In Mexico City a biologically engineered strain of the Ebola virus has been released by terrorists and quickly begins to spread, claiming innocent lives worldwide. As the United States attempts to deal with the consequences, a second attack is launched. Nuclear bombs are launched, exploding in Baghdad, Moscow, and Washington, DC. The death toll rises exponentially. National infrastructures fail, and governments collapse. In the ensuing chaos, those who survive are forced to live their lives in a world without rules. When information about the location of a cure of the virus is released by the CDC, a mass migration of millions of fearful and infected survivors begins. A small group of survivors led by a unit of the Massachusetts Army National Guard are the fi rst to arrive at the research facility, where they immediately find themselves charged with distributing the cure. But those driven by good intentions are not the only ones who come in search of the cure; a confrontation seems imminent. Only time will tell what kind of world the survivors of the disaster will manage to create together.

Journey To The Catskills

The battle for controlBy Dan Pinckney

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Dan Pinckney
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-7004-6

Chapter One

May 5th—Boston, Massachusetts—11:10 am:

Fear. You could feel it, almost taste it. It rose into the air almost as thickly as the black smoke that blocked out the sun around the city. The unseasonably warm weather seemed to intensify an already tense situation. Throughout the city panic had gripped the populace, who raced down the streets carrying their personal belongings. In this difficult atmosphere, police and National Guard troops faced an uphill battle trying to restore order.

Under orders from the Governor, roadblocks had been established at key points to prevent looters from leaving the area, which caused back-ups among the frightened populace, who could only watch as the flames crept closer, those in back pushing forward away from the flames.

Guardsmen and police personnel did what the could, but they were under orders to check everyone attempting to leave, hence the slow progress of passage for those unfortunate enough to be caught in the middle.

It was just east of Boston College that the first violence occurred, when angry and terrified people tried to force their way past a small number of soldiers manning two overturned grocery vans, which blocked one exit route. Falling back from the sheer number, and from an unspoken fear of contracting any disease, the Guardsmen kept trying to search the people pushing in on them. There was a sudden eruption of gunfire, probably fired by the unit's sergeant, in an attempt to restore order and, as if on cue, the soldiers opened fire into the crowd. A new Boston Massacre, the papers dubbed it, had just taken place. Dozens were killed or wounded and an already tense situation became explosive.

Later that same afternoon, twenty-three Guardsmen, patrolling an area of South Boston, which had escaped most of the looting and fires, were ordered to secure the Federal Reserve Bank and South Station, the major train station servicing the South Shore. Advancing along Summer Street, they could see one building off to their right burning furiously, curiously the streets were abandoned. The smoke from the burning structure and the lack of people, gave the area the look of a battlefield.

"Keep alert!" Staff Sergeant Bernard Greishal, the patrol's second in command, and the only black member of the patrol, said suddenly. He was regular Army, temporarily assigned to assist these Guardsmen, whom he held in contempt.

"Lieutenant." Greishal said to Second Lieutenant Jonathan Wotowski, the platoon commander. "I'm getting a bad feeling. We're hemmed in here. Maybe we should pull back and approach from a different route."

"It's your imagination." Wotowski replied. "We don't have the time, and there's still a lot of ground to cover before we reach our destination."

Wotowski was new to the Guard, this being his first command and he didn't like Greishal trying to take over. He was sure the sergeant was simply trying to foul him up before the men, and he would have no part in that. Everyone easily noticed this attitude and it had caused a rift to grow between Grieshal and himself, and though he wouldn't admit it, the rift bothered him.

Greishal shook his head as he continued to walk. "Alright boys, keep your eyes open and spread out. If we walk into trouble I don't want a single blast to take everyone out!" He looked over at his platoon commander, knowing what he was going through. It's always the same, he thought, the up and coming young college graduates always thought they knew more than he did. Well his sense of danger had kept him alive more than once, ever since his days growing up in Chicago, to his peace keeping days in Iraq. And things were not good here. He felt he had to try once more to convince the lieutenant to pull back and try a different route.

"Look, L.T., I think we're heading into trouble!"

As Grieshal tried to make the lieutenant understand, Sergeant John Powers turned away from the two men and scanned one of the nearby buildings. Like Greishal, he didn't like this area and the hairs on the back of his neck were warning him they were in danger. He thought it would be best as well if they moved over a couple of blocks. It wouldn't take long and they could double-time to the bank. As he looked at the building, he noticed something move behind one of the windows. Not taking chances, he swung his M—4 toward the window as he shouted a warning. "Ambush!" Just as the shooting started.

Stunned by the unexpected contact, and not trained as well as they should have been, most of the men looked up rather than taking cover, a mistake which cost many their lives. Only a few reacted. PFC Lenny Johnson, armed with a SAW, (Squad Automatic Weapon) a reduced version of a machine gun, managed to get off several rounds before a bullet plowed into his arm and then another into his heel. He took cover behind some overflowing garbage cans, only then realizing he'd been hit, and began yelling for the platoon's medic.

