Michael Palmer - A Heartbeat Away

Griff had barely stepped inside the helicopter bay door when he felt the aircraft begin to lift. A soldier, dressed in well-pressed military camouflage, handed him a jet-black flight helmet, then guided him into an unpadded seat. Griff strapped himself in and took one last look out the helicopter’s oval window at Florence, shuddering at the gun towers and concrete block, framed with barbwire, now fast fading from view. He wondered if anyone watching from inside except for the warden and a few guards even knew his name.

Terrorist.

The built-in radio inside his helmet allowed Griff to hear the soldier seated across from him over the engine’s roar.

“Dr. Griffin Rhodes, my name is Captain Timothy Lewis, with the United States Marine Corps. By order of the president of the United States of America, it is my honor to welcome you aboard this VH-60N aircraft.”

“Tell the president that nothing he does is going to get me to change my vote.”

The marine smiled. “I think you’ll get the chance to do that yourself, sir.”

“Actually, now that I think about it, I never got the chance to vote at all. In fact, I don’t even know who won the election?”

“I’m sorry, sir. It was President Allaire. He won again, by quite a wide margin, too.”

Allaire.

Griff stared out at the blackness. Of all the theater of the absurd scenarios he had lived through, this military removal from solitary confinement in a supermax federal prison had to be the most bizarre. But now, learning he was up here at the behest of the president topped them all.

“Thanks for the info,” he said. “Any idea why he’s sent for me?”

“Sir, the president will be radioing in at oh two hundred hours eastern standard time. My orders are to transport you to Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma. From there a plane will take you to Washington, D.C.”

“Washington? What for?”

“Sir, that’s for the president to explain. For now, just relax and enjoy the flight. There are snacks on board if you’d like some.”

“Fresh fruit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hostess cupcakes?”

“It’s possible.”

“I’ll take both plus some bottled water.”

“Done.”

The solider handed Griff a bottle of Dasani from a cooler.

“And a Butterfinger or Heath bar if you have them,” Griff added. “Make that two of each.”

Surprisingly, the captain filled the order right down to the cupcakes.

“Enjoy the trip, sir,” he said, setting a cardboard tray on Griff’s lap.

Enjoy the trip.

Those were the exact words another solider had said nine months ago, right after he had kicked Griff viciously in the ribs and then manacled him with a heavy pair of chained cuffs.

Enjoy the trip.

It had been a quiet Sunday night in Kalvesta, Kansas, when the front door to Griff’s house shattered open. As usual, he was at his computer, poring over data. In fact, except for the rare occasions when he was playing bridge or chess online, he was always poring over data. His research centered about experiments in modifying viral mRNA—messenger RNA. The thrust of his work was getting a particular virus to incorporate a foreign sequence of nucleotides when it replicated. The result would be germs incapable of further reproduction.

The data, based on a model he had begun developing years before in Africa, had recently started showing some serious promise. Best of all, every bit of his work was done using CGI—computer-generated imagery and advanced data processing. No live subjects. That had been Griff’s long-standing pledge to himself. No animals. Slowly, steadily, he was closing in on a potentially revolutionary antiviral treatment. He could feel it.

Simultaneous with the disintegration of his front door, the power was cut to the house. In total darkness, Griff could hear, but not see, his windows shattering. Suddenly flashlight beams cut swaths in all directions as soldiers, military police, and members of SWAT, all wearing gas masks, swarmed inside like ants on a sugar mound. Guns were drawn. There was so much shouting that Griff could make out little of what was being said. That is until the soldiers came at him.

“Get down! Get the fuck down! Facedown, now!”

They pointed their weapons at him. Three soldiers forced him onto his belly. A boot, pressed firmly against the back of his neck, driving his face against the oak floor. That was when he received the first of many kicks—this one to his side. His organs seemed to loosen as the air rushed out of his lungs.

“Where is it?” one of the attackers demanded.

“Where is what?” Griff managed.

Another kick. This one harder. The toe of a boot plunged between his ribs. Pain exploded throughout his body and he gagged for air.

“Tear the place apart!”

The lights came back on. Two men forced Griff to stay facedown. All around him he heard the sounds of destruction—glass breaking, fabric ripping, objects crashing. Every so often a solider would roughly pull his head up by his hair and demand to know where “it” was.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

That was when they would kick him again. Always in the same spot, maximizing the pain.

Interminable time went by before a woman called out from his small, partially finished basement.

“I’ve found it! Captain, I’ve found it!”

Griff heard footsteps racing up his basement stairs. Hands grabbed at him and yanked him up by his shirt. He saw a petite brunette solider holding a green cylindrical metal canister bearing several biohazard decals on it.

Impossible!

Griff knew the canister well. WRX3883. It had come from the Level 4 containment zone of the lab where he was working—the most secure containment area in their system. He studied it for a moment, unwilling to believe that it had just been retrieved from the basement of his house. If the canister held the virus from Level 4, still growing inside its tissue culture, then it also held death—horrible, slow, inexorable death.

“How many did you find, solider?” the ranking officer barked.

“Five canisters total, sir,” she replied. “They were in a cubby, hidden behind the basement wall paneling.”

“Secure him,” the captain ordered.

Two soldiers standing behind Griff pulled him upright and pinned his arms to his back. The officer in charge then stepped forward and punched Griff hard in the stomach, not once, but twice. The room began to spin. The soldiers holding his arms in place now had to prop Griff up as well. In addition, they kept shouting at him, demanding to know if they had all the canisters.

“Were there more than five?” he heard them say.

“Sylvia Chen … my boss … speak to her.… I didn’t take those canisters.… Find Sylvia … she’ll vouch for me. I’m just a researcher, I—”

Another fierce punch to the gut cut off his words. He dropped to his knees and retched. Soldiers surrounded him and dragged him outside into a crisp, star-drenched Kansas night. Again, they rudely pulled his arms behind his back. He cried out in pain. Handcuffs closed tightly around his wrists, cutting into his skin.

“Too tight,” Griff said.

“Too bad,” a solider responded.

They pushed him into a camouflage-painted Hummer. Soldiers were seated on either side of him.

“Where are you taking me?” Griff asked.

“To prison,” the solider answered. “Enjoy the trip.”

Nine months with no answers, no explanations. Nine months of isolation and filth and abuse. Nine months of self-regulated push-ups on a concrete floor and yoga positions in the grimy corner. Now, suddenly, an open cell door, a final series of blows from one of the guards, and a helicopter flight at the invitation of the president of the United States. He might have felt exultant. He probably should have.