Kindle Edition Category:  Action/Thriller Publisher: Strategic Book Group Type: Fiction Pages: 292 Copyright: 2010 ISBN-13: 9781609114336 In an attempt to quickly end an unpopular war, the president signs a paper authorizing the use of germ warfare. A pilot recognizes the bombs being loaded onto his plane as anthrax and shares this with a friend. This conversation is observed by the “wrong person” and the cover-up begins. Later when it is discovered that two of the anthrax bombs are missing, more people get involved in trying to cover up the incident. The bombs are smuggled off base and into the United States where terrorists accidentally release some of the anthrax. With anthrax illness showing up on two continents, the CDC and Dr. Cassandra Williams get involved. Also involved are politicians and a secret military group that want to hide the US involvement in the crisis at all costs. Law enforcement and the CDC are trying to locate the terrorists before they can deploy the second bomb. This is a book that all should read, especially in today’s unsettled world where anything could disrupt peace and every day living.  Tranquility Initiative gives the scenario of anthrax being spread across the world, started by The United States through a secret project.  While it is fiction you will find yourself shuddering every time the danger of anthrax and the individuals hurt before a grueling death it places within a human.  The story tells just how easy it would be to spread such a fatal disease by several humans working together to steal one or more of these anthrax bombs and drop it to kill as many people as they possibly could at almost any location where it would kill the most.  The anthrax was first spread by The United States in a nation called Astrakhan ten years after the turn of the twenty-first century.  The death in Astrakhan was devastating dropping people that never knew what had attacked them or who did the attacking.  Supposedly top United States government officials secretly planned and carried out this genocide after Europe fell apart and was being controlled by the Nations of Islam united.  Two pilots noticed the red, white, and blue coloring on some strangely shaped bombs that were being loaded into their airplane.  It reminded them of years past when their parents and grandparents told of germ warfare, but this couldn’t be that since it was outlawed by past presidencies.  But the closer they came to taking off and dropping those “different” looking bombs, the more they worried about what they were about to do.  They did not want to kill innocent people.  A few of these bombs were stolen with no one certain they actually disappeared.  However, when anyone responsible for handling, transporting, or dropping these bombs started to vanish, it got very strange; they were found dead or disappeared.  The CDC was notified about the anthrax and Dr. Cassandra Williams was brought into New York where the anthrax was now appearing.  Meanwhile the families of the ones that released the anthrax in New York City became sick as well as the bombers themselves.  They still had one more they had to set off so the race began against death.  An unknown government official had to be involved in this but that person was not known.  A United States Senator, Richland Powell, was also involved assisting Dr. Williams in tracking down the source of the disease.   This book will blow your mind away.  When one thinks it couldn’t happen here, the reading of this book will change your mind.  Those that would hurt us for any reason will find a way around anybody and anything to make that hurt come about.  I highly recommend this book.  I compliment Joan Meijer on her writing.  It is very complex without leaving the reader behind.   Review written by Cy Hilterman of a book supplied by the author Excerpt Prologue 1 Wars were the inevitable result of the destabilization of the Middle East. They were small wars as wars go; bloody, destructive, battles waged between ethnic groups in the wake of the American invasion of Iraq and its subsequent defeat at the hands of the insurgents. Even with the emergence of dictators, who kept their mutual hatreds and suspicions in check for a time, the differences between ethnic groups and religious factions could not be held in check forever. Now those differences emerged with new vigor. The wars that were the creation of religious leaders hoping for bigger power bases, focused the people's attention on the grievances of their divisive past at the expense of any hope for a prosperous future. Brushfire after brushfire flared up throughout even relatively stable Middle Eastern nations. Before long, they had traveled up into the Muslim areas of the former Soviet Union. They spread in all directions, until they came at last to the sixteenth century Tartar strongholds in the ancient war zone that surrounded the historic city of Astrakhan. The members of the European Economic Community and NATO, threatened by their own Muslim communities, were determined to avoid involvement at all cost. Burned by the Wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and wary of their own huge Islamic populations, they steadfastly refused to be dragged into the swirling vortex of ethnic dissention playing out in ever widening circles on their eastern flank. They chose instead to let the various factions settle their differences among themselves. The predictable result was genocide. Then, ten years after the turn of the 21st Century, the bloody skirmishes took on a whole new significance. The Nation of Islam united and began to ascend outside the Middle East. When it became obvious that the bottom third of the former Soviet Union was falling under the influence of the Iranian mullahs, Europe became restless. As the Jihad nibbled at the corners of the western world once again, Europe went on the defensive. The United States became involved in what became known as the Astrakhan War, by increments. It had all looked good on paper; a UN Peacekeeping profile, with the support of NATO, doing the right thing to prevent world war. Americans joined their allies in an all out effort to contain the threat to the European way of life. There was worldwide agreement that something had to be done and, if done in concert, would naturally be victorious. Once again, American mothers sent their children to fight on the side of right. Once again, the leaders of the free world were dead wrong. The concept of peace through war only works when the countries seeking to interfere in the affairs of another country are, and continue to be, committed to the fight. In a religious war, people who lack fanaticism are at a decided disadvantage. As the Astrakhan Intervention dragged on, the American population was once again faced with a test of its resolve. 9/11 was a distant memory, and without a similar catalyst, Americans could not see the point of protecting the citizens of a country thousands of miles from home. What had started as a firm desire to do the right thing became a grinding intervention in the kind of civil unrest that would not go away. Taxes were raised, the balancing of the budget was put on hold, body bags began to flood into hometowns and the people took to the streets. It was now six years after America had stepped into the Astrakhan Intervention and tear gas flooded American streets with increasing regularity. President Charles Boynton Anderson's election four years earlier had been the war's repudiation. Anderson had campaigned to end the bloodshed and bring the troops home. Americans had flocked to the polls and, despite the fact that polls showed that 63% of the electorate didn't trust his ethics; they had elected Anderson by a landslide. The American voter had spoken. But ending a war without victory is a daunting task for a politician. Three years after his election, Anderson found himself bogged down in a bloody, costly conflict that would not end. In January, Anderson had begun to face concerns for his own reelection. As early primary results came in, the President was made painfully aware that the American public, urged on by a stable of hungry candidates, was holding him responsible for the nation’s continued involvement in Astrakhan. It didn't take rocket science to figure out that if he did not take some drastic measure, he would be without a job in November. He needed a final solution to the Astrakhan War, and he needed it badly. 