Coop nodded, "Yeah, we can say these Middle Eastern types have been identified as carrying the virus. That way anyone who's seen them will be sure to let us know."

  "That sounds good," Ben said. "I'm going to have Dr. Buck work with you for a while to get you ready to pose as a medical team. That way you'll know how you're supposed to act."

  Coop laughed out loud. "Acting like a doctor will be easy... just walk around with a golf putter in my hand with my lips pursed, nodding wisely and saying h-m-m-m occasionally as if I am in deep thought."

  Jersey socked him in the arm. "I'll be sure and tell Dr. Buck what you said, Coop. And I'll make sure he remembers it the next time we need our shots."

  Coop's face paled at the mention of shots, one of his most terrible fears. "All right, I take it back," he said, glancing at her out of the corners of his eyes.

  Jersey grinned and winked at Ben. "Nope, it's too late for that, Coop."

  She looked up at Ben. "What is Dr. Buck's extension number, Ben? I need to give him a call as soon as the meeting's over."

  "Jersey, I'm warning you," Coop said. "You know I was just kidding around."

  "Tell you what, Coop," Jersey said, turning slightly to face him. "My Uzi's getting pretty grungy with all this target practice we've been doing lately. You give it a good cleaning for me, and I might just forget to give Dr. Buck a call."

  Coop leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "OK, you win. I'll do it tonight after mess."

  Harley Reno asked, "When are you planning on sending us in, Ben?"

  28

  "Day after tomorrow. That'll give you time to get a heads-up from the doctor and get your equipment together for the insertion."

  Harley looked around at his team members. "Better dig in, guys. From what I hear about the U.S., this may be our last chance to eat real meat for a while."

  29 Four

  The insertion of the team went without incident. They were flown into Indianapolis on one of the scheduled flights from the SUSA to the USA.

  Armed guards of the Federal Prevention and Protective Service, the black-shirted men known as FFPS who'd taken over the old FBI functions after the war, stood watch to make sure only medical personnel were allowed on or off the airplanes.

  Harley and the others carried their weapons in their black doctor's bags or in shoulder holsters under their white coats.

  Everyone had a Beretta Model 93R on their persons. The handgun fired a 9mm Parabellum bullet, had a twenty-round magazine, and could fire singly or in three-shot bursts. When it was fired on full automatic, a small lever dropped down in front of the trigger for the left hand to hold onto.

  In the doctor bags were mini-Uzis, which could fire up to 640 rounds per minute and were small enough to be held like a pistol, though both hands were needed if fired on full auto.

  In some large trunks labeled medical equipment, Harley had stashed a few of the shotguns he preferred for close-in fighting, the SPAS Model 12.

  The Special Purpose Automatic Shotgun had a seven-shot tubular magazine, weighed only four kilograms, and on full automatic could fire at the rate of 240 rounds per minute.

  30

  As the men unloaded their equipment, Coop muttered, "I hope those FPPS

  guys don't try to look inside these crates."

  Harley grinned. "They won't. On the manifest, I listed the contents as being vials of plague viruses needed to make more vaccine. I bet they stay well away from us until we're outta sight."

  Sure enough, the black-shirted guards glanced nervously at the team until they were in one of the SUSA HumVees that'd been sent to use as ground transport for the medical teams.

  Coop got behind the wheel of the big vehicle while everyone else piled in the back. "Where to now, Boss?" he asked of Harley, who was the team's designated leader on this mission.

  Harley pulled a sheet of paper out of his breast pocket. "Ben's got us set up with a suite of rooms at the Indianapolis Hilton, right on Main Street downtown."

  "The Hilton, huh?" Coop asked as he began to drive. "That sounds nice. I wonder if they have room service."

  As they drove through downtown Indianapolis, the team could hardly believe their eyes. It was like driving through a Third World country.

  There were many people actually begging on the streets, dressed in rags, dirty and thin to the point of emaciation.

  "Jesus," Corrie said with feeling. "Some of those people look like they haven't eaten in weeks."

