Pandemic: Beginnings: A Post-Apocalyptic Medical Thriller Fiction Series (The Pandemic Series Book 1)

by Bobby Akart

  ISIS had become so adept in its use of social media for propaganda and recruitment that most cases of domestic terrorism in the Western world could be traced directly to social media activities. Thus far, however, there had been no evidence of social media being used to activate a terror cell.

  When the NSA and its counterparts around the world began to see the same message being posted on social media websites, it was agreed by intelligence agencies worldwide that something was brewing. However, they had no idea what.

  The message posted through proxy servers around the world, but initiated from Raqqa, Syria, the capital of ISIS, read The flag of Allah and jihad has been raised!

  PART TWO

  WEEK TWO

  Chapter 21

  Day Eight

  Defense Threat Reduction Agency

  Fort Belvoir, Virginia

  Hunter slept for a few hours before reporting to Fort Belvoir and his debriefing with Jablonik. As he sat outside his superior’s office, body aching from the blast he rode out of that window in Port of Spain, he thought about the axiom—no rest for the weary. The phrase was actually a derivative of no peace for the wicked found in the Book of Isaiah. Neither the weary, Hunter, nor the wicked, Islamic terrorists, intended to rest anytime soon.

  “Good morning, Hunter,” announced Jablonik as he escorted Khan out of his office. Khan shot him a glance as they left and provided Hunter an imperceptible nod. Something was up, Hunter surmised. “Come in.”

  Hunter pushed himself out of the well-worn leather chair with a grunt. It would be days before the soreness from crashing into the wall wore off.

  “How are you recovering?”

  “I’ve been worse,” replied Hunter.

  “Take a seat,” started Jablonik. “As you know, we lost Joey when he got hit by that truck in the street. The kid managed to get out and some panicked driver lost control. In any event, he can’t be traced back to the DTRA, or even the U.S., for that matter, but it has created some anxiety at the White House.”

  Hunter used his injuries as an excuse to avoid talking. He sensed that this debriefing, the last of the four, was not going to be pleasant, and Hunter suspected he knew why.

  “Joey was a good kid,” added Hunter.

  Jablonik leaned back in his chair and studied Hunter. “All in all, this was a successful mission. You and Khan took the brunt of the blast but came out okay. It was a freak event that killed Joey. It will give us the plausible deniability that we need to avoid scrutiny from the Trinidad government.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hunter.

  “Hunter, your warning saved lives. Those few seconds gave the team the opportunity to avoid the explosion. We all agree on that.”

  Hunter sensed a but coming.

  “But Khan indicates that you had an opportunity to take out the hostile, and you didn’t. I’d like you to walk me through those seconds when you opened the door to that back room.”

  Hunter recalled the events in detail for Jablonik, including the biolab setup and then the appearance of the woman. Without admitting that he froze, Hunter did offer that he should’ve taken the shot sooner.

  “Hunter, you’re a seasoned operator. I know that your tours in Iraq, Syria, and Afghanistan showed you the worst of humankind. Evil exists in all forms and the only way for us to defeat it is to act decisively. Evil will always win the day if good men like yourself do nothing.”

  “Sir, I’d just shot the kid. He was maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, blasting a full-auto rifle at me through the door. But the woman…” Hunter’s voice trailed off. Why didn’t I just shoot her and walk out the door?

  Jablonik scooted his chair closer and placed his elbows on his desk. His voice changed. He became more compassionate. “Hunter, around the world these vermin are sending their children to be indoctrinated with this Caliphate business. During their school hours, they watch videos of murders. They are trained in the use of weapons and close combat. Many are handpicked to become spies, preachers, soldiers, and suicide bombers.”

  “Well, that kid certainly knew how to shoot and, sir, he was not afraid. When I busted through the door and took my shot, he stared straight at me without flinching. Running or taking cover was not an option for him. And, trust me, it was not a deer in headlights look. He stared at me with utter contempt and braveness.”

  Jablonik nodded and picked up a pen off his desk. He began chewing on the cap, which was a habit he’d picked up many years ago. “Do you think their women are any different? Women have been used throughout their terrorist activities as suicide bombers. You know this. You’ve seen this for yourself.”

  Hunter was part of the team that took down an element of the Al-Khansaa Brigade, an all-female unit of the Islamic State that started out by patrolling the streets of Raqqa and Mosul, ensuring Muslim women were fully covered when in public. They administered punishments to women who did not adhere to ISIS’s strict behavior and dress codes. Soon, the Al-Khansaa Brigade was expanded to other countries, including Libya.

  Following the fall of Qaddafi and the debacle at Benghazi, ISIS moved in to fill the power void. The DTRA received intel that an Al-Khansaa cell of suicide bombers was activated to attack government positions. Before Hunter’s team was given the green light to go in, several women suicide bombers who asked for safe passage to avoid ISIS slavery blew themselves up inside a police station. They used children as decoys during the mission, claiming they were hungry and malnourished. Hunter’s team was successful in capturing four other women in the ISIS cell, but they were certain others got away.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Hunter. “This mistake will not happen again.”

