

### Aquapocalypse

A Ryan Rivers, 22nd Century Detective Story

By Blaine T. Zaid

(Author of "The Gaines Agenda")

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by Blaine T. Zaid

All Rights Reserved

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Chapter 1

The leviathan loomed large in the distance as a small flotilla of aged ships approached, radioed their presence and waited hopefully for a response. The year was 2170. Sheets of acidic rain pelted the rusty ships and the sea. These changes that happened here on Earth were not new. They were not sudden. In 2006, almost 150 years ago, a politician named Albert Arnold Gore Jr. wrote his summary analysis. "An Inconvenient Truth: The Planetary Emergency of Global Warming and What We Can Do About It," it was called. There was the usual media hype, alarmed scientists warning the world about the melting polar ice, and conservative skeptics labeling the theory as alarmist, and just a "natural cycle". These opposing forces crippled any real response to the proposed threat. Limiting CO2 emissions and trading Carbon Credits were good ideas, but were implemented slowly and only regionally. It took a couple decades of changing weather, and continued loss of the polar ice with rising sea levels for governments gradually to take serious notice and plan for an Earth with no land above water. They did start to plan though. That is the governments of countries with enough resources to mount enormous, costly public works projects did. Those requirements knocked out the future of three quarters of the earth's population straight away. With the sea levels rising not at a constant, but at an ever increasing rate, the amount of time available to save humanity, or at least some of humanity, became obviously limited. Space stations and life on the Moon or Mars were not options. There was too little time to implement that, too many questions, and too much evidence that man indeed could not actually survive out there, that we were adapted only to be capable of life and reproduction of life in the conditions of our own Earth or somewhere just like it. When the dire nature of the rising oceans was no longer a secret, and more importantly, no longer a matter of debate, panic set in, and with panic, war.

India, ally to the United States, naturally was obliged to nuke neighboring Pakistan. The new weapons were environmentally friendly though. They killed people and animals, with lower residual radiation and less destruction of property than the old A bombs. To insure against counterattack from the evil axis, the U.S. launched simultaneous stealth ICBM's at North Korea and Iran, eliminating those populations and most of their governments in a day. China and Russia, understood that despite their differences with North America, these were necessary maneuvers. This was agreed in advance at a secret summit of The Big Three. Rogue states could not be allowed to become flies in the ointment with so little time available. Keeping with this philosophy, Russia delivered similar treatment to its breakaway republics in an effort to avoid regional conflict and terrorism as they prepared their bases.

The bases themselves were magnificent feats of engineering. The Germans contributed much to the mechanical elements. Japan, China and Taiwan designed electronics, and Italy and the US were in charge of the structural integrity of the massive hulls. It was not possible to conceal the construction of the massive vessels if they were built as ships. Because of this, the hulls were built up vertically, like a rocket ship, with a veneer that made them appear as large skyscrapers. Each vessel was designed not ultimately to be an individual ocean going vessel, but as a piece of a gigantic puzzle that would be interconnected at a future time. Correspondingly, they were not all the same. Some were destined to become perimeter walls of the future ocean Base. These would be uninhabited except for crew members and security. They would take the brunt of the ocean's crashing waves, leaving interior areas unaffected and oblivious to the conditions outside. Other component vessels contained command and navigation centers, businesses, factories, housing, transportation, and utilities. Each component vessel was the size of an ultra large class oil tanker, and there were thousands of them. Individuals were handpicked, as they represented the future of each country. In the case of the U.S. for example, this would mean that only 35 percent were saved from the flooding. Many who were not included did survive for years in above ground level dwellings. The process of the loss of earth's land masses took a considerable time. People built up, built their own small arks, and continued to live life the best they could. Some were better at the survival game than others. As the last vestiges of land disappeared under increasing depths of sea water, the component vessels of the massive bases were tipped slowly into their intended positions with those aboard safely locked in, and those not aboard safely locked out. People in their own watercraft watched in amazement as the skyscrapers became gigantic ships. The base components were lightly ballasted at first to avoid running aground. This did cause some of them to have awkward moments of tipping drastically from side to side, but they also used stabilizers to limit this problem. Not long, perhaps 10 days after the launch date, each nation's base component vessel was navigated closer and closer to its counterparts to ready for the interlocking process. This was quite a feat of naval engineering. To bring several thousand unusual ships together and attach them one by one together into an artificial land mass was no easy task. It was done however, and successfully, by each of The Big Three, as well as the European Union, The Central and South American Drug Cartel Association, The United Arab States and the Scandinavian United Association. This left Earth with seven significant "countries" on their massive floating bases, plus the various drifters who managed to survive on the open seas using various types of boats and floating homes. Of 15 billion souls on Earth, by the end of year 2055, approximately 3.4 billion remained living. The seas were filled with dead bodies. The massive bases were tethered to the sea floor using giant chains and massive chain stays, hovering over their original territories. They blocked the sun's rays, and the water underneath them was devoid of normal sea life due to darkness and low oxygen levels.

Politically, Russia maintained its governmental control in their new floating territory. The United States combined with Canada and England/ Scotland in a new joint government. Despite differences, China included Taiwan, Hong Kong, Indonesia and even Japan. The Drug Cartel Base existed due to the availability of cash and the willingness of Ramburton and the other construction materials suppliers to accept it in exchange for constructing a base similar to the others. This did allow for the survival of many people from Mexico, Central and South America though. The crime bosses were already, in private, considering how the trade would work in the new world, and the Cartel Base included factories for the production of synthetic drugs, like Methamphetamine, since the viability of producing plant based drugs was in question.

By the year 2170, three generations of the human race had already been born into the new world, never having known any other kind of existence. Ryan Rivers belonged to this new breed. A 29 year old detective working with the police agency on North American Base; Ryan stood six foot tall, muscular with short cut dirty blonde hair and a clean shaven square jaw. He had a good upbringing by kindly parents who made extra efforts to stay positive in the face of life on an artificial land mass. Not to say that life there was all that bad; it was just different than the life on land his grandparents had known. There were outdoor gardens and fields for sports, with trees and grass, but somehow it just wasn't the same as on real terra firma. Ryan's paternal grandfather was a high level electrical engineer with a big aerospace company before the change happened. This was the reason for their inclusion in the group of "fortunate ones." Ryan's paternal grandmother was a kindergarten teacher, and continued her work on the North American Base until her first child, Ryan's father, was born, at which time she dedicated herself to his care and wellbeing. Ryan and his two brothers were raised by a friendly, although analytical, father and a very sweet and caring mother. This resulted in a mix of the qualities, which he passed on to his son Ryan. Although Ryan was a cop, he wasn't at all mean, or bullying. He enjoyed the mystery of crime and putting together the clues. He did not mistreat suspects, but precisely deciphered the cases and presented them meticulously in the pursuit of justice. For those qualities, he was well liked at Precinct 12. (There were fifty two Police Stations scattered about the Base's 10,000 square mile area.) Population density was adjusted to 15,000 residents per square mile. Crime rates on North American Base were fairly low. In picking out who would be included, the government attempted to weed out known criminals, unless they had a particular value to the project. Officers at Precinct 12 were accustomed to responding to domestic disputes, which usually involved a drunken spouse arguing with their partner. Firearms were not approved items on check in to the base vessels at startup, so responding to armed violence was a bit less common than in the old world, at least among normally law abiding citizens. The base had a burgeoning economy, and social stratification, as any large populace would. There was the formation of organized crime in the form of newer Mafia type organizations. White collar cases were a favorite for Ryan. He had taken down several prominent business people who tried to get ahead through illegal business dealings recently.

One such individual was a Mr. Kyle Ashby. Ashby was born the son of an old food production family. Ashby Foods specialized in packaged meat products from bologna to turkey sausages. Production difficulties related to the rising waters plagued the family's business when the changes began. The large company began compiling large debts, and the Ashby's wealth dwindled as stock value plummeted abruptly. Kyle's grandfather's extravagant life style had required him to sell shares on a regular basis, and he was lucky to make it onto North American Base with the several hundred thousand US Dollars he did manage to transfer in. (Individuals were offered the availability to set up their electronic banking for the new Base and fund accounts in advance of the startup date.) The Ashby family continued to emphasize to their children however, that they were indeed a cut above the rest, from successful "old stock," and that they would reestablish themselves in that capacity in time because they were natural leaders and creators of wealth. Kyle and his siblings had somewhat of a competition going with regards to their personal success. Two equally tall and handsome older brothers and a younger sister completed the brood. Frederick Jr. and Carlton, the older brothers, had been working together on a startup venture to improve fish farming methods and deliver fish products to the public of North American Base. With the guidance of their father, they were fairly successful in a short time. Both married and began families of their own. Camilla, their sister, became an attorney, and was busy running her legal practice. Kyle was somewhat the odd man out in the competition with his siblings. He had tried working for one of the large accounting firms on base, with the idea of pursuing an executive position. It wasn't an unreasonable idea, except that Kyle had several personality flaws that got in the way. First off, he was not adept at concealing his feelings of superiority to others. He felt entitled to be treated better than his peers, and was offended if he was not. He was also extremely narcissistic, bordering on the personality disorder. These traits were particularly against the spirit that the government of North American Base had tried to instill in the general public since the launch. There were regularly aired advertisements on television about respecting your fellow man or woman, and the team effort that "we all endeavor in to save humanity." It was clear, that with a reduced population living in a more limited space, that even North Americans would have to become a bit more communist to survive. Due to these impediments, Kyle advanced slowly in the firm, usually with some behind the scenes help from his father's hobnobbing with one big wig or another who gave the firm their business. This created much resentment among his colleagues, who saw him as a selfish egotist, definitely not a "team player." As a 37 year old midlevel accounting manager, Kyle felt stuck and unfulfilled. He certainly deserved to be a Vice President in the firm, if not CEO or COO. During the course of his employment there, an interesting opportunity presented itself to him.

He had become familiar with the company's own accounting system, and observed that each day's revenues were totaled and entered into a log that represented the next morning's bank deposit at precisely 5 pm every evening. He discussed with a software programmer friend outside the company, whether it would be possible to write some code that would intercept the numerical input at 5 pm and relay a different set of numbers to the logging program. This was not difficult at all, and in his greed, Kyle set out to cheat the company. He started small to test his system, lowering the real deposit numbers by 5 or 10 dollars, and then by several hundred each day, progressing to several thousand by the end of two months. The deposits were then smaller than the actual revenue, and Kyle diverted the excess funds into his department's general fund, where they were then "spent." He made up various fictitious vendors and other expenditures, and siphoned the money out for his own use. Kyle hadn't counted on the fact that the revenue monitoring accountant made a quarterly habit of going back in the books and checking the bank deposit statements for errors, comparing his initial log of daily revenues to the deposits listed by the bank. When Mr. Stebbins performed this task and found errors, he contacted the bank and looked at his company's internal deposit logging on the computers. He noted every deposit to be lowered in both the firm's own logs and the bank deposit records, indicating that something or someone had changed the numbers from those in his own records. This was when he contacted the police. Ryan was sent to investigate, and began with a comprehensive review of all the financial records. It seemed that the problem was relatively recent, less than a year of errors or potential fraud. Analysis of the where money flowed within the accounting firm to look for illegal withdrawal of funds showed nothing unusual, except for the increase in expenditures by Kyle's office. Ryan began to contact all individuals receiving funds from Kyle's office, and soon found than many did not exist at all. It was then only a matter of figuring who in Kyle's office was operating the scam. He interviewed Ryan's secretary and the junior accountants on his staff. All seemed honest and disclosing compared to Kyle, who couldn't conceal his snobbish arrogance.

"Tell me Mr. Ashby," Ryan inquired of his suspect," How do you explain the lack of actual existence of a number of the vendors and consultants paid from your department budget?"

"Detective, uh what is it?" asked Kyle.

"Rivers, Detective Rivers," answered Ryan.

"Yes, Detective Rivers. Not to offend, but you really have no idea of the extreme complexity of running an accounting department like mine in a huge firm like this," said Kyle.

Inside his mind, Kyle Ashby was squirming, caught like a raccoon with its paw in the trap.

"Wow," thought Ryan, "this guy can't even play the nice guy to conceal his crime!"

Having been brought up with honesty and kindness as the most respected virtues, Ryan always felt sorry for criminals like Kyle. They had given up precious freedom, and sometimes life itself, all for the pursuit of a few extra dollars they didn't earn. North American Base had a prison system, but because resources and space were limited, an individual convicted of offenses leading to more than ten years' incarceration could instead be ejected onto the open ocean in the simplest recycled plastic, 20 foot skiff with sun shade, 10 days' worth of water and food and an oar. This was at the judge's discretion and was used often if the judge deemed the convict a high risk for recidivism. Survival at sea was low. Sometimes the convict managed to find a flotilla of boaters, and convince them that he or she was not too dangerous to deal with. Regaining entrance to North American Base once deported was unheard of, although once a conviction was overturned as the ejected convict's lawyers continued working, and a search party retrieved the lucky individual from the sea to be returned home a free man.

Kyle Ashby's was a typical white collar arrest. Several uniformed officers along with Ryan arrived mid day to announce the charges. Kyle first warned them that the charges were baseless and that they'd be lucky to keep their jobs after this was over. He was led out from the office in handcuffs wearing his business suit, trying to duck his head away from view as they stuffed him into the back of an unmarked police car. This case was a small feather in Ryan's cap as he built his reputation in the department for being a smooth operator in the world of fraud and graft investigations.

In the nine months following Kyle Ashby's arrest, Ryan took down a much bigger fish. North American Base (NAB) was still more than large enough to support local politics. The Western one third of NAB was known as New California, the central third, as Midwest States, and the Eastern third as New York Washington. New California had a long string of Governors who were former movie and television actors until Jackson McGee was elected. McGee had made a fortune in the new stock market on NAB. For about thirty five years, there had been no open market for stocks and commodities on NAB. The government was busy trying to solidify operations and create what normalcy of life could be had living on a gigantic floating platform. It was felt that a stock market was not necessary in the beginning, and might create unnecessary distraction that would impede progress. Later as cities and regions began to take on their own unique identities, and industry started to bustle again, businessmen formed groups to research and organize the beginnings of a new stock exchange. It had to start as a smaller exchange, as there just weren't the number of companies as had existed in the old North American continent. There was quite a bit of argument as to where the new Wall Street should be located, with New York Washington businessmen arguing that it should be in the East, as Wall Street had originally been. New California businessmen argued that there was the Pacific Stock Exchange before, and that there was no reason not to put the new Wall Street there, where the weather was a bit better than on the Eastern third. The Midwesterners however, argued that in this new world, perhaps it would be best to place Wall Street smack in the middle of NAB, where it would be most accessible to all. That was what prevailed. To investors, trading was all electronic, so the location of the New Wall Street was not so important. However, to the few traders who gained positions on the floor of the New American Stock Exchange, this was where they became millionaires, worked insane hours, and bought outrageous automobiles (all electric on NAB) and luxurious dwellings to house their families. Jackson McGee was one of these lucky individuals. He had earned an MBA degree, and was a young manager for one of the three major construction firms on NAB when he learned about the formation of the new exchange. He had been known as a tough but fair guy to work for in his division within that firm. Sporting a light blonde crew cut, steely blue eyes, and a muscular GI Joe type build, he was someone that people tried not to cross. He was quite friendly, rational, and personable though, not at all intimidating once one got to know him. He immediately applied to the New American Exchange for a seat, and after extensive interviews was accepted. His keen wit and systematic perseverance led him to success there. He earned millions in a few years, found a beautiful woman to marry and have children with, and lived in relative luxury compared to the average NAB inhabitant. Other traders looked to him for advice, which he freely gave, so he was well liked at the exchange. After a number of years he founded his own investment firm, left the floor to preside as its CEO, and let an eager young businesswoman named Charlene Cranston take over his old job. Being a well known investment guru led to a spot as a regular commentator for the North American Business Report television program. His charismatic commentaries became quite popular, and it was not long before his face was known throughout NAB as a celebrity. He started to feel that he had outgrown the business world in general. He yearned to do something that would really effect people, and leave him in the history books as well. Politics became his new passionate conquest.
Chapter 2

McGee set his sights on the governorship of New California right away. Elections were held every four years for the position, as had been the old custom. He used his still increasing wealth to wage a campaign that could not be equaled by the other candidates. In addition to the regular spots on the financial news, his smiling face was plastered on every tram bench, and regular ads ran during prime time for an entire year prior to the general election. McGee's clean background and traditional family life made him very difficult to attack using smear campaigns. With fewer individuals in society who considered themselves underprivileged, there was minimal resentment of his stellar success. After winning the governorship, he donated the use of the governor's mansion to a financially challenged family with children, which was great P.R. for the start of his term. His business savvy, and a great adeptness at lobbying with NAB's federal government for the benefit of New Californians made Governor McGee wildly successful and popular. There seemed no cloud that could dim the light shining on his governorship. A problem lurked though. McGee's newly elected Lieutenant Governor, Steve Bleckman, was a very jealous man. Beneath a veil of cooperation, Bleckman couldn't stand his superior, Governor McGee. He couldn't stand it that McGee was so rich, whereas Bleckman himself had only his career in public service. He couldn't stand it that McGee was so popular, yet citizens rarely knew who Bleckman was when polled. The obvious conclusion was that the voters had elected him based on his party affiliation and prior public service record alone. Bleckman had never married, or had children, and was somewhat of a wretched soul. He managed to attract women for dating. He had his political position and wasn't all that bad looking at forty two years old, but there was no charm whatsoever, and the relationships were short lived.

Bleckman was responsible for much of New California's budgeting work and interfacing with the region's Controller, Bill Munoz. Bleckman wanted cash and the more the better. He figured that if he could befriend Bill Munoz on a personal level, and gain some cooperation, perhaps with mutual benefit to both of them, that the Regional budget could be manipulated in a way to allow large cash diversions in their direction. Bleckman started by arranging more frequent lunch meetings with Munoz, under the guise of New California's Regional business. One such meeting was at the Cutting Board Steak House, where Bleckman finally broached the topic as tactfully as he could. He had already, in previous meetings, tried to feel Munoz out; check what he was made of, if he needed money, and if he had the same kind of resentment he himself had against their wealthy boss, Jackson McGee. Because of his enthusiasm for the plan, and also because he was a poor judge of character, lacking any character himself, Bleckman sorely misjudged Bill Munoz.

In earlier meetings, Bleckman made comments like, "Sure would be nice to get a little chunk of change like McGee's hoarding, huh? New California owes us that eh?"

Munoz laughed and slapped Bleckman on the shoulder jovially, answering "Right old man! Some chance of that!"

Bleckman interpreted comments like this as positive responses, but in reality, Munoz was just trying to keep conversation flowing while at the same time wondering what Bleckman's problem was. Munoz was a family man and a descendent of immigrants who had come to the old USA to find a better life, escaping violence and poverty in drug cartel dominated Mexico. To him, life as an elected public official was a dream, and an honor to be cherished and protected. When Bleckman finally came out in the open about his plan to rob the people of New California through deception and political corruption, Bill Munoz hid his surprise. He seemed to be listening attentively and maybe planning how to make things work smoothly by Bleckman's estimation.

They parted that meeting with Bill stating furtively, "Ok Steve. Well, I'll give all of this my consideration. I'll have an answer for you within the week."

Bleckman was ecstatic. He was sure he had won over the one individual necessary to divert funds from the Regional Budget. In reality, Munoz had left that meeting and gone straight to the Chief of Police with this information about Bleckman. The case was diverted to a Special Investigations unit that utilized the top white collar investigators available on North American Base. Ryan was called up for the assignment and flown in by jet helicopter from New York Washington. The Special Investigations team was aware of the importance of finding out precisely which individuals within the government were involved in the corruption scheme before making the arrest of Steve Bleckman. Mistakenly accusing a high official, such as Governor Jackson McGee, would be disastrous. Allowing an involved official to continue representing the people of New California would also be disastrous. Governor McGee represented the most difficult part of the investigation. Because of his immense wealth, it wouldn't seem likely he would defraud New California for more money, but greed had made men do stranger things. McGee's finances were not easy to audit. There were too many corporations and sub corporations, whereas with Bleckman, they could simply review his retirement and bank statements along with credit card spending and records of a few recent real estate transactions. When the auditing was done, and Ryan and the other Special Investigators were certain that the scheme had begun and ended with Steve Bleckman, they set up a wire tapped meeting between Bleckman and Bill Munoz.

"Morning Steve, how's are things?" began Munoz.

"Well. How about you Bill? Have you gone over my numbers? Do you think we can come up with a decent return? I'm, um, assuming you're in, and that I have your participation?'

"Oh, yeah!" responded Munoz. "Let's go over the plans in detail he continued."

Bleckman methodically detailed every part of his scheme out loud for the microphone and all the listening Special Investigators to hear.

"Ok then," said Munoz, "We'll meet again in a week after I have a chance to start working on some details." (Munoz knew that Bleckman's most likely next stop was the regional jail on his way to federal prison, or possibly even open ocean deportation from NAB.

Ryan and one other investigator approached the Lieutenant Governor's office with papers in hand, including a warrant for the arrest of Steve Bleckman, and transcripts of the wiretap in case it was necessary to let Bleckman know things were for real. Sometimes a high level suspect like the Lieutenant Governor simply refused to believe what was happening to them. Such an individual might try to summon their own security staff to arrest the arresting officers themselves. A quick presentation of salient evidence could bring them back down to earth and get them to cooperate on the day of their tragic downfall. Ryan and his colleague stood quietly in the elevator on the way up to Bleckman's office.

"I don't know. Somehow I've got a bad feeling about this guy," said Ryan's colleague.

"Why's that?" answered Ryan. "By the way I agree with you, I'm just curious what vibes you're getting."

"I don't know. On the wire, he just seemed kind of wacky. I don't know, kind of like one of those serial killers who says their dog told them to do it."

Ryan put his right hand under his suit jacket, feeling the grip of his holstered pistol. The last round in the 16 round magazine was an Ultra poison hollow tip. Even a graze with that round would kill quickly. The idea being that if the officer was down to shooting the last round, it was big trouble, a life and death situation. Ryan's colleague checked her own weapon to be sure as well. They arrived at the twelfth floor and were greeted by a large desk and Bleckman's personal secretary.

"There are some detectives here to see you Mr. Bleckman," she stated over the intercom to her boss.

The secretary led them in, opening the huge, stained, oak door to the Lieutenant Governor's office. Bleckman sat behind his desk, flanked by the North American Base flag on one side and the New California flag on the other.

"How can I help you officers?" Bleckman greeted with a smile. "I've been quite pleased with the interdepartmental cooperation we've been hearing about regarding the war on crime here on NAB!"

"Yes sir," answered Ryan calmly. "Well there's a bit of an issue we need to address with you personally. If you wish for your secretary to leave it's ok. It doesn't involve her."

"Faye, oh no! Faye needn't leave. She takes note of everything that goes on in this office for me, so I'd prefer she stay," said Bleckman.

"In that case governor," answered Ryan, "It is our duty to inform you of the case of North American Base and the Region of New California against you for attempted corruption and embezzlement. At this point you are hereby under arrest. Please remove your coat and come around the desk with your hands on your head."

Bleckman looked downward at the floor.

"You must be joking!" he exclaimed. "This is outrageous!" "You're barging in here into the office of the Lieutenant Governor of the Region of New California and making unfounded accusations!"

"With all due respect sir, please take a look at these documents. They're a transcript of your last meeting with Mr. Munoz. I think you'll understand then," said Ryan.

Ryan slid the documents across the stunned official's desk. The female officer put her hand again on her weapon and stepped closer to the governor's secretary.

Suddenly, Bleckman sprang into action. He grabbed for his desk drawer and pulled out an ancient looking, black, long barreled revolver. The kind you'd see in an old cowboy movie. Ryan's partner tackled Faye the secretary, knocking her to the ground for her own safety. Ryan crouched to the floor and had his weapon drawn when Bleckman placed the end of the old revolver in his own mouth and pulled the trigger. The governor's secretary shrieked in horror as Ryan and the female officer watched helplessly. Bright red blood ran from Bleckman's mouth and pulsed out the top of his head as he fell backwards against the window sill. The Lieutenant Governor's body crumpled, leaning against the wall in a sitting position under the sill. Ryan approached the body and felt the neck for a pulse. There was none. He pulled a small radio out from his pocket and called for assistance.

"Precinct 49 operator, this is Agent Rivers. Please call for a coroner's unit. Our suspect has committed suicide at the Lieutenant Governor's office, twelfth floor."

"Roger, Agent Rivers. Coroner's unit requested. In route to Lieutenant Governor's office building, twelfth floor," was the response.

Ryan and the other arresting officer followed two coroner's men out of the building, as they wheeled the corpse of the Lieutenant Governor to a waiting hearse. Several hours had passed since the suicide. There had been interviews of Faye, the Governor's secretary, and of Ryan and the female officer as well, by a Precinct "Officer Involved Shooting" investigation team. Faye had corroborated the sequence of events with Ryan and his partner, and the Investigations Team was confident that there was no need for further inquiry.

They walked side by side, silently, looking downward, deep in thought. It was never a real victory to a good officer to be delivering a suspect to the morgue. There was the dissatisfying feeling of death having cheated justice. As well, Ryan had never seen a suspect take their own life _this close up_ before. There had been barricaded suspects and unapprehended perpetrators who decided to throw in the towel by committing suicide. Those individuals were out of view, agonizing on their own, unable to face the inevitable consequences of their recent actions. That was different from having witnessed in the span of a minute the complete collapse of an apparently confident public officer; one moment smiling at his official work desk, and the next crumpled in a pool of blood with bits of scalp and brain matter splattered on the ceiling above.

"Maybe a short break would be a good thing," Ryan whispered to himself.

"I'll second that emotion," replied the female officer.

Ryan looked at her, with his brow lifted. He didn't realize he had spoken his thought out loud. She was an attractive looking, taller woman in her early 30's, with long, light brown/ blonde hair that was bunned up for her work as an officer. After returning to the local precinct to shower, change clothes and complete the necessary paperwork, he asked her if she'd like to join him for dinner somewhere. She replied affirmatively, and they shared spaghetti and meatballs with a glass of wine.

"Where'd they put _you_ up for this one?" asked Ryan.

"The Sherrington, what about you?" she replied.

"Traveler's Inn. I guess your precinct has a little more class then mine!" exclaimed Ryan smiling.

"Hey! You should come and check out my room at the Sherrington," she said, "It's got an awesome view! You can see lights for miles."

"That'd be cool," he replied. They returned to her hotel and admired the view from the 20th floor suite.

"It's better with the room lights off," she said, flipping the switch and kicking off her shoes to allow her tired feet to relax. "What do you think makes a guy like Bleckman do it?" she asked. "Why did he risk everything when he had it good already?"

"I don't know," said Ryan. "I think it's something about their view of the world becoming so dark and negative."

They looked out again through the floor to ceiling glass window, and the colors were brilliant. There were numerous large panel billboards on various buildings in the distance, along with a gridiron of street lights, and electric vehicles traversing the city. Neither of them was at home here. They were visitors. She turned to face him in the dim light and began crying. He embraced her in his arms and she calmed a bit.

"That was really _not_ the way I wanted to be visiting New California," she said half crying and half laughing at the same time.

They kissed and he held her closely. The next morning, they enjoyed a very pleasant breakfast and coffee at the Sherrington's Hotel restaurant and agreed humorously that, "That was probably _not_ very professional of us." He smiled at her in a genuine way, like a true friend, and waved good bye. Ryan walked out into the hotel main lobby and turned back to shout, "Good luck!"

"Good luck to you too!" she yelled in return.

He was on the jet helicopter back to New York Washington within an hour.
Chapter 3

Ryan arrived back in New York Washington just after sunset. As per protocol for higher level police travel, the jet copter was permitted to land on the precinct station's rooftop. They swung to a horizontal standstill above the helipad, hovering in drizzling rain under gray clouded skies. Ryan looked down at the big plus sign highlighted with white LED lights below. He reminisced about the events in New California; the suicide, the encounter with the female officer. "What a trip," he thought. "Time to get back to normal routine." The copter's runners touched down on the rooftop and the whining, high pitched jet sound of the engine died before he and the pilot exited the craft.

Ryan ran into one of his senior colleagues on the way downstairs to the office. "Agent Rivers! Good to see ya! I heard about Bleckman. That must'a been some scene! Poor bastard! Should'a at least waited to gauge his chances, eh?"

"Uh, yeah. I would say so," Ryan responded. "He terrified his poor secretary too, let alone that other officer and I. Thought for sure he was about to open up on us. I was only a quarter second from taking him out myself."

"Well, it'll fade Rivers. It won't all seem so fresh and gruesome like it does t'day. I remember a similar situation back in twenty two. Guy pops up from a robbery crime scene just as McConnell and I were arriving. Started blasting away at our squad car as we pulled up. Problem was, it was Sunday morning ya see, and there were folks out for their weekend business, on to church and shopping and such. Before McConnell could swing the squad car door open and take aim, we witness a young mother goin' down, covered in blood. Still holding her little boy's hand as she fell. The poor kid just put his hands on his head and started bawling looking down at the mom. Luckily, McConnell was a crack shot, and that was the perp's last moment on earth. The mom didn't make it though. Anyhow, it fades. It all fades as time goes on and new things happen, and your days become more uneventful again."

"Thanks for the cheery pep talk Commander," Ryan replied somewhat sarcastically. "I get it though. Don't worry anyhow. I'm really not too affected by it. It's just part of the job. Right?"

"Yeah, part of the job. Right. Ok Rivers. Why don't you finish whatever you gotta document on that one and we'll talk about your next assignment tomorrow."

"Right, tomorrow," said Ryan, already forgetting about the few days off he had promised himself. "See you tomorrow sharp Commander." He finished what was left of recounting the events and returned home to his apartment for the evening. As he cut into a microwaved frozen burrito the Nightly News also recounted the events of the suicide of Lieutenant Governor Steve Bleckman from New California. Ryan's place was a bachelor pad with a good view of the city. It was roomy for a studio, had a nicer granite topped kitchen with new appliances, and even a stacked washer/ dryer hidden in a small closet next to the bathroom entrance. It was twice as expensive as the place he'd shared with a roommate as a college student, but he figured if he was going to live the unpredictable life of a police detective, he should at least feel comfortable during his off hours. It was the biggest luxury he afforded himself. The job of a detective with the New York Police was labor intensive and exhausting. He often arrived home spent, cooking up something frozen, like this night's burrito dinner. A respite, however, was his run in the park on the two mornings he started later in the day, or on his off days. He enjoyed the outdoors and the fresh breezes blowing off the Atlantic over New York Washington. He imagined had he been born several hundred years earlier, he would have enjoyed being a park ranger at Yosemite, or Alaska, or somewhere like that. What a shame that those beloved American landmarks all rested miles beneath the sea.
Chapter 4

North American Base, or NAB as it was commonly called, had a number of technical control stations similar to the bridge of a large ship. This made sense, as the base was made of thousands of large ships after all, and it was a buoyant ocean vessel, although a relatively stationary one. The Central Control Station, or CCS, was located in Midwest States, pretty much smack in the geometrical center of NAB. Operational staff working in CCS were linked in constant real time communication with ten other control centers. These centers were numbered and known as 1 through 10, and were evenly spaced around the perimeters of NAB. This meant that centers 1 through 10 were in direct visual contact with the sea, as well as physically able to assist in ocean going operations leaving or coming onto NAB. For that purpose, 1 through 10 all had accompanying divisions of Naval Officers and seamen housed close by, also on the perimeters of the base. Station 1 was roughly located where one might consider it to be the coast of Alaska from the old continent. Station 2 was approximately where Northern California should have been, and the stations continued counter clockwise around NAB's perimeter. This left Station 7 about in the region that would be considered Maine or Canada's coastline.

It was in the control room in Station 7 that First Officer Noel Rankin listened with his radio operator to the call coming in from the flotilla of ships approaching North American Base from 250 nautical miles out.

"Sounds like Russian," said the radio operator. "Activating linguistic analysis and translation. Well, Azerbaijani actually. Ok, let's rewind to the start of the transmission here. OK, here we go."

The computer translated and played back the transmission in English. It was as follows.

"This is Captain Alexander Menkyat of Azerbaijan Survival Fleet. We are requesting urgent, repeat urgent, permission to dock at North American Base for the purpose of medical assistance. Over. Do you read? We are in need of medical assistance. Please respond to this message. It is of a most humanitarian nature that we request assistance. We are self sufficient with food and other supplies, but we are unable to provide care for our children. Please answer us. Over."

"Let's see, that was at fourteen hundred hours, originally," said the radio operator. "The same message has been repeating at regular intervals, every hour, on the hour."

