The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  As she found her seat, she reciprocated the nods of greeting from the gathered Cabinet. This was not her first briefing in the new Oval Office. Brenda braced herself—she did not want to be here at the center of power. She believed her expertise was better suited to treating the wounded. Besides, there seemed to be no shortage of patients—they seemed to arrive almost hourly at the Denver International Airport, high above them on the surface.

  The Office, as everyone had started calling it, had a large executive desk at one end of the room and a few temporary metal bookcases lining the walls.

  The new President was nothing if not practical. He preferred action over pomp and circumstance, results over tradition. Furniture could wait—there were people dying topside. That kind of attitude made him very popular among those who served in uniform.

  Brenda took a seat—a folding chair—at the plain-looking conference table surrounded by computer terminals and a few cushioned chairs occupied by the higher ranking Cabinet members. She idly wondered if President Harris’s austerity would enable him to be a good leader. Perhaps that was his secret—avoid the distractions of wealth and power and focus on what really mattered.

  Lost in thought, she realized she’d been staring at the newly appointed Director of the Department of Homeland Security. The older man offered a slight smile. Brenda blinked and looked down at her notes, trying to hide the warmth in her cheeks. I need more sleep…how long was I staring at him?

  The President was situated at the head of the long, simple conference table in a high-backed chair. He looked up from the stack of papers in his hands and adjusted the glasses on his nose. Peering over the rims, he signaled the newly-appointed Secretary of Defense, Samuel Thaler.

  “Are we ready?” he asked quietly. The room fell silent.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” said the Chief of Staff of the Navy, Vice Admiral Roger Bennet. She didn’t know him personally, but Cooper liked him. That was good enough for her.

  The President nodded. “Very good. I know you’ve got a lot for me Roger, but I’d like to get the overview from Sam today, if you please.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.”

  Secretary Thaler frowned. “The situation is grave, Mr. President, and getting worse by the hour. The military is beginning to feel the effects of the flu.” He glanced at a page in his hand. “All estimates thus far point at a significant force reduction as a result, if something isn't done soon.”

  Admiral Bennet agreed. “We won't have enough soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines left on their feet to protect our civilians and prosecute this war at the same time."

  Secretary of State Lewis Strettall cleared his throat. “What war would that be, Roger?”

  Brenda watched Bennet’s face flush. "You know damn well what I'm talking about.” He turned to the President. “We need to stop pussyfooting around the issue and call it what it is—Barron has decided to initiate a civil war. We've got to stop him in his tracks now. We can’t fight him and the Koreans.”

  The President cleared his throat. He looked decidedly uncomfortable discussing a civil war. “This isn’t the time for Americans to be fighting each other. I’m not going to give Barron what he wants. Regardless of who leads this country, we as a people must be united against the common enemy we face in the North Koreans and the flu.” Almost with relief on his face, he turned to look at Brenda. "I believe Major Alston has some new information on the flu. Is that correct, Major Alston?”

  Brenda nodded. She was the lowest ranking person in the room, most likely with the lowest security clearance. Some of the officials regarded her with guarded expressions, as if they hadn’t yet made up their minds if listening to her was worth their time or not. The Director of the CIA watched her like a corpulent bird of prey.

  Brenda hoped that the butterflies in her stomach did not flutter up to the surface as she struggled to maintain an air of detached calm. “Yes, sir, I do. I have to begin by saying that we if don't authorize the appropriate resources and take drastic action against this flu—right now—it’s going to sideline everyone on both sides, and the civil war you’re talking about will be stopped before anyone gets started."

  She handed copies of her briefing around the room. As they were being passed out, she reminded everyone: "Ladies and gentlemen, what I'm giving you right now is to be considered classified material. These findings indicate the Korean flu is undergoing a significant antigen drift—possibly even a shift.”

  Cindy Vacher, Secretary of Health and Human Services, looked up from her handout. “How can you be sure?”

  Secretary Thaler raised his hand as Brenda started to speak. "I'm afraid I’m going to have to stop you right there, Major. How significant?”

  Brenda closed her mouth and thought for a moment. She definitely needed more sleep. And a drink or two. She began to translate medical jargon into layman's terms. "Mr. Secretary, think of everything we’ve seen in the last few weeks as the opening act.”

  The heads gathered around the conference table nodded. Mumbles rippled among the more well-briefed officials. The Pandemic had started out as just a really severe flu strain before it had ‘drifted’ into the danger zone. She took a deep breath and held up two glossy photos, one in each hand.

  "This is what the virus looked like two weeks ago, when we first encountered it in Los Angeles.” She blocked the memories from her brief stay at All Saint’s Memorial and hoped her colleagues were still alive somewhere. Brenda held up the latest image in her left hand. "This is what it looks like now."

  “I see,” said Admiral Bennet, comparing his own copy of the two images. “You’re right, there’s a subtle change in the newest picture. The shapes at the end of those little arms are more rounded now.”

  She watched as the Cabinet members looked on and began to mumble to themselves. More than one held up their own copies of the images and looked back and forth, seeking the changes.

