No more than sixty percent of Beakman’s staff had been accounted for so far. If many more civilians kept arriving, he knew that he would have to start turning people away in order to maintain operational effectiveness. Beakman didn’t relish that prospect. Not only would it be logistically dangerous to turn people away, but it would offend his own principles to do so. And now, to cap everything, he had been told that the President was to be treated here. Beakman’s cardiology staff comprised a junior surgeon and a cardiovascular specialist. They would be responsible for saving the President’s life. That was another prospect he didn’t relish. And, despite their insistences to the contrary, neither did they.
Wearing full NBC protective gear, he presently stood on the facility’s helipad, located on the roof of the building. His eyes were searching the skies for the first sign ofMarine One . Around him, FEMA officials and paramedics rushed around making hurried preparations for the President’s arrival. But Beakman hardly noticed them. From his elevated vantage point, he could clearly see the hellish inferno that had once been Washington, and that was what had captured the focus of his attention. The capital was now no more than a heap of burning rubble whose glow still reflected off the clouds. Among it was Victor, he realized with a start. His grim reverie was broken when his handheld radio crackled to life.
“Sir, I think you’d better get down here.”
“What?” Beakman shouted into his unit, his voice distorted by his protective helmet. “I’ve got the President arriving any minute. What’s the problem?”
“I think you should come down here and take a look for yourself.”
“Will you just tell me what’s going on, dammit?” As he asked the question, he spotted a faint sparkle of light in the sky. Hail to the Chief.
“We’ve just received some new arrivals, sir. Quite a few of them. Actually, sir, a convoy.”
“Shit,” Beakman snorted. “How many are we talking about?”
“Approximately a hundred people, sir. From Johns Hopkins.”
He could now hear the engines ofMarine One as it began its descent through the smoke-clogged air.
“They drove here?”
“That would appear to be the case, sir, yes. There’s a doctor with them. What do I do? Shall I let them in?”
Beakman’s training and intellect told him to turn them back. A hundred extra casualties would stretch the facility’s resources to breaking point. But they had driven all the way from Baltimore to get here, and he didn’t know if he could live with himself were he to turn them back and sentence them to almost certain death in the radioactive wilderness of Maryland. Besides, what were a hundred more casualties on a day when millions had died?
“Let them in.”
“Boss says you can go through,” the FEMA officer told Jo, who was driving the lead vehicle - a battered blue GM pick up. She had eight people in the back, all suffering from various injuries. Inevitably, some of them would not live much longer, but she was a doctor and it was her job to ensure that they received treatment.
She didn’t smile gratitude at the officer. Instead, she simply nodded and revved up the engine. She reflected that the bomb apparently hadn’t killed off all the bureaucrats. Perhaps they were to be the meek who would inherit of the Earth, she mused.
“Where do I go?”
The guard - whose face was concealed behind a darkened Perspex mask - pointed straight ahead at a pair of twelve foot tall iron gates. Upon them was a sign: Trespassing strictly forbidden by order of U.S. Gov’t.
“Through there, Ma’am. There’s a reception area right ahead of you. You and your patients will be processed and allocated according to your skills and state of health.”
“Allocated to what?”
He paused, causing Jo to speculate about the expression on the face behind that mask.
“Just allocated, Ma’am.”
“Right.” She was vaguely aware of a helicopter landing on the roof of the facility, but didn’t afford it much attention. She had more urgent concerns, like getting to cover before she and her patients took in too many rads.
She put her foot on the gas and drove towards the iron gates, following the guard’s directions. The gates opened electronically. As she passed through them, Jo checked her rear view mirror to ensure that all the other vehicles in the convoy were still with her. After another fifty yards or so, she came to a blockade, manned by a phalanx of Marine guards whose weapons were pointed neutrally at the unnatural crimson-brown sky. All of them were wearing white NBC suits. One of them approached her cab, while the others moved to inspect the vehicles following her.
“Name, Ma’am?”
