere in the deep, dark, secret place of his mind that she had not conquered, a voice whispered: How did she get in here? The Bunker is under lockdown…
As he stooped to remove his pants, he watched her delicately pour the expensive bubbly over the gilded rim of the crystal champagne glass etched with the logo of the Oval Office.
She held a glass of champagne in salute and purred, “Care to join me, Mr. President?”
CHAPTER 7
Los Angeles, California.
All Saint's Hospital.
BRENDA WOKE WITH A start in the doctor’s lounge. She had not meant to actually fall sleep and angrily checked her watch. It displayed 0430 hours. She added switching to 12-hour format to her mental list of things to do now that she was out of the Army.
I’ve been asleep for two hours! Brenda rubbed her stiff, sore neck while she came to grips with the fact that she had slept with her head on the table for the past two hours like a rook straight out of boot camp. She was surprised the muted roar of noise coming from the hallway hadn’t woken her sooner.
People cried, nurses and physician assistants rushed back and forth from patient to patient—the sheer number of people seeking help at the hospital was incredible and it was still growing. To think this scene was being repeated all over the area boggled the mind.
“Asleep on the job. Another great way to make an impression,” she muttered while trying to smooth out her brand new, freshly-wrinkled teal-blue scrubs. The fabric was stubborn, so she sighed and gave up in favor of a jaw-cracking yawn.
“Oh I wouldn’t worry about that,” replied the sleepy voice of Dr. Lewis Fletcher, the hospital’s thoracic specialist that seemed to be amused by her first day performance with the Chief of Emergency Medicine.
She looked over against the far wall in the semi-darkened room to see a form stir on the long couch. He stretched and yawned, then put on a set horn-rimmed glasses back on his ebony face. “Don’t worry, I couldn’t sleep anyway. And, for the record, you’re okay with the Chief.” Brenda could hear the smile in his voice.
Dr. Fletcher yawned. “You pulled a double on your first day…even if you did knock him on his ass by way of saying ‘hello’.” He laughed and stood up, joints cracking. Brenda noticed his dark-blue scrubs were even more wrinkled than hers. “God, I need some coffee…”
Brenda groaned and rubbed her eyes. “Has it slowed down any?” she asked.
“I wish I could say yes. I only came in about a half hour ago, but we were still getting new cases by the truckload.”
“It just doesn’t make any sense,” she said, frowning at the cold cup of tea in front of her. “Was it this bad during…” she closed her eyes, forcing the memories from ten years ago down into a hole in her heart. She relied on her Army training to remove her emotions and sight in on the target. This mysterious flu was her target, and she was going to destroy it come hell or high water.
“Did it get like this during the early days of…?” she just couldn’t bring herself to say its name, as if speaking it aloud would make it real again.
Dr. Fletcher sighed as he watched the steam rise from his cup of stale coffee. “Honestly…no,” he said, nodding toward the door to the room. “It’s just…too fast, this time. We had two people die before I came in here. The first ones so far. Their families explained that they only started presenting symptoms yesterday.” He shook his head. “Even during the peak of The Pandemic, it was at least two days before people started dying from initial exposure. Whatever this is, it’s definitely more agg
ressive.” He shook his head. “The Chief is going to order us to break out the PPEs and suit up. Personally, I think he should have done it hours ago. Might already be too late.”
Brenda sighed again. PPEs. She hated the bio-hazard personal protection equipment suits that made you look like something out of a science-fiction movie. They were great for protecting doctors and nurses from infection, but they were bulky, hot, the visors fogged quickly, and no matter how thin the manufacturers made the gloves, they still made it difficult to work while wearing them.
“He’s going to have us put up every flu tent we have and pressurize them. Just hope it’s enough.” He lifted up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Three crit-care nurses are showing early signs of it now…”
Brenda sighed and lowered her head. “Well, that’s a great way to start the day. What about the gang war?”
“Uh, what gang war?” asked Dr. Fletcher as he picked up an apple off the food tray.
“Oh…I just assumed—”
“I haven’t heard anything…” The snap-crunch of his teeth tearing into the apple made Brenda flinch.
“I, uh…well, right before I came down here—I mean, before Nurse Goodson marched me down here—I saw a whole slew of gunshot wounds come in. The ambulance crews were talking to some cops and it sounded like they getting reports of GSWs scattered all over the place. I figured it was a gang related.”
Dr. Fletcher chewed his apple for a moment. “I saw that, too, but unless the Crips and Bloods are recruiting from the Latino community or Best Buy, it’s not gang related.”
“What?”
Dr. Fletcher took a sip from his coffee and hissed at the temperature. “Damn that’s hot…” He pushed his glasses up to massage the bridge of his nose. “I was saying that the GSWs were mostly Hispanic and white. Gang-on-gang violence doesn’t normally involve those racial groups, does it?”
Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga Page 8