RE Chapter 7
Jake Tannenbaum put down the briefing and stared out the thick shock proof window into the small garden beyond. He found himself wondering about several things at once, all of them focused on the incidents reported in the briefing. His fingers tapped a small rhythm on his coffee cup, his blue eyes narrowed in a handsome, though severe, face. The Office of Internal Security was ten years old and his boss, Jason Helms, had been the director for three of those years. His death last month had fallen into the category of the unexplained, and perhaps, unexplainable.
After reading the briefing detailing several other unexplained deaths, Jake couldn't help pondering any patterns or links between them. Like the other deaths of high officials, it appeared that Jason Helms had died after being tortured in his own home. The most remarkable thing about that was the issue of how the tight security around the Director and his house could have been breached. But that paled beside the video evidence of Helms' last hours. He died screaming at something or someone and was apparently forced to confess to crimes against humanity. The words "I'm a mass murderer" were shrieked over and over again while blood gushed from his mouth. Three months ago the Vice-president had died of an aggressive and ravaging infection while screaming that he was responsible for the deaths of millions and that his soul was a pus-filled gas bag. His body had been eaten by pustulating sores. Bud Collins, a high-ranking member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, had taken over a transport flight and flown it into the ground while babbling that his kind were authors of unforgivable atrocities and all deserved to die deaths more horrible than were available. That was a show stopper. There were at least twenty more similar cases of bizarre government personnel deaths of lesser known people.
Jake Tannenbaum swiveled around to the map behind him and looked at the incident locations. Of the twenty-five deaths reported, all had taken place within the Washington D.C. corridor except for Bud Collins nose smasher and that was close. There was a panic setting in at high levels in government. The Secretary of State said he awoke several nights in a row hearing a voice reciting every major policy decision in which he'd participated in the last two years. He heard himself being declared a war criminal and was told that he would be dealt with in due time and to begin setting his affairs in order. The Secretary had decompensated after the Vice-President's death and had to be removed from office.
So far the public knew little about the actual details of these incidents. But Tannenbaum knew they couldn't keep a lid on things much longer, especially if they continued. He'd been a cop way too long to not know that cops would talk. Especially when this kind of weird shit was happening. The President had begun to look a nervous wreck and to fret aloud about apocalyptic signs. There was no guarantee he wouldn't start ranting and babbling at any time in public. He'd had to be sedated at least once already. With no Vice President in place, the country was in for a roller coaster ride. The Speaker of the House was a tunnel-visioned political operative gnat who could be expected to scuttle to whatever pole of opportunity presented itself.
That, at least, thought Tannenbaum, was some grim satisfaction. The prick should go down. In the meantime, what the hell was happening? The cops on the inside were referring to The Reaper and people were beginning to look like the moniker "spooks" was getting a little to close for comfort. Tannenbaum didn't believe in supernatural reapers, but he sure as hell believed in the real politic of chemistry and genetic modifications. Whose ever work this was operating at an edge that he didn't know enough about.
Nanotechonology delivery systems, limbic/hypothalamus engineering, what the hell. It was a brave new crap shoot and he needed some serious help before superstition and fear decimated everybody's ability to think straight. He took a slug of the nearly cold coffee and rummaged through his drawer. He found the packets, siberian gingseng, 5htp, gota kola, ashawanda, queens of the adaptogens.
"Come on ladies," he said, throwing the pills down with some more of the cold coffee. "Keep me on my feet here."
