The Beginning of the End (Book 2): Toward the Brink II (9 page)

“That must be one hell of a fire, you can make out the smoke from here,” David said when he got out of the Hummer.

The Tall Man walked from the van, Elliot beside him. With no point in everyone coming out, he signaled back to Cindy in the motor home to hold it there.

Mulhaven stood to one side of the van, AR-15 in hand and the engine running. The smaller towns on the 93 leading up to the border presented no problems—then again, they hadn’t stayed around long enough for problems to happen, they simply raced through as fast as they could. The mayhem was visible, however. The looters had done their job during the day, and at night, the foamers did the rest. The group needed to stock up, but they doubted there was anything left in these towns. Better to try their luck in Canada.

“Keep an eye to the front, Roger,” the Tall Man called. “We don’t know how much news has made it through to the Canadian authorities. Their systems might be down like ours.” He paused. “Or have no one to operate them. However, we have to proceed as if the Canadians are aware that something is not right, and their first response would be to seal the border.”

“Do you think they would open fire on people trying to escape?”

The Tall Man sized David up. He liked him. He was a good man, with good principles. His tendency to believe in the good nature of others would be his downfall.

“After what we’ve seen, David, would you if it might prevent further transmission?”

David dropped his head. He understood. Yes … he’d do it, too.

“Look, look! Up there!” Roger yelled.

David and the Tall Man turned to see Roger pointing above the horizon. Their eyes followed the direction. Two white trails, one just behind the other, were visible in the sky. Planes. Jet planes moving fast.

“F-16s headed to … what the …?” The Tall Man was stunned when four streaks burst from the jets. “Missiles. They’ve fired missiles.”

Mulhaven joined them, and the others came out of the vehicles. It was the first time since the tragic helicopter accident in Twin Falls that they’d seen any aircraft, and they had let their guard down.

A rumble was heard in the distance, or perhaps felt, as the planes began a long turn. It was a few seconds before the orange-red ball of flame was seen above the tree line.

“Napalm. Has to be,” Mulhaven commented.

“Well, at least we know we haven’t been forgotten!” David said cheerfully.

The younger members of the group, except for Elliot, raised a cheer. It was something to feel good about. The military was coming to save them! When they noticed the senior members of the group weren’t so quick to join them, their celebrations ceased.

“What’s wrong? Why the concerned looks?” Cindy’s eyes darted from Elliot to the Tall Man.

David also questioned their lack of excitement. “Do you know something we don’t?”

“Well, it appears the situation hasn’t gone unnoticed by Washington. However.” His tone was full of caution and his words carefully chosen. “We’re at the Canadian border, and right away that tells me how far this disease has spread. These warplanes are ahead of us, so I have to question who or what they are firing on.”

“Well, who else would it be, Chuck? Foamers, they’re shooting at foamers.” Cindy sounded a little frustrated.

The Tall Man pulled his wool beanie over his ears further. He felt a chill in the air. He had to be honest, sure, but he didn’t want to break anyone’s spirit, either—well, no more than they already were.

“Destroying the foamers with fire makes sense in more ways than one, but as we all know, apart from when disturbed, foamers only appear at night. It’s been the looters who have been active during daylight.”

“Okay … so it’s the looters then.”

Elliot walked over to Cindy and put his arm around her and held her close. Her hopes for a rescue had been dashed.

“Look over there!” Roger’s keen eye spotted a plume of thick black smoke, this time to the east of their position.

“More napalm, perhaps. There has to be more than a couple of jets.” Mulhaven remarked on the sheer size of the dark cloud.

The new outbreak was in the Glacier National Park area. The national park was bigger than 1,500 square miles and stretched from Canada through Montana, to where it joined up with the Lolo National Forest and then the Boise National Forest—all told, tens of thousands of square miles. If an uncontained fire raged through these parks, the resulting damage would be horrendous. It wouldn’t take long to spread through the states of Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Oregon, and Washington, and into Canada, especially when helped along with the aid of some napalm. Every living creature within its path would be engulfed.

