Coffee Betrayal (Chapter 33 - 1st draft)

“Alright, Harry,” said Miriam, “What is it?”

Trueblood looked up from his coffee and peered at his wife, unaware that his eyebrows had lifted. It was a reaction less of curiosity at her question than from surprise by her tone. The cheerfulness she served at breakfast was as customary as the accompanying black coffee, scrambled eggs, toast and orange juice.

Miriam's smile was the same as always but her voice came out too soft. It was as if she was confiding something to him in a hotel lounge during happy hour. They were alone in their kitchen, and she'd made no effort to lean toward him as one would do in the hotel-lounge scenario. So...

Trueblood set his cup down as his brow relaxed, and considered her words. Off the top of his head what is it? meant nothing to him. A quick scan of likely contexts found no hits. Her question apparently had come completely out of the blue. He focused closely on her eyes.

“What is what, Miriam?” he asked gently.

“Something's wrong, Harry. It's not like you to keep things from me.”

“Nothing's wrong, Miriam. I'd tell you if there was. You know that.”

“Harry.”

They sat awhile looking earnestly at each other. Trueblood slurped coffee and his wife munched on a piece of buttered toast. Trueblood broke the silence.

“Look, Miriam, where is this coming from? What makes you think something's wrong?”

“Harry, you put creamer in your coffee.”

“Huh? I what?”

“Creamer, Harry. In your coffee. You put creamer in your coffee. You never put anything in your coffee...”

Trueblood stared at his cup as confusion disturbed the natural composure of his face. “What the...” He cut himself off and looked up at Miriam. “I did,” he said, barely audible, shaking his head as if to deny what he was seeing. He added, “I must have been distracted. I don't remember doing it. I don't know why I did it.

“It is odd, I agree, Miriam, but I don't think it means anything.”

She reached across the table and took his hand. Her smile grew wider. “It wouldn't mean anything if I did something like that,” she said. “You know I get distracted easily. But not you, Harry. You're always so focused.”

He rocked back in his chair, breathing deeply and letting it out in a noisy sigh followed by a half-hearted chuckle. “You're right, Mimi. My focus is my strong suit. I guess...well, I have had a lot of things to focus on lately. You know that. Maybe I've gotten a little jammed up. Too much on the plate, huh?”

“Harry, who are you trying to fool? It's me, Miriam, your loving wife. You always have a lot to focus on. It's what you're good at. Something else is bothering you. Don't try to deny it. It worries me that you're keeping it to yourself. I've never known you to keep something serious from me. Ever. And frankly I'm not sure what to think. I'm a little hurt, Harry.”

Sacrifice brings home the "Good"

My second novel, Sacrifice, has been awarded a "Good Writing Seal" by The indiePENdents, a nonprofit organization that promotes independently published books. Sacrifice is available as an ebook or paperback. Click on the title for Amazon.com's Kindle listing at 99¢.

Descent to the Bunker (Chapt. 32 - 1st draft)

Small pangs of dread began arcing through Geddes's intestines halfway down the seemingly endlessly spiraling concrete stairs. His first thought was that he might be experiencing a wave of vertigo or maybe a flashback from his own experience with Vulcana. He took several deep breaths, but the clammy feeling persisted. Probably the greater sense of depth into the Earth from the stairs. His only other visit to the bunker – that he knew of – had been by elevator with Ruth on her introduction to Camp David after the Inauguration.

Morowitz explained that he'd had the stairs installed because of his claustrophobic fear of elevators.

“I've gotten it under control pretty much,” he told the others in the lodge's tool shed, where the staircase entrance was hidden, “but I don't want to come unglued in a crisis, and heading down there would mean we were in a pretty stressful situation, I figure...and, well, I guess you could call this a fairly stressful situation, too.”

He grinned sheepishly and turned his palms to his guests. “You can take an elevator if you like. There's one in here...that door there, looks like a closet.”

Ruth looked at others, shrugged. “I've never felt all that comfortable in elevators, either. Besides, I can use the exercise.”

