Playing God

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Playing God Page 10

by Douglas Moore


  “Respectfully,” he added.

  Folkstone stepped closer to Michaels, studying him. Michaels held his ground, but was sweating inside. Why the fuck can’t I learn to keep my mouth shut? He was vaguely aware of Cpl. Dennis several yards away with his mouth open.

  Folkstone looked at Michaels coolly. He admired his courage.

  Finally, he granted the man a tight smile that never reached his eyes, and said, “As much as we can, Sunshine.”

  Both men knew that meant “No.”

  “I would appreciate it, Major.” For some reason, Michaels felt like he had just passed a test of some sort, and actually relaxed a bit.

  “Well, run me through, Michaels.”

  “We figure your guys were in pursuit of the Navigator. They tried to P.I.T. him and lost control. The big guy went to check the Marauder. Driver was already dead. There was a struggle with your guy in the passenger seat, and the big guy takes three hits; one to the left shoulder, one to the right hand, and the fatal shot to the stomach. He lost a lot of blood. Slow death, probably very painful.”

  “Good.”

  Michaels ignored the remark and continued.

  “The big guy won the battle for your guy’s Glock, so your man went for his backup piece, but the big guy blasts him. We count three to the side, one to the face. We figure the last shot was out of anger, or an insurance shot. The first three would have done it.”

  Michaels finished and waited for Folkstone to speak. The first sergeant, for some reason, had found himself rooting for the big guy as he told the story.

  Folkstone said nothing and abruptly turned and walked over to where Borda, Jones, and Toombs were standing next to the Marauder, formulating their own sequence of events.

  Borda reached into the driver’s side to extract his credentials. He already knew it was Millen but didn't see any reason to let the state troopers have any more time to establish names. He motioned to Folkstone, who nodded and walked back to John’s body and snatched up the other agent’s credentials from his lap.

  “All right, Sergeant Michaels, we have what we need. We’re headed to Fort Bragg to refuel. The other agents are an hour and a half behind us. They’ll be here soon to process the scene. Secure the perimeter until they arrive.”

  “No problem. We'll need a report, though.”

  Folkstone ignored Michaels. “Make sure no one touches anything, Sunshine.”

  Folkstone turned and walked away, his men following him in formation.

  The two Rolls Royce 250-C 40 B engines roared to life and the helicopter lifted off into a quickclimb. The nose tipped slightly and the 44` 8`` bird disappeared into the night as if it had never been there.

  “What an asshole!” said Cpl. Dennis, who had sidled up as the men climbed into the chopper. “They always like that?”

  “We ID everyone, Corporal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Run the last number called on the PI’s cell phone.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And a background check on the big guy.”

  “What about the other two?”

  “They're ghosts. You won't find anything there. Get moving. I want it double quick.”

  “Sure thing,” Dennis said, turning to go.

  “Corporal!”

  Cpl. Dennis turned back.

  “Sir?”

  “This is just between you and me.”

  Dennis grinned. “Yes, sir!”

  Sergeant Michaels looked down at John, whose face was contorted in pain.

  “I hear you, buddy.”

  Chapter 16

  Major Folkstone and his team were approaching Ft. Bragg Military Base at an altitude of a thousand feet when the WiMax uplink came in on the helicopter’s monitor. Folkstone could feel his phone vibrating in sync but slid the Avcomm headset into place. He might as well have been looking into a black hole. The shadowy figure of his handler gave nothing away, but he eyeballed the screen anyway.

  “Sir.”

  “You've been to the crash site?” asked the man with his raspy southern drawl.

  “It’s a fuckin’ mess. Locals’ve been all over it.”

  Micheals had assured him that they had contacted the NSA immediately after finding the dead agents credentials, but Folkstone knew cops.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No.”Folkstone answered, quick and confident. It was not what his gut told him.

  “I have some new Intel.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The P.I. called Jake Miller. The address you have for Miller is an apartment. The apartment is attached to a house. The owner of the house is June Williams.”

