Hidden Empire

by Orson Scott Card

  At this time in history, America is the nation most likely to have the means to intervene, if any nation does. This does not make us the policeman of the world. It's not our job to save people from every bad government. The question really is: Can we live with ourselves, as a people, if we have the power to prevent unspeakable evil, and yet we choose to do nothing?

  We answered that question when we failed to intervene to save the lives of countless thousands in Bosnia and Rwanda; we answered it a different way when we intervened in Kosovo and Iraq. To intervene will almost certainly cost American lives; but to refuse to intervene deeply injures the American soul. Who are we as a people? When we decide that we're the good guys, the world will see that America does not lack for soldiers willing to risk their lives to help—no, to save—people in faraway lands.

  Cole assumed that he was called in to the White House because of something to do with the epidemic. Estonia and Latvia had both passed "honored visitors" legislation but they, like everyone else in the world, were watching the plague in Africa and following the news stories about reactions to President Torrent's declaration of a blockade of Africa.

  It felt to Cole as if history were on hold. As if history were a game and he had been a professional player on one of the teams, but now the game had been called on account of plague. He had no expertise in any African language south of the Sahara, had no idea about the culture, and had even less of an idea about how to deal with an epidemic.

  At the same time, the whole continent was in an uproar. Cameroon and Benin had both tried to stop the flood of Nigerian refugees, knowing perfectly well that many of those fleeing the nictovirus were already infected and would spread it wherever they went. But what good was it to guard the roads? People could take to the bush at any point and there was no stopping them. Nor was there time to build an Israeli-style fence. There were now reports that refugees had gone beyond Benin and were creating a refugee problem—and spreading the disease—in Togo, Ghana, and Burkina Faso.

  With all this going on, why had Cole's name even crossed President Torrent's mind?

  No use speculating when he was going to find out in a few minutes. Cole submitted to being scanned and searched—he understood the need for security, but couldn't help remembering that the last man elected to this office before Torrent had had all the same security in place, and somebody punched a rocket through a window where he was having a meeting with the Joint Chiefs, SecDef, and the National Security Adviser, killing all of them.

  But just because the last successful assassination could not have been stopped by these security methods did not mean that they weren't still stopping other potential assassinations. Political murders could come from foreign powers, domestic revolutionaries, and nut jobs. White House security was primarily for stopping the nut jobs.

  Of course, if I wanted to kill the President, I could do it with my bare hands before anyone in the room could stop me—unless there was another guy with special ops training, and even then, he'd have to be markedly better than me, if I had a head start.

  Not that I would kill the President, thought Cole. But there's no guarantee that you won't get a nut job someday with genuine security clearances and superb military training.

  If this president dies, thought Cole, it will probably be from this sneezing flu epidemic. Wasn't it an epidemic that struck down the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius and his co-emperor Lucius Verus? Political and military power did not immunize you against viruses.

  Thinking of Lucius Verus made Cole think of another Verus—Aldo Verus, who was still in prison for having led the conspiracy that seized New York City and tried to launch a civil war. Wouldn't it be ironic if this sneezing flu killed President Torrent, but left Aldo Verus unscathed? American prisons were probably as safe a place as any in the world right now. Certainly safer than shopping malls, movie theaters, or hospitals.

  Cole found himself cooling his heels in a waiting room. He expected to wait a long time, since he had glimpsed the Joint Chiefs standing together in a much nicer waiting room. No way would Torrent keep them waiting in order to take a meeting with Cole!

  So Cole's first surprise of the day was when he was called almost at once to a conference room and shown to a seat at the large conference table. Only a moment later, the Joint Chiefs were brought in—and seated at the same table. They looked even more surprised to see him than he was to see them. They were thinking, What are we doing at a meeting with him?

  It was almost anticlimactic when the Secretary of Defense, Secretary of State, NSA, and Surgeon General came in. This was an African epidemic meeting, all right, and this group must have had many such meetings during the month since the sneezeborne version of the nictovirus first appeared. So what was Cole doing at this one?

  President Torrent came in and didn't introduce anybody to anybody. He picked up as if they were in the middle of an unfinished meeting—which, in all likelihood, they were.

  They began with reports from the Navy and Air Force about the blockade of Africa. SecDef pointed out that American forces in the rest of the world were stretched too thin—this would be the logical time for China to invade Taiwan, for instance. But now that the Chinese had pulled all their people out of Africa, they would watch what happened with the epidemic there just like everybody else. They'd hardly commit to a major war if they could expect to be savaged by an epidemic in midcampaign.

  "What worries me," said the President, "is North Africa. We made the decision to treat the Sahara as a better barrier than the Mediterranean, and Morocco, Algeria, and Libya insisted they'd take responsibility for blocking any traffic coming north. Which makes sense, since they don't want to have the epidemic reach their population, and they have no problem being ruthless with refugees. But how capable are they? How much can they detect at night or out in the desert?"

  "The Horn of Africa concerns us more than the Sahara," said one of the Air Force generals. "Can Egypt and Sudan really keep their border sealed?"

