A well-greased wheel began to turn, driven by the necessity of quick reaction to any unknown, rapidly unfolding situation. The nation had learned the hard way that a delayed reaction to a crisis could spell disaster. Every minute wasted meant more dead citizens. It was a simple equation.
As each of the directors hung up their secure phones, they all turned their thoughts to Kansas City and immediately issued orders through their chains.
Analyze—get people on the ground as soon as possible. Figure out exactly what the hell was going on.
Listen—grab every electron in the air and thoroughly wash it for information. If anyone’s talking, open up the big ears and listen.
Activate—contact the governors. Start at the top of the recall rosters and get the guardsmen moving. Get ready to federalize.
Prepare—check the blood supplies. Get medical personnel and relief supplies ready to roll.
Move!
The wheel was turning. It was a well-practiced procedure, refined over time and surprisingly effective. This was no longer the America of Norman Rockwell — this was an America that had been sucker punched a few too many times, learned to react, to bob and weave, and to hit back with one hell of a right cross.
Each of the directors took a moment to reflect on exactly what they’d heard just minutes before. It sounded incredible! How could an American city be nearly wiped clean of hundreds, if not thousands of people? Who was responsible for such a heinous act? How was it done? Was it over, or was it just beginning?
As they mulled over these unanswerable questions, a single, chilling statement from the national security advisor stuck in their minds…
“There’s something in the city,” she’d said. “Some things.”
CHAPTER 6
At that same moment, eleven hundred miles to the west of Kansas City, Carolyn Ridenour stared intently at her computer screen, engrossed by a stream of numbers parading across her flat panel display.
To the untrained eye, the data stream was just a jumbled mess of figures, but to Carolyn, the numbers were speaking to her in a language only a few could understand, telling her the results of the tests she’d been running on the contents of a single business-sized envelope whose recipient had discovered, much to their horror, was filled with a white powdery substance and a poorly spelled note predicting the “End of amrican Imperlism!” It’d arrived at her facility at about 5:00 a.m., after a supersonic trip from Washington, DC, on board an Air Force fighter jet, and she’d been working on it ever since. “That’s it,” she whispered. “Come on, baby, show me…”
Lieutenant Josh Ewing, sitting next to Carolyn in front of a matching set of screens, turned his head to face her, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Carolyn,” he said, “I don’t mind being called ‘baby’… I kinda like it, actually… but show you? Right now? In here? Might be a little tough, but if you insist, I can make it happen.”
Carolyn grinned, but never took her eyes off the screen. “In your dreams, Josh. I definitely don’t want to see that.”
“Okay, fine. I can dream, though, can’t I?”
“Sure, you can dream,” she said, shaking her head. “Just keep me out of them, okay?”
He let five whole seconds pass. “It won’t bite.”
“Josh!” she said, laughing. “I’m trying to concentrate here!”
“I can’t help it, Carolyn!” he said, his voice full of feigned exasperation. “You have no idea what it’s like for a horny young stud like me to find some action in Salt Lake City, of all places.”
Carolyn was pretty sure Josh’s dream woman was more of a blond, busty ex-NFL cheerleader than a self-described brainiac like herself, but in another time, in another place, she knew she could be attracted to a man like Josh. He was young, smart, and good-looking, but she wasn’t about to jeopardize her work by allowing herself to become involved in some sort of silly office romance. She, and Josh, too, for that matter, needed to stay focused. Lives depended on the work they were doing. Many lives. But she wasn’t so cold as to avoid some innocent flirting. In fact, she quite enjoyed it, because it provided a break from the constant pressure.
“You’re right, Josh,” Carolyn said, with the smokiest voice she could muster. She turned toward him, smiled, and lightly placed her hand on his thigh. She also let five whole seconds pass, watching the confusion build in his eyes until she couldn’t keep a straight face any longer. She patted his leg and giggled. “I have no idea what it’s like to be a horny young stud.” Turning back to her screen, she added, “You need to get out more, LT. Sow some of your wild oats.”
Before Josh could respond, Carolyn’s screen announced the results of the tests she’d been running with a muted beep. “Hah!” she exclaimed. “I knew it!”
Josh leaned over from his station to take a look. “So, is it ricin? Anthrax? Or something really horrible… Lead-based paint chips from a baby crib, maybe?”
Carolyn tore the readout from the printer, a little disgusted with the amount of time it had taken to get the results she expected all along. In the old days she could’ve analyzed the envelope’s contents in a matter of minutes, but ever since some of the bad guys had ingeniously learned to mask substances like ricin and anthrax with harmless, nonhazardous compounds, or sometimes even with illegal drugs, she now had to go through a much more painstaking process that could take hours to complete. The obvious answer, reached after a quick initial analysis, could be completely wrong, and the results deadly. The battery of tests was necessary, but in this case, a wasted effort. “Well, you’re close, Josh,” she answered, handing him the printout. “It’s a mixture of some pretty horrible stuff.”
“Cocaine?” Josh said, reading the computer’s analysis.
“Yep. High quality, at that. Cut with powdered sugar.”
“So,” Josh said, tossing the readout onto the counter, “not only do we have an idiot who tries to scare the hell out of someone with an envelope full of fake anthrax, we have an idiot drug dealer?”
Carolyn nodded. “Or a druggie who ran short of powdered sugar and used what else he had around the house.” She held up a plastic baggie containing the suspect anthrax letter and wiggled it in front of Josh’s faceplate. “This, Lieutenant Joshua K. Ewing, fellow Dugway Proving Ground Federal Penitentiary inmate, can get back on a plane and head to FBI headquarters. Hopefully they can lift some prints and get this asshole. He ruined my morning.” She tossed the baggie to Josh. “I’m going to head upstairs. I didn’t have a chance to grab any coffee when I got called in this morning, and I have a splitting headache.”
“Caffeine’s highly addictive,” Josh said, dropping the baggie into a transport pouch, which would soon be on its way to the J. Edgar Hoover Building for the fibbies to play with. “Need your fix, huh?”
Carolyn huffed into her helmet microphone. “Yes, I need my fix. Maybe I’ll just grab a needle and shoot some java right into my bloodstream.” The booties of her protective biohazard suit made scuffing noises as she walked across the stark white floor toward the sealed chamber’s exit portal.
As Josh watched her leave, he imagined he could peer beyond Carolyn’s biosuit and spy the gorgeous form within, her hips swaying with each stride of her deeply tanned legs, brunette hair bouncing about her bare shoulders, and her—
Carolyn mashed the chamber’s exit button. A high-decibel buzzer screamed a warning that the clean room was no longer secure. From the ceiling, a series of rotating beacons splashed red light across unnaturally white walls. Every computer screen in the facility instantly blinked off, concealing their secrets. Hundreds of tiny clicks resounded through the room as automatic locks slid into place, sealing each drawer and container. The alarm’s blare, lasting but a few seconds, was replaced with a muffled roar as banks of hidden fans rapidly adjusted the room’s airflow to keep airborne particles from taking a trip out the exit portal as well, the air pressure abruptly fluctuating, then stabilizing.