The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  On the monitor in front of him, Murata-san politely bowed his head. The movement jarred Reginald back to the matter at hand. “As you say, Majesty,” the old man acquiesced. “Let us move on to other matters.” The King turned to listen politely to his old friend.

  The shriveled man from Kyoto held the attention of the entire Council as he folded his hands on his desk. His age and wisdom were unsurpassed on the Council and as the eldest statesman, his voice carried almost as much weight as the King himself.

  “I believe we must discuss the Cleansing,” said Murata-san.

  The Cleansing: the systematic depopulation of the King’s enemies through the use of the weaponized strain of The Pandemic. It had been his father’s idea, but Reginald had been the one to make it a reality. The concept was simple—eliminate the opposition, offer the cure to the common man and watch as the King became savior to Great Britain and the world.

  The fact that Reginald would stand to make an enormous fortune selling the vaccine on the side made the idea all the more enticing. In one fell swoop he would cement his position in the King’s Council and regain his family’s fortune and prestige. The ancient Scottish line of Dunkeith would once more be a force to be reckoned with.

  The King nodded gracefully. "Quite.” The King turned his ice-blue eyes on Reginald. “I fear this business in the Colonies is beginning to slip beyond even your capable grasp."

  Reginald ignored the jab. Everyone knew without the Dunkeith network of spies and informants, the Plan would have taken decades longer—decades King Charles IV did not have. He wasn’t a young man anymore and the older he grew, the more impatient he became.

  “I remain confident that everything is well in hand, Sire.”

  The smile vanished from his regal face and the King slammed his fist down on a desk on the other side of the planet. His face morphed into a mask of rage. The transformation was so immediate and intense Reginald instinctively pulled back from the monitor in surprise.

  "Do not mistake my patience for weakness!" the King roared. “We have allowed you free rein in this matter out of respect for your father and the sacrifices your family has made to the Cause.”

  The King's visage softened appreciably and he adopted a more paternal gaze. "Do not think us overly harsh, Reginald..."

  Overly harsh? There's a laugh. Reginald gave a slight shake of his head. "Nothing could be further from the truth, Majesty. I—”

  The tablet sitting on his desk next to the camera blinked on, a red dialog box flashing on the screen. Reginald glanced down and read the message.

  It was from Jayne: “First case of mutated flu in Europe officially confirmed. German soldier in Berlin, left Boston on routine rotation three days ago. Infected his wife and child. Child infected half his school. Spreading faster than in US. It’s shifting.”

  Reginald looked up to see approximately half the Council looking away from their own cameras. He cursed his luck. So much for having a well-placed source in Europe—he couldn’t even get a five minute head start.

  The King brought his royal gaze back to the camera. "I see most of you have heard the news," he said. His frown deepened. “The flu has been transported back to Germany. According to my sources,” he said, glancing off-camera, “it is now spreading in Berlin. Over a hundred cases in the last 12 hours. And it’s worse than the strains running amok in America.”

  Reginald could feel a trickle of sweat work its way between his shoulder blades. In one way the King was right—things were moving faster than even he had anticipated. “Begging pardon, Sire—if you'll recall—I specifically ordered that any troops from Europe crossing the Atlantic must be placed in quarantine for at least one week before being allowed to return—"

  “Assigning blame at this point in time is naught but a waste of energy.” The King sighed. “The worst-case scenario we have all planned for has arrived, albeit faster than we had anticipated, but not wholly unexpected. The question remains, what are we to do?” The exiled monarch glanced around as if he were in the same room with the other Council members. “Or, to put it more specifically,” he said as he returned his icy gaze to Reginald, "what exactly are you going to do about this, Dunkeith?”

  Reginald nodded. "Antiviral stockpiles in our respective countries are completely under Council control. We should begin administering courses to the highest echelons now—after ourselves, of course—and implement Phase 2 of our plans immediately.”

  “Phase 2? Now?" sputtered a wide-eyed Don Diego Reyes-Perez, one of the regional Council-governors from Spain. "But we are not ready. Phase 2 was not scheduled to begin for another two months." The man's image turned as if looking toward the King. "Majesty, we need more time."