"I'm familiar with that fleet," answered First Officer Rankin. "They're large and well supplied. A bunch of converted tankers and even one old diesel electric sub, a Kilo Class, as I recall. Hmmm, why don't we bring up a satellite image and confirm who we're looking at please."

"Sir, the cloud cover is too thick for satellite, and they're too far for direct vision in this rain," said the radio operator.

"Ok then, let's try to strike up a conversation then, shall we? Put me on with Central Command Station and let's get a clearance to open up a dialogue with that Azerbaijani Captain."

"Yes sir!" replied the operator.

In moments, First Officer Rankin was explaining the situation to a Commanding Officer at CCS. It was agreed that Rankin would respond to the Azerbaijani Fleet and hear their Captain out, but that under no circumstances would any clearance to dock or promise of future clearance be made at this time. There was a strict protocol for communications that led up to an approval for outside vessels to dock at NAB. This included discussions with "Pentagon" officials (although no longer housed in a Pentagon shaped building, NAB's military and intelligence command center was still known as The Pentagon, and still interfaced with the President as in the old USA) and led up to a formal signed document by the President of NAB. Without that Presidential approval, no one under any circumstances was permitted docking at NAB's perimeters.

The feeling was, that NAB had been created to become home to a select population in the first place. These chosen survivors were considered desirable and or useful to the new society. If others from the outside were allowed entrance, then it could reintroduce "undesired" elements that were selected out in the initial process. There was also the consideration of international espionage, which was now very little, since base inhabitants rarely travelled to other bases if they were not specially screened political or military personnel on official business. Disease had also been reduced, since the initial screening included genetic profiling for susceptibility to cancers, infectious, cardiovascular, and autoimmune maladies. Admitted individuals and families at NAB's startup were signed into health maintenance programs where doctors' knowledge of their prescreened genetic profile could aid in averting serious illnesses that the particular patients were prone towards.

"This is First Officer Noel Rankin, Station 7, North American Base. Captain Menkyat, Azerbaijan Survival Fleet, do you read? We have listened to your recorded message. Over."

For thirty minutes there was no response. Rankin had the radio operator set their message to rebroadcast every 5 minutes. They sat and waited, looking out at the rain and a 15 foot ocean swell that was unremarkable from their perspective.

The Station 7 computerized radio terminal continued to interpret to Rankin and his radio operator when the response finally came in.

"Yes, yes. This is Captain Menkyat, of Azerbaijan Survival Fleet. Do you read? Over."

"Roger Captain. How can we help you? Over."

The Azerbaijani Captain switched to heavily accented English to continue the radio dialogue.

"First of all, let me thank you for your response Officer Rankin. We are well aware of the policies requiring approval to communicate with the outside world from your North American Base. We are normally a very self sufficient and happy society ourselves here in our fleet, but we have come across a most difficult situation, one that even our well trained physicians are unable to control."

"Go ahead Captain. We are listening," answered Rankin.

"There is an illness spreading among our children. It started about three years ago as a small cluster that was detected by our epidemiologists. There is no prodrome, as you put it, no warning at all, and then the child simply comes down with cancers all over the body. Because the amount of disease is so much, and spread to so many organs, it is impossible to treat with our available chemotherapies. Thankfully, the progression to death, and also the length of suffering is short, but the clusters have since turned into a full epidemic. Over."

"I see," responded Rankin. "That's a most unfortunate situation. Over."

"It is more than unfortunate Officer Rankin," said Captain Menkyat solemnly. "From our projections, within another year or two, Azerbaijan Fleet will lose ALL our children, as well as any poor babies we manage to produce in the meantime. The rest of us will be forced to live out our lives knowing that we are a doomed society. But enough of that... We, I am hoping, praying, that your government would be so good as to lend us some kind of assistance, anything that could help us stop this scourge. Our doctors are good, but do not have the same resources and education that yours do. Maybe they can help us figure out the cause and then the treatment of the disease that is killing our children. Then we can return to our normal, happy existence as an independent nation. Over." Captain Menkyat did not mention that his government had recommended that it was no longer humane for couples to produce children until the disease was curable.

"That's quite a horrible predicament," answered Rankin. "As you know, I cannot simply grant your fleet permission to dock on North American Base. We have a formal process for that. I can take your request directly to Central Command Station, where it will be processed for forwarding to The Pentagon. Over."

"That would be most kind of you Officer Rankin. We will await a decision. Meantime, remember, our children are dying here, dying one by one as their parents and doctors watch helplessly. There is so much sadness now. Do anything you can please. Over."
Chapter 5

The matter of the Azerbaijan Fleet and the horrible affliction affecting their children was passed up the chain of command. CCS had monitored the exchange with the Azerbaijani Fleet captain, and was simultaneously communicating with the Pentagon. A navy admiral, two congressmen, a congresswoman and the Chief of Staff for the President's Offices debated the matter over lunch. The meeting was held in one of many conference rooms available in the Pentagon, outfitted with a long boardroom style table, comfortable upholstered chairs, and media equipment for showing presentations on screen. Burle Iverson, the Chief of Staff, sat back and listened in during the early stages of the discussion. This gave him the advantage of learning from the expertise the others had to offer before formulation of a presentation for the President. Congressman "Tex" Waters finished chewing a bite of his "burger" (made from cultured beef product, not cows) and leaned back, dabbing his mouth with a white linen napkin. Waters was a heavy set, "sure as shootin" man from New Texas. He wore a cowboy hat, boots, and a business suit finished off with a bolo shoe string neck tie.

"The way I see it," said Waters, speaking with the definitive Texan accent of his ancestors, and cleaning a bit of meat from his upper molars using his tongue in between words, "There is some sort of communicable disease going on there with the Azerbaijanis. If we allow them to dock on NAB, who knows what could happen? Should we put our children at risk? Should we put the entire future of NAB as we know it at risk by exposing our population to an unknown, deadly, contagion? I cannot recommend that. Can anyone else here?"

"What about other options?" asked the congresswoman. "William, you're the naval expert. Could we arrange a linkup with their fleet at a safe distance out from NAB? That way we could perhaps help out and avoid infection of our population?"

The congresswoman was impeccably dressed; a smart, dark fuchsia business woman's outfit with jacket and skirt, matching pumps, and matching lipstick. She had honed the skill of maintaining her femininity while at the same time presenting herself as an intelligent and confident force to be reckoned with.

"Nancy," responded the Admiral, "We can easily liaison with that fleet at sea, but we still don't know if we'd be bringing home the infectious agent with us when we came back. Just because children are being affected, doesn't mean that the adults are not carriers in some way."

"I suppose you're right William, of course our medical experts could give us their best opinion on those issues," she replied.

One of the congressmen spoke.

"I have to agree with William and Tex. I don't see how we could recommend granting them docking clearance. Maybe some sort of an airdrop? Maybe we begin some medical teleconferencing between our doctors and theirs, so the disease can be studied here, remotely, without exposing anyone."

Burle Iverson then entered the conversation decisively. "Then it's settled. We don't know enough about the problem they're having out there yet. It may be an infectious issue that could threaten public health here on NAB. There's no sense in fast tracking their ships to dock, especially when we have technical resources that can be dropped in to remotely analyze the situation for the Azerbaijanis in cooperation with our own medical experts. This is what I will recommend to the President then. Let's get a scientific opinion right away as to what distance, if any, is needed from their fleet in order to prevent windborne or waterborne contamination _here_."

"I can take care of that," said the congresswoman. "I'll have answers from our biohazards people tomorrow."

"Meanwhile, I will contact Phyllis Halsey (The Surgeon General) and request that she assemble a team of our best infectious and cancer doctors, since that seems to be the issue here, for the purpose of assisting the Azerbaijani fleet doctors with the issue," offered Tex Waters.

"Same time, same place then?" asked Iverson.

The others nodded affirmatively. Iverson left and more congressional staff entered the room for a meeting on budgetary issues. The two congressmen who had been in on the initial discussion whispered to one another. It was an election year, and both wanted to steer clear of controversy. On one hand, public safety was a top priority, and voters would understand this. On the other hand, imagine the bad press with allowing tens of thousands of children to die from a horrible disease without giving a best attempt to save them, even if they were from outside NAB.

"Not good. Not good at all they agreed."
Chapter 6

A flat screen TV on the opposite wall turned on the "Good Morning N.A.B." News show quite loudly as his wakeup alarm. Ryan opened his eyes narrowly and stretched out in bed, preparing to begin his day. He watched as a thin blonde reporter named China Gutierrez gave play by play on the "tense situation involving a foreign off base floating nation, requesting medical aid to save their dying children." The skies had cleared, and there were close up satellite images of all the ships in the fleet, anchored a few hundred miles off Station 7. They were weathered looking, massive gray metal ships with rust stains dripping down from the stanchions and Hawse holes, and barnacles visible at the waterline. Then, the camera zoomed in to one of the large screens in the newsroom, showing a black robed mother on the deck of one of the ships, rocking back and forth crying, holding a child that appeared limp and lifeless.

"Wow," thought Ryan. "That's really sad. Unusual too. Haven't heard many stories like that before. That's quite a group of ships, the kind you hear of that actually _do_ survive out there without being on a base. Wonder what it's like living like that, feeling the ocean on a moving ship rather than being tethered down as we are on this gigantic platform. Wow, I sure hope we can help save those kids."

Ryan rolled out of bed as the coffee maker timer beeped that his brew was starting. He entered his small bathroom and grabbed the electric toothbrush off its stand. He brushed, shaved, and showered in the space of 15 minutes and walked into the kitchenette of his studio apartment. He wore only boxer shorts for that cup of coffee which he enjoyed before putting on a laundered dress shirt, coat and slacks. Ryan watched a little more of "Good Morning N.A.B." It looked like the weather would be nice for a few days before the next front was due in. Then it was out the door and off to Precinct 12. He wondered what his next assignment would be. Police work for the detectives in the unit was usually assigned, unlike street officers who roamed around and acted on crime at the spur of the moment. Ryan was considered to be a real solid detective and was popular with commanders at Precinct 12 because they knew they could dump an incomplete, difficult to solve, real mystery type of a case in his hands and he would work it, without needing babysitting.

Detective Ed Arrosyan was a slightly different story. He'd been at the precinct a year or so longer than Ryan. When Ryan came, he welcomed him with his usual, "We're all like family here. If you have any question, anything at all I can help you with, ask Uncle Eddy," (as Ed called himself for unknown reasons). Ed wore a brown polyester suit most of the time, with an aging white collar dress shirt, open at the top, and some heavy gold chains around his neck hanging down over tufts of black hair at the top of his chest. While all the other detectives carried modern automatic weaponry, Ed defended justice with a special ordered .357 Magnum, "Just like the one Dirty Harry used in the movies." The weapon was too large to be inconspicuous, thus Ed walked around with a large lump under the left side of his coat in front. One of the other detectives who was also somewhat old school was always teasing Ed, commenting in a New York accent, "What's that under there? You got some kind of a tumor?"

Despite peculiarities, Arrosyan had his specialties as a detective. For one thing, he had family in the Armenian community, which if anything, was over represented on N.A.B. in order to compensate for the Armenian genocide several hundred years ago. This was a useful link for the department, which Arrosyan utilized regularly. For example when Armenian businessman and electronics mogul, John Vershakian disappeared and was thought murdered, Ed was able to gather information from the Armenian community that eventually led to Vershakian's rescue, and a nice commendation from the Governor of New York Washington as well. Another thing, Ed's appearance was very intimidating to all but the most insane or drug crazed criminals. He was quite tall and big boned, but not a hip looking guy like Ryan. Ed had a droopy dark moustache and a goatee. His face was pock marked from his teenage years and his nose had too many angles to count, making him look like he had been a boxer at some point. He had huge rough hands like a machine mechanic and tousled curly black hair. You put all this together and you got one tough looking dude with a .357 bump showing through his coat to boot. All this was by no means a requirement to be a detective in Precinct 12, but when other detectives there had a potentially more difficult suspect to apprehend, Uncle Eddy was a good guy to bring along.

Ryan sat down and picked up the grey file folder waiting for him on his desktop. The system was color coded within the detective's office. Ryan's cases were always in grey folders, Ed Arrosyan's were brown, and there were five other detectives as well. He jiggled the mouse to get his computer screen lit up and opened the grey folder. There was a case number printed on the tab of the folder, and by punching this into the computer, the entire case details were available on the police intranet. The folder itself was used for original documents gathered in the field that might be used as evidence, but these were also scanned into the online system for ease of access.

"Ok, let's see what we have here," Ryan said to himself. He punched a few keys and started reading the case summary. These summaries were dictated by one of the commanders after review of a file produced by regular field officers who felt that the issue should be bumped up to detective level. The summary was as follows.

**Case** # 77821 **Precinct** : 12 **Commander:** Hanson **DOI:** 05/21/2151

**Reporting officer(s):** Sgt. Warren Kelly, Off. Frank Hernandez

Case summary is as follows.

On the evening of 04/18/2151, Sargent Kelly and Officer Hernandez were in their squad car patrolling the Grand Street area of New Soho. At 23:35 hours, dispatch put out a Code Two High call for a disturbance occurring in a third story loft located at 1601 Mott Street, involving a woman screaming and possible shots fired. Upon arriving at 1601 Mott, the officers were allowed entrance by a distraught middle aged man, who identified himself as Henrich Jorgensen. Mr. Jorgensen requested the officers to call 911 immediately as his wife had been shot. The officers observed a woman on the floor of the entryway attempting to speak, but unintelligible, and bleeding from an apparent gunshot wound to the left shoulder. Officer Hernandez then handcuffed Mr. Jorgensen and placed him under arrest as a possibly dangerous suspect, while Sargent Kelly applied pressure to the woman's bleeding wound. Emergency services arrived to care for Mrs. Jorgensen and she was taken to New York Medical where she had emergency surgery and was admitted to the surgical floor to recover in stable condition. On questioning, Mr. Jorgensen stated that an unknown male individual of possibly Latin or Asian ethnicity had forced his way into their apartment after ringing the bell. Mrs. Jorgensen had reportedly answered the door, while her husband worked in his studio on a sculpture. He heard her scream and ran to the front where he found her lying. The reported assailant took one look at Mr. Jorgensen and ran from the premises. Mr. Jorgensen reportedly decided to care for his wife rather than pursue the armed assailant. The officers reportedly arrived only several minutes after Mr. Jorgensen found his wife down in the entry. Mr. Jorgensen's statement was formally taken at Precinct 12 and he was released without charges. The Crime Scene Investigation unit took photos of the entryway where Mrs. Jorgensen was shot showing blood on the floor, and no evidence of any physical damage to the surrounding area of the apartment. Of note, there was one 9 millimeter slug extracted from Mrs. Jorgensen's shoulder during her operation. CSI also made note of the presence of two respirators or gas masks seen hanging on coat pegs in the entry closet.

"Hmm," thought Ryan, "It doesn't say that the call for help came from the Jorgensen's home though, and the report was for a woman screaming and possible shots. Must have been a neighbor. We'll need to check who called it in. Not sure where the detective work here is though. The wife survived, let's see what she said." Ryan continued to read the report.

Witness Interview: 4/20/2151

Kathleen Jorgensen (shooting victim as described above)

The day after her surgery the victim was interviewed by the Precinct 12 investigative officers as follows in transcript.

"Good morning Mrs. Jorgensen. I am Officer Kelly and this is Officer Hernandez. We are with the local police department and we are wondering if you feel well enough to talk with us a little about what happened to you the other night."

"Yes, I can talk. I'm starting to get my bearings again."

"Mrs. Jorgensen, can I call you Kathleen?"

"Yes officer, that's ok."

"Kathleen, we would like to hear your account of what happened the night you were shot. Anything you remember could help find the person who did it. Let's begin with what you and your husband were doing that evening before any of the events occurred."

"Well, Henrich was working on a sculpture in his studio, a Plasticine piece that would end up in bronze, a little girl holding a puppy. I was in the family room, painting with water color, and the bell rang and I went to answer, and then I don't know what. I honestly can't remember a thing. The next thing I knew I was waking up here in the hospital, and a nurse was trying to talk to me."

"So you can't remember who was at the door when you answered?"

"Well,,, no. I think it was a man. But, I can't remember any details."

"Do you or your husband have anyone you might consider to be upset with you in any way that could motivate such an attack?"

"Not really. Henrich is such a gentleman. Pretty much everyone he knows just loves him!"

"Do you or Mr. Jorgensen own any firearms that you know of?"

"No. We're not into guns. We are artists. Gentle, creative people by nature."

"Kathleen, our Investigative Officers noticed some gas masks in the coat closet. What are those for?"

"Oh, they're nothing special. Henrich uses them when any process necessary for his sculpting creates a lot of dust or fumes in the studio."

"I see, well, thank you Mrs. Jorgensen. We'll be in touch with you if we have any more questions."

"Well, thank you officers, have a nice day."

End of Transcription

Addendum(s):

Video surveillance cameras in front of the victim's loft apartment did not reveal a suspect entering or leaving the building.

Background check on Henrich Jorgensen revealed a prior police visit to his residence in Dec. 2170 for suspected domestic violence. No charges were filed by Kathleen Jorgensen. This appears in conflict with above victim's testimony about her husband's gentle nature.

Henrich Jorgensen has a PhD in Microbiologic Sciences. He has worked in the biotech sector in the past, but now lists his occupation as artist sculptor. His past employers were not contacted.

Officers Kelly and Hernandez noted an unusual odor at the Jorgensen residence. This appears to have been due to a sculpting product used by Mr. Jorgensen that evening.

Detective Level Investigation Objectives are as follows:

Shooting with unknown and unapprehended suspect.

Category: Attempted Murder

Detectives to interface with Crime Scene Investigations unit and witnesses to attempt to identify perpetrator. Detectives to further investigate husband's likelihood as shooter in incident.

End of dictated report, see also physical evidence file if applicable.

Ryan went down to the Crime Scene Investigator's office and requested to view the evidence bags for the case. There was a baggy containing the bullet extracted from Kathleen Jorgensen's shoulder. There was a larger plastic bag with a light peach blazer and white cotton shirt both perforated and bloodied at the left shoulder area, and there were the photos of the crime scene as described in the report. Ryan flipped through the photos and stopped at a shot of the two gas masks.

"Hmm," he thought to himself. "Those are pretty fancy ones. The canisters look really big and more complex than the ones we use for tactical operations where tear gas is in use. I wonder why, when the guy's just using them to filter his sculpture shop's dusty air."
Chapter 7

The Pentagon

Presidential Chief of Staff, Burle Iverson, addressed the three Congress members and Naval Admiral from the previous meeting.

"First of all I'd like to thank all of you for agreeing to participate in the emergency committee to address the issue of the Azerbaijani Fleet dilemma," said Iverson, looking rather serious compared to the light hearted beginning of the discussions the day before. He continued, "The matter has been discussed with President Jayo'n himself, and after consultation with the Secretary of the Navy, whom you, William, are well acquainted with, this issue has been elevated to level six security. Further discussions and the decision process will involve the President and a new team that may or may not include some or all of the current members here today. Based on this, the motion to call for resolution of this issue as "passed to another committee" is made, and I will also ask you all to refrain from further discussion about these topics with other individuals not here in the room today. All in favor of motion to pass topic on to another committee please say aye."

The Congress members looked at each other with raised eyebrows. The naval admiral looked down at some papers in front of him on the desk and made some notes. Then they all looked at Burle Iverson and said "Aye". The congresswoman began to speak.

"Mr. Iverson. Before we adjourn I think it's quite pertinent to note that our top medical experts from the National Institute have given us an opinion on the likely etiology of the pediatric disease process onboard those ships. If they're right, the communicability to adults is relatively low, and there's little risk of airborne or waterborne contamination here on N.A.B."

Iverson responded.

"Thank you Nancy. If you will please forward the latest on all that to my office so it will be available to the President."

The congresswoman nodded affirmatively. She was pissed at being dismissed so curtly, yet her Washington experience told her that this wasn't the right issue to argue with the President's Chief of Staff over. The political risks were too large to put herself in the spotlight unnecessarily.

As the congresswoman and Iverson left, the two congressmen stayed seated along with the navy man. They waited patiently for about ten minutes, at which time Iverson returned to the conference room without the congresswoman.

"I think that you will all agree," began Iverson, "After hearing the President's current plan, that we're best off continuing without Nancy here."

As it turned out, the rouse was that the congresswoman was the only one being removed from the committee.

"The President has approved a high priority covert operation involving the SEALS. He wants the Azerbaijani fleet escorted away from our perimeter, but without the appearance of any involvement from N.A.B. or himself. He understands that this is a grave undertaking, however we feel that the alternative is risking the population of our nation, and that this would be even more unthinkable."

The two congressmen looked at one another.

"I'm not sure the President has thought this out completely. And I'm certainly _not_ going to be a party to any covert genocide against a foreign nation."

"There's no genocide involved here! We didn't create that disease!" Iverson interjected. "We simply can't afford the risk of involvement to our own population here on N.A.B."

Then the other congressman, "Tex" Waters spoke in his Texan drawl.

"I have to say I'm in agreement with my congressional colleague. Simply turning our heads, pushing a suffering nation back out to sea away from our own, knowing full well that it will mean certain death for all their children. That's serious stuff gentlemen. Perhaps an emergency session of Congress behind closed doors to arrive at a consensus on how to utilize our resources, experts, technology and such, would be a better idea."

Iverson interrupted, "The President was very clear that he had already discussed the scientific aspect of the Azerbaijani epidemic with the top doctors and scientists at the N.I.H. After hearing what they had to say, he made the decision to steer the safest course for the people of North American Base. William, what amount of time would the Navy need to accomplish this mission if the President gives the final go ahead?"

The Admiral looked gravely at Burle Iverson.

"I could have that flotilla moving in a day or so Burle. Just enough time to position the submarines. Of course all of this is in full view of the media unless that's taken care of somehow, and I have to say I'm with the congressmen here. Such an action is not in the character of our great nation. We have survived the flooding of the earth to perpetuate the principles of democracy and freedom. To steal that away from a foreign people out there, struggling to survive, would be unconscionable. I'd be happy to discuss that with the President in person, by the way."

Iverson thrust a paper folder in his right hand down on the conference table in a motion of frustration. He was far more junior in politics than the Admiral and Tex Waters. The meeting was a bust. His enthusiasm for following the President's plans had been rather blind, like that of an obedient canine, and he himself realized it. His face flushed red, and he drew in a deep breath to regain composure.

"Perhaps I should take this matter, under your advisement, back to the President for further consideration then. I will ask you all to abide by the President's request for the utmost confidentiality in the meantime. We'll meet again here, O seven hundred, tomorrow morning to discuss this further.
Chapter 8

Ryan began the task off calling on leads in the Jorgensen shooting case. He wanted to know first of all who called the police to report the possible incident so he could interview them. That info was easily obtained from the Precinct Operator's call logs. A Mrs. Charles Akin was listed, and Ryan headed out to pay her a visit. It was a fine midmorning, no rain or mist, just a little humid as was common in New York Washington. Mrs. Akin lived in the same building as the Jorgensens, directly beneath them, one floor down. He pulled up in a detective's vehicle, a small electric, unmarked, but showing obvious police radio equipment and a cut out for the blue and red flashers that could be elevated with the push of a button for lights and sirens response if needed. The young officer felt happy and strong again. His commander was right about things fading. The vivid details of the terrible suicide the prior week already retreated. The bright red blood on the ceiling and the gaping hole on top of Bleckman's head were becoming a black and white memory, simplified and condensed like a computer ZIP file to retain the critical facts using the least memory possible. He rode a large elevator up to the second story of the 1601 Mott Lofts. It was a large industrial type elevator that could be used to move large objects and had carpeting on the sides to prevent dings. He rang Mrs. Akin's doorbell and waited. There was no immediate response. He stood for a minute, then heard through the heavy door someone calling weakly,

"Just a moment! Just a moment! I'm coming. Be patient."

A woman with white hair, stooped over a walker, wearing a dark red terry robe and house slippers answered the door, looking out from behind tired, sunken eyes she addressed Ryan.

"Good Morning! What can I do for you young man?"

"I'm Detective Rivers, from the police department. I wondered if I you might answer a few questions for us about the incident you called about in the building here."

"Do you have a badge officer?"

"Oh, certainly. Here you are ma'am."

Ryan proudly flipped open a black leather holder to reveal the golden metal NY Washington Police emblem which always included the officer's number. His badge had been a beautiful and cherished thing ever since the day he received it from the Chief at his Academy graduation ceremony.

The old woman motioned to Ryan, "Please come in officer. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?" She was not at all displeased to have the handsome young detective visit her. Life was a bit tedious at times since Mr. Akin had passed on. Like the Jorgensens, they also had purchased in the Mott Lofts because they were artists, she a landscape painter with some success at selling commercial art for use in hotels and office buildings, and he a sculptor.

Ryan asked her what first bothered her the night of the incident, enough to prompt a call to the police department. She explained that she had heard what sounded like loud arguing, which was not uncommon coming from the Jorgensen's apartment above. _That_ she was used to. But then, about a half an hour later, there was a loud pop and the sound of something hitting the floor above. She had surmised that there was indeed a shooting, and called the police. Ryan asked her how many pops she thought she'd heard and she recalled one, maybe two at the most. He asked her if there was any escalation in the shouting before the pops, and she said she wasn't sure, as she had tried to tune out the noise above and was watching TV.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like a cup of tea? I have herbal, and maybe a pumpkin cookie officer? They're just baked!"

Ryan looked up at the wall above the fireplace mantle. There was a large painting of some mountains and green, alpine looking pastures with black and white cows and patches of wildflowers.

"It's very nice," he said. "That painting. I wish I could have witnessed a scene like that in real life. Did you paint it?"

"Yes it's an old one. I used a picture from my family's old photo albums. Some of them were Swiss, way back. What a life they must have had living in the Alps!"

"Yes, it must have been quite wonderful Mrs. Akin. I'll take you up on that cup of herbal tea then. Can you remember anything unusual about the Jorgensens other than the fact that they quarreled now and then?" The old woman seemed like "good people" to Ryan, and he felt obliged to be sociable with her while she indulged his questioning.

She sat up and moved towards the kitchen island on one side of the large open room using her walker.

"Well, the one thing Chuck used to say there's something odd about Mr. Jorgensen and his art. You see they were both sculptures and both worked in large cast pieces."

"Yes," replied Ryan, egging her on enthusiastically and taking a sip of tea.

"Well, Chuck, being a producer of large pieces himself, was in touch with all the pertinent local art dealers as well as just about any commercial resellers here on N.A.B. He knew anyone who was purchasing large sculpture on a regular basis you see."

"Yes, so they were in exactly the same business, your husband and Mr. Jorgensen," said Ryan.

"Yes they were!" said Mrs. Akin. "And the thing was. None of these dealers and resellers, the ones who handled large sculpture that is, had ever heard of Henrich Jorgensen, let alone handled any of his work!"

"That is quite odd," said Ryan. "Although, he did have a previous career. Perhaps he sculpted for his personal satisfaction and gave some pieces away?"

"Maybe," replied the old woman. "But he at least lied about it then, because he was always bragging to Chuck that he'd sold another piece and at high prices too. There is something not quite right about Henrich. I just don't know what it is."

"Well, I've got to be going now Mrs. Akin. Thank you so much for your information, and the tea and cookie too! They were very good."

The old woman smiled and led him to the door.

"Good bye now. Don't hesitate to come back if you need anything else officer."

She smiled at him and he smiled back in return. The large elevator doors in the hall opened and he squeezed in next to two moving men. They were handling a large blanket wrapped item on a flat rolling cart.

"What'cha moving?" asked Ryan.

"Oh, just another sculpture for Mr. Jorgensen," answered one of the men with a New York speech style.

"Mind if I take a peek?" asked Ryan.

"No can do! She's wrapped _to go_ buddy! And we've got to get her to the warehouse on time and move on to our next job."

Ryan flashed his badge and the two movers scrutinized it and looked again at him.

"Well, Ok, but just a quick look. We do have a schedule to keep officer."

They rolled the cart out of the elevator at the street level and untapped one side of the moving blankets so Ryan could look.

"Hmmm," said Ryan. "I'm no expert, but it doesn't look like much to me." The statue of a dog sitting at attention appeared crude, without much detail, and not very aesthetic to his eye. Ryan had been good at drawing in school, and naturally appreciated art in general. It was a rather childish looking piece at best.

"Listen officer. We're the delivery guys ok? Not the society for the appreciation of fine art. This could be five bags of manure as far as we're concerned. We just pick it up and drop it off. Which reminds me, we've really got to go. May I?"

The man gestured at the partially unwrapped sculpture.

"Sure go ahead," said Ryan.

The men wrapped the piece again and loaded it into a small high cube truck. Ryan snapped a picture of the back of the truck and called into the Precinct to have video surveillance follow it to its destination. He wanted to know where it was going without arousing suspicion.

"There sure does seem to be something a little off with this Jorgensen guy," Ryan thought to himself as he left Mott Street in his detective's vehicle. "Got to go deeper with him, find out what he's been up to lately."
Chapter 9

Ryan picked up the ringing phone on his office desk.

"Oh, hi Margo, what do you have for me?" he asked.

"Well Detective Rivers, the Hi Cube you put the trace on went to a self storage facility called U Leave It. We generated a query from street surveillance video over the last three months."

"And?" replied Rivers.

"And there are regular pickups from 1601 Mott. Just about once a week a large wrapped item was loaded into the same truck and delivered to U Leave It."

"Thanks Margo. Strong work!"

"That's what we do detective! Have a nice day."

Ryan went back down to his work vehicle. He decided to pay a visit to U Leave It. Glancing at his cell phone on the way, he noticed there was a text from Marcia, the female officer he met in New California. He smiled, but didn't want to text while driving, and continued on to his destination. Everywhere about the streets life was happening. Ryan loved to observe the occurrence of life outdoors in New York Washington. There were old men chatting on bus benches, young women walking children to the park, joggers, dog walkers, and much more. _They_ were why he was a cop. _They_ deserved to be protected without even having to think about it. Protected so that all their lives could go on safely without molestation from the evil intent of those who would have it otherwise. He felt satisfied with himself for being out doing this job. He pulled up into the small parking lot at U Leave It. There was an office with a "Management" sign hung on the door looking out into the lot. Fairly new looking beige stucco buildings with metal rolling garage doors lined each asphalt lane that led inward from the parking area. Ryan hopped out and approached the office. He knocked on the door, and next to it a small window slid open. A man with thinning, greasy looking, slicked back, black hair, and the flushed complexion of one who drinks frequently, popped slightly out and asked routinely,

"What can I do for ya? Need a unit? We've got a ten by ten opening up end'a the week."

" I'm Detective Rivers from NYW Police, Precinct 12. We're conducting an investigation."

"Look officer. It's beyond my control to monitor what those kids are doing out of their unit during my off hours. We're a 24 hour access facility, but there's nobody here in the office after 8 pm."

"Interesting," replied Ryan. "That's not what I'm here about, but we'll make a note of that as well. Do you have a customer by the name of Jorgensen?"

"Jorgensen, let's see," said the greasy, black haired man. "Oh yes, Henrich, the German guy."

"Well actually, his ancestors were from Norway, but that's not important," added the young detective. "Is he here often?"

"About once a week. Sells stuff out of his unit, sculptures I think. Has a couple delivery guys trucking them in from wherever he makes'm."

"What kind of people buy his sculpture? I'm curious who likes it."

"You know, just a bunch of rich old ladies mostly," continued the storage manager. "I guess they got nothin' better to do than collect stuff."

"I don't suppose you could get me a look inside Jorgensen's unit?" asked Rivers.

"Nope. All the units have tenant owned padlocks. We don't keep a key. Just cut'm off if needed, but I couldn't do that without a warrant."

"No warrant yet, uh, what's your name sir?"

"Larry. Larry French."

"Well thanks Larry, for the information. And if possible, it would help if you wouldn't mention our conversation to Jorgensen or any of his visitors." Detective Rivers handed French his official NYW Detective's business card. "Call me if you see or think of anything else out of the ordinary with Jorgensen."

"Yes officer. I certainly will," said French.

As Detective Rivers left the parking lot, the manager dialed up to Jorgensen's cell line.

"Hi Henrich. It's Larry at the storage. Yeah, been some detective by the name of Ryan Rivers poking around here asking about you and your unit. Yeah. Wantin' to know if there was anything out of the ordinary goin' on here. Ok. Don't worry, don't worry. It's no problem at all. I'll move the stuff tonight into one of the empty ones. Ok. See ya."
Chapter 10

Tex Waters decided there was no time to play politics with the Azerbaijani Fleet epidemic dilemma. He put a call in to the President's secretary after leaving the second meeting with Chief of Staff Burle Iverson. It would not be a breach of security to go right to the President himself and use his persuasive talents to arrive at a more reasonable and politically acceptable plan. Partisanship should have played no role in a matter such as this, and he expected the President to be receptive.