2 The group of five met with the President in one of the smaller conference rooms on the second floor of the White House in late January, three months into the official campaign for reelection. The group consisted of Secretary of Defense Wellington Duke, Secretary of State Harry Eklesburg, Vice President Wynne Jackson, Chief of Staff Donald Finnegan and Special Counsel Roger Farley. The five sat in comfortable chairs around a long, mahogany conference table. The subject of their meeting was to find a way to end the Astrakhan engagement. The President spent much of the afternoon staring at the demonstrators beyond the fence that marked the demarcation line between himself and the protestors that dogged him wherever he went. He hated the demonstrators, he hated the press, and he hated the war in Astrakhan. He wanted a second term so that he could pursue a domestic agenda he felt more suited to lead. He was painfully aware that if he didn't find a way out of the Astrakhan debacle, he would become a second Lyndon Johnson, with everything he believed he had accomplished diminished by Astrakhan. "You'd think I started this damn war," he muttered, as he turned from the window and returned to the group. There was a murmur of denial in the room. It came from good manners rather than conviction – they all knew the country held the administration responsible for the continuation of Astrakhan. "Fill them in, Don. Tell them what my polls are saying today," Charles Anderson growled, returning to his chair, a picture of frustration. Donald Finnegan, a muscle-bound man with a military bearing, looked at each of the people the room individually before he spoke. He had mastered the fine art of leading from the position of second-in-command during his service in the Special Forces, and he was good at his job. Nothing stood in the way of his perceived responsibilities. He was ruthless, running the White House like a military unit. He was generally recognized as one of the most effective Chiefs of Staff in a long line of effective men who had held that position. Finnegan referred to a sheaf of papers that carried comparison polls for the last four presidencies. The hands that held the papers were strong, thick and blunt. On the third finger of his left hand, Finnegan wore a distinctive ring embedded with a dark, blue stone carved with an ancient crest in its center – the crest of the ancient house of Medici. The ring looked out of place on his massive paw, but it was his treasure, and he wore it with pride. "The polls have been lower for other Presidents at this stage of the campaign, Mr. President," he reported in his stiff, military way. "Presidents who were reelected?" Charles Anderson asked, knowing the answer. "No. But anything can happen." They'd had this conversation before. "If you brought the bastards to the table you'd be a shoo in." "So Harry, what's happening with the negotiations?" The president fixed his Secretary of State with an accusatory glare. Harry Eklesburg had a pretty good idea whose head would roll if the president didn't start to do better in the polls. "They won't agree to the shape of the table," Eklesburg replied defensively. It was a gratuitous statement. Everyone knew that the insurgents wouldn't agree to the shape of the table. Round, oval, square, rectangle, there weren't that many shapes to choose from, and the insurgents had rejected them all. "Damn it! How can a bunch of third world camel fuckers be so God damn stubborn?" the president demanded, pounding the table with frustration. "Maybe they're reading our press," Eklesburg replied, "and those war protestors out there aren't exactly helping matters." He wanted everyone in the room to know that the failure of the peace talks wasn't his fault; not that it would matter. The president rose and went to the window again. "Just like Vietnam and Iraq," he muttered, before rounding on the members of his unfortunate inner circle. "Well, I'm not going to become a Lyndon Johnson or a George Bush. I want a way out of this with some kind of a victory, gentlemen." "There is a way...." Wellington Duke ventured, his voice hesitant, uncertain. "What way?" The president asked, without turning away from the window. "Excuse me, gentlemen," Vice President Jackson drawled, his discomfort obvious to everyone at the table. If Wellington Duke was uncomfortable about a suggestion, Wynne Jackson didn't want to hear about it. "I have a press conference in ten minutes with the 4-H Clubs of Iowa. I don't think we can afford to have me stand them up in an election year." "Yes of course, Wynne," the president's disdain-laden words filling the room as he glared at the man he'd been forced to choose as a running mate. "You'd be much better off with the 4-H Clubers than deciding national policy." The vice president ignored the cutting words, gathered his papers, and made ready to leave. "Mr. President. Gentlemen," he said, his strong southern accent filling the room. No one said another word until the door had closed behind him. "Putz," the president muttered at the closed door. "Too bad we can't replace him before the election." "He's got better polls in the south and west than you have," Finnegan reminded him. "I know. I know. Don't think I haven't thought of that a hundred times. I didn't say I would replace him, I said I wanted to." Charles Anderson let an uncomfortable silence build in the room before returning to the subject that had driven his Vice President to the eager faces of Iowa’s 4-H’ers. "Now, where were we?" "The initiative is called Tranquillity..." Duke wasn't certain of himself. He wasn't sure he liked what he was about to propose. He could never quite remember how this idea had come about in the first place. Someone had mentioned it in a high-level discussion and it had seemed like an interesting concept when he'd first heard it, but now he wasn’t so certain. "Nice name, Tranquillity," the President spat, venting his displeasure with the vice president at the nearest available target. "It's a synonym for peace," Duke said. Then he paused to let the president chew on the concept for a minute. "It can't be done without your authorization, of course..." He was skating around the issue, spewing half sentences, trying to avoid telling the president exactly what he would be agreeing to, while at the same time, appearing to brief him. Sometimes the president didn't really want to know everything about the proposals his advisors brought him, and Duke thought this might be one of those times. "Is it legal?" the president joked. Duke knew it wasn't legal at all. "Well..." The president caught on quickly. He waived his hand to indicate that he was much too busy to listen to a lengthy briefing. "Spare me the details. What do I have to do?" "You have to..." Duke hesitated again. The idea seemed less and less viable the closer he got to actually putting it into words. "Duke brought over a disk with a draft Finding on it," Finnegan cut in, sparing the Secretary of Defense the agony of explaining to the president that he was proposing a gross violation of International Law. "I'll have Mrs. Stevens bring it up on her computer and make copies for your review. If you like it, we can finalize it and you can sign it this afternoon." "A Finding?" the president asked. He could never get used to the jargon that they spouted around the White House. Although a Finding sounded like permission to conduct an investigation, and may indeed have started out that way, it actually covered a great deal more ground than that and gave authorization to carry out whatever the president instructed. "Authorization only. You don't need all the details," Finnegan hastened to reassure him. "You're sure it's legal?" the president asked again, voicing the question that everyone wanted left unspoken. "It'll save thousands of lives..." Finnegan's calming voice drew the president's attention back to the justification to which they would ultimately resort. The president didn't have a very long attention span. While he was a natural-born political animal, he wasn't a smart man, and lengthy discussions bored him. His greatest skill had been appointing smart men to support him, although that had been very much the doing of the people who backed him. He was run by shadows, but he didn't know it. Good luck had kept him out of any real trouble so far. That was about to change. "Well then, let's get on with it," Charles Anderson said, looking at his watch. They were hosting a dinner for the French Ambassador in an hour, and he still had to get dressed. 