The Surge - 03 (24 page)

“Ignore it,” snapped the man in charge of communications. “Do not give it the slightest bit of credibility by acknowledging their worthless propaganda.”

Again, bedlam erupted, half of the room apparently agreeing, several others protesting the suggestion.

It took longer to settle the assembled officials, but once again, all eyes were focused on the man who had to make the ultimate decision.

“We will compromise,” he stated. “We will use a lower level office to dispel their claims. We have a minor outbreak of an infectious germ – nothing more. The United Nations and other global agencies are here or on their way to Mexico to investigate. We will leave it at that.”  

The first riot erupted not out of fear or distrust of the government, but because a pharmacy in the suburbs of Guadalajara had distributed the last of its limited supply of antibiotics. Within an hour, shortages were being reported all across the country. Like a run on the banks during an economic downfall, long lines began forming outside of every hospital, doctor’s office, and pharmacy outlet. In many locations, the police were dispatched to keep the peace.

The first indirect death was reported in Tijuana.

An older man, standing in a two block-line outside a health clinic, began coughing. The people waiting with him in the queue became concerned that the individual was already infected. They demanded that he leave. He refused. A fight broke out, and the victim was trampled.  

News stations all across Mexico began reporting more and more cases of the severely contagious strain of what was being described by some as a “respiratory plague.” No one was able to make any sense of the pattern of outbreaks and the rapid spread. The infected cars and trucks, stuck in the traffic gridlock when the pilot had dumped his load, had driven to a number of towns and villages throughout the western and central regions of the country.

It wasn’t only humans that were suffering. Cattle were dropping dead by the thousands all over the northern states. Ranchers began to panic, rushing to diseased stockyards and demanding their apparently unaffected animals be returned, which only served to spread the airborne bacteria to healthy herds. The first case of a plague-ridden hog resulted in a wave of rumors, speculation, and inaccurate information to roll through the agricultural communities that fed the people of Mexico.

As the bad news continued to inundate the people, more and more credibility was being given to the cartels’ accusations.

President Simmons glanced up from the report he’d just read, a deep frown crossing his face. “We need to tell Mexico City the truth, gentlemen. I know the consequences will be bitter and long-lasting, but it’s time that we came clean.”

Colonel Bowmark nodded, “Technically, sir, we had nothing to do with the development of those bio-weapons. The lab where they were being tested wasn’t part of any Texas institution or sponsored in any way by our government.”

Simmons shook his head, “Do you really think that’s going to matter to President Salinas or the Mexican people?”

The Secretary of State, always the diplomat, cleared his throat, “If we do choose to go that route, sir, I strongly suggest that we downplay the entire affair. There is no proof yet that the strain in Mexico is the same one stolen from the lab outside College Station … at least not any evidence that is likely to become public knowledge.”

Simmons didn’t like it. “Cover-ups and filtering the truth always comes back to bite you in the ass,” he mumbled.

“The republic did nothing wrong. We had zero ill intent. We didn’t even know they were researching such things,” continued the man heading up Agriculture.

“But the United States did, sir,” countered the republic’s top diplomat. “If you go public with all that we know, it’s going to make President Clifton and her administration look bad. That will serve little purpose other than to strain relations even further. Washington isn’t going to like being designated as the villain here.”

“But it’s the truth,” Bowmark barked. “Doesn’t the truth matter for anything these days?”

The expression on the diplomat’s face said it all. Bowmark was a cop who operated in a world of black and white, right or wrong. “I’m sorry, Colonel, but when it comes to international relations and politics, the truth is a many-splendored thing. Even if we stated the facts in an unbiased way, the Republic of Texas would still be open to legitimate, intense criticism. Why didn’t we know what was being developed within our borders? How was it that Texas allowed such substances to be stolen right from under our noses? Why didn’t we warn our neighbors immediately? Do you understand, Colonel?”

The old lawman nodded, but still didn’t like it. “My apologies, Mr. Secretary. I should know by now to keep my opinion of political matters to myself.”

The statesman smiled and then returned his attention to the president. “I would also suggest that you call the White House and discuss any release or statement with President Clifton beforehand. America is exposed in all of this, almost as much as we are. Clifton has some excellent people working up there – perhaps we can cooperate and manage the entire situation in a controlled fashion.”

Simmons grunted, obviously not looking forward to having the conversation. Still, the secretary was correct as usual. “No time like the present,” the president stated, reaching for the phone at the corner of his desk.

