The Demon Plagues (6 page)

“I never much liked rules. I didn’t like my
father’s rules,” – she pronounced it ‘fahtha,’ the New England
Brahmin coming out strongly through clenched teeth – “so I married
a Navy man. After a while I found I didn’t like my husband’s rules
much either - or his skirt-chasing - though I did keep his name
after the divorce. Better than ‘Jenkins.’ But then I found God, or
perhaps God found me, and I decided to go to seminary, be a
chaplain. I still didn’t much like rules, so I made sure the only
ones I respected were really His, not the ones that mankind had
tacked on to the religion.”

“That…that makes a whole lot of sense,
ma’am.”

“I’m glad you approve,” she said drily. “If
we’re going to be co-conspirators, you might as well call me
Christine.”

Jill squirmed. “Ah…I’m not really comfortable
with that, ma’am.”

Forman’s tone turned ironic. “God forbid I
trespass on the sanctity of Marine Corps sensibilities. Suit
yourself. Just remember, I’m not a line officer, I’m a
chaplain.”

“All right…Christine. Thank you.”

“You can thank me when you’re ashore and
gone.”

“Ma’am…Christine, can you see if you can
check on my family? They are in L.A…I’d like to know if they’re…how
they are.”

The chaplain looked at Sergeant Repeth and
swallowed a lump. “Sure, Jill. Just as soon as I can.”

Repeth sat back, some of the knot of worry
finally unraveling. Like any good Marine, she hated being without a
plan. Now she had one, or at least, half a one. After she got back
to where she belonged…her mind shied away from the future. Some
part of it knew she wouldn’t like it when it got here.

The next morning Forman dropped a sack on
Jill’s bunk, waking her up. “Sit up, we need to give you a good
wrap and disguise.” She opened the bag, pulling out gauze, bandages
and a soft neck brace. Soon, Repeth was swaddled in enough of the
material to hide her identity, save the last bit across her
eyes.

“Did you find anything out about my
family?”

“Jill, I’m sorry. Communications are swamped.
There are half a million people dead in LA, and the authorities
there are way behind the power curve. Here, eat this. It might be a
while before I can feed you again.” The chaplain handed her a
carton full of scrambled eggs, sausages and biscuits. While Jill
was eating, Forman dumped the Marine’s rucksack and started making
two piles. “You can’t get caught with anything incriminating. That
means the scuba gear and anything with your name on it except your
wallet. Shove that down your panties and tell anyone that asks you
lost it in the attack, until you get clear. Where were you
stationed, anyway?”

“Quantico.”

“Good, that’s just down the road from
Bethesda. I assume that if you make it home you have uniforms and
other gear?”

“Of course.”

“Very well. Let’s go, get those prostheses
on.” The chaplain started to help, then stopped as she looked at
the exposed stumps. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was new
skin. Right there at the tan line. That’s very strange.”

Repeth licked her lips. “Uh…I didn’t tell you
everything, because…because I’m not sure I even believe it myself.”
She cleared her throat. “I think it is new skin. New skin and more,
new everything. I think my legs are, uh, regrowing themselves.”

Christine sat down suddenly, reaching out a
hand to gently touch the baby-pink nub. “That’s…that’s
amazing.”

“Yes. I think it’s why they killed all those
people. There were things like this happening all over the cruise
ship. Blind people that could see. People with terminal cancer
cured overnight. A paraplegic got up out of his wheelchair. And
this. I guess regrowing – regeneration – takes a bit longer, but I
think in a few weeks I’ll have new feet.” The younger woman’s eyes
were pleading, begging the chaplain to let her have a chance at
being a whole Marine and a whole person again.

“And that’s what they are trying to cover up.
But why? You aren’t some kind of monster.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a secret worth
killing for. It’s going to take smarter people than me to figure
that out, I just know that I don’t want to be locked up in some
lab.”

“You won’t be if I can help it. We stick to
the plan. This doesn’t change anything. In fact I’m more sure now
than I was before. Something big and rotten is going on, and I’m
going to find out what. And fight it.”

