The White Plague

  “All I’m saying is that it’s hard for people to feel guilty together,” Father Michael said.

  “Is that all of it?” There was glee in Herity’s voice.

  Father Michael turned and looked back the way they had come, staring past John and the boy at the road climbing out of the trees toward the meadows. “No, Joseph, that’s not all of it. Before the people will accept guilt, they’ll do terrible things together. Better the bloodbath, kill the innocents, ignite the war, lynch and murder…”

  John felt the priest’s words like a physical lash. What was this? What had Father Michael said to produce such feelings? John knew his face must appear frozen. He could not sense O’Neill-Within anywhere. He had been left alone to face this thing, whatever it was. He felt shattered, broken away from essential ground.

  “So you’re sorry for all the pain you’ve spread?” Herity asked. John felt the question. He thought it had been asked of him directly, although it was obvious the words were directed at the priest.

  “Sorry?” Father Michael looked squarely at Herity, forcing the man to meet his gaze. It was as though Father Michael saw Herity clearly for the first time. “Why should I be sorry?”

  “Blather!” Herity sneered. His voice sounded weak, though. “Father Michael says this. Father Michael says that. But Father Michael is a notorious liar, trained in it by the Jesuits!”

  “Joseph, Joseph,” Father Michael said, pity in his tone. “John Donne’s bell can toll for the one but not for the many. I shall pray for your individual soul, Joseph, and for the soul of any individual I can identify. As to the many, I see that I must think on it.”

  “Think on it! Is that all you can do, you silly old fool!” Herity turned his glare on John. “And what’re you staring at, Yank?”

  The boy stepped clear of John’s side, stopping a pace away.

  John tried to swallow in a dry throat. He knew his inner turmoil must be transparent.

  Herity appeared not to notice. “Well, Yank?”

  “I… I was listening.”

  “And what did you hear, you there with your ears stuck out like the wings on a bird?”

  “An…” John cleared his throat. “An intellectual argument.”

  “You’re another liar!” Herity said.

  “Now, Joseph,” Father Michael said, his voice mild. “I think John was merely mistaken.”

  “Stay out of this, Priest! This is between the Yank and me!”

  “No, Joseph, it is not. I aroused your anger and you could not best me. Now, you attack our guest.”

  Herity turned a look of disdain on Father Michael. “Could not best you?”

  “It was not an intellectual argument,” the priest said. “On that I do agree.” He looked benignly at John. “We Irish don’t really like an intellectual argument.”

  Herity opened his mouth and closed it without speaking.

  “I know we often say an intellectual argument is the darling of our desires,” Father Michael said. “But that’s not true. We much prefer passions. We like to fan the burning in the guts. We like to parade our agonies.”

  “Is this you speaking, Michael Flannery?” Herity asked, wonder in his voice.

  “That it is. And I’m saying it’s only a short step across the pits of hell, one step to take us into the deliberate creation of agonies to parade.”

  “Can I believe my ears?” Herity asked the air. He leaned toward the priest, peering up under the hat brim as though trying to determine if this were truly Father Michael. “Can it be yourself saying such wonderful things?”

  A wry chuckle shook the priest. “We’ve had the time for a spell of thinking on this tramp, haven’t we, Joseph?”

  Herity did not answer.

  Father Michael turned his attention on John and John wondered at the pain of that gaze: so mild and so accusing. He felt it like the cutting of a knife in his chest.

  “The most intellectual pursuit of the Irish,” Father Michael said, “is the pursuit of the sardonic.” He glanced at Herity and Herity recoiled, sniffing and rubbing at his nose. “A pity we always stop short of laughing at ourselves, a thing we should be doing when we face up to our more bitter truths.”

  “You wouldn’t know a truth if it kicked you in the balls and you not having a one,” Herity accused.

  “Then all is peace and tranquillity in our poor land, is it?” Father Michael asked. “Sweet agreement everywhere – as it’s always been.”