  Hammer Hammerlick nodded. "They probably haven't, Corrie. From the news reports, there is widespread famine all across the country."

  "I thought we and the U.N. had sent in tons of food and other goods,"

  Anna said.

  Hammer looked over his shoulder at her. "We have, Anna, but if it's like anything else in this country, most of that went 31

  to the higher-ups in the government, or to friends of the rich and powerful."

  "So, I guess the socialist/democratic form of government is like all the others, in spite of their rhetoric about everyone being equal?" she asked.

  Harley Reno glanced at her, his eyes warm. "You don't repeal the laws of nature by passing man-made laws, Anna. Man is an animal just like the lion or tiger in the jungle. When push comes to shove, he'll take what he can in whatever way he can in order to survive."

  "Yeah," Coop said in disgust, "I'll bet Claire Osterman and her group of sycophants haven't lost any weight lately."

  He turned the HumVee around a corner, and in front of them was the Indianapolis Hilton, a twenty-story ramshackle building that had obviously seen better days.

  After he parked and they unloaded their own bags and trunks of equipment, there being no bellboys around, they went up to the front desk.

  A seedy-looking man in a tattered black coat stepped to the counter.

  "Can I help you?" he asked.

  "We're part of the medical team from the SUSA," Harley said, putting the paper Ben had given him on the countertop.

  "Ah, yes," the man said. "I'm Wilford Riley, the manager of the Hilton."

  He turned, grabbed a handful of keys off a board behind him, and placed them on the counter. "Your rooms are on the tenth floor." He hesitated.

  "In fact, you have the entire floor to yourselves."

  "Business not too hot, huh?" Coop asked.

  Riley glanced at him. "Not since the ... war. No one seems to have any money for traveling anymore."

  "How about room service?" Coop asked.

  Riley laughed quickly, then caught himself. "I'm afraid room service has been discontinued due to the shortage of food lately."

  32

  He looked around, as if to see if anyone were listening, then leaned across the counter. "However, if you have sufficient funds, cash I mean, I'm sure you can get just about anything you want."

  "You mean on the black market?" Anna asked.

  Riley held up his hands, a look of horror on his face. "Oh, no.

  Certainly not! Engaging in the black market is a capital offense, madam."

  "Then what do you mean?" Coop asked.

  "It's just that there are certain stores and restaurants, owned by prominent people, that still have plenty of goods. The prices are extremely high, of course, but"-he spread his arms wide-"that should pose no problem for you people from the SUSA."

  Harley took the keys and they walked toward the elevators. "By prominent people, I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts he meant Claire Osterman and her government cronies."

  From behind them, Riley called out, "I'm afraid you'll have to take the stairs. The elevators have been shut down due to scarcity of electricity."

  "Great," Jersey said, hoisting a forty-pound crate onto her shoulders.

  "Ten flights of stairs."

  "Look at it this way," Coop said, following her up the stairs. "It's a great way to get your legs in shape."

  Jersey glanced back over her shoulder. "And just what's wrong with the shape of my legs now?"

  Harley shook his head and smiled. "Uh-oh, Coop. You know there's no way to answer that without getting into major trouble."

  "Don't I know it!" Coop agreed.

  On their floor, the team spread out and each took a different room, leaving a large two-bedroom suite in the center of the floor to use as their conference room.

  Once they'd all unpacked their gear, they met in the con-33

  33

  ference room. Harley Reno paced the room as he talked, while the others took seats on chairs and couches spread around the room.

  "First, we need to set some ground rules for our search for El Farrar and his men," he said.

  "Besides shoot first and ask questions later, what do we need to know?"

  Coop asked, a lazy grin on his face.

  "Rule number one," Harley continued, unfazed by Coop's joking, "is never to go out alone. I want us all to travel in groups of at least two."

  When everyone nodded, he continued. "I also want us all to carry our cell phones at all times, and to immediately report any suspicious activities or persons to Corrie, who will be our liaison among the team.