“Doctor Joanne Miller. I’m a…”
He didn’t look up at her, instead scribbling something unintelligible on his clipboard. “Nature of your sickness?”
“I don’t have a sickness. I’m a doctor from Johns Hopkins bringing these patients in for treatment.”
That got his attention. Peering at her through his mask, he asked her, “What sort of doctor?”
Jo huffed testily. “I’m Chief of Cardiology at Johns… Jesus, does it matter?”
“Cardiology, huh? That makes you a heart surgeon, right?”
She was beginning to lose her patients with the officious guard. Why oh why were goddamned ‘crats selected to survive this thing? “Right,” she snapped. “Now will you please let us through? While you’re wearing that goddamn spacesuit, we’re taking in rads out here.”
“And you’re healthy, right?”
“So far yes, Goddammit, I’m healthy. But I won’t be if I’m exposed out here for much longer. Now will you please…”
He signaled to the other guards to let her convoy pass. They promptly cleared a loose path for the arriving vehicles. “Drive straight through to the decon center, Ma’am. You’ll be given further information there.”
“Thank you.”
As she drove away towards the bright halogen lamps that surrounded the main entrance to the facility, the same question kept nagging her.
Now what the hell was that all about?
***
“He’s unconscious, but still hanging in there,” Special Agent Sarah Herbert shouted above the noise ofMarine One’s engines as two paramedics carried the President out of the helicopter. He was still laid out on a stretcher, his face white as salt, shirt unbuttoned, an oxygen mask attached to his face. Agent Danny Carver carried a heart monitor, whose electrodes were stuck to the President’s bare chest. He was running alongside the stretcher, anxious about getting his charge to safety as soon as possible.
“Are your staff ready?” Herbert asked Beakman loudly.
“They’re ready,” Beakman yelled back. “Let’s get him inside.”
BALTIMORE-WASHINGTON AIRPORT
Like most civilian airports in the United States, Baltimore-Washington was now effectively under military jurisdiction. That rule applied not only to airports nationwide, but to all U.S.-registered civilian aircraft that used them. Many of the jets were being used to ferry National Guard and regular Army units into cities that had rapidly descended into chaotic disorder. But the main reason that civilian aircraft had been universally grounded was that it simply wasn’t safe for them to fly any more. Not with so many military jets competing for limited quantities of airspace. Besides, many primary ATC systems had been crippled by the nuclear attack. Also, it went without saying that since so many USAF bases had been destroyed, the strategic importance of civilian airports had become somewhat more pronounced.
As USSS Special Agent Steve Jefferson led him through the arrivals lounge, Lewis quickly realized that almost everybody in the building was in uniform. Army, Navy, Air Force, even the goddamn Marines were present. Great, he thought bleakly. Some of them were talking urgently into satellite phones, others gathering around laptop computers in hushed conference. But mostly, the soldiers simply milled about with bewildered expressions, looking like they didn’t know what they were supposed to do or why they
were supposed to do whatever it was they weren’t doing. Much of that, Lewis supposed, was due to the breakdown in the chain of command. Questions were being passed up the food chain by soldiers expecting an answer, but once those questions reached a certain level, there was nobody available to pass them up to. So the questions were being bounced back down the chain again without the answers and, more significantly, the orders that had been anticipated. This provided a recipe for confusion, which Lewis could see etched on the faces of every soldier around him. They had been called up for World War Three, and they didn’t know what they were supposed to do. Damn.
Lewis’s alert eyes took in every detail and every face around him, and filed it all in a well-trained mental database for future reference; an old habit from his own military career. By the time he arrived at the immigration hall, he had counted over ninety soldiers and could even recount the approximate locations of each of them. But, with his hands tightly bound by cuffs and two severe-looking FBI agents close behind him and Jefferson, there was nothing he could do about that.
Yet.
“In here.” Jefferson shoved him into an interview room normally used by INS officials dealing with dubious immigrants. The USSS agent whispered something unintelligible to the two FBI agents. They nodded in agreement and assumed their posts outside the room. Jefferson followed Lewis inside and locked the door shut behind him. His jacket was undone, exposing a semi-automatic. He stood with his back against the door, cautiously watching his prisoner, who lowered himself into a molded plastic seat.
