Warren Murphy - Identity Crisis

And normally the rounds Dr. Simon made were Dr. Gerling's responsibility. But Dr. Gerling was in the convalescent ward himself, where he had been taken after he had somehow been overpowered by one of the patients he was discharging from the psychiatric wing.

Dr. Gerling had not yet given a coherent story. And in the hectic aftermath of the IRS seizure, his situation did not warrant great concern. He would recover. Folcroft, on the other hand, might not. A great many patients had gotten loose from their rooms and had been rounded up and returned with difficulty. There were whispers of IRS agents having been taken to the hospital morgue. No one knew what had happened to them, and no one dared to inquire. After all, this was the IRS. They knew how to punish people with long noses.

So while IRS agents ran hither and yon, to God alone knew what purpose, Dr. Murray Simon took responsibility for dispensing psychiatric patients their medication.

It was fairly routine. Dr. Gerling had left very clear instructions. The routine brought Dr. Simon to the door marked Beasley.

He looked in. The patient sat at his writing desk, his scarlet pirate costume askew.

"Time for your daily dose, my good friend," Dr. Simon called as he unlocked the door.

The patient turned his head. His grin was cracked. His single exposed eye rolled up in his head.

Simon shivered. It was uncanny how much a resemblance to Uncle Sam Beasley the man bore. Of course, had Uncle Sam lived, he would be much much older than this poor wretch. In fact, the joke on the floor went, Uncle Sam was so old if he had lived he'd still be dead.

"Time for your meds," he said cheerily, handing over a single bright pink pill and a paper cup filled with water.

The patient accepted them. He frowned at the pill when he looked it over. "This is the wrong color. It should be purple."

"Nonsense. It's your usual. Now take it."

The patient obliged. He popped the pink pill into his mouth, chasing it down with water.

"Open, please."

The patient opened his mouth. When the questing tongue depressor showed that the pink pill hadn't been hidden under the tongue or secreted between teeth and cheek, Dr. Simon nodded and continued his rounds.

He was very surprised to find a familiar lemony face staring out of a padded cell a few doors down.

"Dr. Smith?"

"Bring Brull here," Smith said hoarsely. "Tell him I have something important to say to him."

"But what... Why?"

"Get Dick Brull!" Harold Smith thundered.

BRULL WASTED NO TIME getting to Dr. Smith's cell.

"Had enough, Smith?" he gloated, eyes straining to see over the lower edge of the door window.

"I am prepared to tell you what you want to know."

"Shoot."

"You are correct. Folcroft Sanitarium is a secret US. installation"

"Of course I'm correct." Brull's eyes narrowed. "But how correct am I?"

"This is not a CIA site."

"No?"

"When I came to Folcroft, it was a sociological research center. That much is true. Over the years it became a hospital for special long-term-care cases. But that is only a cover."

"Come on. Out with it. A cover for what?"

"The Federal Emergency Management Agency."

"FEMA," said Smith.

"FEMA," repeated Big Dick Brull in an uncertain voice. "What kind of FEMA operation?"

"You are aware of the mission of FEMA-the true mission?"

"Yeah, emergency preparedness in the event of nuclear war. IRS has a doomsday program just like it. If we ever got nuked, the service has emergency powers to levy a flat tax on everybody."

"The Federal Emergency Management Agency was set up to handle domestic disasters such as hurricanes, floods, earthquakes and other natural calamities. Ostensibly."

"And done a damn poor job of it until recently."

"Until the Cold War ended, you mean. Since then, the actual mission of FEMA has leaked out. The agency was set up to keep the US. government operating in a postnuclear environment. Among the assets are mobile communications vans designed to keep the fractured power centers in touch with one another. These centers are hardened safe sites scattered throughout the nation. The broad plan was very simple. Should there be a nuclear attack, the President, First Family and certain key members of the legislative and judicial branches will be whisked to these hardened sites. From these places, a skeleton government will operate until the emergency has passed."

Brull swallowed.

Smith went on. "I told you that I represented an agency more powerful than IRS. This is it. Folcroft is a FEMA site."

"What kind? I mean, we're a heck of a long way from Washington."

"If that information were to come into your possession," Smith said coldly, "I would be sanctioned to terminate your life on the spot."

"You can't do that," Brull barked. "I'm essential IRS personnel."

"And I am FEMA."

"This is crap. It's just words. I don't buy any of it. Not without hard, concrete proof."

"Proof could be dangerous to your health," Smith said grimly.

"Don't screw with me, Smith. We can't take people's words for things in the service. I gotta have solid, verifiable proof before I close the books on this seizure.

"Does that mean you are prepared to relinquish IRS control over Folcroft once its bona fides are established?"

Brull hesitated. "Maybe."

"You know that as powerful as you are, as important as IRS is, FEMA is essential to national security in the event of a catastrophe."

"Says fucking you," Brull snarled.

"Bear in mind that in order for IRS to continue operating in a postnuclear scenario, it must have a secret site. A FEMA site."

"Why didn't you tell me all this before?"

"I am sworn to keep these secrets. You have forced my hand through your gross incompetence. I only hope we can resolve this matter without having to resort to extreme measures to ensure your silence."

"Okay, okay, I'll play this out. But where's my proof?"

"Walk four doors down on the right and look through the glass port."

"All right."

A moment later Big Dick Brull was back, his face three shades paler than before.

"There's a guy in there dressed like a fucking pirate."

"Did he look familiar to you?"

"Yeah. He looked a lot like old Uncle Sam Beasley."

"The Uncle Sam Beasley who died nearly thirty years ago?" asked Smith.

"Yeah. Of course."

"The Uncle Sam Beasley who has been long rumored to be suspended in a state of cryogenic preservation until the day his heart disease can be cured by medical science?"

"That's a load of manure!" Brull exploded.

"Is it?"

"You're not saying . . "

"In the postnuclear world, there will be a need for entertainment to keep a frightened populace pacified. What better choice than the most beloved animator and filmmaker of all time?"

Eyes enlarging, Brull croaked, "That's the real Beasley?"

"There are others here who are equally important," added Smith.

"Like whom?"

"The butterfly everyone has seen."

"What is he?"

"That is so highly classified I dare not entrust that information to you."

"This is crazy!" Brull blurted. "You can't expect me to swallow this cock-and-bullshit!"

"The computers in the basement are part of our postdisaster mission," Smith went on relentlessly. "The purpose of the gold is obvious. Cash will be worthless after the fall of our economy. As for the funds that through a clerical error came into the Folcroft bank account, it represents our budget for the coming fiscal year."

"You gotta explain that money to IRS! We can't just wish it away."

"The twelve million dollars came from the Grand Cayman Trust in the Cayman Islands."

"I knew it stank of offshore money!"

"But it originated at FEMA. A discreet inquiry will confirm that FEMA wired twelve million dollars to Grand Cayman Trust more than a week ago. There is no electronic or paper trail to the Folcroft bank for security reasons I cannot get into. But the bank officer there will verify the money appeared in their computer ledgers overnight, after hours and without explanation. It will leave the bank that way, once the way is cleared, going to its proper destination."