  That way, if you get into trouble, we'll know where you are- and can come running if needed." ;

  "Will we need to talk in code?" Jersey asked. "I know cell phones aren't particularly secure."

  Corrie took the question. "Not with these, Jersey. They're keyed to the satellites that the U.S. doesn't have access codes to. However, just to be safe, I'd use a little common sense in what we say. We just don't know what technology this Desert Fox has up his sleeve."

  "Third rule, always go armed,'' said Harley. "We don't think Farrar knows we're after hirq, but like Corrie says, we also don't know if he's got any spies in the SUSA that may have gotten wind of our mission, so be careful."

  "If we see him or some of his cohorts, are we to take immediate action?"

  Coop asked. "Or just report back and keep them under surveillance?"

  "I'll leave that up to you. If we could capture one of his men alive, we might be able to interrogate him to find out more about their plans and capabilities, but if we do that, Farrar will suspect someone's on his trail and may go deeper undercover."

  34

  "Do we have any photographs of him or any of his key officers?" Beth asked.

  Harley shook his head. "Not since he was much younger, so they won't do us much good. We do think most if not all of his men are of Middle Eastern descent, so they are probably dark-skinned with black or dark brown hair."

  "Blondes need not apply in his army, huh?" Jersey said.

  "Not from what Intel tells us," Harley replied, "but we do think part of his mission here is to recruit disaffected U.S. citizens, especially military or FPPS personnel, to his cause. If he plans to invade the U.S., he's gonna need some spies on the inside in order for his campaign to do any good."

  "From what I've seen of the situation over here," Coop said, "it shouldn't be too hard for him to find people willing to join his forces if it means getting rid of President Oster-man."

  "That's Intel's take on it too, Coop."

  Harley pinned a map of Indianapolis on the wall next to where he stood.

  He put a box of different colored pushpins on a table in front of the map. "We'll mark all the areas we search with a blue pin if we find nothing suspicious. Areas we're not sure of will be marked with a yellow pin. If we find definite evidence of Farrar or any of his men, we'll mark those areas with red pins."

  "While we're busy looking for this asshole, are we going to try and do anything to protect Osterman?" Jersey asked.

  Harley shook his head. "No, that's been ruled out. Ben had Mike Post contact her security team and tell them he had information that Farrar was a possible threat and asked if they needed any help. Of course they said no, they could handle it."

  "So, what's our first move?" Beth asked.

  "First, we're gonna scout out our immediate neighborhood and find some decent places to eat," Harley said, "and make sure there's nothing nearby we need to worry about."

  35

  35

  "Speaking of possible threats, are we gonna post guards while we sleep?"

  Corrie asked.

  "Of course," Harley said. "Remember, gang, this is a hot zone, even if it looks a lot like home. We have to consider everyone a potential hostile, so when we leave our quarters, we're always going to have someone here to guard our stuff. I don't want a nosy maid to discover our weapons or gear."

  Coop glanced around at the shabby suite. "I don't think we have to worry about any maids in the near future," he said with a grin. "This place doesn't look like it's been cleaned since the big war."

  "I'm not worried about cleaners," Harley said, "but about looters.

  Remember, everyone thinks the SUSA people are all rich, so our quarters would be a natural place for thieves to hit looking for goods to steal."

  "If I'm so rich, how come I nevqr have any money?" Coop asked.

  " 'Cause you spend it all on wine, women, and song!" Jersey said.

  "That's a lie!" Coop retorted. "I never sing."

  36 Five

  Beth said she wasn't particularly hungry, so she'd stand the first watch in their hotel rooms while the rest of the team went searching for a nearby restaurant where they could eat.

  Less than two blocks from the Hilton they found an eating establishment called Marinaro's.

  "I could use some good Italian food," Coop said, pointing at the restaurant's sign.

  "I've never seen you turn down food of any kind," Jersey said, "though Italian is all right with me."

  Harley Reno shrugged. "Italian it is then."

  They entered the doors and stood in a group, looking around at the room.