And so the procession started, speechless at first, cautiously down the steep, narrow staircase, footwear scuffs on concrete steps. A pervasive alien mustiness pricked the nostrils with growing disfavor. Blue lights, strategically recessed along the descent in the rock-walled silo, glistened off the steel handrail creating an eerie surreality that seemed to mock the intruders with a discomfiting urgency. Morowitz explained that blue light was easier on his eyes at night. “Doesn't affect the pupils like white light does.

“We keep it blue in the bunker, too, but can switch it up gradually to white if we're gonna be down there awhile. Sort of an artificial dawn...heh heh.”

Whether the blue light was what bothered Geddes it was definitely the light that replaced his anxiety with something new and truly frightful. He saw it in the way the light treated Ruth's eyes when he heard the shoe scuffing falter directly behind him. Leaning against the rail, he turned and braced himself in case Ruth had lost her balance. He found that she, too, was leaning and that her grip on the rail was so fierce her arm trembled. He took a step toward her and put his fingertips on her wrist.

He saw that her eyes were glazed in the way he'd learned to view with alarm. He saw them from an angle in which the light, refracting oddly within the unfocused lenses, magnified them to create the illusion of shimmering discs, electric versions of the empty ovals Orphan Annie and her dog Sandy presented as eyes in the comics.

So... (Ch. 29 *1st draft* - Pres. Morowitz tackles the terrorists)

Ruth Rose clamped her tongue in her teeth, biting until she felt pain and until the pain squelched the hysteria giggling up from her gut at the spectacle of President Geoffrey Abercrombie Morowitz seated across from her on Marine One, the H-42 Chinook helicopter bound for Camp David.

Legs more dominant than they had any business being, knees bulging through faded jeans so near she heard the denim stretching, shins and thighs so long they formed something geometric-looking that made her think of an overturned oil derrick, at the peak of which perched this narrow, forlorn face, distant and tiny in perspective and framed between an unkempt thatch of mouse-gray hair and a crumpled, foreshortened robin's-egg-blue polo shirt. Only when they moved, when the president spoke, did Ruth notice the thin, bone-white arms waving like the antennae of an albino grasshopper. No wonder the cartoonists had such fun with this physically unfortunate politician, portraying him the more grotesque in caricature as his popularity plummeted with the populace. It was almost a blessing, she mused, that in his case the shrinking in size of his editorial depictions diminished somewhat the graphic affront of their visual pilloryings.

“We're off!” Morowitz announced over the revving whine of Marine One's twin General Electric engines and its rotors' accelerating whupwhupwhup as they lifted the twelve-ton machine from the American Enterprises helipad. The president, his face wearing an expression that mitigated its perpetual near-grimace with a half-smile, rotated his head slightly to acknowledge the three other passengers, across the aisle. Rose watched the others as they met his gaze. It occurred to her that despite his uncomfortably odd physical appearance Morowitz enjoyed a certain magnetism, which the camera lens never seemed to catch but which came through in person. A natural grace to his movements, she guessed, all the more noticeable for its incongruence with his body's architecture. The voice helped too, she knew. Resonating urbane masculine confidence, it served him well in every forum.

He said something now that completely undid that vocal persona, although coming after what had transpired the past two days the reversal was no surprise to his guests.

“I feel strange now, you know?” He was looking at Ruth when he said this, but he let his eyes drift past her toward the narrow cockpit door when he continued, in a tone less distinct, as if thinking aloud. “I mean, I can't go back now, can I. Not really.”

Ruth waited for anything else he might say. Instead, he sighed deeply and turned to the window next to his seat, brushing back the blue curtain and peering into the cotton clouds. Al Geddes did a half-shrug when Ruth caught his eye. He'd played devil's advocate all along, from the moment she told him what Morowitz wanted.

So... (excerpt - Ch 28)

It was Roger Chapman, in the process of shutting down the equipment, whose peripheral vision snagged his attention enough to turn his head enough to notice the president.

“Sir! Er...Mr. President!” Chapman blurted, bringing Gladstone and Trueblood craning around in their chairs. Trueblood's lips formed the words “Mr. President”, while Gladstone merely stared, mouth hanging open.

