Apocalypse Crucible

by Mel Odom

  Delroy took the man’s hand and felt the man’s strength again. “All right then, Walter, I’ll treat you to breakfast.”

  “Well, you should,” Walter said. “Getting off pretty cheap for having your life saved.” He sounded tough and serious, but he winked.

  “Well, what’re you standing around for?”

  Delroy gestured at the bathrobe. “My clothes.”

  “Hazel won’t mind the bathrobe,” Walter assured him. Then held his hands up. “I’m just joshing you. I’ll be right back with your duffel.” He turned and was gone.

  Delroy watched the deputy go, wondering what he was letting himself in for by agreeing to have breakfast with the man. If Deputy Purcell hadn’t insisted on breakfast, Delroy knew he wouldn’t have eaten. He was also certain Walter knew that.

  OneWorld NewsNet Corporate Offices

  Bucharest, Romania

  Local Time 1251 Hours

  In Radu Stolojan’s office, the computer twittered.

  The sound drew the producer’s attention at once. Only one person had access to the videophone capabilities of the computer. He leaned forward and tapped his security code to answer the call.

  The screen opened in a rushed swirling oval, revealing Nicolae Carpathia standing before a full-length mirror in an expensive hotel room. The Romanian president adjusted his tie.

  “Good afternoon, Radu,” Carpathia said in his calm baritone.

  “Good morning, President Carpathia.” Stolojan knew it was still early in New York City. Carpathia turned toward the PC cam and smiled. “You can call me Nicolae. We are friends, after all.”

  “I know,” Stolojan said. But he would never, in all his life, call the Romanian president anything but Mr. Carpathia. “I trust you had a safe flight.”

  “Yes. Things are going very well here. I have been invited to speak to the General Assembly of the United Nations this afternoon.”

  “I’ll make sure OneWorld reporters are in the audience.” Stolojan had been informed that was the plan, but this was the first word of confirmation.

  “Thank you, Radu, but no special effort will be required. The press and publicity have already been taken care of.” Carpathia took a moment and reconsidered. “Of course, we should have at least a few of our people here.”

  “They will be.”

  “But that is not why I called you.”

  Fear thrummed through Stolojan. In an eye blink Nicolae Carpathia had plucked him as a youth from the squalor and degradation of the alleys, raising and transforming him into a man of means. In even less time, Stolojan knew that Carpathia could crush him, break him down to nothing. And that would only be if Carpathia bothered to let him live.

  “It appears,” Carpathia said, “that we have another problem.”

  Stolojan swallowed hard. The taste of sour bile filled his mouth.

  “Someone is apparently trying to access Alexander Cody’s files at the offices there,” Carpathia said.

  Stolojan’s first impulse was to ask Carpathia if he was certain.

  How could anyone know more about the operation going on inside the OneWorld building than he did? After all, he had all the security cameras and computer firewalls in place.

  With a sick, sinking feeling, Stolojan knew that the only way Carpathia could have known was by having his own set of spies within the OneWorld NewsNet offices. Someone to watch the watchers.

  “I believe you know who it might be,” Carpathia went on with calm confidence.

  “Lizuca Carutasu,” Stolojan answered. There was no doubt in his mind, but he wished desperately to know how Carpathia knew that.

  “Please check.” Carpathia waited patiently.

  Stolojan opened another window on the computer monitor and checked for off-site transmissions linked to the video archives that Lizuca accessed. He hadn’t designed the software that allowed him to track the query back to its source, but he knew how to use it.

  He also realized that if Carpathia had the capability to know that the archive files were being accessed from an outside source, he could have ordered the search done by whoever had given him the information. Stolojan took solace in that. If Carpathia meant him any ill will, he would have pointed out the mistake and the fact that he had taken care of it himself.

  Only seconds later, the address of the IP searching through the video archives appeared on the computer screen. It was listed as Bites and Bytes, a cybercafé where computers, time, and access to the Internet could be rented for an hourly fee.

