Allegiance (19 page)

Outbreak - Day 15

Jackson Hole, Wyoming

Tran came to once
again—only this time he knew without a doubt that he wasn’t one of them. Though
he had no idea how long he had been unconscious, when he opened his eyes and
sat up he was pleased to note that the pressure in his head as well as the
sickening vertigo that had accompanied it had lessened somewhat.

He had escaped the
blonde brothers, this he also knew. He had tumbled downhill out of control and
had been knocked unconscious somewhere along the way. And it appeared that
miraculously he had come to rest on a shallow, but relatively flat shelf
jutting out from the steep hillside.

As he sat on the shelf
taking inventory of his injuries, he caught a whiff of carrion and instantly
remembered the one-eyed demon that had been stalking him. And as his vision
sharpened, he realized that the answer to his most pressing problem was right
there, protruding from the volcanic soil, staring him straight in the face.
Reddish ochre-colored and shaped like a clamshell, the flat obsidian shard was
roughly six inches long by four inches wide, thick on one end and tapered off
to a sharp edge on the other. In another time and to another culture, after a
certain degree of shaping and sharpening, the stone would have made a fine hide
scraping tool. Or affixed to a hickory haft—a crude, but deadly hatchet. Tran
needed it for one purpose and he hoped it was sharp enough to do the job.

Meanwhile, just a few
feet away, his one-eyed nemesis clawed its way towards him.

Trying to decide which
course of action to take, he shifted his gaze downslope. The zombies trapped in
the brambles hadn’t forgotten about him. They eyed him raptly, their dry
throaty moans carrying uphill, snapping the hair on his arms to attention. The
amount of damage the vipers nest of thorns had done to their ashen skin was appalling.
A road map of gashes crisscrossed their bodies, rivulets of red the highways
and byways.

Tran thought it through.
He could fling himself over the edge, roll down the hill and risk ending up in
the brambles with the struggling creatures. Or, he could cast aside his
lifelong vow to shun violence, somehow get the rock and free himself, and then
kill the one-eyed demon.

Surely that wouldn’t be
the same as killing a human. It wasn’t murder, he reasoned.

With his mind made up,
he pressed his cheek against the cool earth, summoned the needed strength, and
flipped over onto his back. After catching his breath and then swallowing a
great amount of pain he hinged up into a sitting position, (remaining conscious
this time) and then scooted backwards on his butt to a spot where he could
reach the rock with his numb hands. One look at the ghastly black and blue
extremities caused him to wonder if there might be a couple of metal hooks in
his future. Then, after fumbling the stone multiple times, he finally got it
clamped between his trembling knees.

The birds suddenly went
silent as One Eye’s hissing morphed into guttural animal-like growls.

Tran ignored everything
around him, and with a laser-like focus worked his bonds back and forth over
the rock. After a dozen passes the obsidian cut through the silver tape,
freeing his deadened hands.

He cast a sideways
glance.

One Eye was an arm’s
length away.

He folded his legs
underneath him Indian style, nearly losing consciousness from the pain the
simple action incurred.

The demon
lunged—displaying a quickness Tran hadn’t expected. Both clawlike hands scraped
the earth where one second ago his battered feet had been.

Tran grasped the rock as
best he could and stared into the demon’s eyes. It continued to advance, snapping
its yellowed teeth—wanting his flesh. It took a herculean effort from him to
raise the two-pound hunk of volcanic glass overhead. His shoulders blazed deep
inside where the ball rotated in the cuff. Millions of nerve endings flared to
life as oxygen-rich blood coursed through the veins and capillaries servicing
his hands. And as he held the rock aloft waiting for the demon to move a few
inches closer, the opening words from a Mahatma Gandhi quote resounded in his
still throbbing head:
‘Non-violence does not signify that man must not fight
against the enemy, and by enemy is meant the evil which men do, not the human
beings themselves.’

His arms trembled,
muscles threatening to fail him.
It is not man nor woman
, he thought to
himself.
It is a monster created by the evil inherent in man
. With that,
he brought the rock down, adding what little energy remained in his muscles to
gravity’s pull. A hollow thud resonated as the obsidian shard glanced off of
the thing’s temple and struck the pliant ground.