President Geoffrey Morewitz was leaning against the wall just inside and beside the office door, arms folded across his narrow chest. His long yet oddly youthful face quickly mustered a dutiful smile, which nonetheless fell short of neutralizing the overall sense of haunted anxiety that seemed embedded in the musculature and nerve responses around his oversized eyes. Standing, even leaning, he looked taller than in photos where he was seated. This, because of the disproportionate lengths of his legs and abdomen, which caused unfriendly cartoonists to portray him as a daddy longlegs arachnid.

Both Chapman and Trueblood were stepping away from their chairs, gesturing for the president to sit, when Morewitz's sonorous, authoritative baritone voice froze all movement in the room.

“Evening, fellas...or is it morning, heh heh? Guess I've lost track of the time.” Morewitz made no effort to move to either of the proffered chairs.

“Good morning, Mr. President.” It was Trueblood whose presence of mind kicked in first. “Working late, sir?”

“Yup, I was that. Seems like this job never ends. Anyway, I laid down on the couch for a little nap and then I heard you boys down here. Thought maybe you had a little poker game going...”

“Our apologies, sir, we were unaware...”

“That's OK, Mr...oh, yes, you're Mr. Trueblood. I've heard good things about you...

“So, no poker game, it would appear, which must mean the rumors I caught wind of that something would be happening down in Virginia, at that cottage place, must have been true?”

“Rumors...sir?” The squawk was Gladstone's.

“That's right, Bart. I tried to check around, see if there was any connection to this administration...

“You know, despite all the chatter in the media about this, that and the other, the FDA thus far has made no decision regarding this so-called Vulcana formula. Legally we have no right to take any action whatsoever against Wilde Labs. Yet.” He stared at the still-seated Gladstone, who finally struggled out of his chair and faced his boss.

“Sir,” he said, breathing heavily, “I can assure you we had nothing to do with this. We heard the rumor, too. Probly the same one, Mr. President.”

“Well, I appreciate that,” Bart. “Not that I think you would have done such a...thing without running it up the flagpole first. Do we have any idea who it is?”

“WACKO, I had to guess.”

“Yup, that'd be mine, too. You know, sometimes I wonder why we even have this government. Like we're just window dressing or something. Do we know how it came out?”

“No idea, sir,” Gladstone said, shrugging, after shooting a quick glance at Trueblood and catching his eye. “Our...I mean the attackers appeared to have shot down one of their drones, but it was almost impossible to see what was going on there.” Morewitz nodded slowly, his eyes moving from Gladstone to Trueblood and then to Chapman, who stood behind his chair as if trapped.

“All right then, gentlemen,” sounding conclusive and weary, “I think I'll go back to that couch. Catch a few more zzzs. Good work here.”

Afraid to speak after the president left, Gladstone waited until he and Trueblood were in Gladstone's office. There, Gladstone scribbled the words window dressing on a sheet of paper and handed it to Trueblood. Remembering Gladstone used the same expression in Secord's office before the battle started, Trueblood nodded and mouthed the word “bug” and pointed at the light fixture over Gladstone's desk. Gladstone nodded.

“Wanna go grab a little breakfast?” he said.

“The cafeteria open this early?”

“I doubt it, but I'm hungry for some of Ma Brumfield's flapjacks. We can walk from here. Fresh air'll wake us up.” He winked.

So... (excerpt - Ch-27)

Randy Newgate learned shortly before 3 a.m. the attack on The Cottage was underway. He alerted Anthony Cromwell at The Cottage, Sean Seawell at Chesapeake and then beeped Geddes, slipped into some jeans and a mud-brown flannel shirt and hurried through the building to Geddes's apartment.

“Anonymous,” he told his boss, “Just now. Cottage.”

“Come in, Randy. Sit down. What the fuck's going on?” Geddes threw the covers off and sat up on the edge of the bed, groping for the switch on the nightstand lamp.

