Resistance (Nomad Book 3)

by Matthew Mather

  “We met someone in town,” Jess said. “An American.”

  “Who was he?”

  “A photojournalist who was in Egypt when Nomad hit.”

  “That’s what he told you?”

  “That’s what he told me.”

  “We can’t keep secrets from each other,” Massarra said.

  “That’s rich, coming from you.”

  “I’m not keeping—”

  “Why were you so keen to persuade me this was the best place for us? What is it in this chaos of a town in the middle of the Libyan desert that interests you? It’s not because of the oil, is it? Or the survivor camps. There’s more to it.”

  The skin over Ufuk’s jaw tightened. He shook his head but didn’t answer. Jess waited.

  “We are heading into the worst winter the planet has seen in ten thousand years,” he said finally. “Temperatures will drop, but spring will come, and in a year, maybe two or three, the air will clear and the sun will shine again. This area of Africa may be the breadbasket of survival for whoever survived. I saw that in my climate modeling before Nomad hit.”

  “So you always wanted to come here? This was your plan? Why you destroyed Sanctuary?”

  “I did not destroy Sanctuary, Jessica. North Africa was part of my plans, yes. That’s why I had the equipment stored at Sahl. I intended to spend a year underground in Sanctuary, using my communication network to begin my work out here. I didn’t intend to risk my life in a sailboat crossing a frozen ocean.”

  Their desperate escape certainly didn’t seem coordinated. Jess couldn’t argue with that.

  Ufuk spread his hands wide. “But here we are. I am trying to make the best of it. The Zuwayya control most of the oil in eastern Libya and similar tribes control natural resources in Egypt. We must come to terms with regional militia and whatever governments remain in order to allow survivors to farm their own land, to create homesteads in Africa.”

  “You’re no different to Müller. You’re using this to wipe the slate clean, start your own empires in the dust. Why are we really here?”

  She waited, but he said nothing. “Tell me now or Giovanni, Hector and I leave. We can find another place to camp.”

  Ufuk balled his fists and turned to leave, but then exhaled long and hard. “I have another facility. In Tanzania. A satellite launch facility.”

  “Satellites?” The idea seemed so far removed from any reality Jess could imagine right now, she was momentarily dumbfounded. “Why Tanzania?” It never struck Jess as much of a space power.

  “The equator,” Ufuk said. “The closer a spacecraft’s launch position is to it, the easier to get into orbit. You could say the Earth gives it a push.”

  “So you want to launch…what, a satellite? Now?”

  “It’s more of a technology center. If we can get there—one day—I could talk to the Mars First mission. Maybe.”

  For two or three seconds, Jess’s mind bobbled the new information from one side of her brain to the other.

  “The Mars mission you launched before Nomad?” She’d totally forgotten it even existed. “Hold on, why would you launch a mission to Mars if you knew Nomad was coming? Were you…are you still trying to set up a Martian colony?” The sudden disconnect with reality, as they stood there in the dirt and sand in a tent in the middle of the Sahara, felt like someone sucker-punched Jess in the solar plexus and knocked the wind out of her. “Are you being serious?”

  “That was the idea. In exactly seventy-three weeks, Saturn will pass close to Earth. There are celestial events taking place that we might need to be aware of. The Mars First crew could be invaluable from their…well, unique vantage point.”

  “And that’s your secret?”

  “The less people knew, the less chance it could be exploited by Müller.”

  “I don’t think he’s a problem anymore.”

  “You don’t know him like I do.”

  “I think I might know him better,” Jess replied, and made it clear the conversation was over. “It’s you I’m worried I don’t know.”

  “Jessica, Jessica, wake up.”

  Jess’s eyes fluttered open, immediately blinded by a headlamp.

  It was Raffa, pulling on her arm. “Come quickly!”

  “Is everything okay?”

  She rolled from her sheets and realized Hector wasn’t with her, and neither was Giovanni. Instead they were huddled on the other side of the makeshift tent, all with their headlamps on, talking in excited hushed whispers. Ufuk sat in the middle of the huddle. He smiled at Jess as he saw her awake and waved her over.

