The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  The President spoke again: “If Weiss publicly arrests Devereaux, we’ll get mass riots. And if Devereaux built the bioweapons he designed and gave them to the Escala, they could destroy humanity. Even if he never produced the weapons, he has the blueprints in his head. And if he gave the designs to the Escala, they might create the weapons and unleash them. We plan to negotiate with the Escala quietly, behind the scenes, but we need Devereaux as the intermediary. Diplomacy is the key. And Weiss is no diplomat.”

  “I still don’t understand why the Escala would want to attack us.”

  Eli said, “Something went wrong during the genetic surgery. They developed a kind of rage, which is why the Mars Project was canceled, and why they might strike back if Devereaux, their only real advocate, is imprisoned.”

  General Horowitz interjected: “Devereaux and the Escala are the immediate threat—especially in light of Weiss’ cowboy tactics. Also, they’re the key to solving the present crisis. Strategically, however, Weiss may be the biggest threat that faces our country. Weiss has stated publicly that our democracy is ineffectual in facing the present challenges. He’s advocating for a strong leader, and he’s hinted that this strong leader—himself—need not necessarily be elected. What if he captures Devereaux? The weapons would be his. What if he decides to hold the country or the world hostage?”

  “Why not assassinate Weiss?”

  President Hope replied, “Because our nation was founded on the rule of law. I will not assassinate the Attorney General—or Devereaux, for that matter.”

  Jeremiah shifted in his chair. The President seemed sincere. Yet sincerity was a politician’s greatest asset. And she had once been an actress.

  “This is end of the world stuff, Jeremiah,” Eli said. “If these weapons are out there, if Devereaux gave them to the Escala, if Weiss gets a hold of them, all humanity could be at risk.”

  Jeremiah closed his eyes. He didn’t want this job. It wasn’t going to get him any closer to finding Joshua. But how does one say no to the President? And how could he turn his back on the world?

  He opened his eyes. “Where is he?”

  “In Minnesota,” Eli said.

  Jeremiah put his elbows on the armrests and steepled his fingers. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll try.”

  The President smiled broadly. “That’s all we can ask, Jeremiah. Elias will provide you with the Identi-card necessary to grant you access to the area. He’ll give you all the details. Gentlemen, I’m grateful for your assistance.”

  As the President signed off, the projection instantly darkened, the spotlights over Jeremiah fading, leaving indirect lighting to bathe the room in the familiar sunset glow Eli seemed to favor. Jeremiah sat quietly, already regretting his decision. On the other hand, he really didn’t have much choice. The President asked you to do something and you either agreed to do it or you found yourself in very deep trouble, despite the sincerity of her smile. And with Eli on her side, Jeremiah might find himself imprisoned or dead if he refused. Although he believed Eli liked him, he wasn’t naïve enough to assume that Eli would let friendship get in the way of the job. Eli’s enemies had a way of disappearing.

  “That’ll be all, Jay-Edgar,” Eli said.

  “Yes, sir,” Jay-Edgar answered, disappearing on quiet feet.

  “Well,” Jeremiah said, “what about those details?”

  Eli reached for his PlusPhone, angled in such a way that Jeremiah couldn’t see the party on the other end, and said, “We’re ready for you now.”

  The door opened and a young woman entered wearing a black silk dress that exposed only a hint of cleavage and ended just below the knee. She walked confidently: a brunette of mixed heritage, wide eyes, full lips, high cheekbones. Her thick hair swept down well past her shoulders and partially covered the computer interface she wore at her left temple. Such interfaces were not uncommon now, but they were still rare enough to draw attention. Not that this woman needed to draw more attention to herself. She was nearly six feet tall, her lean build accentuating her height. Except for her interface, she reminded Jeremiah of his late wife Catherine—something similar in the way she carried herself, as if unconcerned with how the world saw her. Jeremiah’s breath caught in his throat. This woman was taller than Catherine and thinner. Perhaps a little more athletic. Like Julianna but softer. Hell, everyone was softer than Julianna. Jeremiah was softer than Julianna.