“So what now?” Lewis asked him casually. He had already got the measure of the handsome Afro-American. At an even six feet tall and a robust 190lbs, Jefferson had the appearance of a competent athlete. He looked no older than thirty. Lewis had noticed the wedding band on his left hand and, although his stern expression reflected the professionalism drilled into him by years of hard training, his eyes occasionally betrayed an edge of uncertainty. Well, who was certain about anything today?
“You’ll find out,” the agent said stiffly. Again, the flickering eyelids betraying his own doubts. He wouldn’t have made a great poker player, Lewis thought. Lesson number one, buddy: You may be able to use a gun, but if you can’t hide behind your eyes, you’re a dead man.
“You don’t know, do you? Nobody’s considered the legalities for any of this, have they?”
“I assure you that we have procedures for this kind of incident, Dr. Stein.”
Lewis smiled acidly. “Bullshit you have. I’m a trained paramilitary, Agent Jefferson. I’m a black belt in three martial arts, a skilled marksman, a Sandhurst-trained para, fluent in three languages, a former field operative of the Britishand American security services. I’ve killed more men than I care to remember and I’ve been shot five times in live combat situations. And now, to cap everything, I’ve made an attempt on the life of the President.
“Two things here, Jefferson. First: Why take a chance by assigning only three men to me, two of which are not even in the room right now? If I were you, I’d be a lot more cautious. Second: With my training, had I really decided to kill Nielsen, he would’ve been in Hell ten seconds before he even knew he was dead. That’s a fact, and you know it. At worst, all I’ve done is committed assault against theacting President.”
“You’ve nevertheless committed a Federal crime,” Jefferson pointed out.
“So attacking a warmongering nutcase is a Federal crime, but killing a billion people isn’t. Yeah, I see the logic in that. Twisted but utterly comprehensible. You know something? That’s the same dumb logic that got us into this mess in the first place.”
“That’s not my concern, Dr. Stein.”
Lewis almost leapt from his seat in anger but, noting the menace in Jefferson’s demeanor, he thought better of it. Deep breath. Control that temper. “That’s where you’re wrong, Agent Jefferson. It’severybody’s concern. Don’t act like an uneducated goon. I know that you don’t get onto the Presidential detail without some serious qualifications. What did you major in?”
“Law.”
“Colombia, right?”
For the first time, Jefferson’s face registered surprise. “Yeah. How did you guess?”
“I didn’t.” Lewis nodded at the agent’s right hand. “I noticed the frat ring. I also noticed the wedding band. You got kids?”
Jefferson’s jaw clenched. He fixed Lewis with a hard stare that warned the prisoner not to press too hard.
“Listen, pal,” Lewis grinned, trying to reason with his captor, “the world is about two hours from oblivion. Talking to me isn’t a crime, you know.”
After a pause, Jefferson replied, “My wife is three months pregnant.”
Lewis lowered his head and shook it sadly. “And you say that none of this is your concern.” He looked up. “It is your concern, Jefferson. It’s my concern too. I don’t have kids, but I have a wife - sorry,ex- wife - and I love her more than anything else in the world. I don’t know whether she’s still alive, but I owe it to her to try and find out, maybe even to give our marriage another chance. Can you understand that?”
A firm nod. “I understand. My wife is at home in Baltimore. Probably,” he added with an edge of sadness. Although at least the city looked unharmed when we landed there, he thought. Perhaps she’s okay.
“You’re an educated man,” Lewis told him. “You understand damn well what’s going on here. You were in the conference room when Nielsen issued the proceed orders to our bombers, weren’t you? Well, I can’t do much about that now, not while I’m bound up in handcuffs. So here it is. A billion people, possibly many more, are going to die horribly in due course. Among them will be my wife, your wife,and your unborn child. And you’re the only one who can do a damn thing about it. Now I know that’s a tough break, but life’s full of those, and for that I apologize. But if I can get to thereal President, perhaps, just maybe, we’ve got a chance at turning this thing off.”
