The Demon Plagues

by David VanDyke

  Skull considered a moment, then shook the man’s paw. “Call me Skull. PJ, huh? Markis was a PJ. You going to get all mushy on us too?”

  Huff’s eyes narrowed briefly, then he broke into snowy-toothed laughter, deliberately putting his tongue all the way out, a comic face. “The way I hear it, he got –” he twirled a finger around next to his ear – “all woohoo from brain damage before everything started. But I looked at his record – the man won the goddamned Air Force Cross, one step below the Medal of Honor. I hear you knew him.”

  “Know him. Yes, I do. Brothers in arms, and all that. We just don’t see eye to eye any more. Listen, Huff, I appreciate your stepping in, but I’m not here to make friends. I work alone. Always have.”

  “Yeah, they called you ‘The Ghost’ down in Mexico when you was poppin’ SS. Yassuh boss," he said, putting it on, "we heard 'bout dat. I’m sure you got your reasons but,” Huff poked a blunt finger into Skull’s chest, “you better get on the team now. ‘Cause I hear you’re on probation, Chief, and sometime soon you might need a little backup from your new brothers in arms. Got it, bruh?” Huff swaggered off, drawing his posse after him.

  That’s what they are; he’s got them all following him. I’m not sure if he was trying to bully me for real or just for effect, but I think he defused the problem while sending me the message that he's in control. I just don’t have the patience for this macho bullshit anymore.

  He dressed in his uniform. The new-style camouflage pattern with the equally unfamiliar Marine Warrant Officer’s bar nevertheless made his heart seize up with pride and gratitude at his restoration. There’s nothing better than being a Marine; not sex, not drugs, not money, nothing.

  Wearing that rank also set him apart from the others. Unlike him, they were all enlisted men; it was one thing to have a little discussion in the locker room, quite another to do so in public, stripes and youth automatically redefining their relationships with him and his bars.

  Skull stepped into the briefing room, taking a seat near the back. Besides the nine men he had already seen, a woman in a spotless white Navy commander’s uniform sat across and down from him, looking relaxed, sipping coffee. Short, young, maybe twenty-five, with freckles and kind eyes and a cross prominently displayed. Chaplain? Weird. And young to be a Commander…uh oh.

  Raising the cup to him, she saw him glance at her and stiffen with recognition – not of who she was, but of what, she was sure. She could almost see him shrink back in revulsion. Propagandized people reacted to Edens like that;. she shrugged at him as if to say, what can you do?

  Everyone surged to their feet as General Tyler came into the room, followed by an aide and Doctor Durgan, who avoided looking at Skull. “Carry on, please take your seats,” the General said, but kept his own feet.

  “Before we begin I’d like to introduce Commander Christine Forman. She’s an honest-to-God chaplain – that’s a joke, people, you laugh at Generals’ jokes – and as some of you noticed, she’s an Eden as well. She’s fully briefed and she will be assisting in a number of capacities. One is yes, as a chaplain, so if any of you want to avail yourself of her services, I am sure she would be happy to listen. The other is as a guinea pig. It may surprise you, but we’ve been having some trouble finding Edens to volunteer to be injected with our little machines.”

  This time nervous and compliant laughter bled off some tension. “But in my book that makes her a brave lady and a fine American officer –” he stressed that word – “so if you really want my boot crammed up your ass, please, go ahead. Give her a hard time.” Tyler’s stare swept the room like a machine gun. “And after the surgery, you’ll be back at your home station before you can sneeze. You’re kidding, right, McCarthy? You’re not going to ask me ‘what surgery,’ are you?”

  Huff whispered something to McCarthy, who made an ‘I got it’ face and nodded.

  -36-

  Cassandra raised her voice in anger. “Daniel, you have done some crazy things before but this takes the cake. You’re going to get yourself killed!”

  Chairman Markis held his hands up, palms out. “Not if you and Karl do your jobs. Senior leaders have been doing this type of thing for a hundred years.”

