The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

The silence on the other end told him everything he needed to know. "That information is classified, Dr. Boatner. Thank you for your assistance. Should we need further assistance, we will contact you. In the meantime, I suggest you take measures to make yourself scarce. Make sure you have enough supplies—”

  The lights flickered in the laboratory. Boatner gasped.

  "Maurice? Are you there? You okay?"

  "Yes, yes—I’m fine, Albert—sorry, the lights in the lab just flickered. Seems we’re having a power outage here."

  "Maurice, it's only going to get worse. Remember—"

  “Yes, I remember perfectly well what happened during The Pandemic. No history lesson is necessary."

  The Great Pandemic—the Blue Flu. The strain so starved the body of oxygen cyanosis often set in and turned people a ghastly shade of blue. It started with their fingertips and ears, then the skin around the nose and eyes, and in severe cases, the legs and arms. Some victims turned such a deep indigo blue, doctors often mistook a victim as a person of color when in fact they were quite pale.

  Boatner rubbed his eyes, trying to force the memories from his mind. But they just kept coming, kept dancing across his consciousness and forcing him to remember the horrible details of the world in the grip of influenza gone wild.

  It had raged completely out of control and killed millions around the world. Great cities had been decimated not only The Pandemic, but the opportunistic diseases that followed on its heels: cholera, dysentery, and hemorrhagic fever . Rioting in the streets, looting, the breakdown of law and order…

  But this time? Would it be any different? Especially now that he knew someone had weaponized the Blue Flu?

  "General, I could be of a lot more assistance to you if you would tell me where the samples were collected. Did they come from an American? Is this the mystery flu they're talking about on TV?"

  "Take care, Maurice. We’ll be in touch."

  CHAPTER 2

  Washington, D.C.

  The White House.

  Presidential Emergency Operations Center.

  Post Apache Dawn.

  PRESIDENT HAROLD BARRON STIRRED when he felt the warmth of Jayne’s body vanish. He groaned and rolled on his side. For a second, he was back in the infirmary, strapped to his bed, listening to Orren Harris’s speech. He looked at his wrist and relaxed. No thick leather strap held him in place now. Everything came back in a flood—the election, the promises he’d made to Jayne, the corruption, the guilt.

  Then came the flu and President Denton had died. Then came Atlanta and hundreds of thousands of Americans had died.

  Barron rubbed his eyes and tried to block out the memories. Remember. You’re under the White House in the Bunker. Everything became hazy. He remembered Jayne looking down at him as he lay on the floor, caught in a drug overdose she had engineered. He remembered being wheeled to the underground infirmary and hearing news that Harris had decided to challenge his legitimacy as President.

  How many days ago had it been since he’d been removed from the infirmary to ‘recover’ in his own bed? He recalled snippets of memories as he slept, woke, and slept some more. Jayne appeared, sometimes by the bed, sometimes in the bed. He tried to lick his lips—they were parched.

  “What time is it?" he croaked.

  The sheets stirred and cool air tickled his skin. The sound of Jayne's body sliding off the bed caused him to open his eyes.

  She stood and stretched like a cat, the graceful arch of her back highlighted in the dim light. Her silhouette was perfection given form. She slowly opened her eyes and purred as she stretched her arms. "It's time for you to go back to bed, Mr. President."

  "I can't spend the rest of my life in bed,” said the President. He reached out to grab her leg. “Although…” His hands tickled the inside of her thigh as he gently tugged her closer to the bed. Her smooth skin felt luxurious under his fingertips. "You do make a very persuasive argument that one needs to spend more time in bed. The pressures of the Head of State are—"

  "Enormous," said Jayne in a husky voice as she slipped her hand under the sheets.

  The President rolled onto his back and closed his eyes with a sigh. If only every day can start this way…

  No.

  The harshness of his conscience startled him. No, it's the drugs that she gives me. She doesn't care about me. She's after my power. And she has it. The drugs keep me in this bed, keep me from running the country. Keep me from saving the country. No… It's time I took back control.