What he got was a ten minute hold on the White House line and finally a rather curt response from the President's personal secretary.

"I'm afraid he won't be available to teleconference today. It's very hectic here at the moment. He said to try back tomorrow when things calm down a bit and he'd be able to talk."

"Thank you then," answered the older statesman. He hung up a bit perplexed. "Hectic today. What would that be about?" he thought. He turned on PNN, the political news channel, just as the "Breaking Story" at the White House was being broadcast. An announcer spoke quietly into his mic at the White House Press Room where a large gathering of reporters awaited the President's appearance.

"We're told President Jayo'n should speak any moment now," said the newsman. "He will be answering questions on how the White House plans to deal with the possible transmission of what has now been labeled, Azerbaijani Disease, to a child here on North American Base. So far, all that _is_ known, is that this child, being referred to as John X, has come down with an illness similar to that being followed on the Azerbaijan Flotilla of ships that appeared asking for help in the waters off NAB's eastern perimeter within the past week. There have been no known visitors to or from that floating nation, so the appearance of the disease here is both perplexing and extremely concerning, due to the severe nature of the illness according to the Azerbaijanis. Wait a moment. I'm told the President _is_ about to speak."

The reporter looked towards the Press Room stage along with fifty or sixty other reporters eagerly awaiting the entrance of the President of North American Base. The President's press secretary announced him formally.

"Ladies and gentlemen. The President is prepared to take questions about the recent diagnosis of Azerbaijani Disease here."

The President entered the stage from the right and approached the microphone. He was a fit, taller man with an angular jaw, a thin moustache and a mocha complexion brought from mixed race heritage.

"Good morning," began the nation's leader. "As I'm sure you've all now heard in the media, our Institute of Health, and the Surgeon General, have confirmed the presence of a young individual presenting with what is now being called Azerbaijani Disease."

The reporters began barking questions frenetically. "How old is the patient? Which city is he from? When was it discovered he had it? Does he have brothers and sisters? Could other children be infected? How sick is he? Is he going to die?" At this point, the Press Secretary interrupted. "The President will take one question at a time please. Please raise your hands and state your question when called upon, thank you. Bob, go ahead." The Press Secretary pointed to one of the older and more famous political reporters in the group. He delivered his questions while looking seriously into the TV cameras portraying the most believable role of concerned citizen imaginable.

"Mr. President. The news of the infected boy has been somewhat vague. Can you clarify the details regarding where he lives, how sick he is, and if others might be infected as well. Is there any consensus as to how the illness was transmitted from the Azerbaijani flotilla to N.A.B.?"

"Yes, good morning Bob." The President flashed a perfect smile for the cameras. "The young man, who our health experts have referred to as John X, for his and his family's privacy, resides here in the New York Washington area. He is eight years of age, and presented to his family physician, who reported the illness to the Center for Disease Control as a severe and apparently infectious problem. It is too early to tell what his prognosis is, and as of yet none of his siblings; he has an older brother and a younger sister, have been affected." The President pointed to another reporter whom he knew by name, "Eugene." The reporters had no way of knowing that the President was telling them a number of half truths in order to manipulate the public's knowledge of the situation.

"Good morning Mr. President. What exactly is the nature of this illness? What are the symptoms to look for, so that citizens can understand when to seek medical attention?"

The President responded. "I have here a summary provided by the Surgeon General's team about the new disease. I will read it to you now.

The disease process being labeled as Azerbaijani Tumor Syndrome, or ATS, has been described by physicians on the Azerbaijani Flotilla. These physicians have shared information with us, electronically, including photographs and video of patients with the illness, as well as a list of common laboratory and physical findings. ATS has so far affected only children in the 1 to 12 year old age range. They present with tumors under the skin or in the mouth that the child will usually notice and report or indicate to parents. There are no symptoms of illness prior to the appearance of the tumors, however the lesions, which resemble malignant, cancerous growths, spread throughout the body, including the vital organs, and lead to death within weeks. There have been only several children who responded to chemotherapy and none has made it through a bone marrow transplant process. Included is a picture provided by the Azerbaijanis of a typical patient."

An enlarged photo appeared on the white screen behind the President. It was a child with light brown hair and a black rectangle superimposed over the eyes to make him unidentifiable. There were large, bluish lumps budging out of the area above the clavicles, and from the front and sides of the abdomen, as well as the groin area. The child's lips were not a healthy color, and showed a state of despair. All of the reporters' jaws dropped and there was a brief quiet in the Press Room.

"What, Mr. President, can be done to stop this?" asked a younger reporter with circular spectacles seated towards the back of the room. This broke the silence, and in unison they looked back at the young reporter and then towards the President for an answer.

"Before the discovery of John X, we had considered escorting the Azerbaijani Flotilla further away from N.A.B, and then assisting them from a distance. With the discovery of the disease here on N.A.B, the Surgeon General advises that there are certainly others with the contagion here already, and thus no advantage in evacuating the flotilla further out to sea. To the contrary, it will now most likely be advantageous, I am told, to have the larger pool of Azerbaijani victims available for study by our top medical scientists, so that a prevention or cure can be obtained as soon as possible."

"Then we will be sending visitors to the flotilla?" asked another reporter.

"After the strictest contamination prevention measures can be instituted for the team, yes," answered the President. With that, the Press Secretary stepped to the mic and the President to the side, where he whispered something to another politician also present on stage.

"That will be all for now. I'm sorry, there is much to attend to. The President will be keeping you updated on any new developments."

The reporters attempted another barrage of questioning to no avail, and the meeting was adjourned.

Tex Waters turned off his large screen television, "My oh my!" he thought solemnly, "May God help us now."
Chapter 11

" _There is no denying it. We live with the ebb and flow of the sea, all of us sailors from birth to death. Life on solid ground shall not be known again to mankind."_

(Written by a politician in the year 2071 on the realities of the flooding of the earth)

Henrich Jorgensen and his wife Kathleen talked in the privacy of their loft apartment/ art studio.

"A detective came to ask questions at the hospital before I left," said Mrs. Jorgensen.

"It's only natural," answered Henrich, smiling confidently, "After all, you were shot my dear."

"Yes Henrich. I was shot. And god knows I could have been killed. If you weren't involved in all this, I don't think that would have happened to me, do you?"

"Kathleen, dear, we've been through this over and over. I need to support the cause. Our government is overrun with dishonest, self serving, political parties. They'll continue to push their agenda until they control everything. There will not be the tiniest shred of personal freedom left, unless we fight them. Financial contributions to the cause have been growing logarithmically. All is _not_ fine and dandy here on the great North American Base. They may have the masses of asses believing that nonsense, but there are people, some of the most influential and wealthy people, who are afraid. They're afraid because if the politicians have their way, we will all be living in 250 square foot dwellings, identical to all the others, and mandated by law in order to maximize efficiency here on N.A.B. The entire lives of the American people will be boiled down to a cookie cutter existence, and individualism will go the way of the dinosaurs. Imagine the effects on the art world alone."

"But Henrich, dear, shipping out arms inside sculptures; supporting a rebellion or terrorism; these things aren't like you. The Henrich I married wouldn't have thought of such things! We could both end up dead, or in prison. Don't you see? It's simply not worth it. We are well enough off Henrich. Your retirement package from the company was good enough. I was going to paint and you were going to make your sculptures, and we'd see who was interested in our work. It's a foolish waste of your time and talents to be fashioning crude works used as disposable transport containers for guns and ammunition. And now you are making enemies, apparently. We don't even know who came to the door and attacked me that night, do we?"

"No I don't Kathleen, and if I did, they wouldn't spend another moment on this earth. I love you. It's just that we cannot, we should not, give up our ideals. As individuals and as artists, we cannot let the politicians continue their plan to control all of society. If we do, then there is no hope for the future, or anything worthwhile here on N.A.B."

"I'm just not sure I can do this anymore. That attack was a difficult experience for me and one I'm not ready to repeat again, for the cause of freedom, or anything else for that matter!"

Henrich's expression darkened and his confident smile changed to an evil grimace.

"I'll not strike you again, Kathleen, as when we've argued in the past. I'm in complete control now, of myself and of my destiny. Please just think it over one more time before you finalize anything. If you see fit to leave, then leave! But I will stay my course! The game is already in play you see. The government may not have trouble with a few terrorists making demands, but they are having trouble already with the dilemma we have delivered to them most recently. Before all is said and done, my dear, the people will be begging someone to form a new government for N.A.B!"

"Henrich, what have you done? What are you hinting at?"

"Let's just say the less you know, my wife, the better. Well, I have work to do. Why don't you paint something and relax yourself? Maybe you will see better what path suits you in these matters, eh?"

"Henrich please! Don't do something so foolish that there's no turning back again!"

"I'm sorry. I have other matters requiring my attention. Let me know what you've decided when you are ready."

With that, Jorgensen retreated to his studio, leaving his wife in tears. Being quite liberal herself, she could just about swallow his support of the antigovernment movement in the past. Now it was different. She was scared for her life and afraid they'd be entangled in controversies forever. Kathleen saw Henrich spiritually leaving her. She went to their bedroom and began to pack some clothes and toiletries. She would worry about other things later. She just needed to get out of there as soon as possible. She deliberated for a moment, and then lifted a loose floorboard to retrieve the small handgun Henrich had given her as a gift last year, _just in case._
Chapter 12

A young boy walked the unfamiliar streets looking for something to eat. It was the day after the President's press conference about the Azerbaijani Tumor Syndrome patient, John X. His name was Dechak and he spoke no English making it very hard to navigate. Also, the bumps around his collarbone were hurting quite a bit, and his cough had worsened. The nine year old boy wondered why he was here, and where were his parents. Had he died already? Was he on the way to heaven? The last he remembered, a visiting nurse had arrived in his family's apartment within their Azerbaijani ship. She had prepared an injection and told him not to worry, then everything became blurred in his mind. He couldn't be dead. The children he played with in the street several mornings ago seemed real enough, and all ran off to join their families when the afternoon sun got low in the sky. He sure was hungry though, and decided to approach a street vendor and beg for food. He did so, and began gesturing using hand signals, pointing to his mouth and stomach and then at the hot dogs in the vendor's steamer. A tanned heavier man with a grey moustache passed by and smiled at the young boy.

"Here you go," he said to the vendor. "I'll spring for'm. He looks hungry and from the way he's dressed, not from around here. Are you son?"

Dechak looked back quizzically, and returned a faint smile, then rubbed at the bump over his right clavicle. His shirt moved down a bit, revealing the bluish tumor protruding from under the skin.

"My god!" yelled the vendor, dropping his metal tongs. "It's that disease they showed on TV!"

The vendor ran, leaving his cart and all. The boy looked downward and took a bite of the frankfurter in a bun. The man who had just purchased Dechak's lunch looked around nervously and then spotted a policeman stopped at the light on his motorbike.

"Wait right here son," he said to the boy, and went to fetch the motor officer. The light changed to green and the officer started off, but the man stepped slightly into the street and waved his arms above his head. The cop then pulled to the curb.

"What's the matter?" asked the officer.

The man pointed back towards the hot dog cart. "You see that kid over there," he started, but there was no child. The boy had disappeared.

"Oh boy, he's left. Anyways officer, this child was there at the hot dog cart, looking very hungry and a bit dirty too. He's got a lump on'm that looks like the ones they show'd on that John X victim on T.V."

"I see," answered the helmeted officer with dark sunglasses. "Let me radio this in so we can get working on contacting Health and Human Services, and then I'll take a report sir."

"Don't you think you should pick up the kid first?" asked the man.

"Well, if it _is_ an infected individual, then it would be better to let HHS take care of it sir."

"Ok..." said the man. "Whatever you think officer."

Before they had finished talking, there were sirens approaching, and an orange and white ambulance pulled up to the officer. A medic lowered the passenger window and talked with the motorcycle cop and the other man.

"Where was he sir?" asked the Medic.

"Well he was right there at the hot dog vendor's cart," answered the man.

No sooner had he answered, then one man jumped out the back of the ambulance with a huge a roll of plastic in his arms. That man ran to the cart and began wrapping it, including the umbrella, and affixing warning signs labeled "DANGER, BIOHAZARD, DO NOT DISTURB OR ATTEMPT TO MOVE!"

"Any idea which way he went?" asked the medic.

"No sir. I was just talking to the officer here, and he disappeared. Just like that."

"What did he look like? What was he wearing?"

"Oh about so high, about nine or ten years old, light brown hair. Had a faded blue long sleeve shirt, and jeans."

"Ok then. You can forward a copy of your report to the HHS Department, officer."

The ambulance left and began circling the area, looking for the boy who had walked on down a few blocks but became scared upon hearing the sirens. Dechak's natural instinct told him to hide, so he scuttled down an alleyway between buildings and ducked behind some trashcans. He fell asleep and was awakened by the shouts of other children. He stood up and popped out to find a group of boys kicking a soccer ball in the alley. One of the boys approached and held out his hand for a shake.

"Hi I'm Robert! Which street do you live on?"

Dechak shook his hand but couldn't answer, and to save embarrassment, ran to kick the soccer ball. He played with them for about twenty minutes, but began to feel short of breath and wheezy, so he quit and watched. The other boys headed out of the alley with the ball. Dechak sat down and cried.

Meanwhile, Health and Human Services in conjunction with the police had begun reviewing the ever present surveillance videos from the street that day. They tracked Dechak to the alleyway and sent the medics in the ambulance to pick him up. Other workers were assigned to identify and track down the children and the hotdog vendor who had been in possible contact with the boy. The two HHS medics entered the alley from each end, they wore bright yellow biohazard suits and when Dechak saw them coming, he screamed.

"Don't worry little fella," said one of the men. "We're just here to help you."

Then they closed in on the trembling boy. When they got very close, one of the medics offered him a hand. Wary, but tired of being alone out on the strange streets, he took it, and they walked him back to the special ambulance.

"This is HHS Biohazard Unit five. Base do you read."

"Roger unit five. Go ahead."

"We have the subject and are returning to base. ETA is 10 minutes. He is awake and stable at this time. He has tumors visible that _do_ resemble those seen on John X."

"Roger unit five. The team is ready. Over."

At the Health Services facility, there was a small hospital unit designed specifically for the housing and care of individuals either contaminated with extremely hazardous substances, or infectious with unusual organisms. There was also a team of microbiologists and biohazards experts available, as well as sophisticated laboratory equipment used to diagnose and measure radiation, toxins, and microorganisms. Doctor Francesca Gulliana was team leader on call that week. She was a petit woman in her 40's, with a kind, round face and curly brown hair. When the medical team received Dechak, she smiled at him through the full face glass of her biohazard suit and stroked his hair. Then she held up her stethoscope to ask permission to examine, and the boy nodded affirmatively. His lungs were wheezing, more on the left than the right side, and the bluish nodules protruding from under his skin felt very firm to the doctor's palpating, gloved, hands.

"You must be gentle with him," Dr. Gulliana demanded of the government agents who arrived for questioning the next morning. "He's just a young boy, and he's very sick."

Using electronic translation it was no longer a problem to communicate with the young patient. He told them of how he had been very sick already at home, on the Azerbaijani ship, and about his last memory of the nurse giving him an injection. How he got here, he told them, he hadn't the slightest idea.

Dechak had his blood drawn. He had CT scans and MRI's, and had to breathe from a mask before going to sleep for an excision of one of the tumors. Dr. Gulliana accompanied him every step of the way. He seemed like a sweet young boy, and in those first ten days she felt a motherly attachment to him, and he seemed to respond in kind. On day ten after hospitalization at the facility, his breathing became very labored, and fluid filled his abdomen. A repeat CT scan showed tumors now filling his liver and lungs. It seemed the young boy hadn't a chance of survival.
Chapter 13

Dr. Bruce Farley was the head researcher for the Center for Disease Control's Viral Illnesses Division. He had trained in a combined medical/ PhD program. On N.A.B, there was half the number of medical schools as in the old U.S.A. It was still extremely competitive to enter the field, and even more competitive for the combined program. After 8 years as a student and researcher, he finished his thesis on new single stranded RNA viruses emerging in the new world. He was considered peculiar as a child because other children recognized and did not relate to his extreme intelligence. As a college student, his cohorts wondered about his lack of dating, and he was categorized as an "egghead" in the dormitory. Things changed when he met a young woman who had just finished her PhD and begun teaching at the university in anthropological studies. Her name was Annette Finely. They were both sitting alone, eating at the co op on campus with laptops out on their tables to working simultaneously. Bruce was pondering different "codons" of RNA in the virus he was studying at the time, and she developing a lecture on the effects of non land based life on mankind. She was fair with freckles and frizzy reddish hair. Fortuitously, they both looked up to rest their eyes at exactly the same time and their gazes met. An instant recognition _This is the same kind of person that I am_ registered in both of their minds. She smiled and blushed. He put down his sandwich and walked over to her immediately. It was not that he had been especially nervous to approach girls in the past. The average college girl just didn't interest him much. But Annette was different, as he could see the intelligence in her eyes and face.

"Hi, my name's Bruce, what's yours?" He stood holding the back of the empty chair at her small table.

"Annette, Annette Finely. I'm new here, in the anthropology section. What about you? Are you on staff?"

"No. I'm finishing the PhD part of the MD/ PhD program. Um, can I join you?"

"Sure, sure. Bring your stuff," she answered receptively.

They discussed where they came from, their families, academic interests, and agreed to meet again for lunch the following day.

Now they were married with a child on the way, and Bruce was spearheading the work necessary to elucidate the etiology of Azerbaijani Tumor Syndrome. Not only did the fate of the children of N.A.B. possibly rest in his hands, but the very future of his and Annette's unborn first child did as well. His usual demeanor was that of a laid back and methodical researcher, and he was not used to working with deadlines. This made him more than a little nervous considering the urgency of the problem at hand. It meant that elaborate study design and triple checking of data would have to take a back seat to expediency. It also meant that graduate students and observers would not be included in this process. Bruce was given a team of other top microbiologic and medical researchers to insure the best chance of success. The Surgeon General was calling daily, and reporting directly back to the President. Two of the other physicians and Bruce himself had been out to see the young boy at the Health and Human Services special isolation unit. They donned biohazard suits and examined the boy's deteriorating body on day eight of Dechak's hospitalization. The boy told them of the few symptoms he had recently before the lumps began appearing on his body, and they also asked him about possible vector exposures besides other children. He had not had any pets at home, and was not in the habit of fishing, or contacting sea life. He had been living the usual existence of an Azerbaijani fleet school boy before he came down with the dreaded disease. The sections of tumor that they had already examined revealed that the tissue was similar to melanoma cancer; hence the bluish color under the boy's skin wherever there was a nodule. Sequencing of all DNA and RNA present within the tumors was still pending, as this took more time. Because the disease was apparently an infectious agent causing the appearance of aggressive tumors, this sequencing was very important. Simultaneously, some tumor samples were being prepared for viewing under an electron microscope, also in the search for viruses or other etiologies. So far, the boy's blood had not grown any bacteria or fungi, and viral cultures were pending. When Bruce and the other doctors returned home to Midwest States, he discussed his anxiety with Annette.

"There's never been anything like this seen in mankind before. We'll need to develop a vaccine or treatment within the next month or the losses will be tremendous. Seeing that poor child with tumors all over his body, and how weak his voice was... it was horrible."

"I know you can do this Bruce. Don't worry," she said and rubbed his shoulders. "We know you're the best, and that's why you're where you are today." She patted her pregnant abdomen.

"You're right honey. I think we will find the virus, or other culprit, pretty soon. It's the next step I'm worried about. It usually takes a lot of time to develop vaccines or medications to treat something like this. The Azerbaijanis have already tried similar antivirals to those we have here, without much success."

"Bruce, do you remember about that story in the old world. Those Tasmanian Devils that were spreading the cancers among each other. That seems kind of like this."

"Yes. That was called Tasmanian Facial Tumor Disease. The unusual thing about it, was that the cancer cells themselves were the infective agent, spreading between animals when they contacted each other. They did have a nasty habit of biting one another a lot though. There is always a remote possibility of something similar happening with humans, I guess, but I'm betting we'll have a virus isolated in the next twenty four hours."

"Bruce, can you imagine the terror those people on the ships must feel. And now, it's happening here. I just can't think of that affecting so many children."

Annette went to rest her legs. It was the last trimester, and the slender woman was unused to carrying the extra weight of her baby. Her husband went into their home office and placed a phone call to Dr. Francesca Gulliana.

"Hello? Dr. Gulliana? It's Bruce Farley from the CDC. Yes, yes we were just there. There's something very important. Do whatever you have to do, I mean anything, to keep the boy alive. We're going to need him to test whatever treatment we come up with, and so far, thank God, there are no other known victims."

"Easier said than done Dr. Farley. The boy's lungs and liver are filled with tumor. He's in multiple organ failure. We had to intubate him and put him on a vent this morning."

"Oh, I see," responded the concerned researcher. "Well, please just do everything.... And,,, if he does expire.... Have a team ready to put the body on extracorporeal pump to maintain blood flow and keep it as physiologic as possible."

Bruce hung up the phone. He went to the family room and hugged Annette.

"I have to go back. There's no time to waste. The boy's dying."

"Oh honey," said Annette sadly. She watched him get his coat and start out the door to return to the lab.
Chapter 14

Detective Ryan Rivers wanted to question Henrich Jorgensen without letting on that it was Jorgensen himself he was interested in. He called the biotechnologist turned sculptor at the Jorgensen's home number and explained that there were possible leads in Kathleen's shooting; could he please come over to discuss some things with them? Mr. Jorgensen consented, curtly, and Ryan headed over as the first order of business for that day. He rode the cargo elevator back up to the Jorgensen's loft, and rang the bell. Henrich Jorgensen answered, smiling politely.

"Do come in Detective," he offered.

"Thanks, how are you fairing? How's your wife's recovery been?" answered Ryan.

"Fine, thank you. Kathleen's doing well."

"Is she available to talk today with us?" asked the detective.

"I'm afraid not. She had business elsewhere this morning, uh, with an art dealer." Jorgensen concealed that in fact, he had woken up that morning alone, Kathleen having left him after the argument about his subversive activities.

"Well, I guess it's just us then," said Ryan. "I wanted to go over a few things."

Jorgensen motioned for the detective to sit down with him in the family room.

"We got a short surveillance video of a person known to be involved with organized crime on N.A.B. That person was seen several blocks away from _this_ loft on the night of your wife's shooting. Our analyst believes he was carrying a concealed weapon under his coat, from the look of the video, and the guy was also going somewhere in quite a hurry.

"So you may have a suspect then?" asked Henrich.

"Maybe. It's just a possible at this point. We live in a big city Mr. Jorgensen. The appearance of one gangster in the vicinity of a crime blocks away could be important, or just a coincidence." Ryan felt at this point he could segue into exploring Henrich Jorgensen's art dealings.

"Mr. Jorgensen. I was curious. The other day I ran into some delivery men in the elevator here. I caught a peek of one of your pieces as they loaded it into their van. Quite unusual in its simplicity, uh, very unique."

"There's no need to be polite officer. The items I've been producing lately are garden sculptures. They are intended to be displayed outdoors and are made available for sale at low prices. I sell a lot of them though, and it pays my rent."

"I see," said the young detective. "Where would I be able to purchase one? Next week is my mother's birthday. She's into stuff like that."

"I really don't even know," answered Jorgensen. "I simply produce pieces and hand them over to my wholesaler who sends me a check in the mail each week. I've seen them occasionally at _Make it Your's_ Home Stores. You might check there."

"So once a piece leaves the loft here, that's the end of your involvement with that particular one then?" asked Ryan, trying to catch Jorgensen in a lie.

"Yes, you might say that. As I explained, these are pieces that I produce quickly to earn an income. I am not too invested in each one, aside from the money I receive in return."

"Interesting," said the detective. "Nice, clean way to earn an income. Hey, I'd love to see your studio."

"Come right in," answered Jorgensen, standing and gesturing to the doorway from the family room to his work area. The floors were grey, unfinished concrete, with the exception of a clear epoxy coating. They walked into a high ceilinged work area. There were two deep counters with racks above containing many jars of brightly colored powders used for tinting ceramic. There were numerous carving implements and rectangular bins with small kiln fired pieces Jorgensen had produced and saved over the years. A shiny silvery black plate with a farm animal motif embossed in the surface hung one wall as decoration.

"This is where I work. I do sculpting and some mold making for reproductions. The view is nice eh?" Jorgensen gestured towards the full height window looking out at other buildings in the city.

Ryan agreed, looking around at the myriad of supplies and doodads the sculptor had collected there. Then something caught his eye. It was a small paper on the floor under one of the counters . The logo for _Howardson Arms_ _Co._ was printed on it.

"You don't happen to have a tissue do you?" asked the detective. "I guess my nose is a little sensitive to the clay dust or something."

"Sure, officer. One moment," answered Jorgensen, walking out of the room quickly. He had finished his last shipment and sent it out. The cleanup had been complete as always, leaving no traces of illegal contraband, however he still didn't like the idea of the detective standing in there along, nosing around in things.

As soon as Jorgensen left the room, Detective Rivers quickly bent over and picked up the leaflet from the floor, slipping it into his pocket. It seemed like it was meant for the trash anyway.

"Here we are officer," said Jorgensen arriving back in the studio work area, holding out a tissue. Ryan took it and blew his nose, crumpling the tissue and tossing it into a large plastic barrel Jorgensen obviously used for trash in the studio. As he bent over the trash, he noticed a small red colored cardboard box in there towards the bottom of the barrel. It was packaging for bullets.

"Listen, thanks for your time Mr. Jorgensen. I've got to go, but if you can write your email down here on this pad, I'm going to send you a jpeg of the gangster we caught on video near here the night of the shooting. Let me know if you recognize him, and especially, show it to your wife and see if she does, ok?"

"Yes detective. We will look as soon as we receive it," said Jorgensen, jotting his email address on the officer's blank pad.

Detective Rivers left the loft apartments and returned to his desk at Precinct 12. He logged the _Howardson Arms_ product info packaging in as evidence in the Kathleen Jorgensen shooting. Ed Arrosyan was at his own desk.

"Something's up with this artist Eddy." Said Ryan. "He's got a sculpting business, but I picked this up on the floor of his shop." He tossed the product insert over to Arrosyan to look at.

" _Howardson Arms_. Hmmm. That's heavy artillery, even if that artist is also a black market shooting aficionado. I don't think they make anything you can put in your pocket."

Arrosyan was indeed correct. _Howardson Arms_ manufactured only large caliber automatic weapons for military use. They didn't make handguns for police or other government organizations that the illegal shooting enthusiasts on N.A.B. would procure for their sport.

"I saw he had some ammo cartons in the trash there too. He's shipping out crudely made art that he says are garden sculptures, and I know he's not straight about where that stuff is going."

"Maybe he's using the bad art as containers?" asked Arrosyan, hypothesizing out loud. "Shipping stuff in it. Maybe guns and ammunition for organized crime or something?"

"That's what I was thinking," said Ryan. "Just gotta get a look at one of those sculptures, and I think I know just the place to do it."

"Think you can get a warrant?" asked Uncle Eddy.

"Done!" exclaimed the younger, hipster detective. "Already thought of that after visiting that place a few days ago. The manager copped to some night time illegal activity by local teenagers there, so we've got a general warrant to check out U Leave It as we see fit." Arrosyan agreed to accompany Ryan to the U Leave It storage facility that night.
Chapter 15

Detectives Rivers and Arrosyan met in front of Precinct 12 at six pm, the end of their regular shift. They took Ryan's department vehicle to U Leave It Storage and presented their warrant to the greasy manager there. It was a warm and gleaming night in New York City. There were throngs of people and continuous streams of automobiles in the streets.

"Which unit you wanna search?" asked the manager, smoothing back his oily black hair with one hand.

"We need to check the one belonging to Mr. Henrich Jorgensen, the art guy," answered Ryan. "Oh, and also the one associated with those teenagers you mentioned."

"Sure. No problem. Now I'm gonna have to cut the locks off and notify the tenants you realize officer." The manager took down a bolt cutter that was hung on some wall hangers behind him.

"That's fine boss. You've done this before. I get it. So let's just skip the informative and go for our little look now," said Detective Arrosyan in his deep bass voice.

"Ok,,, yeah," answered the manager without quibbling.

Ryan and Ed followed the man down a narrow asphalt drive to the first unit, that of Henrich Jorgensen. The manager cut the lock of with a quick snap of the heavy long handled tool and lifted the rolling metal garage door. A quick search revealed only some cardboard boxes and shards of ceramic broken off from sculptures that were there in the past.

"Jorgensen must sell his stuff quickly," stated the younger detective. "It was just a couple days ago when that piece came here and I visited you."

"Yeah. I mean, yes, he's pretty successful at selling those sculptures," answered the manager, appearing a little nervous because he kept looking down instead of directly at the detectives. Ryan nodded an affirmative to Detective Arrosyan, who reached out a long arm and grabbed the man by the shirt, pulling him right up to within an inch of his own face.

"We're going to give you one chance to come clean now," said Arrosyan, breathing into the scared man's face. "Did you or anyone else empty out this storage unit in the last 48 hours?"

The manager looked down towards the floor again and found himself staring at Arrosyan's gigantic hairy fingers holding onto his shirt. He thought about the ramifications of getting deeper into lying to the police. It was more complicated than he wanted his life to be as a storage unit manager, even if Jorgensen was paying him a little extra cash on the side.

"Ok officer. Just let me down!"

Arrosyan put Larry French down and straightened his shirt out in a gesture of "friendship."

"I told Jorgensen you were here the other day," continued the manager, looking towards Ryan. "He asked me to move his stuff to another unit, so I did."

"Please show us to that unit then," said Ryan calmly.

The manager led them there and again snapped the lock with his bolt cutter and rolled up the metal garage door.

"Well what do we have here?" said Detective Arrosyan slowly. The floor of the storage unit was littered with large pieces of broken ceramic, and there were more unassembled cardboard boxes there as well. Close inspection revealed a few more of the _Howardson Arms_ product inserts, the same as the one Ryan found in Jorgensen's studio, as well as come more of the ammo cartons. The _Howardson Arms_ inserts were generic for all their various weapons and did not reveal any specific product, but the ammo was 5.56 millimeter and both Ryan and Ed knew what that meant. These bullets were for light machine guns used by the N.A.B. naval and ground forces for invasion and anti terrorism control.

"Someone's preparing for a pretty big fight here," said Ryan. "It looks like we better get Jorgensen picked up right away for formal questioning."

"And, I don't think we can let this one loose to send out the warning signal again," said Arrosyan. "You'll be spending a bit of time with us tonight my friend."

The manager sighed in resignation. He had hoped to play some pool and drink beer that evening.

Ryan felt the beginning of something big. At the minimum, this was a gun smuggling operation involving military weapons. It was likely that smuggling of machine guns would lead to something even bigger though, such as uncovering a terrorist organization or drug ring. He was relieved that pieces were beginning to fall into place, and that his hunch about Jorgensen had been correct. He called back to the precinct.

"Hello, this is Detective Rivers. Yes. Detective's offices please. Hello, it's Rivers. Listen, we need to get Kathleen Jorgensen in for questioning as well, possibly for her own protection. Yeah, thanks. Arrosyan and I are on the way back. We have one possible accessory for temporary custody as well. Roger. Thanks, and we need a forensics team over to the U Leave It storage to go over a unit with a fine tooth comb."

They waited for the Crime Scene Investigators to arrive, explained their suspicions, and then left for the Precinct office with Larry French handcuffed in the back of River's vehicle.

"Why the bracelets?" French whined to Ed and Ryan. "They're not too comfortable ya know!"

"Sorry Boss," responded Arrosyan. "It's departmental procedure. For this evening you'll be in custody as a possible accessory to whatever Jorgensen's up to, at least until we question him and his wife."

"What if I don't have a lawyer? How'm I gonna get represented in all this?"

"First thing is you haven't been formally charged with anything, yet. Second thing is there are public defenders to help you out should you need their services. Take it one step at a time. It'd help if you could remember anything unusual about Jorgensen's activity at your facilities, or if you can ID any of the people who've been visiting there," said Ryan.

At the station, Henrich Jorgensen was already in custody and maintaining silence until he could secure an attorney. Kathleen Jorgensen was still not located and had her cell phone turned off. She had not wanted to hear from Henrich and gone off with her bag to a motel to think over her options. Larry French was questioned about his involvement with Henrich and confessed to accepting a small monthly _bonus_ in exchange for keeping an extra close watch on his unit and preventing other customers with close by units from entering the area at certain times. Ryan asked French to look at some photos that included an assortment of known mobsters including the man caught on surveillance video near the Jorgensen's Mott Ave. loft. Mixed in were mug shots of some police officers from other Precincts as decoys. After assurance that he would be rewarded for cooperation, French identified three men as frequent visitors to Jorgensen's storage space. One of the men was the mobster caught on the surveillance video.

