by Doug Raber
Sarah relaxed for the first half hour of the flight, and then she pulled out her new GPS and used the laptop to load maps from the CD that came with the unit. By the time the flight crew made the announcement to turn off all electronic devices, she was satisfied that the GPS was ready to go.
In Denver, Sarah had almost three hours before her flight to Cortez. She saw a notice that the airport had free Wi-Fi access, and found a seat in a quiet area. She booted up the laptop, plugging it into an available outlet so that its battery would retain a full charge. Just as she was about to log on to the Wi-Fi system, she realized it would create a link to the location of the laptop. The longer she could wait before risking that sort of exposure, the better off she would be.
Another prepaid cell phone was her next priority. She spotted what she wanted at a small kiosk and asked if it would be possible to get two prepaid phones. “So my mother and I will have the same capability.”
“No problem as long as you use your own ID for both phones.”
Five minutes later, Sarah—Sarah Wallingford—was now walking back to her gate with another two prepaid cell phones. She was carrying three cell phones, the GPS, and her handheld radio. Two more cell phones were in her checked baggage. I’d never make it through another security check with all this shit.
Sarah stopped to get some lunch and then found another part of the concourse that was fairly quiet. She spent the next hour familiarizing herself with the radio. Then she walked to the gate for her next flight.
The flight to Cortez had only eight passengers, and it was only half full. The seats were cramped, but breathtaking views made the 80-minute flight pass quickly.
The plane landed at Cortez Municipal Airport on time just after 4:00 p.m., and after taxiing for several minutes they pulled up at the terminal building. Sarah had noticed the single landing strip and the small terminal building that appeared just large enough to serve the several flights that arrived and departed each day. Damn! This is one small airport.
After just a few minutes, the luggage had been removed from the aircraft’s hold, and Sarah hefted her large backpack over one shoulder as she surveyed the scene. The sun was low in the sky, and it was clear that it would soon be getting dark. She needed to make contact with Raymond Morgan.
“You need a ride to town, ma’am?” Sarah turned in response to the voice behind her and saw a pleasant looking man, dressed in the neat but casual style that she would come to think of as typical for the region. The airport was several miles south of the city, a very small city with a population of about 7,000, and she hadn’t seen any taxicabs. Maybe some of the locals just provided taxi service with their own cars.
She didn’t want to be rude, but she wanted to try reaching Raymond Morgan as a first step. “Thank you, but I think a friend is going to meet me. If I can’t reach him, I’d really appreciate your help.”
He smiled politely and nodded, while touching his right hand to the brim of his hat in a salute. Sarah turned away and walked a few steps to a chair near the side of the terminal. She set down her large pack and removed a cell phone from her small pack. It was the one she bought in West Virginia. The two from the Denver airport were being held in reserve. She opened her notebook and quickly found the phone number that Elmer had given her for Raymond Morgan, not at all sure at this point whether that was his actual name or might even be another name for Elmer. She dialed, and almost immediately a voice said “Hello.”
It was only one word, but the voice sounded familiar. “Yes, hello. I’m trying to reach Raymond Morgan.”
“Yes ma’am,” said the voice. “I told you I could drive you into town.”
Sarah nearly dropped the phone, but she turned and looked across the room to see the same man in the cowboy hat smiling broadly at her. Once again, he saluted her by touching the brim of his hat, and he walked over to her in a few long strides. “Sorry if I startled you just then. Our friends told me you were arriving this afternoon, so I just took a chance on meeting the plane. You match the description pretty well, and besides, not too many women come here all by themselves.”
Despite her embarrassment—he had, after all, played a joke on her—Sarah was tremendously relieved to have made contact with Morgan. “You are Raymond Morgan?”
“Yes ma’am, and Raymond will do just fine. Why don’t we talk more while we’re driving.” He reached for her large backpack. “Let me help you with that.”
Sarah followed Morgan out of the terminal building to a somewhat beat-up pickup truck and lifted her pack into the cargo bed. He motioned her to the passenger side, and they climbed into the cab. Some of Sarah’s surprise must have shown in her face, because Morgan said “It’s a ’75 F150. That was the first year Ford made that model. Out here we don’t buy a new truck every year, but we sure do learn how to keep them running. And this one has been humming like a top since I got it in ’92, when I got back from the first Gulf War.”
Embarrassed once again, Sarah started to answer. “Look, I didn’t mean to … I mean I …”
“That’s okay, ma’am. It’s just that most folks from the East don’t have a real good understanding of how we live out here. Putting food on the table is a whole lot more important to us than what kind of car we drive.”
“Okay,” said Sarah firmly. “First off, I’m sorry if I offended you. I sure didn’t mean to. And second, if you expect me to call you Raymond, then knock off this ma’am stuff. It’s Sarah.”
“Well, I reckon you got me there.” He chuckled softly as he spoke again. “Fair enough. And I like your style. You seem pretty tough, and that’s gonna be real important the next few days.”
“Two things before we go any further: Are you going to help me get to my friend Jillian? And what do you know about what’s going on?”
