1987 - Swan Song v4

by Robert McCammon

  “Twelve thousand two, Colonel.”

  Schorr let out a panicked whimper and drew his knees up to his chest; he peered into empty air like a man seeing the time, place and circumstances of his own death in a crystal ball.

  “Shit,” Warner said softly. He drew once more on his cigar and crushed it out in an ashtray. “I guess we’d better get comfortable, huh? Poor bastards upstairs are gonna be thrown around like rag dolls.” He squeezed himself into a corner, bracing against the floor with his hands and feet.

  Corporal Prados took off his earphones and braced himself against the wall, beads of sweat glistening on his cheeks. Becker stood beside Macklin, who watched the approaching blip on Lombard’s radar screen and counted the seconds to impact.

  “Eleven thousand two.” Lombard’s shoulders hunched up. “It’s cleared Blue Dome! Passing to the northwest! I think it’s going to make the river! Go, you bastard, go!”

  “Go,” Becker breathed.

  “Go,” Prados said, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Go. Go.”

  The blip had vanished from the screen. “We’ve lost it, Colonel! It’s gone below radar range!”

  Macklin nodded. But the missile was still falling toward the forest along Little Lost River, and Macklin was still counting.

  All of them heard a humming like a distant, huge swarm of hornets.

  Then silence.

  Macklin said, “It’s dow—”

  And in the next second the radar screen exploded with light, the men around it crying out and shielding their eyes. Macklin was momentarily blinded by the dazzle, and he knew the sky radar atop Blue Dome had just been incinerated. The other radar screens brightened like green suns and shorted out as they picked up the flash. The noise of hornets was in the room, and blue sparks spat from the control boards as the wiring blew. “Hang on!” Macklin shouted. The floors and walls shook, a jigsaw of cracks running across the ceiling. Rock dust and pebbles fell into the room, the larger stones rattling down on the control boards like hailstones. The floor heaved violently enough to drop both Macklin and Becker to their knees. Lights flickered and went out, but within seconds the emergency lighting system had switched on and the illumination—harsher, brighter, throwing deeper shadows than before—came back.

  There was one last weak tremor and another rain of dust and stones, and then the floor was still.

  Macklin’s hair was white with dust, his face gritty and scratched. But the air-filtration system was throbbing, already drawing the dust into the wall vents. “Everybody okay?” he shouted, trying to focus past the green dazzle that remained on his eyeballs. He heard the sound of coughing and someone—Schorr, he thought it must be—sobbing. “Is everybody okay?”

  He got a reply back from all but Schorr and one of the technicians. “It’s over!” he said. “We made it! We’re okay!” He knew that there would be broken bones, concussions and cases of shock among the civilians on the upper level, and they were probably panicked right now, but the lights were on and the filtration system was pumping and Earth House hadn’t blown apart like a house of cards in a high wind. It’s over! We made it! Still blinking to see past the green haze, he struggled to his feet. A short, hollow bark of a laugh escaped between his clenched teeth—and then the laughter bubbled up from his throat, and he was laughing louder and louder because he was alive and his fortress was still standing. His blood was hot and singing again like it had been in the steamy jungles and parched plains of foreign battlefields; on those fields of fire, the enemy wore a devil’s face and did not hide behind the mask of Air Force psychiatrists, bill collectors, scheming ex-wives and cheating business partners. He was Colonel Jimbo Macklin, and he walked like a tiger, lean and mean, with the Shadow Soldier at his side.

  He had once again beaten death and dishonor. He grinned, his lips white with grit.

  But then there was a sound like cloth being ripped between cruel hands. Colonel Macklin’s laughter stopped.

  He rubbed his eyes, straining through the green glare, and was able at last to see where that noise was coming from.

  The wall before him had fractured into thousands of tiny interconnected cracks. But at the top of it, where the wall met the ceiling, a massive crack was moving in fits and leaps, zigzagging as it went, and rivulets of dark, evil-smelling water streamed down the wall like blood from a monstrous wound. The ripping sound doubled and tripled; he looked at his feet, made out a second huge crack crawling across the floor. A third crack snaked across the opposite wall.