  “Should I know the name?”

  “Robert Williams’ widow.”

  There was a brief pause while that last bit of information sank in.

  “So Jake Miller is Jake Mohan from Panama?” Folkstone asked.

  “One would assume.”

  “Smart man this Major Williams to protect his friend.”

  “Unfortunately the 7th Special Forces don’t make them any other way.”

  Folkstone considered this information. This quick takedown of a mouthy P.I. just got a lot more complicated.

  “Are they connected to anyone?”

  “We’re looking into that possibility now. Major, I don’t need to tell you the ramifications if the Chinese or what's left of them find out about our connection to the mouse pox in Panama.”

  “No sir. Consider this done” Folkstone said.

  “I know it will be Major.”

  The statement was simple but effective and Folkstone felt his stomach tighten. Might as well have been standing at his back with a knife to his throat whispering in his ear.

  “Where are you now?”

  “We’re landing at Fort Bragg to refuel and then pushing on to Kristin Avenue tonight.”

  “Jake Miller and June Williams were picked up on surveillance video at the Bank of America in Spring Lake. The address is 1109 North Bragg Boulevard. They tapped accounts and credit cards for a combined total of four thousand dollars. They’re running.”

  “Why didn’t we shut those accounts down?”

  “Miller’s account was frozen, but we thought it might be better to leave hers open. They may think we haven’t made the connection and leave a trail.”

  Folkstone smiled. The raspy bastard didn’t miss a trick.

  “They're in the wind,” the raspy drawl continued. “Sit tight. We’ll pick them up tomorrow. I’m sending pictures from the bank plus DMV photos, vehicle information, and profiles”

  “Yes sir.”

  As usual, the line went dead, and Folkstone’s attention shifted to their descent. As he looked out over the base’s baseball diamonds and the football fields he couldn’t help but feel he may never again witness these two great American past times. Some day in the future archeologist might come across Wrigley field and scratch their heads trying to decipher its use like Stonehenge or the sculptures of Easter Island. These thoughts were a distraction, dripping with sentiment that weakened him and reminded him of Emily and her love for baseball. Survival of the fittest was the future, hard and resourceful.

  The Bell Helicopter set down. A fuel truck loaded with aviation fuel was waiting, a hundred yards up the roadway from the landing pad. There was a Humvee with its lights on, parked at a little jut in the roadway. A lone soldier stood sentry. The lights from the Humvee cast a long shadow, stretching out across the pavement. The administration buildings surrounded the helicopter landing pad below. A grid of roadways with names like Normandy Dr., All-American Expressway, and Dust off Drive weaved through the base.

  The base was alive. Large diesel trucks and light armored vehicles shuffled across the base in controlled chaos. It looked like the military was already making preparations for the commencement of the nation-wide mass vaccination program. The logistics of that and the expected quarantine areas were a huge undertaking that had everyone on the move.

  Folkstone sm
iled. The raspy bastard was a very smart man, indeed.

  Chapter 17

  The drive near Laurinburg was heavily wooded, deep and thick. Most of the trees had shed their leaves and their skeletons cast ominous shadows in the light of the full moon.

  The drive from Spring Lake to Rockingham should have taken an hour and a half, but they had taken an alternate route lengthening the trip to a touch over two hours. They drove through Rockingham and found just what the doctor ordered near the 220, which was the route they needed the next day for the drive to St. Louis.

  It wasn't exactly a dive, just plain.

  The Regal Inn had a brown and white, Tudor-style lobby with two levels walk ups around the back. Each room had its own exterior entrance, perfect for the anonymous traveler.

  Paul and Jake could park right in front of their doors.

  There were just two other vehicles in the parking lot. One new Toyota Camry parked at the far end of the lot, and an old beater parked close to the motel office, probably belonging to an employee.

