The Coward's Way of War (27 page)

“Come on,” he ordered, smiling grimly.  The terrorists didn't know it, but they were caught between the hammer and the anvil.  “Let’s go.”

***

Johnston swore as he snubbed his toe against something he hadn't seen in the dark, wincing at the sudden burs
t of pain.  The shooting was starting to die down, which suggested that the BAM’s fighters had either been rounded up or killed by the attacking soldiers.  Whoever they were, he admitted in his own mind, they were good.  He had clearly underestimated the prowess of the federal government’s forces...and overestimated the power of political correctness to keep it in check.  The thought was a bitter one, but he promised himself that he would learn from the experience and do better next time.  Perhaps he could recruit black soldiers from the Army, or...

“They’re coming after us,” one of his escorts said.  Johnston winced, glancing back into the semi-darkness, lit only by fading light from the windows.  He couldn't tell how his man could sense the presence of enemy fighters, but he had no choice; he had to believe him.  “You need to get further down the stairs.  I will make a stand and distract them...”

There was a sudden burst of fire from in front of them.  Johnston wailed, feeling a hot trickle running down his legs as he hit the ground, certain that he’d been hit and he was about to die.  One of his bodyguards spun around, lifting his weapon, only to be gunned down before he even managed to fire a single shot.  Dark figures came up out of nowhere, slamming the other bodyguard to the ground and tying his hands.  Johnston opened his mouth to demand a lawyer, but one of the figures cuffed him across the mouth, leaving blood trickling down from his cheek.  Strong hands caught his wrists, bent them behind his back and wrapped a plastic tie around them.  His scream of pain was ignored.

“Reverend Johnston,” a voice said.  Johnston looked up.  Even under the mask, he could tell that the soldier was a black man.  There was a heavy note of satisfaction in his voice.  “You are our prisoner.  I suggest that you behave yourself or you won’t live to stand trial.”

Johnston, for the first time in his life, could think of nothing to say.

***

Doug had volunteered to accompany the Delta Force commandos as they entered the hospi
tal, but they’d refused his request, reminding him that he wasn't trained to serve beside them.  He’d waited with the remainder of the National Guard contingent as the commandos went through the hospital, before they'd finally given the all-clear and invited the other forces into the building.  The NYPD had assembled a substantial force to begin the long task of cleaning up the mess, pulling in medical personnel from all over the state.  Under normal circumstances, it would have been a difficult task, but now...the terrorists had almost certainly pulled medical personnel away from tending the sick.  How many would die because of their actions?

He pushed the thought out of his mind as he walked over to where the hostages were being cared for.  Many looked traumatised, their souls badly shaken by the experience; others looked as if they couldn't wait to get back to work.  And then, standing at one end of the line, he saw his wife.  Her outfit looked a mess, her face was badly scarred, her hair looked as if she hadn't bothered to brush it...and she looked beautiful.  Doug was barely aware of his own movement.  Before he thought it through, she was in his arms, kissing him tightly.

And, just for a moment, he felt that everything was going to be all right.

The aftermath of any terrorist attack must be carefully handled.  The victims may be shocked, unable to comprehend what has happened to them, or they may want to fight.  The terrorists themselves, if taken prisoner, must be protected from mob violence.  The outside world may be shocked, or they may wish to watch in a kind of voyeuristic orgasm.  Terrorism is not a natural disaster, or even a wartime bombing; terrorism is intensely personal.

- Captain Darryl Tyler

New York, USA

Day 19

Once the building was secured and the former hostages moved to the recovery centre – a commandeered school near the hospital – the terrorists were moved downstairs into one of the rooms.  The patients who had been held there – all infected with Henderson’s Disease – had died during the brief hostage crisis, their bodies moved down into the basement and just abandoned.  As far as Justin could tell, the terrorists hadn’t even tried to freeze the bodies or incinerate them, despite having the equipment on hand.  It was no wonder that many of them were already showing signs of being infected themselves.  They hadn’t even bothered to read – or believe – the information bulletins that the government had put out on the internet.

It seemed odd to think of elite Delta Force commandos serving as prison guards, but it was something they had considerable experience in, particularly when dealing with prisoners who didn’t quite fall into any of the standard patterns.  The President’s declaration of a national state of emergency gave the law enforcement agencies – and the military, now that it had been deployed within the nation – considerable powers when it came to prisoners, even those who had made themselves media celebrities.  After the hostage crisis, Justin hoped that few people would believe that the Reverend Johnston was somehow one of the good guys, although he suspected that the opposite would be the case.  Terrorists had their groupies, even among those who were old and wise enough to know better.  The BAM would probably end up being hailed as heroes.

He shook his head as he looked towards the prisoners.  Most of them had lost the will to fight, but the commandos had taken no chances, leaving them firmly hog-tied and lying on the floor.  Any attempt to speak, either to one of the other prisoners or to the guards, brought an immediate kick.  The prisoners had to be disorientated and Justin hoped that they would remain that way long enough for a formal interrogation team to start working on them.  The terrorists no longer possessed their constitutional rights.  As the President had said, when the crisis had begun, the constitution was not a suicide pact.

His radio buzzed.  “Justin, the prisoner transport vehicles are here,” one of his men said.  Justin had expected that the NYPD would take custody of the prisoners, but his orders from higher up were to see to it that they were transported – in chains – to Washington, where a special tribunal was already being assembled.  Under emergency procedures, all kinds of legal formalities could be suspended and, in his opinion, it couldn’t happen to a more deserving group of people.  The nurses showed every sign of having been molested by their captors.  “They’re wondering when we’re going to give them the prisoners.”