Private Andrew `Smitty' Sims, had been wounded in the right thigh and chest with the opening burst. The pain was excruciating and he had trouble just trying to breath, let alone reaching for the receiver attached to the radio he wore on his back. Slowly inching his hand to the receiver, he fought back waves of pain, like nothing he had ever experienced in his life, and he had just reached the instrument when a high powered bullet smashed into the back of his head, ending his movement.

In those first two minutes, thirteen Guardsmen were hit, most fatally, and as the shrinking number of survivors tried to regroup, their attackers concentrated on them.

Though wounded, Johnson managed to silence a lot of the opposition with a sustained burst from his machine gun, giving the rest of the patrol a chance to seek shelter as their attackers ducked back from the deadly hail of automatic fire. His effort allowed to Private Dan Chesterfield the chance to blow-out the second floor of a small building with the 40mm grenade launcher attached to the underside of his M-4. The M-203 was a short stocky weapon that could hurl a projectile several hundred yards. Though a one shot weapon, it was effective against positions too far away for grenades, and was used by all the armed forces, including the National Guard. Then his next two shots finished off the third floor and he charged the now silent building, firing off a full clip once he was through the front door, but it was unnecessary. Two silent forms rested on the floor and there was no one else around.

In the confusion outside, Greishal managed to take cover behind a car, taking a couple of shots at a figure in a darkened window. He thought he saw the person fall backwards, as if hit, searching for another target, he saw the remainder of his unit, wasting ammo. He had a hurried flashback to his days in Baghdad. Been trained to conserve his ammo, look for a target before shooting, but these guys were firing off full clips at random. Then he saw the Lieutenant. Wotowski was laying behind a fire hydrant, his leg bent at the wrong angle and Greishal knew it was broken and that he must be in tremendous pain.

Running toward the Lieutenant, Greishal fired off a few shots at another target, carefully deciding on his next move. He spied Chesterfield entering the building ahead and when he reached Wotowski, reached down with one hand. "Come on, lieutenant! Let's get out of here!"

Wotowski grabbed the outstretched hand and pulled himself up, the pain in his leg causing him to black out, and Greishal was forced to throw the man over his shoulder as he made his way toward the building, Chesterfield had entered.

Chesterfield, now joined by another Guardsman, Kevin Kelvin, saw Greishal coming toward them and attempted to provide cover, but there were so many targets, they knew it was a futile. Then Chesterfield saw several bullets hit Greishal, who fell just short of the doorway. In a flash, Kelvin was out the door, and under covering fire from Chesterfield, dragged first Wotowski, then Greishal inside.

While those two men were being worked on, the survivors of the patrol made their way to the building. Johnson was helped in by Sergeant Powers. Brian Peterson came flying through the smashed front window, aided by the explosion of a molotov cocktail. This device, actually a bottle filled with a mixture of tar and gasoline, had first been used during the Midnight, when Finnish soldiers, having nothing to use against the Russian tanks, devised the weapon.

Corporal Richard Giles, the oldest man in the patrol, and also armed with an M-203, a 40 mm grenade launcher mounted beneath the barrel of his M-4, was next in. Last inside were the first aid man, Maxburn, who staggered in under the load of an unconscious, Private George Blackman.

Once inside, Powers saw the lieutenant and Greishal on the floor, and began issuing orders. His quick thinking saved the patrol from annihilation. "Maxburn!" He shouted above the gunfire. "Check on the others when you're done with Blackman!" He looked at Johnson. "You okay for the moment?"

"Yeah, fine." Johnson replied, as he pealed off his boot.

"Alright, get the SAW from Chesterfield and place it by the front door. Giles, check out the rest of this place, make sure no there's no other way in. Kelvin and Peterson, you check out the floors above, let me know if you see any problems. Let's move people!"

As the men carried out their assignments, Powers took stock of their predicament. It was bad, but not terrible. They were low on ammo, but it wasn't crucial yet. Three men were badly injured and needed immediate medical attention, and somehow he'd have to get in touch with headquarters and have them send help. He looked at Maxburn, who was now looking over the lieutenant. "Smitty had the radio."

"Where is he?"

"He didn't make it." Maxburn replied, not bothering to look up.

"Okay, we'll have to make due without it. If no help shows by night, we'll stand a better of chance of retrieving the radio in the dark. Till then we stay put." Then as an afterthought, added, "And, Johnson, when the others get back, spread the word not to fire unless they have a definite target. We have to start conserving our ammo. No telling how long we'll be here."

"Hey, Sarge." It was Maxburn.

"What's up, Max?"

Both Greishal and the lieutenant are dead. There was'nt anything I could do. Hell, I ain't no doctor." He added quickly.