  “Unannounced visits to friendly places, or bases, sure. Not flying straight into enemy territory!” So unusual, her voice became even more shrill. “Your judgment’s been clouded by your proximity to the suggestion.”

  “You think I’ve been swayed just because the idea came from my wife and Larry? Cassie, the US is not the enemy anymore. In fact, it’s your country and mine, now that the Constitution reigns supreme again. President McKenna is a good man. We need him. We need him to order the US military to cooperate.”

  “They might tell him to go pound sand, DJ. The SS, the military, and the Unionist Party were the unholy trinity of the United Governments, and two of the three have not changed!” She knew she was fighting a losing battle, but she was determined to make the best case she could.

  “I have it on good authority – yours – that McKenna is going to disband the SS, roll them into a new Homeland Security department.”

  “A change of name only,” she grumbled.

  Markis pressed her. “The military backs the civilian bureaucracy, the civilians back the military, and both of them have outlawed the Unionists and are dismantling the SS. Now is the time to act.”

  Cassandra sighed. “I never had a chance of talking you out of this, did I?”

  “Nope. I just wanted you to get it out of your system. Because you’re coming along.” Markis’ grin of schadenfreude was infuriating, priceless. “And so is Jill Repeth.”

  ***

  “Sergeant…Burstead, is it?”

  The young Homeland Security trooper looked up lazily from his desk, and then did a comical double-take. He stumbled to his feet, nearly falling over his own chair, ending up using it for support. “Uhhh…Special Agent Adams! Sir!” He bolted the four steps to his boss’s door. “Sir, it’s CHAIRMAN MARKIS.”

  “No shit?” Adams threw down the file he had been reading and pushed past Burstead to where Markis, Cassandra and Karl stood waiting, flanked by their security team. “Wow! I mean, sir, welcome to Pueblo, I didn’t know you were coming, what can I do for you?”

  Markis’ voice was dry. “No one knew I was coming. Would you please notify President McKenna that I would like to see him at his earliest convenience? If he could send some Secret Service folks out to give us a ride, I would appreciate it.”

  Adams entire body was animated, quivering. “Ha, no way, sir. If I do that, it will turn into a nutroll. I’ll take you in myself, me and my staff. Burstead, go commandeer a shuttle bus, chop chop!”

  Twenty minutes later the bus, with Karl and the PSD nervously looking out the windows, rolled through the gate of the old Colorado State University campus, now the home of the provisional Capital of the United States of America. They parked in a lot near the Executive Building. Secret Service vehicles and officers immediately surrounded the bus and cordoned off the area.

  “Stay here, Karl. You can’t be running around with weapons, and you’re on their turf now. I’m going in alone. You just liaise with Adams here. I’ll be fine.” Markis touched his lapel, and Karl winked in return. Then he stepped out onto the hot asphalt.

  Two secret service agents walked confidently up to Markis, at least until they saw who he was. Then they checked stride, stopping about twenty feet away. One spoke into a radio, listening for a reply. Then he walked up to Markis. “If you’ll come with me, sir, the President is waiting.”

  “Outstanding.”

  After a short walk and a lot of amazed stares, Markis was ushered into the august presence of President Nathan B. McKenna. His eyes were bloodshot above dark circles, and his hair was whiter than the media portrayed him.

  “Good afternoon, Mister President.” Markis held out his hand.

  “Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Chairman Markis. Did you ever think we’d be standing here li
ke this?” McKenna held out his hand to shake firmly.

  A kind of moan escaped the nearest Secret Service agent and he took a step forward as if to intervene.

  “You stand fast there, Tompkins. The Eden Plague isn’t Ebola, you know. Besides, they say you can’t get it except by fluids, right? Markis, you plan on kissing me?”

  “Not unless you really want me to. But I have to say, I think you could use a little Eden about now.”

  McKenna shook his head. “Sometime, maybe when this is over. Even though the Unionists have been tossed out, their lies still linger. Americans won’t accept an Eden president yet.”

  “Same old story of prejudice and bigotry.”

  “There’s always enough of that to go around. Here, let’s sit down. You want anything?”