  He heard Becker shout something, but the voice was garbled and in slow motion, as if heard in a nightmare. Chunks of stone fell from above, ripping the ceiling tile loose, and more streams of water splattered down. Macklin smelled the sickening odor of sewage, and as the water dripped all over him he realized the truth: that somewhere in the network of pipes the sewage system had exploded—perhaps weeks ago, or months—and the backed-up sludge had collected not only above the first level, but between Levels One and Two as well, further eroding the unsteady, overstressed rock that held the warren of Earth House together.

  The floor pitched at an angle that threw Macklin off balance. Plates of rock rubbed together with the noise of grinding jaws, and as the zigzagging cracks connected a torrent of foul water and rock cascaded from the ceiling. Macklin fell over Becker and hit the floor, he heard Becker scream, and as he twisted around he saw Ray Becker fall through a jagged crevice that had opened in the floor. Becker’s fingers grasped the edge, and then the two sides of the crevice slammed shut again and Macklin watched in horror as the man’s fingers exploded like overstuffed sausages.

  The entire room was in violent motion, like a chamber in a bizarre carnival funhouse. Pieces of the floor collapsed, leaving gaping craters that fell into darkness. Schorr screamed and leaped toward the door, jumping a hole that opened in his path, and as the man burst out into the corridor Macklin saw that the corridor walls were veined with deep fissures as well. Huge slabs of rock were crashing down. Schorr disappeared into whirling dust, his scream trailing behind him. The corridor shook and pitched, the floor heaving up and down as if the iron reinforcing rods had turned to rubber. And all around, through the walls and the floor and ceiling, there was a pounding like a mad blacksmith beating on an anvil, coupled with the grinding of rock and the sound of reinforcing rods snapping like off-key guitar notes. Over the cacophony, a chorus of screams swelled and ebbed in the corridor. Macklin knew the civilians on the upper level were being battered to death. He sat huddled in a corner in the midst of the noise and chaos, realizing that the shock waves from that runaway missile were hammering Earth House to pieces.

  Filthy water showered down on him. A storm of dust and rubble crashed into the corridor, and with it was something that might have been a mangled human body; the debris blocked the control room’s doorway. Someone—Warner, he thought—had his arm and was trying to pull him to his feet. He heard Lombard howling like a hurt dog. Discipline and control! he thought. Discipline and control!

  The lights went out. The air vents exhaled a gasp of death. And an instant afterward, the floor beneath Macklin collapsed. He fell, and he heard himself screaming. His shoulder hit an outcrop of rock, and then he struck bottom with a force that knocked the breath out of him and stopped his scream. In utter darkness, the corridors and rooms of Earth House were caving in, one after the other. Bodies were trapped and mangled between pincers of grinding rock. Slabs of stone fell from above, crashing through the weakened floors. Sludge streamed knee-deep in the sections of Earth House that still held together, and in the darkness people crushed each other to death fighting for a way out. The screams, shrieks and cries for God merged into a hellish voice of pandemonium, and still the shock waves continued to batter Blue Dome Mountain as it caved in on itself, destroying the impregnable fortress carved in its guts.

  Eleven

  Charter

  1:31 P.M. Eastern Daylight Time

  Aboard Airborne Command

  The president
of the United States, his eyes sunken into purple craters in his ashen face, looked to his right out the oval Plexiglas window and saw a turbulent sea of black clouds beneath the Boeing E-4B. Yellow and orange flashes of light shimmered thirty-five thousand feet below, and the clouds boiled up in monstrous thunderheads. The aircraft shook, was sucked downward a thousand feet and then, its four turbofan engines screaming, battled for altitude again. The sky had turned the color of mud, the sun blocked by the massive, swirling clouds. And in those clouds, tossed upward thirty thousand feet from the surface of the earth, was the debris of civilization: burning trees, entire houses, sections of buildings, pieces of bridges and highways and railroad tracks glowing incandescent red. The objects boiled up like rotting vegetation stirred from the bottom of a black pond and then were sucked downward again, to be replaced by a new wave of humanity’s junk.