They heard an announcement over the PA,
calling for the patients to be prepped for medical air
transportation to Bethesda National Military Medical Center.
Hurriedly strapping Repeth’s prosthetics on, they walked carefully
through the passageways to the auxiliary infirmary that had been
set up in one of the cleared cargo holds. Ratings stepped out of
the way as they saw the chaplain and the walking wounded Marine.
The two slipped in among the hustle and bustle of the doctors,
nurses and corpsmen, and got Jill horizontal on a cot as quickly as
possible.

Forman fended off several helpful medical
professionals, saying this one was fine, just combat stress and a
lingering concussion. When asked for her name, she said, “Jane Doe.
No ID, no dog tags, no memory. Bethesda can take her fingerprints
and DNA and look her up in the system.”

Everyone was too busy prepping the patients
to worry about it.

Several six-man teams of Marines carried
patients to the cargo lifts, then up to the flight deck to be
loaded onto MV-22 Osprey tilt-rotors. Lieutenant Forman sweated and
watched as they worked their way toward her and Sergeant Repeth,
finally surrounding the cot and reaching for the lift points.

One man stopped short. “Hey, this is Sergeant
Repeth, the one they were looking for.”

Forman saw the man’s name tag said ‘Gaona.’
Thanks, Murphy
. Mind racing, she whipped him with her raised
voice. “That’s right, Staff Sergeant. She’s concussed, she’s
suffering from combat stress, and she’s in no condition to be
bothered with you like last time. Now take charge of your detail
and put your hands on that cot and
lift
, damn you, one, two,
three,
lift
, and march your asses up to that aircraft or by
God
I will have your stripes – and you too, Corporal, don’t
think I won’t, you men ought to be ashamed of yourselves, I should
file charges for sexual harassment, for abuse under cover of
authority. I thought Marines had more discipline than to be
sniffing around a wounded female like horny butt-monkeys looking to
hump everything in sight – h’ut, two, t’ree, fower, keep your eyes
front you stinking pus-poxed son of a guttersnipe streetwalker or I
swear
I will have you locked up at attention in front of the
Sergeant Major and he won’t be
anywhere
near as nice as I
am…”

She hardly took a breath as she vented her
bile in a running monologue, channeling her drill instructors and
her abusive ex-husband and her lacrosse coach and that DI in
Full Metal Jacket
, calculated to stun and overwhelm the men
until they loaded Repeth aboard the humming Osprey transport. The
chaplain followed Jill onto the aircraft, where her blazing eyes
dared anyone to interfere with her patient.

The transport team was sweating and only too
happy to get away from the most cross-grained and viper-tongued
minister of the Lord they had ever encountered.

“What the hell was that all about?” muttered
one Marine once they were out of earshot.

“Must be a lesbian thing,” said another
nervously.

Staff Sergeant Gaona coughed, then spoke in a
stentorian voice. “Belay that, Edwards. This is the new Corps.
Embrace the rainbow.”

After a distinct pause, all six of them burst
into gasping, raucous, relieved laughter. When they could breathe
again, they headed down to pick up another patient. The corporal
said, “Remember, Staff Sergeant, that Chaplain'll be coming back
eventually.”

“Oh, shit. And she knows my name.”

On the Osprey, Forman strapped Jill in – Navy
chaplains afloat were trained in as many medical tasks as possible
– and shook with relief when the aircraft finally lifted. She bowed
her head and said a heartfelt prayer of thanks, certain now that
Jill would get away. She resolved to have a little talk with one
Staff Sergeant Gaona when she returned to the ship.

***

Jill opened her eyes from her half-dream to
the bilious green glow of the chem-light and the stench of unwashed
bodies, not sure whether she had fallen asleep. She wished she had,
just to bring her a few more hours closer to go-time. Closer to
begin, closer to finish, closer to get back to Rick. Wrinkling her
nose, she rolled over and pillowed her head on her combat ruck.

Markis wondered if the Council bought his
line of complete bullshit about the cyber attack. There were so
many holes in that narrative it would keep the Council wrapped
around their own axles for a week.

He touched his screen to run the application
that enabled his virtual clone, then got up to talk to Rick. The
rest would see Chairman Markis nodding, looking puzzled, fidgeting,
scratching his head and the like in response to their blatherings.
The software would also select Council members to speak according
to the rules of procedure. They’d never know the difference. His
staff would summarize everything in a transcript.

