Indestructible: V Plague Book 7 (5 page)

The current in the river was slow.  No more than a mile an
hour at best.  And the water was warm; unlike the frigid dunking I’d taken in
the Mississippi when I jumped in after Rachel and Dog.  The footing was easy,
feeling like packed sand with an occasional rock.  As we approached the middle,
the water rose above my waist and stayed there until I was within ten feet of
the far side.  It was an easy crossing and neither of us had any trouble
keeping our rifles high and dry.

On the opposite bank I called a halt long enough to draw my
pistol and make sure no water was trapped anywhere inside.  Weapon ready, I
motioned to my new traveling companion and he set off at a fast trot.  I fell
in slightly behind and to his side. 

The tracks out of the water were clear in the damp earth,
then we moved back onto the prairie grass and were easily following the trail
their passage had created.  The Indian’s legs were longer than mine and he
settled into a steady, ground eating lope that I had to concentrate to keep up
with.  I reminded myself of our different heritages; his one of running to hunt
and survive, mine one of hard physical labor on small plots of land.  I still
kept up with him.

Half an hour after we left the river he started talking.  He
asked my name, which I told him.  He asked what my story was, which I didn’t. 
My silence didn’t deter him, and now that I’d broken through he couldn’t seem
to shut up.

His name was Joseph Revard.  It wasn’t an Osage name, which
he assured me would be unpronounceable to my tongue.  Revard was French, a
legacy of the trading alliance that was formed in the 1600s between the Osage
nation and French traders.  He talked for miles about the history of his
people, not sugar coating any of the injustices perpetrated by the US
Government, both real and perceived.  Many of them I’d heard before, growing
up, some of them I hadn’t.  None of them were something that should ever have
happened, but there’s no changing the past.

Then he began talking about himself and I was so surprised I
began to fall behind and had to run hard to close the distance that opened up
between us.  Joe had left the reservation when he was 19 to go live amongst the
white man.  He had encountered open and hostile prejudice, and the subtle kind
where people were overly polite and solicitous.  He said he preferred the ones
that were open with their racism because at least he knew exactly where he
stood with them.

When he was 20 he was washing dishes in a greasy spoon truck
stop, ready to give up on dreams of making it in the white mans’ world.  That
was when he met Mary.  She was young, pretty and as white and blonde as a
tourism poster for Oklahoma.  Mary was a waitress in the truck stop and the
moment they met he could feel something different about her.  When she looked
at him, she looked into his eyes and saw the man he was.  He wasn’t even sure she
realized he was an Indian.

Mary was a student at Oklahoma State, and when she wasn’t
waiting tables at the truck stop she was in class or the library.  Totally
enamored with the beautiful girl, Joseph began hanging around the campus to
steal a moment with her between classes or when she would take a break from
studying.  She was always happy to see him and he quickly fell completely and
hopelessly in love.

There was a small contingent of Osage students at OSU and it
didn’t take them long to discover and befriend Joe.  With their support, and
Mary’s encouragement, he enrolled in the University.  He had no goal, no idea
what he would do with an education, but knew if he was going to be part of
Mary’s life he couldn’t continue to be an uneducated dish washer.

Federal programs paid for Joe’s tuition and books, and by
the end of his first semester he and Mary were sharing a small apartment within
walking distance of the campus.  They studied hard, worked hard and made time
for each other whenever they could.  By the end of his freshman year, Joe had
discovered that he had an interest in and an affinity for the biological
sciences.

Three years later he graduated with an honors degree in
bio-chemistry, walking across the stage hand in hand with Mary, his new bride. 
After graduation came graduate school for both.  Mary studied literature, but
Joseph began working on a degree in virology.  He had completed his Masters and
was awaiting word on whether or not he had been accepted into the Doctoral
program when the attacks happened.

Life had remained relatively normal in Oklahoma for the
first few weeks, then secondary outbreaks began occurring.  Joe was spending
twenty hours a day in the lab, working with senior researchers who were looking
for any way to battle the Chinese engineered virus.  Then the Air Force had
shown up with a data stick and vials of a liquid that they claimed were a
vaccine.