  He couldn’t stand to watch it, but he couldn’t make himself stop looking. With dreadful, hypnotic fascination, he watched blue streaks of lightning lance through the clouds. The Boeing shuddered, leaned over on its port wing and strained upward again, plummeted and rose like a roller-coaster ride. Something huge and flaming streaked past the president’s window, and he thought that it might’ve been part of a train thrown into the air by the tremendous shock waves and super-tornado-force winds shrieking across the scorched earth below.

  Someone reached forward and pulled down the smoked-glass visor that shielded the president’s window. “I don’t think you need to look anymore, sir.”

  For a few seconds, the president struggled to recognize the man who sat in the black leather seat facing his own. Hans, he thought. Secretary of Defense Hannan. He looked around himself, his mind groping for equilibrium. He was in the Boeing Airborne Command Center, in his quarters at the tail of the aircraft. Hannan was seated in front of him, and across the aisle sat a man in the uniform of an Air Force Special Intelligence captain; the man was ramrod-straight and square-shouldered, and he wore a pair of sunglasses that obscured his eyes. Around his right wrist was a handcuff, and the other end of the chain was attached to a small black briefcase that sat on the Formica-topped table before him.

  Beyond the door of the president’s cubicle, the aircraft was a bristling nerve center of radar screens, data processing computers, and communications gear linked to Strategic Air Command, North American Air Defense, SHAPE command in Europe, and all the air force, naval and ICBM bases in the United States. The technicians who operated the equipment had been chosen by the Defense Intelligence Agency, which had also chosen and trained the man with the black briefcase. Also aboard the aircraft were DIA officers and several air force and army generals, assigned special duty on Airborne Command, whose responsibility was constructing a picture of reports coming in from the various theaters of conflict.

  The jet had been circling over Virginia since 0600 hours, and at 0946 the first electrifying reports had come in from Naval Central: contact between hunter-killer task forces and a large wolf pack of Soviet nuclear submarines north of Bermuda.

  According to the early reports, the Soviet submarines had fired ballistic missiles at 0958, but the later reports indicated that an American submarine commander might have launched Cruise missiles without proper authorization in the stress of the moment. It was hard now to tell who had fired first. Now it no longer mattered. The first Soviet strike had hit Washington, D.C., three warheads plowing into the Pentagon, a fourth hitting the Capitol and a fifth striking Andrews Air Force Base. Within two minutes the missiles launched at New York had struck Wall Street and Times Square. In rapid succession the Soviet SLBMs had marched along the eastern seaboard, but by that time B-l bombers were flying toward the heart of Russia, American submarines ringing the Soviet Union were firing their weapons, and NATO and Warsaw Pact missiles were screaming over Europe. Russian submarines lurking off the West Coast launched nuclear warheads, striking Los Angeles, San Francisco, San Diego, Seattle, Portland, Phoenix and Denver, and then the longer-range Russian multiple-warhead ICBMs—the really nasty bastards—had streaked in over Alaska and the pole, hitting air force bases and midwestern missile installations, incinerating heartland cities in a matter of minutes. Omaha had been one of the first targets, and with it Strategic Air Command headquarters. At 1209 hours the last garbled signal from NORAD had come through the technicians’ earphones: “Final birds away.”

  And with that message, which meant that a last few Minuteman III or Cruise missiles had been fired from hidden silos somewhere in western America, NORAD went off the air.

  Hannan wore a pair of earphones, through which he’d been monitoring the reports as they filtered in. The president had taken his earphones off when NORAD had gone dead. He tasted ashes in his mouth, and he couldn’t bear to think about what was in that black briefcase across the aisle.

