Peter explained, “Fire road. Forest’s full of them. Unmarked on any maps but the forestry service’s and the fire district’s.”
“We’re taking it?” Jon asked.
“The scenic route.” With a short smile, Peter swung the RV onto it.
Pine branches brushed and scraped against the RV’s metal sides. The noise was endless and unnerving, like fingers on a chalkboard. Fifteen minutes later, just as Jon was beginning to think he was going to lose his mind, he saw the end of the road.
“This it?” he asked Peter hopefully.
“What? Stop this lovely jaunt?” Peter turned the vehicle onto another fire road. “We’re going downhill now, notice? Won’t be long,” he said cheerfully. “Buck up, lad.”
This fire road was an equally tight squeeze. Overhanging branches continued to scratch the sides as Peter pressed the RV onward. Jon closed his eyes and sighed, trying to keep his skin from crawling. At least Marty was not complaining from the back. But then, Marty was on his meds. Thank God for at least that.
When they finally reached the highway, Jon sat up alertly. Peter paused the RV among the trees at the blacktop’s edge. The horrible scratching and groaning stopped, and only the sound of the engine and the traffic marred the quiet beauty of the forest.
Jon peered around. “Any sign of them?” Traffic on the wide two-lane road in front of them was heavier than he’d expected. “This isn’t I20.”
“U.S. 395. The big one on this side. Should do. See anyone lurking?”
Jon surveyed both directions. “No one.”
“Good. Neither do I. Which way?”
“Which way gets us to San Francisco faster?”
“To the right, and back on I20 through Yosemite.”
“To the right then, and I20.”
Peter’s pale eyes twinkled. “Cheeky of you.”
“Going back the way we came should be the last thing they’d expect us to do, and all RVs look alike anyway.”
“Unless the ambushers read our plate.”
“Take the plates off.”
“Dammit, my boy. Should’ve thought of that.” Peter pulled a screwdriver and a set of Montana license plates from the glove compartment and jumped out.
Jon grabbed his Beretta and followed. He stood watch as Peter lifted off the old one and screwed on a license from Montana. In the tranquil forest, birds sang and insects buzzed.
Minutes later, both men returned inside.
Marty was sitting at the computer. He looked up. “Everything okay?”
“Absolutely,” Jon reassured him.
Peter put the RV into gear and said enthusiastically, “Let’s bell the cat.”
He rolled the lumbering vehicle onto the highway heading south. When the I20 intersection appeared, he turned onto it, and they climbed back uphill. A quarter of a mile later they passed two SUVs parked along the dense forest, one on each side of the dirt road that led from the back of Peter’s property.
At one of the SUVs, a tall, pockmarked man with hooded dark eyes and wearing a black suit spoke into a walkie-talkie. He seemed agitated, and he stared up the mountainside in frustration. He hardly glanced at the battered RV with the Montana plates as it climbed up the highway toward Yosemite.
“Arab,” Peter said. “Looks dangerous.”
“My conclusion, too.” Jon stared at the highway traffic. His voice was grave. “Let’s hope I can find some answers in Iraq, and that you’ll be able to track Bill Griffin and find out more about Sophia’s death. Those erased phone calls could be critical.”
They drove on. Peter turned on the radio. It droned news of an unknowing world, while the approaching darkness cast its long, ominous shadows over the white peaks of the high Sierras ahead.
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PART THREE
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CHAPTER
TWENTY FIVE
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8:00 P.M., Tuesday, October 21
The White House, Washington, D.C.
Like an accusation, the front page of The Washington Post lay on the big Cabinet Room oval table where the president had left it. Although none of the solemn cabinet chiefs who sat around the polished table and none of their assistants who packed the walls looked at the newspaper with its banner headline, everyone was painfully aware of it. They had awakened to find their own copies lying on their doorsteps, just as hundreds of millions of Americans had discovered similar terrifying headlines awaiting them. All day long the news had blared from their radios. On television, little else was discussed.