  The President adjusted his glasses and said, “Major Alston, I may just be an old pig farmer from Iowa, but I have no idea what a small change like this means.”

  “How will this affect our strategic ability to project force, Major?” asked Secretary Thaler. “How bad will this ‘drift’ compromise our combat readiness?"

  Brenda put the pictures down and collected her thoughts. “Sir, the probability of death increases exponentially if someone is infected with the new strain. I want to make clear that so far, we’ve only encountered the drifted strain in a few states—but it’s widespread enough that I’m confident it will progress across the country.”

  "So you're telling us that this antigen drift means someone will get a worse case of the flu and that the chance of them dying might increase a little," said President Harris. “Have I got the gist of it?"

  "Yes and no, sir." Brenda said. Politicians could be so dense, always trying to dumb down everything into a sound byte. "Yes, in that the virus will make people sicker and it will be easier for people to catch because their bodies will be looking for the original strain, not the new one.” She angled her head and continued, “No, in that the virus will only give us a slightly increased chance of fatality.”

  She looked around the gathered men and women, making sure they were with her so far before she continued: “The problem, ladies and gentlemen, is that this virus was genetically altered from its natural state—from the Great Pandemic strain—into something much more unstable. When the North Koreans changed the genetic structure of this virus, they unleashed something the world has never seen before. Yes, it was and is the flu virus, but it's different. The human immune system is having a hard enough time coping with the original strain. Basically, when the virus undergoes an antigen drift, it's kind of like putting on a different set of clothes."

  “It won’t have that much of an impact on force projection,” muttered Secretary Thaler. He smiled at Brenda, his eyes showing nothing but contempt. “That’s all you had to say, Major. Thank you.” He turned back to President Harris and opened his m
outh to speak.

  “Sam, I’d like her to keep going.”

  “But, sir—“

  “Please continue, Major.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” It was arrogance like that which had nearly wiped out mankind ten years earlier—fatal hubris. She took a deep breath. “Mr. Secretary, we’re looking at a statistically significant increase in the rates of infection and deaths caused by this mutated strain.”

  “Is that a fact?” asked Secretary Thaler.

  “Yes sir, that's what the data is suggesting at this point.”

  The Secretary of Defense took his glasses off and tossed them on the conference table with a clatter. “‘Suggesting’? What the hell are we supposed to do with your guesses and suggestions, Major Alston? We’re talking about not only the lives of millions of military servicemen and women, but—“

  “Sir,” interjected Brenda with a little more heat in her voice than she’d wanted, “if we still had access to up-to-the-minute data and near-instant communication, I could give you a much better idea where this thing is going. As things stand today…we’re only getting sporadic reports from around the country and I have to say, in general, those reports are not looking good."

  “Not looking good,” repeated Secretary Thaler, the color rising in his neck. “Major—”

  “Enough, Sam! Let her talk,” barked the President. The Secretary of Defense flushed and slowly retrieved his glasses from the table.

  Director of the CIA, Adrian Stylau cleared his throat. All heads turned to face him. “Is there any particular area of the country that seems to be getting hit hardest?” Brenda had been in four Cabinet meetings since arriving at Denver. His greetings were polite but hollow.

  “Yes, sir,“ Brenda said. "From what we can tell, it seems the southeastern part of the country is undergoing the first wave of antigen drift. Georgia…” She sifted through her papers. "I've got reports here from Georgia, South Carolina, Kentucky—"

  Director Stylau nodded, then spoke up again, interrupting her: "Mr. President, I think I may be able to shed some additional light on the situation here.”

  "Oh?" said the President.

  "Yes, sir. We've been tracking North Korean agents spread throughout the country—sleepers, if you will—that have been activated. These infiltrators have been trying to spread the original weaponized form of the flu in pockets of the country that haven't been directly exposed."

  "My God," breathed the President. "You're saying these bastards are sneaking around the back roads and suburbs trying to infect even more people? Why the hell wasn’t I informed?”

  "That's exactly what's happening, sir,” he replied. “I’ve had my people working on this since Day One. We caught a surprising number of them, I’m pleased to say. They're being detained and questioned—"

  President Harris raised a hand to stall Stylau. "This is something I don't want to know about, isn’t it?”

  He looked at the President without expression. "Probably."

  “Director Stylau, I don't see how this relates to the data…” said Brenda.

  “It’s relevant, Major,” Stylau said, eyebrows climbing his forehead, “because I have an agent who recently tracked down and…" The Director shot a wary glance at the President. "Handled…a North Korean agent in the town of Brikston, Kentucky."

  Brenda's eyes opened in surprise. "You’ve got a man on the ground in Kentucky? What kind of conditions is he reporting to you? Has he seen—"

  Director Stylau leaned back in his chair. "I must admit, I haven't asked him about the flu. I was concerned with more pressing matters,” he said.

  Brenda swallowed and nodded. What was more pressing than the spread of a virus that had the potential to wipe out mankind? "Of course, sir. I just meant…that is, any data that you could provide would go a long way toward helping us determine what we’re up against."

