Pandemic

by Scott Sigler

  Paulius Klimas’s head broke the surface of Lake Michigan. His goggled eyes looked out at the empty sidewalk and eight lanes of Lakeshore Drive. A few streetlights were still working, enough to illuminate the burned-out cars blocking the entire road. Beyond, dark buildings rose high against a darker sky; only a few panes glowed with light.

  Frank Bogdana surfaced off to Klimas’s right, D’Shawn Bosh off to his left. Not far behind him, Luke Ramierez did the same.

  Even if there had been anyone standing on that sidewalk, on the road, or in Lake Shore Park beyond, the four SEALs would have been all but invisible; just tiny, moving bumps of wetness in an infinite inland sea.

  Paulius slid beneath the waves. He swam forward a good fifteen meters, pushing his M4 carbine in its shoot-through dry bag before him, then held his position underwater for another minute before rising up enough to peek above the surface. He again looked at Lakeshore Drive, the sidewalk, the park. Bosh and Bogdana did the same, searching for anything that might be a threat.

  They saw nothing.

  Paulius and his men moved forward. They would leave their rebreather gear below the water, fixed to the metal-and-concrete seawall. Whether they would need that gear again remained to be seen. If all went well, he and his men would fly back to the Coronado instead of swim.

  Paulius reached the seawall. He removed his fins, slid his arm through them and gripped the handle of his still-bagged weapon. He shrugged off his gear, bundled it and left it clamped to the wall.

  He and his fire team silently climbed over the seawall and onto the paved bike path that ran alongside Lake Shore Drive. They donned night-vision goggles and took up covering positions, protecting the other three fire teams as those men exited the water.

  Paulius ordered squad two south and squad three north, to enter the buildings nearest to Lake Shore Park. Those units would climb six or seven stories and set up overwatch positions.

  After those men were in place, squads one and four would make their way to the park. First, they would secure the park administration building. Then, they would secure the landing area for the arrival of four CH-47 Chinooks and an SH-60 Seahawk. The Chinooks carried the Ranger company — 150 men complete with mortars, heavy weapons and supplies, as well as some scientific equipment Margaret had requested. She, Otto and Dr. Feelygood would come in on the Seahawk.

  Paulius took another minute to search for danger. He saw no movement. He knew he and his men were about to roll into a mission unlike any they could have prepared for, a mission where they would probably have to fire on Americans.

  From here on out, however, they weren’t “Americans.”

  They were the enemy.

  INFORMATION IS A WEAPON

  Steve Stanton stood alone in a twentieth-floor office, looking out at the mostly dark streets of Chicago. How to find Cooper Mitchell … that was really all that mattered at the moment. If Cooper infected any of the Chosen Ones, all Steve’s careful planning could fall apart.

  A knock at his door.

  “Enter.”

  General Brownstone walked in, trailed by a teenage girl who was breathing so hard she could barely stand up straight. The girl had obviously sprinted hard to deliver a message.

  “Speak,” Steve said.

  The girl stood, laced her fingers above her head, fought to draw enough air to get out her sentences.

  “Helicopters,” she said. “At Lake Shore Park. Five landed, soldiers got out. Two helicopters kept hovering the whole time. They looked mean.”

  Steve felt a flush of excitement. Maybe he wouldn’t have to find Cooper after all — maybe the American soldiers would lead Steve right to him. Over half a million people had watched Cooper’s video. That number obviously included people in the U.S. government who wanted to use Cooper as a weapon.

  General Brownstone gently patted the girl on the back. “Good work, dear. Did you count how many soldiers got out of the helicopter?”

  The girl nodded, blinked. “Yeah, about a hundred and fifty.”

  “A full company,” Brownstone said. “Emperor, that’s a serious force. And I’m certain the helicopters are Apaches. Considering what we know of the state of the country, this is a major allocation by the high command. Do you want me to arrange an attack?”

  The Americans didn’t have troops to burn, not if the ongoing coverage by Al Jazeera was to be believed (how that network kept reporting while the others had been wiped out, Steve didn’t know: it was one of the few remaining sources for national news).