  Stolojan opened another window and pulled up employee files. He read Lizuca Carutasu’s address and found that the cybercafé was only blocks from the apartment where she lived with her mother and sisters.

  “I can’t confirm that it’s her,” Stolojan said. “But she lives near there and she is off.”

  “Then you should get someone over there,” Carpathia suggested.

  “Yes, sir.” Working in the open window, Stolojan accessed employee files and took out a current picture of Lizuca Carutasu. He attached it to another file, then hesitated. “How do you want this handled, President Carpathia?”

  The calm expression remained on Carpathia’s handsome face. “For the moment, Alexander Cody is an important resource to me. Through him I have a more direct access to Captain Remington and the soldiers he controls. I do not want Agent Cody compromised in any way. Nor will I suffer betrayal.”

  “I understand.” Stolojan entered an e-mail address and sent the message. He didn’t know the name of the man who would receive the message, but he knew the results. Over the years, Stolojan had used the man twice before, and both times he had sent wreaths to the funerals from the corporation’s petty cash. “There is a problem, though.”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe Miss Carutasu is working at Danielle Vinchenzo’s request.” “She gave Miss Carutasu the picture.”

  Stolojan nodded.

  “Why was I not informed?”

  “I believed I had handled it by telling Miss Carutasu not to investigate the picture and by sending her home.”

  Carpathia thought for a moment. “Evidently Danielle saw Agent Cody in Sanliurfa.”

  Stolojan didn’t know everything that Carpathia had going on in the Turkish city now under siege by the Syrians, but he knew that Cody was there and Captain Remington of the American Rangers was there. Stolojan also knew that Carpathia had given use of the OneWorld NewsNet satellites to Remington during the border clash four days ago. And that preparations were being made now to offer them again.

  “I will have to rethink the Danielle Vinchenzo situation, Radu,” Carpathia said. “Until then, keep me posted on this assignment.”

  “I will.”

  Carpathia said good-bye, then ended the connection.

  Stolojan watched as the open window on the monitor screen collapsed. He sat back in his chair and trembled. Few people knew that Nicolae Carpathia had a dark side to him. Over the years while working as first his aide, then as producer for the news service, Stolojan had seen it. People died when Carpathia wished them dead, and usually he had to do no more than mention it.

  But no one, Stolojan felt certain, even those who had seen that dark side, knew exactly how bad things could get. They would, though, and Stolojan wanted to make sure he stayed in Carpathia’s good graces.

  Bites and Bytes Cybercafé

  Bucharest, Romania

  Local Time 1303 Hours

  Sitting hunched over one of the small tables that filled the specialty café, Lizuca Carutasu tore off small bites of her grilled-Gouda-and-broccoli-on-raisin-bread sandwich. She munched contentedly and sipped her raspberry tea.

  The sandwich, like the computer time, was an extravagance. The cybercafé’s food prices were high, but most people in Bucharest did not own computers. A lot of them did, however, own curiosity about the Internet and were willing to pay for the chance to learn about it.

  All of the tables were taken. Lizuca had experienced a two-hour wait before one of t
he computers freed up. The décor was simple: garish neon lights twisted into a circuitry pattern and posters of American movies featuring cutting-edge computer technology. The Matrix shared space with Johnny Mnemonic and all three Terminator movies. Models of spacecraft, past and present, hung from the ceiling from thin monofilaments.

  Before she’d gotten the job at OneWorld NewsNet, Lizuca had saved her tips from serving and some of each paycheck as a maid in

  one of the big chain hotels to spend time on the computers. She’d known she was preparing herself for another job and that it would take the skills she learned while surfing the Internet to get that job. But she’d also known that her mother would have scolded her for being so foolish with her money all the same. There were too many mouths to feed, and the computer time would have been viewed as a waste.

  At the time, Lizuca had felt guilty about her once-a-week indulgence. She’d only allowed herself two hours a week. Any more than that and the guilt would have been too much to bear.