"Take it easy, Max. How's Blackman?"

"He's okay for now. I gave him a shot of morphine, but he's going to need a doctor to remove that bullet."

"Okay." He answered, suddenly realizing that he was in complete control of these men. Their lives depended on his making the right moves and he didn't like it. Nevertheless, someone had to take charge.

"Giles, take the lieutenant's pistol and split up his and Greishal's ammo. They won't need it anymore and we might ..." His voice trailed off as he looked at Maxburn. "Keep a close eye on Blackman, and let me know if his condition worsens."

Maxburn nodded and turned away.

The shooting had all but stopped and Powers found a moment to collect his thoughts concentrating on the events which had led up to this day. Just two months ago he had been a telephone repairman and new he was trapped in an old store with people outside trying to kill him, people he didn't even know. It was just so unreal. He looked outside and caught sight of his comrades, lying where they had fallen. Quickly he turned away, not wanting to look at such a sight, but then he spied Maxburn spreading a poncho over the bodies, noticing how each man's boots stuck out from under the covering. The boots were highly polished, except where one was partially covered with blood. It's such a waste, he thought, remembering his wife, Francine and how he had quieted her that last morning, telling her everything would be alright.

But things kept getting worse, first the disease causing panic, then the riots and his being activated. Then when he had finally gotten the chance to get home and check on her, he found their apartment destroyed, the building burned to the ground, he hadn't even been able to identify her body and had to rely on dental records. When she had needed him most, he hadn't been there for her, and he had managed to keep the thoughts of her away, until now. He kept asking himself how it had all occurred ...

Chapter Two

March 12th—Middle East:

In an attempt to redirect internal anger at the staged elections, the Iranian leadership launches a large scale invasion of western Afghanistan, claiming they were invited by the local militia forces in that area to help liberate them from American imperialism. U.S. forces respond with air strikes against Iranian military targets, and the rapid deployment of ground troops into the disputed zone and forcing the Iranians back. At the same time, Russia, in support of the newtreaty with the United States and coalition forces, stage large number of troops on the border of Iran and launch bombing raids into the eastern portion of Afghanistan, while allowing U.S. planes to use their forward airfields for resupply of their troops.

March 14th—Shiraz, Iran:

There is a revival of anti-American and anti-Russian sentiment within Iran. Western intelligence agencies report their suspicions that Iran has successfully developed nuclear weapons, and missiles capable of carrying the device, causing a tense situation to become even more. Information is sketchy, since the CIA has few field agents still operating in the country, almost all of them in the capital Tehran, and this lack of intelligence causes them to miss another important weapon source. Biological weapons.

Iranian scientists in the city of Shiraz, several hundred miles south of Tehran, were hard at work on a variant of the dreaded ebola virus. Iranian agents in the African country of Chad, had secured a module of the deadly virus. Ebola hemorrhagic fever is a severe, often-fatal disease that first appeared in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Humans infected with the virus can spread it through the air, with symptoms mimicking those of a common cold, though after a short time, the disease can be identified by the red blotches under the skin. The scientists were attempting to mask the disease and to make it even more difficult for medical personnel to identify the virus; allowing it to be spread further before it was discovered.

Sirah Al'Habib was the man in charge and he was pushing his men to complete the final step as quickly as possible. Under pressure from the Iranian ruling council, Al'Habib had been instructed to develop the virus and prepare it for transfer. His argument that the Americans would be able to prevent it being released in their country had fallen on deaf ears, just as he had ignored the concerns of his research team. Not a researcher himself, Sirah had been placed in this important position simply because of his hatred of America. His team had argued that they were by-passing many safety procedures, but he didn't care. He didn't actually care about safety, just results. He had a plan to unleash the virus and he wasn't about to let some safety concerns get in his way, so he told his team to move the process along, and to trust their safety in Allah.

Fearing that the ruling council might change it's mind with further delays, he pushed his team to complete the process, and after a grueling stretch of almost 40 straight hours, his team informed him that the virus had been completed. In a state of ecstasy, he quickly transferred the virus to a travel bag before leaving on a special plane in the early morning hours for Tehran.

Back in the lab, a technician accidentally knocked one of the remaining test tubes with the virus off the table onto the floor where it cracked slightly. The technician inspected the tube, and satisfied that the glass was still intact, and afraid of what might happen to him if the accident were discovered, quietly transferred the deadly contents to a new test tube and ignoring safety protocol, placed the cracked tube in the one pocket of his protective suit. The cracked vile still held remnants of the virus which slowly leaked into his pocket. Once he was sure no one was looking, he quietly removed the tube and tossed it in the disposal box, breathing a sigh of relief that he hadn't been discovered, but he forgot to secure the open pocket in his haste.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Journey To The Catskillsby Dan Pinckney Copyright © 2012 by Dan Pinckney. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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