  “Whatever hurt we’ve had,” Herity said, “comes from our enduring devotion to the superstitions of the Church and it sapping the strength out of us for all these centuries.”

  Father Michael sighed. “Joseph, I think your worst vice may be that you haven’t it in you to be magnanimous.”

  “It’s God’s own truth you’ve stumbled onto there,” Herity said. “Magnanimity isn’t the most celebrated Irish virtue, as some poor bastard is supposed to’ve said. I’ll own to it, Michael Flannery, because I know we must hold to our hates. Where else do we find the strength to go on?”

  “Thank you, Joseph,” Father Michael said. “There’s hope for you yet and I’ll continue my prayers.” The priest turned on a heel and strode off down the road.

  John realized in that moment that something in the argument had completely restored Father Michael’s faith. What had Herity said to accomplish that? John stared at the priest’s receding back. So strongly he walked, so firm and assured.

  Herity, too, stared after Father Michael.

  “There y’ go, Priest!” Herity called. “Running away.” He looked at John. “See how he runs?” But the weakness in Herity’s voice was an admission of defeat. He had tried his best to kill the priest’s faith and he had failed.

  The boy ran after Father Michael. Catching up to the priest, he grasped the man’s hand.

  “No hope for either of them,” Herity said. “Well, come along, John. My friends have been watching us…” he gestured with the machine gun as two men came out of the woods ahead of Father Michael and the boy “… and here they are now.”

  Herity reached across to John as they began walking and slipped the machine gun and its sling over John’s head. “They might not understand. Will you be passing me the little five-shooter, as well?”

  John stared ahead as though in a dream, obeying Herity without really feeling the pistol as he rid himself of it.

  One of the two men coming toward them was Kevin O’Donnell, still wearing the Aussie hat he’d worn that night on the pier at Kinsale.

  Romans corrupted the Gall and that produced the Englishman. They took to Roman ways like a hog to the trough. Roman tactics are direct: make your families hostage. They enlisted us in their armies because that was our alternative to starvation. They corrupted our religion with greed. They replaced cheap, easily understood law with law that’s expensive and mostly impenetrable to common folk. Legalized robbery is what it’s all about.

  – Joseph Herity

  “THEY REFUSED to confirm or deny whether they actually have O’Neill in custody?” Velcourt asked.

  Charlie Turkwood raised both hands, palms upward. There was a saturnine look in his dark eyes. His thick lips appeared poised on the edge of a smile.

  They were in the Lincoln sitting room of the White House, a room Velcourt had set up as his private study. He glanced at his wristwatch. “What time is it over there right now?”

  “About nine A.M., sir,” Turkwood said.

  “Strange,” Velcourt said. “How the hell did they find out that we have those dental charts and fingerprints?”

  Again, Turkwood produced that negative shrug of the hands.

  Velcourt was hungry and he knew this made him short-tempered. He struggled to control himself. “You know what I’m thinking, Charlie?”

  Turkwood nodded. The thing was obvious.

  “If they’ve broken the code on that plague,” Velcourt said.

  “They could have us all by the balls,” Turkwood said.

  An odd look of
withdrawal came into Velcourt’s eyes. He spoke in a musing tone: “Code.”

  “What’s that?” Turkwood asked.

  Velcourt leaned toward the speaker phone on his desk and depressed the key: “Get me Ruckerman. I want him in here as soon as you find him. And DA, too.”

  The speaker burped a question.

  “Yes, I mean Asher!”

  Another question.

  “I don’t give a damn where Ruckerman’s gone! Send a car!”

  Turkwood stared at the President with a puzzled frown.

  “What’re the odds that the Irish have rockets?” Velcourt asked. He leaned back in his chair.

  “The Pentagon thinks the odds are high, sir. They think the Continent’s vulnerable, at least.”

  “A new plague made in Ireland,” Velcourt said.

  “That’s what they’re suggesting, sir.”

  James Ryan Saddler, the science advisor, slipped into the study, saw Turkwood standing near the small desk, Velcourt seated in a comfortable swing chair behind it. “You’re trying to find Ruckerman, Mister President?” Saddler asked. He cleared his throat. “Anything I can do?”