  The King sighed. "As the Saxons were fond of telling our illustrious ancestors, ‘time and tide wait for no man’.” The King shook his head sadly, the expression of empathy plain on his face. “We understand your fears, Diego, but there is nothing to be done. We must get on, if we are to stay ahead of the Cleansing.”

  The King gripped the carved armrests of his throne, his Stuart signet ring glittering. “We all knew this day would come," he said, spreading his hands magnanimously to encompass the Council. Reginald’s eyes followed the golden, jewel-encrusted ring on his right hand. “We have all made the necessary arrangements. We must simply put those arrangements into action a little earlier than we’d expected. The most important thing is to keep calm and carry on.”

  “Agreed, Your Majesty,” Reginald said. “Unfortunately, the Americans have retaken Test Subject 14 from our Russian friends.”

  “Good heavens,” muttered Lord Stirling.

  “Quite,” said Reginald. “They are in the process of bringing him to Colorado.” He held up a hand to forestall the objections that were about to explode from the lips of several Council Members. “I have my people in place and as soon as the Source lands, they will take steps to secure the blood samples we need to devise the cure."

  “Ah yes," said Lady Ainslie Howard, oldest and longest-serving woman on the Council in its thousand-year history. "The infamous blood samples. Tell me, my lord, will we ever acquire the samples that you lost?"

  "The plane carrying Subject 14’s samples was shot down," Reginald said with a preferential nod towards Lady Howard, "thanks to the Russians.” He glared at Igor Voroshilov, the only Russian on the Council. "Had they been able to control themselves and follow my orders, we might well have the cure in our hands right now. Instead, their trigger fingers got itchy and they shot down the plane carrying the most important element of the Cleansing. Now I have to pick up the pieces. The only way to do that is to infiltrate the government complex underneath the Denver International Airport."

  "I take it you have agents in place?"

  “I do, Majesty. In fact, I predict very soon I will have not only one President in my pocket, but two."

  Lady Ainslie widened her eyes in admiration. "Quite impressive, Dunkeith. One day you must share with me your secret for placing people in such…positions.”

  Reginald inclined his head politely. The old woman was always throwing little innuendos like that toward him. He suppressed a shudder. "My pleasure, madam.”

  He examined the rest of the Council. "We knew this day would be upon us, eventually. However, I’ve evidence that the weaponized strain the North Koreans unleashed has mutated. It is undergoing an antigen shift." Reginald’s statement caused more than a few mumbles.

  The King raised his hand then cleared his throat for silence. "This antigen shift was predicted by our analysis. It is nothing to be surprised at—how severe is it?”

  Reginald shrugged. "Only time will tell, Majesty. The preliminary data I’ve intercepted suggests the mutation is limited to the American south for now. As more data becomes available, it may well paint a broader picture of what we’re dealing with. However, we also know that at least three of the cases in Berlin are what appears to be a particularly aggressive shifted strain."

  “Madre de Dios,” s
aid Don Diego as he crossed himself. "We do not yet have even a vaccine for the original strain—and now it has mutated? Twice?"

  Murata-san cleared his throat and gained silence among the nervous Council. "I recommend we institute our quarantine protocols, effective immediately."

  The King nodded. “Agreed—sage advice as usual, my friend. Very well—we shall implement quarantine protocols in preparation for the arrival of—"

  The exiled monarch looked down off-camera. "German authorities have just reported seven more confirmed cases of the mutated strain to the World Health Organization." The King looked at Reginald. "This will spread…"

  "Indeed," said Reginald, remaining—with some difficulty—outwardly unfazed by the disturbing news. “I have a source who tells me that at this moment President Harris is contemplating whether to declare a Wildfire Event."

  The Council murmured and shifted. Reginald was the first to speak: “I believe they will do so and soon. We are at a tipping point, Sire.”

  “What would you have us do, Majesty?" asked the young woman from Austria. Anna-Maria Brunner. Reginald admired her features. She was gorgeous in that highborn, classical way: high cheekbones, a delicate neck, porcelain skin, perfectly symmetrical facial features just the right size and in perfect proportion. She looked—with her coiffured mane of glossy, amber hair—to be the epitome of human breeding. If he remembered his genealogy correctly, that might actually be the case.