  Raffa had already scampered back and was talking in rapid-fire Italian into a microphone attached to Ufuk’s tablet.

  “Who’s he talking to?” Jess asked groggily as she wiped her eyes and yawned.

  Giovanni’s grin was even wider than Ufuk’s. “Lucca. He’s talking to Lucca. His brother.”

  Jess took a few second to process the words and make sure she heard him right. “Lucca? How…what…” She snapped wide awake, adrenaline flooding into her bloodstream.

  Giovanni handed her a cup of steaming coffee as she arrived. “Ufuk’s been working all night to try and establish a connection to some of the underground network of hackers he knew at Sanctuary. Abbie Barnes was a part of it.”

  Jess took the coffee. Massarra sat to one side of the pack. Her expression indicated she wasn’t as excited as the rest of them. “Do not say where we are,” the Israeli said quietly. “Remember, Marshall. Salman said it was connected to Muller...”

  “It’s a secure connection. Totally encrypted,” Ufuk explained, glancing at Massarra. “It was a long shot.”

  “Did you talk to Abbie?”

  Ufuk leaned down to unplug the headphones. “Lucca, could you get Abbie on?”

  Over the speakers, a commotion in the background, and then the unmistakable voice of Abbie Barnes: “Hello?”

  “Abbie, my God. How are you?”

  “Jessica,” squealed the excited teenager on the other end. “I’m so happy you are safe.”

  “Thanks for getting Lucca out,” Jess said immediately.

  “That wasn’t me. It was Roger. He’s the one that made sure Lucca was safe.”

  Jess stole a look at Giovanni, who just nodded. “And Ballie Booker? Michel Durand? Did you see them?”

  The radio hissed silence. “I’m sorry.”

  Jess’s heart skipped a beat and she closed her eyes. “And where are you?”

  “Near China—Mongolia I think, in the desert—somewhere outside of the Sanctuary here. Müller took us with the Administrative Council, in a heavy lift aircraft. We’re not in Sanctuary, but some kind of Vivas facility.”

  “How many made it out?”

  This time the answer took a few seconds. “Only two hundred and thirty.”

  Some of Jess’s excitement drained away. How many had been in Sanctuary Europe? Five thousand? More?

  “Is Müller with you?” Jess asked after a pause.

  The speakers hissed.

  “Yes. He’s negotiating with the Chinese. He’s here with us in Mongolia.”

  Chapter 12

  Mongolia, near Ulan Battor

  Zasekin had known there would be questions eventually and that he would have no answers beyond the truth. Unsustainable lies would shake the faith his men still had in him, and that would be dangerous for all of them. He had never led that way, he had always been honest with them and perhaps that was why they were still together now, despite the gunfights and raiders and Semyon’s slow, painful death yesterday evening.

  Perhaps it was the moment that Semyon passed, that the questions began to simmer. Watching him die, knowing there was nothing that could be done. Each one knew a similar fate might well await them. It frightened them.

  They would say nothing about it; of course, they were too strong for that. Even Vasily, who was little more than a boy in truth, would not give a voice to his fear until the others had begun to quietly probe Zasek
in as to what he planned. Why he made those incursions alone back to the Czilim and spoke on the radio to someone they didn’t know, someone who was not Russian.

  It was Evgeny who had first noticed it, mentioning it only in passing even though Zasekin could see the questions forming on his lips. Too much time around the fire each night, too little to speak about beyond their immediate future, for such questions to be silent for long. Of course Evgeny, that devious little bastard. Who else?

  So instead of waiting, when he knew he had nothing left to gain by keeping them in the dark, he spoke on his own terms. As the light from the fire played on their faces, as they greedily ate from crates of supplies that bore markings that were not Russian Cyrillic, but Mongolian, he steadied himself. Zasekin had understood the markings of course, his natural Buryat within the family of the Mongolian languages, but how much did they understand, he wondered.

  “The food is good?”

  “Indeed it is, Andrei Nikolayevich,” Evgeny said. “Just as last night, and the night before, the food is good.”

