"Colonel?" Sgt. Tyrone Jones stood in Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot's makeshift office doorway. His voice sounded choked up.
“Yes, Jones?” Lt. Talbot acknowledged without looking up.
“I spoke to my wife, Colonel,” Jones stated, leaning heavily in the doorframe. “My son’s got it. He was admitted to the base hospital last night.”
Oliver's attention suddenly focused on his Sargeant. Tears streaked Tyrone Jones's caramel-colored cheeks. Running his shaky hands over them, he rubbed away the tears. He sank into a desk chair without waiting for an invitation.
“I’m sorry, Jones,” Oliver responded, hastening to his feet. Squatting beside the upset Sargeant, he placed his hand tenderly on the man’s upper leg. “What is the prognosis?”
Jones looked up into the baleful face of his superior. The Lt. Col. always treated his men with respect and kindness. Tyrone Jones liked him. Talbot frequently inquired about their families and offered supporting words to boost his men.
“My wife says he’s stable,” the Sargeant responded, hopefulness tingeing his words. “Maybe he’ll pull through. T-T’s a strong kid.” Tyrone’s lips jiggled as though he might cry again. Then, he controlled his emotions and sat up straighter.
“I’m sure he will,” Oliver assured, smiling encouragingly.
Sgt. Tyrone Jones remained a vital part of the team. Lt. Col. Talbot knew he could rely on him.
Several years ago, Oliver Talbot had stood up as Jones's best man. His wife, Kalisa, brightened her surroundings. Always ready to volunteer, she gave her utmost to promote Ty's career. Their children, Tyrone III and Tallah grew delightfully into toddlerhood. It saddened Ollie to hear of T-T's illness.
“Would you like to go home?” Oliver inquired, standing. “I’m sure we could find a replacement.”
"Nah, no." Sgt. Jones shook his head. At first, it seemed half-hearted. Then, the movement became adamant. "I want to get the bastard who did this. I stake my son's life on it."
“Gotcha.” Oliver regained his seat. Despite T-T’s illness, he knew Jones would stick it out.
Sgt. Tyrone Jones's impatience grew as he considered the unjustness of the situation. Someone created the plague virus to destroy lives. All across the world, people died senselessly. The irradicated disease disappeared years ago. A nutcase with a grudge had brought it back for the sole purpose of killing innocent people.
The fact that it began with the LGBTQ community rankled him. The target meant repression and bigotry. Throughout his life, Tyrone had seen bigots at work. He grew up in the New York ghettos. The schools he attended were run down and understaffed. Gang violence spread like wildfire. They were poor and black with no way to pull themselves out.
Old Wilbur Jones often reminisced about segregation. Tyrone recalled his grandfather talking about the difficulties of being black. Black only bathrooms and abandoning bus seats for white passengers. He recalled protests that swiftly got out of hand and beatdowns by the police. It saddened Tyrone when he considered the awfulness of segregation.
Throughout his life, his father found it difficult to find work. Prejudice continued to run high. Finally, late in life, Tyrone Sr. signed up for Army duty. Many roadblocks continued to face him. However, he persevered and swiftly rose in the ranks. Finally, beating all the odds, he retired as a Four-Star General. Tyrone Jr. hoped to follow in his parent's footsteps and give his children a better life.
"So what's the tie-up," Sgt. Jones finally asked.
“President,” Lt. Col. Talbot responded.
“President Soft Soap,” Tyrone grumbled, using one of Abraham Q. Morton’s many nicknames. He sighed.
"Waffle Iron," Major Alberto Gonzalez quipped, entering abruptly. "Show Talbot what you just showed me." He pulled Master Sargeant Emil Hollister into the office. Sgts Bud Cassidy and Carl McMillian followed in their wake.
Fumbling with his smartphone, Emil Hollister found the YouTube video he sought and turned it on. The voice of Pres. Abraham Q. Morton filled the space. He recited his post-pandemic speech. Then, the President swiveled and departed. Angry voices followed him when the journalists realized he would not answer questions.
Lt. Col. Talbot sank back in his seat. The dialogue addressed most of the issues.
“So?” Oliver raised his eyebrows.
“Not the President,” Cassidy cut in.
Oliver swiped the Sargeant with his eyes. Straightforward and reliable, Bud Cassidy was not a fool. He wouldn't likely fall for a conspiracy theory. Ollie heard him speak out against such nonsense many times.