Undeterred, Tran wrapped
one hand around its neck and straddled it, being careful to stay clear of its
snapping maw. He felt the monster’s body compressed under his hundred-pound
frame. The stench expelled from the demon’s lungs caused his eyes to tear. And
as it lay on its back like a turtle, arms and legs rowing the air, teeth
clacking out a soul-shuddering Morse code that he that would take to the grave
with him, he gazed into its one good eye. He studied it momentarily, a little
afraid but not terrified. He contemplated the skeletal face, wondering:
Is
this what my fate holds? To become a demon stalking the earth?
Then he
summoned all the strength he had left. He could feel the obsidian now, in his
right hand, cool and smooth and wet. The hand was bleeding where it had cut in.
It doesn’t hurt
. The other hand still held the beast by the neck, firm
to the ground. One hundred pounds worth of firm. He aimed for the spot where
the upturned nose separated the creature’s one good eye from the wet socket
full of splinters. For a moment he imagined the missing orb hanging from a
slender switch somewhere upslope—like a lonely marshmallow waiting its turn in
the campfire.

He brought the obsidian
down with all the force he could muster. He watched the demon’s one good eye
roll back and track the crushing blow. Then Tran chopped away until the
creature’s brains leaked from the fissure cleaved into its head.

He stripped the clothes
from the cadaver and realized after seeing the gaunt creature’s dehydrated
breasts that he had killed a woman. How could he have known it was a woman? The
wisps of hair remaining on its skull didn’t offer a clue. Nor did the cargo
shorts and button up cotton shirt. Tran didn’t know which side the buttons rode
up a man’s shirt, let alone a woman’s. That bit of sleuthing wouldn’t have
helped. But now that he knew the awful truth, that the living corpse had been
someone’s daughter and maybe even someone’s sister or mother, it caused him
great anguish.

It couldn’t be helped,
he reasoned. He’d had to kill to survive, of that he was certain. He scraped
the largest chunks of brain and hair-covered skull over the ledge, took one
last look at the dead woman, and said a silent prayer asking for forgiveness
before rolling the naked corpse into the clutching briars below.

Outbreak - Day 15

Schriever AFB

Colorado Springs,
Colorado

“Come in, Brook,” Major
Freda Nash said with the charm of a bed and breakfast owner welcoming a new
guest. She held the door to her office open and pointed the way with her free
hand. “How have you been?”

Brook nodded. “I’m
getting along OK,” she said.
Holy hell, you look awful
, is what she
thought. Standing in the doorway less than a foot away, Nash looked like she’d
just returned from being out on tour with a hard partying rock band. The usual
press to her uniform was gone. Dark circles hung like banners of mourning under
her eyes. A royal blue Air Force ball cap with the angular eagle and star logo
embroidered in silver on the front panel was pulled down low over her eyes. Sticking
out from the back, her black ponytail showed streaks of gray. The only thing
about her that seemed squared away was the way she carried herself. She had the
attitude of a six footer despite her small stature and obvious fatigue.

“Come on in out of the
heat, young lady.”

Brook smiled and said
nothing as Wilson came ambling in behind her.

She noticed the Air
Force officer’s demeanor change and the smile go away at the sight of the young
man with the sweat-stained boonie hat atop his head.

“Wilson... I believe.”

He removed his floppy
camouflage hat. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Sit down. Sit down,”
Nash urged as she removed reams of paper from the two chairs fronting her desk.

Still a little
intimidated by anyone wearing a uniform, Wilson did as he was told, selecting the
chair furthest from the door and nearest the buzzing wall-mounted A/C unit.

“Flick that thing to
low, would you Sir,” Nash said to Wilson. He reached a sinewy arm upward and
punched the button marked ‘
Night Mode’
. The major nodded a thank you in
his direction.

Being fully aware that
Nash and General Ronnie Gaines had gotten their noses out of joint because Cade
had cashed in the capital that President Clay had offered him in exchange for
snatching Robert Christian from Jackson Hole, Brook opted to remain standing.
She wanted to retain any advantage she could in order to steel herself against
the overtures Nash was about to throw at her. “I’m OK right here,” she said.

“Suit yourself.” Nash
worked her way around the desk and sat in her own high-backed leather chair.
“So how’s Cade? Haven’t seen him around the last couple of days.”

“He’s getting things
ready. We’re heading to Utah tomorrow.” Brook smiled with her eyes. Her lips
remained pursed, a thin white line bisecting her tanned features.

Nash made a face. “He’s
really going through with this... going to quit the Unit again?” she said,
adding a slight tilt to her head.

“Already has,” Brook
countered.

“How unfortunate for
America,” Nash muttered.

In an obvious attempt at
cutting the tension between the two women, Wilson made his presence known by
clearing his throat loudly. “
Ahem
... Brook... did
you
forget why
we’re here?”

