The Liberty Covenant

by Jack Bowie

  Braxton escorted the agent to the door, but stopped before pulling it open.

  “Agent Slattery?”

  “Yes?”

  “You are sure Dr. Yang was the target of the attack?”

  Slattery again paused before responding. Did the spook know more about the murder than he had explained?

  “Of course,” he finally responded. “Who else could it have been?”

  “I don’t know. It was just something that Klaber said before I left.”

  Slattery smiled. It only made Braxton feel sicker.

  “Is there some reason you think he was not the target?”

  “No. Not really.” Braxton prayed Slattery couldn’t see into his thoughts.

  “Then it had to be Dr. Yang, didn’t it? Good afternoon, Mr. Braxton.”

  Braxton escorted the agent to the outer door, and watched him walk down the hall toward the elevators. By the time he returned to his office, Fowler was already on the sofa with a new Dr. Pepper.

  “A real warm-hearted guy isn’t he, Adam?”

  “Oh yeah. A real charmer. What do you think?” He pulled a Coke from the refrigerator and joined his friend on the sofa.

  “I believe he was straight with you. From what I heard he tried to play it as a routine debrief. But a couple times he was too anxious. Pushed a little too hard for what you had. I’d guess the comments about this Yang’s bosses were news to him. Roger’s not one that likes getting lied to. I’d say he’s on a slow burn right now trying to figure out how to verify what you told him.”

  “Well I hope it fries him. I want nothing more to do with him. What I do want is more information on this Chlamydia thing.”

  Chapter 44

  Fairfax, Virginia.

  Saturday, 2:00 p.m.

  Roger Slattery hated housework. Yet here he was, wasting a beautiful afternoon washing dishes and picking up all over his Fairfax townhouse. Why couldn’t he be sitting in front of the TV watching CNN and sipping a cold beer? It wasn’t his fault that he hadn’t lifted a solitary finger since his wife Beth had left on Monday to visit their daughter in Roanoke. Or that she had called while he was on the way to his meeting with Braxton saying she would be coming home a day early.

  Yeah, life’s a real bitch.

  He straightened a picture on the mantle and took a moment to reflect on the image. It was a shot from a family picnic in Great Falls Park. Taken when? Must have been ten years ago. John was wearing his favorite high school sweatshirt and Katy still had her hair in braids. Now there’re both off on their own and he was about to be a grandfather. All in all they turned out pretty well.

  That was mostly due to Beth, he had to admit. He hadn’t been around nearly as much as he should have. There was Katy’s senior play—he had been in Egypt—and John’s championship basketball game—there had been an important debriefing at the Farm. And numerous other events where fathers were supposed to appear. Beth and the kids said they understood, but he wondered if they really did. If they really knew how important his work was. If only he could tell them everything – the lives saved, the catastrophes averted. But his trainers had been right. This was the price of living in the shadows.

  He was home more now, of course. Getting a little long-in-the-tooth to go hustling all over the globe. But he still had a role to play. And he still loved every minute of it. Or almost every minute.

  He was scraping a smear of pizza off the glass-top coffee table when the phone rang.

  “Slattery.”

  “Roger. It’s Peter. Sorry to bother you on a Saturday.”

  The hairs raised on the back of Slattery’s neck. In all the years he had worked for him, Markovsky had only called him at home five times. And each one brought back painful memories.

  “Right. What’s up?”

  “Something’s come up. Are you busy?”

  “Yeah. You want me to come in anyway?” Markovsky had been dodging Slattery’s calls ever since the last meeting at the NCTC. Now he wanted to get together. He deserved to get his chain yanked.

  “No. We don’t have time. I’ll have a car pick you up in a half-hour. We’re going to a meeting.”

  Shit. It was sounding worse and worse. He’d probably be gone when Beth returned. Again.

  “Okay. I’ll get cleaned up. May I ask where we’re going?”

