Independence Day Plague (3 page)

Starker tossed a piece of paper across the two end-to-end desks. The first memo was interagency, having been circulated among many of the district’s adjacent police agencies.

Dorado stared at it and frowned. “What’s this?”

Starker leaned forward. “I want you to head the Fourth of July task force this year.”

“
Hell no, that’s Benson’s job.”

“
He retired as of thirty minutes ago.”

That was odd, Dorado thought. Benson liked the limelight of the task forces. “He did it voluntarily?”

“
Let’s just say he was highly encouraged to withdraw.” Starker paused, his brown face passive. “I need a good man this year, a better man than Benson.”

“
Why me? There are a lot of good men out there.”

“
You got a feel for this kind of work, Mike. You got seniority. You won’t be alone. We’ll be working with FBI, the Park Police, the other police agencies, Homeland Security, DEA, and hell even CIA if we feel we need them. You don’t suck up to the Feds. I want someone who guards our jurisdiction without getting into a public pissing contest.”

“
That’s important? I thought we were all about interagency cooperation.”

Starker shrugged, “We are, but we’re not about sitting back, letting the FBI run the show and then putting the blame on us when it all goes to shit. The freak show’s going to be worse than ever before. We got extra duties in helping escort the damn Chinese delegation around and then the normal holiday crap only magnified about ten times. I need a person less interested in politics and more interested in policing.” Starker handed him a memo. A brief glance told him that it was the interdepartmental announcement of his new position, signed and dated.

Dorado sighed deeply and rubbed his chin. He hated it when Starker got complimentary. It was only the soft glove around the brick. He wouldn’t be allowed to turn this honor down.

Interdepartmental task forces, especially ones involving the federals, had a habit of degenerating into finger pointing and ass covering so much that little actual investigation was ever accomplished. The rivalry often stopped communications and territorial snarling skyrocketed.

Dorado, a street cop for seventeen years, preferred being in the heart of the battle instead of planning strategy. With a psychological profiling background, he had a knack for telling bullshit from reality when it came to potential threats. Captain Starker had hinted about him permanently taking over the terrorist unit before and this acted as one more step in that direction. Problem was, he felt overwhelmed by the sheer number of threats for any given year. Terrorist activities ranged from school bomb threats by pranksters to some alien nut steeped in jingoistic fever, and, the most dangerous, the carefully calculated and well-funded terrorist group. Working though the organized groups took good intel, which was largely the job of Homeland Security. Those men wanted the glory and the police were only called in to mop up other people’s messes. Now terrorism for the police was any disgruntled kid with a gun, any suicidal wirehead intent on not going out alone, or the corp clone out for revenge.

He balled the paper up and tossed it onto his partner’s desk just as McAfee walked in the door. “Hope that’s not my promotion,” he said as he leaned against the doorframe, stained white coffee mug in hand. Starker greeted him with a nod.

“
You better cancel your dating schedule for the next few weeks,” Dorado growled.

“
What’s up, Chief?” Brian McAfee branded the nickname on Dorado when they first became partners three years ago. It referred to Dorado’s brown skin and straight black hair, Native American features inherited from his half-Mexican, half-Sioux father. McAfee himself was straight out of European stock: young and lithe with cream skin and brown curly hair tending towards red.

“
We’re on the DCPD task force for the Fourth.”

“
Shit, not the Chinese delegation!”

Stark turned to face him, “You got something against the Chinese?”

“
Nah, just don’t like getting spit on. We’ll have to keep the damn protesters back from the delegates and they spit on us.” McAfee sipped from his coffee mug.

“
We’re doing terrorist threat assessment with the Feds.” Dorado said.

“
Interagency politics, what fun!” McAfee shrugged, his pale face broke into a wry grin, “Better than crowd control. At least the nut squad lets you sit down once in a while.” He plucked up the paper ball and smoothed it out for reading. “Hey, you’re the DC liaison.” He turned to Starker with a grin. “Doesn’t say a word about me though, amigo.”