  The President slowly took Jayne's hand in his and pulled it out from under the sheet. His grip was firm, his mind resolute. "You’re right, my dear. I'm the President. It's time I got back to business. There's a country that needs my help."

  Jayne sat on the edge of the bed and regarded him through half-closed eyes. At length she sighed and began to run her fingers through her sleep-tangled hair. "Well, if you must. I scheduled a meeting with the Joint Chiefs in an hour. But I must say, it doesn't help me start the day off on the right foot when you turn down my attention…" She stood up and padded across the floor toward the bathroom.

  The President sat up, the smile fading from his face as he watched the seductive sway of her hips when she entered the bathroom and closed the door. That view has held me captive for far too long, he told himself. You tried to give me an overdose, my dear. You had me locked up in this bed for over a week. I let you take over the running of the government. I let you!

  In a flash of anger, he threw off the sheets and moved to the exquisitely carved valet to get dressed, then paused. He glanced back at the bathroom door and heard Jayne turn on the shower. He imagined the warm water as it caressed her skin and dribbled down in little rivulets…

  Well, I suppose I can’t tip my hand just yet. Wouldn't want to give you the impression that you have no power over me anymore… He walked over to the bathroom door with a smile on his face.

  THE PRESIDENT SANK INTO his plush executive chair at the head of the polished conference table in the Ops Center, deep under the White House. He smiled. It was good to be back.

  He glanced at Jayne, who sat demurely in a smaller version of his own chair to his right. She put on a show of being happy about his return to power, but the smile that graced her angelic face did not reach her eyes. There was something cold and calculating in there, he thought, something to be watched—something to be destroyed when the time was right.

  In the meantime, he would continue to avail himself of her…expertise. He let his eyes linger on her chest and the smooth skin of her thighs, exposed by her minuscule leather skirt. Not exactly appropriate dress for the President's new Chief of Staff, but what the hell did he care anymore?

  "It's good to have you back, sir," said his newer, younger Secretary of Defense with a smile.

  The President nodded. What the hell is your name? He stared at the clean-cut man across the conference table. He looked to be in his 40s, a clear departure from the standard, elder-statesman type that had previously occupied the position for decades. Haden Brooks. Yes. That’s it—Brooks.

  The other faces depicted on large wall screens around the perimeter of the room echoed similar pleasantries. The President stared blankly at most of them. So many new faces—how did I let it get this bad?

  He remembered firing the Joint Chiefs, but the last thing he could recall about that particular episode had been Jayne straddling him in the very chair in which he now sat. He gripped the armrests on his chair and looked down. Right here…

  "Indeed," said the image of the Chief of Staff of the Navy. "Glad to have your hand back on the helm, Mr. President."

  We'll see about that. "So!" the President said. He rubbed his hands together, “I’ve been out for too long. Someone get me up to speed. I'm willing to bet you're not going to tell me that the crisis has been averted and everything is back to normal, are you, Haden?"

  Secretary Brooks shook his head. "Unfortunately, no, Mr. President."

  The President sighed and
leaned back in his chair. For a split second, he was back in the shower with Jayne and could feel her dexterous fingers moving up and down his spine…

  "If anything, the crisis has worsened in your brief absence," said Brooks. "If you'll take a look at the map on the wall…" He gestured toward the far wall. The Presidential Seal disappeared and was replaced by a map of the western half of the United States. Angry red dots highlighted the major cities along the coast. San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego, Portland, and a host of smaller cities and towns. "These are the largest cities that the North Koreans have managed to occupy, at least in part."

  "Good God…" mumbled the President. "I've only been gone a week…"

  "Yes, sir. Unfortunately, it appears that the extent of their advance has not been completely reported. We've only just been able to count on reliable—if weakened—communications via satellite. It's going to be quite some time before we’re fully up and combat effective. However, I'm not sure that would help, in any case."