That was General Stodge’s plan.

The buildings, farmland, and infrastructure would be almost as damaged as if the nuclear strike had gone ahead. But, under Stodge’s plan, they could be rid of the foamer menace and they could rebuild without the threat of nuclear contamination. Now that he’d come to the president’s rescue, Stodge thought it only right for his brother’s construction company—of which he was a major and secret shareholder—to receive the rebuilding contracts.

“Seal it off and burn everything inside.”

“What? Elliot … what did you say?” The Tall Man turned to question his younger companion’s apparent foreknowledge, then he shifted his gaze to one side of Elliot’s. The vision up ahead in the distance sent more alarm bells through him than anything he or the group had encountered in the last week.

Elliot saw the look of sheer dread on the Tall Man’s face and it cast a cold shiver down his back. Elliot turned and faced the horror that had haunted his mother in her remaining days—the mutant children.

The president ended the last of his calls then said into the intercom, “Hold all calls, I’m stepping out for a moment.” “Stepping out” was the president’s euphemism for a bathroom break. Hell, even presidents had to take a shit now and then. This time, the euphemism was for something far more important.

The president buttoned his coat then walked as calmly as he could to the Situation Room in the basement of the West Wing, escorted by two Secret Service agents. There was no emergency meeting scheduled—he was being kept up to date on Stodge’s plan to rid the United States and the world of the foamer menace. But the secret encounter he was about to partake in would be as important—if not more so—as it would determine his own future.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” The president dismissed the two agents after he entered the room.

At the head of the polished table sat just one man, dressed in a silk suit with a woolen scarf around his neck, exuding confidence as if he owned the place. Perhaps he did. There was but one man in the whole of the United States who would show such arrogance.

Milton Etheridge.

Etheridge was the biggest unknown name there was—at least in North America. There wasn’t a pie he didn’t have his manicured thumb in. While there were many other wealthy individuals known to the public, Etheridge went about his business unnoticed. He was no longer concerned with the mere acquisition of money. That meant little. It was about control, total control. Through a multitude of shell companies that owned shell companies, all run by an army of highly paid and trusted accountants and lawyers, Etheridge had accumulated more money than any of the above. That he was practically unknown, except by other wealthy people and political leaders, permitted him to move about relatively unnoticed. Etheridge had once boasted there wasn’t a major political or financial decision made in the United States on which he wasn’t consulted.

“Mr. President, how good of you to see me … and on such short notice.” After Holmes had dealt with the troublesome Hadlee, and he’d reassured the Russians, Etheridge thought it time to speak with the president himself.

The president could have answered in any number of ways, and wanted to, but now was not the time for moral judgments. He doubted if it ever would be again.

“Holmes not with you?”

It had been rumored that Holmes had aligned himself with such behind-the-scenes players. The president could now confirm the fact after Holmes had proposed the meeting with Milton Etheridge.

“No, Mr. President, he has some urgent business to attend to. The relocation, of which you already know, has begun. The logistics of such an undertaking require his utmost attention.”

The president pulled up a chair at the middle of the brown boardroom table. There was no point in getting pissed about who sat in which chair. It was no longer a time to care about privilege.

“Let’s cut to the chase. You know who and what I am, and that I practically control both major parties. We don’t have time to dance around. I’m here to offer you, your family, and two of your staff with their families a chance to live. Take it or leave it.”

The president was aware of the rumors about the Chamber, like everyone else. He didn’t live under a rock. However, being president didn’t grant one all-powerful knowledge. Sometimes information that’s hidden from the public is just as hidden from the president. Especially when the president has a strong policy on social reform and accountability.

“Join you and your cohorts and abandon the American people, you mean?”