“No time, Al. They're attacking. We need to get down to my office. We can talk on the way.” Newgate reached out a hand to help his boss stand, but Geddes ignored it, pushing himself up and off the mattress on his own.

The two Olympic-walked down the corridor. Geddes's white terrycloth bathrobe flapping around the brisk long strides suggested a surgeon hurrying to an operating room, with only the slap of flip flops on the linoleum dispelling the illusion.

“Awright, who the fuck's attacking, and where?” he growled.

“Mexican drug cartel. Not sure which family. Feds hired them, no doubt. Plausible denial bullshit.” The forced march bounced Newgate's voice up and down like a boy's in puberty. Thus the “bull” came out basso and the “shit” tenor. Geddes turned his head to look at Newgate, but neither man laughed.

Em arrived at Newgate's office-cum-war-room before Newgate had finished tuning the monitors to connect them with satellite feeds providing live aerial views of the combat zone. By the time the screens revealed anything useful, Geddes had the coffee machine steaming and a row of cups lined up next to it.

“What do we have there? Drones? Robots? I don't see anything. Nothing's moving,” said Geddes, turning to the others after scanning the four flat screens and squinting closely at the flickering green images that transmitted infrared interpretations of heat-emitting objects.

“Hummingbirds,” said Em, barely audibly, as she rubbed sleep from her eyes with the back of a hand under hair still wild from the pillow.

“How many?”

“Three.”

“Bad guys?”

Newgate took over: “Our source says about two dozen for sure. There could be twice that many, and we don't know what kind of equipment they have.”

“And all we have are three hummingbirds? That's some kinda drone, right? Helicopters?”

“Helicopters wouldn't last ten minutes up there," said Em. "These guys are sure to have missiles. They know what they're up against.”

“So?”

“So these are hummingbirds. Mechanical ones. Same size. Look the same. Can't tell 'em from the real ones right in front of you. They're rigged just like the bigger drones, only everything's miniaturized. Same surveillance capability and a tiny computer heart that reads, interprets and executes according to how it's been programmed.

“We can call audibles from the ground, and can monitor them constantly, what they see and how they respond. But these little birdies do surprisingly well on their own.”

“The laser gun?”

“Again, same as the big birds, but proportionately sized. Same power, though, same capacity. I've put the new stun option in them, too. They'll be on stun until, or unless we need something more dramatic.”

Geddes was nodding his understanding as Em spoke. He waited for her to finish before offering a critical question: “You said we have only three?”

“Should be enough,” she said. She turned her head, nodded several times at the ghostly faces in the room's reflected green lighting, and turned back to the monitors. Although nothing appeared to be happening on the screens, Em's attention to them had become so intensely focused it created a psychic magnetic field, drawing the others in the room to try to see what she seemed to see.

A blip of lighter green appeared from the upper left corner of one of the screens and began a slow crawl across the top.

“What's that?” Newgate asked abruptly, breaking the trance despite his muted tone.

When no one else spoke, he started again, a little louder, ”That can't be a hummingbird...”

Em spoke without turning from the screens. “Decoy,” she tried to say, but managed only a whispery rasp. She tried again, this time putting out sounds that more resembled hoarse squeaks: “We have decoy drones to draw their fire. Help us locate their weapons.”

“Are they armed?” Geddes asked.

“They're not really drones, Al. That would cost too much. These are more like aluminum box kites. They're 'armed' with standard lasers, which are almost impossible to distinguish from the weapon-grade kind, until you see nothing happens when they touch something. Oh, they'll blind you if they zap your eyes, just like any laser will. So there's that.

“Also, these birds carry tanks of hydrogen gas, so when they're hit they put on quite a show.”

“I trust they'll be far enough from The Cottage when that happens, so no one on the ground's in danger,” Geddes said.

“That's the plan.”

“Do we have any kind of backup plan?”

“Sean has the troops in reserve, with the heavy armor. No stun feature in those yet. If he has to move in with them it'll be just like last time.” She said this last in a diminished voice that sounded almost timid.

Newgate: “So when does the show start, Em?”