“That’ll take some time ma’am—I mean Sarah. There’s a lot to tell you. Why don’t we head back to my house now? My wife is making a nice dinner, and we can talk about everything when we get there. But the answer is yes. We’ll help you get to your friend. For tonight, my wife has fixed up a bed for you, so you’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need it before we leave early tomorrow morning.”
Morgan’s home was on the outskirts of Cortez, and the drive over some rough roads took a half hour. During that time he told Sarah about his background. “I’m a Navajo, but the area around here is mostly associated with the Ute tribe. The Southern Ute and Ute Mountain Reservations make up the northern part of what people call the Four Corners.
“I always thought that it was the Navajo Reservation. It’s what my friend Jillian told me about the school where she teaches.”
“Most people do think of the Navajo Reservation when they talk about the Four Corners. It’s larger than the Ute Reservations, maybe 10 or 15 times larger. And there’s an even bigger difference in population. The Navajo Nation—that’s what we call it—has a total population of more than 170,000. Almost a hundred times the number of Utes. And that’s just the people living in the Tribal areas.
“I had no idea. This is mostly in New Mexico?”
“Actually, no. The biggest part of the Navajo Reservation is in Arizona. But San Juan County, where Farmington is, has a couple thousand square miles inside the reservation boundaries. The population is probably close to 30,000, and Farmington is the only city in the region. So you can see why people think of Navajos when they talk about the Four Corners.”
“But Farmington isn’t actually inside the reservation, is it?”
“No, it’s not. But it’s right on the edge. There’s always a lot of tension between the communities. People who aren’t from around here don’t understand that this is our land. We get along pretty well with folks from the outside, but we sure don’t like to get pushed around.”
A few minutes earlier, they had left the highway and turned east on Road H, a bumpy dirt track that seemed to lead into remote wilderness. Now Morgan slowed and pulled into a cleared area.
In the light o
f a nearly full moon low in the sky, Sarah saw a small, well-kept ranch-style house. Next to it was a stand of small trees, but otherwise, there was no vegetation, with the dirt, rocks, and sand stretching endlessly to the distant mountains.
Raymond turned off the engine. “This is my home. Please come in.”
* * *
Chapter 16
National Security Council
We’ll never use the damn germs, so what good is biological warfare as a deterrent? If somebody uses germs on us, we’ll nuke ’em.
—Richard Nixon‡
Day 27: Counterintelligence
“Please record that I have called the meeting to order. Is everyone here?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
James Fallon Alexander cleared his throat and looked around the room before he proceeded in a somber voice. “We have a single topic on our agenda today, and it is perhaps the most consequential issue that any of us shall face in our lifetimes. It has now been five days since we first received confirmation of the smallpox outbreak in New Mexico. Following on the initial efforts of the Department of Defense, I have decided that this situation shall remain absolutely secret.”
The Vice President glanced at the Secretary of Defense. He might have smiled, but nobody else noticed.
“We cannot risk a national panic. Nor can we allow our adversaries to learn what we have discovered. Everything we discuss here will remain classified at the highest levels. Not even the senior members of your respective departments and agencies are to be told without explicit authorization from me or Vice President Richards. If anyone inquires about what is happening in New Mexico, we will advise that a biodefense training exercise is being held. That should suffice to keep things quiet for another week or so.”
The Secretary of State caught the eye of the Director of National Intelligence. If there was a frown, he was the only one in the room who saw it.
“The primary challenge we now face is to decide what response, if any, we shall undertake against those with whom responsibility for the outbreak lies. If, in fact, the outbreak resulted from an intentional attack against our country … If it was an act of biological warfare, we are facing the gravest of crises. Our options are extremely broad, as are the responsibilities we bear on behalf of all American citizens. We could no more neglect such an act of war than could our predecessors have failed to respond at the time of Pearl Harbor.”
The President’s National Security Advisor was watching the Vice President, and he thought he had seen a trace of a smile.
“Within that context, however, we must act responsibly. To facilitate the process, I am asking Vice President Richards to lead our discussions. I shall retain the ultimate responsibility, but I do not want my role limited to that of an impartial moderator of the debate. I shall expect those of you at the table, and those of you who are here to assist the principals, to provide all the necessary evidence. I shall not be rushed to judgment. Nor shall I be deterred from the proper exercise of my responsibilities to protect the people of our great nation.”
“Mr. President?”
“Just a moment, Parker. As of now, I’m turning the meeting over to the Vice President.” He nodded at Richards, who in turn signaled his recognition of T. Parker Cunningham.
The President’s National Security Advisor looked nervously at the individuals seated around the table. He understood full well what was about to happen, and he would not allow his boss to be rushed into a bad decision that could affect, or even end, the lives of millions of people. “Mr. President, Mr. Vice President—I want to emphasize that as of now, we have no evidence to indicate that the outbreak resulted from hostile action. The fact is, we really don’t know what happened—nor do we know how it happened. So I urge all of us here to move cautiously before we call this an attack. The simple truth is that we just don’t know yet.”