  Hannan listened to the distant voices of submarine commanders and bomber pilots, still hunting targets or trying to avoid destruction in fast, furious conflicts halfway around the planet. Naval task forces on both sides had been wiped out, and now western Europe was being hammered between the ground troops. He kept his mind fixed on the faraway, ghostly voices floating through the storm of static, because to think about anything else but the job at hand might have driven him crazy. He wasn’t called Iron Hans for nothing, and he knew he must not let memories and regrets weaken him.

  The Airborne Command Center was hit by turbulence that lifted the aircraft violently and then dropped it again with sickening speed. The president clung to the armrests of his seat. He knew he would never see his wife and son again. Washington was a lunar landscape of burning rubble, the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution ashes in the shattered Archives building, the dreams of a million minds destroyed in the inferno of the Library of Congress. And it had happened so fast—so fast!

  He wanted to cry and wanted to scream, but he was the president of the United States. His cuff links bore the presidential seal. He recalled, as if from a vast and terrible distance, asking Julianne how the blue checked shirt would look with his tan suit. He hadn’t been able to choose a tie, because it was too much of a decision. He couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t figure anything out; his brain felt like a lump of saltwater taffy. Julianne had chosen the proper tie for him, had put the cuff links in his shirt. And then he’d kissed her and embraced his son, and the Secret Service men had taken them away with other staff members to the Basement.

  It’s all gone, he thought. Oh, Jesus… it’s all gone. He opened his eyes and pushed up the visor again. Black clouds, glowing with red and orange centers, loomed around the aircraft. From the midst of them shot gouts of fire and lightning streaking upward a thousand feet above the plane.

  Once upon a time, he thought, we had a love affair with fire.

  “Sir?” Hannan said quietly. He took his earphones off. The president’s face was gray, and his mouth was twitching badly. Hannan thought the man was going to be airsick. “Are you all right?”

  The deadened eyes moved in the pallid face. “A-OK,” he whispered, and he smiled tightly.

  Hannan listened to more voices coming in. “The last of the B-ls just went down over the Baltic. The Soviets hit Frankfurt eight minutes ago, and six minutes ago London was struck by a multiple-warhead ICBM,” he relayed to the president.

  The other man sat like stone. “What about casualty estimations?” he asked wearily.

  “Not coming through yet. The voices are so garbled even the computers can’t squelch all the static out.”

  “I always liked Paris,” the president whispered. “Julianne and I had our honeymoon in Paris, you know. What about Paris?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing’s coming out of France.”

  “And China?”

  “Still silent. I think the Chinese are biding their time.”

  The aircraft lurched and dropped again. Engines screamed through the dirty air, fighting for altitude. A reflection of blue lightning streaked across the president’s face. “All right,”
he said. “Here we are. Where do we go from here?”

  Hannan started to reply, but he didn’t know what to say. His throat had closed up. He reached out to shut the visor again, but the president said firmly, “No. Leave it up. I want to see.” His head slowly turned toward Hannan. “It’s over, isn’t it?”

  Hannan nodded.

  “How many millions are already dead, Hans?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I wouldn’t care to—”

  “Don’t patronize me!” the president shouted suddenly, so loud even the rigid air force captain jumped. “I asked you a question and I want an answer—a best estimate, a guess, anything! You’ve been listening to those reports! Tell me!”

  “In… the northern hemisphere,” the secretary of defense replied shakily, his iron façade beginning to crack like cheap plastic, “I’d estimate… between three hundred and five hundred fifty. Million.”

  The president’s eyes closed. “And how many are going to be dead a week from now? A month? Six months?”

  “Possibly… another two hundred million in the next month, from injuries and radiation. Beyond that… no one knows but God.”

  “God,” the president repeated. A tear broke and trickled down his cheek. “God’s looking at me right now, Hans. I feel Him watching me. He knows I’ve murdered the world. Me. I’ve murdered the world.” He put his hands to his face and moaned. America is gone, he thought. Gone. “Oh…” he sobbed. “Oh… no…”