Her eyes still locked on the monitors, she said, “The show, as you put it, started about five minutes ago.”

“What?” The exclamation erupted simultaneously from Geddes and Newgate. As one, they leaned toward the screens, faces tightening with the same intensity as hers.

Sacrifice (excerpt)

The Game is Afoot

It's a good thing I had to pee before we started up the hidden stairs to head into battle, because by the time I got back to the group waiting at the base of the stairs our plan was changing. And a good thing it was. Evidently Gladys was the one who brought up the likelihood Pink's life no longer was necessarily valuable to anyone but himself.

“Look at it this way,” she argued. “Nigeria wants him alive because he's the only one who knows how to make the enhanced Vulcana, which they want so they can blackmail the developed countries, the oligarchies. That was my job, to get him safely to Nigeria. You can bet Wilde Labs has no interest in the enhanced formula. Their only interest is profits. They think I can make the basic stuff, which is where the money is. They don't need Pink, long as they've got me.”

“What if they think you're dead?” This was Joan.

“A lot depends on how much Hendrian knows,” said Gladys. “He hired Chesapeake, but he might not know Elliot's dead. There's got to be some confusion in the ranks. The zombies are just kids. They don't know shit, except for the head zombie, who's probly Kelleher, their chief operations officer. This is their first field op. I can see Kelleher leading the team. I can see him taking Elliot down, too. Those two never got along.”

“What we need to know is whether Kelleher - if that's who it is - is more than a tactical commander,” said Joan. “If Elliot was the contact point with Hendrian, Kelleher might have killed the critical link in his chain of command. Those zombies may not know who to shoot and who to protect.”

“When in doubt, shoot. That's how we train,” said Ashmore.

“Lemme see if I got this right,” I said. “Our goal is to get to Hendrian without losing anybody. We think Hendrian's interested only in the basic formula, so he doesn't need Pink. All he needs is Gladys, unless he thinks Gladys is dead. Gladys, did the head zombie ever see you?”

“Not that I know of, Al. I got here before the zombies arrived. Came back dressed as a courier. Said I was from Wilde's main office. Nobody recognized me and I pretty much stayed in the lab until Elliot got here.”

“Hard to imagine anyone who knew you not recognizing you, Gladys,” I said.

“Well, thank you, Al, I'm sure, but I'm pretty good with disguises. I'll bet I could have fooled even Mr. Pinkerton.” She shot a grin Pink's way, which he ignored.

As our resolve began wavering I expected Pink to have second thoughts about volunteering to approach a zombie unarmed and attempt to wrestle him into position for a dart shot to an armpit from Cromwell. If he was reconsidering this audacity, he gave no sign, and instead pushed us closer to accepting the plan.

“Nobody knows what the fuck's going on. That's what I think,” Pink said, surprising me out of some intense wondering what alternatives we might have.

“They're just gamer punks. Maybe they've seen a photo of me and maybe of Gladys, but after what just happened all they're doing is trying to catch us and protect Hendrian. They're not gonna deliberately kill anybody, unless Hendrian tells them to. The leader killed Elliot because Elliot was acting crazy, it sounds like. The other zombie killed the other guy because the other guy shot him. The kid'd probly never been shot before. He panicked. That's what I think.”

“So you're still willing to do this, Pink?” I said.

“What else can we do? We keep blasting them with guns, they're gonna boil our guts with their killer rays. They're wearing armor, but it still hurts to get shot. It'll scare the shit out of them and piss them off.”

“Where do you want me in all of this?” asked Dr. Knoe.

Cromwell responded: “I'll need a little cover, because I'll be the only one with a gun. They see that and they're liable to shoot without thinking.”

“I'll be your cover, Tony,” said Gladys. We all turned to look at her. She was smiling. “These are teenage nerds, remember? Probly virgins.” She started disrobing. “I'll be flashing those boys like crazy, and they'll be too busy watching my little show to see anything else.”

