CANNIBAL KINGDOM

by John L. Campbell

  The male attendant looked over at the young South Korean, feeling sorry for her. “I’ll take this one,” he said, arranging coffee cups on a tray.

  The woman said nothing.

  “Soo? Did you hear me?”

  Again no response.

  He reached out and touched her lightly on the shoulder. She flinched and her head snapped over. Her mouth was open just a little, showing her teeth, and her eyes were glassy.

  “Do you want me to tell the captain you’re not feeling well?” the man asked.

  The girl stared at him. She’d heard only a couple of words, couldn’t remember her co-worker’s name. It was so hard to focus.

  The man said nothing more and moved into the First Class cabin with his coffee. Soo Yim kept staring at the place where he had been standing. Sweat was beading on her forehead, and her petite frame was shuddering. The headache had grown, and now she was uncertain of where she was. Her thoughts were scattered and random, unable to lock onto any one thing.

  She didn’t notice when her bladder released, was barely aware of the hot urine running down her legs, unable to register the sudden, sharp tang of ammonia. Her mouth dropped open and a thin line of grayish drool spilled onto the front of her uniform.

  Soo Yim giggled, still staring, and her hands started clenching and unclenching reflexively.

  There was a sharp click behind and to her left as the cockpit door opened and the navigator stepped out to use the restroom.

  Something clicked within Soo Yim as well, and in that instant she ceased being the young woman who loved travel and nightlife. No longer worried about getting sick, incapable of feeling the chills or headache, what she felt now was a sudden rage.

  Soo Yim came off the jump seat with a snarl and slammed into the navigator, clawing and biting at his face, the force of her attack driving him back into the cockpit. They landed on the deck between the pilot and co-pilot. The navigator, bigger and stronger than the petite flight attendant, tried to fight her off as the other two men looked over their shoulders, shouting in alarm.

  Fury overcame size. Soo Yim got in past the flailing arms and drove the manicured nails of her thumbs into the navigator’s eyes. Blood and screaming erupted in the cockpit, and she silenced some of the latter by ripping out the man’s throat with her teeth. A red jet shot grisly patterns across the white bulkheads and instrument panels.

  The captain shouted a curse and unsnapped his harness, scrambling out of his seat as the co-pilot took hold of the yoke and brought the aircraft out of auto-pilot and into manual flight control. Soo Yim saw the man getting up and leaped off the dying navigator, launching herself at this new movement. The pilot was unprepared for the violence of her attack and was thrown backward as she slammed into him, suddenly defensive, trying to deflect bloody fingernails and push back at snapping teeth. Their two bodies crashed into the yoke and instrument panels on his side of the aircraft. On the right, the co-pilot was fighting against the abrupt jerk in the dual control yokes, hauling back against their weight in a fight to regain pitch and angle as the massive aircraft banked sharply right.

  Soo Yim killed the pilot the same way she had the navigator, gouging out his eyes and biting deeply into the jugular.

  Screaming now, still buckled in his seat, the co-pilot was easy prey as a girl wearing a bloody mask turned on him with a growl.

  Back in the aircraft, one First Class passenger was ripping into his wife seated beside him, and in Coach, four others were savaging their fellow air travelers. The 747 filled with panicked screams.

  Trans Pacific Air flight two-seven-two Heavy tipped to starboard, nosed over and went into a three minute dive toward its impact with the Pacific Ocean.

  The killing went on for the full three minutes.

  -12-

  SIERRA-3

  Cleveland, Ohio – October 28

  Two days. Not so long ago it had been six months, then one month, then a week. Soon it would be hours. The countdown was making David King anxious. Retirement. It had come at last, and although he’d been planning it for years and was certain he’d made the right decision to put in his papers, the thought of leaving this life had him nervous in ways he hadn’t anticipated. It had become such a part of him, all of him according to his late wife. What came next? How would he handle not being a part of this anymore? It was a question faced by everyone in the law enforcement community, no matter how much they talked about looking forward to getting out.

  No, he knew the answer. Almost three decades of giving his all to his country – the danger, grueling travel, an absence of children and in the end, an unhappy marriage – was finally over. Now just shy of his forty-ninth birthday, ahead of David lay a life of quiet, a pace that would be decided by him, not the national climate. Kayaking and fishing and a house in Alaska that was completely paid-for, thanks to the bitter blessing of a lawsuit settlement.

  Quiet. Outdoor activities and life on his own terms. Yeah, right.

  Dressed in the black tactical gear of the Secret Service’s uniformed division, wearing a black ball cap with the letters ERT (Emergency Response Team) sewn in yellow stitching on the front, David stood at a concrete parapet atop an eight-story office building overlooking Key Plaza in downtown Cleveland. A Sierra Team leader, the call-sign for Secret Service counter-sniper teams, he scanned the scene below with a pair of binoculars. At forty-eight he was still in excellent shape, the first traces of gray only now showing up at the temples of his close haircut. Working in sun and all sorts of elements had weathered his skin, adding to the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

  It was approaching ten o’clock, and POTUS was scheduled to arrive within the hour. David lowered the binoculars, smiling briefly at the clear sky and pleasant weather.