  The woman kept her eyes on Jeremiah as she crossed the room. He thought he detected a message there but had no idea whether it was hostile or friendly. When she reached the divan, she sat next to the old man, crossing her legs, the silk dress moving up to expose a hint of her lean thigh muscles.

  Turning to pat the woman on the hand, Eli gestured toward Jeremiah and said, “Lendra, meet Jeremiah Jones. Jeremiah, this is Lendra Riley. She will be accompanying you on your journey.”

  Lendra nodded to Jeremiah, then turned to Eli. “Please, my dear,” the old man said, “tell Jeremiah what we know of the current situation with respect to Walt Devereaux and Gray Weiss.”

  Lendra looked through Jeremiah and began speaking:

  “As you probably know, Walt Devereaux went underground three years ago, at the time his mansion was breached by a team of assassins from Israel, which was angered by his harsh condemnation of Israeli policies. He’s not been seen in public since, though he makes many appearances over the web. Rumors placed him in Europe, China and South America. Several months ago Weiss began arresting Devereauxnians, questioning them.” She glanced at Eli. “He used harsh measures against them in his quest to learn Devereaux’s whereabouts.”

  Eli said, “He plans to charge Devereaux with treason.”

  “Due to the bio-weapons he created?”

  “Actually, no,” Eli said. “That’s being kept from the public to prevent panic.”

  Eli turned to Lendra, who said, “Weiss intends to use the newly enacted Harris-Bock Patriotism Amendment, under which treason is defined as conspiring with one or more persons for the purpose of advocating publicly any course of action that materially harms the interests or welfare of the people of the United States.”

  “That law’s a joke,” Jeremiah said.

  Lendra said, “Weiss’ plan, as I understand it, is to apply the law only to Devereaux. And with the current state of the high courts, there is virtually no chance Devereaux’s conviction would be overturned.”

  “But what about the rioting, the civil unrest?” Jeremiah said.

  Eli said, “I personally believe Weiss wants the anarchy. He wants an excuse to create scapegoats of the Devereauxnians. And when Devereaux’s trial and the mass demonstrations begin, he’ll make sure they turn into riots. Then he’ll swoop in and clean up the streets, making himself look all the better. Now that the Posse Comitatus Act has been repealed, permitting the Army to operate inside this country, and now that he has soldiers under his authority, he’ll be able to use the violence as a springboard to the presidency.”

  Jeremiah fought down the frustration and anger. He could sense the truth behind Eli’s argument. Weiss made no secret of his ambition to be President. Nor had Weiss made a secret of his dislike of Eli, a fact that Jeremiah believed influenced Weiss when he refused Jeremiah the opportunity to examine Carlton Security’s vid-files. It was then that Catherine had given up, escaping the darkness of loss with a bottle of pills.

  “So where in Minnesota is Devereaux?”

  “The same place Weiss is now. Crescent Township.”

  “Crescent Township. Why does that sound familiar?”

  “It’s where that famous statue is—‘Emerging Man.’ Southeastern Minnesota.”

  “That’s right,” Jeremiah got to his feet and began pacing. “I passed through there once about twenty years ago. Beautiful place back then—rather quiet.”

  “I know you dislike flying,” Eli said, nodding in understanding. �
�So you’ll be driving. When can you leave?”

  Taking a deep breath, Jeremiah ran his fingers through his hair. “In a few hours.”

  “Fine. Lendra, dear, pack a bag.”

  Lendra stepped from the room with a backward glance at Eli.

  “Okay,” Jeremiah said, “who is she really?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s no field agent.”

  Eli shrugged, conceding the point. “I have high hopes for her. She’s very bright.”

  “Things can get messy and dangerous out there.”

  Eli issued a grim smile. “Since you get migraines when you try to wear an interface, she’ll go along to provide you with information and keep in contact with me. Don’t expect her to be of any assistance if you find yourself in a tight spot.”

  “Are you sleeping with her?”

