A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [26]
CHAPTER 12
DAY 2
12:45 A.M. (CST)
“Move it, Rhodes!”
As Griff stepped onto the packed dirt of the Florence federal prison exercise yard, guard Donald Spinelli forced him forward using the butt of his nightstick and a single, well-placed jab against his lower spine. Griff stumbled, but fierce winds from the whirling blades helped to keep him from going down. Dust shooting into his eyes stung like sandpaper.
In the months since Griff had last worn his favorite pair of blue jeans, they had gone from comfortably snug to barely staying over his hips. The rotor-driven winds plastered his plaid flannel cowboy shirt against his once wiry, now near-skeletal frame.
The twin-engine helicopter lifted off the yard, touched down again momentarily. It was clear to Griff the pilot was in a rush and not about to stop the rotors. During his virus-hunting days, he had chartered helicopters from time to time back in Africa, but those were ragged machines, better equipped for falling than flying. This aircraft, though, reminded him of images he had seen of Marine One, with its dark green body and white top, American flags emblazoned on the engine casings.
UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS was painted in white on the chopper’s tail. Griff’s gut had knotted as soon as he realized his removal from the so-called Alcatraz of the Rockies might be a military action. It had been just over nine months since he had last been the focus of another military operation—his final moments of freedom until now.
So many changes.
His beard, a tangled mess of black streaked with gray, immediately collected a fine coating of prison yard dust. He wondered if, in addition to his dark memories of nine months in solitary confinement, that dirt would be all he would ever take away from Florence. It had to be. No matter what lay ahead, he wasn’t going back. Nine months chopped out of a life that had been built around doing the right thing and accepting the consequences for his decisions, such as the Ebola infection. Nine months during which there had been no human contact other than with guards bent on causing him pain. Nine months of confusion about why he had been imprisoned, or what future, if any, he had in store. Nine months during which the only clue he had in that regard was the label Terrorist.
Griff had barely stepped inside the helicopter bay door when he felt the aircraft begin to lift. A soldier, dressed in well-pressed military camouflage, handed him a jet-black flight helmet, then guided him into an unpadded seat. Griff strapped himself in and took one last look out the helicopter’s oval window at Florence, shuddering at the gun towers and concrete block, framed with barbwire, now fast fading from view. He wondered if anyone watching from inside except for the warden and a few guards even knew his name.
Terrorist.
The built-in radio inside his helmet allowed Griff to hear the soldier seated across from him over the engine’s roar.
“Dr. Griffin Rhodes, my name is Captain Timothy Lewis, with the United States Marine Corps. By order of the president of the United States of America, it is my honor to welcome you aboard this VH-60N aircraft.”
“Tell the president that nothing he does is going to get me to change my vote.”
The marine smiled. “I think you’ll get the chance to do that yourself, sir.”
“Actually, now that I think about it, I never got the chance to vote at all. In fact, I don’t even know who won the election?”
“I’m sorry, sir. It was President Allaire. He won again, by quite a wide margin, too.”
Allaire.
Griff stared out at the blackness. Of all the theater of the absurd scenarios he had lived through, this military removal from solitary confinement in a supermax federal prison had to be the most bizarre.