“How so?” Ollie questioned, rocking back on his chair. When it touched the wall, he steadied it. Inquiringly, he gazed up at Sgt. Cassidy.
“Moles don’t move,” Bud bluntly stated.
“Moles?” Oliver set his chair down. “What are you talking about?”
“As the President spoke, his mole slid a quarter of an inch down his cheek,” Sgt. McMillian clarified. “Watch it again.” Lifting the smartphone, Carl reset the video and played it. Oliver watched intensely.
“A quarter of an inch?” Ollie questioned, still perplexed. He had not seen a thing.
“Yes, a quarter of an inch,” Bud Cassidy affirmed. He nodded significantly.
“It’s not Abraham Morton,” Emil Hollister stated, folding his arms tightly across his chest.
“Bull shit.” Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot shot up. Striding toward the door, he shut it with a bang. “This conversation stops here and now.” He turned around to face his men.
Silently, the men stood in the office. They each hated waiting around for action. Instead of eliminating the source of the virus, delays caused time to drift away. The group would proceed to their final destination as soon as the President signed their orders. However, without the signature, they remained in a holding pattern.
“Why would they need a stand-in?” Master Sargeant Emil Hollister finally ventured. “Is the President dead? What about the VP? He usually stands beside the Prez.”
All eyes turned on Hollister. Cassidy, Jones, and McMillian believed the Commander-in-Chief might have died. Gonzalez, siding with Talbot, thought otherwise. The Master Sargeant remained adamant concerning his discovery.
“If the President and the VP are dead or indisposed,” Lt. Col. Talbot remarked, “The Speaker of the House immediately takes the oath. Right?”
Concession all around.
"So, where's Sam Grisham?" Talbot asked. "There should have been a press conference…an announcement. Then, Sam should have taken the oath. So far, we haven't heard anything. We should assume Abraham Morton remains in command."
The room grew silent again.
"Ginger Hartley," Cassidy blurted out. He slammed his fist into his palm.
All eyes turned on Bud Cassidy.
"Ok, guys." Bud took a deep breath, then continued. "What if Hartley knows Morton is dead? And what if she withholds the info? Then sets up a body double to take his place?"
“And she takes Grisham and his party down?” Carl McMillian cut in. “She could step into his shoes and retake the Speaker’s podium.”
“That would make her President,” Emil chimed in.
“It would take a lot of nerve,” Tyrone Jones solemnly asserted.
"She has plenty of that," Emil remarked. His long face showed his contempt for Rep. Hartley.
"You're making up conspiracy theories," Talbot flatly announced. He paced the small room with his hands clasped behind his back.
“It stands to reason. If the President is dead…” Bud Cassidy began.
"We don't know if the President is alive or dead," Alberto Gonzalez stated, taking Oliver's side. "I know this waiting business has everyone down. However, we shouldn't entertain ourselves with guessing games. If the Prez and VP died of the plague, Grisham would step in. That's all we have to know."
“And that ends it,” Talbot asserted, regaining his seat. “Go check your gear.”
“We checked it three times already,” McMillian grumbled as the group filed out.
"Recheck it," Lt. Col. Talbot called after them.
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnHIQCpahgF
******
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1o0DuO8axb
Oliver Talbot stared at the closed door. FUBAR, he grumbled under his breath. Never, in his entire career, had he faced such a mess. Usually, all their missions went off like clockwork. The current one stunk to the high heavens.
Delays in their line of work remained inevitable. However, the current one proved the exception. At first, Lt. Col. Talbot believed they faced a simple task. Swoop in, swoop out. A long, drawn-out wait for orders rarely occurred. Talbot believed the President wavered. He could not believe Morton died of the plague. Indeed, he had received the best Secret Service protection available. They would have removed him to a safe bunker and assured his health.
The delay meant Morton waffled. He hesitated to sign the order to propel Delta Force Squadron G into action. The President had prevaricated on lesser issues many times. While the country waited for a rapid movement, he held back his signature. However, the current matter proved urgent. People around the world were dying of Plague. Other were hospitalized, not knowing if they would expire or become healthy again.
Oliver chaffed against inaction. He sought swift solutions. His men longed for completion and to return to their homes.
Sgt. Tyrone Jones belonged with his family. At his wife's side, he could provide safety and security. Together, they could pull their son out of danger. Instead, they sat with their thumbs up their asses, waiting for President Waffle Iron to sign a simple order.
ns 15.158.61.16da2