  “1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”

  * * *

  After entering the White House through the West Wing entrance, Markovsky led Slattery past an array of stone-faced Marines, through the labyrinthine hallways, and to a stairway that took them down to the first security level. His boss had described the meeting as a simple briefing, but from the number of Secret Service guards wallpapering the passages, he feared something more. This dread wasn’t lessened by the presence of the colleague walking beside him.

  It had been years since Slattery had been in one of the secure situation rooms. The walls had been given a fresh coat of paint, and new faces stared out from within the picture frames, but other than those minor differences, the area felt the same as it had during Desert Storm. The same cheap deodorant smells, the same shadow-less indirect lighting. A synthetic, antiseptic land where time stood still. There was never any day or night; no morning or evening. Just the unrelenting, oppressive tension of crisis. A place where a man could age years in just a few days. This was not a location to which he had had any desire to return.

  They entered the room and Slattery knew his instincts were still intact. Sitting at the table were President Matthews, and DNI Carlson. The only question was whether this was an update or an inquisition.

  “Mr. President,” Carlson began, “I believe you know Peter Markovsky?”

  Matthews nodded as the Deputy Director came forward.

  “Mr. President,” Markovsky replied. “I have brought two of my colleagues for background, Mr. Roger Slattery and Dr. Harriet Hawthorne.”

  The trio took seats at the end of the table.

  “Slattery, Hawthorne,” Matthews repeated. “What’s this about Steven?”

  “I needed to brief you on new developments in the militia situation,” Carlson explained. “We continue to believe that these activities are being coordinated by external forces. And the FBI has recently uncovered some rather disturbing news.”

  “By external do you mean foreign?” Matthews asked.

  “I believe Peter can best answer that,” Carlson replied, looking over to the Deputy Director. Markovsky hesitated, then responded.

  “Mr. President. We really don’t have that level of information yet.”

  “But your informant is foreign, is he not?”

  “Yes, sir. But his information came from domestic sources. We should be careful before drawing any conclusions.”

  “Okay. So we still don’t know who. You have something on what?”

  “We believe so, sir,” Markovsky replied. “As the General said, the FBI has uncovered some new information: the hijacking of an active biological agent going from National Culture Collection to the CDC.”

  “Hijacking?” Matthews asked.

  “Actually, sir,” Carlson added dryly, “a package was stolen from the CDC’s mailroom.”

  “Their mailroom?” The President showed an uncommon look of surprise.

  “Yes, sir,” Markovsky responded.

  Carlson turned toward Matthews and added quietly, “We will need to speak with Secretary Tomlinson about this later, Mr. President.”

  Fascinated, Slattery watched the DNI work the discussion. Tomlinson was the Secretary of HHS. Carlson didn’t miss a chance to take a swipe at his moderate colleagues, even if they were of his own party.

  “What is this thing anyway?” Matthews asked, concern obvious on his face. “Anthrax? Ebola?”

  “It’s called Chlamydophila Pneumoniae, Mr. President,” Markovsky answered.

  “Chlamydia? Isn’t that some kind of venereal disease?”

  “Ah, no, sir. That’s Chlamydia Trachomatis. C. Pneumoniae is genetically re
lated, but with very different biological activity.”

  “Then I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Neither had the rest of us, sir,” Markovsky replied. “That’s why I brought Dr. Hawthorne. She is our Section Chief for Chemical and Biological Warfare.” He turned to the woman sitting next to Slattery. “Dr. Hawthorne?”

  “Mr. President,” Hawthorne began slowly. “Most forms of C. Pneumoniae are relatively benign. It is a gram-negative coccobacillus bacteria whose infections are easily cured by any number of common antibiotics. Unfortunately, the stolen strain is unique. It is quite virulent and antibiotic resistant.”

  “Okay,” Matthews said. “But at least we’re not dealing with something really serious. Ebola or something like that.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Hawthorne replied, “but this is worse. In CBW terms, Ebola is not that interesting. It is much too virulent. Perhaps satisfactory for tactical uses, but certainly not strategic. A really effective agent is slow acting and hidden, like HIV. This gives the biological agent an opportunity for maximal exposure before it is identified. And by then it is too late.”

