Before all this began, he thought he’d spend four or five more years at lieutenant colonel, maybe make colonel near the tail end of his career, then retire as such. He wasn’t that great at playing the political game. He knew tactics and strategy. He knew how to win battles and minimize casualties. That’s what the army should base promotion on, but it doesn’t always work that way.

How things had changed in the past five weeks. He was a full bird colonel. He talked directly with the Joint Chiefs, had their total confidence. He had a black budget, a blank check for resources, for transport, for air support.

A command like this should have gone to a more senior guy, but President Hutchins had been obsessed with secrecy, limiting those in the know. Ogden had simply drawn the lucky card for the first mission, and now he got to keep playing it.

He’d fulfill the mission to destroy any gate he found, and he’d do it while adding as few names to the Little Blue Book as possible. Thirty-seven names was enough, but he knew there would be more.

Many more.

He put the book and the Bible away, then lay down to get his usual four hours of sleep. At least he didn’t have to finish the night by writing condolence letters to mothers, fathers and wives. In the morning he’d start planning again, figuring out how to prepare for an enemy no one had ever fought, an enemy guaranteed to change tactics.

Whatever happened, Colonel Charlie Ogden would be ready.

g.a.y.l.o.r.d GOES TO BED

The Jewell family won the honor of having the most infected, but they weren’t the only residents of g.a.y.l.o.r.d sleeping away fevers, exhaustion and paranoia.

Bobby and Chelsea Jewell were already in bed. Donald and Betty slept fitfully at a rest stop on I-75 outside of Bay City, Michigan.

Sam Collins was d.a.m.n old, d.a.m.n tired and, although he was convinced that someone would probably break in and kill him, he just locked all the doors and went to sleep in his bed.

Wallace Beckett wasn’t quite so brave. He couldn’t stop scratching at his cheek and lower neck. He hid in his pantry, blocked the door with a stepladder, then went to sleep right on the floor. His son, Beck (yes, the lad was saddled with the unfortunate name of Beck Beckett), was so hot he took off all his clothes and went to sleep naked in an empty bathtub. Nicole Beckett, wife of Wallace, mother of Beck, was off seeing her grandmother in Topinabee. Unfortunately for her, she’d be home the next morning.

Ryan Roznowski was also itchy as all get-out. He hated being itchy, a phobia carried over from the time he’d been a kid and gotten poison ivy on his ’nads. His mom had always told him to stop touching himself so much, but did he listen? That incident meant Ryan always stocked a healthy supply of calamine lotion. He doused his four itchy spots, then promptly hid behind the lumber pile in his garage and went to sleep.

Bernadette Smith suddenly had a sneaking suspicion her kids were talking about her behind her back. She sent her son and daughters to their rooms, told them not to come out or make a noise. If they did, they’d get the paddle again. Her husband, Shawn, argued with her about paddling the kids, but she told him to shut the f.u.c.k up or she wouldn’t let him go to bowling league. In fact, Shawn, why don’t you just go to the store and get me some tampons, and when you get back, don’t you dare wake me up or let the kids out of their rooms. Do you hear me, Shawn? Shawn did hear her. She didn’t use the paddle on him, but she could control him just the same.

Chris “Cheffie” Jones was a little more off-kilter than the others. Cheffie had hardwood floors covered with a big roll-up carpet. For reasons known only to him, he crawled under said carpet. Confident that this made him effectively invisible, Cheffie went to sleep.

The Orbital had estimated fifteen to twenty infections. Ten was below those projections, but still within acceptable parameters for success. And it broke down evenly, five with the triangle strain, five with the new strain. That part, at least, was on par with the statistical projections.

All of these hosts slept.

The only question was . . . how many would wake up?

DON’T CALL DR. CHENG

Margaret, Amos and Clarence sat in the MargoMobile’s computer room, waiting for a scheduled all-hands call with Murray Longworth. Right on time his face appeared on the center flat-panel screen. Murray was watching them on a similar monitor back in Washington.

“Where’s Dew?” he asked.

“Talking to Perry.”

“Can’t you guys talk on the road?” Murray said. “I want you out of there.”

Clarence leaned forward. “Perry had a little accident. Margaret wants to let him rest a bit more before we head out.”

“An accident?” Murray said. “What kind of accident?”

“He fell down some stairs,” Clarence said. “Then b.u.mped into a doorway. He’s happy to cooperate with us now.”

Murray smiled thinly. “I guess the good news just keeps on rolling in. We finished the first batch of your testers, Margaret. Ten thousand are being distributed to police, paramedics and hospitals all over the Midwest.”

“Wow,” Margaret said. “How did you get them made so fast?”

“Money, how else?” Murray said. “We’ll have another fifty thousand ready by late tomorrow.”

“Fantastic,” Margaret said. “But we’re still at square one when it comes to the vector.”

“You know we’ve got people on that, Doctor,” Murray said. “Some of the most brilliant minds the nation has to offer.”

“Such as?”

“You’re not cleared for that information,” Murray said. He sounded annoyed, and Margaret couldn’t really blame him—she’d lost count of the number of times they’d had this conversation. She prayed President Gutierrez would loosen the noose of secrecy around this project, but so far Hutchins’s policies were still in force.