  “Don’t you knock before coming in here?” Velcourt demanded.

  Saddler paled. “Amos was right outside, sir. He said…”

  “Okay, okay.” Velcourt waved a placating hand. Again, he leaned to the speaker phone. “Amos, prepare a message for my signature. It goes directly to the Irish government in Dublin – no named recipient. It will point out the number of people we lost getting those fingerprints and dental charts out of the plague area. Repeat our demand to know whether they have someone in custody they suspect is O’Neill and, if so, demand to know why they suspect this. Tell them we want an immediate reply and say we are still considering whether to send them copies of the fingerprints and dental charts. Immediate reply, got that? The consequences of a failure to reply will be left to their imaginations.”

  The speaker said: “Yes, sir.”

  Velcourt returned to his position leaning back in the chair, both hands clasped behind his head.

  “Is that wise, sir?” Turkwood asked.

  Velcourt did not respond.

  “What’s going on?” Saddler asked.

  “There appears to’ve been a shakeup in the Irish power structure,” Turk-wood said. “We think the military is still in the saddle but they’ve delegated authority to a split premiership – equal power to the secretary of plague research, Fintan Doheny, and to the head of the Finn Sadal, Kevin O’Donnell.”

  “What do our agents over there say about it?” Saddler asked.

  “We don’t have one we can depend on.”

  “Just when we need them the most,” Velcourt said.

  “Why’re we putting on the pressure, sir?” Turkwood asked. “Barrier Command’s sure to ask. An immediate reply? I’ll have to tell them something.”

  “Tell them zilch. I’m talking to the Irish. They’ll think we’re up to something nasty, maybe looking for an excuse to nuke them. It’ll throw them into a tizzy or it’ll produce an exposure of their hand. If they have a real threat, they’ll have to make that known to us.”

  Saddler said: “Sir, I’m sure you know of the scenario that says we’ll nuke anyone who admits they have O’Neill.”

  “Let ’em worry. They can’t do a fucking thing except answer and their answer will tell us a bundle.”

  “What about the possibility O’Neill has set up a dead-man switch with another plague?” Turkwood asked.

  “The Russians and the Chinese say they’re ready to risk it,” Velcourt said. “That’s what the Joint Chiefs and I discussed last night. We’re inclined to agree.”

  “But sir,” Saddler said, “that could mean the Russians and Chinese have a cure!”

  Velcourt shook his head. “They can’t manufacture an aspirin without our knowing about it.”

  Turkwood looked at Saddler. “What about our query to the Biochemical Society?”

  “Their records were computerized and lost,” Saddler said. “A few of the surviving members remember O’Neill, but…” He shrugged.

  “We have very few cards and we have to play them right,” Velcourt said. “The big ones are those fingerprints and dental charts. We don’t dare just give them away.”

  “I still think I’ll have to tell Barrier Command something,” Turkwood said. “If I refuse to answer…”

  “What the hell is this sudden worry about Barrier Command?” Velcourt demanded. “Who cares what that Canuck admiral thinks?”

  Turkwood swallowed and looked grim. “Yes, sir.”

  Velcourt stared hard at Turkwood before speaking: “What about that other little job you’re supposed to be doing, Charlie?”

  Turkwood shot a worried glance at Saddler before looking at the President. “It’s in hand, sir.”

  “I’m holding you responsible that it isn’t botched!”

  “I’d better be getting back to it now. Is there anything else, sir?”

  “No. Keep me posted. You stay, Jimmy.”

  When Turkwood had gone, Velcourt asked Saddler: “How well do you trust Ruckerman?”

  “An honorable man, sir.”

  “He’s been having unmonitored conversations with Beckett at Huddersfield. No record of what they said.”

  “I’m sure it was all technical, sir. Plague-related.”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “Ruckerman doesn’t lie, sir.”

  “Everybody lies, Jimmy. Everybody.”

  Saddler frowned but remained silent.

