His mind’s eye slammed shut during the sudden commotion and, sadly, Josh saw Carolyn’s protective suit was back, covering her from head to toe.
Josh enjoyed working with Carolyn but found it difficult to keep his mind from wandering — like now — imagining how nice it would be to peel her out of that biosuit, one little zipper at a time. She was his supervisor, but she wasn’t Army. She was a government civilian, which meant there were no “superior officer” barriers to contend with if he chose to, well, get at those zippers. To make matters worse — or better? — Carolyn was hands-down one of the most beautiful women he’d ever met. But there was work to do, important work that required absolute, intense focus. As a member of Vanguard, making a mistake was simply not an option. His fantasy, he knew, would remain just that.
“I’ll still be here when you get back,” Josh said through the tiny microphone in his protective helmet. “Like always.”
Carolyn momentarily turned to face him, her brown eyes twinkling with amusement at the tone of his voice. “Hopefully you’ll have that strain figured out by then, Eeyore.” She winked at him through her faceplate, and then entered the first of four airlock sections on her way topside, beginning the meticulous process of keeping all the bad stuff down in their deep classified hole where it belonged, and away from all the good stuff that lived above.
The six-inch-thick portal door slid closed behind her, heavy locks sliding into place with a dull thud. Hundreds of container locks clicked open again. The environmental control system brought the room back to its normal operating environment — optimum temperature, optimum air pressure, optimum airflow.
Back to work.
Just another day at Vanguard, a highly classified government biosafety level 4 complex.
Two hundred feet underground.
Josh turned to his bank of computer screens — alive with data once again — and tapped a fresh sequence of commands on his keyboard; there was a new, mutated strain of the Ebola virus he had to figure out how to kill.
In case it fell into the wrong hands.
CHAPTER 7
Conversation halted as President Andrew Smith entered the briefing room; he immediately sensed the tension in the air, a subtle static that indicated events were moving rapidly, maybe a little too rapidly for informed, decisive action. Andrew drew a deep, long breath, mentally steeling himself to receive the platter of tangled, squirming vipers he knew his advisors were about to toss in his lap, a platter emblazoned with the Seal of the President of the United States.
The assembled members quickly took their seats as Andrew took his.
With a quick glance around the table, he took stock of his advisors; luckily, all the primaries had either been in Washington or in close proximity when the call to convene had sounded. The experts Andrew needed nearest during a crisis — his war cabinet — were now staring back at him, waiting for the word to begin the meeting.
To the president’s left sat the hulking form of his SECDEF, Marshall “Tank” Stone, nicknamed not only for his imposing size, but also for his prior life as an M1A Abrams jockey during the first Gulf War. To his right sat the secretary of state, Adam Williamson, former ambassador to the People’s Republic of China and career diplomat. Around the remainder of the table sat Hugo McIntyre, secretary of Homeland Security; Harold Ahrens, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; Jake Kesting, director of the Central Intelligence Agency; and General Rayburn “Scythe” Smythe, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Three chairs down from the president sat Jessie Hruska, his national security advisor.
As per standard procedure during an unfolding, unpredictable crisis such as this, the vice president and some key deputy directors were on their way to alternate command centers at different points around the country, serving as a secondary source of command and control if something unthinkable were to happen in Washington. This was continuity of government, a concept born during the Cold War, when Soviet ballistic missile submarines prowled the oceans off the coasts of the United States, positioned to launch a debilitating strike from beneath the waves with little or no warning, severing the head of the Yankee snake before it could coil and strike back. Continuity of government had presented the Soviet planners with a many-headed snake, a hydra they couldn’t hope to subdue entirely. And they never tried.
Now, it was a drill Andrew’s administration practiced often, refining the swift movement of subordinate decision makers to safe — or, at least safer — locations away from DC. This morning, prudence dictated he put the program into motion. And he had.
As if on cue, a plasma screen on the wall opposite the president winked on, revealing the face of Allison Perez, vice president of the United States, who at that moment was aboard an aircraft heading to what the press liked to call an “undisclosed location.” Her jet-black hair was tied tightly in a bun, and her piercing, dark eyes communicated nothing but serious intent, a steely readiness to act. “Good morning, Mr. President,” she said, staring at her own screen showing the members assembled in the conference room.
“Good morning, Allison,” Andrew answered.
Of all the people Andrew could’ve chosen as his running mate, Allison Perez was the best. A former Coast Guard chopper pilot, Allison had entered politics reluctantly as well, encouraged by those around her to make the jump to a different sort of public service after she’d made the front page of the papers by saving uncounted lives during the Houston port attacks. To Andrew, she was a kindred spirit of sorts: disciplined, smart, humble, and, most of all, fearless. He knew Allison could be president of the United States, and if he were to fall, the country would be in good hands. It was a comforting thought.
“All right, people,” Andrew said, signaling the start of the meeting. “What do we have so far?”
Hugo McIntyre, Homeland Security, spoke first. “Mr. President, this morning at approximately 0530 hours central time, Kansas City police and fire departments started receiving a flood of emergency calls on the 911 system. As you know, sir, our field offices are automatically alerted if a certain number of 911 calls are received over a specified period of time. Our field office in Kansas City received the automatic alert notification at approximately 0550 hours. At that time, the system had received over three hundred 911 calls. The information we have is preliminary at best, but the majority of callers were frantic about some sort of animal attacks.”
For a second, Andrew wasn’t sure he’d heard his secretary correctly. “Animal attacks?”
“Yes, sir.” Hugo paused for a moment and cleared his throat. A nervous tic. “What we’ve been able to screen from the calls so far involved what could best be described as a multitude of large rodents attacking people throughout the city.” He directed the president’s attention to a briefing slide projected on one of the large wall screens. A red, roughly circular line cut across a map of the Kansas City metro area, stretching nearly thirty miles across at its widest point. “This graphic represents the affected area, Mr. President, based on the reports we’ve been able to sort through.”