Red Tide by G. M. Ford Read Free Book Online Page A

blue van blocked his view when he heard the sound of engines starting and then the slap of soles on concrete. He cringed as two pairs of black shoes skidded to a stop on either side of the ambulance. He heard the doors open and felt the aid car rock on its springs as its occupants levered themselves inside.
    The engine started with a roar. Corso heard the click of the transmission being dropped into gear. His throat tightened. If they backed up, he’d surely be dragged to his death beneath the vehicle. Without thinking, he rolled left. Toward the haz-mat van and the safety of the open sky. Kept rolling as he covered the five feet of bare pavement separating the vehicles. Rolling until he was completely beneath the Critical Incident van.
    He scooted back between the giant rear tires and waited. Despite the temperature, beads of sweat rolled down his face. He mopped his brow with his sleeve as the ambulance began to move uphill toward the freeway.
    Across the street, the fireman in the biohazard suit had pulled back enough of the plastic to allow the robot to roll inside. He looked over at his buddy in the street and gave a two-fingered salute.
    The guy in the helmet adjusted the wire-thin microphone so that it hung just under his lower lip, grabbed the joystick in both hands and spoke.
    “We’re ready, sir,” he said.

7
    A ssistant Fire Chief Ben Gardener sat down in front of the quavering TV monitor, laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. At fifty-eight, he was still ramrod straight and in possession of a full head of wiry salt-and-pepper hair. Less than a year and a half from retirement, he and his wife Cyndi planned to spend their golden years in Port St. Lucie, Florida, where their divorced daughter Tracy and their three grandsons had finally taken root. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, started to remove the coat and then thought better of it. Even with the chief on vacation, it probably wasn’t a good idea. Recent SFD policy had mandated that he give up wearing his uniform and instead report for duty in a business suit. More professional, the chief said. More twenty-first century. Gardener hated the idea. Said it made him feel like an insurance salesman. In a subtle act of defiance, he’d purchased three suits…all the same color…all the same deep blue hue of his beloved uniform. He bent low over the desk and pushed the green button on the telephone. A hiss of static filled the tiny speaker.
    “What’s your status, Hamilton?”
    “We’re ready, sir,” came the electronic reply.
    Gardener swiveled in the chair and looked around the room. That’s when it hit him. There was nobody there. Not downstairs in the lobby and not up here in the Special Operations Room either. No press. No publicity seekers. No nothing. He shook his head in wonder. What could well be the defining moment in the city’s history and only six people were going to be present to bear witness. Seven if he counted himself.
    Somebody was pulling serious strings to keep this one under their collective hats. Probably the mayor. Lord knew nobody liked to jerk the reins of power more than Gary Dean, and nobody was better at controlling the spin than Dean’s press liaison Harlan Sykes. This had all the earmarks of what Sykes liked to refer to as “optimum information control.”
    Dean and Sykes were huddled together in the far corner, their body language making it abundantly clear they weren’t looking to chitchat. Over by the door, Police Chief Harry Dobson of the SPD was waving a blunt finger as he made a point to a tall guy in a blue blazer. Dobson was built like a fire hydrant and wore so many departmental commendations on his uniform he looked like an admiral. Good man though. A stand-up guy and a very capable administrator who had a knack for ending up with what Gardener always figured was just a little bit more than the SPD’s share of the public pie.
    Out in the middle of the room Mike Morningway from Emergency Management