  “You wonder how I knew it was there, hidden away in a cellar in Sükhbaatar, yes? That question hesitates on your tongue.”

  Timur had the good grace to appear embarrassed.

  Evgeny, on the other hand, looked triumphant. “Andrei Nikolayevich. Comrade Corporal Zasekin. I do wonder how you knew it was there. Something to do with the man you speak to on the radio, perhaps? The secrets you keep from us as other officers might from their men. You tell us you’re no different to them, but that does not seem to be the case, does it?”

  “Take care in your tone, Evgeny Valentinovich,” Timur warned. “We’re alive and we have food to eat. The Czilim is still running and we have a future. Andrei Nikolayevich is the reason for all of that.”

  “He’s lying to us, Timur Ivanovych,” Evgeny said. “Can you trust what he says after that?”

  “I trust this food,” Timur replied.

  “What about you, Vasily Fyodorovich?” Zasekin said as he turned to the younger man. “Do you have questions too?”

  Vasily blanched. He didn’t look at Zasekin, but instead toyed with his food. Eventually he said, “I trust you, Comrade Corporal.”

  The final man, once an ice-hockey player from Omsk until injury brought his career to a sad conclusion, was named Misha. He rarely cared for, or used, anyone’s patronymic—that was the Western influence playing hockey had offered him—yet Zasekin had always appreciated the simplicity with which he viewed most things. He found him to be composed in situations when emotional control was required. Perhaps again that was the old hockey player in him: he had seen more than enough violence on the ice. Misha often chose silence and rarely offered much to conversations, except when sport was involved when he became unusually animated.

  So it came as something of a surprise to the rest of them when he spoke now: “Evgeny, for whatever reason you always stir the pot. I knew a man like you at Avangard; he always wanted to be the center of attention. I don’t know why, but it didn’t matter to me then. It matters to me now. Andrei Nikolayevich has never given me any reason to doubt him. Officers keep secrets from their men, just as managers do from their players. There are always wider considerations not everyone needs to know about. That’s the way of leaders and subordinates. I ask myself this: am I alive? The answer, very obviously, is yes. I ask myself this: why am I alive? The answer is Andrei Nikolayevich Zasekin and the other men in my squad. That’s more than enough for me. So please, stop your whining and let the man do his job.”

  Evgeny appeared about to say something, when Zasekin cut across him. “Misha is right. Officers do keep secrets, but they should do this only if there is a good, tactical reason to do so. The time has come for me to explain and hear your thoughts.”

  He waited, looked them all straight in the eye, then nodded slowly. “After Baikal erupted, as we made our way south knowing then that Irkutsk was in ruins, I attempted to contact our regional headquarters. I tried every military channel. Nothing. Shortly afterward, we heard from the man collecting survivor reports.”

  The men nodded in unison. “Giovanni, yes.”

  “He confirmed to us that many, many people had died and there were similar events the world over.”

  “We know all this, Andrei.”

  “What I have not told you is that someone else, another man, reached me on an encrypted military channel, but he was not our military. He told me to use these frequencies to reach Giovanni.”

  “Why?”

  “I do not know why. He said just to speak with them.”

  “And why did you agree?”

  “Because we needed help, and he offered. He seems very powerful.”

  “Who was this man?” Timur asked.

  “He has never given his name.”

  “Do you know where he is from?” Evgeny asked.

  “He speaks English, but with an odd accent. I am not sure.”

  “What else did you agree with him?” Evgeny said.

  “He has a location in Mongolia he wants us to go to. He would not say where exactly, or for what purpose, but he said he would offer valuable commodities for trade and supplies if we agreed to help him. The supplies we picked up in Sükhbaatar, as well as the diesel fuel, were from him. He promised they would be there, and they were.”

  “In return for what?”

  “We intended to head for Ulan Bator, anyway. He would like us to report on what we find there. We take the Czilim as close as we can, conceal it, then hike in the rest of the way.”

  “If we all agree?”

  “We are in Mongolia, not Russia. We are not operational on behalf of the FSB, we are trying to survive. I can and will lead all of you, but only if you agree. This, now, is a matter for your own consciences.”