  Eli laughed, shook his head. “I keep falling in love with them. Remember Sadie? She was the last one. I’m too old for that kind of nonsense now.”

  Jeremiah nodded. “Me too.”

  “You?” Eli snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. You need to rebuild your life.”

  Jeremiah pointed toward the door. “I don’t know what you told her, but this trip will be strictly business. I don’t want things any more complicated than they are.”

  Eli held up his hands. “I didn’t tell her anything. But I think she romanticizes you. How could she not? You’re one of the most accomplished ghosts. You’re a legend.”

  Jeremiah shook his head. “She deserves better than me.”

  “Come now, Jeremiah, you’re not so bad.”

  “Yes, I am,” Jeremiah answered. “And you know it. After all, you’re the one who made me.”

  Chapter Three

  Jeremiah drove his van through the crowded city. Even at this late hour, traffic was too heavy to spot a tail, so he had to rely on his scanners. Lendra, frowning, sat in the passenger seat. The relaxing sound of the Beijing Symphony Orchestra playing a Chinese waltz drifted softly from the speakers but the music apparently had no effect on Lendra. She said, “Why isn’t my interface working?”

  “I’ve activated a dampening field and a multi-phase scatterer to keep prying eyes away. You won’t be able to communicate with the outside world for a while yet.”

  Lendra shook her head. “You’re paranoid, you know.”

  “Maybe—but I’m alive.”

  She stared at him for a second, then turned away, staring out the front window.

  Jeremiah turned his thoughts to Marschenko. He hoped the threat of several more days of solitude would unlock Marschenko’s lips. But in case Jeremiah failed to return, he’d have to make provisions for Eli to eventually locate the big Elite Ops trooper. Opening the communication database of his onboard computer, Jeremiah plugged in a series of instructions to be delivered to Eli in a week unless he canceled them.

  After that, he re-checked the instruments on his dash, made sure he wasn’t being followed and turned into the warehouse district. Lendra kept quiet and for that he was grateful. As he approached a building, he pressed a remote, timing it so that the garage door swung open just before he reached the entrance.

  After they exited the van, Lendra said, “My interface still isn’t working.”

  Jeremiah waved at the walls. “The whole facility is protected. I’m afraid you’ll have to be incommunicado until we leave.”

  “What is this place?” Lendra asked.

  “Home away from home.” Jeremiah pointed to a sofa and kitchenette in the corner. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have some unfinished business. Don’t leave the building. There’s a restroom in the back if you need it.”

  Lendra offered a tentative smile. “Why don’t I come with you? I could help you pack.”

  Jeremiah saw the warmth in her eyes, heard the conciliatory tone in her voice. If Catherine hadn’t died so recently, he might find himself falling for this woman. He said, “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” She grinned. “Is your place a mess?”

  Jeremiah almost smiled. “No, it’s not a mess. I’m just not ready to invite a woman over yet. Okay?”

  Lendra nodded. “I understand.”

  * * *

  Back at his apartment Jeremiah grabbed the moldy pizza box off his coffee table and threw it in the recycler before moving into the bedroom. Opening his closet, he removed two pairs of Camo-Fit coveralls—one well used, the other new: Ultimate Camos. Rather than showering he sprayed himself with Insta-Clean and wiped himself dry, then tried on the Ultimate Camos. He activated the camos’ sensors with the press of a button and everything but his head disappeared. Then he reached back and pulled the hood over the top, adjusting the face-piece. He stared into the mirror. Even with his enhanced eyesight and at a distance of only a few feet, he could detect no more than a swirl of movement, a faint blurring of the wall behind him as he moved his arms. Good. They were working perfectly. He deactivated and doffed them, then carefully packed them in the bottom of a small bag with a few other clothes.

  Next he tried on the older generation camos and activated them. They also worked. Not as effective as the newer model, the sensors no longer functioning perfectly, they allowed him to follow his movements at least a little. He preferred these—liked to be able to see faint shadows as he moved his arms and legs. They were less disorienting. This older generation of camos had served as the model for the new line of Camo-Fit clothing now fashionable among the social elite—comfortable and slimming, with a hint of danger. He deactivated these as well, but kept them on. Finally he put together a few weapons, including his newest—an exceedingly rare particle beam cannon. He selected a Las-rifle and two Las-pistols, stun grenades, then added a handheld scanner, a scatterer and his night vision scope.

