“The C.I.A. recommends that we get the military onto it.”
“That’s out of the question. We need to keep a lid on this thing. If we send troops into our cities, everyone will know about it. We’ve got to keep our operation low profile.”
“I think we should follow the C.I.A.’s advice, sir.”
“The C.I.A. is as good as advising me to throw away the next election. I’m not going to do that. Let me think. I’ve got it. Find me someone who can get rid of the zombies on the quiet. Someone so good he can take care of this problem on his own. What I want is a one-man army. Go and find me a one-man army.”
“Yes sir, Mr. President.”
That afternoon, when Doughnut got back from his round of golf with the Vice-President, Tyler was waiting for him at the magnificent front door of the White House.
Doughnut climbed from his chauffeur-driven limo with a golf club in his hand.
“Get my golf bag from the back of the car, Tyler,” he said.
Tyler reached into the back of the limo and got the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked by Doughnut’s side into the White House, and down its long central corridor.
Doughnut was wearing a green visor, a green short-sleeve shirt, and pants with a loud checked pattern on them. He was carrying one of his golf clubs, swinging it as he walked.
“That ass-hole of a Vice-President of mine almost cheated me out of a win,” he said.
“Sir, I’ve found someone to take care of the zom—”
“Are you listening to me, Tyler? I said that sonofabitch the Vice-President almost cheated me out of a win. He lost his ball in the rough twice, and both times he said he’d found it. But it couldn’t have been where he said it was. He moved the God-damned thing both times. I’ve got a good mind to sack him and get someone else to do his job. Better still, I’ll do it myself. I might as well. He’s no damned good at it anyway.”
“That’s a great idea Mr President. By the way, you might like to know that I’ve found someone to take care of the zombies. He’s called Macho Havoc.”
“What’s that? What are you babbling on about, Tyler? Macho what?”
“Macho Havoc, sir.”
“What in God’s name is that?”
“It’s not what, it’s who, sir. Macho Havoc is the man you asked for. He’s the best there is. He’s a regular one-man army.”
As they proceeded further along the corridor they came to a door on the right that had a sign on it: ‘Male Toilets’.
“Follow me, Tyler.”
Doughnut opened the door to the male toilets and they both went in.
Oh please, thought Tyler. Not this, not again. Anything but this, please God.
It was one of the smaller sets of toilets in the White House; it only had ten cubicles in it. Doughnut selected the cubicle that had the word ‘President’ on the door and pushed it open.
“Hold this for me,” Doughnut said, handing his golf-club to Tyler.
He left the door wide open and entered the cubicle and dropped his pants. Tyler moved to one side so that he couldn’t see into it.
“Tyler, where the hell are you?” Doughnut demanded. “I can’t see you.”
Tyler moved so that he was in full view of Doughnut again. He tried not to look as uncomfortable as he felt, while the president lowered himself onto the toilet seat.
“What do we know about this Havoc character?” Doughnut asked.
Tyler hoped he’d be able to leave soon. He spoke faster than usual.
“He’s Ex-Special Forces, ex-Navy Seal, and ex-C.I.A. There’s not a trouble spot in the world he hasn’t been to, at some time or other.”
“Slow down, will you? I can hardly tell what you’re saying.”
“He’s a fine man, Mr. President. If anyone can do this on his own, Havoc can.”
Doughnut’s face reddened. Tyler felt himself shudder. He held his breath.
“What are you waiting for? NNNggggg. Get him hired. Nnnng.”
“YessirMrPresident.”
Tyler left the toilets as quickly as he could.
When he was outside in the corridor, and he could breathe properly again, he took out his mobile phone and punched in a number.
“Is that Mr. Havoc? It is? Good. No, you don’t know me. We haven’t spoken before. I’m Brett Tyler, the President’s Aide. That’s right, the President of the United States of America. No, it’s no joke. You can check up on me if you like. The president has an important job for you. A wet job. Several wet jobs, in fact. No, I can’t provide photographs, but they won’t be necessary. I’ll be able to give you enough information without the need for photographs. Your instructions are to be given by verbal briefing only, nothing in writing. It might be best if we were to meet up. How quickly can you get up to Washington? Okay, good, we’ll meet in a bar I know. The Smith Commons on H Street. I’ll be on the second floor, and I’ll be carrying a copy of the Washington Post. I’ll be wearing a blue tie and drinking a cocktail. What’s that you say? Don’t bother? You’ll just look me up on the presidential website. Oh, I see what you mean. Of course you will. All right, I’ll see you tomorrow at 2.30 p.m.”
The next day, Tyler went to the second floor of the Smith Commons in a state of some trepidation. He had no idea what to expect of the man he was due to meet. Havoc was known only by reputation; there were no pictures of him anywhere, and as far as Tyler could tell, no-one he knew had met him. But military men he respected told tales of Havoc’s exploits, which sounded superhuman. So he had no doubt that Havoc was his man.
The second floor of the Smith Commons was like the lounge of a private house, only far bigger. Tyler bought a bottle of Bud and found a nice spot where he could be on his own, propping up the bar. He stood with his back to it and positioned himself so that he could see the door and keep tabs on everyone who entered. There was no-one within ten yards of him. No one in front of him; no-one to either side of him; and to his rear was the solid edge of the bar, which he could feel against his back.
He took a sip of his Bud then lowered his glass.
That was when the impossible happened.
CHAPTER 4
A deep, menacing voice whispered in his ear:
“You’re the fella who called me about a job, ain’t ya?”
Tyler started.
He could have sworn there was no-one nearby. He turned to look at his interlocutor, and what he saw amazed him. There, right next to him, was a man so big that Tyler couldn’t possibly have missed him; but missed him he had.
The man was African-American, shaven-headed, six feet four inches tall, and, even though he was wearing a jacket, obviously well-muscled, but not like a bodybuilder. These were the muscles of a fighter, no, a finely-tuned killing machine. Tyler shuddered. He got the impression that his new acquaintance would kill anyone in an instant if he took against them.
“What’s the matter, son?” The man asked, in a slow drawl that sounded as if it had been forged in the voodoo region of the Mississippi Delta. “Cat got yo’ tongue?”
“No,” said Tyler, “No, sorry. I was taken aback, that’s all. I didn’t see you coming.”
“Nobody ever does, son.”
“I suppose I ought to be pleased to hear that. What would you like to drink?”
The man raised his right hand. There was a glass tumbler in it containing two fingers of whiskey.
“I’m partial to a fine bourbon, but I’ve already gotten one, thank you kindly. Now how’s about we find somewhere nice and quiet, and you tell me what this business with the president is all about.”
Havoc motioned with his head and set off walking. Tyler followed him to a dark corner where Havoc put his drink down on a table.