Jefferson didn’t have a reply to that. He frowned as he considered the treasonous implications of Lewis’s statement. Paramount among the rules observed by USSS agents was that they remained politically neutral. Sometimes that meant being prepared to take a bullet for a charge whom they personally found repellent. Other times it meant being party to the most abhorrent of political schemes while maintaining their vow of silence. Being a USSS agent, especially on protective detail, often left a bad taste in one’s mouth. Nevertheless, the rules had always stood, and the very few agents who had ever even considered breaking them had invariably enjoyed short careers in the Service. The USSS prided itself on its reputation as a deadly, silent praetorian guard. That was the role for which it had been designed and, despite a few hiccups, had performed faithfully since its inception.
And now Jefferson was actively considering betrayal of that proud tradition. Needless to say, it wasn’t a concept with which he felt comfortable. It defied his principles, his training and his personal feelings towards the Service. Nevertheless, something in Lewis’s statement had said struck a very deep chord with the agent. He had only been married for eighteen months and, since the conception of his child, he had often considered turning his back on the long hours and inherent risks of his occupation to embark upon a more normal career that would allow him the time to see his child grow up.
And that was the bottom line. He had joined the Secret Service in order to make a difference, not because he had wanted to use firearms and look tough. Now he was in a position where he might – just might – be able to make the biggest difference of all. Is it really that simple to make the decision to commit treason?
After a long, thoughtful pause, he looked up at Lewis. Even as he spoke the words, he was barely able to believe he was saying them. It disturbed him how easy it was to breach the fine line that separated patriotism and treason. But he consoled himself with the knowledge that his loyalty was to the Constitution of the United States of America, not to Paul Nielsen. Perhaps that wasn’t his call to make, but it was th
e best justification he had for his feelings right now.
“If I were to help you, what chance do you think we’ve got? Half the goddamn U.S. armed forces are outside that door. Two of us against all of them? We’d be lucky to get more than ten yards.”
Lewis cautiously rose to his feet, lowering his voice to prevent the FBI agents outside from hearing. He hoped Jefferson would take the hint and lower his own voice in kind. “Don’t underestimate me, Jefferson. I’ve been in tighter spots than this. There’s nobody in the immigration hall apart from those two Feds outside. If we can take them, we’ve got half a chance. And if we die” - he shrugged - “well, at least we die trying. Better than sitting here waiting for the sky to fall, don’t you think?”
Jefferson examined the older man’s face. Lewis met his eyes, his expression betraying not a hint of self-doubt. That wasn’t to say that he didn’t harbor doubts, just that he chose to ignore them right now. He had never embarked upon any mission considering failure as a likely outcome. This was no exception. But neither had he ever embarked upon a mission where he hadn’t had doubts.
This is one cocky, dangerous son-of-a-bitch, the agent thought to himself.
Jefferson closed his eyes, mentally picturing his pregnant wife sitting at home in front of the TV.
Lewis’s words resounded in his mind.
Waiting for the sky to fall.
“Okay,” Jefferson sighed acquiescently. “What do you have in mind?”
SIESMAYERSTRASSE, FRANKFURT, GERMANY
Dawn cast an ominous shadow over the ultra modern cityscape. The blood red sunrise shimmering on the glass and metal skyscrapers of the city’s financial district would ordinarily have provided a beautiful spectacle were it not for the conspicuous lack of people.
That is not to say the roads were empty. Indeed, the traffic was more intense than usual for this early hour. Except that the traffic consisted almost exclusively of military vehicles; soulless gray and green shells whose roaring engines resounded through the canyons of boulevards and streets as they raced towards unseen destinations. There were hardly any civilians to be seen. No rioting. No looting. Not even soldiers standing post. Just military vehicles. Helicopters occasionally buzzed overhead, but these also carried the distinct markings of the German Army. In keeping with its reputation, Germany’s version of chaos seemed somewhat orderly.
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