  Velcourt glanced at a scattered pile of reports on the small desk. “Our situation gets no better. Hong Kong’s a write-off. Chaos in South Africa. War of extermination against their black neighbors. The Soviets are voting to nuke the whole region.” He slid one sheet from the papers and glanced at it before dropping it onto the pile. “And now, Brazilian Israel has just declared itself independent of its host. Not that I blame them. CIA says the Brazilians were starting to make an identity list of all Israeli women ‘for later use.’ The Brazilians were planning to trade surplus women to devastated areas! My God!”

  Saddler swallowed, then: “Sir, I need to discuss that last message from the Chinese Research Center at Kangsha. They are asking for updates on computer-oriented study of the plague. I hesitate to…”

  “Stall them. What’s the latest satellite report on that area north of Kangsha?”

  “Some indications of Panic Fire, sir, but they have a disproportionate number of fireproof buildings. Even with augmented photos we’re very uncertain of what’s happened there. We think maybe they tested a plague cure and it failed.”

  Velcourt leaned to the speaker phone. “Amos, I want an agency report on Kangsha within the hour.” He returned to his position leaning back in the chair. “I’m going to tell you something, Jimmy. It must not leave this room. I’ll give you my reasons later.” Saddler’s face went solemn and fearful.

  “Because of the places they’ve had to burn out,” Velcourt said, “the Soviets right now are weaker than wet shit. Their suicide rate has become astronomical. And we have to pretend we don’t know this and we’ll have to continue this pose just as long as they have plenty of TU Twenty-nines and Backfire Threes and other instruments of total destruction. Do you understand that?”

  Saddler nodded silently.

  “The Australian Outback Reserve is still intact and we’ve armed it,” Velcourt said. “That’s an ace-in-the-hole, but it could backfire. The Aussies can be goddamned independent at times.”

  “But they know their future is with us, sir.”

  “Do they?” The President looked at the door through which Turkwood had just left. “And now we come to Charlie Turkwood. He’s been seen cozy-cozy with Shiloh Broderick.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.” “Don’t you know about Shiloh?”

  “Well, I… uh…”

  “I thought everybody knew about Shiloh and his gang.”

  “Pretty rea
ctionary, sir, so I hear.”

  “Reactionary? You wanta know what’s worrying them? World commerce is practically at a standstill. They’re getting impatient.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around, sir.” It was a weak jest and Saddler was sorry he’d attempted it as soon as he had spoken.

  But Velcourt grinned and said: “Thanks, Jimmy. That’s one of the reasons I’m trusting you. We have to hold on to our sanity any way we can.”

  “Sir, the search for a cure has to be our only priority.”

  “At least our top priority. Which brings me to my reason for dumping all this on you – Ruckerman.”

  “What about him, sir?”

  “You’re going to send him to Huddersfield.”

  “Sir! They’re contaminated in…”

  “Which will give him a really strong motive to make good over there. If he fails, he’ll never see his family again.”

  “Why’re we doing this, sir?”

  Velcourt looked at the papers on his study desk and abruptly swept them onto the floor. “This goddamned job! Every time you turn around, another fucking distraction!”

  “Sir, what –”

  “I had this in my head weeks ago! All the pieces! But they don’t give you a moment’s peace to think!”

  “But about Ruckerman, sir?”

  “You are sending him to Huddersfield, Jimmy. Not me. You. I have nothing to do with it except to authorize your request.”

  “If you say so, sir, but I –”

  “You know David Asher.”

  “DA? A bright young fellow, sir, but what…”

  “I don’t dare send him because Shiloh would hear about it and he’s bright enough to start poking in the wrong places. Everyone knows DA was using the satellite code to talk to his friends out in Mendocino.”

  “People are wondering how he did it, sir. Did he find a copy of –”

  “He did it with a thing he calls a computer search program. I know just enough about it to believe it could be adapted to breaking the plague code.”

  “The Chinese!” Saddler said. “Could they…”

  “They could or they could have an independent approach.”