3 Donald Finnegan let himself into his private inner sanctum and went straight to the phone. The late afternoon sun that streamed through the window glinted off his distinctive ring, casting golden circles on the walls. In another office, a different hand wearing a matching ring pushed the talk button. That hand had been scarred by shrapnel years before in another war. The metal splinter had entered the palm and blown out its center; a crucifixion wound, the doctors had joked as they struggled to bring the mangled bones into a semblance of working order. "Yes?" the soft voice on the other end of the phone drawled. "He signed the Finding," Finnegan reported. "Good," the voice replied. "Follow through on this as soon as you can, Colonel." "Yes Sir," Finnegan replied. Chapter 1 The Beginning Turkey, March 15th 1 Chaos reigned at the Black Sea Base just outside the Turkish city of Trabzon. It was the organized chaos of early morning bombing runs in which thousands of men pushed themselves to meet the demands of another day of war. "Did you ever notice," Billy Williams yelled to Derek Kingsley, his voice barely audible in the wash of jet engines, "that everything seems quiet at the center of your own universe?" "What?" Kingsley shouted back. "Did you ever notice..." Williams replied, raising his voice. "What?" "Nothing!" Williams held up his hands and waved them back and forth in the traditional Air Force signal to abort. Both men grinned companionably. They had lived with the roar of jets for years. The sound was to them what the clacking keys of a computer were to an office worker. Twenty yards down the parking area a tractor, pulling a flat bed lightly loaded with what appeared to be red, white and blue bowling pins, threaded its way between waiting planes. It stopped beside one of the bombers in Williams' squadron and the driver jumped down. Something about the tractor caught Williams' eye and he reached out to stop Kingsley. "Hey, Derek, look at that," Williams said, indicating the tractor. "Look at what?" Kingsley asked, trying to figure out what had caught Williams' attention. "Those bombs... They look exactly like..." He moved closer to the slowly moving tractor and snagged a bomb casing for inspection. When he looked up, his body was nearly bouncing with excitement, "Hey, my granddad's bombs." "What're you talkin' about?" "Look...See that marking? 'Tranquillity'." When Kingsley still didn't comprehend the significance of his discovery, Williams pulled at his sleeve and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. "It's a germ warfare delivery system. Really nasty stuff. Pulmonary anthrax. Nearly 100% fatal." "Can't be," a petulant sound of annoyance crept into Kingsley's voice. "Why not?" "The U.S. gave up germ warfare ages ago. Nixon signed a treaty, remember?" "It was an executive order, and of course I remember. How could I forget?" He weighed the flag-colored bomb in his hands, turning it first one way and then another. "It was the centerpiece of every family dinner conversation. First they signed the order, and then they found a way around it. Called it creating vaccines. My grandfather was royally pissed. He had a big fight with the power structure and it was bye-bye high security clearance - hello consulting. That’s why we lived in Connecticut instead of Maryland." Derek stared at his friend, "You never told me about that." "I try to forget it. Of course Granddad never got out of the anthrax business completely and Dad followed in his footsteps. I mean anthrax is what he does, but still..." "Anthrax is a business?" Kingsley's skeptical smile irked Billy Williams. "You'd be amazed at how many anthrax epidemics there are in the world. My dad's always flying off to Timbuktu or some other obscure place to try and save a bunch of elephants or something. If it wasn’t for anthrax, I’d probably be married and raising children today." "What’s anthrax got to do with procreation?" "I don’t know, but it sounds good," Billy laughed, admiring the bomb in his hand. "Aren’t we still under treaty not to use this shit?" Kingsley asked, looking closely at the bomb, which loosely resembled a flag-colored bowling pin with fins. "Yeah, but they're using it anyway. I know this bomb, Derek. See, light as a feather. Space-age plastic. The same science that helped develop the lunar module now brings you hand-held bombs. Of course they’re not designed to be deployed by hand, but they could be. My granddad designed them with this shape for ease of handling. See, there’s nothing to it because it has a neck instead of being a heavy cylinder. And look... look here. It's meant to open at the base. See?" He held the bomb in one hand as he demonstrated the way the maw of the bomb opened. "Just like a cootie catcher." Etched into the base of the bomb, Kingsley could clearly see the grooves that formed the four-pronged mouth that would swing open when the projectile reached the altitude at which it would be programmed to deploy. "More like a cootie catcher after someone punched it in the nose," Kingsley grumbled. "Well, it has to be able to stand on end for storage. It’s weighted at the base and see, look here..." Williams flipped open the rounded top end of the bomb, just above the fins and offered Kingsley a view of bright orange silk carefully folded inside the core, "It even has a little parachute to slow its decent – gives the contents time to disperse across a broader area. Neat, huh?" "Neat," Kingsley's voice holding a caustic edge. "Really Derek, I'd know this bomb in my sleep. I've probably assembled and disassembled this casing ten thousand times. This bomb was my first exposure to learning how to fold parachutes. We used to drop it out the attic window." He rapped his knuckles against the swollen base of the bomb. "Dad used to have models like this all over the house. I probably still have a couple in the attic in my old toy box." "You have a toy box in the attic?" "Sure, Mom and Dad save everything. It's part of their strategy for family stability," Billy laughed. As much to silence his friend as for any other reason, Kingsley called out to the driver of the tractor, "Hey...Hey, King. Who you loadin' up with this shit?" Airman Irving "King" Cole turned slowly, allowing his ebony face to split into a broad, gold-toothed grin, "You, sir." "Shit man, I don't want to drop germs!" The sudden knot that cramped Kingsley’s stomach came as a complete surprise. He had been trained not to feel fear, and the sensation annoyed him. "Don't worry, you'll be safe, Derek," Williams grinned, lifting his eyebrows and winking in complicity at the corporal. "You'll be up in the air. Not like King here, waiting around on the ground. Don't you wish you were a flier, King?" But Derek Kingsley was not going to be distracted. "Man, how come we're dropping germs?" "Because we're in Vietnam III or is it Iraq War II. Haven't you noticed that the black hats are winning?" "But what if we get caught? Shit! I'm not the type to commit atrocities." "Don't worry, nobody'll find out," said Williams, clearly enjoying himself. He pointed to the neck of the bomb, noting, "Self destruct mechanism, incendiary. This baby will burn like a mother once it’s deployed its contents." He gave Kingsley his most innocent look, holding his hands out to the side and shrugging his shoulders, "Hey man, what bombs?'" Kingsley refused to be teased away from his concerns. Even if orders were orders, he didn't feel right about doing something that was definitely illegal. "I thought we weren't supposed to drop this kind of shit," he said, listening to himself whine and feeling his temper rise in response. Williams turned serious. "Listen Derek, because this is really important. Not only does America like to win, but we've got all the toys to do it with. This is a reelection year, don't forget. No third world country should be able to take on our kind of technology and live to tell about it, and if they're stupid enough to try, we simply bring in the tough stuff. It's the modern American way. This is a little more blatant than napalm, Agent Orange and Whiskey Pete, but it's basically the same thing." "I don't believe that for a minute, Billy," Kingsley's temper flaring. "You're damned unpatriotic." "Believe it," Williams said, as he moved in the direction of the cockpit. "For Chris' sake Derek, the U. S. of A. trooped into Grenada and called it a war. Believe it." Kingsley opened his mouth to respond, but Billy Williams stopped him, grabbed his shoulders and looked deep into his eyes, his face fixed and grim. "Derek, who the hell is gonna ask questions when a backward area like Astrakhan develops an anthrax epidemic? Nobody's gonna think it was a bomb, not when the whole place is full of goatherds and sheep. Even if they do think germ warfare, they'll probably think it's Russian issue. We've been systematically destroying Astrakhan’s infrastructure for years. Disease like this is a natural. There's nothing