For days scientists and the military had kept the president and high officials informed, but not until now, when the so-called civilized world seemed to erupt with the news, had the full force of the growing epidemic hit home.
DEADLY PANDEMIC OF UNKNOWN VIRUS SWEEPS GLOBE
In the packed cabinet room, Secretary of State Norman Knight pushed his metal-rimmed glasses up on his long nose. His voice was sober. “Twenty-seven nations have reported fatalities due to the virus, a total so far of more than a half million. All began with symptoms of a heavy cold or mild flu for some two weeks, then it’d suddenly escalate into acute respiratory distress syndrome and death within hours, sometimes less.” He sighed unhappily. “Forty-two nations are reporting sudden cases of what appears to be a mild flu. We don’t know yet whether that’s the virus, too. We’ve barely started counting those victims, but they’re in the high millions.”
A shocked hush greeted the secretary’s figures. The packed room seemed to grow rigid.
President Samuel Adams Castilla’s penetrating gaze traveled slowly over their faces. He was looking for clues into the minds of his cabinet chiefs. He had to know on whom he could count to remain steady and bring knowledge, wisdom, and the will to act. Who would panic? Who would be shocked into paralysis? Knowledge without the will to act was impotent. Will to act without knowledge was blind and reckless. And anyone with neither to offer needed to be dismissed.
Finally he spoke, keeping his voice composed. “All right, Norm. How many in the United States?”
The secretary of state’s long face was topped by an unruly shock of thick white hair. “Beyond the nine cases early last week, the CDC reports some fifty more deaths and at least a thousand flulike cases that they’re testing for the new virus right now.”
“It looks like we’re getting off light,” said Admiral Stevens Brose, chairman of the Joint Chiefs. His voice was cautiously hopeful.
Too cautious and too hopeful, President Castilla reflected. It was strange, but he had noticed that military men were often the least willing to act on the instant. But then, they had seen the deadly consequences of ill-considered action more than most.
“That’s so far,” Nancy Petrelli, secretary of Health and Human Services, pointed out ominously. “Which doesn’t mean we won’t be devastated tomorrow.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” the president agreed, a little surprised by the HHS secretary’s negative tone. He had always found her to be the optimistic type. Probably a measure of the terror this virus was instilling in people and governments. That alone emphasized the need for action— considered and meaningful action, yes, but some action, to mitigate the sense of helpless panic that could freeze everyone in its grip.
He turned to the surgeon general. “Anything new on where those six original cases contracted the virus, Jesse? A connection among them?”
“Aside from the fact that all were either in Desert Storm or related to someone who was, neither the CDC nor USAMRIID has been able to find anything.”
“Overseas?
“The same,” Surgeon General Jesse Oxnard admitted. “All the scientists agree they’re stumped. They can see it in their electron microscopes, but the DNA sequence information so far doesn’t offer any useful clues. It matches no known virus exactly, so they can only guess how to deal with it. They have no idea where it came from and nothing that’ll cure or stop it. All they can suggest are the usual methods for treating any viral fever and then hope the mortality rate is no worse than the fifty percent we had in the first six cases.”
“At least that’s something,” the president decided. “We can mobilize every medical resource in the advanced industrialized countries and send them all over the world. Medicines, too. Everything anyone needs or thinks they need.” The president nodded to Anson McCoy, secretary of defense. “You put the whole armed forces at Jesse’s disposal, Anse, everything— transports, troops, ships, whatever it takes.”
“Yessir,” Anson McCoy agreed.
“Within reason, sir,” Admiral Brose warned. “There are some nations that might try to take advantage if we put too many resources into this. We could leave ourselves open to attack.”
“The way it’s going, Stevens,” the president said dryly, “there might not be much left to attack or defend anywhere. It’s a time for new thinking, people. The old answers aren’t working. Lincoln said something like that in a crisis a long time ago, and we may damn well be approaching the same kind of crisis now. Kenny and Norman have been trying to tell us that for years. Right, Kenny?”