  Positioned around the plaza were five Sierra teams, or two-man shooter positions. Each had a high-powered rifle with an enormous scope, its front end supported on a snap-out bipod. One of the two men (the shooter) would keep an eye pressed to the rubberized end of the rifle optics while his partner (the spotter) swept the part of the plaza that was their responsibility with a small, telescopic sight of his own. The shooter teams commanded the high ground, positioned on rooftops in a rough square that covered every angle of the plaza, alternating between watching the crowd and sweeping across windows, looking for threats. The advance teams had already cleared and continued to check these buildings, but they couldn’t find everything. Someone might slip through. David King had shoot authority for all the Sierra teams, and if a window opened or a hostile showed themselves anywhere in the plaza, he would give the order to engage without hesitation.

  In twenty years of federal law enforcement service David had been required to use his own weapon during three actual combat engagements in the field, killing four men and one woman, though he hadn’t fired a single shot in anger during his time with the Secret Service. He’d been FBI for ten years before transferring over, and during that time spent most of his service in the bureau’s elite HRT, the Hostage Rescue Team, SWAT-trained muscle for the FBI. The last decade with the Secret Service had been more varied. He’d run counterfeiting investigations, stood a post on a Vice President’s Protective Detail, done four years with CAT, been a firearms instructor and eventually rose to supervisor in the uniformed division’s Emergency Response Teams. A shooter once more. He never seemed to stray far from the rifle.

  Three bank robbers. One domestic terrorist in an Amtrak station wearing an explosive vest. One crazy – the woman – in a Kansas City Social Security Office who had murdered a police officer and taken hostages. David didn’t regret taking any of those shots (the woman up close and with a pistol), but he neither liked nor disliked combat. It had always just been the job, and he slept fine.

  Except for the nightmares, a fairly recent development, and they were exclusively about Emily.

  He keyed the radio handset clipped to the left shoulder of his combat vest, still watching the crowd below.

  “Sierra-Three to all p
ositions,” David said. “Sitrep.”

  “Sierra-One clear,” came a response.

  “Sierra-Two clear,” said another.

  Four and five reported the same, but there was no response from Sierra-Six. They were on the same roof as him, and it was a short walk around the rooftop elevator and mechanical structure to reach them. Probably a bad radio.

  He called in to Shotgun, the blacked-out motor home that was the Secret Service mobile command post, reporting that his positions were all clear, but number six was having comms issues and that he was checking on them now. As he crossed the roof, he looked down at a classic, layered defense.

  The platform and podium where POTUS would appear was at the north end of the plaza. Members of the PPD, the Personal Protective Detail, were in position at the steel-barred barriers that ringed and put a twenty foot space between the platform and the crowd. More members of the PPD would surround the platform itself and remain close when the President took the stage. Out beyond the inner barrier, the Service’s Uniformed Division in their white shirts maintained the perimeter. Access points to the plaza – streets, walkways and building entrances – were closed off and guarded, with strategic choke points put in place for crowd control. The two main access points for the public, at the far end away from the platform on the east and west, were also controlled by the uniforms (with ERT backup close by) who would screen for known faces and operate both the metal and chemical detectors. A pair of agents with radiation detectors concealed in backpacks constantly circled and moved through the plaza.

  Parked on a sidewalk not far from the podium was a black Chevy Suburban with what appeared to be a curious-looking sunroof. This was CAT, the Counter Assault Team and the “Bad Boys” of the Secret Service, one of two such SUVs. The other would be mixed into the motorcade.

  David smiled every time he saw the vehicle. He’d been one of them for four years.

  Here in Cleveland, the CAT vehicle carried five highly trained combat operators, all dressed and armed for fast, tactical combat. In the event of a coordinated attack on POTUS, a single word from the team leader (“Left, Rear, Right”) would instantly put the team into action and give them a direction. Their job was simple; engage and lay down a devastating amount of fire so that the Personal Protective Detail could evacuate the President. They were there to buy time for the PPD and put a serious hurt on anyone foolish enough to come at the Commander-in-Chief. Since their inception, CAT had never needed to engage in that manner in the field (the operators simply called it “deploying.” There had been some close calls during overseas visits, though, with both POTUS in Korea and the VP in the Philippines.

  Additional layers of security included local law enforcement, K-9 units and David’s Sierra Teams, with the nearest U.S. military units on alert. The Secret Service’s intelligence division had conducted threat evaluations and was tracking everyone who was known to harbor or was even suspected of hostile intent (an imperfect chess game where a great deal of coffee and Tums was consumed.) Advance teams with their own K-9’s had swept the area days in advance. There were escape routes and evacuation contingencies, safe houses and shelter points, medical units close at hand and hospitals on standby for a worst-case scenario. While the President was in the open, the armed and armored motorcade would be waiting nearby, surrounding the Beast, the chief executive’s tank-like limousine. Air Force One, a back-up jet and both Marine helicopters would be waiting to whisk the President away in the event of an evacuation, and a Black Hawk filled with ERT operators would be floating overhead, just out of view but ready to roar in and lay down fire.

