Chicago Run

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Minister stood in his office staring out one of the tinted glass windows at the myriad lights of the metropolis, his hands behind his back.

A knock sounded and he called out, “Enter.”

“It’s me, sir,” Ramis announced.

The Minister saw his subordinate’s reddish reflection in the pane as Ramis walked up behind him. “What is the latest projection?”

“Major Langella says the gas-dispersal systems will be fully operational within three days,” Ramis reported.

“I had hoped it would be sooner,” the Minister remarked, pursing his lips.

“He told me they must triple-check the buildings for leaks. Should any of the gas escape and kill bystanders, someone might suspect the truth about the inoculation program. It would ruin the whole operation.”

“I know,” the Minister reluctantly agreed. “And considering the scope of the project, there’s no room for mistakes. Tell the major to do his usual thorough job, but urge him to complete the installations within two days if at all possible.”

“Yes, sir,” Ramis said, and turned to go.

“Oh. One more thing.”

“Sir?”

“I wanted to compliment you on the excellent job you did with the Schonfeld tape. Not even an expert will be able to tell that those spools were doctored.”

“Thank you, Excellency,” Ramis said. “But if I may be so bold, I still believe you’re taking a great risk if you formally accuse him of treason.

He’s one of the most patriotic officers in our military.”

The Minister sighed. “I appreciate the risk, my friend, but this entire enterprise is fraught with risks. Selective genocide has seldom been attempted on such a massive scale. Exterminating a million and a half men between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five is any politician’s worst nightmare. Simply working out the logistics has given me numerous headaches.”

“Which reminds me, sir. All the press releases concerning the phony disease have been prepared for the media and are awaiting your approval.”

“Good.”

“We have a dozen physicians ready to authenticate the releases by calling a news conference and announcing the results of their so-called five-year study.”

Turning, the Minister regarded his assistant intently. “I want your personal opinion, Ramis.”

“Excellency?”

“Do you think it will work?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Be specific.”

Ramis pondered for a moment. “Very well. Since you’ve asked, I’ll tell you that I firmly believe your devious scheme in brilliant. The problem confronting you was monumental, yet you selected an infallible way out.

Sure, all the computer projections indicate there will be widespread revolt in Technic City in seventeen years, or possibly somewhat sooner. But you were astute enough to determine that the prediction only held true if the population growth continued at its present rate and there were no changes in our social order.”

A wry smile creased the Minister’s countenance. “You should be specific more often, my friend. Your insights are commendable.”

“Will that be all?”

“Yes,” the Minister said. Then he thought of one last item after all. “No. Not quite. What time is my appointment with the scientists from the Bioengineering Department?”

“Eight A.M. They were quite excited at the prospect of providing a personal demonstration.”

“And they’re actually bringing their Cy-Hounds here?”

“Yes, sir. I felt it more appropriate than for you to pay them a visit.”

“I can always rely on you to have my best interests at heart,” the Minister said. “Thank you, Ramis. This definitely will be all.”

“As you wish, sir.” Ramis gave a little bow and departed.

Grinning in amusement, the Minister waited until the door closed behind his faithful lackey, and then turned to the window. His grin transformed into a frown. If only he had Ramis’s confidence in his own plan! But it must work. If it failed, the Technic elite would eventually be overthrown and Technic City would become the political equivalent of a cesspoll: a democracy.

The idea had initially occurred to him shortly after the Warriors destroyed the Technic research facility at Green Bay. He’d optimistically counted on the fruits of that research, which would have resulted in the capability of literally controlling the minds of the populace, to prevent the predicted revolution from ever materializing. With the facility reduced to rubble, he’d been compelled to resort to an alternate means.

Many sleepness nights had been spent in rejection of one impractical idea after another before inspiration struck. The computer had indicated that those most susceptible to the false teachings of the Resistance Movement were persons between the ages of 18 and 35, and that it would be the males in that age range who would be most likely to rise in violent revolution. Women would play key roles naturally, but most of the actual fighting would be done by the men.