  Slattery couldn’t help but notice the gleam in the scientist’s eye as she described the gruesome process. Hawthorne was a thin, intense researcher who had headed the CBW section for as long as Slattery could remember. She was another CIA “lifer” who would rather die at her desk than retire. There was no question of her loyalty, or her dedication; you could hear the intensity in her voice.

  Her hair was pulled back tight, the streaks of gray her chevrons of authority. Cool hazel eyes stared out from dark hollow sockets. Few people really scared Slattery, but he had never felt comfortable around Hawthorne. Seeing her reminded him of pictures of the Holocaust.

  “You’re suggesting HIV could be a weapon?” Carlson asked.

  “Oh, not really. It would be fairly effective except for two factors. First, its method of infection, intimate sexual contact, is too limited for most uses. It could be used against a highly inbred faction, perhaps an Arab ruling family, but then its second factor applies. The course of the disease is too long acting. Targets can remain functional for decades. This significantly limits its practical military or political use.

  “So you see, the perfect CBW weapon must have a critical balance of toxicity, contagion, specificity, psychological effect, and ease of distribution. Anthrax, for example, is highly toxic, contagious, has excellent terror factors, but the vector is easily recognized and quite indiscriminant. Not ideal characteristics. Thus it has tactical value, but cannot be considered strategic.”

  “So what the hell does all this have to do with this Chlamydia?” Matthews asked.

  “A not unreasonable microbe, Mr. President,” Hawthorne replied. “C. Pneumoniae has been studied for a number of years as a possible contributing factor to heart disease. It appears to infect the arterial wall and cause lesions which in turn lead to atherosclerosis. If this continues over long periods it can lead to heart attacks or strokes.”

  “You mean we could cure heart disease with antibiotics?” the President asked.

  “An insightful leap, Mr. President. But a little overstated, unfortunately. There are too many additional factors.”

  “Then this doesn’t sound like a very good weapon.” Carlson added.

  “Not in its common form,” Hawthorne continued. “But we identified a mutation. It is highly virulent. Very rapid acting with a substantial predisposition for the coronary arteries. Two weeks after infection, a thirty-year-old has the cardiovascular system of an octogenarian. As an additional benefit, without specialized testing death appears natural. Quite effective as a strategic weapon.”

  “You knew about this bug?” Matthews looked incredulous.

  “Well, ah, yes, Mr. President. It was isolated in the early nineties. But since we didn’t have an effective counter-agent we have kept it in storage.”

  “You’re telling me we don’t have a vaccine.”

  “That is correct, Mr. President.”

  Matthews paused and sat back in his chair. The rest of the room sat quietly waiting for his inevitable analysis. “So what we’ve got is a killer bacteria in the hands of a bunch of para-military fanatics. How much trouble are we in, Dr. Hawthorne?”

  “The specific prognosis is dependent on many factors, of course. Including how much of the bacteria has been duplicated from the original culture. An outbreak would not be completely devastating, but it could infect up to 20% of our population if effectively dispersed. At a conservative 50% mortality that could cause a Class B.”

  Matthews’ forehead wrinkled. “What the hell is a ‘Class B’?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I meant a Class B catastrophe. Back in the eighties, Rand was working on ways to classify disasters, both natural and man-made. The old ‘so many millions of lives lost’ just wasn’t relevant in today’s complex world. The true impact of a disaster has a lot more to do with the damage to a society’s capacity to function than simply the number of people killed. Twenty million people killed in an earthquake in rural China has significantly lesser impact than two million on Wall Street or Pennsylvania Avenue.”

  “Unless you’re Chinese,” whispered Carlson.