The team had worked around the clock to verify that they did
in fact have a viable vaccine in hand.  Exhausted, yet excited, Joe had rushed
home to share the wonderful news with Mary and had almost been killed when he
walked in the front door.  Mary had been in the back of the apartment when he
opened the door, screaming and charging.  Joe had barely gotten the door closed
before she slammed into it in her efforts to rip his throat out.

While he had been working, she had turned.  The screaming
devil that had attacked when he opened the door wasn’t his wife any more.  But
he couldn’t bring himself to leave her.  For a whole day he sat on the porch as
Mary prowled their small home, occasionally screaming her frustration and
anger.

Joe was still sitting there when his friend, Robert, found
him.  Robert was also an Osage and a fellow graduate student at OSU.  He was on
his way to the reservation, fleeing the city, and had stopped to check on Joe
and Mary.  He had sat down and held his friend, crying with him for his loss. 
Wrung out, Joe had stood and asked Robert if he could borrow the old Colt
pistol he was wearing.

Weapon in hand, Joe had slowly approached the door.  With a
deep breath he had turned the knob and shoved the door open, pistol raised and
pointed into his home.  Mary charged.  Joe hesitated, unable or unwilling to
defend himself.  Only Robert’s warning shout saved him, snapping him out of
whatever reverie he was in and making him pull the trigger and kill his wife.

Handing the gun back to Robert, he’d walked past his friend
and climbed into his pickup.  Robert had gotten in a moment later and started
driving them out of the city, but Joe redirected him to the University’s Health
Science Center where he’d been working.  Going in by himself, he’d taken an
empty backpack.  By this time production of the vaccine had begun and he filled
the pack with as many vials as it would hold.

Bringing the pack, he and Robert had returned to the
reservation and immediately begun administering the vaccine.  Joe had been gone
a long time and had forgotten the mistrust of white man medicine that was prevalent
amongst the tribe.  Less than a third of the Osage were willing to be
vaccinated.  He did what he could, then begged the tribal elders to help him
convince those that had refused to be inoculated.  They turned him down, and
he’d gone to his family home in despair.

Over the next several days the Osage that hadn’t received
the vaccine began to turn, and kill anyone around them.  Soon the infected
outnumbered the living and Joe and Robert barely escaped with their lives. 
They ran to the open plains, battling females that had tracked them until they
were almost out of ammo.  The day before I encountered Joe, Robert had been
killed by a female.  Joe had shot her with his last bullet, then buried his
friend.

“Where are we going?  How far?”  I asked when Joe finally
finished his story.

“It’s a little over a day’s run from here,” he answered.  “Canyon
country.  The Potawatomi tribe slaughtered hundreds of Osage women and children
hiding there in the 1800s.  There was a treaty in place and the American government
was supposed to provide protection.  They didn’t.”

I didn’t feel like debating two hundred year old events with
him.  I had little doubt that the problems of any of the Indian tribes were at
the bottom of the priority list for the Army at the time.  Not that I wasn’t
sympathetic, but I had more pressing problems to worry about.  Besides, I was
feeling dizzy again and was having a hard time focusing on Joe’s running form.

Colonel Crawford leaned back in the base commander’s office
chair and rubbed his eyes.  He was tired.  Bone weary tired.  But the ranks of
infected at Tinker Air Force Base’s perimeter fence were growing by the hour as
more and more of the civilian population succumbed to the infection, and he
didn’t have time to rest.  The high altitude EMP intended to disable the
satellite the Russians were using to control the herds had knocked out the
electrical grid on the base and he was now working in an office lit by the pale
green glow of several chemical sticks.

While this was inconvenient for him, it was downright
dangerous for the Rangers, Marines and Airmen defending the fence.  They had no
light.  Few of their night vision goggles and scopes were still working as
they’d had most of them turned on when the pulse happened.  Any electronic
device that had been in operation at the time of the nuclear detonation had
been permanently destroyed.

The only good news was that there had been very few vehicles
and aircraft in operation at the time, so they were still able to use trucks
and Humvees as well as put helicopters in the air to support the battle that
was raging.

“They’re landing at Fort Hood, sir.”  Captain Blanchard said
from the shadows on the far side of the office where he had been softly
speaking on one of a handful of radios that had survived.