  She watched the search function she was using as it crawled through OneWorld NewsNet’s video and stills archives. If Danielle thought that a picture or information about the man in the photograph she’d sent might exist there, Lizuca was willing to bet that it did.

  She took another small bite of the sandwich, relishing the smoky taste of the grilled Gouda cheese. She tried not to feel guilty, but she did. Not only could she not afford to eat like this, she couldn’t afford the high calories either. Her mother would be all over her about her spending habits as well as her chances of some day attracting a husband.

  Lizuca wanted to go to the United States. She’d seen so much of the country in the films she watched. She thought that it must be wonderful to live there, to have so many opportunities for a career, for friends, and—yes—for a husband. Personally, she preferred the lean-hipped young men in the American jeans commercials.

  Working with Danielle Vinchenzo, Lizuca felt certain, would provide her with that chance. That was why she was willing to undertake the risks she was now taking.

  The program she used now was a variant on a hacker’s packet sniffer. The utility was like a bloodhound, searching for bytes that corresponded with the bytes in the digital picture from Danielle.

  Staring at the screen, Lizuca suddenly became aware of a figure standing just over her shoulder. Reflected in the computer monitor’s screen, the man wore a black hoodie and wind pants. He kept his hands tucked in the front pocket of the hoodie.

  Fear rattled through Lizuca, freezing her in place like a mouse in an owl’s gaze. She didn’t know what had brought the fear on, but the feeling was a primeval thing that wouldn’t be denied.

  Wraparound sunglasses hid the man’s eyes under the shadow of the hoodie, but his lower face was revealed enough so that she was certain he was handsome and that he was someone she had never met before.

  “Lizuca Carutasu,” he said softly.

  Unable to speak, Lizuca turned to face him. Her heart hammered in her chest. What was it about the man that made her so afraid? She didn’t know.

  Casually, he took his left hand from the hoodie pocket and flipped his hand over. Lizuca saw a picture inside a plastic pocket protector wrapped around his wrist. It was a copy of the one she wore on her OneWorld NewsNet ID every day. There was only one place he could have gotten that picture.

  Adrenaline flooded Lizuca’s body even before the man drew the silenced pistol from his hoodie with his other hand. She stood and shoved herself out into the aisle between the tables, knocking over drinks and spilling food trays as she went.

  Turning the corner at the end of the counter, Lizuca aimed herself at the door to the kitchen area, thinking she might at least have a chance if she could only make it to the alley.

  The other café patrons must have noticed the man with the pistol then because they all yelled and screamed and started to scatter as he ran after her in a long, easy stride. He moved confidently, casually, like chasing someone down to kill was something he did every day.

  The exit door had a shiny metal surface, so Lizuca saw herself running toward it. She also saw the elongated form of the man standing behind her, drawing the silencer-equipped pistol up smooth and steady. She reached for the door, mewling in fear.

  Then something slammed into the back of her neck. Bright red blood sprinkled the metal surface of the door. She couldn’t breathe and her legs turned leaden. She managed one more step, then a blow caught her in the back of the head and hurled her face first into the door. Surprisingly, she felt no pain, but she had no strength left either.

  Two more blows struck her as she slid toward the floor. She was gone before her body hit the tiles.

  19

  United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post

  Sanliurfa, Turkey

  Local Time 1324 Hours

  The fire raged out of control, twisting through the guts of the building near Sanliurfa’s downtown sector. Flames licked outside broken windows like the tongues of maddened and hungry beasts knowing they were on the verge of breaking out of the cage that held them. Black smoke stained the sky, looking like loose stitches in a blue funeral shroud.

  As the private driving the Hummer rolled the vehicle to a stop, Goose gazed up at the four-story structure and tried not to think about what it must be like for the people trapped inside the building. He clambered out of the Hummer, favoring his injured knee, and shouldered the M-4A1 automatically.