  Members of the House of Brun had married only the most hardy and comely members of European aristocracy going back a dozen generations. Mistress Brunner was assured a long, genetically healthy life, blessed with the looks of a goddess. Reginald's lust was tempered by his anger that fate had been so kind to her, yet cruel to him. An Earldom—at the cost of his family—and an empty, hollow title saddled with crushing debt was all fate had acceded to him.

  "Henceforth, you will throw all of your resources and capabilities into developing the cure you have promised, Earl Dunkeith. I do not want to remind you what the price of failure will be in this endeavor.”

  Reginald nodded. "I shall see to it personally," he said, ignoring the flutter of uncertainty in his stomach.

  CHAPTER 19

  Denver, Colorado.

  Denver International Airport.

  COOPER WATCHED FROM THE open ramp of the blessedly silent C-130 as space-suited medical personnel rushed across the tarmac with a stretcher and bags of equipment.

  One of them, a tall, lean-looking soldier hobbled forward in his blue suit up the ramp. “I’m Captain Digen,” he announced, his voice sounding hollow and muffled through the protective helmet he wore. “I’ll be your primary physician while we get you checked out. My team and I will assist you into your containment suits and help you inside the facility. Who’s in command here?"

  Cooper stepped forward. "That’d be me.”

  Digen nodded. "The pilot radioed and said you had wounded?"

  "That's right." Cooper led the way to the front of the cavernous aircraft where Mike lay stretched out on a makeshift pallet. "Here he is," said Cooper. "Looks like some burns on the exposed skin, mostly hands and neck. I’m more concerned with the fact that he’s come down with the flu, I think…”

  Digen’s head swiveled inside his restrictive biohazard suit. "Nobody mentioned possible exposure…" His visor began to fog up.

  "There was no time—now hurry up, let's get him inside,” said Cooper. “We’ve been field tending him till now. He needs to see Major Alston.” And so do I.

  "Let's go people," said Digen, as he circled his blue-gloved hand above his head. "We got one infected and three possible exposures!"

  “Oh you needn’t worry about—” began Dr. Boatner. One of the suited medics cut him off and began to explain how to put on a containment suit.

  Another medic behind began talking with the other patients. "Remember,” he said, standing in the middle of the aircraft, “we need good seals at wrists and ankles. Make sure everything is double-taped. We can't risk exposing anyone inside."

  Cooper heard the metallic tone of Charlie's voice through his HAHO helmet speakers. "Hey Doc, I never took my suit off. I've been sealed in this thing for—"

  Digen seemed unfazed. "Orders is orders, sailor. I don't care how long you were sealed up in that Zoot suit. This comes straight from the top. Everyone on this plane is to be encased in a Level-4 certified containment bio-suit, no exceptions. You will be quarantined for not less than 72 hours minimum or until bloodwork confirms you are infection-free.”

  Charlie raised his hands. "Listen, I just told you—"

  Digen stepped up closer to Charlie, a hand on his sidearm. "I want you to listen to me real good," he said raising his muffled voice. The entire bottom half of his visor was fog. “All of you, listen up! I'm only going to say this one time. My orders are to get you—each and every one of you—into one of these TyChem suits and sealed up for transport to quarantine. I have been ordered to use whatever force necessary to complete my mission and I intend to follow my orders to the letter.”

  “Relax, Doc,” Cooper said, more than a little hint of malice in his voice. It had been a long, long flight and the last thing he needed was some pencil pusher shoving orders and regs down his throat.

  Digen took a step back and regarded the SEALs one more time. He cleared his throat. “Look,” he said in a more reasonable tone, “I don't doubt each of you could probably kick my ass ten ways from Sunday. I'm a doctor. I never joined up to kill anybody. But I'm here to tell you that this shit is serious. We have the last remnants of the United States’ government at this location. You know what they’d do to me if I let somebody in there that ends up contaminating the place and killing the President and what's left of Congress?”

  Cooper reached out and put a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Stand down.”

  Charlie's helmeted head turned and regarded Cooper for a long moment with a faceless, black, reflective stare. After another tense moment, Charlie’s shoulders finally relaxed.