Ryan began to piece things together a little more. It looked like Jorgensen was involved in smuggling the weapons along with some mob figures. Either something went wrong with the dealings, or the mob guys decided to clean up loose ends and showed up at the Jorgensen's loft to make the hit. The shooter got his wife unexpectedly, and had to abort the job. One big question was who wanted those machine guns. The mobsters were already well armed and had little use for military equipment. There had to be a third party involved, with the mob figures as middle men taking a cut from the transaction. With the storage unit uncovered, it was possible that the three men identified by the storage manager, Larry French, would go underground and be difficult to locate.

Several hours later, Henrich Jorgensen had made arrangements with a well known criminal attorney who advised him to remain silent until they could discuss his case. Kathleen Jorgensen was still not located. Two of the three men identified by French were brought in, but _not_ the one on surveillance the night of the shooting. The two mob men placed calls to their respective attorneys and also remained silent to questioning.
Chapter 16

Eight weeks prior:

Ten men sat at a table in a small New York City apartment discussing the best possible way to disrupt the government of N.A.B. Henrich Jorgensen was at that table. They called themselves _OFADOF,_ pronounced oaf a doff and standing for _The Organized Front Against the Degradation Of Freedom._ The group was composed of a few eccentric artists like Henrich, as well as a number of _representatives._ These _representatives_ were sponsored by wealthy interests to participate. The sponsors, although too well known and successful to be involved personally, stood much to lose if the continued governmentalization policies of the current President's administration were to continue. Their goal was to destabilize N.A.B. enough to make the current administration unpopular and be voted out in the upcoming elections. None of them were particularly interested in harming private citizens, but if some were lost in the name of success, then that was an acceptable cost.

They had been conducting a buildup of military assault weapons intended for use in terrorist acts around N.A.B. The plan was to figure the attacks cleverly enough, so that the population of N.A.B. would be mortified, normal business and social activity would slow down, and people would be generally unhappy. Then, politicians, unaware of the _OFADOF_ plan, but friendly with the wealthy sponsors of the _representatives,_ would begin to blame the problems on the President of N.A.B. and his administration.

The main problem with _the plan_ was that contracting enough would be terrorists was not so easy in the modern era on N.A.B. These were likely to be suicide missions in many cases, as N.A.B. police and military were readily available in most areas. Life was good enough that the few who would volunteer would likely be mentally unstable, and unreliable for such an important cause. They had been debating this problem around the table at the apartment. Some brought up the fact that in the old world, depressed individuals were used routinely to carry out suicide bombings, and the results were very effective. Henrich and some of the _representatives_ who had advanced military training countered that on N.A.B, security was much too tight. Computerized video scanned most streets and virtually all public meeting places. Programs had been in place for years to identify individuals behaving strangely, or who appeared to be in the process of readying for a crime. In fact, many robberies and other criminal acts had been stopped before they occurred due to this technology. There were also _explosives sniffers_ and many metal detectors located throughout the streets and public buildings of N.A.B. This was not the Middle East of the Old World. For terrorism, a paramilitary team would mandatory.

It was at this point in the conversation that Henrich dropped his _bomb._ He told the group of some new information he had been given by a radio operator sympathetic to their cause. Apparently, several hundred miles off N.A.B's Eastern perimeter, there was a fleet of ships approaching. The captain of the fleet had been broadcasting a distress asking for help. When the radio operator inquired, he was told of a horrible infectious disease that was affecting the population there. (Henrich avoided mentioning that the victims were all children.) If _OFADOF_ could simply extract one or two individuals with that disease and bring them to N.A.B. without anyone's knowledge, then the disease itself could do the work of an entire army of paramilitary men. A difficult to cure epidemic would be hugely distressing to the population. _This_ epidemic did seem so far, to be quite difficult to treat medically. There would be time to attempt this act of bioterrorism, and then if it failed, go back to the original plan. The group agreed. Many members applauded Henrich for his "brilliance !

Within days, a mothballed Coast Guard helicopter was stolen and sent out into the night over the Atlantic, towards the Azerbaijani flotilla. A "nurse" and three operatives dropped into the sea and boarded the largest vessel completely undetected save for one guard, who was thrown overboard when he became alarmed at the sight of the four climbing up over the side rails in the night. The "nurse" reported for "duty" at the ship's hospital bay, speaking fluent Azerbaijani. She snapped a photo of the roster for children seen in the clinic that day and their chief complaints. Dechak was first on that list, and the terrorist extraction team headed towards the boy's family quarters to kidnap him. Entering silently, the three men stood guard in case family members awoke, and the "nurse" went to inject Dechak with a sedative and then checked to be sure he had the described signs of the full blown tumor disease. Back over the side of the ship they went. Down to the frigid ocean where a black raft was inflated to carry the boy. Several miles away from the ship they were lifted back into the helicopter and returned to N.A.B. Dechak woke up having no idea where he was, or how he got there.
Chapter 17

Ryan knew they had Henrich Jorgensen dead to rights on the weapons trafficking charges. He was very concerned about Kathleen Jorgensen's disappearance though. Had Henrich murdered his wife? Had Kathleen been the original target all along with the shooter coming back again and finally finishing the job? They had elevated Kathleen's status from "person of interest" to "missing person" at the precinct. Henrich sure did seem like a cold fish for an artist. Most of the artists he knew were friendlier, although sometimes a bit different in their thinking from average working people. Henrich wasn't like that. He seemed calculating, and deceptive. Ryan decided to pay him one more visit for an interview with his attorney.

"Good morning Mr. Jorgensen," Detective Rivers began.

"Good morning," answered the lawyer, with Henrich remaining silent.

"I had you brought here out of concern for your wife, Mr. Jorgensen. We're unable to locate her. Your cooperation in that matter could be helpful, even possibly protective to Kathleen's wellbeing."

Henrich whispered to his attorney and then spoke.

"Kathleen's a healthy capable woman. There's no reason to be concerned about her wellbeing!"

"Well that's not what I'm thinking right now," answered Ryan. "I'm thinking I've got a missing woman who was shot only weeks ago. Her husband is mixed up in some kind of gun running operation, and from what I've heard, has been abusive to her in the past."

"Who told you that?" Jorgensen hissed. "Certainly not Kathleen. We are happily married with no issues whatsoever."

"Let's just say I've got sources, Ok. I'm a cop. We go around asking questions a lot when crimes occur. By the way, gun running isn't my usual forte, nor is domestic violence.... But, I think I can get a judge to add a suspected murder charge to your arraignment if we can't find your wife soon." Ryan threw the ball back to Jorgensen and his attorney. Jorgensen looked concerned and whispered again into the attorney's ear. The lawyer nodded Ok.

"Kathleen and I had an argument a few nights ago," began Henrich. "When I awoke the next morning, she was gone. That's all I know. She left me because she was upset. You know women."

"I know women... Hmmmm. Ok. What was the argument about?" asked Ryan.

The attorney interjected, "My client is unable to answer any further questions. I think we'll leave it at that for this morning." He stood up holding his briefcase and motioned for Henrich to rise as well.

"Thanks then counselor. I'll keep you posted about the murder charges then," answered Ryan, looking the attorney in the eye in direct challenge.

"Let's go," said the lawyer to Jorgensen. Detective Rivers nodded to the guard who let them out of the questioning room, and took Henrich back to his cell.

"Pretty slick," said the attorney to Ryan after Jorgensen was escorted off. "You like using sticky fly paper rather than swatting one at a time, don't you Detective Rivers?"

"Your guy's into something big counselor. I can tell you that." Ryan looked for any revealing expressions on the attorney's face, but there were none. The lawyer simply smiled back and saluted.

"See you in court detective."

Rivers had a CSI team back at Jorgensen's loft in addition to the storage unit. Already, more bits of evidence about the gun running had been found. Kathleen's missing suitcase and personal items seemed to confirm that she'd left on her own. There was one charge to her credit card for some food at a convenience store in the area near the loft, then nothing. Ryan gave the go ahead to the Precinct's technology and relations department to begin placing notifications and photos of Kathleen Jorgensen using social media.

"That reminds me," he thought. "I should text Marcia back." He pulled out his smartphone.

Hey Marcia, got ur txt. How r u? Been real bzy here with nu investign.

Well if it isn't Detective Rivers, she replied.

Sorry. I shudve ansd u faster, just hectic here, Ryan texted back feeling quite guilty.

I'm busy too. But been thinking about you. I think we could have something more than what we started a while back, she texted.

Ryan thought for a moment,

I think so 2 . Let's try a video chat tonight once Im home.

Cool. I'll call you tonight, eight your time. Bye. Texted Marcia.
Chapter 18

Dechak felt afraid as the ventilator pumped over and over. First there was the piston sound on the inflation part of the cycle, and then a hissing sound as he exhaled. He was hoping the woman doctor would come and stroke his forehead as she had before. That really helped him relax. As it turned out, Dr. Francesca Gulliana was indeed at the work station just behind the boy in the small Health Services Biohazards intensive care unit. She was writing orders to administer intravenous sedation to decrease his apparent agitation on the ventilator. In addition, she was writing orders for a much less benign treatment, a methotrexate drip. Gulliana walked over to the boy, and did stroke his forehead. He closed his eyes in relief. But then she explained to him, speaking through the electronic translator, that he was going to be made sleepy, and that a powerful drug would be used in an attempt to kill the tumors that were making him so sick. Again he felt terrified. He remembered being awakened in his room on the ship by the visiting nurse telling him he was going to get an injection. That was before everything turned so mixed up and crazy. He felt himself getting light headed. He opened his eyes and looked into the eyes of his Dr. Gulliana.

"Don't worry baby," she said. "Don't worry."

Next, a bag of yellow fluid was attached to Dechak's IV line and pumped in at a controlled rate. The idea was to give a dose so toxic, that it _almost_ killed the patient, and _did_ kill all of the cancer cells in the patient's body. Then an antidote was given that relieved the body's cells from the poisoning, hopefully after all tumor cells have died. It wasn't the preferred treatment for melanomas, the kind of cancer that the tumors resembled, but the Azerbaijani's two survivors had received it. It was the best they could do for now. Experimenting with other medications would carry more risk than one that had worked. The doctor looked at the boy and drew a deep breath. She did not think he would survive. She went back to the work desk and called Dr. Farley from the Center for Disease Control.

"Hello, Dr. Farley, it's Francesca Gulliana. I just thought I'd keep you posted. We took another set of bloods and a bronchial tumor sample. We've started a methotrexate rescue protocol. The Azerbaijanis had two patients that survived it and are doing well so far."

"Yes I know," replied Dr. Farley, with deep concern in his voice.

"How about a virus?" Dr. Gulliana asked. "Do you have an etiology yet?"

"Not yet. We've had a problem with contaminants ruining a few of the viral cultures, common cold viruses that got in. There are no bacterial or fungal agents so far either."

"I see. Well, do keep us posted here at Health Services. We'll get all the specimens you need."

"Will do," answered Bruce. He put the phone down and another idea came into his head. The Tasmanian Facial Tumor idea Annette had didn't wash. The disease was spreading too rapidly and with casual contact between victims, no exchange of body fluids necessary. There was however another agent they hadn't thoroughly considered, _a prion_. There hadn't been much news about prions since the Mad Cow scares of the old world. These days meat was cultured, not stripped from slaughtered livestock. If a prion, a pathological protein agent, was responsible for the disease, other tests would be needed. Prions would not show up on viral, bacterial or fungal cultures. He picked up the phone again, this time contacting his head lab director, Michael Fong.

"Hi Michael, its Bruce. Listen, I've want to run some extra tests since we're not coming up with an infectious agent. I want to test for prions. Dr. Francesca Gulliana is taking care of the boy. They drew more blood today before attempting a curative measure. Call her. Get that blood over here stat. Run the amplification technique on the blood and some of the tumor cells. See if you can pick up anything. Thanks Mike."

Farley hung up and phone and clenched his fists hopefully.

In the Health Services intensive care, Dr. Gulliana instructed Dechak's nurse to keep him sedated throughout the entire process. She didn't want the poor boy feeling the burden of what was normally a very tough chemotherapeutic regimen. It would either succeed or not, but Dechak would suffer no more. She removed her isolation gown, hat and mask, and retreated to her office for a mental break. The TV was on. A "Special News Alert" title flashed on the screen. She turned up the volume to hear what it was.

"This is reporter Nicholas Reynas reporting from New York City with a News Action One breaking story! I'm standing here in front of the emergency room at New York Central Hospital where doctors say two local boys have been brought in by their parents suffering from symptoms resembling the Azerbaijani Tumor Syndrome. So far there has been one victim only, who is being treated and examined in relative secrecy by Health Services' Biohazards Medical Team. Earlier in the week, Carol, the President held a special conference about the original victim, known as John X. Now it appears, the epidemic, one that has plagued a floating nation for over a year, has come here to N.A.B! This is Nicholas Reynas reporting live, from New York Central Hospital! We'll keep you updated, as this very concerning story develops! Carol, back to you."

"This is of course a story that concerns all of us here on N.A.B. Nick," responded news anchor Carol Uchimada. "With all children at risk for this epidemic type illness, are the doctors recommending any preventative measures?"

"Carol, the two boys brought in here to New York Central are still being examined by physicians. They _are_ in isolation status to prevent spread of the disease, however it is too early for the doctors here to come out and say for certain that Azerbaijani Tumor Syndrome _is_ in fact what they're dealing with. I imagine that when this determination is made, we will hear more about how to protect our children from infection."

"Thank you Nick. Strong work on reporting this _News One Action Alert Breaking Story!_ Now we move on to Bill Frost and the weather! Looks like we're going to have another warm week here in the New York area, is that right Bill?"

Dr. Gulliana turned off the television. "Oh God. Here we go." was what she thought as she put her head in her hands and closed her eyes. She said a short prayer to ask God for mercy for the children of North American Base. Then she called her husband.

"Hi Max. I can't come home tonight. I'm sorry honey. Yes, it's the Tumor Syndrome thing. The boy is very sick. We're trying to save him before he becomes nothing more than a lab specimen for studying the disease. Yes, it is horrible. Will you give Emma a kiss for me and tell her mommy will be home early tomorrow? Thanks honey, love you."

Chapter 19

The President of N.A.B. sat at his desk in the White House almost shouting at his Chief Intelligence Officer. (The original White House had been cut up and saved for launch when the government knew the end of land based life was nearing.)

"This is a big embarrassment to my administration! We have an election coming up, and you mean to tell me that someone brought that infected child off the Azerbaijani ships and onto N.A.B. using a stolen helicopter?!!!"

"Yes Sir. That's what we've pieced together so far. The helicopter was not in active service at the time of the abduction, so the Coast Guard didn't know it was missing. Because it was a government craft, it was transmitting appropriate code for air defense to consider it legitimate and authorized."

"I see," said the President pausing to think. "Do you have any ideas on who would have brought the kid over? We've been assisting the Azerbaijanis already. I don't think they had much to gain by bringing that disease here. Is intelligence following any credible terrorist threats in the last twelve months?"

"Well, there is a paramilitary group in Midwest States. They've been cooperating with investigators, and claim to be military hobbyists only. We've got nothing more on them beyond some illegal firearms violations."

"Any groups active with radical or anti socialist views Rob?" asked the President.

"There has been some resurgence of the KKK as of late," the intelligence chief looking through papers in a leather portfolio. "Let's see here, ok. Also there has been some chatter about a financially backed group here in New York Washington that may have some antigovernment agenda."

"What's the chatter? Can we get details on that?" asked the President.

The intelligence chief looked down at his own black leather dress shoes resting on the plush powder blue carpet of the President's office. He was starting to feel harassed by the President, but knew it was part of his job description. He looked up at the President, who was still staring across his desk, waiting for an answer.

"There's minimal information on that. Like I said, just chatter at this point."

"Rob. Humor me. Try to get a special team to turn up the volume on that chatter. I think we ought to know if some sort of antigovernment movement or terrorist group is forming here in New York Washington."

"Yes sir," answered the spymaster. He stood up straight from his armchair and saluted the President.

"All right then. That will be all," said the President, whose mood had turned even darker over the course of the conversation.

The spy chief marched quietly out of the Presidential office, over the plush carpet and out through the oversized double doors into the marble floored reception area, where the President's personal secretary sat at one of the many desks she used as she followed him about the White House and the Pentagon.

After the intelligence man left, the President tapped his smartphone screen and spoke.

"Hayworth? Yes, it's Gerome. How are you? I'm good, I'm good. Listen, I think you're right about the timing thing. _Just in the nick of time_ , and I'll be unbeatable. Thanks Hayworth. Great strategy! My team is arranging implementation as we speak. I'll let you know. Bye."

His smile revealed just a touch of evil as he placed the phone in the inner coat pocket of his fine suit jacket.
Chapter 20

Ryan's phone rang precisely at eight pm. He had showered and dressed as though they were having a date in person that evening. He tapped the _Video_ button and Marcia appeared in color on his wall screen TV.

"Hey Ryan." She smiled beautifully at him. Her face seemed pure and sweet.

"Hi Marcia, how've ya been?"

"I'm Ok. Um, it was a little weird for a while after the Bleckman thing. I've been with the department for ten years, but still..... Anyhow, that's in the past now, and I've been thinking about you a lot."

She looked straight at him and seemed to blush a little. She clearly wanted to know if he felt the same way, and was willing to develop their relationship further. Ryan got the message. She was a couple years older than he and in that period in a woman's life where the time was ripe for marriage and soon after, some children. He had seen in some of his male and female colleagues at Precinct 12 the results of never making such a commitment. They were free to skip from one short relationship to another, which was fun for a while. Then they tired of that routine, but they had become older and more cynical. This made it difficult to find a suitable mate, and the chance for a spouse and family passed many of them by.

"Marcia."

"Yes Ryan."

"I think it would be cool if you could come out here and see my place, or I could come there. Any chance you can snag a few days off. Make a four day weekend or something?"

"I think that could be arranged," she answered smiling again and obviously pleased.

"What about two Thursdays from now, let's see if we can both get off, and then we'll decide who's flying?" asked Ryan.

"Fantastic!" she exclaimed. "I'd really like that."

They chatted about their investigations, and about their families. Marcia's mom and dad were still living, and resided in New Florida. Her dad was a retired detective, and she had followed him into that line of work after finishing college. He had discouraged her a little, but was secretly thrilled, since the children consisted of three girls, Marcia being the youngest, and no boys to follow in his footsteps. One of Marcia's sisters was a married housewife, with a two year old boy and a ten month old girl. The other worked as a research scientist for the Solar and Marine Energy Company of N.A.B. Her mom had been a university based physicist, imparting much scientific knowledge to the girls as they were growing up. Marcia loved her job because putting together the forensic and circumstantial evidence, along with witness testimony could be done using the scientific method of hypothesis and testing. First hypothesize who committed a crime or was the accused guilty or not. Next, set out to prove or disprove using all the information that could be collected. That was something she had in common with Ryan.

The most important thing Marcia and Ryan had in common was quite unusual in their line of work and stimulated the potential relationship. They were both happy, positive human beings who smiled at life without effort. Many very good people in the world try their best to look at things in a positive light, but have to see though a cloud of innate cynicism. This is the more common person. Ryan and Marcia, having been raised by happy, caring families, were both completely satisfied with themselves and their lives, leaving no negativity to overcome. They were the kind of people the cynics recognize and of whom they harbor a secret jealousy. They ended their video date with a fond farewell and went to sleep dreaming of the possibility of a future life together.
Chapter 21

Jackson McGee, the millionaire governor of New California, also took a little while to settle his mind after the suicide of his Lieutenant Governor, Steve Bleckman. It had been an embarrassment, and also an inconvenience to say the least. He was pretty uncomfortable with federal police checking into everything in his office at the time. Now he really needed things to run smooth. That was, if he had any chance at a Presidential bid in the next elections. The polls showed his popularity was good in New California, and he could certainly win re election there, however he had recently developed higher aspirations. It was time for a pro business leader to take the White House. The current President had infringed on individual and corporate rights by slowly instituting more and more government programs, increasing taxes, and legislating many new rules that discouraged capitalism and supposedly promoted _social wellbeing._ Students of politics on N.A.B, however, were quick to note that things were not better at all for society, but there did seem to be an ever growing number of the President's friends and associates joining the government payrolls. McGee, being a man of extraordinary financial means, had several teams of consultants looking at different aspects of the Presidential election process. He also had one paid consultant whom he knew next to nothing about. His old friend, Carson Bainard, an ex Special Forces man from way back, told him it was good to have a low key, solo operative with intelligence training, on the team. Bainard said that all Presidential candidates had such a team member, but that is was a little known fact. If McGee had known that this _low key_ team member was sitting in as "his" representative with a bunch of would be terrorists, he would have had a stroke.

This _representative_ known only as "Joe" to Henrich Jorgensen's group was promoting McGee's interests by assisting the attempt to embarrass and discredit the current President of N.A.B. and his administration. Joe sat in a back restaurant storage room in New York City with the remaining members of _OFADOF._

"Now that Jorgensen has been detained, and the virus is out there already, doing its job, I see no reason for this group to meet again anytime soon," said Joe.

"But what about monitoring progress, and what about the weapons we collected for the attacks?" asked another member who was one of the eccentric artists.

"The weapons can be warehoused for future use," answered Joe. "We already determined that the attacks were not a feasible plan in the previous meetings anyhow," he continued. "I say let's let _nature_ take its course with the virus epidemic. It seems to be incurable to date, and it's already got the public in quite a panic."

Another of the _representatives_ added, "Joe's right. Besides, the more meetings we have, the more security risk to the group. Gentlemen, I believe our job is done for now!"

There was some grumbling among the other members, but in the end they agreed to go back to their regular lives and lay dormant for the time being. The eccentrics in the group were dissatisfied, because to them, antigovernment activity in itself was a goal, almost more than the results. The _representatives_ were a different type altogether. They were being well paid by their sponsors to produce a certain outcome, and would continue to be paid regardless of the amount risk they took. The prospect of the Tumor Syndrome creating upheaval on N.A.B. that they could take credit for and report to their sponsors was perfect. It created the picture of success, and the ability to draw continued sponsorship while moving on to other projects at the same time. Besides Governor McGee, there were also two other prominent business people supporting t _representatives_ in _OFADOF_ who did not know about the group's illegal terrorist activities at all.

When Joe arrived back at his bachelor apartment after the meeting, the chatty woman he had met at a Manhattan club the night before was still there. Joe had told her simply that he was a paid political consultant, a common job in the New York Washington area. He didn't know that the overly made up girl from the night club was not who _she_ appeared to be. She was on a payroll as well; paid to troll New York's night life, fishing for those who might be involved in questionable activities around town. Officially, she was a "civilian consultant" to N.A.B's federal intelligence agency. Being a contractor allowed the agency to pay her handsomely if a high value target was taken down. She was licensed to carry a concealed weapon, although she usually left the pistol under her car seat, because the appearance of a weapon on her body was too detectable and would tip off her prey. Most of the "dates" she had, turned out simply to be looking for excitement in the trendy spots around the city. But "Sharon," as was her undercover name, had a higher detection rate than most in her game. She sported a short but very stylized coif, honey blond with highlights, and she always did her makeup perfectly, as it was imperative that she look attractive to her prey. About three percent of men she socialized with at the clubs turned out to be of significant interest to the agency. Once acquired, a target would be contacted repeatedly by Sharon, until he tired of the "relationship" and broke it off. This allowed her time to gather information about the gentleman in question, and pass it on to analysts at the agency. Sharon, in fact, was the source of the "chatter" about an antigovernment group that had been mentioned to the President in his meeting with the intelligence chief at the White House. She had extrapolated this only as a hypothesis about Joe's activities, from small bits of information she had observed. There was no hard evidence whatsoever; nothing for intelligence to act on in terms of an arrest, or even any deeper investigation at that point. There were hundreds of agents like Sharon trolling the New York Washington area. To rise beyond the level of "chatter," solid evidence or direct observation of activity was a requirement in order to avoid countless dead end investigations at a staggering financial cost to the citizens of N.A.B.
Chapter 22

Because North American Base was built originally from thousands of ultra class ships, the massive platform required continuous structural maintenance and improvement in order to remain intact in the salty ocean. "Grunge" was one of the lead engineers on N.A.B. He was nicknamed "Grunge" because grungy best described the pale, lanky, unshaven, bespectacled engineer, who just happened to be one of the nation's top marine architects. The maritime engineers were not only responsible for overseeing maintenance of the structure beneath N.A.B's homes and businesses and streets. They were also in charge of building and maintaining a large fleet of ships and submarines as well. Those vessels were used to travel to clean waters where fisheries could be maintained, mine iron ore from the ocean's floor, and protect N.A.B. from attack, although thus far, in the new world, there had never been a war between nations.

Grunge looked through small circular glasses at a government official who waited unannounced at his office that morning. He felt more than a little uncomfortable and surprised to be entertaining a business suit with an electronic device in one ear. The man in the suit had I.D. to prove that he was an attaché from the President's administrative offices. He produced a letter, signed by the President and stamped with the Presidential Seal, commissioning the outfitting of a special housing unit deep within the hulls of N.A.B. This hideaway was to be supplied with fresh air from the open ocean and equipped with its own kitchens and individual living quarters for one thousand groups of four children each, as well as one thousand adults to supervise and teach the children during confinement.

"What have these kids done to be imprisoned in like that?" asked Grunge, taking a sip from his usual morning coffee.

"There not being imprisoned Mr. Kaydakis," answered the attaché. "The President means to protect a group of uninfected children to secure the future of N.A.B. in the event that the Azerbaijani Syndrome becomes a large scale epidemic."

"What time period are we talking about," asked Grunge.

"The President's medical advisors recommend bringing the children down right away. We're aware that there are already some older existing shelters within the hulls. They want the children isolated from the main population as soon as possible, and then moved into the improved space as it becomes available."

"Ok, so those shelters are scattered around the perimeters," stated the engineer. "Oh, and it's uh Doctor Kaydakis if you must, I have a PhD. But most of my colleagues call me Grunge."

"Um, Ok Grunge. Anyhow, the population in New California is thought to be least at risk for existing infections. So logistically, it would be easier and safer to move children from that region down into the shelters at the Western Perimeter, and then build the special housing adjacent to them."

"That makes sense," said Grunge. "If you'll contact Station Two and approve access from a national security standpoint, I'll talk to the crews over there and make sure they can open everything up and get it cleaned up in advance."

"Cleaned up?" asked the attaché.

"Well yes," continued Grunge. "When we open up compartments in the hull that haven't been accessed recently, they're subject to moisture, mold and algae growth, rodent infestation, and sometimes squatters too."

"Squatters?"

"Yeah. Mostly unusual folks who prefer to live outside of society. Sometimes we run across folks trying to hide illegal activity as well,,,," said Grunge. "Mostly drug labs, those ones."

"I see," said the President's emissary. "I'll have the security clearance by tomorrow morning first thing eastern time. We'll start bringing children down nine a.m. sharp. Here's my card. Email me the precise entry location by lunch today. Get crews cleaning and stocking the shelters with food, sundries, and some fresh water to last until you can have the seawater processing units fully functional down there."

"Yes sir. I'll see to it right away. Anything to protect the children of North America!" said Grunge in his best soldier imitation which was actually quite anemic sounding.

Grunge called his crew chief for the New California area. They began preparations. Although the President hadn't asked for it, Grunge told his colleague to secure one thousand wall screen TV's from government storage as well. He was a kind man and imagined those kids would need some entertainment as always, and the TV's would provide news and education as well.

Later in the morning, the crew chief in New California reported _operation going as planned_. There were no squatters, save a few nasty marine rats, and the moisture levels were not bad either. Fans were set to air out the quarters through windows that opened into flood proofed ventilation shafts. Bedding, food, water, some clothing, and the TV's arrived and were put into place. Some treadmills and several small play areas were set up as well. It was the least they could do for the soon to be isolated little ones. Grunge leaned back in his office chair and contemplated living long term down in the bowels of N.A.B. It was contrary to the original mission of the base. Up until then, the goal had always been to provide a life that was as similar to land based life as possible. Now they were to provide this group of isolated individuals a different life, one more similar to living in the lowest fare cabins of a cruise ship from the old world. How long could they truly remain isolated if the disease did start spreading? Could they remain isolated at all? The supply issues were a nightmare. Well, that was getting out of the realm of engineering. Other teams would have to deal with those issues. Grunge made a call to a colleague with children in New California, just to pass the word that something major was happening.
Chapter 23

"This is Nicholas Reynas reporting from New York City's Central Hospital with a News Action One breaking story!" The young reporter was broadcasting an update on the boys brought in with suspected Azerbaijani Tumor Syndrome. He smiled for the introduction and then switched to a concerned face for the story itself.

"Doctors here today are confirming that two boys suspected of having contracted the dreaded Azerbaijani Tumor Syndrome are indeed ill with the disease. Consultants from the Department of Health Services here in New York City are assisting in treating the two boys and also are releasing recommendations that parents here in New York Washington, and perhaps everywhere on N.A.B. should follow to protect their own children's health."

"Well this certainly is a _very_ concerning development Nicholas! How can parents obtain these recommendations?" asked Carol Uchimada from the main news room desk.

"Carol, the doctors from Health Services have created a website to publish the recommendations as well as address FAQ's about the syndrome. Get a pen or pencil, that website is at www.tumorsyndrome.healthservices.nab . Now, I'm going to read some of these recommendations over the air so our News Action One listeners can take precautions right away. Carol, the main thing the experts want parents to know, is that isolation and good personal hygiene are going to be the most important tools to protect children until some sort of a vaccine or therapy is available. "

"Nick. They are recommending isolation? Does this mean that children will be staying home from school?" asked Carol Uchimada.

"Yes Carol. We are about to be receiving a confirmation from New York City schools that sessions will be cancelled at least for the coming week. Teachers are being asked to send home assignments with students today. The big question seems to be how long will this last, and _who_ will take care of all these kids at home? Carol, this disease, which has already been epidemic in the Azerbaijan floating nation's population, has consistently only effected children. That's at least somewhat of a relief for the adults, but Carol, most folks need to work and pay the bills. There will be a huge dilemma regarding childcare with these stay at home isolation recommendations."

"That's a good point Nick. I guess there will be some extra baby sitting jobs out there soon. Now what about the rest of North American Base Nick? Are these recommendations being made elsewhere as well?"

"Carol, these two boys were known to have contacted the original victim here in New York, known as John X. For this reason, Health Services is currently making recommendations only for the New York Washington area at this time. The life threatening nature of this disease is very scary for parents though, and we don't know if local municipalities will make similar recommendations simply as a precaution. Nicholas Reynas reporting from New York City with this News Action One breaking story! Back to you Carol!" The young reporter switched back to a smile for the closing shot, and then removed his ear piece and handed off the microphone to a TV crew member.

Inside the Central Hospital, doctors in the ICU were preparing to intubate one of the two infected boys. His lungs were filling with rapidly growing tumors, causing severe respiratory distress and hypoxia. The boy's parents stood, looking through a glass partition at their previously healthy and active eleven year old son. The mother was sobbing, and the father was pale and anxious. A nurse smiled weakly at them through the glass, then pulled a privacy curtain to shield the intubating procedure from view. The nurse went to the aid of a young female doctor wearing a gown and green rubber gloves, holding a metal laryngoscope in one hand and a plastic endotracheal tube in the other. The nurse looked at the young boy. He was sedated for the procedure, and was gasping for breath. The pulse oximeter read a marginal eighty eight percent.

"Give me a little cricoid pressure," requested the female doctor, holding the laryngoscope rigidly in her left hand and peering down the child's throat.

The nurse pressed down just under the boy's Adam's apple and the doctor advanced the plastic tube into the boy's windpipe.

"Check the CO2 please," ordered the doctor, looking up at the ICU vital signs monitor.

"Positive CO2 waveform!" exclaimed the nurse.

A respiratory technician attached long corrugated tubing to the small clear endotracheal tube coming out of the boy's mouth and then flipped some switches on a ventilator which began breathing for him in a regular rhythmic pattern.

The nurse pulled the curtain open and left the boy's ICU room to tell the parents that everything was "Ok." The boy's mother simply continued sobbing and repeating over and over,

"My boy. My boy. My beautiful boy."

Chapter 24

Dr. Francesca Gulliana had been communicating with Dr. Bruce Farley on a regular basis since Dechak, or John X as he was known, became ventilator dependent. This time there was a little bit of good news to report from her end. The methotrexate rescue appeared to have been somewhat successful. Imaging of the boy's lungs and liver showed marked decrease in tumor load, and even the masses above his collar bones had shrunken as well. Dechak's oxygenation was improving, and Dr. Gulliana was hopeful that they may have him off the ventilator in the days to come.