“We’re riding along with them,” Justin reminded him, dryly.  A small collection of escort vehicles had been moved into the city, providing transport and heavy firepower for use if the convoy came under attack.  Justin had escorted sensitive vehicles before, but that had been in Kabul and Baghdad, not in the heartland of America.  The whole scene was just surreal.  Part of him just couldn’t believe it.  “Tell them to hold their horses.  We’re on the way.”

He barked orders to his men and the first prisoner, the Reverend Johnston, was roughly pulled to his feet.  The shackles were quickly adjusted – allowing him to walk, if slowly – before a blindfold was placed across his face, allowing him to breathe, but rendering him effectively blind.  Justin would have been astonished if he had any fight left in him, yet there was no point in taking chances.  Terrorists just couldn’t be trusted.  He nodded to his men, using hand signals rather than speaking aloud now, and two of them escorted the Reverend and Justin towards the doors.

The NYPD and the National Guard had set up a cordon, but the media was out in force, even if they were wearing protective garments and keeping their distance from each other.  Justin checked his own mask instinctively, even though he had been vaccinated long ago, ensuring that the media couldn’t get a shot of his face.  The identities of serving Delta Force operatives were meant to be classified and a picture in the media, even one with an incorrect name, could be disastrous.  There was a tradition that anyone who did get named had to buy the entire unit a beer, but that would be no consolation.  Families had been threatened, even harmed, by terrorists hunting for the men who hunted them.  Revenge was a very powerful motive.

He pushed the Reverend Johnston towards the first prison van and helped him up the steps.  The unmarked vehicles were built for swift and unseen prisoner movements, looking like any other van on the outside.  It would have surprised any terrorist to discover that they were actually quite heavily armoured and any weapon capable of punching through the armour would almost certainly kill the passengers as well.  It might not have bothered some terrorists.  One terrorist, captured in the United States, had been assassinated by his own side, who had believed that they would be interrogated and forced to talk.  The memory made Justin smile. At least his own side weren't trying to get him killed.

“Sit,” he ordered, as he attached the shackles to Johnston’s legs, securing him to the bench.  The precautions seemed excessive, even to his eyes, but there was a point to them.  If the terrorist felt that there was no chance of escape, he would feel defeated and might be willing to talk – or so the theory went.  Justin had been through worse in commando training and hadn’t talked to his interrogators.  “Stay.”

If Johnston had anything to say, it was lost under the blindfold.  The other terrorists were brought out, one by one, and secured themselves, before the vans were finally full.  Justin did a quick check and ensured that they were all secure, confirming it with his own eyes.  Once the vans were locked, he waved to his men to mount up and start their engines.  The prisoners had a date with a military transport aircraft at the nearest airbase.  In a few hours, they’d be in a secure CIA facility near Washington.  Whatever they did to them, after what they’d done, Justin hoped that it would hurt.

***

“
What a freaking mess,” Al muttered, as he followed Doctor McCoy into the remains of the hospital. Between the terrorists, the commandos and Henderson’s Disease, the building was a terrible mess.  The foundations were secure, he’d been assured, but the interior had been badly damaged by the fighting.  The hospital administrator, who had been lucky enough to be out of the building when the terrorists attacked, was bitching up a storm about wrecked equipment, demanding to know what had happened to the very expensive medical gear that the hospital had built up over the years.  Very few of his expensive toys were working.  “How long is it going to be before the hospital can be returned to service?”

“Months, under normal circumstances,” McCoy said.  They’d worked together before, so the NYPD’s senior officer had assigned Al to follow the doctor around, smoothing the path for him.  “I don’t know how long it will take now.”

Al nodded.  NYPD teams were combing the building, removing any weapons and explosives from the compound before they started clearing up the mess.  A group of medical staff pulled off their normal duties was tending to the surviving patients, yet it was clear that most of them had died – and none of them had gone easily.  The evil genius behind Henderson’s Disease had altered it to the point that constant medical care could keep a victim alive, but if that care were to be removed, the disease would spread rapidly and death would come quickly.  It didn’t take a genius to realise that providing that level of care for every infected person was completely beyond the ability of the entire country, let alone the world.  By now, Al knew that much of New York had to be infected.  The city was slowly sliding into anarchy.

He winced as they stepped into a room.  The NYPD teams had turned it into a temporary morgue and placed the dead terrorists and nurses – as far as he knew, the Delta Force unit hadn’t lost a single man – into neat rows on the ground.  None of them looked as if they had died easily, although some had clearly suffered more than others.  Before Henderson’s Disease, the NYPD teams would have worked on the bodies for months, painstakingly recreating everything that had taken place since the terrorists attacked.  Now, the bodies would be fingerprinted, briefly examined and sent down to the incinerator.  There was no longer any time to treat them with dignity.

Doctor McCoy said nothing as he examined the dead bodies one by one, looking for the telltale signs of Henderson’s Disease.  Al followed his gaze, knowing what to look for and swearing out loud as he saw the first pockmarks on a number of faces.  It struck him as absurd that the terrorists hadn’t realised what was happening to them, although he figured that they could have been dosing themselves with painkillers or hard drugs to keep themselves going. There was a new political movement afoot to decriminalise drugs – all illegal drugs – within the United States, just so the dying could die without so much pain, but Al suspected it wouldn’t get anywhere.  Even if they succeeded in convincing the government to abolish the laws and the DEA, Henderson’s Disease was burning its way through Latin America.  The drug lords would be dying of smallpox.  The local governments weren't saying much, but the news had carried stories about major rioting in Mexico City and thousands of well-connected people fleeing the country before law and order – such as it was – broke down.