  “I could use a beer, if you have one.” Markis rubbed his day-old stubble.

  Mckenna laughed. “Thompkins, go get us some beers.” His face turned serious. “Now, what the hell do you want?”

  Markis looked around the office. “You know, I’m unarmed. I’m not going to try to infect anyone. And this conversation is very need-to-know.”

  McKenna nodded at another agent, who evacuated the room except for herself, and Agent Thompkins with the beer. “All the agents are cleared but two should be enough to keep them from getting too nervous. Sandy, tell them to initiate security protocols.”

  A red light came on above each door, and the two agents still there backed up to the far end of the room. “All right. You’re here, what’s this all about?”

  Markis took a drink from a longneck bottle, ignoring the glass. “It’s about Tiny Fortress.”

  Color drained out of McKenna’s face, but he recovered quickly. “Sorry, not sure what you mean.”

  “You know, Tiny Fortress, it’s like a big fortress only smaller. I hear you’re making them now, just in time for birthdays – my kids would love some…” Judging by McKenna’s frozen face, Markis’ attempt at humor fell flat. "You should know, we have proof. Samples of the nanobots."

  Eventually, the President stirred. “I think you need to leave now, Chairman. I can’t help you.” He gulped down his beer, turning away.

  The two secret service agents moved forward, politely but firmly indicating Markis should go. He stared at McKenna for a long moment, then stood up. “All right. I guess I’ll be off. I have an alien to talk to.” As he walked out he kept hoping the man would call him back, like a car salesman caving to a negotiation ploy, but he didn’t.

  Back at the bus Markis came as close to a full-out bout of cursing as he had in a long, long time. He clamped down on his tongue and stared out the window, ignoring his team’s questioning looks. Finally he spoke so quietly that only his team could hear. “He didn’t go for it. Not only that, he didn’t even acknowledge TF’s existence. He threw me out, and he seemed terrified. What terrifies the President of the United States?”

  Cassandra and Karl exchanged glances. She whispered back. “Someone else who’s really in charge, that’s who. I told you this was a bad idea. You’re too damn trusting. It almost got you killed in Geneva and it might get us killed here.”

  “Not trusting, Cassie. I’m just willing to take a risk, a leap of faith. I’m sorry I got you into this but then again, you could have said no.”

  She laughed bitterly. “Not likely. But maybe I should have. So what next, maestro?”

  Markis kept his voice low. “You know what. Plan B. Right Karl? Always have a plan B.”

  “Semper Fi, sir. The Corps will pull your nuts out of the fire again. Let’s get back to the plane. Driver!” He raised his voice. “Back to the airport, right away.”

  The driver obediently stomped on the gas, hurrying out of the Presidential compound, off the campus, and through the streets of Pueblo. He turned on his emergency lights and ignored signals and traffic, pulling right up to their airplane.

  “Thanks, son,” Karl said, clapping the young man on the shoulder. He hustled the rest off the bus and onto the aircraft.

  Jill Repeth fidgeted inside the plane, looking a question at Karl once they had closed the doors.

  He nodded at her. “Suit up, Gunny. Plan B is go.”

  Markis put his head back in his seat and closed his eyes, taking himself out of the equation. He wasn’t operational military anymore; better to let her fellow Marine handle it.

  Jill and Karl immediately headed to the back of the plane, ignoring the motion of taxiing. By the time she had the parachute on the jet was rolling down the runway.

  “Do you think they’ll interfere with us leaving?” she asked as she rigged her combat equipment pack to her front rings.

  “I hope not; the boss didn’t say it was a disaster, just that the President wouldn’t listen. Whatever is going on behind the scenes, let’s hope it takes a while to work out, and no one is stupid enough to think killing the Chairman is a good idea. Either way, you’re going to be gone before it happens.” He ran his hands under her vertical risers and leg straps, checking everything in a jumpmaster pre-inspection.

  “Thanks for letting me do this, Guns.”

  “Don’t thank me. You’re the only one that makes sense. You know the contact personally, you have the skills – you’re the perfect choice.” He slapped her shoulder. “Now get that helmet on.” He pulled on a set of headphones attached to the aircraft intercom.

