Ballantine didn’t dig that. “We have hundreds of civilians with us, sir. We have to frame out some sort of plan that includes us getting them out of here.”
“There’s a limit to what we can do, Ballantine. If this train only gets disabled, we have enough ordnance at our disposal to dictate what we’re going to do—which is detrain every vehicle we have and hit the road. But if the train is destroyed, we’ll have a very limited time to get organized, gather up the resources which are still operational, and try to egress the area. And in the middle of all that carnage, we’ll have to try and tend to the wounded and round up the civilians, get them organized, and save as many as we can. Like you said, Ballantine—if this train winds up on its side while it’s being attacked by ten thousand reekers, that’s going to be a tall fucking order. You agree?”
“Of course,” Ballantine said. He found himself growing angry with Jarmusch, even though the colonel was only stating plain facts. He was only a field grade commander with finite resources to summon and without the organizational support that was part and parcel of the United States Army. Jarmusch couldn’t plan for every contingency, and even if he tried he could never be assured he’d have the backup necessary to provide alternatives in the event things went tits up. At the end of the day, every soldier shooting the rails under his command would have to fall back on their training and experience.
It would have to be enough, even when it wasn’t.
“So that’s what we’re looking at here,” Jarmusch continued after a somewhat uncomfortable moment of silence. “We’re pretty much good to go for the moment, but things can heat up at any time. We were fat and stupid back at the Gap. We’re not going to fall into that trap again. We’ll be very aggressive about defending this train, and everyone on it. You can count on that, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
The National Guard officer straightened in his seat. “I don’t know what else I can tell. Hell, I don’t know if there is anything else to tell you.”
“There is one thing, sir.”
Jarmusch hiked his brows. “What’s that?”
“The blood samples your people took when we arrived ... everyone had to provide specimens?”
Jarmusch nodded. “Absolutely. We can test for the presence of the virus that turns people into reekers. If you’d been infected, it means there’s a strong possibility you could rise up again after you die. We wouldn’t want that. All of you were clear, if memory serves?” As he said this, the colonel looked over at Gaylord who nodded.
“Everyone checked out,” Gaylord affirmed.
“You still have the specimens?” Ballantine asked.
“We do. All in cold storage. They’ll be useful. At first, we thought we’d be sending them to the CDC or the Rid, but those facilities are pretty much offline for the duration.” The Rid was the common acronym for the US Army’s Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases activity, located south near Washington DC. Essentially the military’s version of the civilian-led Centers for Disease Control, both organizations worked closely with each other in the event of a pandemic.
“But we’re holding onto them for as long as we can,” Jarmusch continued. “We have contaminated samples as well. Some folks were infected when they showed up, but they didn’t last for very long. Once the respiratory symptoms showed up, we isolated them and took care of what they ... what they turned into.”
Ballantine didn’t want to pursue that line of thought, especially since a lot of the arrivals were likely families. “So that’s why we weren’t ready to take on any other survivors, like from that town?”
Jarmusch nodded. “I don’t think we have the time or resources to be affecting rescue and recovery missions at this point in time. The best thing we can do is urge folks to button up tight and wait. I’ll pass on the town’s location to whomever might be interested at Carson, of course.”
“And the blood—you’re going to hold onto both sets of samples, sir? Clear and infected?”
Jarmusch nodded again. “My hope is that there will be someone on the other side who can make use of them. Eventually, the only way we’re going to win this war is if we can come up with a vaccine. The way I see it, this is more of a medical emergency than a military matter.”
“Not so certain I agree with you there, Colonel,” Headley said.
“Oh, not to worry, Sarmajor. There’ll be more than enough for us to do. Someone has to kill off the reekers that are already out there, and that’s probably our mission.”
“Not like we’ll need time to get used to that, sir.”
Jarmusch grunted. “No. We won’t need any time to figure that one out.” He looked at Ballantine. “Anything else, Sergeant?”
Ballantine had a million questions, but he knew Jarmusch was only being polite. For him to take up the colonel on his half-hearted offer would be both stupid and embarrassing. “No sir, I’m good to go. Thanks for your time.”
“I should be thanking you, Ballantine. If you guys hadn’t shown up, we’d probably all be dead by now.” Jarmusch regarded Ballantine for a speculative moment. “You get along all right with Bellara?”
“Uh, no problems with the captain, sir.”
“I’ll probably call upon you to augment his company as required. Any issues with that?”
“No, sir. You’re the boss. I’m just a lowly E-7. Any assignment you need to give us, we’ll execute to the best of our ability.”
“I’m not going to throw you into the shredder, Sergeant. You and your Joes have a tom of real-world experience, so I want to partner you up with a company grade officer who can make use of that. Bellara fits the bill.” Jarmusch inclined his head toward the rear of the train. “Get some rest, if you can. I’ll keep you and your team close at hand. If anything changes that might affect you guys, I’ll make sure you know about it ASAP.”
“I appreciate that, sir. Really.”