“Get me President Clifton, please,” he spoke into the speakerphone. “Tell the White House that it is urgent.”

“Right away, sir.”

It was several minutes later when Simmons’s assistant rang back. “I have the White House Chief of Staff of the line, sir. President Clifton is unavailable at the moment.”

After exchanging approving glances with the secretary, Simmons said, “That will be fine. Thank you.”

“President Simmons, it’s been some time since we’ve spoken,” the voice sounded through the speaker.

Only 15 minutes were required to brief the WHCOS, Clifton’s right-hand man listening without uttering a single word.

“I had no idea such research was taking place in Texas, Mr. President. Evidently this is a program that fell through the cracks after secession, and has obviously developed into a problem for both of us,” the Washington politician stated. “I will inform President Clifton immediately. Will you be available for a call this afternoon?”

For a moment, Simmons thought about barking at the man who was clearly acting as a gatekeeper. Ever since the secession, it had been “little you, big me,” whenever the republic had business with the United States. The gravity of the situation, however, made him check the reaction.

“Yes, I look forward to hearing from Mrs. Clifton,” Simmons said, hoping the subtle insult was understood on the other end of the call.

The second batch of product “cooked” in the basement of the funeral home was removed in the exact same way, but this time, the container was of a different shape and size.

Within a few hours, an unremarkable sedan was traveling from the cemetery toward the naval base at Veracruz.

The 90-minute journey along the coast was scenic and relaxing, the driver having no idea of what sort of cargo resided under the spare tire in his trunk. It wasn’t unusual to pick up a little extra money as a courier. He never knew what was in any of the packages or envelopes and didn’t care.

El General had selected Veracruz for a variety of reasons.

First and foremost was the fact that the Mexican Marines were the primary force used against the cartels. It was well known that the Army had been thoroughly infiltrated years ago, with everyone from field officers to members of the general staff on the criminal syndicates’ payrolls.

The Marines had proven to be far more difficult to penetrate, partly due to their small size and isolated command structure, as well as higher standards of recruiting and training.

Unlike most nations, there was no integrated command between the Army and Navy in Mexico. Each organization had its own commander on the presidential staff, and competition for budget, influence, and political stroke was an everyday occurrence.

The other reason why El General chose Veracruz was the base’s historical significance.

In 1914, the U.S. Marines had invaded the coastal town, Mexico’s largest port at the time. The justification for the military action had been questionable at best, President Woodrow Wilson seemingly eager to become involved in his southern neighbor’s ongoing revolution.

Ultimately, the vastly superior American forces overwhelmed the city’s defenders, but not before the students at the Veracruz Naval Academy put up a heroic, if short-lived, defense.

Like the Alamo in Texas, the city holds a special place in the national memory of Mexico. The U.S. invasion and occupation are widely considered one of the ugliest deeds ever inflicted on the country. Later, in remembrance of the conflict, the port’s name was officially changed to Heroica Veracruz.

It had been Ghost’s recommendation to strike an iconic symbol that held meaning for the general population. In Vincent’s grand scheme, that emblem of Mexican nationalism was the perfect target.

The courier arrived at the designated address, parking his sedan in front of a small commercial business advertised as G&L Mechanical. A few minutes later, after a busty, young lady had signed for the cardboard mystery box, he was on his way back to Tampico.

A truck soon left the business, the bright red and green logo of G&L Mechanical a common sight on the streets of Herocia Veracruz. The driver, a technician employed at the firm for over five years, made for the naval base.

He was passed through the security gate without much ado. The air conditioner atop the facility’s main administration building had been experiencing issues for over a week. G&L was a registered vendor, the driver’s identification already on file.

“The new part we ordered from Panama finally arrived today,” the repairman informed the guard. “The base commander will be able to enjoy cold air soon.”

“Perhaps it will improve his mood,” the Marine sergeant chuckled, waving the van through the checkpoint.

Parking his company vehicle in a spot marked, “Service Units Only,” the driver hefted his toolbox, pressure meters, and the cardboard container. He had been here several times before and knew exactly which entrance was closest to the misbehaving air conditioner.

Again, his identification was checked while his tools and the spare parts were scrutinized. All seemed to be in order, and he was allowed to enter the building.

He rode the elevator to the third floor, from there accessing a maintenance stairwell that led to the roof.