the bombings—taken this long to manifest. It’s incredibly fast. I think it gets into the body before our natural immune factors even know the body’s been penetrated. And it’s going to get much, much worse before it gets better.
“I was afraid of that.”
“I’m leveling with you, Ben. No point in pulling any punches.”
“Jim Slater and Paul Green out there?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. You remember all that chlordane we had in storage?”
“Very well.”
“Have them gather up as many ag-pilots as they can and start spraying our borders and lay it on thick—use it all if you have to. Spray a strip a half-mile wide, all around the Tri-States. That will take care of any flea problem that might crop up.”
“As well as anything else that blunders into that area.”
“Can’t be helped, Lamar. You know as well as I our people will pull together and obey orders. I can’t speak for the rest of America.”
“I can,” the old doctor was firm. “Blind panic when the news breaks. You won’t have nearly enough troops to stem the tide of frightened humanity.
“You know, Ben, this will finish you in the White House? You won’t be given credit for the lives you’ve saved, only blamed for the deaths. You’ll have to declare martial law and you’ll be blamed for that. You’ll have to order troops to fire on civilians, and you’ll be blamed for that.”
“I know, Lamar. I’ve already made up my mind to see this thing through and then step down. I want to come home.”
“Good. I was wrong to push you into taking the job.”
“I don’t know. I wish I’d had more time.”
The doctor grunted in reply. “Jerre and Matt radioed in. They holed up in the high country. Matt got some pills and they’re both dosed as well as can be. I think they’ll make it.”
“I have a hunch I’ll be seeing you soon, Lamar.”
“Good. I’ll look forward to it. Take care.”
In the office, the news was no better.
“It broke, Ben,” Cecil said. “Some alert reporters put it all together and hit the air with it.”
“Goddamn it!” Ben slammed a hand on a desk top.
“And this, too,” Cecil said. “Two reporters, print and broadcast, entered an apartment this morning, here in Richmond. It was booby-trapped with a modified claymore. Blew their heads off.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“It was my apartment,” Rosita said.
Ben had not noticed the small woman sitting quietly in a chair.
“You want to explain? I thought you lived with Dawn?”
Rosita rose to face Ben. “I’ll make this as brief as possible, General. I am part of Gray’s Scouts. I was sent to Colonel Ramos’s command when it was learned he was moving to join you. Dan—Captain Gray—suspected a power play here in Richmond. He was right. General Altamont is working with Senator Carson to unseat you. They have quite a following, including some Secret Service men. They are the ones who have the atomic device; sent the note that General Altamont showed you. As to why those men broke into my apartment, I have no idea. Probably looking for a story; anything to hurt you. It’s all moot now, anyway, isn’t it, sir?”
“Yes,” Ben said.
“Goddamn!” Admiral Calland said. “This is 1988 all over again.”
General Rimel stood up. His face was very grim, the skin pulled tight, his anger just under control. “I will personally handle General Altamont.” He picked up a phone and jabbed at the buttons. He spoke briefly, then turned to Ben. “My men will pick him up, along with Senator Carson.” He looked at Rosita. “What about the White House agent?”
“He’s dead,” she replied softly. “And Altamont’s brother. I saw to that personally.”
“Do you know where the atomic device is located, Miss?” Rimel asked.
“No, sir.”
“I’ll find it,” the general said. He stalked from the room.
“Stick around,” Ben told Rosita.
“I intend to do just that, sir.”
Ben smiled at her. “Okay, gang. Let’s get back to the immediate problem.”
“Plague, Roanna?” Brighton asked, speaking from his offices in Chicago.
“Yes, sir. That’s definitely confirmed. And it’s bad.”
“And Raines knew it and was sitting on it? Keeping it from the public?”
“For the public’s good, Bob. You know that.”
“He’s ordered troops out?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get on it. Bird-dog him and get the story.”
“Yes, sir.”
Senator William Carson was fleeing the city just as fast as he dared drive. The news of Representative Altamont’s death had stunned him, then shocked him into action. That crazy woman from Ben Raines’s troops had cold-bloodedly shot down two agents and Altamont. Just killed them without even blinking—so he had heard, and the old man didn’t doubt it for a minute.
No one knew about his little cabin on the James River. His little hideaway where all the plans had been worked out.
But they hadn’t worked out. Bad luck all the way around. And now this damnable plague business.
Carson skirted one roadblock, picked up a secondary blacktop road, then turned down a gravel road, finally pulling up in front of his cabin. In the background, the James rolled on. It was a comforting sound and the old man stood for a moment in the cold air, listening to the rush of water. He went inside and built a small fire in the fireplace and went back into the cold darkening air for his luggage.
Something bit him on the right ankle and he slapped at it, missing whatever it was. Late-blooming red bug, probably, he thought.
He heated a can of soup for his dinner and sat down in an overstuffed chair. Within minutes, he dozed off, his last thoughts before falling asleep was wondering what that slight odor was in the cabin.
Had he looked behind the wood box he would have found out. A dead rat. And now the fleas had found something live to bite in the bulk of Senator William Carson. Of Vermont. Soon to be the late Senator William Carson. The late Senator from Vermont.
Bert LaPoint and his cameraman sat in the NBC van and looked at the dead city of Memphis. Neither man had any inclination whatsoever to leave the safety of the van. Both men had seen the huge rats scampering over the carcass of a cow, and the ugly bastards had shown no signs of fear at the van’s approach.
They had not had a radio on all day. Knew nothing of the terrible situation about to grip the nation in a hot infected hand.
They knew only that neither of them was about to get out of the van with those big ugly rats swarming all around them.
Tim Lewisson shot his tape from behind closed and locked doors, shooting through the glass. He looked at Bert. “I’m through. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
But the van wouldn’t start.
“Oh, shit!” Bert said. He slapped at his ankles as something began biting his skin. He noticed Bert doing the same. They both had been scratching at their ankles for a couple of hours.
Ever since arriving on the outskirts of Memphis.
“Well, we got food and water with us,” Tim said. “We just wait it out.”
