Pandemic Page 144

“We’ve lost communication with Reno,” he said. “Flyovers show that all highway bridges have been destroyed. It’s impa.s.sable. South of Lake Tahoe, Highways 50, 88, 4, 108 and 120 have all been cut. Highway 1 south of Carmel, 101 south of Salinas, 5 near Mendota and 99 south of both Madera and Fresno, too.”

Murray looked at the pattern of Xs. It wasn’t hard to see what was going on.

“I’ll be d.a.m.ned,” he said. “They’re trying to isolate the San Francis...o...b..y Area. They’re cutting it off from the east and the south. How are the roads to the north?”

“The 101 at Eureka is out,” Porter said. “North of there, air force sorties out of Fairchild and McChord AFBs, in conjunction with infantry from Fort Lewis, have wiped out any major efforts to cut the highways in Was.h.i.+ngton State.”

There were some Xs in Was.h.i.+ngton and Oregon, but not as many. Something about that image bothered Murray.

Porter hit the remote control again, bringing a map of the entire United States. Red Xs dotted the Midwest on Highways 80, 70, 40 and 20, blocked various roads into major cities.

“The national situation is becoming untenable,” Porter said. “Roads are heavily damaged, bridges are impa.s.sable if not outright destroyed. Rails are being cut. Military and off-road vehicles can easily get around these cutouts, but standard transportation — semis and other transport trucks — cannot.”

Murray wondered if it would ever end, how it could ever end. Unless Margaret came through and recovered that bug from Cooper Mitch.e.l.l, all the military could do was slow down the inevitable.

Vice President Albertson cleared his throat, surprising Murray — he’d forgotten the man was even there.

“We have to push them back,” Albertson said. “What are we doing to secure the remaining infrastructure?”

Porter looked annoyed. “We can’t push them back, sir. Even if we weren’t at less than half our normal military strength, this country is so big we can’t cover it all. We have to concentrate on defending specific transportation corridors. Outside of those and the main cities, the Converted will control everything else.”

Albertson looked around the room, perhaps searching for someone to tell him what he wanted to hear.

“But that’s giving up,” he said. “We have to develop new tactics to defeat the insurgents.”

Murray couldn’t listen to the fool any longer.

“Mister Vice President, you’re not hearing the admiral correctly,” Murray said. “America is too … d.a.m.n … big. The highway system consists of one hundred and seventeen thousand miles of road. These insurgents you’re talking about were Americans. Many of them grew up in the very places they are attacking. They know the terrain, they know exactly what to hit. Now, would you please stop asking for things that are f.u.c.king impossible?”

It was only when Murray finished talking that he realized he’d just yelled at the vice president. He sat still and waited to be thrown out.

But Albertson didn’t seem angry. Instead, he seemed to shrink in his chair.

He’s such a p.u.s.s.y he’ll let me yell at him — not exactly a prime candidate for the most powerful person in the free world.

Now it was Porter who cleared his throat. Murray sensed the man was about to drop something big.

“Mister Vice President,” the admiral said, “at this time, it is the recommendation of the Joint Chiefs of Staff that we withdraw all remaining troops from Europe and the Middle East. We need those troops here at home. We also recommend moving all U.S. troops in South America to defend the Panama Ca.n.a.l and to cut off any and all access from that continent into North America.”

Albertson stared. He sniffed once, scratched his nose.

“You want to coordinate with the Panamanians on that?”

Porter shook his head. “Sir, we recommend that our troops seize control of the ca.n.a.l. The Mexican border is too big to cover, but we can create a choke point at the ca.n.a.l. Then, when we start to regain superiority, we only have to contend with clearing out Mexico — South America will have to fend for itself.”

Everyone looked to Albertson. He seemed lost.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Abandoning our allies … seizing the Ca.n.a.l … we need President Blackmon to make those decisions.” He again looked around the room. “I asked someone to get her on the line for me twenty minutes ago. What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you people?”

André Vogel pinched his ever-present phone between his ear and shoulder.

“We’re still trying,” he said. He put the phone back to his ear.

For the first time, Murray heard Samuel Porter raise his voice.

“Mister Vice President,” the admiral said, demanding the attention of Albertson and everyone in the room. “A decision must be made. We need to withdraw our troops from overseas, and we need to do it now.”

Albertson’s left eye started to twitch. He stared down at the table. “I’m sorry, only the president can make that call.”

Vogel suddenly rose, stood up board-straight as if someone had connected his chair to a car battery. He looked like he might throw up.

“Air Force One … it’s gone down.”

All conversation ceased. The room seemed to dim, to go nearly dark save for a score of spotlights that lit up Vice President Albertson.

He placed his hands on the table. They were shaking.

“I see,” he said. “When did this happen?”