###
Victor agreed to meet Hastings and Slater at Cornell’s MRAP. When they arrived, the colonel and his executive officer, Lieutenant Colonel Herbert, were already there. Hastings didn’t see Lieutenant Colonel Gavas; he presumed the cavalry commander was seeing to the column’s defense. The MRAP’s ramp was already extended, and the president’s security detail was in place. Slater corresponded with the detail’s leader, exchanging passphrases that would allow for their approach. The detail commander nodded and waved Slater and Hastings through.
“We’re going to need the vehicle to ourselves,” Hastings told the detail commander. “Have everyone except Diamond and Eagle Actual exit and wait right outside.”
The soldier nodded and spoke into his radio. Once everyone was out of the vehicle, Hastings motioned Victor and Herbert forward, then he and Slater followed them in. The president and First Lady were sitting inside waiting for them. As Slater closed the ramp behind him, buttoning up the vehicle, Hastings nodded to the First Lady and went through the usual pleasantries as he sat down on one of the seats next to Herbert.
“Mr. President, we’d like to bring you up to date on our situation and ask you a few questions on which we hope you might have some insights.”
Cornell nodded. “Of course. What’s up?” he asked, looking at Victor and Herbert.
“Captain Hastings will brief you directly, sir,” Victor said. “If that’s not a problem?”
Cornell flashed a smile. “Face time with a fellow lightfighter is never a problem for me, Colonel. Shoot, Captain.”
“Sir, we ran into a small group of civilians back in Biglerville that opened fire on our security vehicles as they moved into position. During the short exchange, five of the civilians were killed and one was captured when he surrendered to us. We have that man in custody and have just questioned him. Master Sergeant Slater believes that we may have the leader of a group called The Movement, a man known as John Mosby. Master Sergeant Slater has brought me somewhat up to speed on the history of The Movement and their actions.”
Cornell raised his b
rows. “Seriously?”
“Seriously, sir.” Hastings looked down at Slater, and the NCO cleared his throat.
“Sir, we’re hoping you might know if the State Department discussed the possibility of declaring The Movement a terrorist organization, and if you might have any amplifying information as to the identity of the man known as John Mosby. The man we have outside says his name is John Mosby … but claims he’s not the John Mosby associated with The Movement.”
Cornell snorted and shook his head. “Well. Of all the possible things you could ask me, I actually do have some insight on this topic. The Movement has been on the government’s radar for some time now ever since they started claiming responsibility for the deaths of several leaders in the tech and business world. You know they were systematically killing off CEOs and senior level personnel at some of those companies, then murdered their replacements as soon as they could hire them?”
“I am aware, sir,” Slater said. “They also attacked the facilities that housed their equipment and offices, but did so off hours so as to reduce the amount of potential collateral damage.”
Cornell nodded once. “Yes, but they weren’t entirely successful. Several employees were killed when the Waggle offices were firebombed. They weren’t satisfied with the results of their initial executions, so it was believed they were about to start opening up on targets lower in the corporate food chains.”
“How was it that The Movement was able to kill all these CEOs and executives?” Victor asked. “I’d imagine they had security details and the best electronic security money could buy?”
“This is where we get into the weeds.” Cornell sighed and leaned forward in his seat. He looked across the narrow, supply-filled aisle at Melissa. “All of what I am about to tell you is or was still classified before I assumed the position of the president of the United States. Given the situation we’re in, I think all of you have a “need to know”, so here are the specifics. The answer to your question, Colonel, is that The Movement and this John Mosby persona effectively and precisely killed all of those people with acoustic cyber weapons.”
Hastings looked around the MRAP’s interior, exchanging looks with the other soldiers sitting with him.
Victor turned back to Cornell. “Acoustic cyber weapons, sir?”
“I’m not surprised no one knows about the concept. They’re still considered hypothetical by many, but the truth of matter is they do exist. From the report that we were briefed on, The Movement utilized the very same technology that companies used to invade people’s privacy and collect data on them, against them.
“It’s believed the technology uses malware that infects electronic devices and the internet of things that utilize a speaker, or are capable of subsequently connecting to a speaker. Once infected, the malware turns the speakers in a room, a car, a phone, a building, into a sound-emitting weapon. It’s still not understood exactly how The Movement was able to produce sound that is capable of killing in this manner, but it was confirmed in all the deaths.
“The Movement has some very talented computer people in its organization, as they were able to hack into and gain control of one Waggle CEO’s vehicle while he was driving it and assassinate him using this sound weapon. They hacked into Giant’s headquarters building and assassinated twelve senior executives during a board of directors conference meeting—and no one else in the building was harmed. The FacePlaces president went to great lengths to protect himself against these attacks once they started happening, but The Movement was able to kill him inside his own house. How they did it was never determined, but the attack caused enough trauma to his brain that it looked like it had exploded inside his skull, according to the autopsy report.”
“Good God,” Melissa said.
Cornell nodded to her. “Good God, indeed. Some of the people that lived among us, right?” He looked back at the soldiers. “It might sound farfetched, gentlemen, but rest assured, it’s all true. The FBI was able to identify an individual they believe to be the John Mosby mentioned in The Movement’s statements. His true identity was still unknown during my last briefing on the topic, but they had photos of the individual they believed to be him. He was on his way to the Top Ten Wanted list, last I heard.”