"I see," said Dr. Farley. "That's encouraging. The tissue samples of the tumor _were_ indicative of rapidly dividing high metabolism melanotic cells, so you'd think that the methotrexate could have had some effect. Of course, the concept of methotrexate rescue therapy for thousands or millions of children is unthinkable. We've still got to get either a vaccine, a cure, or a definitively preventive measure."

"Of course Dr. Farley. I'm aware of this, but on a personal level the whole team here has become quite attached and invested in the boy. Everyone's really quite jubilant that he's improving today."

"That is very good, very good. I've got some news for you as well from our lab here. We've just about ruled out any viral, fungal, or bacterial etiology based on electron microscopy and DNA and RNA tagging. That leaves only tumor cell spread by direct contact and prions as possible causative agents for the disease. Direct tumor cell spread would be too inefficient to cause an epidemic like the Azerbaijani flotilla has suffered. That leaves only prions. Although the neurologic prion spread diseases like Mad Cow were slowly developing, there's nothing special that says a prion has to cause only encephalopathies, or that they must cause slowly developing illnesses."

"Very interesting," said Dr. Gulliana. "But how do you explain the limitation of the disease to children only?" she asked.

"That's what I was asking myself over and over," said Dr. Farley. "So I started thinking of the possibilities. Adult immunity isn't likely with prions so a target unique to children seemed a better option. So I thought, growth plates? Nope, adults have hyaline cartilage in other locations in the body. I got a different hypothesis and we've started to test it here."

"What's that?" asked Gulliana.

"Well, as you know, a prion is an abnormally folded protein that can replicate once inside a host. I considered the possibility that if this particular prion was specific for a certain cell type, such as germ cells, that changed in their function and level of activity once exposed to adult hormones, then maybe this could explain limitation of the disease to pre pubescent children."

"Fascinating!" exclaimed Dr. Gulliana. "How did you test it?"

"Using amplification, we think we've spotted collection of the abnormal proteins in some of John X's tumor cells. We've exposed newborn and adult chimps to fresh serum from John X that you sent us."

"And?" asked Gulliana excitedly.

"And we've got a diseased newborn chimp already. Just found out an hour ago. I was going to call you shortly about it. The adult chimps appear uninfected."

"That's wonderful work Dr. Farley, but does this mean that there can be no prevention? No cure? The Mad Cow disease came from sickened cattle that could be sacrificed and burned. We are not dealing with livestock here!"

"Indeed we are not Francesca. But a definitive etiology for the disease is the first step, and I think we're close here at the CDC."

"Well do keep up the strong work Bruce. Can I call you Bruce? Good. I'll update you daily on the boy's condition. Bye bye."

Mysteriously, and within minutes after Dr. Farley's conversation with Dr. Gulliana, Farley's cell phone rang in his shirt pocket. He tapped the screen and saw the words Private Caller. He decided to answer anyway.

"Hello, Dr. Farley speaking."

"Hello Dr. Farley. This is Burle Iverson from the President's staff."

"Hello Mr. Iverson."

"Listen, the President wants you to know just how impressed he is with your work so far on the tumor syndrome problem."

"Well. Please thank him for me. We're doing our best here at the CDC to get a handle on the cause of the disease before it becomes a full blown epidemic."

"Yes, I'm sure you are.... One thing though. There are some security concerns. And also some other concerns... For example, we wouldn't want to offer false hopes to the people and then have some potential cure or vaccine fail, uh, maybe because it hadn't been adequately tested."

"Yes, we're well aware of that here at the center," answered the doctor, wondering exactly what the President's staff man was getting at.

"So... and um,, I know this may not be what you're used to,, but we're sending an outside medical researcher to join you at CDC and observe everything that's going on with the tumor syndrome research. He's to have full access, and no treatment or vaccine protocols are to be released for human testing without the President's approval through this outside consultant."

"That's, uh, quite unusual," stammered Bruce. "I thought the President had placed his full trust in us here at CDC to come up with a quick and accurate diagnosis."

Farley was more than a little perturbed. All he needed was some outsider, unfamiliar with the methods and staff at CDC, to interfere with a very complex diagnosis and treatment investigation.

"Well these are unusual times Dr. Farley. Your visitor's name is Dr. Marvin Ventnor. He's quite a gentleman. I really think you'll like working with him. I've got to go. We'll be in touch. Talk to you later doc."

Iverson hung up. He wasn't happy either. He realized that once again, he was sent to do the President's bidding in issues he was less than qualified for, and about which he had only been partially informed. He called the President to let him know he had placed Marvin Ventnor in the loop at CDC. The President was quite pleased and explained that it was very important that such an important public issue was under direct control from the White House.

Meanwhile, New York City started to panic. There were reassurances on radio and TV that there was no epidemic at the time, but the sensational news of a horrible communicable disease that kills children was too much to handle. Besides keeping their children home, many adults refused to go to work. Instead they headed out to the stores to stockpile food and supplies in preparation for a full scale disaster. Shelves were going bare, and the more this was highlighted in the news, the bigger the problem was becoming. More and more people figured they better get ready too.
Chapter 25

Kathleen Jorgensen saw her own picture on TV along with the story about her husband being arrested. She went directly to Precinct 12 to alert the police that she was Ok. Ryan was notified and they brought her to an interview room. Much information could be gained potentially, because she would not necessarily be hostile to questioning. Ryan knew she had at least concealed Henrich's mistreatment of her in the past. He wondered if she had knowledge of his illegal gun smuggling. It was possible she could have been oblivious, but they _did_ live in an artist's loft without much privacy from one another. Ryan started the conversation.

"Hello Mrs. Jorgensen. I'm so glad to see you're alive and well. We were quite concerned about you here at the Precinct."

"Thank you officer," she replied simply, looking down at the desk in front of her.

Ryan could tell something was up. She already appeared to be concerned about some hidden truths. He was used to dealing with professional criminals, and corporate cheats, expert liars. Interviewing Kathleen promised to be productive, and even pleasant!

"Kathleen. It's come to our attention that your husband has been involved in some illegal activities." He waited for her reaction, looking her straight in the eyes. Her eyes welled up with tears and she started crying.

"I had no idea Henrich would end up getting involved with extremists when we were married," she began sobbing. "He never showed a hint of that, years ago. He was a good scientist and successful at work. He loved art as a hobby, and supported my career too. I don't even think any of it would have happened if we didn't get Jayo'n in office as President. Eight years of that President just blew Henrich's mind, I think.... He just couldn't handle a White House with a Socialist agenda. "

"Kathleen, you mentioned extremists. What extremists are you taking about?"

"I don't really know _who_ they all are, actually. Some bunch of men who want to scare the public into voting Jayo'n out of office. That's all that Henrich really mentioned a lot."

"Kathleen. Do you have the names of any of those men? It's very important if you do."

"I don't. Like I said, I don't know much about them at all."

Ryan responded quickly, but not in an unkind fashion.

"But did you know that your husband was involved in smuggling illegal firearms to them Kathleen?"

She began crying again. Obviously she did know about the weapons. Ryan spoke again sounding quite sympathetic.

"Kathleen. I don't like to have to mention, but the knowledge of a felony, such as the gun smuggling we believe Henrich is involved in, _is_ in and of itself, a felony. If you can give us all the information you can think of, I can probably keep you out of it in terms of being an accomplice." She began sobbing and he offered her a tissue.

"Thanks," she said, wiping her nose and eyes. "I'll tell you what I know. Do you think you can really make it so I'm not in trouble as well?"

"I think so," said Ryan. "I promise I'll do my absolute best to avoid any charges if you're up front with us now."

"Ok officer, uh, I can't remember your name."

"Rivers. You can call me Ryan if it's easier."

"Yes, uh Ryan. What I can tell you is that some time about three years ago, Henrich was becoming more and more upset with President Jayo'n. He complained a lot about the higher taxes and what he called a conspiracy to move all the jobs into the government sector away from the private sector. He was probably going to be laid off before he quit his job, and I think he blamed that on the President too. But then, he seemed to be enjoying his art and things simmered down for a while. A year or so later, I think, the timing's not exact,"

"That's ok," said Ryan.

"Yes, about two years ago, he met someone at the pub he went to a couple times a week. It was another gentleman, who he had gotten to know, and who introduced him to _the group_ who got him into this whole mess."

"Tell me about _the group_ Kathleen. Is there anything you know about them? Anything at all? Where they met, how often, how many men, women, what political affiliations they had, any links to organized crime?"

"Well after he was introduced to _the group_ , Henrich saw them about once a month that I knew of. I don't know if there were other times. They must have met not far away, because he was there and back in a few hours. Anyhow, I wasn't too concerned. I thought it was all talk until the guns started arriving at our place. I confronted him immediately, and he just rationalized everything, and said that there were no plans to do anything with the weapons. He said the group just wanted to practice, like a militia, in case things ever got out of control with the government here and there was anarchy or something like that. Anyhow, our marriage was never the same. We had some arguments, and once or twice he hit me out of anger when I questioned him."

"I see," said Ryan. "Do you know if this group had any specific plans that your husband was involved in?"

"Nothing other than the guns. That's what I was aware of. Please try to help me detective! I never consented to any of this craziness! I was just trapped there, in my marriage, with my husband going crazy on me." Kathleen felt an acute sense of relief. The unwanted secret of Henrich's unlawful activity was no longer her burden to carry.

"Don't worry Kathleen. I will talk to the City Attorney; we'll take care of you. Your information has been very valuable. If there's anything else you think of, anything at all, especially details about that group, I want you to call me. Here's my card. We're also going to give you an officer for a little while for your own safety."

"Do I have reason to be in danger Ryan?"

"We don't know yet, but it's better to play it safe. Besides, it's on the house." He gave her a wink and a smile, trying to allay her fears.

"Ok, I'll do whatever you recommend then." Kathleen seemed preoccupied. She kept spinning around some little charms on a gold bracelet around her left wrist.

"We've got your address and phone now, so I'll introduce you to Officer Bryant, your field escort, and you two can be on your way. Do whatever you'd normally do. Don't worry. Bryant's a good cop and he'll keep his eyes and ears open. I recommend that you stay at the motel where you've been, or alternatively at a friend or relative's, but don't go back to the loft, there could be unwanted visitors there."

After their meeting, Ryan returned to his desk computer and filled out a form for report of possible terrorist or antigovernment activity on the intelligence agency website. He checked off _"Other Police Agency"_ on the form, which was supposed to elevate the status of the report. Who knew that they would have poorly trained part time staffers, reading and screening those reports? Ryan had no intention of handing off any part of his investigation though. Filing the reporting form was just a formality to him. His next move was to get word out on the street that he was paying for information about _the group_ that Henrich was involved in. He planned to start at the 9th Street Ram's Head Pub, because Kathleen indicated Henrich met his initial contact there _._

Ryan stopped by the Ram's Head on his way home, not expecting to get much information. He stepped off the street into a dimly lit and smoky bar room, paneled in dark wood with trophy animal heads from the Old World adding a certain European flavor to the place. He approached the bartender, who like most of the patrons was a hefty Germanic or Nordic looking man. The bar tender, and a well preserved wild boar's head stared at Ryan as he approached. He asked the tender if he remembered Henrich Jorgensen.

"Yes, but he hasn't been around lately," was the terse answer from the bartender, who added antagonistically, "Anything else I can do for you officer? If not, the place the cops hang out isn't here, if you know what I mean."

Ryan glanced around at a rough looking crowd, smoking, drinking and playing pool at the end of the room. There was only one woman in the place; a tough guy's girl watching him attentively as he lined up his next billiards shot. Then Ryan realized he was slightly mistaken. The girl was wearing a small apron and was clearly a barmaid who had been serving beers to the patrons. He decided she might know about Henrich and approached the pool table to ask her. He had just flipped his badge wallet open when the tough guy took a swing at him with the cue. Ryan swiftly accepted the end of the stick with his right hand and let it continue its momentum, guiding it, and then whipping it out of the man's hand and placing it upright in front of himself as though ready to line up the next shot at the pool table. He asked the tough guy if he'd like a ride downtown or would he rather leave for the evening. The man slapped a five dollar bill on the edge of the table and turned to leave, snorting in disapproval of the unwanted visit by a cop at their hangout.

"Don't mind him," said the barmaid. "He's always in a mood. What ya lookin' for here detective?"

He asked her about Jorgensen. She said she did remember him, and that he was kind of quiet compared to the other clientele. She wasn't surprised when he stopped coming after meeting a similar gentleman there. They must have found a bar with a different crowd.

"Or who knows?" she jested, "Maybe they just found each other, haaaa!"

Ryan asked her if she would come into the precinct the next day to give a description of the other man to a police artist, and she said she would. He left the pub, and his thoughts turned back to Marcia on the way home.

Chapter 26

Bruce Farley couldn't really understand what the White House was thinking. Dr. Marvin Ventnor had arrived to begin observing the research effort to cure Azerbaijani Tumor Disease. For one thing, Ventnor was a PhD in epidemiology. Although he was expert in the study of disease spread within a population, his knowledge of microbiology and biochemistry was very basic compared to Farley's research staff. Ventnor had clearly geared his entire career towards ending up in civil service. He had taught at the college level, but only until the first government job came up. From that point on he'd been either a county or federal employee. Bruce noticed that Ventnor browsed throw away celebrity gossip magazines while on the job, which seemed especially odd for an academic.

"The Tatter, hmmm, that's interesting reading," Bruce mentioned sarcastically.

"Oh yeah. I know, it's just something to help me relax."

"Do you find the job stressful?" asked Farley.

Ventnor bristled abruptly.

"Listen! You have no idea what it's like to be responsible for supporting the President's agenda 24/7."

"Supporting the President's agenda?" asked Farley. "We're not working on any agendas here Dr. Ventnor. We're trying to save the children of North American Base from suffering the horrific and painful death of this potentially epidemic disease process!"

"You CDC guys know you're the top of the top, the cream of the freakin' crop, and you _are_ , but you haven't the slightest idea what agendas you're working on, each and every day!"

"Listen Marvin! You're here because the President wants you here. That's fine. Just don't get in the way of the work and for god's sake, try to do something a little more useful that reading tabloids all day."

"Hmmmph!" exclaimed Dr. Ventnor, folding the magazine and sticking it in the inner pocket of his tweed coat. He turned to head for the cafeteria where he could finish reading in peace over a bowl of pea soup and toasted sourdough.

Farley called each of his researchers individually.

"Listen," he said to them. "There's something fishy with this observer, Dr. Ventnor, from the White House. Let him do his job, I don't think he'll be too good at that, but don't explain anything to him. Let him figure everything out on his own. We can't afford someone slowing down or interfering with the process here."

In the CDC laboratory, Dr. Farley's theory about prions affecting juvenile germ cells continued to pan out. The abnormal protein was isolated and replicated in vitro, and the experiment infecting newborn chimpanzees was replicable using the test tube version of the prion, rather than John X's serum. Bruce was very excited as he told Annette that evening. Their baby was due in three months. It would be wonderful to bear her into a safe world, as N.A.B. had been known before the tumor syndrome made its appearance.

One of the boys Dechak had met in the alleyway had travelled to see cousins in Midwest States, and there had been relatives at that family get together from New California. The particular ability of this prion to spread easily with casual contact from one child to another resulted in the infection of most of the cousins. The infection of these unfortunate kids was being reported in the news as well. The problem had become nationwide on North American Base, and threatened to become a full scale epidemic.

President Gerome Jayo'n was monitoring the situation closely. He had analysts not only measuring the popularity of his probable opponents in the next election, but also measuring the level of _fear_ in N.A.B. regarding Azerbaijani Tumor Syndrome. When the fear level got high enough, any President coming to the rescue with a brilliant cure or vaccine provided by _his_ Center for Disease Control and Surgeon General, would surely be a hero and win the election. That was Jayo'n's plan, and he _did_ realize children's lives would be lost in the process. He had used epidemiologist Dr. Marvin Ventnor rather than a microbiologist or biochemist so that Ventnor could compare the rate of infection in the population with the estimated time until the vaccine or cure would be available from the CDC. This way they would catch the disease on the cusp, right before the steepest part of the exponential curve of new infections.
Chapter 27

Marcia arrived on Thursday by plane. Ryan was there to greet her at the airport. It was crowded, and he had trouble finding parking. He hadn't wanted to abuse his badge by leaving his car in the loading zone. Ryan wore designer jeans with variegated color and a striped button down shirt with his favorite aftershave. He spotted Marcia as soon as she appeared at the end of the gangway tunnel. Her eyes scanned the waiting crowd, finding him looking right at her, holding a bundle of red roses in cellophane. She strode over pulling a wheeled travel case. He watched her hips move the floral skirt she wore in perfect rhythm. They hugged and he kissed her on the cheek.

"I've been soooo looking forward to today!" he exclaimed.

"Same here!" she answered. "Let's get out of here! I'm dying to see your place in person," she answered, equally enthusiastic.

They drove out of the airport in Ryan's electric car, heading South on the Grand Central Parkway. He asked her what she wanted her first night. He had reservations at _Mayano_ , a trendy restaurant in Soho, or, he was prepared to cook an amazing meal for her with fresh organic herbs, veggies and fresh pasta. Marcia requested _Mayano_ for her arrival and then they could cook together in the apartment the next night. They headed to Ryan's anyhow so she could freshen up. They had just stepped out of the car in the sublevel garage when Ryan's cell announced an incoming call. It was officer Bryant from a Precinct issued mobile phone.

"Hey, what's up?" Ryan asked.

"It's Bryant. Listen. I've been hanging out with Mrs. Jorgensen and I think something's up." The officer was whispering into the phone as though he did not have complete privacy.

"What's up?" asked Ryan again. "I'm sort of off today. My girl's in town for a long weekend."

"Oh shit," whispered Officer Bryant. "I'm sorry. It's just that I thought you'd want to know. I think we've been tailed most of the day since she went out shopping."

"Tailed? Who's the tail? Did you request face recognition I.D. from the Precinct?" asked Ryan.

"Yeah, but they haven't got it yet. The guy's wearing dark shades and a hat tipped down low."

"Where are you?"

"We're at The Village Green having salads. You know, that place near the Art Bazaar. Any chance you can swing by?"

"Well. Like I said,,, oh I guess so. Hold on a minute.... Marcia, I've got a situation going down about 15 minutes from here. Can I let you into the apartment and then I'll check it out and come back?"

"What's up Ryan?" she inquired, eyebrows raised.

"The case I'm working on involves a protected witness. Her security says they're being followed, and I have an interest in seeing who's tailing them if possible."

"Cool. I'll come with," she answered.

"Uh, I guess that's Ok, but you can't be on the scene without a weapon, since you are an officer. Let's run up and get my backup pistol and then we'll head over..... Hey Bryant, yeah, I'll be there in twenty,, oh also, my girl's coming, she's on the force in New Texas."

"Ok, I'll text you if we switch locations or anything happens."

"Cool. See you in twenty then," answered Ryan, and he took Marcia up to get the extra weapon. She took a quick gander at the apartment. Clean, decorated Ok for a single guy, no signs of another woman. They ran back down to Ryan's car and drove to the Village Green Restaurant.

They entered from the street and immediately spotted Kathleen Jorgensen and officer Bryant sitting on two high stools at a very small, round, tile top table sipping Chai Teas and apparently chatting. A quick glance revealed that a man with a straw Cuban style hat and dark glasses was watching them. Ryan whispered to Marcia.

"I'm going to go ask him for change. See if he'll take off the glasses or let me get a look at his wallet."

"Ok," she whispered back. "I'm covering you." Marcia was all business. She had switched from girlfriend to law enforcement officer seamlessly.

Ryan approached the suspect and asked for change for a twenty. The man did not remove the dark glasses, but bent over a little to take the wallet out of his hip pocket. He was a slightly overweight but also muscular type. His jacket gapped as he reached, revealing a shoulder holster and pistol. Ryan wasn't taking any chances. He pulled his own weapon immediately, took one step back and ordered the man to the floor.

"Police!" shouted Ryan, as startled customers left the establishment.

"You idiot!" shouted the man, who was complying with Ryan's request. Marcia had approached as well and had her weapon trained on the suspect, ready to shoot. Officer Bryant led Kathleen Jorgensen out of the restaurant and they started back to her motel, now assured they were no longer being followed.

"Who do you think it was?" asked Kathleen.

"I don't know said Bryant. But we should find out soon enough."

Marcia kept her gun trained on the mystery man with the Cuban hat and dark glasses. He was now down on the floor with his arms straight out.

"You idiot!" the suspect shouted again. "I'm from federal intelligence!"

"Oh man," Ryan muttered under his breath. "Ok! My partner here's going to come over and take your wallet so we can see some I.D. You make a move for that pistol, or _any_ sudden move, and it'll be too late to say we're sorry!"

Marcia approached slowly and took the man's wallet. She slid out some cards.

"There's an employee I.D. there for the agency and a security clearance too," said the man, seeming to calm down a bit.

Marcia opened the wallet while Ryan kept his weapon on the man.

"Looks legit Ryan," she stated. "Federal employee, intelligence, Agent Clark."

"Ok," said Ryan. "Agent Clark. Is that your correct identity?"

"Yes sir," responded the big man.

"Because you were following a police protected witness, Agent Clark, I need to take your weapon. That's our protocol in a situation like this. We will return it to you when you are picked up by a member from your own agency, whom we will contact for you at this time."

Marcia called Federal Intelligence and verified that Clark was indeed one of their agents. She requested they send an agent to come pick him up and they agreed. It wasn't the first time one of their agents had been detained by New York Washington Police officers.

"Are you able to discuss why you were following our witness?" asked Ryan.

Clark was now allowed to sit at one of the small tables, but Marcia and Ryan still kept a distance, just to be safe. The federal agent just shook his head _"no"_ and made small talk.

"We've got a lot of surveillance going on in the city right now. Watchin' so many people that a lot of them have nothin' to do with anything. You know."

Another agent arrived from the Federal Intelligence Agency. After checking his badge, Ryan gave the second agent Clark's gun, as well as his own Precinct 12 business card. Marcia apologized for the situation, trying to be especially polite. It was a bit unusual having assisted Ryan out of her jurisdiction, and she didn't want to make waves if possible.

"Well,,,, now that that's all over with....." Marcia joshed, taking a deep breath.

"How about that dinner?" Ryan replied.

"How about it?" She smiled, transitioning seamlessly again back from police officer to Ryan's romantic interest, and they left the salad bar.

Chapter 28

Within weeks, children in all the major cities of N.A.B. were infected with the tumor syndrome. There had been deaths, including the two boys who played with Dechak in the alley when he had first arrived. This was the first deadly epidemic they had experienced since anyone could remember. (There had been a small outbreak of Plague in New York fifty years prior that did kill a few hundred citizens.) There was not enough methotrexate available to treat many thousands of children, and it did not offer a cure, only a remission of unknown duration. Dechak, or John X, as he was known, had been extubated and removed from ventilator support at the Health Services special facility where Dr. Francesca Gulliana worked. He received regular visits and examinations from her, as well as other health professionals and researchers, all wearing puffy white isolation suits. He got a TV rigged to translate to Azerbaijani from English and was enjoying that, and getting a little appetite. He loved the small cup of vanilla ice cream that was provided as his lunch desert each day. He had given his story to several different law enforcement officials already. They were friendly, but left as baffled as he was as to how he got to N.A.B. in the first place. Some parts of the general public, being so upset about the issue, started to blame the Azerbaijani Floating Nation for bringing the disease to N.A.B. Several right wing congressmen took advantage of this, and suggested the flotilla should receive a military escort out to seas far from N.A.B. where they would be left to deal with the problem on their own. Most of the public was sympathetic though, and the main opinion was that government researchers would come up with a cure or vaccine. The disease would soon be stopped in its tracks, both on N.A.B. and also for the poor people of the Azerbaijani Fleet, who had suffered the consequences for a much longer period of time.

Dr. Bruce Farley, at the Center for Disease Control was becoming more optimistic. Knowing that the disease was caused by a prion that they had fully sequenced was the critical breakthrough he needed. He had researchers comparing the prion to its most similar healthy proteins in the human body. The goal was to create a vaccine that would stimulate the production of antibodies to neutralize the prion, so that it would become incapable of self replicating. Because the prion was similar to a normal healthy human protein with some important deviations, the immune system of infected children did not mount a response to infection. Bruce hoped to attach the sequences of the prion protein structure _that were different from normal_ to the outside envelope of a common virus. This virus would then be reproduced in large quantities and used to infect the population with something that _would_ create an immune response and make people impervious to the original prion causing the tumor syndrome.

Dr. Marvin Ventnor was following the entire process and reporting to the President's aide. He was also plotting the rate of rise of infection in N.A.B's children. He had warned the President that they were indeed getting close to an exponential increase in the number infected in the population. Once that phase started, the numbers of sick and dead would increase dramatically. Luckily for the children of N.A.B, and the Azerbaijani fleet, the analysis of public fear over the disease had shown that it was already the main concern of most of the population. President Jayo'n realized he could allow the cure effort to go full steam ahead. His administration could take credit for saving the children of N.A.B. as well as the foreign fleet. He could be a hero, and guarantee reelection, without even venturing into the risky process of delaying FDA approval of a treatment for the disease. He would sit back and wait for Farley at the CDC to produce a cure, and then take credit for it. (Farley had actually been at the CDC long before Jayon's administration.)

Dechak lay in his hospital bed at HHS watching cartoons when a news flash appeared. An anonymous source from the White House had revealed that John X, the original carrier of the tumor syndrome, had been kidnapped and flown to N.A.B. by terrorists who had used him as a biological weapon.

"Oh my god," thought Dechak. "That's me they're talking about."

Simultaneously, President Gerome Jayo'n viewed the newscast as well while sitting alone in his office at the White House.

"Damn, damn, damn!" he shouted to himself, picking up the phone to dial Burle Iverson.

"Burle! It's Gerome! Listen, we've got a problem here. I need you to do some checking around, find out who leaked the fact that that boy with the tumor disease was flown in here by terrorists. This is _very_ bad. It's was an obvious breach in our airspace and national security. Get Phil (the President's press secretary). Tell him to figure out the spin on this to minimize damage. Blame it on the Republican Congress if possible. I don't know. Just make sure the public knows that we're on it, and hunting down the terrorists et cetera, et cetera."

"Yes Mr. President. I'm on it! I'll get Phil right away. We'll call a press conference to minimize damage ASAP. Don't worry. Bye."

Three right wing Republican Congress members took advantage of the news right away. They convinced the Majority Speaker to launch an investigation into the security breech leading up to the dumping of the infected boy onto N.A.B. They also began attacking President Jayo'n for under spending on national security and the wasteful explosion in federal employee hiring. Governor Jackson McGee from New California announced his candidacy for President in the upcoming elections, and aired commercials stating that _"It's time for N.A.B. to elect a new President who will protect the citizens from disaster and attack in an ever changing New World."_

The mood at the CDC was filled with jubilant anticipation. Farley's researchers knew they were on the cusp of a big breakthrough. Marvin Ventnor was still there, but his mood seemed to change. He had relaxed into the role of casual scientific observer, rather than that of a spy. He was much better suited to this. It allowed him more time for the tabloids.
Chapter 29

Ryan and Marcia woke at seven and went for a run together in the wooded park near his apartment. The landscaping was excellent there, with plenty of soil filled planter beds for flowers, and sublevel humongous pots to accommodate fairly large green leafy trees that provided excellent shade on the jogging path. The combination of the lingering scent of Marcia on his own skin, the fragrance of the flowers in the park, and the cool, sunny morning made Ryan feel on high. Being able to run like this, with the beautiful woman by his side was as much as Ryan ever dreamed of in a relationship. They returned to the apartment and cleaned up for a leisurely breakfast. Ryan cooked omelets with cheese, mushroom and bell pepper. Marcia appeared after finishing her shower in the white terry robe he had purchased especially for her comfort while visiting.

"That smells delicious!" she exclaimed, walking over to admire the view of the city. "I'm starving after that run!"

"Me too. Do you like milk or coffee or juice?" he asked.

"Milk would be good."

Ryan set her omelet and a glass of cold milk on the coffee table next to Marcia and went back to get his own plate. They ate in front of the view. Half way through her eggs, Marcia bent over across the table to give Ryan an affectionate kiss while looking directly into his eyes.

"Look," she giggled. "I transferred my milk moustache to you!"

"Tres amusant madammoiselle," Ryan joked in his best French accent. "In France, we have a special punishment for such an offense as this!" He reached under the terry robe and tickled her ribs. She laughed so hard that she almost fell over, but he supported her weight."

They kissed passionately, and it the process, their hearts made a permanent connection, one that could not be broken. She pined about having to go back to New Texas so soon, and he promised that in a few weeks, he'd be out there to see _her_ place, and said that he'd love to meet her folks as well.
Chapter 30

Lt. Pamela Schmidt, also known as _Pug,_ was not the only corrupt correctional officer in New York's central jail, but perhaps she was among the most callously so. She was militant in her personality, made no attempt at femininity, on or off duty, and as far as most prisoners could figure, was the reincarnation of a Nazi concentration camp guard. She sported steely grey blue eyes, crew cut blonde hair, and a permanent sneer on her face that communicated her message, _"Go ahead, mess with me. I'll enjoy it."_ When certain members of organized crime needed _special help_ dealing with prisoners who might talk, Pug had been paid handsomely to _take care of it_ two times in the past eight years. She kept a nice little collection of confiscated prisoner's "shanks," crudely sharpened eating utensils and tooth brushes and such.

"Kill a prisoner with your baton or mark him with your stun gun," she had told a junior officer once, "and you'll soon be one of'm yourself. Kill a prisoner with a shank, and waalaa! That prisoner's just been shanked by another prisoner. No questions! Problem solved."

Pug never really told anyone exactly that she _did_ kill a prisoner. She discussed it sort of hypothetically, as though any guard should have a plan _just in case_ one of the inmates had it out for him or her. A preemptive strike, if you will. She sat one night, smoking a cigarette and munching a stale glazed doughnut from the pink box in the officer's lounge area. She heard vibration on and off from the vicinity of her small personal effects locker, and opened it to check if it was her cell phone. A garbled voice greeted her.

"Hello officer Schmidt. This is Bill. I was referred to you by Frankie Gaglio, from the Salmeri Family."

"Bill huh? What's your last name?" she took a drag on her second cigarette, and narrowed her eyes as though scrutinizing something in front of her.

"Smith, Bill Smith. Anyhow, that's not important. You can call Frankie and verify my connection. Anyhow, the group I work with needs a little favor."

"What's that? What favor?"

"There's a prisoner you have. We need him _dealt with, gone._ My group is willing to pay you a sum if you can take care of it quickly."

"How much? Who's the inmate?"

"His name is Mr. Henrich Jorgensen. He's been in your facility for just over a week. We'll reimburse you two hundred thousand when he's toe tagged at the morgue."

"Hold on let me check somthin'" she mumbled into the phone. She pulled a clip board down from the break room wall. It had the daily roster of inmates in the Central Jail broken down into sections. She found Jorgensen and put the phone back to her ear, looking around to be sure she was still alone in the room. She continued,

"That one's more difficult," she said to her caller. "He's not in the general population. He's in Step Two security. They put special interest cases in there, big dope dealers, ring leaders, so on. There's more risk for me than a regular inmate, if you get my drift."

"Are you saying you want more money to complete the job Ms. Schmidt?"

"I'm just sayin' ," she continued, "I gotta pull some strings to get in there on a night shift and make things happen without it gettin' reported. If I can do it, and I might be able to, there's one or two guys that'll be takin' a cut out'a my pie."

"Ok, Ms. Schmidt. We will pay you three hundred and fifty thousand, so that you have enough to cover your expenses. Will you take the job?"

She smiled, revealing crooked, brown stained teeth.

"Consider it done, Bill. As long as Frankie says you're legit and all."

"Good. I will not contact you again until it's finished. When the body's in the morgue, you will receive a text with a bank name and account number. The account will be set up in your name, and will hold the three hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"So long then," said Pug, and the connection went dead. She placed her cell back in the locker and shut it up. She continued her rounds and visited two other guards who were of the same corrupt nature. The three had one thing in common, they were bullies, and they hated life in general. A little extra money was the opportunity to splurge on whatever vices they were into at the time. Pug would likely throw a portion of her share down the throats of the one armed bandits at a local casino, where she could sit and smoke, and mindlessly pull the levers over and over, while listening to the electronic orchestra of the machines. To earn it while attacking an inmate was like icing on the cake; quite amusing, as long as one didn't get caught.