  There were about fifteen tables, all covered with the requisite red checkered tablecloths, with old bottles of wine fitted with candles as centerpieces.

  A short, rather fat man with a dark handlebar mustache and graying black hair hustled up to greet them.

  "Welcome to Marinaro's," he said with a thick Italian accent.

  Harley glanced around, noticing only one other table was occupied, by a well-to-do-appearing man and woman.

  "Not too busy tonight, huh?" Harley asked.

  The man shrugged. "Well, you know, with the recent cutbacks in salaries and such, not too many people can afford to eat out."

  37

  37

  He adjusted the apron around his waist and gave the team an appraising look. "I am Marinaro, the owner of this restaurant."

  He looked over his shoulder at the window to the kitchen, visible against a back wall. "I am also the head waiter, cook, and dishwasher,"

  he said with a small smile.

  "Table for six, please," Harley said.

  Marinaro pursed his lips. "We have no tables for six, but I can push two together if that suits you."

  "That's fine."

  "We'll look at your menus while you get the tables ready," Coop said, licking his lips.

  Marinaro raised his eyebrows. "Oh, we have no menus. Our selections of late have been . . . rather limited due to the shortage of food in the city."

  "Oh?" Harley said.

  "Yes. But tonight, we are serving spaghetti and meat sauce, with garlic bread and salad."

  Harley looked around at the team, all of whom nodded their agreement. :

  "That'll be all right," Harley said. "Do you have any wine to go with that?" he asked the owner as the man pushed chairs and tables together in the center of the room.

  Marinaro gave another shrug. "Only a rather pedantic Chi-anti, I'm afraid."

  "Bring us three bottles of that and some water, please," Harley asked.

  "Aren't you going to ask how much the meals will cost?" Marinaro asked, a worried look on his face.

  Harley stared at him for a moment, then pulled a wallet from his pocket and opened it to show the man a thick bundle of bills inside.

  "I'm sure you'll be reasonable," he said.

  Marinaro's eyes widened at the sight of so much money; then he grinned widely. "Certainly, sir," he said, and hustled off toward the kitchen.

  38

  * * *

  As they ate their salads, which consisted of rather anemic and wilted iceberg lettuce with slices of almost spoiled tomatoes and some small pieces of cucumber, Jersey turned to Harley.

  "Do you think it wise to show him how much money we have?"

  Harley leaned across the table and whispered. "Yes. I want him to know we are rich. It may help loosen his tongue when I ask him some questions about the area."

  After Marinaro delivered the main course of spaghetti with a sauce that was mainly tomato sauce with very little actual meat in it, Harley asked him to join them for a glass of wine.

  "Thank you, sir. Don't mind if I do," Marinaro said, after glancing at the front of the restaurant to make sure there were no other customers.

  As the owner poured himself a glass of Chianti, Harley said, "We're a medical team, sent here from the SUSA to help with inoculations against the plague."

  Marinaro nodded. "I suspected as much. There are very few citizens who have the amount of money you do, and even fewer who are willing to spend it on eating out."

  "I was wondering," Harley said, leaning back in his chair and sipping his wine, "if you might be able to help us."

  Marinaro smacked his lips over his wine and stared at Harley, a slightly suspicious glint in his eyes. "In what way?"

  "We have heard that there are some Arabs who have recently come to the U.S. who might have been exposed to the plague and who haven't been inoculated yet."

  Marinaro shrugged. "I don't know. As you can imagine, I get very few Arabic customers here."

  "Would you be able to help us locate the part of town favored by foreign visitors?" Harley asked.

  39

  39

  "Wouldn't it be better to ask the government?" Marinaro asked.

  Harley smiled. "I'm afraid the government people spend very little time in the center city," he said, spreading his arms. "They seem to know as little as we do about the various neighborhoods."

  Marinaro nodded. "That's true. The bastards refuse to spend any of our tax dollars here in the city where we need it. Instead, they do all their shopping and eating on the Army base, where they don't have to pay taxes on their goods."