any of them left. They haven’t the intelligence.
Look how they fucked up the whole continent once the colonial powers left. If we and every other bleeding heart nation on earth hadn’t kept pouring money down the drain there, they would have gone back to mud huts and grasshopper soup long ago.”
President Marshall didn’t have to think long to give his approval. If he and the General Newman could keep the United States functioning, they could have the whole world in their hands within a few years. By God, those viruses are the best thing that’s happened to the country since kicking Mexico’s ass way back before the Civil war, he thought with a smile. He ran the various scenarios and how they might play out through his mind for a few moments, then turned his attention back to the morbidity reports, picking up from where he had been interrupted. He had learned to read them after a fashion, if not completely, and it was looking good.
The infection curve for the Harcourt virus was beginning to show signs of peaking, but the numbers of infected blacks and Hispanics were very satisfactory. The CDC was projecting a sixty per cent mortality for blacks in the United States and that was only for the initial infection. Below that curve were figures for secondary infection rates, taken from antibody studies. It predicted that most of the rest of the blacks and darker skinned Hispanics would become infected, though it might be another year or two before they started dying if the disease followed the initial pattern. Never mind, there was time, and having to wait just meant he could keep Martial Law in effect that much longer.
The Goldwater virus was even more promising. Marshall actually smiled when he interpreted those figures. The ragheads would be finding out very shortly that their God wasn’t so great after all.
Goddamned pagans, sticking their asses up in the air to pray. What kind of religion was that? Serves them right, he thought.
The president didn’t notice the expression on John Dawson’s face when he smiled over the morbidity reports. He was so used to having the Secret Service agent there five days a week that he rarely noticed him any more except for the special, private conferences when he made him step outside.
Dawson knew what the papers the president was reading contained. He had been there when an aide dropped them off with the words “Latest morbidity reports, sir.”
Doug sent two couriers to try contacting the commander of the army troops, to apprise him of the situation in the CDC admin building. It was an agonizing, three hour wait, while he kept his troops on guard against further incursions toward the part of the CDC complex he still held. The wait was complicated by the ache in his leg. Painkillers were in short supply and he had given his morphine packet to the doctors for use on the more seriously wounded. He passed along explicit instructions to not fire unless fired upon and the shooting gradually slowed to a halt. When it did, he sent a courier over to the administrative building, waving a white flag. In the meantime, he tried to ignore the noises drifting across from the transient apartments, where the few unbroken windows had been opened to let in some air.
Apparently the invaders were sacking the apartments, and by the sound of it, had found enough liquor to turn the looting into a party. The man bearing the white flag had disappeared into the admin building and not yet returned.
The firing from back where the army paratroops had landed continued, but eventually one of the couriers made his way back, along with a captain in fatigues that still retained a bit of a crease. A staff officer, Doug knew immediately. Nevertheless, it was a contact and that was what he had been hoping for.
He got painfully to his feet as the captain was led into Gene’s office, now his by default.
The captain looked around as if searching for someone with an officer’s insignia sewn on a fatigue collar.
Doug waited him out. Damned if he would give him the satisfaction. Finally the officer said “You’re the commander here?’
“That’s right, Captain. Doug Craddock.” He had to force himself not to touch the seeping wound on his forehead where a concrete chip had struck him.
“I’m Captain Saflin, Mr. Craddock. I thought there was a former colonel in charge. Where is he?” The question was posed as if couldn’t imagine why a commanding officer couldn’t be as clean and alert as he was. Certainly he wasn’t envisioning anyone with a dirty face streaked with a mixture of blood and sweat and a bloody bandage on one leg.
“He was killed in action, so you’re going to have to be satisfied with a former major. Shall we get to business? The people holding the hostages are probably getting impatient.”
“What is it you want, Mr. Craddock?”
“I want to save some lives, if I can. The CDC director is a captive, as well as most of the administrative staff. I want the army to hold off while I negotiate with them.”
“Mr. Craddock, our mission is to restore order to Atlanta and regain control of The Center for Disease Control. We are in the process of restoring order to the city. The CDC comes next. I’m sorry if hostages get hurt, but our orders leave little leeway for negotiation.”
“At least hold off until I find out exactly what the situation is in the captured buildings”
Captain Saflin cocked his head, listening. “It sounds as if a drunken party is going on in one of them.”
“That’s the living quarters. I’m not worried about what happens there. It’s the staff we need to save.
They’re needed to run this place.”
“I’m sorry, but…”
A knock on the door interrupted them. Doug’s envoy to the admin building entered without waiting to be told to come in. He began talking immediately. “Doug, they say they’ll negotiate, but they want the man in charge. I guess that’s you, now. They said you can bring one person with you and to come unarmed.”
“How about the staff? Are they still alive?”
“I saw some of them, Doug. They’re scared to death, but don’t look like they’ve been hurt yet, other than the ones that tried to fight. Some of them are dead. I saw…”
“Never mind, Ben. Wait on me outside and you can go back with me.” Doug very carefully refrained from asking who had been killed. He dared not think of June while he had everyone else to consider.
“You heard the man, Captain Saflin. Would you like to come with me?”
The officer looked as if he had been asked to jump off the top of a tall building without a parachute. “Uh, no. I need to report back to Colonel Christian. I’ll tell him what you said, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
“Wait a moment then. I want to send someone with you to report back to me.” Doug went to the door.
“Ben, round up a volunteer to go with Captain Saflin here to the Army command post. Bring whoever agrees to go back here quickly.”
“Got it, Doug.”
Doug noticed the look of disapproval on the officer’s face. He forced a smile. “What’s wrong, Captain?
Not used to first names from subordinates?” Immediately after he had spoken, he wished he could take the words back. There was no sense in antagonizing the man. “Never mind,” he amended. “We’re pretty informal here.”
Before Ben returned, the desk phone rang. Power to the building was out, but the phone lines were still intact. He almost dropped the phone when he picked up the handset and heard who it was.
“Office of the Vice President of the United States calling for Colonel Bradley.”
Doug took a deep breath, suddenly feeling out of his depth. “This is Bradley’s assistant. Doug Craddock.
Colonel Bradley was killed in action, so I’m in charge.”
There was the barest hesitation. “One moment please.”
While he was on hold, Doug said to the captain sotto voice “Sir, please wait here. I believe this call may interest you.”
A moment later he heard a voice that sounded like the vice president he had heard on the air, yet subtly different. She’s not speaking to an audience, that’s the difference, he decided.
“Mr. Craddock, I’m told you are in charge of the defense of the CDC now.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Fine. I could offer condolences for Colonel Bradley, but I imagine we have more important things to talk about. I understand some of the staff are being held prisoner?”
“Yes ma’am. Amelia Foster, the director; her assistant, and an unknown but large portion of the