  "My concern is small boats in the Red Sea," said Torrent. "It's such a short distance to cross over into Arabia."

  The brass went over what they had on that topic, and Cole thought, maybe I'm here because of the Horn of Africa problem. I speak Arabic fairly well. But then, the Arab countries of North Africa were making it a point to protect their own desert borders—and none of them had a history of welcoming American advisers.

  The meeting went on for more than half an hour, talking about the UN and the NGOs, which had withdrawn all their people but were now clamoring about how to deliver aid on the continent.

  There was no mention of Cole's presence and certainly no one talked to him.

  Finally, it began to sound as if they were wrapping up. Concluding remarks from everybody.

  Until President Torrent said, "One more thing, and it's not small."

  And without any other cue than that, everyone took a moment to glance at Cole and then away again.

  "I think you remember and recognize Colonel Coleman's achievements during the civil war. Working with a team assembled by my late friend Reuben Malich, Colonel Coleman—then a captain, of course—handled a great deal of ultrasensitive work, assaulting and taking out multiple rebel caches throughout the country, without ever sustaining a single casualty of his own and without any human collateral damage. And you are all familiar with his taking of the enemy's nerve center in Washington State."

  Murmurs. Glances. Mostly, though, steady downward looks. The Joint Chiefs were not happy about whatever it was that was about to happen—and it was clear they had no more idea than Cole did about what the President had in mind.

  "Colonel Coleman has no experience whatsoever in any part of Africa, and it is certain that he cannot pass for native, so we can't expect him to blend in there. What we can expect is that with the proper breathing apparatus and reasonable care, he and various highly trained special operations teams can do much to shape events there—without coming home with the nictovirus. But if, in the course
of their work, one or more of them contracts the virus, we will extract them like any other wounded soldiers, and then provide every possible care until they either do or do not survive the disease. I wish I could say their high level of fitness works in their favor, but we have heard reports of this disease sparing feeble old people and children, while taking men and women in the prime of life. So there are no guarantees."

  Cole almost spoke up, but the President, apparently sensing what he was about to say, preempted him.

  "I do not expect that this will interfere with Colonel Coleman's team in any way—the virus is simply one more enemy they must be wary of and treat with the same caution and respect they already use in confrontations with human enemies."

  The Army chief spoke up, rather like the wise-ass kid in a high school classroom. "I hope you won't be expecting him to disguise himself as one of that enemy."

  Everyone chuckled, and Torrent showed no impatience, though Cole knew he was irritated. Torrent was often irritated when people interrupted him, but he tried never to show it. This guaranteed that he was interrupted even more—but it also kept people from thinking of him as arrogant or jealous or power hungry.

  "We have recently received absolutely firm intelligence that the government of Nigeria is following a genocidal policy. Since the nictovirus only kills between twenty and fifty percent of its victims, we regard their one-hundred-percent fatality rate as something that must be stopped. Furthermore, it must be seen to be stopped so that in these trying times other governments do not resort to the same methods.

  "We believe that the Nigerian government, which as you know is absolutely controlled by the northern Muslim Hausa-speaking minority, is creating a firewall of dead and burned-out villages between the Muslim areas of Nigeria and the non-Muslim south, where the vast majority of the people in the most populous nation in Africa live."

  "We're supposed to protect the southern majority with a few special ops teams?" asked the Army chief.

  "If you mean, are we going to protect them by building our own defended wall, then of course not. We don't have a large enough army to accomplish that if we sent them all to Nigeria, which we most certainly will not do, since the chance of controlling infection with such a large and differentially trained number would be impossible.

  "No, Colonel Coleman's mission will be to destroy any and every team the Hausas are sending out to murder non-Muslim villagers. They may believe that with so much death already happening in Nigeria, a few thousand more will not be noticed. But they have been noticed. This is one genocide that will not go on.

  "And in case anyone thinks I have turned altruistic, think again. We are accused of ruthlessness in our dealings with Africa. But we will show, through Colonel Coleman's work, that we care very much about the people of Africa. To survive the disease and be murdered by your own government seems to me to be precisely the kind of irony that our special ops troops exist to eliminate."

  The Secretary of State raised his hand slightly from the table. "Sir, this will be a clear violation of national sovereignty—acts of war against a nation with which we are not at war."

  Torrent nodded. "I believe that when a government starts carrying out a policy of genocide against large segments of their own population, they cease to be the legitimate government of that portion of their people. In this case, they are essentially abandoning the south while not allowing anyone else to come in and take their place. I expect we'll soon hear about a complete breakdown in social order in the south. The government will speak of thugs and rebel elements causing trouble, and will deny that they have withdrawn all loyal Muslims, including the loyal portions of their military, north of the firewall they are creating. They will say that the chaos in Nigeria is caused by the American quarantine."

  "So Colonel Coleman is your answer," said the Secretary of Defense.

  "No," said President Torrent, "General Coleman is my answer."