  “What does this man want from us?” Timur asked.

  “For now, information.”

  “For now?”

  “It will not end there, Andrei Nikolayevich,” Evgeny said.

  “What choice do we have? We are alone. We need friends.”

  Pine trees bowed under the weight of the wind slab of ash-streaked snow and reared over the Selenge’s craggy banks, while yet more, similarly weighed down, crept up the steeply sloped hills that made its valley. The narrow dirt tracks that formed the sporadic road that existed in this barren place were just visible from the wide expanse of the river, a river that was known in this part of Mongolia as the Chuluut.

  The Czilim roared over the ice-slab water, pushing through forests of petrified reeds, past small islands that peeked through wind-carved finger drifts and yet more slate-gray ice, over frigid black waves, between pine trees that bucked and twisted and shed their needles with the violence of the heavy downdraft wind she threw to each side. Even where heaving rapids descended over steep ledges, the Czilim left them in her wake.

  It was Evgeny’s turn to man the Kalashnikov. He stood in the hatch as Zasekin drove, wrapped in whatever spare clothing they could find. He had retrieved an old pair of goggles intended for the pilot should the window have ever been shot out—the apparatchik had considered everything, it seemed. There was still considerable ammunition for the heavy 7.62 machine gun, so Evgeny had been warned, as they all had, that he could shoot first should he think it necessary and ask questions later.

  Zasekin knew that anyone within a few miles would hear the Water Chestnut’s boisterous approach. She could be quiet and deadly when called for, waiting on the surface of the water, hidden by reeds and tall grass, or on a beach or road. Waiting for her prey, ready to pounce without warning. Yet in full flow, with the turbines churning, even in this valley she would be heard from a distance.

  Timur sat beside him, the cumbersome SH-3 night vision device held to his eyes as he searched not only for signs of potential human threats, but also for high rocks, fallen trees, and other debris along the banks of the river. Zasekin liked having him there, trusted the judgment of the Kemerovo man despite his quite inexplicable belief that, in t
he mountains to the south of Sayanogorsk, there were yetis. Timur grew quite infuriated at the others when they ridiculed him, citing the Kemerovo city administrators as having indisputable proof of the fact. This thought made Zasekin smile.

  “What is it?” Timur asked and Zasekin grunted. No sense antagonizing the younger man, not right now when there was so much division between them all.

  “We are making good progress,” he chose to say instead.

  Timur nodded. “My calculations place us somewhere within twenty kilometers of the borders of the Gorkhi Terelj National Park. There is a luxury hotel there as well as many traditional camps. We may find supplies, and a place to hide the Czilim.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Timur hesitated.

  “There is no one here to condemn you for anything, Timur Ivanovych.”

  Timur nodded, but still didn’t look at Zasekin. “There was an American television show I used to watch online called The Amazing Race.” He seemed embarrassed. “It was a race around the world by many teams with not much money. Reality television, the Americans called it. They visited Ulan Bator and Terelj. That’s how I know.”

  “So you are an expert!”

  Timur laughed grimly. “I don’t think so, Andrei Nikolayevich.”

  “How far to Ulan Bator from this place?”

  “Around fifty kilometers, and then a day’s march, depending on the terrain.”

  Chapter 13

  Al-Jawf, Libya

  Jess and Raffa carried boxes containing the rationed food allocated by the encampment administration. Labels identified the contents as packets of indiscriminate ages from the UN World Food Program and Red Cross, probably diverted during the civil war in Libya.

  They made their way between the tents.

  Jess watched their surroundings closely. Raffa touched her arm and gestured to a family sitting in the opening of a shelter. For a moment, Jess couldn’t see what attracted his interest, but then she understood. There were two children, both sitting apart from the rest of the family. On their faces and necks, reddening patches of skin that appeared scalded and which both children scratched. The younger, a girl little more than five or six, had quite long hair, but in places the growth seemed irregular, as though it had been shaved away. Despite the cold, the elder, a boy, sweated heavily.