down there but ruined farms and unsanitary conditions. It's the perfect set up, the perfect way to end the war. I admit, it's a bitch, but it's perfect. Just think of it in terms of American lives saved. I'm certain that's how the brass is justifying it. We dropped the A-bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki to save American lives, remember?" Williams turned away from his stunned friend and fit the bomb back in its slot on the tractor. "But there are people down there," Kingsley persisted. "women, kids, old people." "Muslims, the people that dared to take us on in Iran and Iraq and brought down the World Trade Center. They’re daring to move into areas previously dominated by light-skinned Christians, and that’s a no-no. Make no mistake about it, Derek, America and its allies are fighting the next great Holy War and they don't intend to lose." "Fuck that!" Kingsley grumbled. "You think you're so smart Billy Boy, how come they took a chance on you seeing these things? I mean they had to think there'd be an outside chance you'd recognize your family’s handiwork." Billy grinned happily. "One of two things. No, one of three things. One: I recognize the bomb and they know I don't give a shit about it one way or another. Two: I never see the bomb. Three: I'm expendable. Which means you are also expendable and so is King Cole and this wing and maybe even the base." "Fuck that!" "Yeah, I sure hope they know I don't give a shit, because if the ubiquitous they are watching, they know by now that I've recognized my grampa's little play toy and told you about it, and that King has overheard what I'm saying and God knows who he'll tell." 2 Airman King Cole fervently wished he had not overheard the conversation between Williams and Kingsley. It was none of his business if Kingsley was throwing a fit of conscience. Kingsley was right, of course – being given the job of dropping bombs he hadn't been briefed about was a bitch. Cole said a prayer of thanks that his job was to load the damn bombs. For once he was glad that he didn't have to make the decision to drop them. After he had finished settling the last of the four Tranquillity canisters inside the bomb bay onto tracks that would roll them over openings through which they could deploy, he flashed the pilot and his navigator a smile, flicked a casual salute, and continued on to the next plane. He was a simple man; nevertheless, the conversation bothered him. 3 Across the tarmac, from the window of an office that looked out on the airfield, Colonel Mark Sloan watched Billy Williams make his discovery. "Damn," he muttered with a touch of sadness, as he saw the Williams boy pick up the Tranquillity bomb and demonstrate its deployment characteristics to Derek Kingsley. As he slid his binoculars into their case, the sun caught the bright reflection of the distinctive, dark, blue and gold, signet ring that identified him as a member in good standing of the Medici Group. "Damn!" he said again, as he turned toward the secure phone on his desk. 4 "I still say it's illegal to drop germs," Derek Kingsley groused as he followed Billy Williams into the nose of the Cassandra. The B-52 bomber, with its complement of airmen, was a relic of World War II, but its design so effective, it had weathered more than 50 years of advances in technology. "Get real, Derek, illegal is what you get caught doing," chided Williams as he slid into his seat, pulled his harness across his shoulders and around his legs and fastened it against his chest. "Man, you are one jaded motherfucker, you know that?" Williams grinned while reciting the statement he had repeated as a litany for as long as he could remember: "Comes of belonging to a family where the Daddy plays with nasty little bugs for the good of humanity." "Shit, Billy, you ever going to get sick of saying that?" Kingsley asked, as he fastened his own harness and busied himself with the pre-flight check. He knew his annoyance wasn't with Williams, but it spilled out in that direction anyway. "Nahhhhh, it's too good a line." "Cassie told me your Dad was a medical doctor," Kingsley noted, while reaching forward and snapping on the switches, a prelude to starting the engines. "That's right Derek. A medical doctor who, by working to develop vaccines, significantly advanced development of a new anthrax bacilli to be used in germ warfare by the U.S. Armed Services," Billy said, while performing his own series of checks. "Like I said, he's an anthrax expert like his daddy before him. He's passionate about those little buggers. Can you believe he has a complete anthrax collection? You show him a sample and he can identify which epidemic it came from by year and country. Of course it takes a little while, but he can do it eventually. Wait'll he gets hold of this little epidemic, it'll knock his socks off." "Man, I just hate the idea of dropping stuff I wouldn't want to land in." Kingsley looked at the instruments overhead, automatically registering their readings and checking them off against his list. "Cheer up, Derek. Remember, ours is not to reason why..." Williams threw his head back and with a hoot of laughter finished his own version of the gladiator's salute, "...Ours is just to up and fly." "Read me your list, will you? I don't want to have to land in that stuff because we neglected something important," Kingsley mumbled. Sounding cranky, even to himself. 5 "Are you on a secure line?" the familiar voice of his Control filled Colonel Mark Sloan's ear. "Scrambler," Sloan replied. "What happened?" "Billy Williams successfully identified Tranquillity, Sir." "You know what to do. Why are you calling me?" "He made the ID in front of an airman who was loading the plane." "I see. You think the airman has been compromised?" "Yes sir." "You take care of Williams, we'll handle the rest. And Colonel..." "Yes sir?" "Good work." "Thank you sir." 6 Once they had turned their minds from the issue of Tranquillity to the task at hand, it seemed only moments before Billy Williams and Derek Kingsley had completed their pre-flight check and were ready to roll. Concentration, as always, accelerated the passage of time. The engines were warmed and the ground crew, wearing ear protection and carrying wands, directed them out of their parking area into the line of planes waiting to takeoff. In accordance with a ritual established nearly a year before, Kingsley patted the picture which he had lovingly pasted on the instrument panel. The photograph showed a young, blond woman whose great blue eyes stared frankly and directly at the lens of the camera. If she hadn't been dressed in the white coat of a doctor, her otoscope clearly visible in her left breast pocket, the woman might have been mistaken for a prom queen or a Hollywood starlet. "At least your sister isn't like you, Billy. She saves lives." "Yeah, unless you're a rat or a guinea pig, then watch out." Williams was tapping a gauge on the panel before him. He was well aware of Kingsley's growing obsession with Doctor Cassandra Williams of the Centers for Disease Control, and thought the whole idea very funny. Kingsley chose to ignore Williams, and murmured to the picture, puckering his lips as he spoke, "Hey, baby-cakes, four more weeks and we're home. And when I come home we're gonna talk about getting married," he said, touching his fingers to the picture and then turning to Williams, instructing him, "Pat Doctor Cassie, Billy." "I'm not supposed to pat my sister," Williams shot back, wondering where Kingsley could have gotten the idea that Cassandra would marry him. He liked Derek – the man was usually a lot of fun, but he was not in Cassandra's league. Billy Williams knew with certainty that his sister would only marry someone like herself, a mover-and-a-shaker, someone capable of changing the world. She might date Derek Kingsley, she might even sleep with him, but marriage – he didn't think so. He sighed as he pulled his helmet over his head, thinking to himself, as long as they didn't put him in the middle. "Pat her anyway, Billy, just for luck." Kingsley ordered. Absently, Billy reached forward and patted his sister's picture. "It's incestuous, you know." "You're patting her head, not her ass." "Hey, I was brought up right. You don't mess with your sister and you don't piss on the rug." Kingsley threw his head back, his explosion of laughter filling the cockpit just as they received permission from the tower to take off. His raucous laughter blended with the sound of racing engines as the heavily laden bomber, bristling with weapons of offense, began to roll down the runway. He was still laughing when the plane, clawing for air, turned toward the southwest corner of the Black Sea, and then began to climb in anticipation of crossing the towering snow-capped Caucasus Mountains. They were on their way to Astrakhan. 