  She pulled on the headgear and got ready. It was only a few miles to the drop site, just minutes in the climbing jet.

  Karl pulled up the manual release on the hatch in the tail floor, a modification specifically for covert drops. It popped upward, locked into a bracket. He used a long lever to shove it downward into the airstream. This created a blast barrier that allowed a jumper to clear the underside of the plane without difficulty.

  Sound and rushing air filled the interior space. Jill’s heart hammered with adrenaline. She stood up, getting ready to step into the hole in the floor and drop straight through.

  Karl clapped a hand to one side of the headphones, a look of concentration on his face. He held up a fist, then extended one finger, emphatic. “One minute!” he yelled.

  She breathed deeply, checking her altimeter on her left wrist, pulling her goggles into place. They were coming up on five thousand feet, a very low sport jump but high enough for a combat drop. At about two hundred feet per second, she had twenty-five seconds before she augered in. The lower she opened, the less time she would have under canopy, so she planned to pull at twenty-four hundred. That gave her twelve seconds if she had a main chute malfunction, just enough time to deploy her reserve.

  “Ten seconds!” Karl held up all ten digits and then yelled, “Get ready!”

  She stepped forward to the edge of the hatch, her toes on the edge.

  As soon as he heard the signal in his headset he slapped her thigh. “Go!”

  One short step and she dropped through. The air rushing past at two hundred miles an hour snatched her like an enormous hand, seeming to fling her backward relative to the plane. She always loved this moment of a drop, the feeling of being out of the aircraft, bird-free in the open sky.

  Arching hard, she forced her body into a configuration that caused her to fall face-downward and stable. She quickly oriented herself, using the airflow to turn like a top toward her landing zone. Checking her altimeter, she got ready, then threw out her pilot chute as she crossed 2400 feet.

  Counting out loud to herself, “One thousand, two thousand, th – ” the chute opened perfectly with a sound like flapping canvas. A moment later she had the toggles out of their holders and pulled both down sharply, releasing the control lines from their stowage. The rear of the high-performance canopy swept back like flaps on an airplane, and now the ram-air parachute acted more like a wing than a drogue.

  She flew.

  At maximum speed this rig developed over fifty miles per hour of forward thrust; it was a very dangerous canopy for anyone but an expert, because that same speed advantage in the air had t
o be carefully controlled as she approached the ground.

  Her landing zone was a treeless wash, sandy and she hoped free of big rocks, in the hills overlooking Teller Reservoir on Fort Carson. Their intelligence had concluded that the relatively new complex there, isolated from the main base, was the Tiny Fortress lab. Despite stringent security measures, nothing employing thousands of people could be hidden for long. Even the so-called Area 51, a hundred miles from anywhere, eventually became well known. This place was only twenty miles from downtown Pueblo.

  She adjusted her equipment fastened tightly to the front of her torso. In a round-chute drop it would have been lowered on a line to hit the ground first, relieving her of its weight as she performed her parachute landing fall. With ram-air canopies, however, especially these fast ones, that arrangement simply would not work. Nothing could interfere with her airplane-like landing stall if she wanted to come through it unhurt.

  Lower and lower she flew. She wasn’t at all sure of the winds, and she looked around desperately for some indication. On a prepared drop zone there would be smoke or a flag or wind sock; here there was nothing.

  Her backup method was to quarter-box the compass, turning ninety degrees each time. At every heading, she held out her hand in front of her and found the spot where the ground did not seem to be moving up or down. This was, by definition, the horizontal axis where she would land. Then she watched for drift left and right. By doing this in all directions she got a rough idea of the effect the wind was having on her own movement, and was able to turn into the wind. The lower she got, the more accurate her estimation became.

  She lined up on her gully, the wind about five knots and slightly left to right. She compensated by aiming a bit to the left as the ground seem to accelerate. She carefully did not focus on the rushing rocks and dirt, instead choosing a spot about a hundred feet ahead of her.