Thomas Prescott Superpack (64 page)

I would have given this more thought, had the doors to the show lounge not opened and two men walked in. Both were African. The younger of the two was wearing military fatigues, a beret, and dark aviator glasses. The older man was clad in a tunic that fed into a spongy beard. Square glasses were pushed down on his nose.

The Warlord and the Professor.

The Professor spoke to the three pirates. Little Wayne and Tupac stayed at the door, but Common followed behind the Warlord and the Professor as they walked down the walkway and onto the stage.

The Professor removed a small device from one of his large pockets and handed it to Common. It was a video camera. Common pointed the camera at the stage and the Professor
began to speak.

WASHINGTON D.C

10:37
a.m.

Paul Garret drove through the southwest gate of the White House and presented the guard with his identification. He was escorted up West Executive Avenue and to the West Basement entrance. He was handed off to a second guard who led him down a flight of stairs, past the White House Mess, down a long corridor, then stopped at a thick white door. The guard knocked. The door was opened and White House Press Secretary Paul Garret entered the White House Situation Room.

This was not how he’d been intending to spend his Saturday.

The usual suspects were present and seated and Garret did a quick round of hellos. He took a seat in one of the 18 specially designed chairs and gazed across the oval table. There were nine empty chairs. The others were occupied by the President, Vice President, the Directors of the CIA, FBI, NSA, the National Security Advisor, the Secretary of Defense, and the Admiral Chief of Naval Operations.

The National Security Advisor, also known as the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, was a tall, broad shouldered man with a commanding stare. A stare Paul knew only too well. The man had a thick mane of white hair and luminous blue eyes. The man peered around the room, holding his gaze just a millisecond longer on his only son, then said, “I’m sorry to see you all under these circumstances.”

A folder was placed in front of Garret from an unknown hand. His father, retired Marine Corps General Roger Garret, cleared his throat and said, “Within this folder you will find a dossier on two men.”

Paul opened the folder and looked at the top sheet. An aging black man with glasses stared back at him.

“Baruti Quaroni,” affirmed his father. “Seventy-one years old. He was born in a small Zulu village in the KwaZulu-Natal province of South Africa. Raised by an uncle in Cape Town and eventually attended the University of Natal, but was thrown out after a series of anti-apartheid boycotts and later imprisoned at Robben Island. Quaroni undertook study at the University of London by correspondence through its external program and received his degree in philosophy. In prison he met Nelson Mandela. Quaroni and Mandela co-founded and commandeered the Umkhonto we Sizwe, or the MK, the active military wing of the
African National Congress
.

“After Nelson Mandela’s imprisonment in 1962, Quaroni waged a guerrilla war against the apartheid regime in which many civilians became casualties. The MK was subsequently deemed a terrorist organization by the South African government and banned. In 1986, Quaroni was detained and convicted for his role in the 1983 Church Street Bombing, an explosion in Pretoria near the South African Air Force Headquarters, resulting in nineteen fatalities and two hundred and seventeen persons injured.

“After his release in 1996, with apartheid dissolved for more than two years, Quaroni turned his attention to the blossoming AIDS epidemic that had taken a stranglehold on his fellow Zulus while he’d spent thirteen years behind bars. In 2004, Quaroni filled twelve buses with infected Zulu villagers, drove them to a hospital in the coastal town of Durban and demanded the doctors treat them as patients. The doctors ignored his request. Six months later, Quaroni returned to the hospital, only this time he had six men at his side, each carrying a machine gun, and took over the hospital by force. The hostage situation lasted thirty-six hours. After the dust had settled, two doctors and one nurse were killed and somehow Quaroni had escaped. He hasn’t been heard from since.”

Roger Garret took a breath and said, “The second man is Keli ‘The Mosquito’ Nkosi.”

There was a pause as everyone shuffled to the second sheet. The picture showed a black man donning a beret, fatigues, and aviator glasses.

“Forty-three years old. Born in the Kono District in the Eastern Province of Sierra Leone, Nkosi was a leading member of the Revolutionary United Front. He was infamous during the Sierra Leone Civil War for his brutal tactics, which included amputation, mutilation, and rape. He earned the nickname ‘The Mosquito’ for his ability to attack when his enemies were off-guard.

“Nkosi made the move into the upper leadership of the RUF and in January 1999, he planned and made a devastating attack on Freetown, the capital of Sierra Leone. In 2006, he was indicted for crimes against humanity, but fled before his imprisonment. It was rumored he joined with a terrorist unit in Liberia. On February 3, 2008, Nkosi was reportedly killed in a shootout with Liberian forces.”

Roger Garret looked up and said, “It would appear the report was
inaccurate
.” He paused. “What you are about to see was sent to my private e-mail account one hour ago.”

Paul looked down at the angled monitor set under glass in front of him. Nkosi and Quaroni filled the screen. They were on a stage. Under the hand of a shaky camera, Quaroni began speaking. The words came in a clear, but slightly accented English. “I come to you with a heavy heart. A great deal of my people—my countrymen—are sick. A great many people. They are dying of a disease you call AIDS.”

Garret looked up. He saw five or six others look up as well. They must have been thinking the same thing as him.

AIDS? This was all about AIDS?

He looked back down.

Quaroni continued, “Sixteen percent of South Africa and over a third of the adult population of the KwaZulu-Natal province have contracted this disease. This plague. How many people have to die before you intercede? How many children must lose mothers only to lose their own lives soon thereafter? Nearly two hundred thousand children were infected with HIV last year. Every one of these children will be dead in five years. You must help us. You
will
help us.”

Quaroni looked around wherever he was, then said, “It shouldn’t have come to this, but it has. I have control of a cruise ship off the coast of South Africa. I have over four hundred hostages. Their lives rest in your hands. Their lives rest in the generosity of the United States of America.”