  Jablonik appeared satisfied with Hunter’s response. “Okay. Final word on the subject. There’s always a wild side to an innocent face. In our business, the innocents can and will kill you. Now, tell me about this laboratory.”

  Chapter 22

  Day Eight

  Oval Office, White House

  Washington, DC

  President Garcia tossed his jacket on an empty chair and loosened his tie at the end of another long day of campaigning. He enjoyed being on the road, providing his stump speech to adoring constituents. In fact, he’d never stopped campaigning after his election nearly four years prior. Fund-raising was always on his mind, and pandering to the numerous special interest groups that constituted large voting blocks was time consuming. Yet it was the most enjoyable part of his job. If the truth were told, he didn’t care that much for governing. He enjoyed the accolades, together with the pomp and circumstance of being the leader of the free world.

  “How about a drink, sir?” said Morse, the President’s Chief of Staff. “It’s been a successful week. We added another seventeen million to the war chest and gained the endorsement of the Teamsters.”

  The President accepted his glass of brandy and took a sip, allowing the warmth to coat his throat. Another sip finished off glass number one and he shook it in Morse’s direction for a refill.

  “How are we doing in Arizona and New Mexico?” asked the President.

  “Sir, we don’t have much of a chance in Arizona and we don’t need to win New Mexico as long as we hold Iowa and the Rust Belt,” answered Morse.

  “Morse, numbers, please,” insisted the President.

  “We’re down seven in Arizona and three in New Mexico, which is within the margin of error. Of course, it’s our immigration policy that is driving the numbers in both places. Arizona voters don’t think we do enough to secure the border. New Mexico voters think that we’re doing too little to take care of incoming immigrants.”

  “It’s that damn lawsuit in Albuquerque, isn’t it?” asked the President.

  A lawsuit had been initiated by an activist group to release all immigrants in the government-run housing facilities due to overcrowding and unsanitary conditions. The President had been called on by the activist group La Raza to provide housing vouchers in local hotels to deal with the overcrowding. Voters in the area scr
eamed at the top of their lungs in opposition. It was a no-win situation for the President and one of those unforeseen surprises that crop up in an election year that can derail a candidacy.

  “I read my State Department daily briefing on the flight back that Hungary has refused to take five thousand migrants from Sweden. That’s in contravention of the agreement we negotiated at the European Union’s Dublin meetings.”

  “Yes, sir, although, arguably, the Hungarians have a point,” said Morse. “The accord provided that the migrants should be granted asylum in the country where they were first registered.”

  “Didn’t they first seek asylum in Hungary?”

  “Only on paper, Mr. President,” replied Morse.

  “Seriously, this is ridiculous. They’re no different in the EU than what I have to deal with here. Why are people so afraid of widows and orphans coming into their country? Heck, one governor said he opposed orphans entering his state even if they were under five years old. What in the world can a five-year-old do?”

  Morse didn’t respond, allowing the President to vent without interruption. President Garcia took another swig of brandy and changed the subject.

  “Let’s talk about the Olympics and turning the State of Georgia into the win column for us,” said the President as he swirled in his chair. Morse scrolled through his iPhone, searching for the latest polling numbers.

  “We’re within the margin of error. The key will be the populated districts comprising the Atlanta suburbs. Demographic trends bringing minorities and transplants into the burbs have really helped our numbers.”

  “And securing the Summer Olympics on short notice was a real coup, if I do say so myself,” said the President proudly. The Summer Olympics had been slated for Seoul, South Korea, but the sudden military hostilities with North Korea created an unsafe environment for travelers. The last time the United States had hosted the Summer Games was 1996 in Atlanta, which had maintained its facilities for use by the United States Olympic Committee for the training of its athletes.

  When the handwriting was on the wall regarding the demise of the Seoul venue, President Garcia quickly stepped in and volunteered Atlanta to host the games. Sweetening the pot with full federal funding for the preparations sealed the deal.

  The voters of Georgia on both sides of the aisle praised the President. The games would be a much-needed boost to the Georgia economy in the form of tourism dollars and jobs. The timing during the final months of a brutal presidential campaign couldn’t be better. If the President won Georgia, his re-election would be ensured and then he could really administer his agenda without fear of losing his job.

  “It was, Mr. President, and with only a month to go, poll numbers are on the rise as the excitement builds. It has also elevated your stature around the world, sir.”

  “Great, I can run for President of the World when I’m done here.” The President laughed as he finished his brandy.

  “Well, maybe the United Nations is an option,” added Morse. “With regard to the Olympics, over ten million tickets have been sold to the games, a record that surpassed the Guinness World Record of eight million in the previous Atlanta games. We’ll have visitors from hundreds of countries and nearly nonstop television coverage.”

  The President beamed as he slid his empty glass of brandy across the historic Hoover desk utilized by Presidents Herbert Hoover and Franklin D. Roosevelt. After Morse filled it for the third time, the President raised his glass for a toast with a grin on his face.

  “And guess whose smiling face will be all over that camera coverage?” quipped the incumbent President.

