Will Staeger - Public Enemy

“In the media, as well as in the government circles that have now been exposed to your findings,” he said, “you will find no mention of Guatemala. You will hear nothing about a research lab there, or a hemorrhagic fever outbreak that occurred in the same region as documented in a journal found by the CDC. You will hear nothing about Cuba, Fidel Castro, or an underground theme-park-for-rent under a hill in San Cristóbal. And finally, Miss Laramie, you will hear nothing about Raul Márquez, nor any operations related to his assassination.”

From the moment she’d logged her request, through Lou Ebbers, to see the Pentagon memo referencing the “Project ICRS” research lab, Laramie had assumed these pieces of the puzzle would be left out of any official government inquiry into the suicide-sleeper situation. It didn’t mean she liked it, but she knew she wasn’t going to be given any say about whether the omissions should remain omitted, or not. She also knew this piece of the puzzle didn’t need to be addressed immediately.

“Thank you for keeping me in the loop on that,” she’d said, and Ebbers told her she was welcome and broke the connection.

In the twenty hours since she’d taken the call, her guide had instructed Laramie to keep the Three Wise Men doing their work; also in the meantime, the shit had hit the fan.

The Krups brewer in her room made its exasperated sounds announcing the end of its percolation and Laramie rose to refill her Flamingo Inn-issue Styrofoam cup. The television blared as she walked past it for the refill, and kept on blaring on her way back.

Laramie had left the war room to brew a fresh cup of coffee, but now that she was here, she realized she hadn’t sat through a full coverage cycle from any of the news bureaus, and that she should probably take the chance to watch one now.

She sat at the table and watched the news.

The Fox News Channel had its usual BREAKING NEWS banner at the bottom of the screen, punctuated by the words TERROR ALERT: RED, both of which circulated with the freshly devised label for the crisis ruling the day: BIOTERROR BOMBS: AMERICA UNDER FIRE.

Various updates rotated through their cycle beneath the banners at the base of the screen, most of the headlines related to a pair of suicide bombings that had taken place in the past six hours. The first had been set off around five P.M. in an Illinois suburb near Lake Michigan; the second, in Yakima, Washington, along the Columbia River, two hours later. News on such matters as the quarantine measures officials had enacted following the blasts were also being covered by the headline prose.

The first pair of suicide blasts had come from sleepers they hadn’t known about.

On-screen, Brit Hume was busy discussing with a terrorism expert Laramie didn’t recognize the likelihood that “additional bombings may be planned,” something the Homeland Security secretary had stated in a press conference thirty minutes following the Illinois blast. Concluding his grilling of this first expert, the news anchor turned in his chair and moved on to the next authority, an official from the Centers for Disease Control to whom he was connected live via satellite. As they dove into a discussion on the topic of the potential filovirus outbreaks-along with such statistics as the quantity of Tamiflu and other antivirals the CDC kept on hand, and various measures individual citizens could take to avoid infection-Laramie swallowed a few sips of the sour coffee.

The quarantining efforts, she knew, would remain productive only if a sufficiently low number of filo bombs were set off. If more than a handful of the suicide sleepers were able to succeed in launching localized animal-and-human breakouts, the quarantine barriers would be breached and the casualties would mount horrifically.

The conclusion she drew from all this was that she and her “counter-cell cell” had failed.

Miserably.

They’d failed to stop the sleepers. They’d failed to find the Illinois and Yakima bombers, and who knew how many others-regardless of the presence of other “cells.” Her team had managed to identify public enemy number one in Raul Márquez-or at least engage in educated speculation to that end-but they’d obviously made their determination, and launched their assassination operation, too late to stop the activation order from being issued.

Plus, in gauging his identity as late as we did, we managed to send our “operative” on a fruitless mission-what good did it do to assassinate the opposing army’s leader if he’s already sent his troops into battle?

Meaning that for all she knew, she had personally ordered Cooper to his death.

Brit Hume continued his presentation of BIOTERROR BOMBS: AMERICA UNDER FIRE, confirming what Ebbers had told her about the news coverage on his call: there was not a single angle in the coverage that featured Márquez, Cuba, Guatemala, Castro, the source of the engineered filo used in the “bioterror bombs,” or any ramifications thereof.

Laramie poured herself another cup of coffee, clicked off the television with the remote, and opened her door-fully intending to return to the room that was now completely overtaken by Wally Knowles’s computer system.

Cooper found the first-aid kit in his jumpsuit and located an Ace bandage.

He tackled Márquez and pinned him to the mucky floor of the cavern-thinking, as he did it, of his episode with Jesus Madrid in the velociraptor’s Manchester United-inspired workout room. He held Márquez down so he couldn’t squirm away, wrapping the Ace bandage around the leader’s mouth, winding it tightly behind his head and securing it with a few strips of the adhesive tape that came along with the bandage in the kit. He used the tape to “cuff” Márquez’s hands behind his back.

Then he pulled Márquez to his feet. He swung his assault rifle around to the front-figuring the MP5 would put on a better show than a handgun-and pocketed the Browning where he could quickly snatch it with his off hand.

“After you, Señor Presidente.”

He offered Márquez a hard kick in the ass to emphasize his point.

“Take us back in the way you came out. And don’t worry,” he said, “you’ve made your point that you don’t give two shits about dying. Rest assured I’m skilled at causing great pain with my choice of where to plug you full of holes. One at a time.”

He knew it was a mostly idle threat.

Márquez led him around enough corners to get Cooper feeling dizzy. He worked at keeping the ideal distance between them, close enough to grab Márquez the minute a guard came into view, but far enough away to prevent the guy from elbowing him in the chin. He learned the best way of using his flashlight was to pin it between his left arm and rib cage, the way he had while copying the names from the marble slab. He kept the beam trained past Márquez so he could see-and use the beam to blind, if necessary-the first security man to make an appearance.

A set of musty stairs appeared, and Cooper could see a bud of hesitation in Márquez’s step. The president hadn’t meant to reveal it and Cooper would take and use the error to his advantage. Another door, recently constructed like the one guarding the entrance to the crypt, stood at the top of the stairs.

Cooper poked Márquez in the shoulder with the end of his assault rifle.

“Open the fucking door,” he said in a caustic whisper.

He felt the temperature and humidity conditions shift the instant Márquez opened the door-this door led into the house.

Cooper closed the gap as the door swung over its jamb, shoving himself quickly against Márquez and propelling them both into and through the doorway faster than his quarry expected. This kept Márquez from doing any yelling or screaming-