  “Hello,” Paul said to the young man at the check-in desk. He was dressed casually, watching an old episode of CSI on the television that sat on a corner shelf behind the desk. He seemed irritated by the intrusion.

  “Hello,” Paul repeated.

  The clerk turned around, his greasy blonde hair hanging down, hiding his face. He looked like a sheep dog with bad skin.

  “Yeah?”

  “We’d like two rooms, please.”

  “Fill this out.” He shoved a clipboard across the counter and turned back to the TV.

  “Is cash all right?” Paul asked.

  That got the little asshole’s attention.

  He stood up and snatched the clipboard.

  “Then you don’t need to fill that out.”

  “Oh, okay,” Paul said, sounding as ignorant as he possibly could.

  “Do you have adjoining rooms?” Leslie asked.

  “I have two in the back. That’ll be one – I mean two hundred six dollars.”

  “Great,” Paul said, handing the young man the money for the rooms and ignoring the spur-of-the-moment surcharge. It was clear the clerk was just as interested in a cash deal as they were, but Paul wasn’t about to push his luck.

  “Rooms seventeen and eighteen. Check out’s eleven,” the clerk said, handing Paul the keys. Not card keys with the magnetic strip coded by a check-in computer. These were old school keys cut at the local hardware store.

  The hotel name and room numbers were barely legible, worn off by age; probably back in the heyday of NASCAR at the Rock. In 2004, sagging attendance ended NASCAR’s reign at the local speedway and the hotel’s reign as a desirable stop over.

  “We need to get away early. Can we get a wakeup call for six-ish?”

  “Sure-ish,” the greasy boy joked.

  Paul and Leslie laughed a little too eagerly and hustled out of the office.

  They crossed the poorly maintained parking lot. The asphalt was cracked and pitted. It looked like it had recently been sprayed with asphalt sealer in an attempt to make it look more presentable. It didn’t work.

  “Connecting rooms, Jake,” Paul said, throwing him a key. “Seventeen.”

  They parked in front of the rooms. Jake carried the two black duffel bags, and the others grabbed their bags and followed him in.

  “We’re in room eighteen guys,” Leslie said.

  “We're sharing beds?” Cassandra whined.

  “You can have your own beds for now while we’re talking in the other room. Then we'll move you in with Grandma. Okay?”

  Cassandra nodded.

  “Get your pajamas on and your dad and I will come in to say goodnight in a bit.”

  The rooms were cold. The heat was kept off as a cost saving measure when unoccupied, so Paul cranked up the thermostat. The registers hummed to life. The elements in the baseboards creaked and groaned, expanding as the heat began to course through them.

  Leslie gave each of the kids a kiss.

  “We’ll be next door.” She knocked on the door that connected rooms seventeen and eighteen. Jake opened the door. June was perched on the end of the bed. A special CNN report filled the screen of the television that was bolted to a swivel stand on the dresser.

  “...China is in ruins. The numbers of reported dead are staggering. Millions, not thousands as initially believed have succumbed to this mouse pox in every province of China. Fear of the disease has spread as fast as the disease itself. Every country in the world has reported its advance. The virus has attacked some countries harder and faster than others. The United States closed its borders, and appears to have insulated itself fairly, at least in the onset although suspected cases have shown up in Seattle and San Francisco, but authorities say.”

  Riots, demonstrations, food and gas shortages, and scenes of worldwide panic dominated the news. W.H.O., USAMRID and the CDC were fighting a losing battle, like three lone soldiers fighting for the existence of mankind. They were being overrun by a near perfect killer, ruthless, unforgiving, and unstoppable.

  No one spoke. They were in shock.

  The picture on CNN turned briefly to snow, and then the Presidential seal appeared. Then the President himself was addressing the nation.