  “No,” he said. “They came for Cooper. We need to see where they go. Leave the soldiers alone for now, but watch them.”

  “And the Apaches?” Brownstone asked. “The Stinger missiles we acquired from the army reserve bases can destroy them.”

  “Where do you have those positioned?”

  “Downtown. On the tallest buildings.”

  Steve thought it over. If he took out the Apaches, that would reveal too much about his strength. And, he didn’t have many Stingers to start with.

  “Leave the missiles where they are for now,” he said. “Spread the word — I want everyone to stay well clear. I want these soldiers to think no one is opposing them. Once they reveal Cooper’s location, we’ll need to strike fast and strike hard. No mercy for them.”

  Brownstone saluted. She led the girl out of the office.

  Steve returned to his view.

  Now all he had to do was wait.

  THE HIGHWAYS

  IMMUNIZED: 88%

  NOT IMMUNIZED: 7%

  UNKNOWN: 5%

  FINISHED DOSES EN ROUTE: 103,883

  DOSES IN PRODUCTION: 214,591

  INFECTED: 4,311,000 (25,625,000)

  CONVERTED: 2,950,000 (12,120,000)

  DEATHS: 500,000+ (28,000,000)

  Murray had to admire the Converted’s tactics.

  There was no known general, no command structure to unify actions across the United States, but the Converted understood where they needed to attack in order to bring the nation to its knees. Like any good guerrilla force, their primary target seemed to be infrastructure.

  Admiral Porter flipped from map to map, reading off a list of bad news.

  “Highway 5 in California has severe damage north of Redding,” he said. “It’s been completely severed in several places.”

  André Vogel groaned in exasperation, leaned back in his chair. “I thought we had the West Coast under control. What, exactly, are they cutting the roads with?”

  “Based on intel, anything and everything,” Porter said. “Backhoes, bulldozers, piles of cars set on fire, logs, rocks, even teams of people with shovels. And Highway 5 is just the start.”

  Porter changed the image on the main screen. The ticking death toll faded, replaced by a highway map of the United States. Hundreds of flashing red Xs showed where the highways were severed.

  “We’ve lost communication with Reno,” he said. “Flyovers show that all highway bridges have been destroyed. It’s impassable. South of Lake Tahoe, Highways 50, 88, 4, 108 and 120 have all been cut. Highway 1 south of Carmel, 101 south of Salinas, 5 near Mendota and 99 south of both Madera and Fresno, too.”

  Murray looked at the pattern of Xs. It wasn’t hard to see what was going on.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “They’re trying to isolate the San Francisco Bay Area. They’re cutting it off from the east and the south. How are the roads to the north?”

  “The 101 at Eureka is out,” Porter said. “North of there, air force sorties out of Fairchild and McChord AFBs, in conjunction with infantry from Fort Lewis, have wiped out any major efforts to cut the highways in Washington State.”

  There were some Xs in Washington and Oregon, but not as many. Something about that image bothered Murray.

  Porter hit the remote control again, bringing a map of the entire United States. Red Xs dotted the Midwest on Highways 80, 70, 40 and 20, blocked various roads into major cities.

  “The national situation is becoming
untenable,” Porter said. “Roads are heavily damaged, bridges are impassable if not outright destroyed. Rails are being cut. Military and off-road vehicles can easily get around these cutouts, but standard transportation — semis and other transport trucks — cannot.”

  Murray wondered if it would ever end, how it could ever end. Unless Margaret came through and recovered that bug from Cooper Mitchell, all the military could do was slow down the inevitable.

  Vice President Albertson cleared his throat, surprising Murray — he’d forgotten the man was even there.

  “We have to push them back,” Albertson said. “What are we doing to secure the remaining infrastructure?”

  Porter looked annoyed. “We can’t push them back, sir. Even if we weren’t at less than half our normal military strength, this country is so big we can’t cover it all. We have to concentrate on defending specific transportation corridors. Outside of those and the main cities, the Converted will control everything else.”