Sacrifice (excerpt)

Catch My Drift 

         I drove the Crown Vic to the ambush site. Joan had tossed me the keys without a word after we rented the motel room. She climbed into the passenger side, her face drawn and haggard. She sagged for a moment against the door before struggling half-heartedly into her seatbelt.

“You think Pink's one of them?” I said, trying to inject energy into my voice to counter the sense of defeat Joan conveyed.

“I think Gladys is. I've never trusted her.” Her voice was flat and she didn't bother to look at me. I waited for more, and when it became apparent she was finished speaking, I said, “Why?”

Now she turned her head and looked at me. She was frowning and one side of her mouth was stretched in a sneer. This told me she found my question irritatingly stupid, and, upon reflection, I had to agree. I added, “I mean, why always? I suspect her now, too, obviously because of her unusual disappearance and what's been happening since...”

Joan interrupted my rambling. Her face had relaxed some, and the sneer was gone. “I can't put my finger on it,” she said. “There was just something about her. The way she sort of glommed onto Pink, wrapped him around her pinky haha. Too much personality, too manipulative for someone who's supposed to be a nerd.”

“Woman's intuition?” I regretted it soon as I said it. It won me another sneer.

“How about just plain intuition? Or maybe a cop's sixth sense?” I kept my eyes on the road ahead. She let her words hang awhile, then added, “OK, maybe you're right. She definitely has a way with men that...I wouldn't call it jealousy, but I found it annoying how easily she handles men and how obvious she is about it. And maybe it doesn't have a damned thing to do with what we have now.” She sighed and I could see one of her shoulders lift in a shrug.

“It might have made you more observant of her, you know, if you don't trust somebody, or even if you just don't like them you're apt to watch them a bit more closely.”

“I suppose I did.”

“So maybe you'll remember something you noticed but it didn't mean anything at the time and now it'll be like finding a piece to a puzzle, you know?”

“You read too many mysteries, Al. Or is it TV? You never used to watch TV.”

“Never had time. Don't watch it much now.”

“I caught you reading a mystery once in your office, before I 'died'.”

“I remember that, Joan. You needled me about it, too.”

“I did. Said I'd tell Ruth you needed more to do. I think I can even remember the name of the book. Something with a song title...wait, don't tell me...Bad Moon Rising! Ha! Am I right? I am! That's what you were reading!”

“Wow, talk about a cop's memory! That was a while back, too. You got it. Bad Moon Rising. One of Ed Gorman's Sam McCain series. Set in Iowa. I've read 'em all.”

“I had a crush on John Fogerty. Still do, truth be told. Creedence.” She reached to the dash and ran her fingers over the buttons. Finally looked up at me, smiling. “Know how to turn this radio on?”

“I haven't a clue, Joan. There should be a power button there somewhere.”

She fussed some more and finally gave up. “We need a child here to show us how. Kids know all that tech stuff.”

She'd gotten fidgety, squirmed in her seat, looked out the windows as if trying to be casual, but her movements were abrupt. Were she a smoker I'd've figured that was the problem, that she needed a cigarette.

“You don't smoke, do you, Joan?”

She turned her head, frowning. “You ever see me with a cigarette, Al?”

“No, but that could mean you're just careful. It was just a question. You seem antsy.”

She barked a laugh. No mirth. “I'm worried. Are you surprised?”

“That sounds a little defensive, Joan. I guess I am surprised in a sense. You're usually the cool professional.”

“I'm usually driving.”

“Hey, you want the wheel, it's yours. You tossed the keys, remember?”

“I was fucking tired, OK? I'm still tired. And worried, but I'm OK. Don't be worried about me, Al.” After a long pause she said, her voice still strained but not as cutting, “Al, what the fuck's going on?

“It's Liz, isn't it.”

“Did you say 'Liz'?”

“I did.”

“So what are you trying to say, Al? Why don't you just come out with it?”

“An odd choice of words.”

“Oh, shit. Al. What the fuck?”

“What, you don't trust me?”

“Al, Jesus Christ. Gimme a break, huh?”

“Why don't you come out with it, Joan? It's just you and me.”

“Goddammit, Al...LOOK OUT!!”