Step Two was the area of the jail as Pug had described to the mystery caller. There was a metal cage type guard booth with entry gate. It was not possible to simply wander into Step Two, even for a correctional officer. All persons entering had to check in. Pug had a plan though. One of her accomplices did part time duty as the Step Two entry guard. If they could arrange the hit on his night, and manage to disable the surveillance cameras for five minutes, she could shank Jorgensen and get out without sounding any alarms or being recorded. Her third accomplice would be off duty that night but would make rounds in uniform, sliding _Pug's_ magnetic ID into the required login spots around the Central Jail. This would give the appearance that she was not at the scene of the murder, but was completing her duties as usual. Pug sadistically looked forward to her victim's moment of surprise, just before he realized he was about to die at the hands of a jailer. It was only two nights until the first accomplice was to sit watch at the Step Two guard cage; not much time to prepare.

The three of them reviewed the plan, and Pug prepared her battle gear; a spoon with a wicked sharp point on the handle end, black leather gloves, and some brass knuckles, in addition to the regulation light body armor, stun gun, and pepper spray she normally carried. The gate guard would use a master switch intended only for maintenance of the camera system to shut off the video. He would be expecting an immediate call from the monitoring center, but would tell them everything was ok, and that he'd check it out and call them right back. Pug would do her business, exit quickly, and the video would be turned back on.

Henrich Jorgensen lay quietly on the cot, alone in his small cell. No TV was provided. He had spent the day reading a novel provided on request from the jail's library, with intermittent breaks for calisthenics to keep his circulation going. Having been a sculptor of large pieces, his muscles were fit for a man of his age, as he was used to lifting and moving heavy materials. He wondered whether the _OFADOF_ plan would assure that President Jayo'n would be out of office soon. He had begun to drift in and out of sleep when he heard two clicks and the sound of the entry gate opening. A jailer approached his gate with keys in hand.

"You lawyer wants to talk with you," said Pug, opening the cell door casually. She had walked in with her hat tipped forward and her jacket collar up to render her unidentifiable to the other inmates, most of whom were asleep anyhow.

"Talk now?" asked Jorgensen. "Isn't it the middle of the night? Or am I losing track of time in here?" He was sitting up on the edge of the cot, straining his eyes to refocus from having been asleep. Then, a bright light shone directly into his eyes. It was Pug's L.E.D. flashlight, held in her left hand to blind him as she approached with the shank in her right hand. Her right arm cocked with the shank, she was ready to stab him under the breastbone, but he squinted and spotted the weapon's silhouette. He grabbed her right arm and twisted forcibly to release the weapon. It dropped to the floor, but he became aware of intense pain on the left side of his face which was being bloodied by repeated jabs from Pug's brass knuckled left hand. Henrich ducked and delivered a blow to the abdomen with all his strength. The jailer doubled over and he knee'd her to the chin. She fell on her back, shouted an expletive, and then curiously, seemed to chuckle to herself. Jorgensen became terrified. He grabbed the shank off the floor and backed to the rear wall of his cell, holding the weapon out in a defensive stance.

"Who are you?" he shouted. "Who sent you?"

There was no answer. Pug was freshening herself for battle. She hopped to her feet and got the other brass knuckle on her right hand. She wanted to disarm Jorgensen and use the shank as originally planned. She did _not_ want to use her stun gun or pepper spray if at all possible, as this would identify the involvement of an officer and require an ever more complicated cover up. Then Jorgensen began to scream for help.

"Guard! Guard!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Guard! Guard! I'm being attacked! Help! Guard!"

Pug's accomplice approached Jorgensen's locked cell and hissed a warning to her.

"You gotta get out. Abort! It's taking too long! I gotta call back about the cameras or they're gonna get suspicious!"

Pug looked back at the other officer and Jorgensen saw his opportunity. He lunged forward with the sharpened spoon handle and drove it deep into his attacker's abdomen, just under the edge of her upper body armor. Her head turned back again to look at him. It was she who had received that last moment of surprise. Again, strangely, she chuckled, then, went limp and crumpled to the floor.

"You were in on this! You were! You were!" shouted Henrich at the other guard outside the cell.

"Calm down! Calm down!" the guard commanded. "Listen! This is big trouble for you man! You just shanked a correctional officer! That's a life sentence for sure man! Either that or they push you out to sea to starve on a raft! Listen! We gotta clean this up. Are you with me? Make it like it never happened. I can get rid of the body. I'll leave you some wet towels and you clean up the mess. I can pick up the rags later. Are you with me? We clean it up and forget it ever happened."

Henrich gasped, just then catching his breath from the exertion of the fight. He thought for a moment. The odds were definitely against him in as it stood. Adding the murder of a prison guard would not help matters.

"Ok. Ok," Henrich responded. "Take the body and leave me some rags. Just tell me. Who wanted me dead?"

"I don't know man," answered Pug's accomplice. "She took the orders for your hit. I was just helpin' out, ya know?"

The guard had opened the door to pull out Pug's heavy corpse, when there were sounds from the front gate. Someone was entering Step Two. He panicked, realizing he was about to be caught red handed, involved in a plot that resulted in the murder of a fellow jailer. Jorgensen would surely turn him in once he was assured of his own personal safety. The guard dropped Pug's body and did what he knew he had to do. He broke his deal with the inmate who had been marked for death anyhow. It was no holds barred at that point and he had to work fast. He pepper sprayed Jorgensen who gagged and swung blindly with both arms. He kicked Jorgensen in the groin with his steel toed combat boots. The inmate doubled over in pain. He grabbed Jorgensen's head and smashed it five times full force against the concrete floor of the cell. He could hear and feel the disgusting cracking of Jorgensen's skull with each contact to the concrete. He stood quickly and ran out of the cell shouting.

"Quick. Get a stretcher. Officer down! Schmidt's been shanked."

One of two approaching guards backed out towards the entrance to call for help. The other approached Jorgensen's cell and looked in.

"My god," he exclaimed. "What in Lucifer's closet happened here?" He touched Pug's neck and felt for a pulse. There was none, so he moved on to the inmate. No pulse there either.

"Better come back to the cage with me," he said to Pug's accomplice. "We'll get a replacement. You'll need to tell the warden what happened and make a report."

"Sure," said the guard who had just murdered Henrich Jorgensen. "I could use a cup of coffee."

Officer Schmidt's and Henrich Jorgensen's deaths at the Central Jail were newsworthy only to the degree of a _one liner_ in the Incorporated Press. It stated that an inmate and jailer had died in an apparent altercation, and that was all. Schmidt had no next of kin. Her cell phone and other effects were disposed of for recycling. Jorgensen's body was identified by an _OFADOF_ contact at the morgue, and three hundred and fifty thousand dollars were indeed deposited to an account in her name, where it would sit untouched for a very long time. There was an investigation as to why an off duty correctional officer had gone around the jail swiping Schmidt's I.D. card on the night she was murdered. He confessed to time card fraud and was fired, but did not reveal his involvement in any plot with Pug or the other officer. The warden knew _something_ was very wrong with the whole sequence of events, but he had a good, high paying job there, and did not want to risk dismissal over an embarrassing situation involving murders. No one seemed to be questioning that it was anything beyond an inmate attacking a guard, so why rock the boat?

Detective Ryan Rivers was shocked to hear of the death of Henrich Jorgensen, as was Kathleen Jorgensen. For Ryan, it probably meant that investigating the gun smuggling would become more difficult. It was harder to justify time spent on the public's tax dollar when the only suspect in a crime was no longer living. Kathleen told Ryan that it was the sad end of a marriage gone bad. That her once happy and productive Henrich had spiraled downwards, drowning in his own self designed pool of paranoia and cynicism about the world around him. She had decided she would try to remember the best of their marriage and forget the rest. Henrich had died, she thought, as the result of some basic flaw. It was like a small crack in a diamond that one couldn't see when one bought it. At first the stone was wonderful to admire, then the crack became noticeable, small at first, but concerning. Thereafter, the stone cracked in two, permanently destroyed, never to be whole again. Ryan consoled her.

"You're a beautiful woman Mrs. Jorgensen. I bet there will be another special person in your life again in the future."

"Thank you detective," she smiled, with a tear coming from her eye. "Let me know if you find me a good date then."
Chapter 31

"We think we've got a fix on that terror group Mr. President," reported the Intelligence Chief. "Our operative, the one who produced the first chatter, she was ordered to look deeper. We believe that the group is headquartered here in New York Washington. She's got two members, the operative she initially contacted, and one we've deducted from telephone records."

"That's excellent, excellent!" exclaimed President Jayo'n. "I want that ring rounded up ASAP. When it's done, we'll release it in the news."

"Yes sir. We'll start making arrests and doing the interrogations immediately sir."

They got off the phone, and the Intelligence Chief called his office.

"Hi Nicole, it's Rob. Get a message out to Sharon. Have her take her guy into custody. Bring him in for questioning. Send Bud and Rick to take the other suspect simultaneously. We don't want that one to get any kind of tip and slip away. Good. Ok, I'll be back there in a couple of hours for the interrogation."

Joe, the _OFADOF_ rep, was really beginning to enjoy Sharon's company. She didn't seem overly occupied with her secretarial work when her shift was through, and was always ready to go out dancing or drinking with him. She also had performed some nice little extras, like keeping his place straightened out, and cooking some good meals when they stayed in for the night. He was anticipating another pleasurable evening as he rode up the elevator at the end of the day. As he opened the door to his apartment, he noticed the faint odor of what had to be another man, a mixture of cologne and sweat that was not present normally and couldn't have come from Sharon alone. Instinctively, he thought of the possibility that she could be cheating on him, and he proceeded towards the bedroom quietly. From behind he heard her voice.

"Joe?"

He turned to face her, and his face turned pale. She was pointing a 9mm pistol at him. He was unsure of what was going on, but knew it was bad no matter what. He smiled and tried to cajole her.

"Sharon, babe. I don't understand. What's the matter Sharon? I was really looking forward to tonight. Why don't you put that down, and we can talk?" He began slipping his right hand under his coat jacket slowly. Sharon shouted.

"Carson get in here!"

She fired off a round precisely aimed at Joe's right shoulder. Joe spun around and fell towards the carpet bleeding, but was still able to withdraw the pistol from its holster, as originally intended. He took aim at Sharon. She dove to the left, taking refuge behind the door jamb leading into the dining area. A shot pierced the plaster just above her and she rolled more into the room. Joe started to get up, but stabbing pain in his wounded shoulder made him fall back down on his first attempt. He heard the front door opening again and swiveled his weapon to aim there. He squeezed off a round at a large man charging into the room with weapon drawn. The bullet seemed to only nudge the man back an inch, and then the man fired at Joe, hitting him in upper leg this time. Joe heard the man shout as he continued into the apartment.

"Sharon? You OK? You! Put your f 'n hands flat on the carpet or you're toast!"

Joe followed the command but looked towards the dining room door. He saw Sharon coming out again, uninjured, with her gun pointed in his direction. He turned back to look at the male intruder, who also still had him in his sights. Looking a little lower down at the man's belt, he could see a shiny metal badge clipped there. Joe started feeling very light headed. First, the blood loss from his two bullet wounds got the better of him and he lost his color vision. Then everything went black.

Sharon and her partner called for an ambulance and accompanied Joe to New York Central hospital. In the emergency room, doctors inserted IV's into both the suspect's arms and began blood transfusion. He was taken into surgery for exploration and repair of the gunshot injuries. Sharon and the other agent waited in the recovery room. They wanted to question him a bit as he came out of anesthesia. They knew this was an opportune time, when suspects wouldn't realize where they were and would talk freely as they emerged from the drug induced haze. They were disappointed on that account, because Joe was too sleepy. Then, all of a sudden, he seemed to snap out of it and was wide awake, looking at them skeptically. They had to wait until later to interview him in his hospital room. By then, the expert interrogators were there. Sharon became an observer, since she was not an agency employee, only present to collaborate details Joe might mention. He told them his name was Joseph Felton, and that he was an accountant for a garment manufacturer in the city. The interrogators pressed him about plans to disrupt normal life and hamper the federal government. He refused to cooperate, and Sharon reminded him of a conversation she had overheard on his phone. He had briefly discussed an upcoming meeting with _OFADOF_ with the second suspect, who was also being interrogated at the agency's headquarters. Joe still did not reveal anything about _OFADOF_ , or his sponsorship by the unwitting Governor McGee. He had been a representative many times before in other clandestine activities on N.A.B. and knew that revealing his sponsor would put him out of that business forever, _if_ he was even lucky enough that it didn't evoke a contract taken out on his life. Another representative he dealt with had been torture murdered for revealing his sponsor in a plea bargain with the police. The other suspect, with whom Joe had been overheard talking on the telephone, was not injured during his arrest. The agency, therefore, was free to use more aggressive methods to extract information at their headquarters. They water boarded him in a dimly lit basement room while shouting questions repeatedly. It didn't take long before he gave information leading to the arrest of four other members of the _OFADOF_ group later that evening. Covered with watery emesis, he was dragged back to a holding cell and left to recover.

The intelligence chief phoned the President.

"We think we've got most of the terrorists. We have a confession about the transport of the infected boy to N.A.B. I think you can safely discuss the case in the media, if that benefits you."

"Fantastic! Fan f 'ing tastic!" exclaimed the President, enthusiastically. "This is great! We'll announce the good news tomorrow morning, first thing! Now if CDC can just come through with a cure for this thing!"

Chapter 32

Little Dechak was the first child to receive the test vaccine. His parents and siblings were in communication with him via video chat for a week already. He felt much happier being able to see and talk to them. The White House was even working on clearance for a reunion so that the boy's parents could come to N.A.B. in person. President Jayo'n thought that would make great press as well. Jayo'n was already producing a television spot in preparation for the time when he could assure the public that a vaccine was available and the tumor disease would be stamped out forever.

Bruce Farley had designed the vaccine in conjunction with his CDC lab force in such a way that it was thought to be both preventative and potentially curative. If the body became immune to the prion in an infected child, then the tumors should become inactive, and could be treated with chemotherapy if necessary, to eliminate them. If the vaccine was given to noninfected children, it should prevent the disease altogether.

"It's Ok Dechak," reassured Dr. Gulliana. "I think you're going to do much better now."

The boy smiled at his lady doctor.

"Thank you Dr. Gulliana," he said.

"Thank _you_ Dechak. You have been such a good patient. I am sorry that some of the treatments you have had here have not been pleasant for you. But I am sure now that you will be able to leave here and go back home to your family. Things we learned from you, from your sickness, may have saved many, many other children who are dying right now like you were, Dechak. I will make sure when you go back home, to your ship, that the Azerbaijani people know that you are a hero."

Bruce Farley sat with Annette in their home. Annette was much larger now, almost ready to deliver. He stood behind her arm chair with his arms around her shoulders as they listened to the evening news. They normally did not watch much TV at home, but Bruce was eager to view the release of the success of the vaccine. A view of the White House press room came on.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, President Jayo'n has special information about the tumor syndrome crisis. Mr. President...."

Jayo'n took the microphone and smiled at the crowded room full of reporters.

"Just over one month ago, we became aware of what would become the biggest crisis in the history of the New World, in the form of a terrible disease that infected our children. Never in the history of North American Base, has there been a challenge to our survival such as this! To add to that injury, our intelligence agency has discovered that this disease was brought intentionally here to N.A.B. by domestic terrorists seeking to destabilize our great nation. Opportunists, who utilized the misfortune of the Floating Nation of Azerbaijan in order to wreak havoc here at home."

"Well. I am happy to say that working with our nation's top health experts, alongside our intelligence community based here in New York Washington, that we are in the process of resolving both of these problems. A _Five Star_ research team at the Centers for Disease Control has produced a vaccine that can both prevent and treat the tumor syndrome in children."

With this, there was vigorous applause from the reporters in the press room audience. The President continued.

"Because of the urgent nature of the medical crisis here involving our children, I have authorized the FDA to fast track the vaccine into production so that it will be available in adequate quantities for kids aged newborn to 12 years of age by the beginning of next week."

Again, the reporters applauded, and Jayo'n flashed his winning smile at them.

"There will be immunization clinics and mobile clinics to vaccinate all children free of charge. Our medical researchers have assured me that because the vaccine is created with previously existing biotechnology, that it should be safe. Serious reactions to the vaccine should be uncommon. For those of you parents who are of the _no vaccination_ opinion prevalent in some parts of our society, a message. _Skipping vaccination_ is not an option with this disease. Please follow the recommendations given, in order to protect your children."

"Regarding the issue of domestic terrorism; the culprits involved in the kidnapping and transfer of an infected child from the Azerbaijani Floating Nation to N.A.B. are in Federal custody, and will be charged and tried according to the laws of our nation."

A reporter raised his hand, and was selected by the President.

"Mr. President. Is there anything else that the people should know about this terrorist group? Anything they should look out for in terms of other possible attacks?"

President Jayo'n smiled and said jovially,

"Yes. Just remember who brought an end to this crisis and vote for _us_ in the next election! Ha. But seriously folks. We are in the process of interrogating suspects and contacts of the group involved in this act of bioterrorism. At this time we have no reason to believe other attacks are eminent. Thank you all for attending, and parents please listen to your local news and check the Department of Health Services website for instructions on where to vaccinate your children next week. Thank you all!"

Jayo'n turned from the mic to leave, but someone in the crowd began to shout. The TV cameras were still broadcasting.

"Just one minute here! Just one minute!"

Two of the President's security men moved toward the man.

"Let me speak. I'm part of the President's team!"

The security men looked to President Jayo'n who nodded Ok, but looked concerned.

"My name is Dr. Marvin Ventnor. I was part of the Presidents _Five Star_ research team, working with the Centers for Disease Control."

The reporters and all the TV cameras looked toward Dr. Ventnor. After being asked to monitor and control the rate of development and approval of the vaccine, Ventnor was at first thrilled to have a role dealing directly with the President. He then developed feelings of inadequacy when he observed the amazing effectiveness of Farley's CDC team. Those feelings of inadequacy were followed by depression, and then guilt about being involved in the intentional hampering of the tumor syndrome research project. He may not have been at the level of some of Farley's experts, but he was not a crook. He intended to set things straight in front of the cameras for all to see. He spoke again.

"President Jayo'n is not being completely honest with you N.A.B! While it is true that a team at the Centers for Disease Control developed a possible cure for tumor syndrome, the President was anything but a friend to that process."

There was whispering among the reporters.

"Your President engaged in the following activities to control the timing of the," Ventnor reached into his breast shirt pocket for a small pad he'd made notes on. The President's closest security man shouted to the others,

"Down, he's got a weapon!" He tackled President Jayo'n to the ground as if they were about to be shot at. Two agents fired on Ventnor simultaneously. One bullet went through Ventnor's right eye and out the back of his head, killing a woman reporter who was directly behind him. The other bullet went through Ventnor's mouth, then his medulla oblongata, then out the back of his neck and into a folding chair back rest. The President's team had successfully silenced the perceived _threat,_ and the bodyguard who had tackled the President, lifted and shuttled him out of the Press Room to a waiting limousine to be whisked to safety. The reporters were asked to leave the room as emergency medical personnel entered to treat the injured, both of whom were already dead.
Chapter 33

Ryan had shared with Marcia the entire story behind the Jorgensen case. They had alternated travels over the past month, back and forth between New Texas and New York Washington in order to be together. The intelligence agency had informed with him after most of the _OFADOF_ group were in custody. They had elucidated Jorgensen's involvement with the group. The pieces all fell together then. The gun running and the statements Kathleen made about her husband's change in behavior after becoming involved with his mysterious group were all tied to his terrorist activities.

"The one thing Marcia..."

"What's that hun?" she asked.

"Well I haven't solved my original case, which was to find the perps in the Kathleen Jorgensen shooting," said Ryan.

"I liked your theory about it being a mistaken or unplanned event. Someone from Henrich Jorgensen's dealings deciding he wasn't a good partner, then arriving to knock him off, only to be confronted by his wife. So they shoot her instead."

"We don't have a weapon or any prints to go by. Even with prints and weapons from all the arrested terrorists, there's nothing to match to," answered Ryan.

"That does present a problem," said Marcia. "Maybe a lineup would be a good idea, see if Mrs. Jorgensen can identify the shooter?"

"I think that's a good idea Marcia. If she can be reasonably sure, and there's a close match to what we have on the surveillance video the night of the shooting, then we can try to build a case from there. Oh, and uh, speaking of building from there," Ryan segued into something else on his mind. He walked up close to Marcia and looked her straight in the eyes.

"What's up Ryan?

He reached into his pocket and came out with a small box. She blushed, knowing what was next, and smiled sweetly.

"Marcia. Will you marry me?"

"Yes I will Ryan Rivers." She threw her arms around his shoulders and planted a big kiss on his lips. They celebrated with a special dinner and a live show on Broadway that they attended as a newly engaged couple.

Later that week at Precinct 12:

Kathleen Jorgensen sat with Ryan and Detective Ed Arrosyan behind mirrored glass while 10 men stood looking forward at them in the police lineup. Three were cops from towns nearby; not Precinct 12 since Kathleen had been around that facility already. Four were suspects from the _OFADOF_ ring, brought in that morning from New York Central Jail where they were housed in the same unit Henrich Jorgensen had inhabited briefly. Three were local hoodlums thought to be associated with organized crime in New York and who also looked similar to the man seen on the surveillance video the night of Kathleen's shooting.

"Oh there's no question," said Kathleen. "It's number four. That's the man who attacked me."

"How can you be so sure that fast Kathleen?" asked Ryan. "Why don't you take a few minutes to look them over.?"

Arrosyan interjected.

"Now Ryan. There's one thing I've learned as a Detective and a husband of twenty four years. When a woman says she's sure like that, that's it! No sense in trying to change her mind. If Mrs. Jorgensen says that's her guy. Then as sure as the Turks massacred my people two hundred and fifty five years ago in the Old World, that's her guy!"

"Quite a metaphor," answered Ryan. "Kathleen, are you sure you don't need to look at the others a little longer?"

"Detective Rivers, allow me explain to you. I have spent my entire adult life as an artist. When I look at a human face, I do not simply register the appearance subconsciously. I am trained to measure the geometric parameters of a human form and remember them accurately, so that I can reproduce that form in a recognizable way in my artwork. In fact, I wasn't sure why you didn't ask me to produce a sketch of my attacker in the first place Detective."

"We had the surveillance video, but I'm really not sure to tell you the truth. I guess we dropped the ball on that account," answered Ryan, blushing.

"In any case," continued Mrs. Jorgensen. "That's my attacker, and I'm sure of it."

Ryan waved his hand to the lineup operator sitting in a glass booth above the "suspects". A uniformed officer entered the lineup room and the men turned to the right and filed out. Ryan entered the results into the Precinct's computer system, and they went back to Ryan's desk, going up an elevator, and walking through the halls covered with cork boards and pinned up notices of recently Wanted criminal suspects. Ryan offered Kathleen the continued use of Officer Bryant for a few more weeks. She declined, stating that it was getting a little old being followed around all the time, albeit by a very nice officer indeed. Her life had to go on. Now that Henrich was gone, and the terrorist ring was broken, she had to continue her work and try to rejoin some friends from the neighborhood. Ryan said he understood, and that they would be contacting her as he built a case against the man she identified as the shooter. (It had not been one of the police decoys, but was one of the local hoodlums they hauled in.)
Chapter 34

In a typical North American Base home, four elderly retired people sat discussing current events, as was their usual pastime after their _couple's_ game of bridge each Thursday evening. One of the husbands was first to start the topic of conversation.

"I don't know Walt. Do you think they should just impeach Jayo'n right away and skip the Senate investigation altogether?" said Vince Parish, a chubby mustached man retired from the insurance business.

Walt Jensen was a former electrical engineer who liked to analyze the news from many different angles, as though considering all the possible electrical circuits that could be designed to arrive at the same function. He answered his friend with a contemplative look on his aging face.

"Well, on the one hand, it seems they've got some pretty strong testimony from the head of CDC, that uh, Bruce Farley guy, to collaborate the letter sent by the Ventnor guy that the Secret Service shot up."

It turned out that Dr. Ventnor, being quite aware of the risks of speaking out against the President, had mailed copies of his statement to all the major news organizations on North American Base. President Jayo'n had come under rapid political attack, and the opposing party launched an investigation of his actions in the Azerbaijani Tumor Syndrome research effort. Governor McGee from New California had already offered to take over the Presidency if necessary. (This was an outlandish statement, as the Vice President, not a political opponent, would be expected to take over in the event of Jayo'n leaving office unexpectedly, but it did give McGee an extra chance to make the news headlines.)

"On the other hand," continued Jensen, "Jayon's been pretty good to seniors. We've got decent health benefits, and the Social Security fund is still solvent. If we toss'm out, could be we're in for some tough times if the other party takes over in the next election."

Vince's wife, Lucy, entered the fray.

"But Walt! We can't excuse an illegal conspiracy by the President of N.A.B. just because we think he's better for our benefits!"

Walt's wife chimed in.

"Lucy's right. If Jayo'n put our grandchildren at more risk for getting that dreaded disease by delaying the research for his own political benefit, he should be in prison, let alone impeached!"

"Damn'm all," exclaimed Vince. "They don't give a hoot about the common man. Not any of'm, the dems or the republicans. They're _all_ in it for their own personal glory. You give me _any_ politician, either party, and I'll show you a narcissistic egotist. It's as simple as that."

"I guess you're both right," said Walt. "We can't just ignore the President's crime, if there is one."

"If there is one?" exclaimed Vince, heatedly. "It's all in the letters Dr. Ventnor sent to the news. I don't suppose the President's men would have blown Ventnor's head off if they thought he was about to present some additional scientific information at that Press Conference!"

Lucy turned to the rest of them,

"I've got some wonderful pastries from Luigi's. How 'bout some tea with those?"

"That sounds good Lucy," Vince said, looking lovingly at his wife of forty one years.

They had the tea and pastries, satisfied that selfish politicians, no matter how much more wealth and celebrity they had acquired in their lives, would get _their just desserts._
Chapter 35

Grunge, the naval architect responsible for outfitting the "Ark," as the special children's isolation compound had been code named, had taken up residence in an adjacent quarters set up so that he could look over the isolated population easily. He felt personally responsible for them; all four thousand five children ages one to twelve, as well as the nine hundred eighty seven adults there to care for them. Grunge was the caretaker of them all. He felt badly, and sought to remedy any discomfort or inconvenience they reported from the Ark. There were difficulties reconstituting a large batch of the dried rations provided, such that the adults could just about stomach them, but most of the children refused to consume the stuff. Grunge saw to it that newer ones were tested and then sent in after heat sterilization of the packages designed to destroy prion protein. The adults reported problems with moral among themselves, as well as the children, due to the lack of free space for exercising and fresh air. Grunge prepared an entire exercise deck next to their compound. When it was finished, welders cut doors through the steel walls to allow entry into the newly outfitted exercise area.

It was still unknown as to when or whether the group would be leaving the Ark. The tumor vaccine appeared to be working. Indeed it was being administered to the children in the Ark as well. There were, however, many thousands of uncured kids on the surface of N.A.B, as well as an unknown number still destined to come down with the disease. The vaccine appeared to be about 95% effective in prevention, possibly due to pre vaccination infections. It was about 90% effective at inducing a remission satisfactory for chemotherapeutic agents to kill off the remaining tumor cells in victims. That left many thousands of children to die from the disease. Then the scientists thought that it would slowly extinguish itself as fewer and fewer became infected, due to the vaccine and the isolation of the dying youngsters.

For the Azerbaijani Flotilla, it was a highly celebrated result. They had been doomed to witness the gruesome death of all their children, followed by the aging and death of their entire society. Now there was hope for the future. The vaccine was as effective there as on N.A.B, and the government had announced that as early as a year from then, it could be recommended to couples to consider having children again. Captain Menkyat, who had originally contacted N.A.B. with the distress call, visited the White House, and a special ceremony was held to commemorate the events and the cooperation between the people of N.A.B. and the Azerbaijani Floating Nation. The Vice President of N.A.B. became President and immediately pardoned Jayo'n, to the chagrin of Vince, Lucy, Walt, Margaret, and many other law abiding citizens of N.A.B. Jayo'n maintained his innocence, but was disgraced in the public eye.

Bruce Farley became a celebrity in his own right, having spearheaded the team at CDC that solved the prion puzzle. He and Annette felt tremendous personal relief. Their baby girl was born healthy and pink. She was vaccinated for Azerbaijani Tumor Syndrome, and sent home to enjoy the coddling of loving parents who would not be taking her out for _quite_ a while.

In a shaded garden in back of the _Hotel Mariet_ , Ryan and Marcia were wedded in front of one hundred guests and relatives. There was a beautiful white lattice wedding canopy covered in roses and greenery, and Marcia's gown was adorned with white florals. Her sisters wore matching lavender dresses with lavender dyed shoes. Her dad and mom sat in front on one side of the aisle; Ryan's parents were in front on the other side of the aisle. Guests were finding their places among the rectangular setup of folding chairs. Some very young children dressed in suits and party dresses played on the grass next to the wedding canopy. Their parents gathered them to sit for the ceremony when the priest motioned, and the serenading violin, cello, and harp players paused for him to speak. The priest looked to the group in front of him motioned to begin the ceremony. The musicians resumed playing softly, and Ryan entered first, from in back of the guests with his two brothers. Marcia followed with her sisters, and the bride and groom joined the priest under the canopy. The priest looked to the crowd again.

"This is a very special day in the lives of these two young people standing here with me today," he smiled at the audience. "As I've gotten to know Marcia and Ryan in preparation for today, one thing was very apparent to me. These two are _good_ people. Marcia and Ryan not only love one another, but they love life. They love their _wonderful_ families gathered here today, their parents, and brothers and sisters." he pointed to the front row, "They love working with their police colleagues to protect the citizens of our nation. As they embark on the new journey of a life together, I am so very optimistic that this will be a successful and a fruitful marriage..."

The priest continued his wedding sermon. Marcia and Ryan gazed at each other, and at their guests. Midway through, there was some static, and then a voice coming from someone's phone in the audience. Ryan's commander reached for his belt. It wasn't the phone, but his police radio that sounded. The police commander looked quite startled. He got up and walked to the rear of the wedding area, then motioned to the other officers in attendance to join him. Ryan watched with concern. He had wanted the day to be perfect. His mind was drifting away from the ceremony. Suddenly he heard a cue,

"Ryan, do you take Marcia to be your lawfully wedded wife, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," he responded.

"Marcia, do you take Ryan to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," answered Marcia.

"May we have the rings please?" asked the preacher. Ryan's brother produced them from his coat pocket, fumbling a little in his excitement.

"Please place these rings one another's hands to symbolize the eternal and strengthened bond you now share in marriage as man and wife." They put the rings on each other and the priest announced,

"By the powers vested in me by the state of New York Washington and the Church, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Marcia, you many now kiss your husband!"

Ryan and Marcia kissed their wedding kiss, and looked to the group of friends and family who were cheering and taking pictures. In the back where his commander had been huddled with the other officers from Precinct 12, only Ed Arrosyan was left. Ryan and Marcia descended from the stage to greet the well wishers and Arrosyan approached and whispered into Ryan's ear. Ryan in turn whispered into Marcia's ear. In an instant, Marcia had shed her wedding gown down to the leotard she wore underneath and Ryan was making an announcement.

"Everyone have a great time! Eat and enjoy! Marcia and I have to attend to an urgent police matter, but we will return!"

Marcia and Ryan ran from their wedding with Detective Arrosyan, leaving the stunned party to speculate on what was happening while attempting to enjoy the planned formal dinner. Marcia's father, who had received a call from her shortly thereafter, got up and explained to the guests,

"I've just had a call from Marcia. There's been some sort of tactical emergency and they needed all the officers available. She wanted me to thank you all, and to ask you to please enjoy the party."

Chapter 36

Ryan's commander had been summoned about an armed attack taking place in New York's Times Square involving multiple suspects and automatic weapons fire. Already, at least ten of N.A.B's citizens could be seen lying motionless on the street and sidewalks as viewed by the news helicopters broadcasting live to the nation. Hooded terrorists clothed in all black ran about on the street, as well as on some of the rooftops of tall buildings. Two uniformed cops were pinned down behind their patrol car, daring to attempt only a few return volleys, as they could hear the automatic weapons fire, and also feared they might injure innocent citizens who were fleeing the square. Marcia had pulled on jeans and a sweater she'd left in their car for after the wedding, and Ryan had his two pistols waiting as well. They met the other officers at a crisis command center set up three city blocks away from Times Square. The Precinct 12 commander was talking with two military men dressed in fatigues, helmets and combat vests. The cluster of officers parted easily for big Ed Arrosyan to reach the desk.

"What seems to be the trouble here officer?" Arrosyan jested, but with a quite serious tone in his deep voice.

