Fall of Night (Dead of Night Series) (10 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE SITUATION ROOM

THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

The president met with his advisors for an update and learned that nothing new was happening. That should have been comforting, but wasn’t. He shooed them all out and told the Secret Service agents to make sure he wasn’t disturbed for ten minutes. They nodded like silent robots and pulled the door shut.

The president dug into his pocket for a pack of Winstons and the gold lighter given to him as a gift when he agreed to visit a NASCAR event in Georgia. He kissed one out of the pack, popped the lighter, leaned into the flame, inhaled all the way down to the bottom of his feet, and sank back into his leather chair. He held the smoke inside, enjoying the way the menthol changed from cold to hot in his lungs, and then blew a long stream of blue smoke at the ceiling.

On the big TV screen there were half a dozen windows showing various views of General Zetter’s efforts to clean up Stebbins County. Gunships filled the rainy skies. Armored personnel carriers were laden with guns of kinds he couldn’t name, some of which he’d never seen. The president was a lawyer and career politician and had never served. Not that it mattered, because many of his predecessors hadn’t either. Not everyone could be JFK.

He tried to understand the military, though, and felt he had a good grasp of its philosophies. He knew the big-budget technology, of course, the drones and missile programs, the fleets and the last jet fighters. All of those were big-ticket items that were constantly in the press. As he watched a line of soldiers in hazmat suits deploy from the back of a troop transport, he made a mental note to become more familiar with their gear, with the things they had to carry into fights like this.

He took another drag, wishing for a moment that he was back in college and hitting a blunt instead. That was a long time ago, and he hadn’t gotten high since junior year.

Now seemed like a good time.

Maybe it would take the edge off.

Or maybe not. He remembered the paranoia that sometimes accompanied the high, and he sure as hell didn’t need any more of that.

As he lifted the cigarette to his lips again he studied his hand. It was shaking.

Had it done that during the meeting?

He wasn’t sure.

Was it relief that the crisis was over—at least everything except the spin control—or was it something else?

Was Scott Blair right? Were the generals right? Except for Zetter they all agreed with Blair.

So what did that mean?

The president punched a button on the table.

“Yes, Mr. President?” asked his secretary.

“Doris, get General Zetter on the line. Private call.”

“Right away, Mr. President.”

It was just that. In less than a minute Zetter was on the line.

“General,” said the president curtly, “are you alone and is this a secure line?”

“Yes to both, sir,” said Zetter. The connection was still weak and static-filled because of the high-intensity jammers.

“Good. I’m alone as well, Simeon, so this is just the two of us. What I want is the bottom line. No politicizing, no padding or fluff. I want to know the absolute truth about where we stand in Stebbins County.”

There was a very small pause at the other end of the call. “We’re in good shape, Mr. President,” said Zetter. “However, with the storm strengthening we could use more men.”

“Have there been any fresh sightings?”

Another pause, a little longer this time. “There are scattered sightings, sir, but each encounter has been satisfactorily resolved.”

“How’s the line holding?”

“We’re confident that the Q-zone is absolutely solid,” Zetter said . “There have been no incidents at any of the checkpoints, and we have satellite and helicopter surveillance as well as roaming patrols and spotter planes. A mouse with a head cold couldn’t get out of Stebbins.”

“Simeon,” said the president, “I need you to be absolutely sure about this.”

“I am, sir.” Another hesitation. “However, we could really use the extra troops. National Guard, Reservists, or regular Army. Any or all. The more boots we have on the ground the tighter the lock and the quicker we can put a button on this whole matter.”

“Very well. Send your requests to Sylvia Ruddy and I’ll sign the order and make the necessary calls right away.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Of course. And Simeon—?”

“Sir?”

“I appreciate you stepping in to take control of this situation.”

“Doing my job, sir.”

“I know that Mack Dietrich is your friend. If there was time to have someone else ask him to stand down I would have made that call.”

“He’s a professional soldier, sir. He understands, as do I.”

