Immortality by Kevin Bohacz Page A

twenty miles from the Port of Anchorage and well outside the two-mile quarantine line. As the helo touched down in the parking lot, a garbage can tipped over, sending a stream of litter across the road. McKafferty climbed out. He pulled off the hood of his NBC suit. His communications officer did the same. McKafferty noticed a tense expression on her face.
    “Lieutenant, you don’t have to do this,” he said. “You can stay in the chopper with your suit on.”
    “It’s my job, Sir... and I know the NBC team has checked and cleared this area. So it’s safe… Right, Sir?
    “Rivers, you’re a good soldier.”
    A man wearing a parka with ‘Police Captain’ stenciled on it came out of the building to meet them in the lot. McKafferty had already been briefed on Captain Eastwood. He recognized the man from a photograph in his file. Eastwood looked young for the job, clean shaven with a mop of blond hair. By now, the Army had every road leading in and out of Port of Anchorage under military control. He knew Eastwood would have his questions about the deployment, and the man’s suspicion would only make it harder for McKafferty to sell him on the cover story.
    “Hello, Captain Eastwood,” said McKafferty as he extended his paw.
    “General McKafferty?” asked Eastwood.
    “That’s right, son.”
    “General, will you please tell me what the ‘H’ is going on?”
    “I’ll make you a deal. I understand you have someone named Harold Nakachia in your custody and that this man is an eyeball witness. You give me access to Harold and I’ll tell you what I can, within limits of national security, of course.”
    Eastwood seemed to think it over for a moment.
    “Harold stays in my custody?” asked Eastwood.
    “Of course.”
    “You got a deal.”
    “Okay, Captain, here’s what I know. An NBC team from Fort Richardson has run preliminary sweeps of the docks and found traces of an unidentified chemical toxin. Right now, our best guess is that it came from a leaky container on some ship. The Army’s position is that the container is not United States government property but may contain agents used in the manufacture of chemical weapons.”
    “I don’t care who gets blamed,” grumbled Eastwood. “I just want to know if my people are safe here. We don’t have chemical gear for everyone.”
    “Your people are safe,” said McKafferty. “We’ll find the source in no time. Our sniffers have picked up nothing a quarter mile from the port. There is no chance the chemical will get this far, no matter what it is.”
    Eastwood’s face showed relief. McKafferty smiled as warmly as his ugly visage would allow. The man had bought the story and hadn’t asked about the Army shutting down roads. Harold was not a real bargaining chip; McKafferty already owned him. Once the cover story was leaked to the press, the speculation would be that the disaster was caused by military chemicals, and that was fine with McKafferty. The Pentagon could take it on the chin as long as the real truth didn’t get out. Control of the population was paramount at times like this. Rumors of terrorists or killer plagues would make control far more difficult, and in the end that could cost more lives than the incident itself.
     
    McKafferty took off the rest of his NBC suit. Underneath was an insulated khaki officer’s field uniform. On it was the cobra and sword insignia of BARDCOM. McKafferty walked into a jail which was attached to the barracks. The air smelled of disinfectant. As ordered, an NBC team had set up a medical isolation tent four feet out from all sides of the cell which held the survivor. Just as a precaution was the story the Army had given Captain Eastwood. McKafferty was relieved that nobody had asked why the Army was treating a chemical spill like a biological attack. Steel bars and heavy, double–walled, floor-to-ceiling plastic separated the survivor from the outside world. The survivor had been brought in wearing an NBC suit