“If you wish to put it in such a manner, Mr. President. Richard Holmes informed you of the evacuation. We wanted to see where you stood and …”

The president smiled as he interrupted. “You only wanted me to lend legitimacy to your plans, but you went ahead without me anyway. Then, when I sank to your immoral levels, you thought you’d try once more. Is that it?”

“Mr. President!”

“Don’t fuck with me, Etheridge. You might be the biggest rat in the cheese factory, but in case you’ve forgotten …” The president was on his feet, nostrils flared, brow creased, and eyes wild as he leaned over the table toward Etheridge. “This, you son of a bitch, is my playground. I’ve already ordered the assassination of one man, which I’m sure pleased you no end, and I don’t have to stop at one!”

“You wouldn’t dare.” The inference wasn’t lost on Etheridge, and the reality of the threat hit like a ton of bricks. Here he was, underground, in a secret meeting with a man who had just ordered the execution of another, and was angry enough to kill again. Etheridge’s estimated wealth of around five hundred billion, and the power that gave him a say in every political decision that mattered, wouldn’t help him now. Never before had such a high-level member of the Chamber put himself in such jeopardy.

Prior to the turn of the twentieth century, the wealthy of Europe, along with a handful of members from the new market that was the United States of America, had met in Vienna in a plush hotel ballroom. Lavish dining tables had replaced the old wooden seats for the event, with a select and discreet waiter for each table. An oath had been sworn by all of the staff never to reveal what they heard or who they saw at the gathering. Representatives from the royal families were present, along with influential military commanders. A well-respected string quartet played soft chamber music all weekend long, and the guests were often heard remarking how they wished they could “have them play in my chamber.” The music became the most memorable part of the gathering and soon entered the language of the participants. It followed, then, that when they referred to themselves or to the meeting, the word “chamber” arose, and it soon became synonymous with the inaugural meeting and its members.

There were many topics for discussion, all business- or industry-related, about how they could be monopolized by this new group. The European financier Henry Stewman gloated to all and sundry of how he had locked up the political system of the “emerging market,” and the future looked prosperous. The market he referred to was the United States of America.

Had the men who fought the Revolutionary War known that financiers from the very country they sought independence from had colluded in the outcome for economic control, they would have rolled over in their graves. All the fighting, the deaths, amounted to little. It had been arranged.

It was rumored that Stewman’s great-grandfather had financed the final push by the revolutionary forces when it became clear they had the upper hand. Grandfather Stewman, a gambler, had always made sure of the winner before he made his wager. He kept an interested eye on all parties involved—the French, the English, as well as the colonists. He even took an interest in the natives—or Indians, as they were called—who had been misled by all sides. It became worse for them years later when they lost all rights to the land their ancestors had roamed for thousands of years. Now they were a valuable commodity for all sides. They were used as cheap cannon fodder or to initiate hostile actions.

After the turmoil of the War of Independence and the hardship that followed, the United States entered into another war with the British. When not fighting wars with other countries, they fought among themselves. The Civil War was to free the country from the abominable practice of slavery, but it divided the country further. After the Civil War, the United States stuck its chest out into the world arena, fully believing it was a major player.

Stewman and his partners made a fortune even by present-day standards during this war, selling weapons and ammunition to both sides. They didn’t care who won, as long as it didn’t affect business.

As commerce grew in the United States, trade and banking became crucial, and Stewman was right there to take full advantage. Financial institutions were bankrolled by Stewman, with the most affluent and prominent from these institutions invited to the inaugural meeting in Vienna. Stewman and his sons, through these local bankers, became the primary backers of both political parties. Stewman—and later, other Chamber members—was able to influence policies of the government to the benefit of the Chamber.

The control of electricity was one such topic at the meeting, as was the newest commodity: oil. With the advent of the motorized vehicle, it didn’t take too much imagination to see that the desire to own one would grow in the not-too-distant future. This meant more plants to make these vehicles, which meant more oil would be needed to make more gasoline, which would lead to more money. One foot after the other. Turning a profit was as simple as walking…. Well, it was to the Chamber.