  "Adrian, if you've got anything—get it to Major Alston as soon as possible,” the President said.

  Stylau nodded. “Of course. I have a secure link to my agent. If you'd like, we can talk to him right now and get some answers for you."

  Brenda fixed President Harris with a pleading look. He closed the folder in front of him and nodded. "Very well. Let's pull it up on the screen," the President said, gesturing for a staffer to utilize the large wall monitor behind him.

  It only took a few moments before the screen came to life and a dialog box appeared requiring a secured-authorization login. Director Stylau got to his feet and ponderously shambled over to the computer terminal. "There," he said at last, "that ought to do it."

  Conversation stopped and everyone turned to face the wall screen. A fuzzy image of a darkened room appeared, intermittently racked by lines of static. A series of colored bars in the upper half of the screen indicated very poor signal strength.

  "Adrian, how are you able to get a connection at all?" asked President Harris.

  Director Stylau laced his fingers over his significant paunch. "I don’t understand all the details myself, sir—but we’ve been working hard around the clock to make this available to other agencies. It’s—"

  "Here we go,” Secretary Thaler said, pointing at the screen.

  A shadow appeared on the far wall of what looked to be a hotel room. The image stabilized even further and Brenda could actually see a generic painting of a pastoral scene hanging above a disheveled bed. The shadow moved and someone’s blurry face filled the screen.

  "Sir?" the man asked. Uncertainty riddled his voice. He looked like he’d just survived a car accident—he had one black eye and several purple and yellow bruises on his neck. A cut, which looked painfully deep, angled across his forehead, crusted with dried blood.

  Clearly this man had seen fighting of some sort. Recent fighting. Whatever happened looked to have taken place at least a day or two in the past judging from the injuries on his neck and face. It looked like he had been in a fight for his life. Despite that, he exuded the same calm confidence that Cooper seemed to possess.

  She shouldn’t have thought of Cooper. Her heart pounded in her chest and she felt the worry that she had been suppressing all day suddenly flare back to life. She wouldn’t be able to relax until he was safely back in Denver.

  Brenda struggled to clear her thoughts and focus on what the agent was trying to say. “…pretty bad here, sir. When I first arrived—I wouldn’t say that things were great—but they were better than this." The man shook his head sadly. "I grew up here, Mr. President. I can't describe to you how hard it is to see everyone in this town who survived the Great Pandemic pull what was left of their lives back together, only to watch so many of them get sick all over again.”

  “I understand your grief, son, believe me—I do." The President replied. "I don't mean to rush you, but we’re a little pressed for time here…"

  The young man on the screen stiffened. "Of course, Mr. President. What I was—”

  “Just tell the President what you told me in your last report,” said Director Stylau. “I think that will suffice for now."

  "Yes, sir. I arrived in Brikston about a month ago—after we received actionable information that an NKor sleeper was about to appear on scene. I grew up here, sir, so it was perfect for me. I reestablished myself in town and began gathering those I could trust around me. I stayed under deep cover. I was able to swing public opinion against the man we suspected of being an NKor agent. Two days after he arrived in town, people began getting sick. We captured and interrogated him to find the delivery device—turns out he had been surgically implanted with an explosive release mechanism. Very messy. Wiped out almost the entire hospital staff.”

  "May I ask a question?" Brenda called out.

  "I think—" began Director Stylau.

  "Of course, Major. Ask away," interrupted President Harris.

  "Thank you, sir.” Brenda said. She shifted her attention to the screen. "What did you mean when you said people began getting sick two days after the NKor agent arrived in town? Can you
describe their symptoms to me?"

  The agent nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Typical flu-like symptoms—people began complaining of aches and pains, fevers that intensified throughout the day—“

  “How bad were the fevers, do you know?” she asked.

  The man on the screen frowned. “Most of them peaked a little over 100° or 101° according to the hospital records I was able to see—only a few people had to be hospitalized at first. Brikston is a small town, so we don't have more than a few nurses and a couple doctors at the community hospital. I stayed in touch with Police Chief Murray and helped organize transport to the hospital for people feeling ill. Almost all the cases were quickly referred to home care." The young man paused while Brenda scribbled notes on her pad. She looked up and he continued. “A few days later, we had our first death. She was a teacher at the school…”

  Oh, my God, all those children must have been infected.

  “I sent some samples back to Langley for analysis—"

  “You don't need to go into details about this process. Suffice it to say, Major," Stylau said with a guarded look in Brenda's direction, "we were able to ascertain that the sickness infecting the town of Brikston was indeed the weaponized form of the flu that the North Koreans had used in California and New York."

  "That's right," the agent affirmed in a soft southern drawl. "By the time we were able to…" His eyes shifted and came to rest on the head of the CIA. “…handle the situation most of the town had taken sick and was in bed."

  "Everything you're telling me seems to be in line with the weaponized strain.” Brenda spoke quickly—she had a hundred questions to ask but knew she’d only have time for a few. “Can you tell me when you started noticing changes? When did people become sicker?"