The Vice President realized for the first time that he had been outflanked by the President. Richards was in charge of the discussions, but he had been marginalized in the process. He was no longer free to railroad the actions he desperately wanted the NSC to approve. Richards hadn’t seen it coming, and now the opening salvo—a call for moderation—had been fired by the other side.
Richards stared wordlessly at Cunningham, the expression on his face unchanged. Only the National Security Advisor recognized the look of hatred. The Vice President glanced casually at others whom he viewed as the opposition—threats to the strength and power of the United States of America. A bunch of fucking pansies. He was looking at the Secretary of State, the Director of National Intelligence, and the President’s Chief of Staff.
The opening shots had been fired. It was time to launch the counterattack. Richards looked at the several hands that had been raised politely and motioned to the Secretary of Defense. The Vice President knew that Quentin Walker could be trusted to support the positions they had previously discussed. He only hoped that Walker would be able to present them with adequate logic and passion. He had his doubts.
“Mr. President, Mr. Vice President—may I remind our esteemed group of colleagues of a longstanding policy of our country? I’m looking here at a document put out by the Centers for Disease Control. I mention that so that everyone is clear that we’re not talking about a DoD policy. It’s called the Smallpox Response Plan and Guidelines.* Here in the executive summary, it says the following:
A single case of smallpox is likely to represent a bioterrorism release and will require an immediate and coordinated public health, medical, and law enforcement response to control the outbreak and to protect the public from any additional release.
“So I don’t think that there can be any question. The established policy of our country is that the disease has been eradicated. It can no longer occur as the result of natural causes. If someone is infected by smallpox, it is America’s policy that we view it as resulting from an act of terrorism—by definition. We shouldn’t be looking for excuses to avoid our duty as leaders of this country. We’ve got to accept as fact that we’ve been attacked by terrorists, and we have to formulate our plans to respond accordingly. I do agree with the National Security Advisor that there are certain things that we don’t know yet. But we’ve got to proceed on the basis that we were attacked by terrorists. What we don’t know yet for sure is who attacked us. And we’re working on that as we speak here.”
“Thank you Secretary Walker.” The Vice President was relieved by Walker’s brief presentation. It wasn’t eloquent, but he used established policy instead of personal opinions and emotions. Established policy could not be easily dismissed.
The Secretary of State had signaled that she wished to speak in response. Richards had no desire to hear what she had to say, but he knew that he couldn’t ignore her. There had to be an appearance of fairness if his plans were to move forward.
“Mr. President, I respectfully suggest that we act cautiously and judiciously here. The real issue is what response the United States is going to take. We must use the utmost restraint to ensure that we don’t take retaliatory measures against another country without clear and unambiguous evidence that the government in question was responsible for the outbreak in New Mexico.”
Gotcha, bitch! Only with considerable difficulty was the Vice President was able to hide the smirk that attempted to cross his face. He had no love for Caroline Calebresi. In fact, he disliked her intensely. The Secretary of State had fallen into his trap, just as he had hoped she would. He knew that she was a traditional dove, that her first priority would be to avoid military conflict. And precisely because she was so focused on that goal, she had accidentally undermined the position taken by her ally Parker Cunningham.
The President’s National Security Advisor had argued that there was no proof that the smallpox outbreak was actually the result of a hostile action. Secretary Calebresi had focused too closely on the possibility of a military response—so closely that she had tacitly accepted the origin of the smallpox outbreak as a terrorist a
ttack.
“Mr. Morrison—you have a comment?” The Vice President invited the President’s Intelligence Advisor, the Director of National Intelligence, to speak, hoping fervently that Morrison would continue along the pathway initiated by Calebresi.
“Yes, thank you Mr. Vice President. Mr. President, as you noted so powerfully at the start of this meeting, we are in the midst of a grave crisis. I feel compelled to reiterate Secretary Calebresi’s recommendation for caution. We must be extraordinarily careful to avoid a premature response. The world will be watching us very closely when we act, and we cannot make mistakes.”
Beautiful. Richards forced himself to stifle a sneer. How did these dumb fucks ever get to positions at such a high level? Not only did Morrison support the position that we’ll need to undertake military action, he implied that all we need to do is clearly identify the target.
The DNI continued, “To avoid international embarrassment—or, more accurately, international condemnation—we must first have good intelligence. It needs to be rock-solid, not just a good guess. We cannot afford to go forward on the basis of another ‘slam dunk’ here.”
“Just what have you been able to learn from our intelligence agencies, Mr. Morrison?” The Vice President knew the answer, but he intended to establish just where the real expertise resided among those seated at the table.
“So far, we really don’t have that much Mr. Vice President. Since it was agreed that this entire situation would remain under wraps, we haven’t been able to go out with specific queries on smallpox. Under the guise of background work on the next Review Conference for the Biological Weapons Convention,* we’ve been asking about any weapons programs or other violations. So far, we’ve heard nothing, so whoever it is that’s been working on smallpox is pretty good at keeping secrets. We’ve also been looking very carefully at intercepted electronic communications, particularly e-mail.”