Hastings was impressed. “Wow. No kidding.”
“No kidding, lightfighter. So if we have this individual in custody, we have a very dangerous man on our hands. The question remains, how do we determine if this is the same John Mosby or not?”
Hastings and Slater exchanged glances. This was just too much.
“Sir, do you think you would recognize this man if you saw him?” Victor asked.
Cornell took in a deep breath and released it as a heavy sigh. “Been thinking about that as I was talking. It’s been a while, Colonel. And the truth of the matter is, the imagery I saw wasn’t particularly bulletproof—these weren’t eight-by-ten glossy headshots, they were surveillance photos. so no, I don’t think I can identify him with any certainty.”
Slater spoke up. “Well, there is one thing we can do and that’s to keep this man in custody until we can positively identify him. It’ll be an additional manpower burden, but we can make it work. We just need to start thinking about how we are going to vet this guy and decide if we simply let him go or put a bullet in his head once we confirm his identity.”
“To that point. Once we get to Site R and I gain access, we might be able to work on confirming his identity,” Cornell said. “Until then, I don’t think it’s a bad idea to keep this man in custody as Sergeant Slater suggests.”
Lieutenant Colonel Herbert stirred for the first time. “Ah, pardon the interruption, sir …”
Cornell nodded to him. “Speak freely, Colonel.”
“Sir, is it wise to bring this person into Site R?”
Cornell considered that. “Well. Perhaps not, but we have some time to work that out.”
“Sir, one thing we need to make sure of is that Mosby doesn’t become aware of your presence,” Slater said. He looked at Victor and Herbert. “We’ll need to brief the troops guarding him to ensure there’s to be no mention of the president, sirs. I can handle that directly, if you like.”
Victor nodded. “A good idea. Button that up, Slater.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hastings turned back to Cornell. “Sir, is there anything else you might want to add?”
Cornell spread his hands. “I’m sorry, Captain. I think you’ve tapped me out.”
Hastings looked over at Victor and Herbert. “Sirs? Anything from you?”
“Good to go, Hastings,” Victor said. “Good work to you and Slater for identifying this man. Let’s ensure he remains bagged throughout the rest of the trip. All right?”
“We’ll see to that, sir,” Slater said.
“Then I guess we’re done here. Thank you for your time, Mr. President. First Lady,” Hastings said.
“No, son, thank you. You men keep doing what you’re doing,” Cornell said. “I promise that one of these days, I’ll start pulling my own weight.”
Victor chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll have your time in the fire too, sir.”
Hastings and Slater walked back to their vehicle where Staff Sergeant Drecker and his men continued to keep watch over the man called John Mosby. Mosby looked at them with hollow eyes and an expressionless face.
“Drecker, put Mr. Mosby back in the vehicle. Keep him bagged and tagged,” Hastings said. “I want someone guarding him at all times.”
“Good copy, sir.” Drecker handed Mosby off to one of the other soldiers to carry out Hastings’s orders.
“You guys can’t keep me prisoner,” Mosby said as Tarrant picked up the sandbag and prepared to pull it over Mosby’s shaggy head. “I haven’t done anything! I surrendered to you!”
“We’ll figure that shit out later,” Slater snapped. “Maybe you can start a civil rights inquiry against us later. For now, you’d better do what we tell you.”
Mosby let out a vague
snarl as Tarrant pulled the bag over his head. The soldier who had led him out of the Romeo MRAP pulled him toward the ramp and pushed him inside.
“Drecker, when you PUC’d Mosby, did you get anything off of him? Wallet, ID, anything that shows who he is?” Slater asked.
“He had a wallet with some cash in it but no ID or credit cards. No insurance cards, business cards. Nothing with his name on it.”
“I want you to keep him separated from everyone else. Make sure you brief the guys in your vehicle to not talk about Eagle One or Diamond or where we’re going. It’s important that fucker doesn’t find out anything about us or our mission. Do you understand what you need to do?”
Drecker nodded, his pale eyes unblinking. “Roger that. I’ll make it happen.”
The convoy resumed its advance and continued traveling south, passing the historic round barn and farm market to the intersection of US 30. According to the road signs, the intersection was eight miles west of Gettysburg, so it was no surprise to see the road was heavily congested. Abandoned cars and trucks were aplenty, many decorated with gore and body parts. Many more had made it to the side of the road, and the convoy had to use the heavy MRAPs to push some vehicles aside so the column could pass through. And there were, of course, bodies. Most had clearly been attacked by reekers but hadn’t been entirely consumed, and as a result were now transformed themselves—minus the body parts that had been eaten. Hastings found he was no longer disgusted at the sight of wriggling corpses flopping around on the ground as they tried to approach the convoy. Those that still had sufficient mobility to close on the column didn’t get very much for their trouble. The vehicles either sideswiped them to the deck or simply hit them dead on and rolled right over them. For the MRAPs, this wasn’t an issue; for the smaller, thin-skinned vehicles like Humvees, however, it was a real concern. Luckily, most of those vehicles were in the center of the convoy and the MRAPs had already serviced most of the reekers by the time they crossed the intersection.
These Dead Lands (Book 2): Desolation Page 15