But there had been one last little hesitation before Zetter said that.

The president took a long drag, considering the implications of that pause. He exhaled slowly.

“Simeon, there’s another matter that you need to be aware of.” He told Zetter about the flash drives believed to be in Billy Trout’s possession.

“That’s a wrinkle,” Zetter said slowly, clearly unhappy with the news.

“It is.”

“Do you want me to
iron out
that wrinkle?”

“Gently. You have a relationship with the police officer in the school? Desdemona Fox?”

“We spoke. It wasn’t, as you can imagine, a comfortable conversation for either of us.”

“Will she talk to you again?”

“I believe so.”

“Good. Do so, and ask her—and I mean that, Simeon,
ask
her for the drives.”

“I could send some of my people into the school to have that conversation, Mr. President.”

“In front of eight hundred witnesses? Do you think that’s the best move?”

“No, sir.”

“No,” agreed the president. “If, as you say, the situation is under control, then there is no immediate need to escalate an already tense situation.”

A pause. “Very well, sir.”

“Let’s repair bridges, not burn them.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

“Though…” the president said, drawing it out with feigned casualness, “have some people on standby. Just in case. Always good to be prepared for eventualities.”

“I agree, sir.”

“Thank you, General. Keep me apprised.”

And disconnected the call.

He sat in silence, looking through the smoke at the images on the screen, eyes narrowed, brain working, hands still trembling.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

WHAT THE FINKE THINKS

WTLK LIVE TALK RADIO

PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA

“We have Merry from Philadelphia. Go ahead, Merry, you’re on the air. What do you think is happening in Stebbins County?”

“It’s not aliens,” said the caller.

“Glad to hear you say that.”

“It’s definitely not aliens.”

“So you say. Want to tell the listeners what you think is going on?”

“It’s the Chinese.”

“Chinese Americans?”

“No, the
Chinese
Chinese. The government of China, Gavin.”

“In rural Pennsylvania?”

“That’s where it starts. It starts off the radar. It starts right in the heartland. The Chinese already own America.”

Gavin signaled the producer for more coffee. This was going to be a long night.

“Tell me how they’re planning to do that, Merry.”

“It’s the Asian bird flu. That’s what’s killing people. The Chinese have sent agents over here to release their flu, and you know we don’t have anything that can stop it.”

“Why’s that, Merry?”

“’Cause it’s Asian.”

The coffee arrived and Gavin took the flask from his briefcase and added two fingers of Early Times.

Definitely a long night ahead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

STEBBINS LITTLE SCHOOL

STEBBINS, PENNSYLVANIA

Dez Fox ghosted through the empty halls of the Stebbins Little School. Her Glock was in its holster, her hands empty of everything except promise, her heart heavy with shame and grief. Every once in a while she paused and cocked her head to listen to the old building. Even the silence was not silent. With buildings this old there was always some sound. The faint hum of the battery-operated clock mounted high on the wall, its glass face covered by a heavy wire grille. The creak of timber and stone as the building settled. The faint banshee whistle of wind clawing its way in through broken windows upstairs. The muffled sound of children weeping beyond classroom doors at the other end of the hall.

No new shouts, though.

No screams and gunfire.

She was positive, though, that she could hear the discordant pounding of her own heart.

Without warning the walkie-talkie clipped to her hip squawked. The sound tore a cry of alarm from her.

“
Officer Desdemona Fox, please respond
,” said a voice clouded by harsh static. “
Officer Des
—”

Dez snatched up the device and keyed it. “This is Fox.”

The voice said, “Officer Fox, please hold the line.”

“Is this some kind of trick?” asked JT, but Dez didn’t reply.

Another voice spoke, one she hadn’t heard before. “Officer Fox?”

“This is Fox. Who’s this?”

“This is Major General Zetter.”

“Glad you remembered that we’re alive, General.”

“Is Mr. Trout with you?”

“No.”

“Can you put him on the line?”