  "How so?" asked the President. Instinctively, his hands sought out Jayne's. The comforting squeeze of her supple fingers created an undeniable reaction elsewhere. Angrily, he forced himself to focus on what Brooks was saying. Old habits died hard.

  "…Koreans advancing so fast our people couldn’t get reports out via landlines.” He shook his head. “The speed of their advance is alarming—they drop their men in, roll through with fast-moving scouts, and scatter our civilians in front of them. Waves of refugees are heading east, creating chaos in unaffected cities and spreading the virus at the same time."

  "So they have control of the cities," said the President as he pointed at the map with his free hand. "What's the extent of their advance? How much land do they actually control?"

  Secretary Brooks frowned. He pushed a button on the remote in his hand and the screen displayed a different map. A large swath of California and almost all of Oregon and Washington had been covered in red. “The major cities and their suburbs have been swallowed up and we’ve been able to determine that checkpoints have been established along this border. As you can see, they've made significant gains—but the larger cities further inland are still secure. We just don’t know for how long. However, with the implementation of the cease-fire Ms. Renolds brokered—"

  "Oh Haden, you're far too kind. That was entirely Vice President Hillsen," Jayne purred. She nodded gracefully in the direction of Sandra Hillsen. For her part, the former Senator from California only gave the barest hint of a nod in return.

  "Mr. President, if I may?" asked the Air Force Chief of Staff and newly minted Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General John Vidua.

  "By all means," said the President. "What’ve you got?"

  "Leaving aside the fact that we have somehow agreed to a peace treaty—"

  "Temporary cease-fire—” interjected the Vice President. “I am under no delusions that I have the power on my own to create a treaty binding on the United States.”

  "Truce, cease-fire, treaty, call it whatever the hell you want," growled the general. "We've agreed to let these sons of bitches actually control part of the United States. I fail to understand the logic in not wiping North Korea off the face of the Earth. Immediately.”

  The President cleared his throat and leaned forward a little. “Wouldn’t China consider that an act of war?”

  “They can consider it all they want,” growled Gen. Vidua.

  The President sighed. “You would not only have us fight what North Koreans we have in our own country, but start a war with the third most powerful military on the planet—right when we’ve been crippled by this flu?"

  "China will not go to war against us, Mr. President," Vidua replied.

  "What kind of guarantees can you provide for that statement, General?" asked the Vice President. "Everyone in this room knows the Chinese have a close alliance with North Korea. It would be no different than if someone decided to invade Canada. China will be obligated to attack whoever attacks North Korea. The fact that they haven't done so already—even after we launched those B-2s against Pyongyang—shows the strength of our diplomatic ties with Beijing."

  "Bullshit!" said the Chairman. "The Chinese are nothing more than well-funded, cultured, terrorists. The only thing they recognize is brute force. Right now, we are showing neither."

  "Mr. President," said the Chief of Staff of the Navy, a gaunt, bird-like Vice Admiral James Price. "We only have sporadic contact with most of the Navy. The loss of our satellite communications has been all but crippling. I can't guarantee how effective our surface warfare units will be if we enter into a long-term engagement with China. North Korea we can handle, but…"

  "Oh hell," sighed Gen. Vidua. "Not you, too?"

  “Look,” shot back Adm. Price, “we don’t have secure comms with the fleet—if we sent them in half-cocked now, we could risk losing more than just our naval strength. Without the Fleet, we’ve got no close-in protection for the west coast…”

  Barron glanced at Jayne as the Chiefs of Staff devolved into a shouting match over whether or not to strike back at North Korea. She replied with an infinitesimal shrug of her shoulders. Even she wasn’t perfect when it came to selecting Cabinet officials, it seemed. Some part of the President was actually glad for that.

  "John, you think I like this situation?" asked Adm. Price. He spoke in a quiet voice but it carried unmistakable authority.

