Free Pandemic by Scott Sigler

Blackmon.
    “Fine,” she said. “He can stay there and
prep
. I wanted Montoya on the case, and she is, so we’ll put our full trust in her.”
    If Murray could have lived out his bonfire fantasy, he knew some of the people in this room would eagerly join him. Others, no. These were among the most powerful people in the country: the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the national security advisor, the secretary of defense, the director of homeland security, the secretary of state … the nation’s decision makers, gathered together to help President Blackmon chart a path in this dangerous time.
    She turned to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Samuel Porter.
    “Admiral, you’re absolutely certain the
Los Angeles
didn’t succumb to enemy actions? Our regular enemies, I mean. I want the world to know that we are ready to strike back against
anyone
who thinks we are weak.”
    Sam Porter took in a deep breath. He looked down. No matter what the situation, he took his time answering a serious question. His pale skin made Murray think the man had been a submariner himself, an extended absencefrom sunlight causing his body to jettison any color as unnecessary baggage. Maybe Porter had even spent time on the
Los Angeles
as he moved up the ranks.
    “Madam President,” the admiral said, “we have no indication of any terrestrial forces in the Great Lakes area, or anywhere on the American theater. We have firsthand accounts from the
Pinckney
. There is no question here — American forces attacked American forces. This is, officially, the worst friendly-fire incident in U.S. history.”
    Blackmon pursed her lips, held them there as she thought. Fifteen years ago that same expression might have looked alluring. Now it showed the lines around her mouth, at the corners of her eyes.
    Like Porter, Blackmon took her time to think things through. She didn’t rush. That made the two of them get along quite well. For the bystanders, however, watching them converse was like watching paint dry.
    Blackmon had swept to power amid anti-Democratic fervor aimed at President Gutierrez, who had made the fatal mistake of trusting in the intelligence of the American people. An alien pathogen had turned regular Joes and Janes into psychopaths, had spawned a nightmarish version of little green men, and Gutierrez told the people the truth.
    What an idiot.
    Half the country hadn’t believed him then. Even less believed him now. Blackmon had been merciless in her campaign, citing Gutierrez’s inability to keep the country safe, hammering on the fact that, as president, he’d “allowed” the worst disaster in American history. Those things alone should have been enough, but she’d gone one step further. Without coming out and actually saying it, her allusions and insinuations made her stance clear: since God created everything, and the Bible was the immutable word of God, and the Bible didn’t talk about aliens, well, then there couldn’t
be
aliens — therefore Gutierrez was lying.
    Murray had watched, stunned, as a man who told the truth was washed out of office by a nation that didn’t want to believe humanity was not alone in the universe. Blackmon hadn’t rallied just the Bible thumpers. No, you couldn’t win in America anymore if you only paid attention to the religious Right. You also needed the Koran thumpers, the Talmud thumpers, and the thumpers of all moldy old books suitable for thumping. She found a way to gather all of those people into her fold without alienating her Christian base.Countering her strategy, practically every scientist in the country stood firmly behind Gutierrez. They trotted out papers and studies and formulas that proved he was telling the truth, yet that didn’t matter.
    When it comes to politics and tragedy, in the end people need someone to blame.
    A nation aching with loss and reeling with disbelief had chosen Blackmon. Piousness and ultraconservative views felt like the perfect counter to