  No man in history was ever better protected than the current President of the United States. And yet everyone in the Secret Service existed in a mild but constant state of anxiety and fear. It kept them sharp, and a touch of paranoia was not only a part of the job, but an essential element to successfully carrying out the protective assignment.

  Cleveland crowds were filling the plaza below, their excited conversations drifting up to the Sierra Teams as a low buzz. David checked his watch. Forty minutes to arrival. He pushed thoughts of the two days until retirement and a dead wife out of his head. He was still operational and needed to focus on the job, starting with his out-of-contact sniper team just around the corner ahead.

  -13-

  DEVIL DOG

  Cleveland, Ohio – October 28

  INBOUND

  The twelve vehicles of Bamboo rolled through Cleveland at thirty mph along an approach route that had been cleared of traffic, with squad cars and yellow barricades blocking every side street. Crowds lined the sidewalks, waving and cheering, people turning out to catch the rare sight of a presidential motorcade, hoping for a glimpse of the man himself.

  A police escort of two squad cars and a pair of motorcycle cops led the procession, followed by a Lincoln Towncar full of Secret Service agents. Next came Stagecoach, the armored Cadillac limousine, lovingly known as the Beast, in which the President rode. An identical back-up limo followed, with a suburban carrying the second half of the CAT team close behind. This vehicle’s rear hatch was open, and a counter-assault agent with a fully automatic rifle poked his weapon out through the opening as he watched behind the SUV. This was the muscle car of the motorcade. Halfback was next, another Suburban full of agents, and finishing off the column was an ambulance followed by another pair of Cleveland Police units.

  “Nice turnout,” said Thomas Barrow, looking out the window at the excited crowds. He rapped his knuckles against the armored glass. “Vote Republican.”

  Seated across from him, Garrison looked up from his speech, now covered in hand-written notes. It had been decided that he would not lower a window in order for the people to get a look at him. Cleveland wasn’t necessarily considered a hostile city, but the supervisory agent of his detail had advised the President that there was a credible threat related to a local mosque with some extremist views. He told his boss not to worry, but also suggested that it was better to remain out of sight until they reached the venue. “Use the odds and let the bad guys try to guess which car you’re in,” had been his counsel. Garrison listened.

  Along the sidewalks the President could see more than a few surgical masks, people not waiting for an executive order to take precautions. There was also more than the usual amount of protest signs, one depicting a grinning cartoon President Fox stabbing an outline of America with a trident.

  Garrison was tired, but his Chief of Staff looked exhausted, his complexion pale with dark circles under his eyes. “When did you last sleep, Tommy?”

  “I caught a nap on the plane.”

  The President tapped his friend’s leg with the tip of a polished shoe. “You’re full of shit. I didn’t nap, and you were with me the whole time. You look like hell.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. I’ll catch up on my sleep after the election.”

  “When, in four more years?”

  “Sounds about right. Although I’ll be able to sleep a lot sooner if we don’t win Ohio.”

  Garrison snorted. The media was tearing him up over this leak, and a White House press statement to allay the public’s fears hadn’t done much good. As early as seven o’clock this morning he’d been getting calls from “concerned” congressmen, the friendly ones full of advice and offering to consult, the opposition respectfully but pointedly demanding action, also wanting to be consulted. The talking heads on television were less charitable; many spouted acidic rhetoric and others were openly sarcastic and hostile. Even after four years as the chief executive, Garrison had yet to develop the thick skin professional politicians used to deflect these kinds of personal attacks. But then he’d never considered himself one of those. At his core he was just a former Marine who thought he could help the country he loved. He hadn’t expected to gain the presidency, but now that he was here he was determined to be effective. Playing politics didn’t enter into his decision not to move forward with the NRP. He had the welfare of the American people in
mind, and remained convinced that the third phase of the plan would lead to panic and economic collapse and was the worst of two bad choices. Although Dr. Rusk’s fears were disconcerting (and he was quietly certain that she would find something) as of the briefing two hours ago there was still nothing new from the CDC.

  “We’re coming in, Mr. President,” said a voice over the intercom, the speaker a front seat figure on the other side of the armored divider.

  Bamboo slowed as the vehicles filed up a side street and into Key Plaza. They stopped, and once his Detail determined the area was clear, Garrison got out and was escorted to a ready area in the lobby of a building behind the stage. Thomas Barrow moved off to talk to someone, and an aide fussed over Garrison’s suit and hair before Danny, his body man, ran her off. “You look fine, sir,” he said, straightening the knot in the tie. “Squared away as always.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Garrison said, giving the younger man a wink.

  Another staffer approached to tell him that in a few minutes he would meet Cleveland’s mayor and the governor of Ohio. The two men, both endorsing his candidacy, would make brief remarks to the crowd before introducing him.

  Then it would be show time.

  KEY PLAZA

  He was a computer salesman, part of his company’s international division, and he found it ironic that both he and the President had been in Jakarta at the same time. He hadn’t seen Fox when he was there, of course, but now the President had come to his home town. He was excited and had taken an early lunch in order to come to the rally. He wasn’t particularly political, didn’t care much about the issues (as long as his taxes didn’t go up) but how often did a person get to actually see a President of the United States other than on television?