He took a deep breath, then stated, “I want every person in the KwaZulu-Natal province tested for AIDS. Every person. You will bring enough antiviral drugs for every person that is infected, over 1.6 million people. You will start in my hometown of Ptutsi.”

Quaroni’s hand disappeared into his jacket and he came out with something. Photographs. He said, “You will find these three children.”

He held each individual photo up to the lens for a few seconds, two little boys and a little girl, then continued, “You will find these three children and you will bring them to the United States. You will give them the best medical attention money can buy. You have three days to meet these demands. Three days to set up a testing site in the village of Ptutsi. You will remove these three children and send a photo of them at the airport in Johannesburg. If you do not comply. If you have not met these demands by noon three days hence, everyone aboard this ship will die. If any attempt at rescue is made, everyone aboard this ship will die. If we detect any vessel or aircraft within a five-mile radius of the ship, everyone aboard this ship will die.”

Quaroni stared into the camera with deep set eyes, large behind his spectacles. He did not appear to be bluffing.

Garret let out a long past due exhale. These loony toons had taken over a cruise ship and were holding 400 hostages. And for what? For the USA to help them with their AIDS epidemic? If the press got hold of this story it would be a nightmare.

He looked down at the video. It wasn’t over.

Baruti said emphatically, “Four hundred thousand lives were lost to this disease in South Africa last year alone. More than one thousand people die each day. I know you do not negotiate with terrorists. But this is different. I am not asking for money. I am asking for help.”

The screen went black, but according to the counter at the bottom, there was still over thirty seconds of video left. He would have looked up, had his father’s booming voice not said, “Keep
watching.”

The screen remained black, then flickered back on. On screen were six men. All in white officer’s uniforms. Canvas bags covered their heads and necks. They were lined up, one beside the other, kneeling on the wooded deck of the ship.

Paul closed his eyes. He didn’t want to watch. He opened them.

Keli “The Mosquito” Nkosi entered the screen. He turned towards the camera, his aviator glasses shimmering in the morning sun. He held a large silver gun in his hand. He walked down the line of men.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Finally, the video ended.

SHOW LOUNGE

7:15
p.m.

It had been hours since the Professor delivered his ultimatum via video camera and I’m certain more than a few people in the United States received a phone call that went something like, “Um, yeah, sorry to disturb you, but it would appear some African pirates commandeered a cruise liner off the coast of South Africa and they are demanding, um, I hope I’m reading this correctly, ‘A shitload of nucleotide analog reverse transcriptase inhibitors.’”

After the Professor finished his provocation, he’d said to the assemblage, “I have no intention of hurting any of you. Whether or not the United States complies with our demands, you will be released, unharmed, three days from now.”

Well, that was encouraging. It was bullshit, but it was encouraging bullshit.

He added, “But if you do not behave, if any of you tries to be heroic, I have no objection to letting my comrade here kill every last one of you.”

He was about to step off-stage when someone stood up and shouted, “Excuse me.”

The Professor and Warlord glanced at each other, then at the woman standing. The Warlord put his hand on his rifle and in a whisper-scream, I said, “Lacy, what are you doing? Sit down!”

She waved me off.

The Professor took a step forward, his eyes boring two holes through Lacy’s chest. He said nothing.

Lacy pointed to Susie and said, “This woman is diabetic and if she doesn’t get her insulin soon she could die.”

Susie did her best to close her eyes and teleport to the nearest Department of Motor Vehicles. It didn’t work.

The Professor smiled.

I relaxed just slightly. Maybe my sister wasn’t going to die in the next three seconds after all.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“I live in France but I’m from Washington.”

“France. I have not been there. But, Washington, I have been to this place. Ah, the White House?”

“That’s Washington
D.C.
I lived in Washington State. Seahawks, Mariners, and we used to have the Sonics. They’re in Oklahoma City now.”

He nodded. As if he had season tickets to all three. After a moment of silence, he said, “What is your name?”

Say Suri or Shiloh or Apple.

“Lacy Marie Prescott.”

Or
tell him the name on your birth certificate.

“You are brave Miss Lacy to stand up and speak.” He paused. “Miss Lacy, when you were a child and you got sick, where did your parents take you?”

“To the doctor.”

“And this man, this doctor, if you were sick, he would give you medicine. Yes?”

“Well, he’d write a prescription for medicine and then you’d go get it from a pharmacy.”

“Yes, yes. I have heard of these
pharmacies.
Filled with every medicine imaginable.”

He closed his eyes as if envisioning such a wonderful place. Like a kid conjuring Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. He opened his eyes and said, “We did not have these in my village. In fact, in my village, if you are sick, sometimes there is no doctor, sometimes there is no medicine. Sometimes you die.” He nodded at Susie. “Your friend will see how it is to live in Africa.” He swept his gaze over the entire room, then bellowed, “You will all see how it is to live in Africa.”

Then he stepped off stage and began walking up the aisle.

I pulled Lacy down and said, “What were you thinking?”

“What?” she scoffed, like she’d done nothing wrong, like this was a middle school assembly and she’d asked the principal why they stopped serving chocolate milk in the cafeteria.

A little about Lacy. She was tough. By far the toughest woman I’d ever met. But that hadn’t
always been the case. As a kid, Lacy and I weren’t very close. I was eight years old, a happy only child, when there was an accident. An accident that nine months later my parents named Lacy Marie. I can remember every second of her as a baby. I adored her. All my friends would be out playing in the street and I was inside playing with my baby sister. Then I hit high school and suddenly I didn’t have time for this super annoying little girl begging for my attention. When she was ten, I went off to college and I barely saw her for four years, even less when I started at the police academy, and even less when I was beat cop with the Seattle Police Department.