“What is this about, General? If you’re thinking of trying to change our deal, then you can shove that right up your—”

“It’s my understanding that Mr. Trout is in possession of a set of flash drives belonging to Dr. Herman Volker. Are you aware of this?”

“Yes,” Dez said carefully, though she knew that Billy didn’t have the flash drives. Goat did. But Dez didn’t want to say so to Zetter, and definitely not without talking to Billy first.

“Are you aware of what’s on those drives?” asked the general.

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

“We would very much like to get our hands on that information, Officer Fox.”

“I bet you would. And I bet that one minute after you got them you’d shove a Hellfire missile up our asses. No thanks.”

“This isn’t a trick, Officer Fox.”

“Uh huh. And the check’s in the mail, I’ll call you in the morning, and I won’t come in your mouth.”

“Officer Fox—”

“Do you really expect us to believe anything you say?”

“You have been given assurance on behalf of the president of the United States that no further attacks would be made on the school as long as you followed the safety protocols.”

“Right. Tell that to the Sioux.”

“What?”

“As much as it causes me physical pain to say this out loud to another … what I assume is another Republican, our government doesn’t have a great track record for keeping its promises with people who have something they want.”

“Kennedy Democrat,” said Zetter.

“What?”

“I’m a Democrat. It may surprise you that there are plenty of us in the military, Miss Fox.”

“Whatever. You get what I’m saying? You know there’s not a lot of trust going on here.”

“I suppose that’s an unfortunate truth. But given that I was no more involved in making treaties with the Indians than I was behind the attack on the school, how about we avoid making assumptions that might confuse the situation? And it was I who ordered our troops to stop firing on the school.”

“Oh, blow me, Zetter. Billy Trout’s broadcast hit the news services and the president’s nuts crawled up inside his chest cavity. That’s what happened. He told you to stop trying to kill us only because it would look really fucking bad at the next elections. If you’re going to try and pretend otherwise then this conversation is over.”

Zetter took a moment with that. “Fair enough,” he said. “We don’t see things from exactly the same perspective, but I take your point.”

“Which leaves us where, General?”

“In the middle of a grave national crisis. Everything else aside, all
bullshit
aside, Officer Fox, the infection is still out there. Contained for the moment but still out there, still a major threat. You know that this is a bioweapon, one designed by Cold War scientists and then redesigned by Dr. Volker. If we stand any chance of eradicating it, then we need to have his research notes.”

“Why the fuck are you bothering us about this? Go ask Volker for them.”

“If that was a possibility, Officer, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that right now we can’t locate Dr. Volker.”

Dez felt the floor tilt under her. She staggered into one of the classrooms, checked that it was empty, leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor.

“Officer Fox—?”

“Didn’t he … didn’t he leave any records?”

“None that we have so far been able to find,” said Zetter.

“How the hell are you idiots allowed to run a country? I should have voted for a clown college. They’d at least have a reason for being this stupid.”

“I don’t want to debate politics, Officer Fox. We need what’s on Mr. Trout’s flash drives.”

A thousand thoughts raced through Dez’s head. None of them were good. Most were way across the line into paranoia, but she felt justified in thinking every one of them.

“Tell you what, General,” she said, “how about you do this? How about you airlift us the hell out of here? Take us to Pittsburgh or Philly or somewhere other than where people are eating each other. How about you do that and then we can talk about the flash drives.”

“You know we can’t risk that. You have to understand that.”

“Sure. Have a nice day, General. Thanks for calling.”

“Wait!”

“What?” she barked.

“We
can’t
take you out. You have to understand that. We don’t know enough about this disease to guarantee that it’s safe to bring you out. Until we look at Dr. Volker’s research notes we don’t know all the ways in which this thing can be communicated. We have concerns that anyone coming into close contact with the skin or blood of one of the infected might be at risk. We don’t know if someone can carry the infection without developing obvious symptoms. There are a lot of things we don’t know and until we do, we need to keep you in isolation. Surely you can appreciate the severity of this, surely you can understand the necessity of—”