“Any word from the submarine op?”

“No, sir. We don’t expect it yet,” Rick said
apologetically.

“I know. I’m just…nervous. I could use a
drink.”

“I’ll open the bar, sir.” He stood up from
his control console to open a cabinet with a selection of glasses
and liquors.

It was good to be able to drink again, to
toss off a shot of decent Scotch and not worry that one would turn
into a dozen and then into a blackout episode. Whatever the Plague
had taken from him, it had given him that. That and a lot more.

DJ thought about Ezekiel, and Vincent, and
Elizabeth, precious gifts. Nine, eight and seven, one a year until
Elise' steam reconfigured the Eden Plague to lower fertility.
That and sheer separation
. Three kids were plenty to deal
with. Maybe if – when – the world was finally at peace they could
dispense with them and just depend on the researchers’ predictions
of a child every ten or fifteen years for an average Eden
couple.

He saluted Rick with his glass, and they
tossed off the single malt with relish.

Rick smiled at Markis, a winning young man
that looked a lot like his father and mother, with Zeke’s grin but
Cassie’s furrowed brow when he was thinking.

DJ drifted into his memories, missing Zeke
yet again. He’d been the key to everything; he’d led the team that
rescued Elise Wallis, who had become Elise Markis, from the
clutches of Jervis Jenkins III and INS, Inc. He’d brought the tiny
band of revolutionaries to the forgotten Sosthenes Bunker; he’d
rescued his own family and died doing it, but his efforts had
provided the Free Communities with its spymaster, his widow
Cassandra, a cyber engineer
par excellance
in his son Rick,
and his daughter Millicent as the chairman’s superb personal
assistant. For the quasi-leader of a loose group of free nations
these trustworthies were an absolute godsend.

Zeke had also left them a legacy of honor, a
narrative that helped weld the disparate groups of Edens together
in common cause. Every grade school in the FC taught the story of
Ezekiel Johnstone, martyr to their revolution.

Of course, Zeke hadn’t intended to be a
martyr; like most heroes, he just wanted what was best for his
family and friends. He'd had no bigger ambitions; he had left that
to DJ, but thus do legends grow.

“How long do you think it will take for the
leak to reach the UG Presidents?” Rick asked.

“Good question; one I’d like to know the
answer to for future disinformation operations. Here’s one for you,
since you’re the subject matter expert. How long will it take them
to figure out your cyber attack is a feint and a bluff?”

“Oh, sir, but it’s not. I designed it to be
as vicious and tenacious as possible. It will give them fits for
weeks, even if it does nothing but lock up their ICE. Intrusion
Countermeasures Electronics absorb a lot of resources, and I intend
to make them burn RAM for a while. They will have to take some of
it offline just for their peace of mind. Their command and control
will be hell.”

“Good. I want them chasing ghosts and
phantoms. I want Spooky and his team to have as much time and
distraction as possible.”

“You want them to come home.” Rick put down
his glass, running a finger around the rim to make a squeaking
sound.

“Of course. They are my friends and
colleagues.”

“Sir…you don’t have to play the politician
with me.” His eyes were haunted. “Just tell me…tell me they’re
going to make it.”

Markis pulled himself up short, setting down
his glass to look closely at his dead friend’s son. “I’m sorry,
Rick. I’m concerned about them too. I didn’t like the odds of the
mission but the payoff is just too big not to take the risk. But
what am I missing? Something personal in it for you?”

He looked down, a young man’s embarrassment
in the presence of a revered elder. “Jill Repeth,” he
whispered.

“The Marine? You better call her Gunnery
Sergeant or she’ll kick your ass. Besides, she’s…” Realization
dawned on his face ”Oh, shut up, DJ. I’m sorry, Rick.”
That’s
when you know you’re getting old, when you miss the obvious and
start talking to yourself out loud in the middle of a
conversation.
“Oldsters like me forget that age doesn’t matter
much anymore, not when everyone will live to be a thousand looking
like twenty. So…you and Jill, huh?” He slapped Rick’s shoulder,
rocking the slight man sideways.