Plague of the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

we need is rebelling anchorwomen messing with the flow of information!”
        “You know what, Jim?” said Julie. “Air this .”
        She flipped him off.
        “You’re on thin ice, Julie,” the supervisor replied. “Sit down, smile, look pretty, or go find yourself another job.”
        Grumbling to herself, Julie sank slowly back into her chair.
        “I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” she said.
        The cameraman looked sympathetic. “Don’t worry. The Feds know what they’re doing. They’re probably already getting it under control over there.”
        Julie grimaced. “You know, I’d really love to think that.”
        
    Suez
    December 31, 2006
    2043 hrs_
        
        A steady stream of ferries worked their way across the Suez Canal, bearing loads of terrified refugees and rear-guard soldiers.
        The evacuation was taking place as scheduled. General Francis Sherman took a deep pull off his cigar, the coals glowing orange in the darkness. He was almost sixty years old, but was no worse for the wear. General Sherman took pride in passing the same physical fitness tests as eighteen year-old recruits. Now, he was glad for it. He’d been almost two days without sleep and weariness was threatening to overcome him. Before rest, however, came work.
        “How long until the last load crosses the Suez?” he asked, breathing a cloud of smoke.
        “Another day at most, sir,” said Commander Barker, the Naval officer in charge of the transport barges the task force was using to ferry refugees. “We’re not having any problems.”
        “And the bridges?” Sherman asked.
        “Planting the demo charges now, sir,” said Colonel Dewen, US Army. “We’ll be green in thirty. Just give the word and we’ll light ’em up.”
        “We’re not expecting any more traffic from the railway or roads, are we?”
        “Nothing scheduled, sir, but you never know…”
        “Barker, get a few of these ferries up to the El Ferdan crossing and El Qantara. If any civvies show up after we blow the bridges, get ‘em across by boat.”
        “Yes, sir.”
        “There’s one snag in the plans, General,” said Sergeant Major Thomas, a scarred veteran of Vietnam, Grenada, and Desert Storm. “These refugees-there are more than we thought. We’re not going to have enough food or shelter for them all.”
        “ Damn it ,” General Sherman said, frowning. “Well, there’s nothing for it, at least for a little while. Distribute what we’ve got, and dispatch a request for more gear.”
        “Right, sir.”
        “Commander, Colonel, come with me, please,” Sherman said, beckoning the two officers to follow him. He led them to a camouflaged pavilion near one of the makeshift docks the Corps of Engineers had built. The pavilion was well lit. A generator hummed nearby. The sounds of the diesel ferry engines, shouting soldiers, and the whup-whup-whup of helicopter blades in the sky overhead forced the general to raise his voice slightly to be heard.
        “Gentlemen,” he began, looking down at a laminated map of the area, “We’re in a tactically sound position.”
        He illustrated, pointing down at the thin blue line of the Suez Canal on the map.
        “Here, we’re less than five miles from El Ferdan. That’s the most probable crossing point for civvies we missed. If any of them show up, we’ll be ready to get them across the canal. The tunnel to the south and the crossing farther north will be demo’d, and we’ll leave a small contingent of troops to watch for survivors at each point. The canal itself is our most valuable defensive tool.” General Sherman then folded up the laminated map to reveal a second map underneath. This one covered less ground, and features such as the railway bridge-the longest in the world-were plainly visible on the grid-lined satellite image. He