  Chapter 23

  Day Eight

  Guatemala Jungle near El Naranjo

  It had been eleven days since Fernando had visited the Cerro de Muerte—the Hill of Death. He didn’t understand what had happened in the other village, and when he disclosed what he saw to the elders in his home, he was told never to speak of the atrocities again.

  During the last couple of days, Fernando began to feel ill, but he kept it to himself. His nightmares of what he’d seen consumed his mind to the point he refused to leave the village on his customary trading missions. His younger brother, Enrique, had agreed to pick up the slack. The two boys, who shared a room in the family’s modest adobe home, were very close and Enrique fully understood the turmoil that Fernando was experiencing.

  For days, Fernando didn’t feel any of the telltale signs of illness. Then the headaches came, something that Fernando had never experienced before. In his primitive, third-world lifestyle, Fernando was not exposed to the type of stimuli that caused headaches in young people in developed countries—loud music, anxiety over school, or the constant exposure of glare from a computer screen. The most common cause of headaches, dehydration, was not prevalent in the jungles of Guatemala, where water was readily available.

  No, this was different. So was the accompanying fever, which caused him to have uncontrollable chills. Fernando remained in bed that morning and avoided contact with his parents. Enrique had left before dawn to walk nine miles to another village in order to trade yarn for flour.

  It was almost ten a.m. when the nausea overtook him. He never made it to the outdoor toilet shared by three families. When he fell to his knees, his vomit came without warning and sprayed across the ground and toward the village’s water well. Embarrassed, and to keep the curious monkeys out of his mess, Fernando quickly covered the contents of his nearly empty stomach with dirt and sand. He retrieved the water bucket out of the well and thirstily drank to remove the taste from his mouth.

  Still sweating from the fever, he was desperate to cool himself down, so he dipped the bucket into the well and poured its contents over his head. This provided him some relief, but not as much as he hoped.

  After replacing the bucket, Fernando gathered himself and returned to his room. He made a decision that would not please his parents, or the town elders. He was going to walk to El Naranjo and seek help. He wanted a doctor to make him feel better.

  He packed some clothes in a mochila hand-woven by his mother and wrote a quick note to his brother. His father was working in the fields, so Fernando didn’t seek him out to say goodbye. But his mother’s heart would be broken if he didn’t take the time to explain.

  He ventured into the center of the village, where the women usually gathered to weave handmade creations such as handbags, clothing, and accessories to be sold in Panajachel, three hundred and fifty miles away. From there, the products found their way to the United States through websites like Hiptipico.com that supported the creativity, ingenuity, and passion of local Guatemalan artisans like the women of Fernando’s village.

  Fernando scanned the women and noticed that there weren’t as many as usual. At first, he thought they’d been sent into the jungle to gather bananas or papayas. When he inquired, he was told that many had not arrived as of yet.

  He looked to the sky and saw that the sun was almost directly overhead. Something was wrong. He returned home, where, when he’d left moments ago, he didn’t think to look into his parents’ bedroom. Now, he found his mother in bed, shivering and suffering from fever just like him.

  She pleaded with her son not to leave, citing his father’s wrath as a primary reason for staying. Fernando explained that he had been cursed by the dead at Cerro de Muerte, and now he’d brought the curse to his family and the village. He was banishing himself, he explained, because of his stupidity and selfishness.

  As his mother cried, she began to retch into an earthen pot kept by her bedside. Fernando begged her to gather the strength and travel with him to the hospital at El Naranjo. She refused, but urged him to get help. She was aware that other women were cursed as well and that the only way to save their family from ridicule was to seek medical help despite the elders’ warnings to the contrary.

  Fernando hugged his mother and kissed her on the forehead. He stopped by the well for one more drink and a bucket bath before he traveled the many miles to E
l Naranjo. He stopped at other villages along the way to drink from their wells and rehydrate to stem the pain from the headaches. He avoided contact with the other villagers, as he did not want to inflict the curse upon them.

  With high hopes, and after two days of walking, Fernando entered the town of El Naranjo, Guatemala, carrying pneumonic plague with him.

  Chapter 24

  Day Eight

  Refugee Camp near Izmir, Turkey

  Straddling the east and west, Turkey had become the hub to the spokes of migrants fleeing the turmoil in the Middle East for safer surrounds in Europe. Turkey had always been a very important strategic ally to the United States, having joined NATO in 1952. Since then, the U.S. military had used Turkish soil in key military conflicts such as the Balkan War in the 1990s and the Syrian conflict in the past decade.

  Recently, however, Turkey had become a complicated and prickly ally as President Erdogan deepened his hold on power. Following a recent referendum, his autocratic control over the nation became an issue in Turkey’s relationship with the European Union. President Erdogan was growing weary of the constant flood of migrants and refugees flooding the Republic. More importantly, he was irate over the lack of cooperation from Europe in taking the refugees off his hands.

  Once it became apparent that the refugees were to be held on Turkish soil longer than agreed upon, President Erdogan established a work program for the refugees to contribute to their maintenance. Across Turkey, migrant farms were established as the Turkish government effectively sanctioned using the refugees as cheap labor, making as little as eight dollars a day.