Lethal Expedition (Short Story) by James M. Tabor Page A

Beast and its flock of red-blinking, siren-wailing security escorts sped north on Wisconsin Avenue. Washington in April was as beautiful as any city on earth, not only to see but to smell, with apple and cherry blossoms, hibiscus and gardenia, roses—a kaleidoscope of fragrances. They were mostly a memory now, because she was always shielded from anything the Secret Service thought could harm her, which meant just about everything. Not even light reached her untouched. The Beast’s windows were so thick, filtering out so much natural light, that interior fluorescents were needed.

19

    “Those ties aren’t too tight, are they? We can’t have them leaving any marks. That’s why I used the towels.”
    There was a strange rustling. She recognized the voice and the cigarette reek. “Kurt?”
    “Hi, Hallie.”
    “I thought you were dead.”
    “You didn’t really, not anymore. You talked to that bitch Taylor. Broke into my house. Called my Mexican friends.
That
was your big mistake, let me tell you.”
    “What’s going on?”
    “I could just kill you and be done. But you are the most conceited bitch I have ever met. I’m going to enjoy demonstrating just how smart you’re not. You thought the expedition was about finding something
in
the cave.”
    “Wasn’t it?”
    She saw a flame and then the red coal of a cigarette tip. “We needed to bring something
out
. Have you ever heard of Biopreparat?”
    “The old Soviet biowarfare lab. A horrible place. Shut down years ago.”
    “The law of unintended consequences is a beautiful thing.”
    “What?”
    “Overnight, they put thirty thousand scientists on the street. Can you even imagine what a million bucks looks like to a hungry Russian?”
    “You’re talking about bioweapons?”
    “What do you get if you cross
Mycobacterium leprae
and
Streptococcus
?”
    “Leprosy and strep? Nothing. Vastly different genomics.”
    “Come on. Thirty thousand scientists with unlimited budgets? They could have cloned Jesus Christ if Moscow had ordered it.”
    “Why would they want to cross those two bacteria?”
    “Who knows why Russians do anything? Paranoia and vodka are a dangerous mix.”
    “I don’t believe it.”
    “Believe it. The stuff—we call it ‘the Skinner,’ by the way—ate the skin right off some poor Mexican. I saw him.”
    “That would be fatal.”
    “Fatal, but not quick.”
    “But why would you have anything to do with that? You’re not a terrorist.”
    In a very different voice, Ely said, “I am a New Patriot.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Today, no one knows. Tomorrow, the world will.”

20

    The Beast stopped. Onlookers crowded against the police barriers that formed a one-hundred-foot perimeter around the president. Laning sat patiently. It always took ten minutes for the traveling security detail to deploy. Agents were responsible for thirty-degree sectors of an imaginary circle, the center of which was the Beast. Only after all twelve agents reported that it was clear did the detail commander instruct the agent in the driver’s seat to unlock and unload.
    Two agents opened doors while others formed living walls around the president and her family. When everyone was in position, the whole assemblage moved quickly toward the cathedral’s twelve-foot-high doors.
    “Hold up a minute,” Laning said. The detail’s lead agent, a balding, broad-shouldered man named Bob Delaney, started to protest. Laning was already halfway to a white-haired woman in a wheelchair who held a sign that read, “I’m 90 and I vote. God Bless America.” Laning grasped one of the woman’s hands in both of her own.
    “What’s your name, ma’am?” she asked.
    “Edna Hayes, ma’am.”
    Laning smiled, her eyes shining. “God bless
you
, Edna.” She clasped the woman’s hand a moment longer, then straightened and looked at the other people.
    It was hard to keep her face composed. Before taking office, she had known one sure thing: it would be like nothing she