"We've got at least ten suspects in Times Square firing randomly with automatic weapons. There are dead and injured civilians down in the square. We want to roll in with the armored SWAT vehicle, but it'll be twenty more minutes before they can have it here. These Marines were on air patrol and were able to get here quickly by chopper though. They're willing to try to help extract the injured right away, to minimize loss of life here. What I could use from you all is to set up a perimeter a block out from the square. I want pairs of officers spaced out every hundred feet behind vehicles to intercept any suspects attempting to leave the area. Arrosyan butted in.

"No offense Commander. But if we've got two of New York's finest pinned down out there I think it will look better on TV if a couple of us help out as well in the square."

Arrosyan's coat was off and the huge .44 Magnum was ready and waiting.

"Fine," said the commander. "You and Lopez go in with the Marines. And wear your vests and helmets, please!"

Arrosyan, Lopez and two Marines headed towards Times Square together. They agreed to walk in slowly using available structure for cover; cars, posts, et cetera. They would sweep the square from South to North, locating and assisting victims along the way. They received a radio call from the commander. SWAT was stuck in traffic with the _Rhino_ armored vehicle, but was now sending two teams of sniper spotters by helicopter to take over the rooftops surrounding the Times Square. Their plan was to drop in on top of two buildings and then progressively pick off any terrorists they could spot. The two detectives and the marines approached the square, skipping from car to car parked on the streets. As Arrosyan got his first glimpse of the epicenter of the attack, it was deceptively quiet. He could see several wounded men and women lying near the sidewalks as well as four or five cars with shattered windshields, one with the driver slumped over the steering wheel. One of the marines started to crawl in towards one of the wounded victims. Pop, pop, pop, pop! Rifle fire pierced the street just in front of him. The marine tried to locate the source, but he couldn't, and had to roll back fast to avoid being shot. He ducked behind a vehicle and peeked out periodically, but no terrorists were in plain sight. Then the other marine shouted.

"They're in the windows up in the buildings!"

Ed Arrosyan looked up. Some of the high rise building's windows had been shot out. The terrorists appeared to have left the street level, and were guarding the square below. Arrosyan joined the second marine.

"Let's do an experiment," said Ed. "Put my helmet on the end of that rifle of yours, and stick it up in the air quickly so they can see it. We'll try to see where that sniper is if he takes the bait."

The marine looked at big Ed's drooping moustache, twisted nose, massive hands and long barreled revolver. He was glad to be fighting these terrorists whoever they were, and not this New York City detective. He thrust the black helmet up above the car they were using as cover. A burst of three shots pierced the silence, and Arrosyan located a black figure with rifle in one of the windows. He leveled his .44 and fired one loud shot.

"I think I got'm," he said. "But we've got a big problem here. We're going to have to pull back."

"I see what you mean," said the Marine lying at his side. "If they work their way up any higher, they'll have a clear view of us here."

No sooner had he said it, then three more shots sounded. The rounds pierced the sidewalk just in back of Ed and the marine, sending concrete flying against the storefront windows in back of them.

"Let's roll!" screamed Ed, and they ran back down the way they had approached Times Square. The two officers who had been hiding behind their vehicle from the start of the attack followed. They heard a loud rumbling and then saw a massive black metal structure turning the corner in front of them. They heard a voice on loud speaker.

"Officers. Please pass behind the vehicle. Please pass behind the vehicle. The _Rhino_ armored SWAT vehicle was there and rolling toward the square.

"Thank god!" said Arrosyan. When he and his marine companion got behind the big black tank, Lopez and the other marine were there walking crouched down low, along with eight heavily outfitted SWAT officers carrying M9 carbines (their standard issue assault rifle). Single shots could be heard as they approached the square again. One of the SWAT officer's radios sounded. The snipers had _inactivated_ two terrorists who had been on the rooftops, and two more that were operating out of office windows above the square. They wanted law enforcement on the ground to work their way up from the bottom of each building while they started to work their way down. Systematically, they could then flush out the terrorists. The SWAT commander told the rooftop sniper teams to hold steady. They would first approach the square with the _Rhino_ and try to evacuate the wounded. Then they would begin to look for suspects as more officers arrived to help. There were too many buildings to effectively search them all with only the team members currently on scene.

"Roger. Team one holding steady here. We'll keep you updated if we spot any more, over," replied one of the rooftop SWAT snipers.

"Team two, ditto," radioed a SWAT man from the other rooftop team.

As the pack of armed officers and two marines who had been following the _Rhino_ watched from afar, the vehicle entered the square. Several pops were heard but the rounds impacted harmlessly with the heavy armor, knocking off only chips of black paint and ricocheting to the ground. Arrosyan figured to himself, "Ah, why not?" and produced a small telescopic sight from his pocket which he clipped onto the top rail of his Magnum. He'd ordered it from his _Police Outfitter_ Catalogue. They claimed that the laser spotting scope could double the accurate range of most weapons. He waited. Again there was a three round burst. He looked in the vicinity through the scope and could see a fuzzy human figure dressed in black. The suspect was lying on a table, propped up on bent elbows, with a rifle aimed down toward the square. ED pressed a small button on top of the scope, but this motion moved it off target and he could no longer see the suspect. He tried again, this time putting his right index finger and thumb around the Magnum's barrel and the scope while searching through the viewfinder simultaneously. He found the black figure in the office window still looking down at the square and swiveling his or her rifle back and forth as if surveying for pedestrian targets to shoot at. Arrosyan centered the suspect as best he could, and then depressed the laser button. A small green dot was visible on the suspect's left shoulder. Ed held the Magnum tightly with both hands. He really didn't want a black eye if it bucked back and hit him in the face after the shot. Each breath moved the small laser dot wildly, and Ed held his breath to steady it.

"Ooooh kayyyy, steaddddy," he coached to himself slowly. The green dot crossed over the top of the suspect's black knitted ski mask and Ed pulled the trigger. The massive explosion of his Magnum drew the attention of the other officers as Ed watched the top of the suspect's head instantly disappear with a red spray in the air. The partially decapitated body fell flat as its arms went limp. He could see brains and blood spilling out of the open cranium top onto window's edge. "Hmmm," Arrosyan thought, "I should really find myself a normal business."

Ryan and Marcia had been posted blocks away from Times Square, as ordered, on one of the streets leading away from the area. They were standing behind a police car parked at the curb, watching for signs of escaping terrorists. They could hear the erratic gunfire in the square, and wondered aloud to each other what might be happening. N.A.B's public was ironically much more informed than they were, as news helicopters continued to hover high above with newscasters speculating and narrating about the action down below. The _Rhino_ had successfully evacuated eight injured citizens who were still alive. Ryan and Marcia had seen it rumbling past to ambulances waiting outside the secured perimeter, and then back towards the square again to retrieve another victim. Someone tapped Ryan on the shoulder and he spun around reflexively.

"I hear you two have a wedding to get back to!" said a young officer smiling.

"Uh, yeah, we do actually," answered Ryan.

"Well we've got over a thousand cops here now, and about a hundred military to boot. The SWAT guys have picked off seven of the terrorists, and we're about to send in groups to go up through all the buildings. The commander told me to insist you go back to your affair! Go on now, have fun, it's your wedding day for god's sake."

The young police couple agreed. It would be good to rejoin their guests and celebrate. The law enforcement machine would do fine without them for the night. They thanked the young officer and walked back to Ryan's car, driving back to _Hotel Mariet,_ where they thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the evening with their friends and family.

In Times Square, a methodical search was conducted. Two terrorists were killed as the heavily equipped forces stormed into offices using dogs and flash bang grenades in advance. The total count of dead citizens hovered at twelve, with three more in extremely critical condition at Central Hospital. It was only later realized (from video surveillance) that three terrorists had escaped Times Square in the moments immediately after attacking the general public. Shoot and run had been the terrorist's initial plan, however valiant police officers who responded immediately forced most of the attackers to enter the buildings, altering the course of the attack and resulting in the standoff in Times Square.
Chapter 37

Former Vice President turned President, Kelly Styles, had her job cut out for her. She was obligated to pardon Jayo'n. After all, they were running mates. Unknown to the general public however, was that Styles wasn't Jayon's biggest fan, truth be told. His campaign advisors had told him that he was a shoe in for President if a woman with Style's political experience ran for VP, so she was chosen. She'd served twelve years in congress, was respected on both sides of the aisle, and had avoided scandal, so far. A terrorist attack on Times Square was not what she considered an enjoyable beginning to her assumed presidency. As she pondered the day's agenda, her secretary buzzed in.

"Hello, President Styles?"

"Yes Amanda?"

"The Intelligence Chief, Rob Harrison is here to see you, are you available?"

"Yes Amanda, you may let him in."

The Intelligence Chief entered the room with a serious look on his clean shaven, aging face.

"Ms. President. How are you finding things so far in charge here?"

"Very well, thank you Rob. What can I do for you today?"

"The agency has information pertinent to the Times Square attack. I thought I should discuss it with you myself."

"And that information is?" queried the new President.

" _Howardson Arms_ is a manufacturer of heavy weaponry used by our military, automatic assault rifles and up. A while back, New York Police arrested a man in connection with the smuggling of a large number of their products. His name was Henrich Jorgensen. Jorgensen was killed in prison; however he is known to have been connected to a group of terrorists operating in the New York Washington area. Many of them are currently in custody. They have confessed to the kidnapping and importation of the boy who brought Azerbaijani Tumor Syndrome here to N.A.B."

"Yes, I'm fully briefed on that situation," said President Styles.

"Well anyhow, the weapons taken from terrorists killed at Times Square are _Howardson Arms_ assault rifles. We're certain they are the same ones that were smuggled by Jorgensen. Using serial numbers, we had already eliminated all legitimately purchased lots of these guns. That left us with serial numbers for the contraband weapons Jorgensen procured. The Times Square weapons fell into that range of serial numbers."

"I see," said the President. "What does the Agency recommend in terms of action to deal with this threat?"

"Right now we're questioning all the captured _OFADOF_ , oh, uh, that's what they call themselves, members. Ms. President, we are also aware that at least three of the Times Square terrorists escaped the area immediately after the shootings began. We don't know how many there are in all. Thus, the risk of further attacks, seeing as there is a large number of outstanding assault weapons the group is thought to possess at this time."

"Two questions Rob."

"Yes."

"One, what does _OFADOF_ stand for? Two, how can I help in these matters?"

"Uh, _OFADOF_ , let's see. It stands for _The Organized Front Against the Degradation Of Freedom._ They're apparently a group of radicals who believed that the government was taking away the people's rights; that sort of thing."

"And how can I help you Rob?"

"Yes. Well. In order to quickly locate the rest of the terrorists, we at the Agency feel that cutting a deal with one or two of them would be the most efficient way to go. Now, because of the severity of their crime, bioterrorism, et cetera, I need your approval."

"What sort of deal are we talking about Rob?"

"Release from prison, new identities, and some financial support."

"NO WAY!" shouted the woman President. "My administration will not release known terrorists back out into society! Not only known terrorists, but the first _significant_ perpetrators of the _worst_ known acts of terror in the history of the New World here on N.A.B? NO WAY!"

"I understand your concern, Ms. President. But the other side of the coin here is that if we can't get them to divulge exactly who else is out there, then we're likely to be looking at another Times Square type incident in the not too distant future."

"Look Rob. If you have to water board some of those a—holes, do it. I'll stand behind you. But under no circumstances are we going to let _any_ of them go. I'll up your budget for incentive money on this one too. Maybe you can get someone on the street to talk. That's my final decision."

"I understand President, Mam, it's just that there's the risk of further loss of life here," the Intelligence man pleaded.

"That's my FINAL decision. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes Ms. President. You do." The Intelligence Chief turned to leave the President. He was perturbed that she had not followed the recommendations. It would make it much harder to locate the additional terrorists in a short time period. Once outside of the White House, he phoned his assistant immediately.

"Hi Nicole. It's Rob. Listen, I want you to get a message out to Sharon in the field. Tell her we'll give her whatever assistance she needs, as well as ample cash. We need her to follow up leads on her guy's connections. Tell her to try to obtain information on the identities of the other members in the _OFADOF_ terror group. Tell her it's urgent. She can drop whatever else she's working on. Right. Great. See you in a few hours."

That evening, another New York bon vivant, quite similar to "Joe" the representative of Governor McGee at _OFADOF_ , arrived home to find his new girlfriend gone without a trace. He found it quite odd. Not a lipstick or even a strand of hair on the bathroom counter had been left behind. She'd only stayed three days. He couldn't figure what he'd done wrong. Little did he know he had only been a target in the cross hairs of the big game hunter's scope. Sharon had abandoned her prey to follow the orders of the Intelligence Chief. She would revisit Joe's case and see if she could connect with his connections. It was a much more dangerous assignment this time, trying to break into the circle of a target already taken down. She made a mental note to carry her weapon this time, rather than leaving it in the car as was her usual practice.
Chapter 38

Ryan and Marcia were in New California staying at the Disneyland Hotel. They were both big fans of rides and rollercoasters, so a week of sunning by the pool interspersed with taking in the latest attractions in the amusement park was an ideal honeymoon. They had a hearty breakfast at the buffet, ran next to each other on treadmills in the hotel gym, and were waiting in line for the Haunted Mansion when the unthinkable happened. First there was the characteristic _pop pop pop_ that was unmistakably the sound of automatic gunfire. Then, confused park goers looked toward the paddle wheeler, thinking that perhaps it was a simulated gunfight. A few visitors lay bleeding on the ground with screaming friends or relatives by their sides. This was appreciated and panic set in. People were running for the Orleans Square exit gate. Ryan and Marcia ducked down and scanned the crowd, listening for more gunfire. Another _pop pop pop,_ and several more park visitors dropped to the ground. Park police were trying to make entrance to the area against waves of panicking visitors moving in the opposite direction. One pair of park cops arrived and instructed visitors leaving the Haunted Mansion to follow them to the back of the structure for cover. Ryan and Marcia identified themselves as off duty police officers. They had their badges but no weapons. This was remedied quickly, as another round of automatic weapons fire convinced the two park cops to share their backup pistols. Ryan and Marcia worked together, trying to steer the remaining park visitors off the main walkway, while at the same time looking for the source of the gunfire. They identified persons carrying rifles on small Tom Sawyer Island in the middle of the river rides. Others could be seen swimming in the river, apparently escaping the island and the attackers. Shots splashed in the water and a man's frantic freestyle stroke ended abruptly, his body floating lifelessly with the artificial current.

"We've got to give them some cover," Ryan shouted to Marcia, pointing at about twenty men, women, and children all still swimming from Tom Sawyer Island.

They scanned the shoreline, looking for shooters. A figure dressed in black rushed from behind a small structure on the island and ran toward the shoreline. Ryan and Marcia jumped out from behind a stone pillar and took aim simultaneously, crouching in the standard police stance to steady their weapons. They fired on the dark figure and it dropped to the ground. Two more rushed out from behind the structure on the island and were trying to drag the injured shooter back. Ryan and Marcia fired again, wounding one, but drawing the attention of the other terrorist, who sprayed a volley of rounds in their direction. They dove for cover behind the large stone pillar again, while chips of stone flew off the top and sides as the infuriated attacker emptied a clip of high powered ammunition at them. They were feeling quite helpless, but a moment later, streams of SWAT men in full combat gear arrived in Orleans Square. They evacuated the injured and swarmed the small island, killing the remaining terrorists there. Ryan shook his head in disbelief as he looked at the blood stained walkway, the pock marked gargoyle planters in front of the Haunted Mansion, and the shot out windows in the restaurants and shops in the square. The amusement park was emptied and searched. People exiting were required to show identification. This was logged for future investigation, as it was unknown if all the terrorists had been killed or if some had removed their combat gear and ditched their weapons, attempting to leave with the crowd. Ryan and Marcia found the two officers who had shared the pistols with them.

"Thanks man," said Ryan. "We probably saved a good number of people with these." He and Marcia handed the compact automatic pistols back to their owners.

"No problem man," said one of the park cops. "That was as bad a situation as I've ever seen here at Disneyland. We're usually just dealing with some overheated macho guys who've had one beer too many!"

"Right on brother!" Ryan gave the cop a high five and a fist bump. He and Marcia joined the park officers, walking toward the Disneyland Police Station, to give their statement about the sequence of events.

Governor McGee ran an advertisement in to take advantage of the tragedy. He pointed out that President Styles was part of the Jayo'n administration that had let national security on N.A.B. get so out of hand in the first place.

"Isn't it time we had a leader who could restore peace and prosperity to the people?"

The TV spot concluded as McGee looked directly into the camera with a sincere expression wearing a designer business suit and power tie.
Chapter 39

Sharon checked into the evidence room at the Agency so she could begin perusing Joe's personal items in a safe environment. Her previous investigation, before his arrest, allowed access to his things only when they were readily available, and then under the suboptimal condition of having to avoid discovery.

"Good morning officer," greeted the evidence room secretary, an armed male agent sipping a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

"Um, I'm not an officer. Contractor," answered Sharon, handing him her photo ID badge.

"Ok, let's see here," he mumbled, taking up his pen to write her name in a ledger that recorded all visitors to the evidence room.

There was a click as the agent pushed a button that unlocked the door to the area. Sharon entered and spoke to the evidence room computer.

"Search for suspect file," she commanded.

"Search for suspect file," a female voice responded from speakers mounted near the ceiling.

"Suspect name, Joseph Carothers," said Sharon.

"Joseph Carothers. Searching. Joseph Carothers evidence logged into cubical B2, evidence room, this office," said the computer.

Sharon found the correct cubby and motioned to the agent at the desk, who came back and unlocked it, placing his index finger on an optical fingerprint reader embedded in the small door. He left and she pulled out two giant Ziploc bags containing belongings that the agents took from Joe's apartment. His wallet held a credit chip, New York Washington driver's license, an access card for his car; nothing too interesting. She knew Joe's phone held the most important clues to his activities and contacts. It had been cloned already to the computers at the Agency for expert technologic forensic analysis. They hadn't sent the file to her though, because she was not an agent on the case. Her involvement had ended with Joe's arrest. Now she was ordered to assist in locating other terrorists he'd been involved with. She had to do a bit of catch up work, having been off the case. The phone still had power, and the charger was there in the bag anyways. She turned it on. The techies had already removed Joe's security code, so that access to the phone was unhampered. She opened his contacts. There were four hundred and ninety seven. She skimmed through them and nothing special popped out at her, just lots of names of people and businesses. She went to his calendar and it was blank, no recent notes there. Sharon was about to give up, when she noticed a small beige parking stub in the evidence bag along with other scraps of paper, and a folding knife. She looked at the stub carefully. It was faded and printed in a very small font, so she asked the agent at the desk for a magnifying glass. She set the stub flat on the evidence counter and held the magnifying glass above it.

Carmello's New York Italian 14:45 was what she saw.

Sharon hadn't looked at them carefully before, but she'd noticed Joe had similar parking stubs when he put down his wallet on arriving home sometimes. She decided she would visit Carmello's to see if anyone knew him there.

On arrival to Carmello's she observed the seedy looking storefront of an aging family restaurant. There was a cartoon chef tossing a pizza incorporated into the lighted signage, along with the name of the place. It wasn't like the energetic club where she'd met Joe, or where he'd be expected to lunch with business acquaintances. He was too flashy for this. The words "meeting place" entered her consciousness, and for unknown reasons, she decided, even before entering the establishment, that the terror group had met there at some point. She walked in and noted a woman in waitress uniform serving a family sized plate of spaghetti and meatballs to an overweight man and his wife seated at one of the red vinyl upholstered booths. The waitress turned to Sharon.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a thick Brooklyn accent, and looking not so friendly, as though it was unexpected for someone like Sharon to be dining there.

Sharon scanned the room. There was a man at the cash register reading a magazine, and only two other patrons, guys in blue jumpers who looked like they were taking a lunch break from some sort of heavy physical work. The men in the jump suits were burly looking. One had thinning brown hair combed sideways across the top of his head for coverage. The other had black curly hair, and a black bushy moustache, with a square jaw and no hint of a smile on his face.

"I'm a friend of Joe's. Joe Carothers. I'm looking for him, and he said he used to come here sometimes."

"That's strange," said the waitress. "There ain't no Joe's dinin' here. Least not on my shift."

The waitress was obviously obstructive. There must have been a dozen men named Joe that she'd had as regular customers, if not more.

"Oh, I see," answered Sharon. "It's just that we had a thing in the past. I was hoping to reconnect with'm."

Sharon attempted to arouse the sympathy of the other woman by bringing up romance. It didn't work though, and the waitress picked up two glasses from the couple's table and turned to take them to the counter for a refill, acting as though Sharon were no longer there at all. This was obviously going nowhere, and Sharon decided to query the man at the register before leaving. When she turned around, the two burly men were standing right in her face, arms folded, presenting a formidable barrier.

"Is there something I can do for you gentlemen?" she asked.

Then the man from the register approached and issued orders to the thugs.

"Take her to the storage room. Tie her up good and lock the door."

Sharon jumped backwards and unzipped her purse. Before she could withdraw her pistol, both of the big men were pointing weapons of their own at her.

"Put down your purse madam," said the older man from the register. "Otherwise my men will be forced to shoot you right now, and we will put your body in the meat locker, instead of taking you to wait in the storage room for the time being."

Sharon complied, standing with her arms out and leaving the purse on the floor. One of the thugs took the purse and removed her pistol and cell phone for safe keeping. The one with the curly black hair took her hands, gently, and brought them behind her back.

"Walk this way mam," he said, guiding her towards a door in the back of the restaurant. Sharon looked back towards the waitress and the heavy man and his wife. The waitress was returning their filled glasses to the table, and they enjoyed their spaghetti with gusto, completely ignoring Sharon's predicament. The men walked her to a box filled room off of a small hall. There was a large table and some chairs, which seemed odd for a storage room. "This must have been their meeting place," thought Sharon. One of the men asked her to sit in a chair, and then bound her at the ankles and wrists. They duct taped her mouth shut. Sharon tried to calm herself in order to decrease the need for increased breathing. By this time she was trembling visibly.

"Don't worry darlin'," said one of the workmen. "We ain't gonna kill you,,,, not now anyhow..."

The lights went off and the door slammed shut, leaving her bound to the chair in complete darkness. She could feel a little breeze coming through a vent from above blowing against her cheek. She solaced herself with the fact that at least she had ventilation, and began to ponder her predicament.
Chapter 40

Ryan and Marcia returned from New California. The rest of the honeymoon was uneventful, and they jested that they both hoped this was not a pattern, getting involved with police emergencies every time they have a special occasion. Marcia had been able to transfer to New York –Washington, but not Precinct 12. Ryan had offered to move to be with her instead, but she felt it would be exciting for her to live near the center of government as well as the entertainment of Broadway for a few years. Her belongings were waiting in a small mobile storage container in the upper parking of the apartment complex when they arrived home. She'd had her dad sell off and donate most of her apartment furniture, except for an antique wooden chest of drawers, and an end table that was a keepsake from her grandmother. After opening the front door, Ryan held out both arms and Marcia hopped up for him to carry her through the threshold.

"I hereby christen this Marcia and Ryan's place!" he exclaimed, acknowledging the end of his bachelorhood.

"Let's see," she teased. "First of all we're going to have to talk about that bathroom! Those New York Nets towels are _definitely_ going to have to go!"

He grabbed her and tickled her torso. They kissed.

"I love you honey," he said enthusiastically.

"I love you too Ryan," she responded. "I heard there are some nice places being converted over in Glenwood Park. For when we need to add a bit more space, I mean."

"Yeah, those are pretty cool. Lopez and his wife just had their second kid. They were able to get a really low interest loan from the credit union; got a nice three bedroom with a little yard for the kids. Pretty good kitchen too, granite counters, new appliances, the whole bit."

They kissed again, knowing that soon they too would be filling a family home with children to nurture and care for. Ryan unpacked their travel bags and Marcia searched the refrigerator for a make shift dinner. They hadn't gone shopping on the way back from the airport, so freezer food was the main option. She took out a couple packages of frozen shaved cultured beef steaks and some frozen vegetables in a bag, and stir fried them with some teriyaki sauce.

"Hey, that smells good!" exclaimed Ryan. "You know Marcia. Something still doesn't sit right with me about the Kathleen and Henrich Jorgensen case. Jorgensen gets murdered in prison before we can prosecute him. He's somehow tied in with this terror group, OFADOF, who tried to take out the nation's children with the tumor disease. The President of the entire nation of North American Base ends up getting impeached for trying to control the cure for the disease, and now we've got ninja's with assault weapons popping up from Times Square to Disneyland. I'd like to talk with that intelligence contractor, the one they call Sharon that made the big bust on these guys."

"What do you think she could add?" asked Marcia.

"I don't know," answered Ryan. "But I feel like I've been isolated towards the Jorgensen shooting case, and that the Intelligence guys haven't felt me worthy or haven't felt it necessary, or something, in terms of comparing notes together."

"I see what you're saying honey. It doesn't make sense, when there's an established connection between Jorgensen and the rest of the terrorists. Of course they should be talking to you."

"I don't suppose it has something to do with our detaining that Agent who was following Bryant and Kathleen Jorgensen? Do you?"

"Oh I doubt it honey. That guy was so embarrassed I bet he swore his pal, the one that picked him up, to an oath of secrecy!"

"You're probably right!" exclaimed Ryan. "I don't think I'd be advertising something like that around Precinct 12 if it happened to me! Anyhow, I got that Agency contractor's number, and I'm going to call her tomorrow morning to see if she'll meet with me and discuss the case."

"It couldn't hurt. I just wouldn't make a big deal about it at work though, seeing as you've got a suspect in the shooting and Henrich Jorgensen's dead and all."

"Yeah, I know. Got to be efficient these days, avoid following too many stray leads and all that."

Marcia approached and kissed him on the lips. "You know Ryan, that's something I really admire in you. I know you're going to check every possible lead in that case. You wouldn't even dream of leaving an investigation half way done. Would you honey?"

"No honey. I can't. You just don't know what might turn up, and it might be important in tracking down the rest of the terror group, for example."

"You just do what Officer Ryan Rivers needs to do," she said giggling. "If any of those naughty supervisors at the Precinct bothers you about it, you tell'm to come talk to me. I'll set'm straight!" With that she threw her arms around Ryan's chest and tackled him down to the sofa.

The next morning, Ryan called Sharon's cell phone. There was no answer, and he left a message for her to call him back. He called the Intelligence Agency, and an agent connected with the case told him that she had been expected for a phone conference, but didn't call in. Ryan thanked the agent and decided he'd try her again later. When he called in the afternoon, there was still no answer. His cop's intuition told him something was up. He dialed technical services at the Precinct and got a fix on the last location of her cell phone. It was at a restaurant in an old Italian section he was quite familiar with. Marcia had to leave for her own work, and he headed out to check the eatery in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn's Little Italy, on his own.

On entry to Carmello's New York Italian restaurant, the scene was quite different from Sharon's visit during the off hours. There were a large number of patrons having what must have been an early lunch. The waitresses were hustling about and shouting orders through the chef's window. He scanned the room, no Sharon but it would be hard to look for the phone; it could have been sitting anywhere in the crevices of the red vinyl dining booths. He showed the maître d' a small picture of agent Sharon that he'd printed at home before leaving. He was told curtly that she didn't look familiar, a little too curtly. Again Ryan became suspicious. He asked if they would mind if he took a walk around the place, and someone called the Maître D' to complain about the food. Ryan took the opportunity to walk toward the restrooms, and slip out the door into the back hall. He saw a crushed roach on the vinyl tiled floor and made a mental note never to eat there in the future. He came upon the storage room door and tested it to find it was locked. He tried jiggling the handle around but two men appeared from the restaurant end of the hall. The same two men who'd tied up Sharon. They approached Ryan menacingly.

"Something we can do for you?"

"I'm from New York City police. I'm looking around for this person," he showed the picture of Sharon. "Her cell phone is located on the premises her somewhere."

Before he finished talking, the curly black haired man's fist was crashing into Ryan's jaw. The blow sent him flying down the hall on his back. He wasn't going to mess around with these two and quickly withdrew his pistol thinking they would back off. _Think again._ The men drew on him as well. Ryan fired two shots in rapid succession. The first hit the curly headed guy square in chest. The second hit the other man in the shoulder, sending him spinning backwards. "Curly" fell backwards, probably dead, but the other one turned back to fire again. Ryan stayed low and slid to the left and forward while squeezing off two more rounds at the remaining assailant. The maître d' poked his head into the hall and disappeared. One of Ryan's last shots hit the thug in the neck. The man dropped his weapon and was trying to tamponade the blood pulsing out from his carotid artery with each heartbeat. His face turned white as a sheet and he dropped to the floor, making an agonal sucking sound with his final breath.

Ryan was thankful that his two adversaries were poor marksmen. He suspected the storage room must be important in light of their unprovoked attack, and didn't mess around with jiggling the handle this time. He kicked near the lock and the frame broke, sending the door flying open. Sharon looked at him in disbelief.

"Don't worry. I'm the police!" Ryan exclaimed, trying to assure her.

He untaped her mouth so she could breathe easier, and called in to Precinct 12 for assistance. After Sharon was untied, he introduced himself and she told of her attempt to investigate the restaurant the day before. They went back to the public area, where four officers were already entering. Ryan signaled to them, and looked around for the maître d', but he was gone. Sharon spotted the waitress who'd been present the day before and whispered to Ryan. The waitress sensed she was in trouble and tried to make for the front door inconspicuously. All Ryan had to do was point at her, and one of the uniformed officers grabbed her arm, spread eagling her against the wall for a body search and hand cuffs. Two ambulance men broke through rays of bright light shining into the front door from the noon day sun. Ryan motioned them to the back hall, and they disappeared to check the injured. Both of the thugs were deceased though, and the paramedics reappeared quickly to ask if anyone else needed medical attention. Ryan and Sharon told them they were ok, and the paramedics left, telling Ryan he could call the morgue instead.

"This place is it!" Sharon told Ryan. "This is where the terrorists met! You go back over the street video for the past couple of months and you've got them all coming in here. This is where they planned everything."

"Good job Agent Sharon; you deserve a shower and a rest. How about I take you back to your place and we can meet at the Precinct afterwards to go over everything?"

Sharon's hair was mussed; her blouse was creased and sweaty.

"It's ok," she answered. "I think my car's still out there. I can drive myself. I'll see you at your precinct in ninety minutes."

On the way home, Sharon reflected on the life she had created for herself as an intelligence contractor. She felt sad. It was as though this close call had forced her to question the wisdom of her choices. Sure, she was highly paid and could afford a lavish lifestyle when she wanted, but what about the things she couldn't have. No husband. What man would tolerate a wife who was gone for days or weeks at a time, posing as a girlfriend to one criminal suspect after another? No family. No husband meant no kids, and she didn't have a schedule that would have allowed her to take care of children either. She had always planned to have a family before she was thirty three. A tear started to roll down her cheek as she drove. Then the argument to these lamentations came to her defense. She relented in her self sorrow. _I have always had a vision of myself making a difference. My job is important to society, and I protect people from harm that would come to them if I wasn't doing this job. I am doing the right thing now. When I feel my job is done, and only then, will I stop and go looking for a husband and a house full of kids._ She felt confident again as she pulled into her spot and stopped the car. She swung the door open, and kicked out her feet onto the "ground."
Chapter 41

OFADOF had not given up. Quite the contrary. Already the results of their activities had resulted in the removal of President Jayo'n, but the group of activists agreed that ceasing activity would leave the door open for Jayon's party to keep the White House in the next election. To reach their final goal, they planned to hamper the current administration by continuing to hurl random acts of terror at the people of North American Base. The Times Square and Disneyland attacks had been very successful in OFADOF's view. The gunmen were all hired mercenaries, well paid, but administratively insignificant within the organization. OFADOF did honor their contracts and paid off the surviving beneficiaries listed in advance by each killed mercenary. Several of the administrating members had been captured though, including "Joe" the representative. They had changed the meeting locations and were now using coded text messages to announce when and where to meet only an hour before hand.

The first meeting since Joe's arrest was called to order by another one of the representatives who'd been trying to assume the leadership role since Henrich Jorgensen was detained.

"First off, I'd like to report some encouraging news for our organization! We have two new members joining us here today who will replace some of our fallen colleagues." He pointed to a middle aged woman sitting at his left.

"This is Karen. She's a long time New York Washington resident, and would like to participate materially as well as becoming a part of the board."

The woman nodded to the group who acknowledged her in return. She looked to be in her forties, and was slim and attractive despite the fine lines and crow's feet beginning to make their appearance on her face.

"I wasn't sure I'd be in for this," she explained, "But after talking to Keith, I knew I was making the right decision."

The new leader felt obliged to explain further.

"Karen's quite successful in her civilian work. She doesn't want to jeopardize that, but she's also made a significant financial investment in our cause that will subsidize quite a few projects here." He looked to the group for approval. Several members nodded affirmatively.

