William Johnstone - The Doomsday Bunker

None of the men at the table stood up.

Moultrie grinned and went on, “That’s just the response I was hoping for. But I’d understand anybody who didn’t want to throw in with us right now. It’s been… a bad day. Everyone is shaken up. Horrified. Some have lost loved ones. I think it’s important for us all to settle into our new routines as quickly as possible, but folks who have been through what we’ve been through today… well, you’ve got to give ’em a little leeway.” He rubbed his hands together briskly, looked around the table again, and asked, “Any questions?”

“Not a question, really, but a comment,” Larkin said. “I look around the room, and one thing strikes me right away.”

“Go ahead, Patrick. I’m very interested.”

“You don’t have any women here. Having the security force be a boys’ club is gonna cause trouble somewhere along the way.”

Chuck Fisher frowned and said, “This is a chance to get rid of those politically correct notions that never really worked but were forced on us anyway.”

“But, as a matter of fact,” Moultrie added, “there are a couple of female members of the security force. They’re on duty now. We didn’t set out to exclude females, but you’ve got to work with the best personnel you have available.”

Larkin nodded and said, “In that case, you ought to talk to my daughter Jill. She was out on the gun range with me when she was in elementary school, and she’s as good a shot as I am. I raised her to be able to kick my ass, too.” He smiled. “She can’t quite do that, mind you, but she can give it a good try. Most guys, she could put on the ground without much trouble.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Moultrie said. He looked at Fisher. “Chuck, you’ll talk to Mrs. Sinclair?”

“Sure,” Fisher agreed. “If she doesn’t have any military or law enforcement experience, though, I’d have to see enough to be sure she can handle herself.”

“She’s a pharmacist,” Larkin said dryly, “but I don’t think she’ll disappoint you.”

Moultrie nodded and said, “Fine. If any of you know anyone else you think would be a good candidate, talk to me or Chuck. We want things to run smoothly down here.” He leaned forward and rested his hands on the table. “I don’t have to tell you men that it’s going to be rough, even if everything works just like it’s supposed to. Put this many people in close quarters, throw in all the emotional turmoil they’re going through, and there’s going to be trouble sooner or later. All of you saw the incident earlier with Mrs. Ruskin.”

“Yeah, how’s she doin’?” Threadgill asked.

“She’s fine. We had to give her a sedative for her own protection. She’s in her quarters now, resting. There’s a staff member with her to help her in case she needs anything.”

A tiny frown creased Larkin’s forehead. Moultrie’s response sounded reasonable enough on the surface, but it could also be interpreted to mean that Mrs. Ruskin had been drugged to shut her up and locked in her quarters with a guard on her. That was probably stretching things and not giving Moultrie the benefit of the doubt, but at the same time, somebody like Beth Huddleston, with her paranoia, might see it that way.

Susan might, too, Larkin realized, and that thought was even more disturbing.

So far, though, he had no reason to suspect Graham Moultrie of anything except wanting to save humanity.

“If there are no more questions,” Moultrie said, “I need to get back to my rounds. I’m trying to keep up with what’s going on in all the sections, and also, Deb or one of my other lieutenants will let me know right away if there are any problems. So far, nothing has happened that we didn’t expect and prepare for, and I’d like to keep that record going.” He started toward the door but then paused. “I’m sorry about the residents who didn’t make it here in time. But honestly, I thought the number might be higher than it turned out to be. We’re going to be all right, gentlemen. I can feel it in my bones.”

With that declaration, Moultrie smiled and left the meeting room.

“You fellows can go back to your quarters now,” Chuck Fisher told the men at the table. “I’ll be in touch with each of you and give you your duty schedule. I want to echo what Graham said and thank you for stepping up to make things better here.”

They filed out, leaving the long guns behind to be locked up, and walked back through the Command Center to get to the main hallways. Threadgill walked beside Larkin, hurrying a little to keep up with his friend’s longer strides. Quietly, he said, “What do you think, Patrick? Is everything going to be all right?”

“Sure,” Larkin said, “as long as everybody down here ignores human nature and is on their best behavior around the clock.”

Threadgill grunted. “What do you think the chances are of that happening?”

“Slim and none, but we’ve got to try to make it work. For better or worse, this is our home now.”

May 16, the following year

Larkin hurried toward the angry shouts, pushing through the crowd in the Bullpen. He didn’t know who had given the lower bunker that name, but someone had done so fairly early on, and it had stuck.

“Break it up!” he yelled, the time-honored command of authority wading into a mob.

Resentful faces turned to glare at him. A man said, “It’s the Redshirts! Look out!”

That was just wrong on so many levels, Larkin thought. For one thing, the security force wore red vests . Larkin hadn’t been able to talk Moultrie and Fisher out of that readily identifiable garment, and he supposed they had a point. For another, the man’s frightened cry, along with the reactions of the people who shrank away from him, made it seem like he was here to hurt them, rather than doing his job and protecting them. Larkin didn’t like being seen as the bad guy.

On the other hand, he did have a job to do, and it included breaking up fights before anybody was injured seriously.

Susan, Jill, and the rest of the medical staff had enough to do without having to deal with broken noses, busted knuckles, and all the bruises and scratches that came with brawling.

The crowd parted enough for him to get through to the area in the middle of the huge chamber where four men were fighting. Two of them rolled around on the floor, wrestling with each other, while the other two stood toe-to-toe, slugging it out. Larkin recognized all of them.

The two on the floor were Chad Holdstock and Michael Pomeroy. The two sluggers were Jeff Greer and Zeke Ortega. Holdstock and Greer were part of Charlotte Ruskin’s group of malcontents. They’d probably been mouthing off, and Pomeroy and Ortega had taken exception to it. There was no telling who had thrown the first punch. With tensions in the Hercules Project as high as they were, it could have been any of them.

It didn’t matter who started the fight, Larkin reminded himself. His job was to end it.

The pair on the floor grappling with each other were closest to him, and Holdstock was on top at the moment, trying to wrap his hands around Pomeroy’s throat. Larkin stepped in, bent over, and grabbed Holdstock from behind, sliding his arms under the man’s arms and then locking his left hand around his right wrist in front of Holdstock’s chest. With a grunt of effort, he heaved upward and hauled Holdstock off Pomeroy. Turning, Larkin gave Holdstock a shove that sent him stumbling into the crowd.

“I said break it up!” Larkin repeated. As he swung around, he saw Pomeroy scrambling to his feet. The look on Pomeroy’s face told Larkin he was eager to go after Holdstock and continue the fight. Larkin thrust his left hand toward Pomeroy, palm out in an order to stop, and added, “Damn it, back off !”