Starker grinned, “If Dorado wants you then you’re in. Mike, let me know who else you want immediately by the end of the day. We’ll talk other personnel and resources, as the day gets closer. Take as many as you need but for hell’s sake, don’t strip the department.”

“
Do we get hazard pay just for putting up with the FBI assholes?” McAfee quipped.

Starker rose, “The first meeting’s tomorrow. I’ll forward the information to your email.” He left, quietly shutting the glass door behind him.

McAfee looked thoughtful. “It’s for real then. We’re on threat assessment.” He picked up the original memo and read it through again before speaking. “Says here that you and your immediate members get a temporary raise in pay. Boss man’s being unusually generous.”

“
Not really. Benson always got to pick a small group to help him with investigations. If I’m stuck partner, you are too. I was thinking of getting Olsen, Charro, and Taylor for now. We’ll bring others on as the day gets closer.”

“
Why Olsen?” McAfee leaned back in his chair. “Any of the Comp-Control folks will do and some folks say she’s a real cold bitch, hard to work with.”

Dorado smiled. He had immediately liked Sherrie Olsen when she started with the DC police's technology department. She didn’t take a lot of crap. True. She was cool to the point of glacial, but she was an expert at gaining tiny bits of critical information from millions of databases on the Internet and the newer hypernet systems. She was also beautiful in the blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty queen sort of way. Dorado watched men come on to her only to get that frozen “fuck-off” glare that made them back away. She never flirted. McAfee, one of the department’s oldest bachelors at age 35, had dated his way through most of the female staff but met the hard wall of ice in Olsen. “Maybe this is your chance to impress her.”

Dorado got up and looked out of the walls of their small office. For a moment, he glanced at his reflection in the glass. Black hair framed a square brown face out of sync with the gray-blue eyes, a gift from his white mother. His forty-two years showed in the few wrinkles around the mouth and eyes and a mild hunching of the back and shoulders. “God!” he murmured, “another damn nut fest.”

He turned to face the younger man. “Brian, this is going to be some serious shit this year. Lots of folks are going to be looking to make a statement because of this being America’s 250
^th
birthday. Threats were already coming in three months ago. The FBI will be worried about the Koreans, Chinese, and Arabs because they’re into the big picture. That’s who the President’s pissed off recently with trade embargos. That’s fine because they got the intel for the big picture.

“
I’m worried about the small picture. The Greenie-groups who want to blow technology all back to the Stone Age or the wire-head nihilist whose trying to sarin gas his way out of this world. Did you know that at least six different religious groups have declared this the year of Revelations? At least three of them have headquarters here, and the God’s Path group has declared their leader the new messiah. Remember Jonestown, Guyana?”

“
Before my time, Chief. I was born in 1991, but I’ve read about it; mass suicide, death of hundreds due to a self-proclaimed Messiah.”

“
God knows how we’ll stop some corporate clone that has a nervous breakdown and a gun. Most of the clones and suicidal wireheads will be the patrol’s problem because they won’t telegraph their actions ahead of time. They aren’t making a statement.”

Dorado sighed heavily. Over the last fifty years, society had fractured. Corporate life came to mean great risks and great riches for those that could endure the eighty-plus hour workweek. Computers meant more multi-tasking and higher production expectations but the human psyche hadn’t evolved that far. The international business world swelled at a rate of about a million suit-and-tie-hopefuls a year, chewing up college graduates right out of school. The unemployment threat was higher the older the clone got and nervous breakdowns and suicides were at thirty percent and climbing. The incidents of office shootings were rising as well. The clones flooded the street, quietly talking into mini-mikes and furiously pegging away at handheld comp-units, oblivious to the people around them. When one went postal, it was often very messy, very public, and not always alone.