  The military men in the room stiffened with displeasure. Torrent must have seen it, too, because he added, "Relax, this is a brevet appointment only—his permanent rank remains colonel. But for the duration of this assignment, he will be, and will be treated as, a major general. He will request troops, materiel, supply, transportation, and communications resources, and he will be given them instantly. Affected officers are free to offer alternatives, once. But anyone who obstructs General Coleman's missions will answer to me, and I can promise you that careers can end over this."

  Torrent clearly understood what motivated bureaucratic officers, though Cole doubted any president had ever spoken so plainly before.

  To raise a mere colonel to such a lofty rank, however colorful his reputation and however close to the President he might be, would make Cole one of the most hated men in the U.S. military. What Cole was seeing in the stony expressions of the Joint Chiefs was a wordless but immediate decision that Cole's career was over as soon as this president was out of office.

  Torrent must know exactly what he was doing—he was a historian, wasn't he? He had just transformed Cole into a "creature," a courtier who was important only while the ruler who "made" him was in office. That was one way of assuring the loyalty of your subordinates. But it was not the best way, especially with someone like Cole.

  But it would certainly seem to work, because Cole would fulfill his assignments faithfully. And since this set of missions would almost certainly kill him, between bullets and viruses, the issue of Cole's future was moot.

  Well, Cole told himself, I always served at the pleasure of my commanders, and this is the commander in chief. If he wants to use up my career on this assignment, so be it. I can't do special ops forever—no matter how much you train and how hard you work out, your body gets older and stops doing what it used to be able to do.

  As final assignments went, this wasn't a bad one.

  Cole assumed that the meeting was now over, but at least he had the sense not to stand up to leave until he was dismissed. Because President Torrent wasn't done yet. He nodded to the aide standing at the door he had come through, and the door opened again.

  In walked, of all people, Jared Austin—"Babe"—the North Carolina boy who had declared himself the token white southerner in Rube's jeesh. And with him was a young African boy—clearly African, not African-American, from the respectful way he carried himself and the way his face betrayed no emotion at all.

  "Folks, I'd like you to meet Chinma. As far as we know, he is the last living member of the Ayere tribe."

  "You mean those pictures were real?" asked the Navy chief.

  Cole had not doubted the pictures going around the internet were real, he was simply unsurprised by atrocity stories from Africa.

  "Former special ops captain Jared Austin took it upon himself to make sure the pictures of the massacre of the Ayere tribe were released online before notifying anyone above him of their existence. Without a context, however, and without any official word, nobody knows what to make of them. I think you know how many pundits have declared the pictures to be fakes."

  Cole caught a flicker of emotion from young Chinma. An expression of contempt.

  "So I am going on the air at ten p.m tonight to introduce Chinma to the American people. You see, Chinma is the monkey-catcher who first caught the sneezing flu and unknowingly passed it to other humans.

  "I want it understood that Chinma was not doing anything illegal by catching putty-nosed monkeys. Cercophithecus nictitans, from whose species name we derived the name of the nictovirus, are neither rare nor protected, and there was quite a demand for the capture of intact troops of the monkeys in order to study their reputed language ability. He was aiding science and harming no one.

  "Chinma is continuing to cooperate fully with medical researchers who have stuck him so full of needles I'm surprised you can't see through him." Several men laughed, but Cole noticed that the most response Chinma showed was a flicker of a smile. "But he is not here because he was the original vector for transmission from monkeys to hu
mans.

  "No, I brought him to you because he happened to be high in a tree the day that robbers came into his village."

  And Cole realized: This kid took the pictures of his own village, his own family, being slaughtered. There was no chance he could have fought the armed men who came to destroy his people. But he could record their faces. And Cole bet that while Westerners might suppose the pictures to be fakes, or ignorable, as Cole had, those pictures must be playing very differently in Nigeria and throughout Africa.

  The government thugs had killed everyone they saw—this despite the fact that everyone still alive in Chinma's village had already had and recovered from the nictovirus. Chinma's village was the least likely place in Nigeria for someone to catch the disease. But helpless, angry oligarchies carry out stupid, pointless cruelties. It's how they reassure themselves that they are still in power.

  "This, my friends," Torrent was saying, "is the legal basis for our intervention in Nigeria. Chinma's pictures include three slightly blurry but identifiable shots of a general in the Nigerian army personally shooting a baby—Chinma's nephew—that had been tossed into the air for target practice. We have a great deal of other evidence that the Nigerian government's solution to the epidemic is to slaughter any southern Nigerians who live near the Muslim sections of the north, creating, in effect, a firewall to block infection.

  "In the long run, this policy will not work—the World Health Organization reports that the nictovirus is already in the north among the Hausas. Meanwhile, Chinma's pictures are the incontrovertible documentary evidence of this policy of genocide and of the commission of war crimes. By international law, Nigeria now has no federal government, and we will intervene to prevent any further attacks by the Hausa military against southerners. Even in the midst of a devastating epidemic, the natural laws of humanity still apply, and we will act to protect those southerners who survive the disease from the criminal acts of their former government."