7 Behind the Cassandra, a swept-wing fighter, carrying the tight-faced Colonel, soared into the sky. After it reached its appointed altitude, it too turned to cross the Black Sea. Hovering like the shadow of a giant bird of prey, it followed the bombers toward their meeting with destiny. 8 At the Black Sea Base, Airman Irving "King" Cole, had almost finished loading his allotment of Tranquillity bombs. His mind had been unusually busy as he reviewed the conversation between Williams and Kingsley. It was a conversation that he fervently wished he hadn't heard. He had been so busy thinking about the ramifications of using germ warfare, he hadn't paid much attention to what he was doing. This was why it wasn't until he reached the last plane in the second group that he noticed the missing bombs. He had stopped his tractor when he reached that plane, dismounted and begun to manhandle his payload into place. As he worked, he wondered if he could get anthrax from handling just the casings. He hadn't liked being teased about being on the ground one little bit. It was only when he automatically reached for the third bomb in the group of four, and found the space empty, that he noticed he was short. He stopped, a puzzled look flitting across his face. He counted the bombs in the bay, counted the remaining bombs, and then counted again. "Something wrong, Airman?" His supervisor, a robust man with a growing paunch and an air of self-assurance, strode over to find out what was going on. He had read Cole's body language correctly and automatically put a reassuring hand on the young man's shoulder. "I'm short two bombs, Sergeant," Cole reported. Then, remembering the nature of the bombs, he felt a tug of fear in his gut. He wondered if his Sergeant knew what the bombs contained, wished he had the ability to read minds, regretted his own knowledge. He considered whether he should report what he had overheard and decided against it. Better not admit to knowing anything. Sometimes knowledge could be a dangerous thing. "The flag-colored bombs?" The Sergeant’s air of self-assurance ominously transformed to a look of deep concern. Without conscious thought, his eyes turned to follow the departing planes. "What'd you do Airman, fill up one too many holes?" "You know I can't do that, Sergeant. The system's idiot-proof," Cole smiled depreciatingly, a look of misery flashing momentarily across his normally happy face. "Develop' for people jus' like me." "Don't you talk like that, Airman. There's probably a good explanation, but I think we better report the incident right away jus' in case there ain't," his sentence ended with a nervous laugh. "Know what I mean?" Cole thought for a moment, Billy Williams' conversation with Derek Kingsley stark in his mind. "Sergeant, we both know that bomb might'a never even got sent here. I didn't count how many I had on the flat 'fore I loaded, there ain’t that many. Jus' assumed that I had four bomb sets for each of my planes, like always. I guess I am an ass, assumin’ an' all, but you know how things go missin' aroun' here. Make a big fuss and six months later somebody tells us the damn thing was never packed. Or maybe it got misrouted to Wiesbaden. Losses with the inventory all along the line ain't nothin' new." "Yeah, I know how things go missin', an' I also know how things go missin' aroun' here, what did get sent and wasn't los' in inventory. Things that end up in the black-market in Istanbul." "You see anyone around you?" "Well, because I had to attach the flats to the tracks, I didn’t have my eyes on the tractor for periods of time. I mean almos’ anyone could’ve walked by. These bombs aren’t big or heavy." "Like I said, you report it, Airman. I don't want nothin' goin' los’ on my shift what din't get reported." "Yes Sergeant." 9 At the same time that Airman Cole discovered his missing bombs, one of the recruits, hired locally to perform low-level manual labor around the base, slipped unobtrusively into the Quonset hut that served as a dining hall for non-military personnel. If anyone had questioned his presence in the hut, he was prepared to say that he had come to use the toilet. The Americans, despite a great deal of evidence to the contrary, would have found that to be a reasonable answer. Still burdened by feelings of superiority, they hardly noticed the native workers at all. They certainly never noticed that the native workers considered American toilets unsanitary. No self-respecting local would risk sitting on a toilet to which hundreds of men had exposed their private parts. The Americans never noticed that the natives avoided using their bathrooms whenever possible. If they did notice, they thought the natives stupid. For their part, the GIs found the holes in the floor that the natives preferred unsanitary and primitive. In typical fashion, the Americans naturally supposed that these primitive people would welcome their modern inventions as a matter of choice. The excuse of using the rest rooms would never be questioned by most of the men wearing the American uniform. According to his records in the administration office, the young man, dressed in the color-coded coveralls of a porter, was a civilian who had been recruited from the nearby city of Trabzon. In reality, he had been raised in the suburbs of Astrakhan and had traveled to Trabzon to live with his cousin at the onset of the American action. Because he was wall-eyed, and darker than most of their local recruits, he appeared unintelligent to the Americans. They never looked at him twice. In the far corner of the Quonset hut, near the exit reserved for garbage collection, the young man unobtrusively removed the two red, white and blue Tranquillity bombs from a regulation canvas shoulder bag. It was a familiar bag, one that he – like the other native workers – used for picking up garbage around the base. Quickly and skillfully, he transferred the flag-colored bombs to the ragged native carrying case in which he stored his civilian clothes and his lunch. It was a tight fit getting them in, but he managed. Stealing from the U.S. Air Force was a well-organized activity at this base. The young man and his friends had been taking bits and pieces of armament for months. To date, he had been most proud of the small surface-to-air missile he had managed to spirit off the base. He had believed that a theft of such gigantic proportions would probably remain the high water mark of his life. He had not counted on the portability of Tranquillity. Within minutes of the successful transfer of both bombs to his ragged bag, a garbage truck – reeking of rot – appeared on the black-tar road that connected the service entrance to the various buildings at the north end of the base. Pulling up to the back of the Quonset hut, its driver jumped out and hurried around to the back of the stinking vehicle. "Let me help you," the porter said, as he stepped out of the shadow of the door, rolling a large canister in front of him. The driver, also dressed in distinctive coveralls, which had been color-coded to identify him as a "driver," lifted the ragged case from the porter's shoulder and walked toward the cab of the truck. "First, let me put this away," he said quietly. With the ease of great practice, he pulled the back of the driver's seat forward and slid the case into the narrow gap behind it. Carefully, he pushed the case forward so that it disappeared under the driver’s seat. Next, he pulled a bag of rags and a fire extinguisher from behind the passenger seat to hide the hole into which he had just slipped the bombs. If anyone looked, it would be hard to see the space. As soon as the case and its contents were securely hidden, he returned the driver’s seat to its upright position and walked once more to the back of his stinking truck to help his comrade finish depositing the garbage-filled canisters on the bed of the vehicle. To anyone watching, the scene would have appeared completely normal. The driver never hurried, never appeared to be more than casually concerned about the battered case. He moved to hide his contraband as if tucking something under his seat was an integral part of his real job, as normal as everything else he did during the day. It wasn't long before the garbage truck was loaded and was making its way down the service road. From his place at the side of the Quonset hut, the porter watched the truck disappear around a corner. When the truck had turned down the road that would take it outside the base, the porter pushed himself away from the wall and walked back into the hut to retrieve his canvas army issue bag. As he walked, he allowed his shoulders to slouch forward and his glance to return to the ground. His diverging eyes, which missed nothing, seemed only to be searching for the bits and pieces of civilization that the Americans left behind. The man who noticed everything, was absolutely unnoticeable to most of the people at the base. He went about his business unchallenged, undisturbed, and unaware that he had just set up the possibility for striking the mightiest blow against his enemy that his hidden army would ever dream of. What he had done would make The World Trade Center bombings seem like nothing, in terms of casualties and terror. 