But what if there were no men to take up arms?

That was the question he’d mentally posed, and the answer had been a revelation. He’d realized he could forestall the rebellion by eliminating those most likely to rebel. Such a simple answer, and one that might have eluded a lesser man of limited intellect.

Then came the nightmare. How to accomplish the deed was the burning issue. He couldn’t simply invite all able-bodied males in the targeted age range to a mass execution. More restless nights had been spent before he devised a devious ploy.

The Minister chuckled as he contemplated the details of his scheme.

First there would be an announcement that a strange malady was striking the men of Technic City, a curious disease that only afflicted those from their late teens to their mid or late thirties. Much would be made of the presumed selectivity of the virus.

The next step involved his panel of physicians and their alleged research. They would speculate that the disease was the work of a chemical warfare agent employed during World War Three. Perhaps the virus had been developed by the enemy in an effort to wipe out those men of prime combat-ready age in the former United States. Now, somehow, the virus had been introduced into Technic City.

There would be hysteria among the male population, no doubt. Calls would be made for massive government spending to find a cure. After a suitable interval of three or four weeks he would personally go on television and announce that a cure had been perfected, that it involved a simple inoculation, and that all those males in the high-risk group would receive cards in the mail advising them when to report for theirs.

Then huge warehouses would be converted into “health centers” where inoculations would supposedly be given. A fleet of trucks was being prepared to transport the incinerated remains out of the city. If all went well, the procedure would work just as smoothly as that employed by the Nazis when so many Jews were ushered into similar gas chambers and subsequently reduced to ashes.

In one day, from dawn until about midnight, a million and a half men would die. He’d wisely permit another 400,000 males of the same age group to live purely for future breeding purposes; killing all of them would present insurmountable difficulties later on. These men wouldn’t recieve inoculation appointment cards for the fatal day.

At midnight the day of the extermination martial law would be declared. It would be claimed that the shots administered to the men were lethal. The Resistance Movement would receive the blame. Everyone would be told the rebels had managed to poison the serum supply.

The Minister laughed at the thought. What a terrific double stroke! He would reduce the numbers of those who posed the greatest threat to a manageable level and brand the Resistance Movement with the responsibility for the atrocity.

Ramis had been correct.

He was brilliant.

Only one hitch yet remained. There were a few top-ranking officers and politicians who might be inclined to launch an investigation of their own into the affair, and he intended to silence them before the project was even launched. So far two prominent administrators and a colonel had been indicted on trumped-up charges of conspiring with the rebels.

Shortly he would go after bigger game: General Julian Schonfeld, the man who posed the greatest threat of all.

The Minister yawned and arched his spine. Soon he must turn in. Only one last item remained to be considered: what was he to make of Corporal Lyle Carson’s assertion that a lone Warrior named Yama had launched some kind of personal war against Technic City? And what about the business of Lieutenant Alicia Farrow? How the hell did she fit into the total picture?

He’d listened in barely disguised amazement to the corporal’s story.

There had been no doubting it because Carson had been under the complete influence of a potent truth drug. Unfortunately, the new information raised more questions than it answered.

Who was this Yama?

How could one man possibly hope to prevail over the combined might of the Technics?

Were there other Warriors involved?

Was Yama’s tale a fabrication to throw the Technics off, and if so, off what?

The Minister turned and headed toward the door leading to his opulent private quarters. Tomorrow he would attempt to solve the riddle. At the moment he was too tired and needed sleep.

At least one aspect of the next day promised to be diverting. The demonstration of the Cy-Hounds should be of particular interest. He’d always been fascinated by biomechanical life forms.

An intriguing idea hit him.

If these Cy-Hounds were everything they were cracked up to be, he might keep a pair as pets. They’d be the ideal companions, less critical man a woman, more affectionate than Ramis, and able to rip the throat out of anyone who displeased him.

On second thought, perhaps he’d keep a half dozen.