  Grabbing his bags, he left the apartment and locked the door behind him. He knocked softly on his landlady’s door. She opened it inside a minute, a small elderly woman with ruddy cheeks, her tablet computer in her hands.

  “Mrs. Ivanovich.”

  “Mr. Jones. I knew it would be you. Do you know what time it is?”

  “I’m afraid I need to ask you a favor again. I have to leave for a while. Can you…”

  “Of course. Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye out for your son.” Mrs. Ivanovich’s eyes teared up. “But…you know, dear, it’s been four years.”

  Jeremiah’s shoulders slumped. “I can’t stop hoping, Mrs. Ivanovich. In my mind, I know he’s gone. But in my heart,” Jeremiah tapped his chest, “I can’t give up.”

  Mrs. Ivanovich crossed herself and smiled sadly.

  “I’ll say a prayer for him tonight.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You know, Mr. Jones, I’ve been thinking. A nice young man like you—now that you’re single again—you need to start living.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Ivanovich, the only way I could ever make a woman happy is by leaving her.”

  “Now, Mr. Jones, don’t say that.”

  “How about you, Mrs. Ivanovich, are you happy?”

  “Why, yes, Dear, I am.”

  “See, it works.”

  Jeremiah flashed her a smile as she slowly shook her head.

  * * *

  Jeremiah stopped his van behind the warehouse. He wanted to check on Marschenko in the basement before picking up Lendra. He’d thoroughly tested the soundproofing and knew that Lendra wouldn’t be able to hear Marschenko’s screams no matter how loud. Locking the vehicle, he checked his scanner to ensure no one was tracking him, then opened a metal door and entered a heavily insulated room, where a neuro-stimulator hung on the wall. He looked at it and thought of Weiss using the same device on Devereaux’s followers to get their mouths moving. No. He left it hanging there and took the sta
irway to the basement, sealing the door behind him.

  Jack Marschenko stood before the toilet, his arms above his head, thrashing around as much as his bonds allowed. He’d obviously heard Jeremiah’s footsteps, for he was already on his feet, pushing toward the stairway when Jeremiah reached the bottom tread. Two days’ growth covered Marschenko’s drawn face but his T-shirt, made from shrink-fabric designed to hug the body, was still too tight around his chest. His muscles bulged with effort. His pale eyes, close set and unblinking, stared at Jeremiah as he roared, “I’m gonna kill you, you son of a bitch! Where the hell’ve you been?”

  Jeremiah muted the sound of the television and said, “Calm down, Jack.”

  “I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you.”

  Jeremiah held up his hands, waited for Marschenko’s raving to cease. The man spat, his eyes rolling, yelling unrecognizable words. He seemed to have forgotten Jeremiah for the moment as he fought his bonds. After two days with nothing but nutri-water, he looked a little less bulky. His upper body leaned forward, the webbing holding him up. The muscles in his neck stood out, spittle hung from the corner of his mouth, and a vein in his forehead throbbed as he tried to leap at Jeremiah. Jeremiah sat on the stairs and let Marschenko’s wrath abate. When he determined that Marschenko was capable of listening to reason, he spoke quietly.

  “Where is my son?”

  “How could you do this to me?” Marschenko asked. “How could you just leave me here? Haven’t you got any compassion? For God’s sake, let me go.”

  Jeremiah kept his voice hard: “Quit whining. You’ll feel better in a couple days. Your body’s used to the drugs and hormones, and it’s fighting you right now.”

  He wondered why the big man’s suffering bothered him. In the past, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Was he getting soft? Had Catherine’s death made him too sympathetic? Or was it just the realization that Marschenko had been so doped up, so controlled by his handlers that he didn’t know right from wrong?