Clarence slowly sat back down. He had lost and now had to contemplate his wife — whom he had abandoned — and his nonexistent unborn child going into hostile territory where the hostiles in question ate people. Margaret hoped he felt as miserable as he looked.
Klimas turned back to the screen. “The SEALs will still secure a landing area, as planned. The Ranger company will come in next. Once the LZ is secure, a Seahawk will bring in Doctor Montoya, Agent Otto and Doctor Feely.”
Tim waved his hands. “Whoa, tough guy. Margaret wants in, that’s fine, but I’m out. You get me? O-u-t, out!”
Feely was the final piece of the puzzle. Margaret had to get him to come along. What would push his b.u.t.tons?
“Don’t be a coward, Feely,” she said. “I need you with me.”
Tim shook his head, hard. “f.u.c.k that. I’ve done my part!”
Margaret leaned across the table and slapped Tim’s left cheek as hard as she could. The sharp crack sound filled the mission module. Tim stared, mouth open, eyes wide.
“You’ve done your part? The world is crumbling around us. We have one last opportunity to kill this thing.”
He stood, hand still on his cheek. “I get paid to work in a lab. I don’t get paid to ride a helicopter into the G.o.dd.a.m.n apocalypse. I’ve been shot at, almost drowned, and the last ship I was on got blown up by a missile. I’m not keen to add cannibalism to the list of threats on my résumé, understand?”
He turned toward the door.
Margaret was trying to think of another angle when Klimas gently put his hand on Tim’s chest, stopping the smaller man from leaving.
“Hold on, Doctor Feelygood,” Klimas said. “I know you’re scared. So am I.”
Tim huffed. “Ha. In this category, it’s a safe bet that mine is bigger than yours.”
Klimas smiled. “You’ve got me there. The SEALS get paid to do things like this, but we don’t get paid to fail. If your presence increases our chances of succeeding, that’s more important than your fear. That’s more important than you. Everyone dreams of being a hero, Tim — this is your shot.”
Tim shook his head. “I don’t want to be a hero. I want to live. Margaret had it right — I’m a coward. It’s what I’ve always been and what I’ll always be.”
“I’ll get you out,” Klimas said. “You have my word that I’ll get you out safe. I know how much you respect Margaret. She wouldn’t put you in danger on a whim.”
Tim’s resolve seemed to waver. He glanced at her.
Margaret looked down, did her best to appear contrite. “Sorry I slapped you,” she said. His ego, the same ego that made him demand the yeast be named after him … that was his hot-b.u.t.ton, she had to play to that.
“Tim, we’ve become a great team,” she said. “If I had all the options in the world, I’d still pick you, but I don’t have any other options. I can’t do this without you.”
Tim chewed at his lower lip, forgiveness already visible in his eyes. She almost had him.
He turned back to Klimas. “You gave your word. Does that mean the same thing it does when guys in war movies say it?”
“It means far more,” Klimas said. “If anything comes near you, I’ll kill it. I’m taking you in, I’m bringing you out.”
Tim stared at him for a few more seconds, then looked down. “s.h.i.t,” he said. “Okay, I’ll go.”
Margaret smiled.
In just a few hours, she could remove Cooper Mitch.e.l.l, Tim Feely, then slip away to join her kind.
“Two more things,” she said. “First, we still don’t know the full impact of a hydra infection. Cooper Mitch.e.l.l has them, but as far as we know they’ll eventually kill him. Therefore, no one approaches Mitch.e.l.l — and I mean no one — unless they are wearing full biological protection.”
Going in was risky to start with. If she couldn’t find a way to murder Tim and Clarence, she didn’t want them coming back infected with a vector that could kill her.
She looked hard at all the men in the room. “Agreed?”
They all nodded.
“I’ll make sure of it,” Klimas said, his voice thick with that sickening you can count on me tone. “And the other thing?”
“I’m not going in there unarmed,” Margaret said. “Would someone give me a crash course on how to shoot a gun?”
CASCADING FAILURE
Murray didn’t remember the first time he’d seen the image of a mushroom cloud. He’d been two years old when a bomb named “Little Boy” had struck Hiroshima: at the time, he’d been far more concerned with his Lincoln Logs than with world-changing events.
Sixty-five years later, he’d seen his second, this one over Detroit.
Two days ago, he’d seen his third, then his fourth.
And now here he was in the Situation Room — the air thick with the scent of unwashed bodies, food and fear — watching his fifth and his sixth.
Vice President Kenneth Albertson sat in Blackmon’s chair, his hand gripped white-knuckle tight around a steaming cup of coffee. He had all the trappings of a career politician: white, male, six-two, a full head of dark-blond hair (stylishly graying at the temples), perfect charcoal suit, red tie. Every time Murray looked at him, he thought that the right lipstick could make any pig seem competent.
The vice president said nothing. He wasn’t alone in that reaction; a room full of people stared at the split-screen image of two mushroom clouds billowing up over dying cities. Movers and shakers, heads of shadowy departments and bit players alike, they all appealed to the irrational, illogical parts of their brains, hoping or even praying that their eyes deceived them.