Pandemic

TWENTY.

Lt. Colonel Prince closed the door to his private office in the command trailer and sat at his desk with his head in his hands. The migraine bloomed behind his eyes. He could hardly think. No amount of aspirin would help. What he needed was a long, long sleep.

Ignoring his desktop computer, which demanded his attention, he opened a drawer and scooped out a bottle of Jim Beam. He kept the bottle around for special occasions, to toast a promotion or observe the end of an operation. Sharing a shot always made the moment memorable. He wondered if drinking alone would have the opposite effect. What he needed now was to forget everything.

He put the bottle away without drinking. He had work to do. Still he didn’t move. What was the point? Anything he did was just pushing a broom against an avalanche.

The radio/telephone operator had contacted Harry Lee. The captain was en route back to Hanscom. He’d seen some horrible things on his recon trip. The confidential report he’d transmitted stuck to the facts, but the story was clear enough. Boston was a lost cause.

Maybe Walker was right.

Screw Walker.

They still couldn’t raise regimental HQ. Prince told them to jump the ladder and try Division at Fort Drum. Again, no response.

Prince had seen rough soldiering. He’d led his boys through some tough campaigns. But he always knew he had the full weight of the Big Green Machine behind him, a powerful military that projected American power across the planet. Not anymore.

The idea that Division headquarters had been overrun or compromised by infection was impossible to conceive. Fort Drum wasn’t near any major cities. It was in the middle of nowhere in New York State. At first, he’d thought there must be something wrong with the communications system. But they were still able to contact other Tenth Mountain units. Those field units all reported the same problems getting through to central command.

What was the next step? Go still higher up? Call the Pentagon?

The Pentagon had been evacuated. The President and the Joint Chiefs were in their underground bunker at Mount Weather, making their erratic decisions without any knowledge of what was really happening on the ground.

Prince was going to have to make his own decisions. The right course eluded him. He knew the current strategy wasn’t working, but he couldn’t just pull his boys out of Boston and give up. More than six hundred thousand people had lived in the city before the plague. Another four million lived in the Greater Boston area. The survivors were desperate. They needed help.

If his lightfighters couldn’t do anything, what good were they? Why bother?

He’d always thought the world would end suddenly. An asteroid would come, humanity would have a week to get its shit in order, and then BOOM.

He’d never imagined a plague would do the job, and with such horror. A plague in which everybody became an enemy, everything familiar became a threat, every loved one was perverted and defiled.

Like Susan and Frankie. Your own family was shot down in the street like dogs by men wearing uniforms just like yours.

Stars flared in his vision. He groaned.

He needed some creative thinking. Goddammit, he was going to have to get Walker back. But he’d get the man squared away first.

Prince was still rattled from their last encounter. Walker had the logic—and personality—of Mr. Spock and the loyalty of a bloodhound. If he’d lost enough faith to challenge a superior officer the way he had, he had to have a damned good reason. Or maybe he was just cracking under the stress. A lot of men did.

He opened the drawer and looked at the bottle. Forget everything. He closed it again.

Maybe he should appoint Lee as his XO. Lee was a straight shooter, and the man had balls. They’d destroy the rogue artillery unit that was terrorizing the Boston core and put the Governor in his place. They’d find a new strategy to check the spread of infection across the area and stop the violence.

They could do it. They still had a mission.

Somebody knocked on the door.

Prince touched the 9mm at his hip. “Come in.”

The radio/telephone operator entered the room. “Good news, Colonel.”

Prince stared at the man. He hadn’t heard good news in over a month.

The RTO added, “We’ve established contact with regimental HQ.”

“Outstanding, son.” Prince stood and followed the man into the work area. For the first time in weeks, he started to feel like things were going his way. He picked up the headset. “Wizard Six. Over.”

Armstrong roared, “WHAT IS YOUR FUCKING MALFUNCTION, JOE?”

Even though Colonel Armstrong couldn’t see him, Prince stood at attention. He’d gotten such treatment before. Armstrong wasn’t one to mince words; he called it “tough love.” Clearly, the regimental commander knew about Prince’s failures: the destruction of the hospitals, the Governor rejecting his offer of sanctuary, the infected rogue artillery unit bombing downtown, the steady losses of men and materiel…and his utter failure to achieve his mission. What could he say that would change the commander’s opinion? That he was going to appoint a new XO?

He felt his optimism wash away like sand in the surf.

“DID YOU NOT HEAR ME? ARE YOU DEAF?”

“I heard you loud and clear, sir. Over.” After a long silence, he added: “Sir?”

Armstrong exploded into insane laughter.

Prince blanched. “May I speak to your XO?”

“That might be a little tough, Joe. I ate his tongue.” Again, that explosive, shrieking laughter came through the headset.

Prince terminated the connection. He went back into his private office and closed the door. He sat at his desk and ran his hands over his crew cut. This is bad. This is really bad. The chain of command was broken. First Battalion was officially off the reservation.

Another knock came at the door.

“Come in,” he said mechanically. His head pounded to the tune of his rapid heartbeat.

Lieutenant Torres entered the room, looking pale. “Sir, I forwarded you a new PowerPoint file we just received from HQ. An advisory.”

Prince shook his head. “Not now.”

He was going to have to organize a mission to Troy to provide aid to HQ and help re-establish the chain of command. With what? We’re stretched to the breaking point.

He’d work with the commanders of the other battalions. A joint mission. Then he frowned. Why the hell was HQ sending PowerPoint presentations? Didn’t they know they had a major crisis on their hands?

“You need to see this, Colonel,” Torres insisted.

Prince looked at the man’s face. Torres was a tough son of a bitch, but he appeared to be on the verge of tears.

“This came from regimental HQ?” Prince asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Prince located the file on his computer and opened it.