  "Gentlemen, please!" intervened the Director of Health and Human Services, Sharon Mills. the high-pitched voice of the head of the Department of Health and Human Services. "Mr. President," she said, "no one will disagree that the North Korean presence represents a grave threat to the national security of the United States. Their position with China makes this whole situation all the more dangerous. However, we can't lose track of this flu—"

  "Oh, come off it, Sharon!” said the Chairman. "This flu drama has been blown out of proportion. From what I can tell, it doesn't seem to be any more deadly than the seasonal flu we see every year."

  "That's not accurate, General and you know it!"

  "All right people, settle down. Before I was… Before I took ill," the President said, "I was under the impression that while serious, the mystery flu wasn’t exactly apocalyptic. It seemed like an awful lot of people caught it and got sick, but when you looked at the numbers, it was only the people who’d had no exposure to the Great Pandemic who’ve died."

  "Mr. President," said the image of the National Security Advisor, Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, Maricella Sosa. Her face looked pinched and pale, a dramatic departure from normal. "Americans are dying! They’re dying in greater numbers than they have since the Great Pandemic. Yes, it appears that the people who are most affected are those with no immunity to that particular strain—"

  "And how many people is that, Maricella? Hell, damn near the entire world got sick ten years ago!" snapped the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

  "Since this crisis began, we have lost over a thousand Americans!" Assistant Sosa snapped back. "We lose around 30,000 people a year to the seasonal flu. Over a thousand deaths in one week is way above normal. I don't know about you, General, but I don't consider losing that many Americans to a bio-weapon attack to be so inconsequential!"

  The President was aghast. A thousand! "All right, everyone calm down. Where are we getting these numbers, Maricella?”

  The National Security Advisor shuffled her papers. "We're relying mostly on self-reporting from the governors that we've been able to contact. That doesn't account for Texas, Florida, and a few of the New England states. We haven't heard anything from them since the beginning of the satellite issues."

  "And if this thing should happen to have an antigen shift—"

  "Stop right there, Sharon," said the President to the image of the Director of the Department of Health and Human Services. “Do we have any evidence of that happening?"

  "No, Mr. President, at this time we do not," interjected Gen. Vidua.

  �
��Based on the death toll, it seems likely it has. We need to be prepared to—” began Assistant Sosa.

  The President raised his hand for silence. "Are we doing everything in our power—right now—to help those who are infected and contain the spread of the virus?"

  "Yes, sir, I believe we are. Homeland Security has sent out as much information as they can to the governors for distribution to the general population. We've asked for bans on public gatherings, strongly suggested people stay in their homes, encouraged people to avoid traveling…"

  "So basically we’re just re-instituting everything we tried during the Great Pandemic?" asked the President.

  "Yes, sir. At this point, what we did in the later stages of The Pandemic is probably the best course of action. We think shutting down public gatherings and keeping people in their homes stopped the spread of the flu ten years ago—"

  "I know it was too-little, too-late back then, but this time we're ready for it and we have everything in place," added Director Mills.

  "Except the vaccine," grumbled Gen. Vidua. "Funny how the CDC is suddenly out of commission right when we need them the most."

  "What are you suggesting, General?" asked Assistant Sosa.

  The President clenched his jaw to keep from gasping in shock. Atlanta. The nuclear strike from the rogue sub. The North Koreans—Reginald—had used his authorization codes to hack into the submarine’s command center and launch a nuclear strike. Over a million Americans had died. The greatest catastrophe—man-made or natural—in American history and his bloody fingerprints were all over it.

  “I think it’s clear," the President said in an effort to redirect the conversation, “that we’re doing everything possible to combat the flu. That said, I believe the North Korean problem should be our highest priority right now.”

  "Thank you, sir," said Gen. Vidua. "Now, if you'd like, I have some recommendations—"

  Jayne cleared her throat and the room fell silent. All eyes shifted to her. A rising wave of irritation struggled to burst forth from the President, but he clamped down on it—he hoped—without revealing his inner turmoil.