  Hawthorne scowled at the DNI and continued. “It has to do with the impact on the culture. Rand identified three levels of catastrophe, A, B, and C. The event, or more correctly the damage caused by the event, is classified by the time needed to return the societal function to its previous state. A level C disaster is relatively minor. The infrastructure can be rebuilt in five to ten years. Something like the San Francisco earthquake of ‘89. A Class B event takes longer to recover, approximately a generation. The damage from World War II was a Class B. It took us over twenty-five years to bring the world, mostly Europe and Japan, back to a stable, functional capability. Class A catastrophes take significantly greater than a generation. In fact, they could have incalculable ramifications.”

  The scientist’s explanation brought a somber stillness to the room. Slattery had dealt with more than his share of psychotic terrorists, but Hawthorne’s off-hand analysis of the end of the world was enough to scare even this hardened agent.

  “What would be a Class A event, Dr. Hawthorne?” Carlson asked.

  “Let’s see. A population explosion in the Far East could be Class A. That could destroy a major culture like China or India. Or an environmental accident. Global warming causing a melting of the polar icecaps. You realize, of course that 50% of our population lies within 50 miles of a coastline. Major population centers would be underwater. This could be an ‘A’. Then of course, there was the meteor that hit the Yucatan. This was the ultimate Class A. We don't have a lot of experience here, Mr. President, but the simulations have been rather illuminating.”

  “Yes, thank you, Dr. Hawthorne,” Markovsky said with a shiver in his voice. “We appreciate that background.”

  “So the good news, Mr. President,” Carlson interjected, “is that we’re only looking at a possible Class B. And there would be no physical infrastructure damage.”

  “You see that as ‘good news,’ Steven? We could only lose ten percent of our population? Five of our states eradicated? Only take a generation to recover?” Matthews stood up, towering over the other participants, and turned a frigid gaze on the figures around the table.

  “Let me make this very clear. This kind of disaster is not going to occur on my shift. This is not the legacy I want left in the history books. You figure out who the hell has this damn bug and you stomp them out.”

  The President’s eyes stopped at Carlson. “I want this problem eliminated, Steven. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Carlson responded. “Perfectly clear.”

  “And, Peter. You will resolve this IMAGER situation. I won’t have infighting among my teams.”

  “Absolutely, Mr. President,” Markovsky answered.

  Matthews headed to the door. “One more thing,” he added, “I don’t want to see one word o
f any of this on the evening news.”

  Chapter 45

  Tyler, Georgia

  Saturday, 3:15 p.m.

  “Goddamn asshole,” Wicks yelled out his window as he swerved onto the shoulder and blew past the right side of a shiny red Toyota with Michigan plates. The car had been crawling along Georgia 480 at 45 miles an hour. Friggin’ Yankee!

  Wick’s truck showered the Toyota with gravel as he cut back into the lane. He had spent all day down in Columbus at his John Deere distributor asking for a thirty-day extension on his account. The man had acted like a goddamn banker. It wasn’t anything the distributor hadn’t given to his buddies over in Phenix City. Maybe their next exercise should be at his house.

  All Wicks wanted to do now was get home and change. The other cells would have already started arriving at the farm. There’d be hell to pay if he wasn’t there. He had wanted to check with O’Grady about the arrangements, but the trip to Columbus had taken all day. He’d call when he got home.

  The ring of his cell phone broke his temporary calm. He prayed it was O’Grady.

  “Tommy Wicks,” he said into the phone.

  “I need you to go down to the farm, Tommy.”

  Shit. It was Gary.

  “Now?”

  “Yes! I’ve been trying to get you all day. Why aren’t you there now?”

  “Uh, I had to get some supplies. Down in Columbus. Took me all day.”

  “Well get up there now. We’ve cleaned out the lab. I want you to close it up before the exercises start. Can’t have anybody sneaking around down there.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there.” At least now he’d get to see what’s in that damn secret lab.

  “Good. Talk to you later, Tommy.”

  Shit. He’d already passed the turnoff for the farm. He spun the truck into a one-eighty and headed back down GA 480.

  * * *

  They were gathered fifty yards down from the main entrance to the Citizens for Liberty farm. The assault teams had been waiting since daybreak for clearance to enter, and the sweltering heat was beginning to take its toll.