  “My fellow Americans. Today, mankind is no longer the most dominant species on the planet. From 1347 to 1351, seventy-five million or more perished at the hands of the Black Plague. And yet we survived. I’m not going to mislead you. The circumstances are dire. While we have an advantage over those who fell from the pestilence so long ago through technological advances as well as those of medical science, we still face an enormous challenge. Until now, most of you had probably never heard of mouse pox. Until two to three weeks ago, it had never crossed species, and was found only in mice in Australia. Scientists have been warning us of such possibilities for decades. Many thought it was not a matter of if, but when a pandemic would hit.

  We also live in a world where bio-terrorists may have the technology to recreate the 1918 influenza virus, Ebola, or for that matter the Black Plague through reverse genetics or DNA sequencing, stitching together fragments of code like a puzzle. The genomes of such deadly pathogens can be found on the internet. There are companies that supply bio labs around the world in more than forty countries, possibly to our enemies, with DNA molecules that could be used to recreate these deadly diseases. There is also the possibility that a disease such as mouse pox could cross species lines naturally. These are the realities we now face.

  We have been working diligently on vaccinations for some of these viruses with a few select allies from around the world.

  In 1947, 6.5 million people were immunized for smallpox in one month, so our challenge is not insurmountable. We can do this if we work together. I would like to announce that the US and our partners have stockpiled a vaccination developed jointly by our governments. It is not a cure by any means, but it has had a 40% mortality rate in testing.

  US borders have been closed, and the World Health Organization has suspended all international flights.

  The pathogen has come to our front door showing itself in Seattle and San Francisco. The CDC has implemented the ring method of containment. Those infected will be vaccinated then those who have come into contact with the infected will be vaccinated. This should provide us with a window of opportunity. Our allies are making synchronized announcements with similar emergency mass vaccination plans to ours. The CDC protocol for a mass vaccination program has already been set in motion with 280 million doses in route to vaccination centers across the country. Each state will have a number of vaccination centers relative to population. The centers have already been designated and will be in operation sixteen hours a day, with a large military presence to maintain order. The means of an alphabetical lottery will be utilized to determine vaccination order. Your local news will inform you of your center locations as well as the lottery order.

  There have been reports of rioting and gas and food
shortages due to hoarding.

  America, I urge everyone to remain calm. We will vaccinate. Take the necessary precautions and the virus will run its course. And when it’s over, mankind will still be here. America will still be here. May God have mercy on those already infected. May God have mercy on us all. Good night.”

  The television hummed. The screen turned to snow and the room fell quiet. Paul was the first to speak.

  “I’m confused.”

  “Me, too.” Leslie agreed.

  “Why would they kill John? It doesn't make sense if they were going to announce a vaccination program, anyway.”Paul reasoned.

  “Maybe they didn't want anyone to know about Panama. I mean, they still deny knowledge of its existence. If China knew we had cultures it might look like an act of war,” Jake said.

  “Maybe it is!” Leslie said “Why else would only our allies possess the vaccine?”

  “I can't see it. There's been no provocation,” June pointed out. “It must have developed naturally, or been an accident.”

  “I think Jake’s right.” Leslie agreed. “They want Panama buried so no one points the finger at them. But…. What if it was some nut job hell bent on bringing on the end, the apocalypse?”

  They all considered this for a quiet moment. The possibility of the end was a thought none of them was willing or ready to accept.

  “What does it mean? Do we go home and get vaccinated?” asked June.

  “Something doesn't seem right. I think we still have to talk to Dr. Bryce in St. Louis. Follow the lead,” said Paul.

  Jake nodded in agreement. “We have to make sure. If we go home they still might kill us because of our knowledge of Panama.”

  Leslie looked at her mother. “Mom?”

  “They killed Robert. We better make sure.”

  Chapter 18

  Major Folkstone and his men had exited the gates at Fort Bragg at 0600 hours.An hour and a half west as the crow flies a faded blue Chevy pick-up and a Cadillac Escalade idled in the parking lot of a near empty motel. Paul and Jake loaded up the bags and shuffled the children into the back seat of the SUV, covering them up with sleeping bags.

 

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