10 In his truck, the driver looked around the cab to assure himself that everything appeared normal. He smiled when he saw how cluttered and disorganized every inch of the cab seemed. It was a smile so rare that those who knew him well would have instantly realized that something was going down. Once long ago, he had smiled, all the time, "a smiling fool," his friends had called him. The smile had worn deep grooves in the corners of his mouth. That had been then. He could not remember having smiled since the day his wife and sons had been caught in the bombing of the old city of Astrakhan. Though he had dug through the rubble with his bare hands until the flesh was ripped and his fingernails had torn off at the quick, there had not been enough left of them to bury. He would not have said that their deaths had made him more dedicated to the cause of freedom than he had been before they had died. He had always hated Americans. He hated them for their arrogance. He hated them for their power. He hated them because they had occupied Iraq, and tortured and humiliated in ways never imagined by Saddam Hussein. He hated them for their godlessness. Above all, he hated them for massacring the innocent in their quest to punish the guilty. No, he wouldn't have said that he was more of a fanatic because his wife and sons lay in unmarked graves beneath the rubble of their home. Their deaths had only made him smile less frequently and take greater risks. By the time he reached the service entrance at the north end of the base, the young man's face had resumed its normal, sullen look. "These natives," the pimple-faced enlisted man guarding the gate remarked, once the truck had passed through without a hitch, "Don't they ever smile?" "Probably doesn't get enough at home," his partner replied, laughter exploding in the wake of the truck. The guards would not live long enough to carry the guilt of their carelessness. 11 "Did you know that today is the Ides of March?" Billy Williams asked, making an adjustment to a fuel intake valve. "What the Hell is the Ides of March?" "Jesus, didn't they teach you anything in school? 'Beware the Ides of March...?' Julius Caesar was killed on the Ides of March, remember now?" "Shakespeare's equivalent of Bad Day at Black Rock, huh?" Derek Kingsley loved to pretend not to know the things that Williams talked about, as it was guaranteed to get a rise out of his friend. "Flack ahead," he reported, squinting into the thin, early morning light. Check the mix, will you Bill?" "'You are old father Williams, the young man said...'" Williams was off on a tangent. Derek didn't want to listen to the whole poem. "That's a quote, right?" "Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." "How come you and Cassie are so wild about quotes?" "It started as a family dinner game. Can you toggle that switch, Derek?" Billy pointed at a red switch slightly out of Billy’s reach and Derek pushed it back. "Thanks. We got a nickel tacked onto our allowance for every quote we could initiate correctly, a dime for every quote we could identify." Kingsley pushed his hand against his throat mike and reported, "We are now entering our target area." "In the beginning, we quoted simple stuff, Child's Garden of Verse, When We Were Very Young, Cat in the Hat, stuff like that. In the end we got pretty obscure," he said, reaching forward to play with a knob, listening for a change in the sound of his engines. "Cassandra got very good at it. Don't ever play quotes with Cassandra, Derek, she never loses." "I wouldn't dream of it. I'd never do anything that would make her think I was stupid." "Well, compared to Cassandra, all of us look a little stupid," Billy Williams retorted, reaching above his head to turn a knob. "She can't help it though, Derek, it's not her fault. She’s always been that way." "And don't forget pretty, she's real pretty... Beginning bombing run," Kingsley spoke into his throat mike, then half-turned toward Williams. "Sometimes I can't help wondering what those guys down there are thinking when we pass overhead." "They're thinking that those son-of-a-bitch Americans are back, damn their eyes!" Billy pushed the button that would alert his bombardier that they had reached their target. "Curses on their heads! That sort of thing." Kingsley flashed an uncomfortable grin at Williams. "Prepare to release bombs," he said into his mike. As the plane leveled out over the ancient city of Kabul, Kingsley took a deep breath; "Release bombs." "Bombs away." Williams pressed his nose against the Plexiglas at the side of the cockpit, "Well, there goes Tranquillity...'Breathe deep, while you sleep, breath deep - deep - deep-dee deep.'" "Hair. Shit, I loved that musical," Kingsley responded, pleased with himself. "'When the mooooon is in the seventh house...'" his singing halted abruptly. "I thought the Age of Aquarius was all about peace." "Have you ever heard the saying 'break down comes before break through?’" "No, I can't say that I have. Did you make that up?" "No. I quote, I don't create." 12 The four Tranquillity bombs drifted away behind the Cassandra. As they fell, their weighted, flag-colored bottoms worked to stabilize them in the correct position for payload distribution. At 200 feet, the tiny bright orange parachutes deployed and slowed their free fall. At 150 feet, the maw in the head of the bombs opened to deploy its contents. What appeared to be silver confetti emptied out of the hollow core and drifted toward earth. In the gentle morning breeze that blew off the mountains surrounding Astrakhan's long valley, the payload was carried over the houses of a sleepy population that scratched and stretched and blew life into the ashes of their cooking fires. Hidden among the pieces of foil, which were visible to the eye, the deadly, invisible, spore-hardened anthrax bacilli drifted toward the ruins that had once been the thriving city of Astrakhan. At 50 feet, the incendiary source within the core of the bombs ignited and in seconds the casings were engulfed in flame. The red, white and blue bomb burned brightly, blistering, twisting and blackening in the intense heat. The flames spread rapidly, enveloping first the ropes and then the parachutes in the conflagration. 13 Beyond the falling residue that had once been space age plastic, flack arched into the morning sky. The Cassandra flew onward, unperturbed by the armament which several wars ago would have been the bombing pilot's nightmare. Inside the cockpit, Derek Kingsley looked down across the coastal plains, mesmerized by the flack blooming below him. "Poor bastards, fighting Star Wars with World War II technology." In almost the same sentence, he reported into his radio, "Bombing run complete." "Don't feel too sorry, Derek. Our government probably sold them that shit to finance the next generation of weapons we use on them," said Billy, flattening his voice to reflect his sarcasm. "Returning to base." Kingsley shook his head. Billy Williams looked so young and innocent and sounded so old and jaded. "And if we didn't sell it to them, more than likely the bastards stole that stuff right off the base, which is another issue." Billy Williams wondered for a second where his youthful idealism had gone. He had grown cynical, before he'd grown a full beard. Maybe it had been because he had grown up playing with bombs. "Naaaa," Kingsley was saying, his thoughts still dwelling on the possibility of America selling weapons to the enemy, "they steal surface-to-air missiles off the base, they wouldn't waste their time on flack. Even they know it doesn't work, at least not real well." "Yeah, when we can guide a missile through an open window from a distance of three hundred miles or more, what does it matter if there's flack?" Bill Williams had been going over this argument with Derek Kingsley for months, and they hadn't resolved anything. "You have a point," Kingsley said, presenting his newest argument. "But if we can do that, why are we using germ warfare?" "Because, as usual, we've failed to factor the human element into the equation. These poor people believe in their cause so much they don't know they're dead yet and they won't give up." "They will now." "Maybe, and then again, maybe not," Billy replied. "This is Astrakhan, remember, it's ruled by tiny little warlords. Kill one warlord and there are several hundred more from his family or tribe waiting around to take pot shots at you." Kingsley looked out his own side window trying to see the breadth of the armament arching below him. "Man, I'd hate to be around to breathe what we just dropped." 