  Albertson looked around the room, perhaps searching for someone to tell him what he wanted to hear.

  “But that’s giving up,” he said. “We have to develop new tactics to defeat the insurgents.”

  Murray couldn’t listen to the fool any longer.

  “Mister Vice President, you’re not hearing the admiral correctly,” Murray said. “America is too … damn … big. The highway system consists of one hundred and seventeen thousand miles of road. These insurgents you’re talking about were Americans. Many of them grew up in the very places they are attacking. They know the terrain, they know exactly what to hit. Now, would you please stop asking for things that are fucking impossible?”

  It was only when Murray finished talking that he realized he’d just yelled at the vice president. He sat still and waited to be thrown out.

  But Albertson didn’t seem angry. Instead, he seemed to shrink in his chair.

  He’s such a pussy he’ll let me yell at him — not exactly a prime candidate for the most powerful person in the free world.

  Now it was Porter who cleared his throat. Murray sensed the man was about to drop something big.

  “Mister Vice President,” the admiral said, “at this time, it is the recommendation of the Joint Chiefs of Staff that we withdraw all remaining troops from Europe and the Middle East. We need those troops here at home. We also recommend moving all U.S. troops in South America to defend the Panama Canal and to cut off any and all access from that continent into North America.”

  Albertson stared. He sniffed once, scratched his nose.

  “You want to coordinate with the Panamanians on that?”

  Porter shook his head. “Sir, we recommend that our troops seize control of the canal. The Mexican border is too big to cover, but we can create a choke point at the canal. Then, when we start to regain superiority, we only have to contend with clearing out Mexico — South America will have to fend for itself.”

  Everyone looked to Albertson. He seemed lost.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Abandoning our allies … seizing the Canal … we need President Blackmon to make those decisions.” He again looked around the room. “I asked someone to get her on the line for me twenty minutes ago. What the hell is wrong with you people?”

  André Vogel pinched his ever-present phone between his ear and shoulder.

  “We’re still trying,” he said. He put the phone back to his ear.

  For the first time, Murray heard Samuel Porter raise his voice.

  “Mister Vice President,” the admiral said, demanding the attention of Albertson and everyone in the room. “A decision must be made. We need to withdraw our troops from overseas, and we need to do it now.”

  Albertson’s left eye started to twitch. He stared down at the table. “I’m sorry, only the president can make that call.”

  Vogel suddenly rose, stood up board-straight as if someone had connected his chair to a car battery. He looked like he might throw up.

  “Air Force One … it’s gone down.”

  All conversation ceased. The room seemed to dim, to go nearly dark save for a score of spotlights that lit up Vice President Albertson.

  He placed his hands on the table. They were shaking.

  “I see,” he said. “When did this happen?”

  “About fifteen minutes ago,” Vogel said. “The pilot got a message out that there was some kind of commotion on the plane. He thought there was a Converted onboard, someone who dodged a cellulose test, maybe. He reported gunshots. Then fighter escort saw Air Force One go down. No survivors. President Blackmon is dead.”

  Those imaginary spotlights picked up in intensity. Their glare burned hot enough to make Albertson break out into a sweat.

  Murray sagged back into his chair. He’d believed in Blackmon’s ability to lead the nation out of this. Now she was dead, and with the nation at DEFCON 1, Albertson was the commander in chief.

  Admiral Porter broke the silence.

  “Mister President,” he said, putting emphasis on the second word, making it clear that the word Vice no longer applied. “From this moment on, you’re in charge, sir. What is your decision about our overseas troops?”

  Albertson’s eyes looked hollow. The burden of leadership had fallen to a man who clearly couldn’t handle it. Shaking hands lifted to tired eyes, rubbed them lightly.

  “If you say so, Admiral,” he said quietly. “Withdraw the troops.”

  Murray stared at Albertson. The man’s very first command of his presidency? A confidence-building if you say so.

  Maybe the Converted had already won.

  URBAN TERRAIN

  Oddly, Clarence thought of Dew Phillips.