  The day had turned hot after the cool of the night. Perspiration beneath the Kevlar-lined helmet crawled through Goose’s hair and threaded down his neck. His BDU was sodden and caked with dirt.

  “Corporal,” Goose called out.

  The corporal turned and looked at Goose. Wide-eyed in youth and green in experience, the young man looked hesitant. “First Sergeant, I’m Corporal Robinson.”

  Goose limped over to the group of soldiers standing at the front of the building. “What’s the sit-rep?”

  “First Sergeant, there are wounded trapped inside on the top floor. Could be the third floor as well. We don’t know.”

  “Who?”

  “Some civilians. Maybe a couple soldiers. Maybe a couple of our guys.”

  “How do you know that?” Goose scanned the windows and felt helpless. Anyone who was currently in the building obviously didn’t stand much of a chance.

  The lower floor consisted of shops. Fragments of the front plateglass window advertised the existence of a restaurant in English, Turkish, and French. The three upper floors looked like offices, but now all of them were a heaped jumble of broken rock and mortar.

  “We’ve been in touch with those people, First Sergeant.” Corporal Robinson tapped his helmet. “Picked it up as radio bleed-over. Had my communications guy run it down because we thought we heard voices.” He paused. “They weren’t talking English. Not at first.”

  “What were they speaking?”

  “I don’t know, First Sergeant. But they’re talking English now.” The corporal verified the signal frequency.

  Goose changed the frequency on his headset. He felt bone tired, then realized he was way past that because he was starting to get the false second wind that, for him, was the true sign of approaching exhaustion.

  “ … got to help us,” a man with a heavy accent pleaded. “God, grant us mercy, you can’t just leave us in here to die. Something has fallen against the door. We cannot get out. We’re trapped. We—” The voice ended in a choking sob that Goose attributed to the smoke that filled the building.

  Somewhere in the background of the radio transmission a girl screamed.

  “I beg you,” the man continued. “My wife and children are in here with me. Please. You can’t just ignore our pleas.”

  Goose switched the frequency off. He didn’t need to listen. He stared at the building grimly.

  “First Sergeant,” the corporal said.

  “Did you send for a fire-rescue team?” Goose asked.

  “Yes. They said they’re
on their way.”

  “When?”

  “Couldn’t have been more than a minute before I radioed you.”

  Goose had been in between, moving from one spot of havoc and disaster to the next when the call came in. He came to this site because lives were at stake. “Have your com get hold of them and tell them that I’m here and we need them now.”

  Robinson spoke rapidly.

  “Have com stay in touch with the guy on the radio inside the building,” Goose said. “Find out if he’s familiar with the building. We may need some directions.” He thought the op through, his mind sluggish with too much happening too fast. An idea occurred to him, but he waited until the corporal stopped speaking. “Where did the guy inside get a radio?”

  “It’s a shortwave set.”

  “Can we isolate where the signal is coming from?”

  “Already tried that, First Sergeant. Need another receiving unit to make that happen. We’re on a specialized frequency being broadcast out of Command. The triangulation isn’t possible through the headset units.” The corporal hesitated. “Not quick enough, anyway. If we had a full sat array we could work out of, that would be a different story.” He pointed his chin back over Goose’s shoulder. “Rescue unit’s here.”

  Turning, Goose spotted the military fire-suppression truck rounding the corner and heading for the building. Soldiers in Nomex coveralls clung to the sides. The 75th had come prepared for their bit in helping guard the Turkish-Syrian border.

  A lanky corporal crawled out of the passenger side before the big truck jerked to a complete stop. He waved and yelled to his squad, getting them up and moving. They pulled hoses from the rig and started making connections.

  “First Sergeant,” the rescue squad leader greeted. He looked worn and haggard. A second-degree burn covered the left side of his face. Clear blisters bubbled up from the reddened skin. His eyebrows and eyelashes were burned off. “I’m Corporal Timmons.”