  Warning bells rang in Cooper’s head—he took too long to stand down. Charlie was clearly reaching his limit—the flu, his North Koreans, and his family…Cooper feared an explosion was coming.

  Charlie breathed out a heavy Darth Vader sigh and nodded. “Hooyah, Master Chief."

  Cooper looked at Digen. “Now, think you can help me get in this damn space suit of yours so I can get off this fucking plane?”

  "Hey, watch it!" called out Jax. Cooper leaned around Digen and saw two suited soldiers trying to force Jax into a yellow suit.

  "I promise, I'm a big boy! I can do this myself…"

  "Sorry, sir.”

  “I ain’t no officer, so stop calling me ‘sir’,” Jax growled.

  “You just need to stand still for a second. We’re supposed to do this for you.”

  The second soldier nodded. "It's the only way to be sure it’s done right."

  Cooper stood patiently as Digen began to pull a mil-spec layer of thick yellow plastic over his own dusty, charred HAHO suit. Through the open ramp at the rear of the Hercules, he watched suited medics fussing over Mike as they loaded him into a portable containment tent on wheels. Soldiers sporting M4s and full Nuclear-Biological-Chemical suits stood warily in the background, completely surrounding the C-130.

  Digen zipped up the back of Cooper's yellow suit and went to attach a portable oxygen canister to his thin plastic bubble of a helmet. Cooper took two breaths and it started to fog up.

  "So what's the deal? Why's everybody so jumpy?" he asked. His voice sounded like he was talking in a fish bowl.

  “You didn’t hear?” asked Digen, his hands taping the last of Cooper’s neck seal. He shook his head. "Rumor has it, the bug is going through an antigen drift—"

  “So shit just got a lot worse…” Cooper muttered.

  “You could say that, yes," said Digen. "Hold still, this seal is delicate. We only got these old, pre-used baggies in stock—you make one tear in this thing and they'll have yo
ur ass. More importantly, they'll have my ass.” Digen finalized Cooper's helmet and wrapped the zipper in clear surgical tape.

  He stepped back, hands on his hips, and admired his work. "Well, you are one ugly son of a bitch, but I officially pronounce you quarantined.”

  “How bad is it out there?”

  Digen frowned. "Antigen drift is pretty serious, especially with this thing’s track record.” Digen stifled a sudden yawn. “Sorry. I've been up for about 48 hours now," he said and tried to rub his eyes through his visor. His head jerked back when his hand bumped the helmet bubble. "Dammit," he muttered. "Okay," he sighed, "here's the deal: the virus has mutated—or at least that's what the eggheads down in the Cave think."

  "The Cave?"

  "Yeah, Major Alston got some sort of dream team set up down there in the bottom level. Nobody goes in or out without her or General Daniels’ authorization. “

  Cooper whistled. Brenda was moving up in the world since he’d been gone.

  “We've taken a handful of patients down there but nobody’s come back up yet. Anyway," Digen said as he turned and examined Charlie's suit. "Nice work, Tom," he said with a nod toward his subordinate. The other soldier mumbled his thanks and went to check on Jax.

  "This way, gentlemen," said Digen as he turned and pointed towards the exit ramp of the cargo plane. “Like I was saying, Major Alston briefed the President not too long ago and explained that the virus is mutating. We haven’t gotten official word or anything, but that's the only explanation I can think of that would require us to get all dolled up like this," he said, indicating the nuclear-biological-chemical gear the soldiers sported. "Honestly anything less than a full-on shift would be just a blip on the radar at this point."

  Cooper walked down the C-130’s ramp into the clear, bright light of a Denver afternoon. He took a deep breath and almost coughed on the canned air in his suit.

  "Yeah, it takes a while to get used to having that thing on…” muttered Digen. He motioned toward the large hangar a hundred yards across the tarmac. "Access to the underground is through there." He paused while Mike’s stretcher moved forward at an awkward pace, the bearers burdened as they were by their suits. As the bulbous stretcher passed, Digen paused the litter and looked down to examine the patient. He carried on a mumbled conversation with one of the medics, then motioned for them to continue on into the hangar.