“What does it look like down there?”  Crawford asked without
bothering to open his eyes.

“All quiet at the moment.  Runways are clear and they’re not
seeing anything moving on post.  But there’s some bad news.”

“Do tell, Captain.”  The Colonel said with a note of
sarcasm. 

“They passed over a herd north of Dallas that they estimate
to be at least eight miles long and over two wide.  If they’re bunched up as
tightly as we’ve seen elsewhere, that’s estimated to be close to twenty-five
million infected.  Still headed straight for us.”  Blanchard said.

Crawford opened his eyes and stared at him, rubbing his
temples in a vain attempt to ward off the headache that was threatening to
explode into a migraine.  He’d sent two squads of Marines and three C-130s to
Fort Hood in Texas to raid the armory.  They needed ammunition.  Desperately. 
Recon flights throughout the day after the EMP had found other herds still
bearing down on Oklahoma City, but none of them were as large as the one that
had just been reported.

“What’s the word from the Navy?  Did the EMP do the job, or
not?”  Crawford asked.

“They’re still trying to figure that out, sir.  We lost
everything that was over North America except for two NSA birds.  The Navy
never had access to them in the first place, and since the NSA doesn’t exist
anymore they’re having to try and hack their way in.”

“If they can’t get in, how do they know they’re
functioning?”  The Colonel asked, shoving papers around the desktop until he
found a pack of cigarettes.

“They’re showing as active nodes on the Echelon network
which they wouldn’t if the EMP had disabled them.  But being NSA assets,
they’re encrypted very heavily and it’s not a simple job to break in and take
control.  We don’t even know what they’re for or what their capabilities are. 
Hopefully once the Navy cracks them we’ll have eyes over CONUS as well as
orbital intel again.”  Blanchard raised the radio to his ear as he finished
speaking.

Watching his aide listen to the muted voice, Crawford lit a
cigarette and leaned his forearms on the heavy, walnut desk.  The desk belonged
to Air Force General Triplett, but the man was currently under house arrest in
the base commander’s quarters with his wife.  A full platoon of Rangers were
making sure that he didn’t leave, didn’t have any visitors and wasn’t able to
communicate with anyone.

Their arrest of the General for siding with the traitorous
US President had started out benign enough the previous evening, but had turned
ugly in a hurry.  Twenty Air Force Security Forces had been guarding the
General.  Colonel Crawford had personally led a platoon of Rangers to arrest
him and seize control of the strategically vital Air Force base.

The Rangers had moved into position, undetected.  Two
snipers had set up to cover each end of the large home, both of them also
having a clear view of most of the Security Forces.  Crawford’s plan had been
to move his men forward and capture the Air Force personnel, the advantage of
speed and stealth on his side.  Once the guards were neutralized it would be a
simple matter to affect the General’s arrest.

But things rarely go according to plan.  As the Rangers were
moving into position, close to the residence of the base’s Deputy Commander,
gunfire erupted from one of the second story windows.  Unable to sleep, the Air
Force Colonel had seen the Army moving into position and rather than sounding
an alarm he had grabbed a rifle and started shooting at the two Rangers that
were visible from his bedroom window.

“Weapons free for defense!”  Crawford had reluctantly
shouted into his radio.

He had wanted to do this without shedding any American
blood.  His heart sank when he heard the suppressed return fire of his men,
which quickly silenced the Air Force Colonel.  He was sick to his stomach when
the Security Forces opened up with their Humvee mounted machine gun.  Three
Rangers died before the snipers took out the gunner, and they had to kill five
more of the General’s guards before the rest of the men put their weapons on
the ground and surrendered.

Crawford had rushed forward, a squad on his heels, intending
to kick in the General’s front door.  Murder and mayhem were in his eyes as he
approached the front porch, the squad snapping their weapons up as the heavy
wooden door swung open.  It was the General’s wife, wearing a thick robe over
her nightgown.  She moved to block the opening with her body and stood facing
Crawford.

The Colonel stood on the first step, the General’s wife
staring him down.  They remained that way for a few moments, neither moving nor
speaking.  Finally the woman had stepped back into her home and waved Crawford
inside.  Leaving the Rangers on the porch he had stepped cautiously through the
door, which she left standing open and pointed down a hall.  Crawford had
removed his beret and walked quietly in the indicated direction.