“Wilson’s...” Brook
furrowed her brow and looked at Wilson, trying to decide what to call Taryn.
“His lady friend found this.” She placed the thumb drive on Nash’s desk. “This
thing had been stashed in her bunk.”

“What is it?” Nash
asked. She picked up the device. Turned it over in her hand just like Brook had
a few minutes prior. The reaction was similar and happened instantly. The color
drained from the major’s face. She remained silent and wheeled her chair to the
right, plugged the thumb drive into the USB port of the Panasonic laptop, and
hinged up the screen. Then after a few seconds had elapsed, Brook noticed a
stark glow illuminate the major’s face as the computer’s LCD screen lit up. She
watched her jaw clench and the corded muscles running the sides of her neck
bulge noticeably.

“Does it have any of the
doctor’s notes on it?” Brook asked Nash.

Nash stayed quiet for a
beat. Brook watched the color slowly returning to Nash’s face.

“Brook... I know you are
aware of the sensitive nature of this information. It got your brother killed,
and for that I’m sorry.” She turned her gaze to Wilson. “I appreciate your
vigilance in this matter, Sir, and on behalf of the President of the United
States I want to thank you for bringing this to our attention.” Nash stared at
him for a moment. He cracked a half smile as the importance of the information
contained on the drive hit him. Nash cleared her throat. “But I have to ask you
to leave my office so we can have some privacy,” she added with a firm
delivery. Without hesitating, he planted his hands on the chair arms and rose
up off of the seat.

“You’re not going
anywhere, Wilson,” Brook said icily. She gripped his forearm firmly but her
gaze remained locked with Nash’s. The A/C warbled on. Nobody spoke for a
minute, and Nash continued to stare. Her gaze passed from Brook to Wilson
before finally settling back onto Brook.

Finally Wilson nodded imperceptibly,
swallowed hard, and settled back into his seat.

“I have to make a call,”
Nash stated. She plucked the handset from the brick red telephone that looked
like it hadn’t seen action since the Cold War. The computer continued running
through some kind of sequence which cast a green flicker on Nash’s stoic
features as she waited for someone to pick up.

Cheyenne
Mountain Complex

In the span of thirty
minutes, the number of dead pressing the fence topside had doubled. Secret
Service Special Agent Adam Cross’s hand hovered near the black phone. He was
just about to call topside security and have them deal with the problem when
the shrill ring of the emergency hotline caused the usually unflappable man to
visibly start. Without a second’s hesitation, he reached for the red phone that
fellow agent Eckers had taken to calling the
Bad Phone
. It had earned
the nickname for good reason. The throwback to the Cold War was connected to a
fiber optic cable that ran underground from inside the Cheyenne Mountain
Complex—also known as NORAD—to multiple identical red telephones in various
locations at Schriever Air Force Base eighteen miles to the northeast. The
phone had sounded off on three separate occasions since President Clay’s
arrival in Colorado Springs, all in the last week, and coincidentally all on
Cross’s watch. And not once had the news on the other end been good.

As Cross enveloped the
receiver in his massive left hand, he said a silent prayer. He wasn’t holding
his breath, but he hoped that the old saying—
bad news comes in threes
—would
hold true in this instance.

“NORAD,” he said
crisply, “Special Agent Cross here. The line is secure.”

Cross nodded
intermittently, phone pinned to one ear, his pen moving furiously over the
yellow legal pad in front of him. After a few seconds he cracked a rare smile,
slapped the handset down without a parting word and picked the sleek black
handset off the phone next to it.

“Madam President, this
is Adam Cross speaking,” he said into the receiver. “Major Freda Nash just rang
on the direct line. She wants your permission to initiate Operation Slapshot.
She needs to reposition the remaining satellites immediately so she can start
working up the pre-mission briefing. She indicated the entire package, men and
assets, can be wheels up by zero six hundred.” He went on to inform the
President how the thumb drive with Fuentes’s notes had been recovered. Then he
went silent and listened to the President’s instructions. Finally, a couple of
minutes and a half page of notes later, he covered the mouthpiece and looked
across the aisle at Special Agent Lawrence Eckers, who had been sitting in
front of a phalanx of flat-panel monitors, flicking through the video feeds
transmitted from the many security cameras peppering the flanks of Cheyenne Mountain.
“Eckers, get on the horn. I want Major Ripley and her crew topside ASAP. Have
her spool up Marine One... the President wants to go visit Schriever.”