In rebellion, many folks fled the technologically tense world for something milder. Many set up large group farms, some operating under a stated religious philosophy. They came to town, selling their items and leading an undisturbed life. Others stayed in towns opening shops with tags of organic this or handcrafted that, implying that the old way beat new factory processed any day. To the police, the Greenies often played the role as victim more than criminal but there were the occasional incidents. More than one back-to-nature group or zealous religious cult sought to reverse world industrial/political trends through blowing up power plants or releasing chemical or biological contaminants. Their brand of terrorism often came as home grown as their vegetables.

On the other end of the societal scale were the wire-heads. Cyberbionics had become the new drug. It took the tattoo and body piercing high art form mixed with computer chips on certain nerve centers. The wire-heads took it over and created a semi-illegal microchip technology that made sex ecstatic, life mellower, colors brighter and drug-induced hallucinations orgasmic. Other chips induced mild pain for those so oriented. All this technology was possible due the battery storage issues and the micro battery breakthrough of 2015. Wireheads stood out in the crowds. Their cyborg-style look with wires protruding from the base of the skull leading into various points in the body made them easy to spot.

Legal jacking units came from legitimate surgery performed in a doctor’s office. However, cheap, illegal hack shops existed all over the city; dirty shops with self-styled surgeons selling cut-rate equivalents of the same type of lifestyle the wealthy paid hundreds of thousands for. Hardwiring into the brain also caused some unexpected results. If a hack shop wire-head walked too close to a high emitting power source, they risked turning into a raging, rabid-style killer in a crowd. The change flicked on like a light switch and putting a bullet in the heart or head was the only way to stop them. Injuring the wire-head didn't even slow him down. No pain in the brain meant no control in the body. Wire-head attacks increased enough over the last few years that some of the police referred to wire-heads as “the walking dead.”

“
So, we are talking what? Homegrown terrorists?” McAfee replied.

Dorado nodded, “Yeah, maybe. America has its share. It’s just that this year's special. Ending 250 years of American Independence makes a great statement and we expect the crowds to move past the three million mark all over DC. We know Park Police plans on using barricades again around the Mall. There’s talk of shutting down all the streets surrounding the White House, Capitol Building and Smithsonian area within a ten-block radius. It’ll be a nightmare in traffic, but someone else’s nightmare. We got to stop the statement-makers.” The wooden s chair squeaked in protest as he relaxed back. “We’ve got over a month and we need the best here assessing threats and following leads, not out on foot patrol. We’ll listen to evidence as it comes in, arrest first, and ask questions later. If you have any recommendations, partner, say so because it may get to be a new brand of ugly this year.”

McAfee nodded. “I hear you. I’ll give it some thought.” He grinned broadly, “Don’t worry, amigo. By July Fifth, the only one that will be playing CYA will be the FBI.”

Later that afternoon, Dorado met with Charro and Taylor, quietly recruiting each detective. Their assignments mimicked their regular work, investigating events or threats and look for greater patterns. Over the years, Taylor became the department's expert on white-collar crime, fitting well into the stock market crowd. Charro's beat involved the gangs. His knowledge of their changing political scene was unmatched.

Dorado left Olsen for last, as he knew she might reject the assignment. Jacobs, the head of the Comp-Control department, distributed most special assignments, keeping the career impact ones for himself. Besides himself, he considered any one researcher as good as the other twelve in the office. Dorado knew otherwise.

That afternoon, he carried a diet soda he had seen her drink before, a bag of chocolate chip cookies, and his usual black coffee mug down to Comp-Control in the basement. The computer room had long tables with ten flat terminal units hardwired into the five-year-old antiquated mainframe. Thick cable wires weaved in and out of the gray walls, the lifeline connection to the monstrous Internet society and smaller, faster networks devoted to education, science, and business databases, the hypernets. Each programmer occupied an assigned area indicated by a two-foot-by-two-foot box against the wall and an imbedded keyboard into the table. Two light beams shone out from the wall unit: one blue light that became the holographic keyboard and the other beam directed to the privacy faceplate of the researcher. The faceplate acted as a monitor but reminded Dorado of a welder’s mask. The screens danced and flickered before he could spy on any one person's project.