“How?” Tombstone asked.
The President sighed. “This is a new war, Tombstone. We’re used to law-enforcement activities inside the U.S., not war. Everything is going to have to change — everything. Including posse commitatus.”
“Wow,” the senior Magruder said, abruptly setting down his coffee mug. “That’s a big step.”
“No kidding,” the President answered. “The concept of using military forces for law enforcement inside the U.S. is strictly prohibited. And I’m not going to get the law changed without proving that it’s the right thing to do. So, I’m going to back-door a demonstration. I’m going to use your civilian company as a coordinator, and I’m going to ask you to draft contingency plans for a multiforce mission using both civilian law-enforcement and military assets. Your mission is to be prepared to put down any militia actions taken in response to this tragedy. You have my full authority and the support of the entire government as needed.”
Both Magruders were silent for a moment, absorbing the radical idea. Then Tombstone asked, “Is there any precedent at all for this?”
The President shook his head. “You know the old saying. It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. If the militias
“And if we don’t?”
The President’s face was cold. “Then there’s always impeachment. And frankly, gentlemen, if that’s what it takes to get us through this, I’m prepared to risk it.”
For the next few hours, Williams checked his watch every five minutes, wondering why time was moving so slowly. She always got to the chow line five minutes early — did that means she wanted to be five minutes early for the movie? Or earlier than that so they could make sure they got some popcorn? Finally, not wanting to leave it to chance, he slipped out and bought a box of microwavable popcorn at the ship store. Just in case she wanted more than one pack. Or in case there was another movie she wanted to see.
His aircraft was coming back from a routine surveillance patrol, and he had to be on deck after it landed, so he missed seeing her at the evening meal. He hurried through the post-flight checklist, made sure the bird was secure and all tie-downs were in place, then rushed down six decks to the vending machine. There was already a long line there.
He heard her call his name, and spotted her near the entrance to the galley. She held up two sodas. He slipped out of line to join her. He produced the popcorn.
She looked happy. “It looks like we’re set.” She led the way to the microwave, and they waited behind three other people to use it.
Finally, they were set. Again, he let her lead the way, and she selected a table about three quarters of the way back from the screen along a bulkhead. He slipped into the seat next to hers. The noise level in the galley was deafening, but abruptly died down as the lights dimmed and opening music started. “Just in time,” she whispered, grabbing a handful of popcorn out of the bag.
Lance Corporal Barry Griffin was barely conscious of his surroundings. Sometimes he was on field exercises in Alaska, because that was the last time he remembered being cold, so very cold. Other times, he knew he was on the ship, especially when the smell of food woke him. He came to recognize the few faces he saw — the corpsman, Evans, who he dimly remembered from the galley, one of the nurses. The doctors stayed so briefly and were so heavily masked that he never formed a clear picture of their faces.
A fever, that’s what it was, he finally realized. That was the reason for the alternating hot and cold spells, the moments when it seemed certain he would suffocate in the overwhelming heat, those moments followed immediately by a bone-chilling sweat as he threw back the blankets. At one point he was caught in seaweed near the ocean floor, a recurrent dream during his dive training. He reached down for his knife, but it hadn’t been where it was supposed to be, strapped on his leg. He jerked hard enough that the treacherous vegetation let loose of him, and he floated up to the surface on a wave of morphine. The remnants of the seaweed ran down his arm, and he was dimly aware of white shapes moving around him. Fish? Or other divers? But why were they in white? The prick of the IV needle being reinserted in his arm went unnoticed. Later, when the morphine wore off, he woke in pain to discover his arms tied to the railings of his bed at the wrist and elbow.
“You were jerking around and pulled out your IV,” the corpsman said, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Standard procedure, just routine.”
“Man, I feel like shit,” Griffin murmured, exhausted by the tremendous effort to speak.
“You’ve got the flu or something,” the corpsman said quietly. “But they’re getting it under control.”
“The flu? Man, I feel like I’m dying.” He drifted back off into an unconsciousness that was not quite sleep.
The corpsman gazed down at him steadily, both pity and anger in his eyes. It wasn’t the jarhead’s fault, not really. He hadn’t meant to contract a virus while ashore. If anybody was really at fault, it was the first sergeant, the guy who told Griffin to take off his clothes and shower down. They should’ve left their gear on until they got back to a safe area to become decontaminated, but the first sergeant had been so freaked by the possibility of bio weapons, he’d ignored his training and obeyed the compulsion to wash.
But maybe they would have been exposed anyway, even without that. There was no way to tell. It sure didn’t make any sense to be pissed at the guy who was sick.
Over the last twenty-four hours, the fever had progressed rapidly. Nothing the doctors tried seemed to have any effect. Late-generation antibiotics were pumping full-steam into his system via three IVs, along with fluids to replace the lost blood and keep his blood pressure up. So far, they had been able to keep pace, but from what the corpsman could tell, the situation was getting worse. Unless he turned a corner soon, Griffin wasn’t going to make it.
Nevertheless, he and the first sergeant remained in isolation, with the rest of the men who’d been briefly exposed in the galley kept in a separate compartment. The first sergeant wasn’t saying much, but the corpsman could see he was terrified. It was one thing to have an enemy you could reach out and touch, something you could train to defeat with weapons or superior physical force. It was another thing entirely to have something you couldn’t even see kill you. Marines were among the worse patients anyway, but the first sergeant was too scared to cause any problems.
“How you feeling?” the corpsman asked. “You look OK.”
“I’m fine.” The first sergeant didn’t bother to asking how
“If you were going to get sick it would have happened by now,” the corpsman said, repeating what he had been saying for the last six hours. The first sergeant would never admit it, but the corpsman thought he took some comfort in the reassurances. “It hit him less than six hours after you guys came back. It’s been six times that. This is just a safety precaution.”
The first sergeant pointed at Griffin. “Safety precaution, with us stuck in here with with him?”
That was the one point the corpsman hadn’t been able to figure out, either. If they really thought Griffin might have some sort of plaguelike disease, why would they leave anyone in the same room with him? There was