“Copy that,” Eckers
said. He seized the black phone nearest him, punched a three-digit code, and
rattled off a series of orders to someone on the other end. He then replaced
the handset and addressed his boss. “You can let President Clay know Marine One
can be wheels up in five.”

Cross removed his hand
from the mouthpiece, relayed the message, and ended the call.

“Let’s go,” he called
out. He took one last look at the large TV monitor, noting the zombies were
only two deep and posed little threat to the President’s safety. Still, he made
a mental note to self to have them thinned out before she returned. Then he
jumped up and snatched his ballistic vest from the swivel chair next to him,
slipping it over his head and fastening the Velcro as he walked towards the
massive steel blast door. He collected his weapons which had been hanging next
to the foot-thick slab of metal. Still on the move, he donned his Secret
Service-issued sidearm, chambered in .357 SIG. The semiautomatic Sig Sauer P229
always rode under his left armpit, easily accessible in a Gould and Goodrich
shoulder rig. Then he threw the single point sling over his head, letting the
small MP7 machine pistol dangle where it was within easy reach on his right
side. Under normal circumstances he would have donned a lightweight windbreaker
to conceal the armament, but these were different times and being discreet was
no longer tantamount to the job.

With Special Agent
Eckers in tow, Cross escorted the President from her quarters to the topside
entrance, donning a pair of black Oakley sunglasses during the short elevator
ride up. In less than four minutes, all three of them were onboard the Osprey
that had been assigned the call sign Marine One shortly after the former
President had gone missing and Clay had been sworn in to succeed him.

Agent Cross leaned in
towards the President. “I brought your go bag. In case you have to pull an
all-nighter,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the aircrew’s pre-flight
chatter.

She simply nodded in
return. Considering the nature of the information Nash had relayed, time was
not on their side. Getting the mission spooled up quickly had to be priority
number one, she reminded herself. Therefore, if an all-nighter was what it was
going to take, then it made no sense to waste valuable time ferrying POTUS back
and forth between Schriever and the Cheyenne Mountain Complex.

By the time Cross had
briefed the other four Secret Service agents in the detail and strapped himself
into a seat nearby, Major Loretta Ripley had finished the pre-flight and coaxed
the dual turbine engines to near maximum RPMs. The airframe groaned slightly as
the rotors punished the air overhead. The whine from the engines grew to a
crescendo and the massive tilt rotor aircraft freed itself from gravity’s
strong pull. The ship had gained a hundred feet of altitude by the time Ripley
set the twin nacelles rotating forward and the craft began switching from
vertical to horizontal flight mode. And as the airspeed swiftly picked up, the
seasoned aviator banked Marine One hard to starboard, making the Rockies
disappear behind them and putting the bird on a course that would deliver them
to the sprawling Air Force base just over the eastern horizon. “Two mikes out,”
she announced over the ship-wide comms.

***

Schriever
Air Force Base

Brook’s eyes followed
the handset as Nash replaced it in the cradle.
Here it comes
, she
thought to herself.

“President Clay is on
her way here,” Nash stated in a low voice. “In a few minutes I’ll be briefing
her, and I hope I’ll be able to tell her what she expects to hear.”

“Goddamn it,” Brook
said, shaking her head. “I knew I should have taken this thing to Shrill,
because I know what you’re thinking and I don’t even want to go there.”

Nash removed her cap,
plopped it on the desktop. “Are you sure you want your friend to sit in on this
conversation?”

Brook had a feeling it
would be better to hear Nash out sitting down, so she took a seat next to
Wilson. Once she had settled she regarded Nash with a bland look but said
nothing.

The petite major took
the silence as permission for her to continue.

“I am going to be
forthright with you Mrs. Grayson. I
will
make an appeal to your husband
that under normal circumstances he’d probably rebuff. But nothing is normal
about the hand we have been dealt.” She paused for a moment. Her eyes flicked
over at whatever data was displayed on the laptop screen. “It’s hard for me to
wrap my mind around the fact that only two weeks into this shit show and Omega
is already well on its way to erasing humans from this rock forever. Brook...
time is precious. Every day, untold numbers of humans are falling and joining
the ranks of the dead. I’ve spent nearly every waking hour watching it unfold
in real-time through satellite imagery. If we don’t act on this newfound gift
soon... the human race may not recover.”

“Nice speech, Major, but
Cade
will not
be swayed this time... even if the President tries her
fast-track promotion to General
bullshit
,” Brook stated defiantly.