"To my right here is Mr. Reynaldo. He comes to us from off of N.A.B. Dropped in from Cartel Base last month, he is cash rich and backed by the Cartel. They would like to assist us in our activities, in exchange for helping them establish trade routes from Cartel Base to N.A.B. Mr. Reynaldo, I'm sure we will have a long and fruitful relationship!" Reynaldo was a handsome Latin man wearing large, dark, designer sunglasses.

The terrorists applauded. The idea of major funding from the Cartel was too tantalizing to dismiss. Mr. Reynaldo, didn't speak, but smiled a smooth and dangerous looking Cartel smile at the group. More than one of them realized at that moment, that they were getting into unchartered and potentially deadly waters by mixing with the massive drug distributing organization.

"We've had quite a success so far!" Keith continued, still leading the discussion.

"The terror attacks are having the desired effects. Jayon's party is dropping in the polls. Those of us here who are representatives have received accolades from our sponsors, and I'm hearing similar remarks from our purely idealist members as well. There are some material issues, which Sam is working on, in terms of moving the weapons stores to a new location. This, in case any of our captured members are revealing information to the authorities. Also in the effort to increase our security, I have new cell phones for you all. They're sample phones used by reps at communications trade shows. I don't want anyone using their personal devices from this point on. With the arrest of some of our group here, I don't have to tell you that the stakes are high. If there's anyone here that doesn't own a weapon and would like one, Sam can take care of that too. He can even show you how to shoot it!"

The dark group laughed at Keith's attempted humor. Several of the artists were a bit nervous though. They had considered themselves demigods making decisions from above, with no need to handle the physical elements of this business. Now they were being reminded that this was a dangerous assumption. At any point, law enforcement could arrive on their doorstep, ready to shoot and ask questions later. _Still_ , thought one of these men, _better to feign ignorance and fight in the courts than to shoot it out with the police in front of my home._ They agreed to stage two more terror attacks, one per month over the next two months, and then stop before the Presidential elections. If President Styles' opponent won, they would go _dormant,_ and become a sleeper organization ready to steer public opinion again in the future, if the need arose.

The meeting adjourned, but one man stayed behind to confront Keith in privacy.

"I don't like it. Getting the Cartel involved in our political cause. Bad idea, bad idea. They only care about the money. They'll use us to get what they want, and with their history, who knows, maybe kill us all! They don't give a f—k about what we're trying to accomplish here!"

"I hear ya, I hear ya. Don't worry Ali. I've already worked out an _exit strategy_ for the group of us. We need that money now though. It's very expensive to hire the mercenaries, and I don't think you want to show up at Disneyland with a machine gun in your delicate artist's hands. Do you?"

The man agreed. He did not. He smiled at Keith to show his acceptance, but left feeling very anxious and uncomfortable.
Chapter 42

Ethan Branch had been team leader for the sequestered children and their caretakers from day one of the program to save human life on N.A.B, in the event that the tumor syndrome was incurable. The group living beneath the surface enjoyed a regular flow of incoming information via the TV news. Outgoing communications were a different story. Ethan was able to place calls to Grunge as well as the government official responsible for the Ark Project, but that was about it. With the success of the vaccine and other therapies, the group of almost five thousand children, men, and women was constantly buzzing with talk about when they would be returned topside to rejoin society on North American Base. Thanks to Grunge, the lead naval architect who put the housing units together, life was tolerable there. That tolerance though, included the expectation that the situation was temporary, and that _we will all be returning to our homes above in a short time if everything goes well._ Since the news regarding the tumor syndrome was getting better every week, with fewer deaths as well as very few new infections, the inhabitants of _The Ark_ were becoming surer and surer that their seclusion was indeed nearing an end. One can only imagine what Ethan Branch felt as he conversed with the government official in Washington one Monday morning by phone.

"The crew here is quite eager to hear about a date for relocating topside again," explained Ethan.

"Yes Mr. Branch. I've been meaning to talk to you about that."

"Oh good," continued Ethan, "We've all been following the decline of the tumor syndrome epidemic for a while now. We don't have a communicable disease specialist down here, so we weren't sure if it was considered safe yet..... All I can tell you, is there are a few thousand folks down here who'll be mighty happy to rejoin the rest of you folks topside."

"Yes, um," mumbled the government man, before composing himself to deliver _the news_. "Ethan, I think you might recall when we recruited you for this assignment, that I mentioned it was a task of great responsibility. That you would be the initial leader of a group of individuals each hand selected by over a thousand analysts to be a specialized part of what was needed to create a new society in the event that the population of N.A.B. was extinguished by the disease?"

"Yes, I remember all that sir. It's just that I did assume, even from the start, that these were contingency measures; that the project would be active as long as necessary to ensure the survival of our society."

"Precisely Ethan! And who's to say exactly when the people of N.A.B. are safe from the tumor disease, or from some new disease that either occurs naturally or is imported by the next group of bioterrorists."

"You're not saying sir!" cried Ethan.

"Mr. Branch. These decisions are not made by one man alone, certainly not by me. An entire panel of bio ethicists and top scientists has convened to discuss the _Ark._ There conclusions were unanimous. They have agreed that there is no way to prevent a future catastrophic epidemic here, and that the North American way of life would be protected if we were to maintain the _Ark Project_ into the indefinite future."

"Into the indefinite future; that sounds pretty much like a life sentence to me Mr. Grosnor. What do you expect me to tell these people. That we're staying in these conditions forever down here? I don't think so!"

"I'd be careful if I were you Mr. Branch. Think before you talk. You have entered into an expressed agreement with the government of N.A.B. to provide certain services. Because those services were contracted to deal with a national emergency, a state of war in effect, your refusal to continue providing such services could be construed as an act of desertion. As you may not be aware because there has never been a war in the New World, desertion of federal duties is a crime punishable by life imprisonment or banishment from North American Base. Think about that Mr. Branch!"

"Think about this Mr. Grosnor. Aren't you already telling not only me, but four thousand some odd men, women, and children that they've got a life sentence? What do you think it will be like for them, knowing there's no end.... That they'll live out the rest of their days down here, never walking through the park at sunset; never looking forward to trying a new restaurant in a different part of town; never traveling to someplace just a little bit different from where they live for a vacation? The air sucks down here Mr. Grosnor! It's like being in an office building 24 hours a day!"

"I can talk to Mr, uh, Grunge about some of the environmental issues for you or you can call him yourself. We've always provided open access to his services in support of the _Ark Project._ Anyhow, I wouldn't work yourself up into a tizzy over this Ethan. We're not asking you to do anything different from what you've already been doing quite well for some months now."

Ethan hung up on the man, and then he thought for a moment. _That's not such a bad idea. Grunge has been very kind and helpful. Maybe he can help us in ways Mr. Grosnor does not imagine!_ He picked up the phone again and pressed the button for Mr. "Grunge" Kaydakis.

"Hi Grunge! It's Ethan Branch down in the Ark," he started.

"Hi Ethan! How are you folks doing down there? Surviving ok, did the kids like the new video games I installed on the system?"

"We're ok, and the kids did like the new games, but there's a problem. Can I confide in you, just between us?"

"Sure Ethan, but the phone line's not so great for privacy. Give me an hour and I'll catch you on the submarine tube."

Grunge referred to a backup communication system that consisted of pipe run from one of his offices down to the Ark. The idea was the tube allowed communication if electronics went down.

"Ok Grunge."

ONE HOUR LATER

Ethan spoke into the flared opening of a metal pipe. "Grunge, are you there?"

"I'm here buddy. What's going on down there?"

"Listen. I just talked to Grosnor. He dumped some pretty heavy news on me and I wondered if you can help us out."

"What'd he say?"

"Well, you know how the situation with the tumor syndrome has been greatly improving, and it looks like an end to the epidemic is coming soon?"

"Yeah," said Grunge. "Pretty cool, the work they did to nip it in the bud."

"Well here's the rub Grunge. I mentioned to Grosnor that the population down here have been following the news and getting excited about the chances of leaving soon."

"Yeah?" answered Grunge.

"Well Grosnor says there's been a consensus among some group of experts they got together that it would be safer for society to leave us here indefinitely."

"Wow! Wow!" exclaimed Grunge. "I see the dilemma. What do want to do about it?"

"I want you to help us escape."

"Escape. Wow! That's pretty crazy. Wow!"

"Think about it Grunge. They're telling us we're gonna live down here forever. Now if topside was going to hell and a hand basket, everyone dying and such, we'd do it for the sake of survival and the good of society and all that. But to give up the rest of our normal lives for some hypothesis that another epidemic might occur in the future? Uh uh. Ain't gonna happen. Not for me, not for just about anyone you ask. Don't get me wrong. We appreciate what you've done personally, to make this as comfortable as it could be. But, Grunge, it's just not a normal life down here."

"I hear you and I understand Ethan. Listen if you all want out of the Ark, I can open the doors, no problem. Now where you're going to go after that, that's something you'll all have to contemplate."

"That's another part where we really need help Grunge."

"I don't think I'd be able to hide five thousand people, most of them kids, too easily my friend."

"I know, I know. But that's not what I'm talking about Grunge. We can't go back. They'd charge all the adults with desertion according to Grosnor. That's not a realistic option. We've gotta leave Grunge."

"You mean leave as in leave New York Washington?"

"No Grunge. I mean leave as in leave North American Base."

"Wow! Leave the base! Wow! Ok, I get it. And then we rig the Ark to look like you're all still there, everything go on as expected into eternity, right?"

"You got it. We need a crew to cut us out through the hull. We need boats waiting to ferry us to the ship. I've got a connection I need you to contact. He can get us an old tanker ship. We'll need it loaded with a year's supplies and construction equipment so we can add on and make repairs to her as needed."

"Cool," said Grunge. "I've got the simulation part working in my mind already. I'll splice into the video cables and play the simulated observation right into'm. We'll need to make sure you can call Grosnor occasionally, so you maintain your contact. It could work, it could really work!"

"That's the way. Keep up that enthusiasm Grunge. Here, let me get you Kevin's number. He's the one with the tanker ship. Ok, 1 222 789 9828 ext. 12. It's probably best if you can have a crew weld in from the outside, not open any doors that'll trigger sensors."

"Got it," said Grunge, while making notes on a lined yellow simulated notebook paper on his electronic tablet's display. "Now, you've got to give me at least a week or so to put all this together. Is that within your timeframe?"

"Well, Grunge," Ethan relied, "We're certainly not going anywhere before then."

Chapter 43

Sharon showed up at Precinct 12 as promised for a debriefing about the events at Carmello's Restaurant. Ryan had the police surveillance department already working to sift through the street videos in front of Carmello's. It didn't take long before the terrorists, including Henrich Jorgensen, were identified arriving and entering the restaurant for their last meeting there. Facial recognition software identified two of the terrorists as wanted felons, and two as being on a federal watch list for possible extremist activity. The latter were known modern artists, and would be easy to apprehend, thought Ryan. He thanked Sharon for her time, and called Ed Arrosyan to join him for a ride out to one of the two artist's homes. The _quick bio_ on _PoliceNET_ described Ali Arravi as a nationally known ceramicist, producing fine art level pieces that were prized by collectors.

Rivers and Arrosyan pulled up in front of Arravi's listed address. It was one of a collection of small town homes painted canary yellow, with simulated red clay tile roofs. Arravi spotted them before they got to the front door. A light beam had been tripped as they traversed the front yard area, sounding a chime inside Arravi's residence. With trembling hands, the artist pulled back the slide on a small automatic weapon OFADOF had given him. He slipped the gun into his trouser pocket and walked slowly to the door after the two officers knocked. When he opened the door, they were standing to either side, a precaution in case shots were fired from inside.

"How can I help you gentlemen?"

"Mr. Arravi, we're from Precinct 12, New York Police Department. We'd like you to come with us for some questions down at the station."

Arravi's mind spun into a frenzy. He knew this was the end; that his support of the antigovernment movement was about to cost him his career, his home, and his freedom. He broke into a sweat, indecisive as to whether or not he should attempt to flee or fight it out with the two policemen. A second look at Ryan and big Ed Arrosyan squashed any thought of a shootout, and he doubted he could escape them either. He put his hands to his face and began sobbing.

"There's a gun in my right pants pocket," he informed them wearily.

Arrosyan inched forward and removed the man's weapon, handing it back to Ryan. Then he asked the decompensating artist to put his hands against the wall and frisked him. There was nothing else, and Arrosyan cuffed him and stuffed him into the back of the police cruiser for a ride back to Precinct 12. Arravi calmed down a bit on the way. He stopped crying and sweating, and sat quietly with a look of resignation on his face. When they got to the interrogation room, two men from the Intelligence Agency were already waiting.

"You don't want to have to deal with those two," Ryan said to the artist while putting on a face of concern. "They're kind of rough; compared to us that is. Here at the Precinct, we can facilitate things easier. If you give us some information that could help with the rest of our investigation, it could help you. At least in some little way it will."

"Shouldn't I have an attorney?" asked the OFADOF supporter.

"You can call your attorney. There's the phone," said Ryan. "But once the attorney comes, and he or she tells you what you should and shouldn't discuss, the whole "making it easier for Mr. Arravi" thing pretty much goes out the window, because, and no offense to'm, your attorney's going to mess it up for you."

"I see," said Arravi. "What do you want to know then?"

"Tell us about the group, this _OFADOF,"_ answered Ryan. "We want to know who else is involved, and what they're planning next."

"You have to understand," said Arravi. "None of the members used our real names at meetings. We were sort of anonymous from each other actually." Arravi put his hand on his chin and stroked it thoughtfully. "You sure you can do something to make things easier for me?" he asked.

"At least top level comfort in a white collar unit if you get a long sentence," answered Ryan. "That means better food, real linens, tennis, and little chance of interacting with a six six, three hundred pound guy who's angry at the world, and you."

"Ok," said Arravi. "I have part of the information you need. I know the schedule for upcoming events, when the next attacks are."

"Go ahead," said Ryan.

Arravi spilled the beans about the additional terrorist attacks planned over the next two months. The intelligence guys were taking notes, and nodding approval quietly while Arravi tried to recall as much as he could. He did remember details about the weapons cache management, and he also agreed to identify individuals from video surveillance records, the best he could.

"What was your personal motivation in the involvement with this group Mr. Arravi?" asked Ryan several hours later, after the artist seemed to be unable to bring up more information.

"You know, believe it or not, I was a regular guy like you, living my life, doing my work. But it just started to get to me, and you have to understand, Jorgensen and his crowd were always talking about it anyways; the way the government is stepping into everything these days. Henrich was always complaining about the loss of freedoms. I think his paranoia was contagious. Before long, myself and many of the others were ready to join the fight. I guess old Henrich really roped us in, duped us I mean. I heard he's dead now?"

"Yes he is Mr. Arravi. If your information checks out though, I'll see to it that you're safe and that you get some of the things we talked about, down the road."

"Can you tell my mother that I'm ok? She's the only one I've really got left."

"We will tell her," answered Ryan, motioning to two guards outside. One came in the interrogation room and led Arravi away.

"Well, we better move on this information," stated one of the two intelligence agents. "Good job officer, uh..."

"Rivers, Ryan Rivers," Ryan said and extended his hand to shake good bye.

Ryan's cell phone vibrated and he answered. It was the surveillance people again. They had been contacted by the morgue. When the coroner photographed the two thugs from the restaurant, their faces were entered into the _PoliceNET_ system. An automatic cross check showed a match on the ongoing query request to identify the face seen in the street video from the night of Kathleen Jorgensen's shooting.

"Wouldn't you know it!" exclaimed Ryan to himself. He looked at Detective Arrosyan with an expression of amazement on his face.

"What's up Ryan?" asked Arrosyan slowly in his baritone voice.

"One of those two that tried to kill me at the Italian place was the shooter!"

"The shooter?" asked Arrosyan, at first puzzled. "Oh! _The shooter!_ The shooter in the Kathleen Jorgensen assault! So it's all coming together, huh?"

"Yes it is Ed. Now we've just got to help Intelligence stop that next attack!"
Chapter 44

One thing about Grunge's work crew in the Marine Maintenance Department, they worked for _him, and him only._ Grunge Kaydakis and the five other marine architects in charge of structural maintenance for N.A.B. along with fifty seven experienced work crew managers were a close knit team. They were privy to the heart, the nerves, and the guts of the giant floating nation. Studying the original plans, created before the flooding of the earth, was like studying some sort of engineer's secret bible. Regular folks just had no idea about what it was to maintain the structural framework for all of N.A.B. All Grunge had to do was mention that this project was a secret one and his crew managers put together the most trusted group of tradespeople for the assignment. Welders, divers, and maritime personnel were briefed in preparation for the escape of the _Ark Project_ group. One technical problem was that the _Ark's_ living area was below the waterline. Welders were going to need to attach a large diameter metal escape tunnel to the outer hull before cutting the opening for people to come out.The other major issue was that electronic cloaking was necessary. Without this, the shuttle boats and tanker ship would quickly arouse the suspicions of the nearest technical control station. For Grunge, there was no guilt whatsoever about violating the plans of the government. Like Detective Rivers and Agent Sharon, he saw himself as a servant to the people. He had his own, mature ideas about right and wrong. His conscience was his guide, and if the feds wanted to imprison several thousand men, women and children for the rest of their lives without just cause, it would not be with Grunge's complicity. He contacted Ethan Branch's friend, who began outfitting the tanker ship immediately. It would be setup in a similar fashion to the Azerbaijani floating nation ships, which was somewhere in between a cruise ship, an aircraft carrier, and an apartment complex. A captain was necessary; someone with full nautical training, and the solution to this problem was arrived at by a stroke of genius from Ethan Branch. He knew that the Azerbaijanis were quite grateful for the assistance they had received, and that they probably had a complete training program, being that they were constantly at sea in their flotilla. They also would understand the isolation and grief the _Ark_ dwellers were feeling upon hearing of the plan to keep them indefinitely separated from society. Grunge arranged for a scrambled radio contact with Captain Menkyat.

"Hello Captain," said Grunge in a gravelly voice. "I have Mr. Branch here. He would like to discuss with you the matter that I introduced last night in our first conversation."

"Good Morning Mr. Branch. What can I do for you?" asked the Captain speaking in English.

"Good morning Captain Menkyat. I understand that Mr. Grunge has given you a brief summary of what's going on here. Is there any possibility we could hire a qualified ship's captain, someone who is close to graduating from your academy program?"

"Mr. Branch. We have seventy five young men in the senior class. Any one of them would make an excellent choice to run your ship. But I must make a suggestion for you."

"What is that Captain?"

"Mr. Branch. A single vessel roaming the earth is subject to many, how you say, _challenges_. Although your ship is a good one, and I have seen her plans already, she's not enough to ensure the survival of your group. You are accustomed to a very safe environment on the North American Base. The situation on the open seas is not so. Single ships surviving out here are of one type and one type only, pirates! Only a vessel outfitted and intended to do battle can survive on her own. A ship with four thousand children and their caretakers with a captain and crew to run her could only be used for a brief voyage from one safe place to another."

"I see," muttered Ethan, dejectedly. "Then our options are life imprisonment here, or death on the high seas. That's what you're saying?"

"To the contrary Mr. Branch. With all due respect, I am suggesting that we adapt your plan to the existing conditions. I have thought over your dilemma and discussed it with our governing council."

"Yes Captain?"

"We are inviting you to join us Mr. Branch. Your ship can join our fleet and travel with us in safety. You will have Azerbaijani seamen, the best on earth, and the support of our food supply system as well as defenses against attack."

"That's quite an offer," responded Ethan, astounded at the Captain's generosity. "I don't know how to thank you. That sounds like a gift too good to pass up!"

"Well, Mr. Branch. It would not be like living on a platform base as you are used to, but you will all be safe and should not starve."

"Thank you Captain."

"It is the least we can do for a people who have helped our children to survive the epidemic. I will look forward to meeting you in the near future Mr. Branch."

"Ethan Captain. You can call me Ethan."

Grunge smiled to himself. He knew he had arranged something _really_ good.

On September 21, 2171, four thousand, nine hundred and ninety two North American Base citizens said goodbye to their homeland, forever. The operation went like clockwork. Cloaking devices were activated so that the boats and ships were not readily visible on radar, and their radio communications were not overheard. Underwater divers welded the escape tunnel twenty five feet below the waterline and then cut a hole into the _Ark's_ living quarters. The evacuation was orderly, and there were only a few tears from little ones unsure of exactly what was going on. They were shuttled to their new home, the tanker ship already well outfitted with food, supplies of daily living, and fuel to begin the voyage. There was a biofuel "fermentation" room, where plankton was constantly being extracted from the sea water and used as food for bacteria that spit out oil to run the diesel electric engines. Solar power was utilized as well. Newly commissioned Captain Vladimir Mezerov and his officers proudly welcomed the new citizens aboard. There was an air of excitement and enthusiasm mixed with nervousness about the possibility that at any moment, an N.A.B. naval vessel might approach to investigate.

Just before the evacuation, Grunge activated a video interruption of the normal surveillance within the _Ark's_ living areas. Instead of live video feed that normally transmitted from the cameras, there was video from the past few months which was set to repeat itself over and over. It would take the astute and consistent observation of the video feed for someone to figure it out. With any luck, the _Ark_ might remain empty for years before anyone noticed. Ethan Branch would maintain regular communication with the government man, who would have no idea he was no longer speaking to someone aboard N.A.B.

They had arranged the day of this departure to coincide with the leaving of the Azerbaijani fleet from the waters closer to N.A.B. After the successful treatment of their children, Captain Menkyat had taken the flotilla in a wide circular pattern eastward, stopping in areas of calm seas and moving to avoid storms that could be seen moving in on radar. Menkyat knew that by accepting the refugees and their ship, he had necessitated keeping a greater distance from North American Base. This was the one part of the plan he didn't like. The presence of N.A.B's naval vessels patrolling the area provided a safety factor for legitimate ships like his, in that pirates were afraid to roam about, lest they be boarded and subsequently arrested; their ships impounded as well. Luckily for the children of the _Ark,_ the Azerbaijani shipmates were expert at enemy vessel evasion, as well as ship to ship warfare. Fifty caliber guns backed up by laser guided missiles were their standard defensive weapons. They had been boarded only once in the past decade by pirates, not including the kidnappers who took Dechak to N.A.B. There had been a general alarm as three inflatables approached and grappled onto Heliarc's main chain. Lacking any element of surprise, the six pirates were captured as soon as they dropped onto the deck. They were imprisoned and eventually sent back to their mother ship in exchange for food and sundries.

The Presidential elections were held. Jackson McGee took full advantage of the OFADOF induced catastrophes in his ad campaign. It seemed that OFADOF's plans had worked as intended. He won the popular vote by a nine percent margin and became the nineteenth President of North American Base. Voters interviewed on the TV news commented that they just didn't feel things were stable under the current party's control of the White House. Kelly Styles left politics to become a consultant, as Jayo'n had already done after his ousting. There was general optimism that the nation was entering a new, better era, leaving the horror of the bioterrorist attack and subsequent epidemic behind.

Chapter 45

They had the information they needed. The intelligence agency granted Ryan special "visiting agent" status and allowed him to participate in the sting operation. They were going to stop the next scheduled terror attack by OFADOF, and hopefully lure more of the organizers into a trap at the same time. Agent "Sharon" was there as an observer only this time. She was permitted to act as an agent only in the direct apprehension of her suspects, and only within the timespan of her investigations.

Ali Arravi, the latest captured OFADOF member had revealed that although major members were not used in the attacks, there were always two or three available "on call" to the attackers as advisors who could be reached by phone. The intelligence agency placed a team of plain clothes agents roving the area in front of the Air and Space museum in New Washington D.C. They were supposed to identify and detain the terrorists before any shots were fired. The lives of hundreds of tourists depended on their skill and that of a special team of "sniffers," dogs who roamed about inconspicuously until they smelled the aromas found on guns or grenades, at which time they barked viciously and loudly at the bearers of such items.

It was a sunny, blustery day, with temperatures hovering in the fifty's in New York Washington. The dogs had been released and were working the crowd of tourists with proficiency, circling about, sniffing and peeing on trashcans as any strays might be expected to do. There were two German Shepherds, two Yellow Labs, and five large mutts of greyish color and obvious terrier lineage. Ryan sat on a small wall, wearing a visor and sunglasses and sipping a diet soda. He blended quite well with the crowd of visitors there to see the reconstructions of America's great Washington D.C. museums. He had been walking here and there, and in and out of the museums for several hours.

Then it began. There was loud barking across the common. Ryan got up and began running in the direction of the sound. One of the mutts threatened a man staffing one of the shiny aluminum hot dog carts scattered throughout the tourist area. The hot dog man tried to hold the dog at bay with a pair of metal tongs used to pull out wieners from the steamer, but the professional canine continued barking and growling threateningly. A frank lay on the ground next to the animal, untouched and ineffective as a bribe to be silent. As Ryan approached, the man seemed to be indecisive about whether to continue fending off the angry canine, or attempting to grab something from the storage area of his vendor cart. Ryan circled around and rushed the man from behind, kicking the suspect's legs out from under him and cuffing his wrists behind immediately. He swung open the metal door to the hot dog cart, revealing a _Howardson Arms_ automatic weapon that was lodged tightly inside. There was more barking around the perimeters of the common, and simultaneously, agents converged on the other hot dog vendors there. The terrorists had murdered fifteen men and women that morning in order to commandeer their vendor carts and stage the attack. Thanks to the fearless canines, one of whom was killed by a terrorist wielding a butcher knife, there were no civilian casualties and only a forty five minute interruption of the normal activities in DC's museum commons. The knife wielding commando received one silenced round to the chest from an approaching agent. The bullet penetrated light body armor and pierced his ascending aorta before lodging in front of the thoracic spine. Only one middle aged couple, who had been observing the initial struggle between the would be terrorist and the canine agent, realized what had happened. For the most part, the tourists in the square only knew that "something was up" and that they had been shooed away for a quick security check of the area; some sort of bomb scare or something.

The second part of the agency's plan utilized the forced cooperation of one of the OFADOF terror team itself. A call was placed to request advice on an alternate escape route, with a false report that the terror group was penned up inside the Smithsonian Institution. With a gun pointed to his head, the captured terrorist continued to request additional information. This kept his advisor on the phone for an extended period, during which the call was traced and the location of the OFADOF advisor's cell phone pinpointed. This was replicated two more times with other advisors. Three major OFADOF leaders were quickly arrested and brought to the agency's headquarters for questioning.

Ryan was elated to be part of the successful mission. Citizens were saved. The OFADOF group was largely in custody, and with any luck, negotiations with the additional captured leaders would bring in most of the remaining ones. The threat of a life sentence, versus a long sentence with the possibility of parole, was quite effective at extracting information from otherwise tight lipped criminals. Even terrorists had their own selfish moments.

Marcia was elated to hear the news. She was even more elated to have her husband home safely. As a policewoman, she knew the dangers of the operation. Her own job had become less dangerous in the past few months. This was no accident. She was preparing for family life, maneuvering herself away from the excitement and risk of apprehending suspects into an office position where she could study crime on paper. She got the satisfaction of helping to solve cases, but with essentially zero risk of being shot in the process. Ryan hadn't coaxed her into this, but he wasn't complaining either. If they did have a child soon, at least a mother would be sure to return from work each day to care for it. They were planning to go looking at the townhomes at Glenwood Park the following week. Ryan felt himself slipping into the comfortable reliability of being a one woman man.

Interrogation of the additional terrorists turned up some interesting information. One of the new suspects leaked the name of a bank, Bank of North America, New York-Washington, where OFADOF made all their deposits. The true ring leader, it was said, never attended any of the meetings the group held. There had been a separation of the acting members which had included Henrich Jorgensen, from some higher up individual who was in direct contact with many wealthy sponsors of OFADOF activity. An assistant was sent weekly to withdraw cash from this bank that had been deposited by sponsors. The cash was collected and delivered to the OFADOF head so it could be used to fund supply purchases, bribes, and salaries. Ryan, Ed Arrosyan and two intelligence agents were assigned to stake out the bank and hopefully follow the courier back to the chief of the antigovernment terrorist ring.
Chapter 46

Ryan and Ed alternated watch with the two intelligence agents in alternating shifts, 24/7 the following week. The cash pickup was supposed to happen on Wednesdays, but they didn't want to take any chances. To identify the transaction, the bank's computer system had been tapped without the knowledge of its employees. A van housing three intelligence specialists and computer equipment analyzed all the withdrawals and deposits in real time, looking for any large cash withdrawal in one of seventy accounts determined in advance to be the likely OFADOF piggy bank. Five times in the first two days, they followed men withdrawing large amounts of cash only to follow them to rendezvous with mistresses or to illegal drug transactions.

Then on Wednesday, as suggested by the informant, the most suspicious transaction yet occurred. Sixteen thousand dollars taken out in cash from one of the suspicious accounts, and the customer looked nervous, looking back and scanning the street as though checking for adversaries on exiting the bank. Ryan and Ed hung back far enough to avoid suspicion. The suspect started to walk northward on Fernault Street, which was busy with automobile as well as foot traffic. The man was dressed in a business suit with a large black overcoat that had been used to store the cash, and provided more than adequate cover for a concealed weapon. As they walked at a fast pace up Fernault, the man turned without warning and looked directly at Ryan and Ed. Somehow he had been tipped off. Either that or he had a keen sixth sense, because he started walking faster, and then broke into a jog, weaving in and out between pedestrians, and turning off into an alley out of view. The two New York cops knew their cover had been blown. They ran to the mouth of the alley, approaching cautiously and peeking around the corners, lest bullets greet them on arrival. The man could not be seen. They continued into the alley, looking up at beige painted fire ladders and metal balconies for their suspect. Someone called out from the direction of a pile of rubbish.

"He went that 'a way," hailed a dirty and unkempt man who'd obviously been using the alley to sleep off a drunken stupor. The drunken man pointed down to the end of the alleyway. Ryan and Ed continued on, with Ed huffing a little due to some extra pounds around the belly compared to his younger partner. The alley emptied out onto a major thoroughfare. They looked left and right. Ryan caught just a glimpse of the man's black coat as he disappeared into the revolving doors of The Contemporary, a collection of deluxe condominiums for the super rich of New York with units occupying either half or entire floors and expansive views of the city. They ran to the front of the building and radioed to the stakeout coordinator that they were about to follow the suspect in. There was no desk, only a pair of elevators with keyed entry required. They watched the lights on the elevators. One was on the way down from the fifty second floor, but the other was ascending rapidly, passing through number twenty five, and then stopping at thirty two. The elevator coming down arrived quickly, and a wealthy looking elderly couple exited. Ryan and Ed jumped in before the doors could close, and hit the Floor 32 button.

In the office of the head of OFADOF confrontation was already occurring. The boss, hooded in a black ski mask as usual so even the courier did not know of the identity was shouting at the man in the black overcoat.

"Why did you bring them here? You idiot! Where's the money? Do you still have it?"

"There was nothing I could do. They must have been waiting for me. I think I lost them though. Here, here's the money."

The courier pulled out bundles of cash from a zipped inside pocket of the coat. As he did, his boss shot him in the forehead without warning. With great difficulty, because the courier had been a large man, the boss lugged the body across the room and rolled it into the coat closet. The boss stood upright again, only to see the front door of the condominium being kicked open by Detective Ed Arrosyan. The OFADOF boss fired quickly, and the first shot hit Arrosyan squarely in the chest, which was protected with police issue body armor. Arrosyan dropped to his knee and fired one round from his .357 magnum. That bullet found the breast bone of the terror boss, blowing the heart muscle underneath to shreds and leaving a gaping cavity in the back as it exited the body. Tracking through blood covered plaster as it continued its course, the bullet lodged in a synthetic wall stud.

Detective Rivers, who had been prepared to return fire, approached the black hooded corpse that lay sprawled on the carpet before them while Arrosyan cleared the other rooms. There was no one else present in the condominium. When Ryan peeled back the terror leader's black ski mask, his jaw dropped in amazement. He felt faint and confused. He remembered this person quite well. It was Mrs. Akin, the elderly women who lived beneath the Jorgensens. She had fed him tea and cookies and cooperated with his investigation, and she was not what she had seemed. Arrosyan radioed in for the backup team, and in seconds, there were sirens and policemen running up the stairs to join them. Ryan was very quiet, and another officer inquired as to whether he was ok, figuring that the violence had affected him. The other cop could not have known that it was not the violence at all, but the absurdity of the situation; the turning upside down of Ryan's notion of what _should_ be, and what was _right_ in his view of the world. Ryan shook his head and left the crime scene investigators to do their work. He was solaced that Marcia would be home talk to that night. He was no longer alone in the altruistic pursuit of justice.
The End

### See author's blog at blainezaidbooks@wordpress.com

Other books by Blaine T. Zaid include:

"The Gaines Agenda"

"A Happy Little Family" Children's color picture book.