At the end of the hall had been a heavy oak door, stained
dark and highly polished to match the décor of the home.  Pistol in hand,
Crawford had opened the door and stepped into General Triplett’s den.  The
General was seated in one of a pair of high backed, leather wing chairs.  He
was wearing pajamas and a dressing gown, smoking a cigar and swirling a tumbler
of amber liquid.  Another glass and a cut crystal decanter of the same drink
sat on a silver tray that rested on a table that separated the two chairs.

“Good evening, Colonel.  Drink?”  He held up the glass, his
tone belying the gravity of the moment. 

Colonel Crawford holstered his weapon and moved slowly into
the room, taking a seat.  Triplett held up the decanter and when Crawford
nodded he poured a healthy slug into the waiting glass.  The Colonel picked it
up, his eyes never leaving the superior officer.

“To the United States of America,” The General leaned
forward and held his glass out towards the Colonel.  Crawford picked up his
drink, clinked it against the other man’s glass and they drank together.

“You know why I’m here, sir.”  Crawford said, placing his
glass back on the silver tray with most of the bourbon still in it.

“How many dead outside?”  Triplett asked as if Crawford
hadn’t spoken.

“I’m not sure.  Several of mine and several of yours.  One
is too many.  This didn’t need to happen this way.”

“I’m not the one in the room committing treason, Colonel.” 
The General’s eyes flashed.

“No, sir.  You’re not, and neither am I.  The only person
guilty of that is President Clark.  I admire and respect your conviction to
your oath, but the office that you swore to defend has been corrupted.  That
only leaves our oath to defend the Constitution, and I’m truly sorry you don’t
see it that way.”  Crawford’s words were respectful, but his voice was like
cold iron.

The General sat quietly, puffing on a cigar that he finally
placed in a gleaming crystal ashtray.  Downing the remainder of his drink he gently
set it next to Crawford’s glass.

“Are you here to kill me, Colonel?”  He met Crawford’s eyes,
his gaze steady.

“No, sir.  I’m not.  You and your wife are restricted to
your quarters.  My men will search the house and remove any weapons and means
of communication, then you will not be troubled further unless you try to
leave.  You will not be allowed any visitors and my men will be outside and not
intrude on your privacy.  If you need anything, just ask, and if we can
accommodate you we will.”  Crawford said, noting the shadow at the door as the
General’s wife listened in from the hallway.

Crawford had left, placing a Lieutenant in charge of
guarding the General.  The next several hours had been tense as word spread
across the large Air Force base of the arrest and detention of their commanding
officer by the Army.  The Colonel had spent the remainder of the night speaking
personally with every Air Force officer over the rank of Lieutenant, explaining
the situation and even playing the recording of President Clark talking to the
Russian President.

Three officers who were loyal to General Triplett refused to
accept the circumstances and follow Colonel Crawford’s orders.  They were also
placed under house arrest.  The rest were aghast when they heard their President
negotiating for her new home in Russia in exchange for ordering the US Military
to stand down, and pledged their support.  A couple of them were too quick to
agree to take orders from Crawford and the Colonel singled them out for Captain
Blanchard to keep an eye on.

“Don’t suppose there’s any word from our wayward Major,”
Crawford asked.

“No, sir.”  Blanchard responded.  “I had the satellite feed
streaming to storage and am waiting for the techs to get me a working
computer.  The servers are heavily EMP shielded, so I should be able to access
the files and see where he was when the pulse burned out our birds.”

“When will the drones be on target?”  Crawford was referring
to four Predator drones that had been launched to check on the movement of the
massive herds that had been approaching Tinker.  Without satellite coverage
they were scrambling to get surveillance flights in the air to find out if the
EMP had shut down the Russian transmission.

“Within the hour, sir.  I’ll update you as soon as I have eyes
on target.  If you’d like to get some sleep I’ll wake you as soon as I know
something.”  Blanchard said.

Nodding, Crawford stubbed out his cigarette and headed for
an adjoining office where a cot had been set up for him.  He was asleep almost
before his head hit the pillow.