  Before Dew died, he had been at the tail end of his career. Truth be told, he’d been well past that. In his late sixties, Dew had been forced into intense physical action while managing, protecting — and occasionally even beating the crap out of — one “Scary” Perry Dawsey.

  Clarence thought of Dew because five years ago Clarence had been the young buck on the team: fit, well trained and ready to rock. Now, Clarence was the one showing the wear and tear of age. Not that he was ready to retire, not even close, but being surrounded by twenty-five-year-olds in world-class shape made it obvious his best years were behind him.

  Of course, the bulky CBRN suit didn’t help at all. It was far less bulky than the full BSL-4 rig he’d worn on the Brashear, granted, but the fully enclosed suit still made it cumbersome to move around wrecked cars and through ankle-deep snow. His face felt hot inside the suit’s built-in gas mask. The lenses over each eye cut off much of his peripheral vision; he found himself turning his head rapidly to make sure the Converted weren’t sneaking up from the sides.

  Clarence stayed close to Margaret. Two SEALs — the little one, Ramierez, and a swarthy man named Bogdana — shadowed them every step of the way. They and the other SEALs weren’t wearing the CBRN gear. Speed, silence and agility were as much a part of the SEAL arsenal as their M4 carbines, Mark 23 pistols and Barrett M107 rifles. Margaret had argued with Klimas about it. She wanted everyone in the suits, but the commander had ended the discussion quickly. His support of Margaret only went so far, it seemed, and didn’t include debates regarding his gear and the gear of his men.

  Tim was currently twenty or thirty feet back, Klimas and Bosh constantly at his side. As soon as Clarence and Margaret stopped, Tim and Klimas would leapfrog ahead. That was how all the troops moved: one group stayed still, ready to provide covering fire, while another group advanced forward to take up covering positions of their own.

  Two Apache helicopters flew high overhead, the roar of their engines echoing off skyscraper walls. On the ground, four SEAL fire teams were way out front, running recon. Behind them, the first Ranger platoon, then the civilians and their SEAL escorts, flanked on either side by the second Ranger platoon. The third Ranger platoon brought up the rear.

  If the Rangers had objected to wearing the CBRN gear, they had lost that battle. With their urban-c
amouflage-pattern suits and hoods, their black rubber gasmasks and their rifles — mostly SCAR-FNs and Mk46s, with a few bulky M240B machine guns thrown in for good measure — the Rangers looked like extras from an apocalypse movie. That meant they fit right in with the surroundings.

  Clarence could barely believe this was Chicago. Most of the lights were out, bathing the city in darkness. The place looked … dead. Soot-streaked snow covered the street, the sidewalks, abandoned vehicles and hundreds of frozen bodies. Footprints and well-worn paths through the snow were the only indication that anyone remained.

  So many footprints, so many paths. There were people here, but where were they? The SEAL recon teams had reported zero contact. They had yet to even see a single soul.

  Ramierez and Bogdana stopped behind a flipped-over BMW. Clarence crouched between them. So did Margaret, but she stepped on something under the snow and started to fall. Clarence reached out fast, softly caught her shoulders to keep her from hitting the pavement.

  She slapped his arms away.

  “I don’t need your help,” she hissed. “I’m not yours to protect anymore.”

  Before Clarence could answer, Ramierez leaned in from the right and held a finger to his lips. His eyes sent a message: shut up before you get us killed.

  Margaret nodded. She looked back down the wide street, all but ignoring Clarence.

  His wife, the mother of his child, she despised him.

  Just get her through this alive, then you’ve got a lifetime to make things right.

  He rose a little, peeked over the bottom of the overturned car. They were about to cross Mies van der Rohe Way, which would put them within a half mile of the Park Tower Hotel.

  Ramierez slid down into a crouch behind the car’s cover.

  “Ramierez here, go,” he said, not to Clarence but rather into the tiny microphone that extended down from an earpiece. “Yes sir. I’m ready.”

  The short SEAL looked at Bogdana.

  “Frank, keep the package right here until I call for you,” Ramierez said.