14 Colonel Mark Sloan, his Medici ring sparkling in the early morning sun, was flying in the wake of the Cassandra. He had made his own run over Astrakhan and was now pulling up behind the clearly marked bomber. He rechecked the Cassandra's numbers to make certain he had the right plane. Sloan pressed his eyes against his sights and focused on the plane ahead. Without conscious direction, his finger tightened against the button that would release his heat-seeking missiles. "It's the Cassandra, all right," he mumbled to himself. "Damn shame that the Williams boy happened along when he did. Fine men, all of them." The slight movement of the plane in response to the release of its missiles was the only evidence that his weapons had been launched. 15 In the Cassandra's cockpit, the radar alarm shouted out its warning that a heat-seeking missile was approaching. The sound shot adrenaline into both pilot and co-pilot, raising their heart and breathing rates to a gallop. "What the – incoming. Where the Hell did that come from?" Kingsley craned his neck to see if he could spot the enemy. "Jesus, one of our guys is fuckin' shooting at us..." "Tranquillity," was William's tense reply, as his fingers moved with lightening speed to activate the plane's defenses. Behind the Cassandra, a plume of decoys spread their blossoms of hope, but the heat seeker had locked onto the Cassandra and would not be distracted, even as Kingsley jigged his plane this way and that in a vain attempt to escape its menace. "What the fuck are you saying?" The stick was alive in Derek Kingsley's hand. His tightly controlled voice seemed to fill the cockpit. "Whoever deployed Tranquillity thinks I give a shit," Billy Williams’ voice reflected a deep sadness and resignation. "You can't be serious. Mayday, Mayday, friendly fire. I repeat, friendly fire." Billy Williams found himself strangely quiet, isolating his racing thoughts from the somehow distant drama in the cockpit. His Dad would recognize this Anthrax, of course. Would they kill his Dad, too? Williams hoped not. He wasn't taking bets. "I can't... I can't..." Kingsley was screaming over the warning screech of his cockpit radar. "Eject...eject..." "'When a man is truly intent on killing you...'" Williams whispered, his instincts for survival moving his hands, even as his reasoning brain knew that, one way or another, he would not be allowed to live. Automatically, his mind found the correct attribution for the quote. "President John F. Kennedy, on the subject of someone trying to assassinate him." It was his last conscious thought. The heat-seeker made contact. In an instant, the Cassandra was reduced from a top-of-the-line fighting machine to a disorganized jumble of parts outlined by an expanding ball of flame. In a matter of minutes, what was left of the ruined plane had spiraled to the ground, trailing smoke and flame and landing in an insignificant puff. There was no sign of a parachute. 16 Irving "King" Cole was having a restless night. He hadn't heard a word about the last transmission Derek Kingsley had made just before his plane had been shot out from under him, but he was nervous anyway. Billy Williams had talked about being expendable and his plane hadn't come back. Did that mean that Irving Cole was expendable as well? He believed it did. When the plane didn't return, he had finally had a conversation with his Sergeant – no use being scared shitless all by yourself. Now he lay on his bunk staring at shadows on the darkened ceiling and wondering what it felt like to die. 17 Outside the barracks, the base was functioning at its lowest preparedness levels of the day. Sleepy men guarded boring posts at which nothing ever happened. The three supply trucks that made their way to the gate nearest the barracks were regulation in every way except for their time of arrival. "You're a little early," the guard said. "I wasn't expecting you until seven." He looked inside the cab half-heartedly searching for anything out of order. There was nothing to be seen. Neither the guard at the truck, nor the guard who had remained inside the gate house as backup, could see the silent shadow that slipped out of the back of the third truck and edged its way around toward the gate. "Change of orders," the man with the Medici ring, who was driving the first truck, replied. He handed the guard a thin stack of paper. "You know how it is." "Sure do," the guard grinned, glancing at the paperwork. Everything seemed to be in order, but his job would be on the line if he didn't question any changes of order that he hadn't been notified about. "I sure do wish they'd passed those changes on to me though. Make my life a lot easier. Want to wait here while I call in for clearance?" "No problem," the man from Medici said, just before he placed two silent rounds into the back of the guard's head. "Hey!" the guard inside the gatehouse yelled, his hand reaching for the red alarm button on the wall by the window. He felt something hot punch into his own back and realized that he had lost all feeling below his neck. "What the fu....." he managed. The last thing he saw was his hand falling just short of the button. The killer from the third truck moved to the door of the guardhouse. He lifted the still form of the dead guard and pulled the body out of sight. Quickly, he peeled off his dark gray jump suit. Beneath it, he was wearing the standard issue fatigues of a gate guard. He reached down, grabbed the dead man's cap, put it on his head and took the man's place at the gate. As if he belonged there, he pushed the button that lifted the wooden barrier and waved the trucks through. 18 Once inside the gates, the trucks moved toward the sidewalk to a point just in front of the barracks that housed ground personnel. The buildings were long and low, only two stories. In most places, they were separated by walkways. The Air Force, drawing on the experience of the Beirut bombing, had decided to make it more difficult to take out a living quarter with one suicide car bomb. But they hadn't learned that much – they still thought that keeping their men bunched together was a good idea. At Trabzon, they had built a long low series of buildings instead of compact living quarters several stories high. After the convoy had parked before the barracks, their drivers dismounted and walked away. If anyone had stopped them, they would have said that they were looking for the kitchen crew that they had expected to meet. But no one stopped them, and one by one, they simply vanished, putting as much distance between themselves and their handiwork as possible. In the deepening pre-dawn stillness, the road in front of the barracks was quiet and peaceful. 19 Irving "King" Cole still couldn't fall asleep. He had been tossing for hours. Finally he decided to look around. Maybe, if he could assure himself that nothing was wrong, he'd be able to catch a few Zs. He was on his way to the head when he happened to look out the window. Three trucks were ranged in front of each of the barracks on a road that should have been empty. Three trucks and not a driver in sight. Cole didn't waste a second. "Sergeant," he screamed. But he was too late. As he raced toward his sergeant's door, the trucks erupted. The force of the simultaneous explosions would have been enough to level the barracks without help. The blast was made worse by the funnel action of the alleys between the buildings which acted as chimneys. The chimney-like effect focused the force of the blast between the buildings, augmenting the wave of the explosion. Within seconds, buildings one through six had been leveled, while seven through ten were burning out of control. Irving Cole was dead in an instant. His head was torn from his body and every single bone was shattered. His parents would not know it, but all that would be buried in his flag-draped coffin were his distinctive golden teeth.

The Merry Genre Go Round Reviews
In a bid for a second term, President Charles Anderson must end the latest American Middle East war in Astrakhan. Like Iraq and Afghanistan, this endless conflict has cost lives and treasure, but mostly a tired American people. To insure victory at the ballot box, he must win in the Middle East where Muslims loath the invaders. His Medici Group advisors insist we avoid another humiliating retreat by deploying the Tranquility Initiative, which uses internationally banned anthrax as a weapon of mass destruction.
Terrorists steal two containers that they believe hold explosives from Trabzon Base in Turkey. They smuggle the boxes into New York City, but in Times Square they are surprised by what they find when they open the tightly sealed container; strips of aluminum foil with nothing else inside falls to the ground. The terrorists unwittingly introduce Anthrax that quickly spreads around the world from the most internationally tied city. CDC anthrax expert Doctor Cassandra Williams and New York Senator Richland Powell try to prevent the unleashing of the second box as the terrorists now know what the aluminum contains.
One would hope this could not happen, but with Iran-Contra allies like Hussein and the Taliban in the 1980s, the unsolved anthrax mailing, etc. Joan Meijer provides a powerful plausible cautionary thriller. The lead pair represents the turbines driving the tale as the Tranquility Initiative combines elements from the medical thriller with that of a political tale. Fans will be hooked from the moment the box is stolen as Ms. Meijer’s premises are the reelection of the president supersedes national interests at any cost and that the consequences of decisions today will surface in a decade or two in the future.
Harriet Klausner


Book Noise
The United States is at war in endless war in Astrakhan. It is an election year. In order to extricate itself from the war President Charles Anderson authorizes the Tranquillity Initiative - use of American Anthrax weaponry in Astrakhan.

Two of the bombs are stolen from the American base in Turkey and smuggled into New York. One bomb is opened accidentally - which puts the city on notice of the threat. Dr. Cassandra Williams of the CDC and Senator Richland Powell must use every ounce of intelligence to find the terrorists and stop them. Unbeknown to then, a secret White House cell - trying to prevent knowledge of Anderson's use of American weapons is trying to stop Cassandra from stopping the terrorists and identifying the origins of the anthrax.

My Take:

Tranquillity Initiative is a thriller loaded with realistic weaponry and intense action. With elections around the corner two soldiers are given an order to drop a bomb ending the war with Astrakhan. Terrorist cells have infiltrated the White House. To make matters worse a few bombs have been stolen and are making their way to N.Y.

If you are looking for an action packed thrilling read them Meijer's Tranquility Initiative is the book for you. Meijer keeps you on the edge of your seat as Cassandra delves deeper into a conspiracy that is so realistic it's scary as hell.

I have to admit that this is not a book I would have read if I saw it on the bookstore. The cover didn't speak to me and left a lot to be desired in my opinion but once you start reading you are enthralled by the conspiracy and can't wait to see what happens in the end. This is a fabulous read that I would recommend to anyone that enjoys a really good thriller. Tranquillity Initiative is fantastic. Meijer tells a superb story that will have you wanting more.




Literary Litter by Shawn
Review from Literary Litter by Shawn
Tranquillity Initiative by Joan Meijer
Tranquillity Initiative is a medical thriller in which President Charles Anderson-in order to put a stop to an endless war with Astrakhan, and to salvage his presidency and bid for reelection-authorizes the Tranquillity Initiative, the illegal use of anthrax weaponry.

Two of the bombs are stolen off of the Trabzon Base in Turkey. They are smuggled into New York by Micha Rodan's terrorist group. Seeking explosives for an IED, the terrorists open one of the weapons and find nothing but strips of tin foil. When they dump the foil and the invisible anthrax germs it accompanies outside a building off 42nd Street, the germs are swept into Times Square by a light evening breeze. As the disease unleashes its fury within the city and around the world, and with the terrorists always one step ahead of them, Doctor Cassandra Williams, an anthrax expert from the CDC, and Richland Powell, the junior senator from new York, race frantically to stop Rodan and his men before they properly deploy their second weapon and bring the city's death toll from hundreds to millions. (Taken from the back of the book)

As political/terrorist books go, I have to admit this was the most fascinating that I've read. In the beginning I found myself drifting off and having a little trouble staying in line with the context of the story. Basically, politics is dry to me and I was a little bored out of my skull. Soon, however, that changed. I began to get intimate glimpses into the lives of specific individuals and found myself anxious to find out what would be happening next.

The first big thing that hit me about this book is a specific talent that Joan has as a writer that I've rarely seen, and I've read A LOT of books. Throughout the book we're presented with several characters who have contracted the anthrax virus through one means or another. In a matter of a few short paragraphs, Joan was able to make me care about those characters. One character was presented on one mere page, but I loved her and cared about her as if she'd been a life long friend. I've been going over and over this in my mind and I still can't figure out how she did it. Even if this isn't a book you might be interested in, if you're a writer, you might consider picking up this book to learn a few hints on character creation. I'm stunned at the way that Joan has taken a mere glimpse at a person and made them someone I cared about.

Secondly, this is not the type of book that really affects you fully while you read it. Each individual story line does, don't get me wrong, but the over all tone and reflection of the book doesn't hit you right away. I found that once I reached the end, the entire story changed for me and I found myself clapping my hands with glee. It's a week later and still I'm churning this story in my brain and coming up with new thoughts that I'd missed before. Though during reading it can be dull and dry at times, the after effects of this book are what make me suggest it as a good, thoughtful read.