The White Death

by Rafferty, Daniel

  “The virus isn’t the only thing we need to worry about spreading then.”

  Chapter 22

  “Well, isn’t that a rare sight?” said Captain John Wedding. He settled down into the left pilot seat of the black B-2 Stealth Bomber. It was comfortable enough, even with his broad build.

  “You said it, Captain,” said First Lieutenant Aaron Kingsway quietly, already buckled in and raring to go. He was a lot leaner in build that Wedding. They both sported the typical square-styled military haircuts.

  Jefferson Airbase was in rapid preparation of all aircraft stationed there. Now, thirty iconic velvety black Stealth Bombers lined runways one and two. They grumbled quietly, itching to take off with their devastating payloads.

  “Let’s see how the old girl holds up,” said Wedding. “They’re throwing everything into this mission. Fighter jets, bombers, helicopters, cruise missiles.”

  “I bet the bomb is on standby,” said Kingsway.

  Wedding didn’t reply. He knew America’s mighty nuclear arsenal would be on high alert. Plans for emergency evacuation of top-level government would be hot, ready to go. The dashboard, with a never-ending display of dials and percentages, showed everything was ready for takeoff.

  “Now we wait,” said Wedding. He looked down at the time, keeping his anxiety in check.

  “We’ve no papers or anything for this mission,” said Kingsway.

  “No time,” said Wedding. “Rapid preparation, orders from the president himself. We get mission specifics en route.”

  “How do they know we’ll be able to incinerate the virus?” asked Kingsway. More bombers lined up on another runway.

  “Well, napalm burns at nearly a thousand degrees, and government experts say that’s more than enough to eradicate everything down there.”

  “Including our troops…” said Kingsway. He looked at his captain.

  Wedding turned back to his controls. That was one distraction he really didn’t need right now. They were going to annihilate a country that had become an immediate threat to the safety of the United States. That was his job.

  “This is Mission Control. Squadron B-2, one, cleared for takeoff. Good luck!” said the brisk female voice. Wedding was grateful for the interruption. He saluted the operations tower. Now it was time to get on with their duty.

  “Let’s do this,” he said. The engines roared to life, and they ascended upwards sharply with three more in close formation.

  “Our orders,” said Wedding, reading out loud as they came in across the message system, “are to target grid A1 in Seoul.”

  Kingsway pulled up the grid reference.

  “Center of Seoul,” he said.

  “Afterwards, head back to base. B-52s will follow in behind us and carpet bomb everything.” The text stopped, followed by an authentication code.

  “They’re really taking no chances,” said Kingsway. Black and gray clouds were below them, sparking alive with the occasional bolt of lightning. Fighter jets from American and British aircraft carriers took formation around them, providing a deadly ring of protection.

  Before long, and with little chat, they passed into the Korean peninsula.

  “Look at that,” said Wedding. Even with their dark glasses and the tinted windscreen, the ferocious flames that engulfed the Korean Peninsula could be seen in all their stomach-churning glory. “It’s like the end of times.”

  They didn’t speak, instead taking in the view.

  “Distance to section A1?”

  “Approaching target location in one minute,” said Kingsway.

  They were both rather polite now to each other. Wedding called this duty mode. Nothing else mattered apart from completing the mission. Wedding and Kingsway were considered the alpha bombers—sent to the missions that the Pentagon placed the highest priority on.

  “Ordinance ready,” said Wedding softly. “Enemy resistance?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The cities are experiencing sporadic power cuts. Captain … thirty seconds to target location.”

  “Open bomb-bay doors,” ordered Wedding. He inputted the codes for ordinance release. Like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Wedding’s B-2 squadron flew with their ordinance ready to be released. Age, gender, and whether you were infected or not were irrelevant now. They had been dispatched, and they would kill everything.

  “Doors opened,” said Kingsway, flicking a switch.

  “Release ordinance,” said Wedding.

  “Releasing ordinance,” replied Kingsway.

  Dozens of black bombs fell downwards toward the defenseless South Korean capital and its population of millions.

  “Ordinance released,” said Kingsway. “Not one slither of resistance.”

  Wedding pondered Kingsway. His friend was having a hard time separating himself from the mission. It was tough, but they were trained for such missions. Success was the only thing that mattered.

  Their B-2 began the slow turn to head home. The streets of Seoul now burned, and those waiting on help from their government—or any government—would instead be facing death again. Help would never come.

  “It’s easier when you can’t see them,” said Wedding. It was unusual for him to make a personal comment, and it caught Kingsway’s attention.

  “Napalm will be melting the city below us. People will be burning in the streets.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Wedding. He didn’t often pull rank.

  “We just helped kill over thirty thousand American soldiers,” said Kingsway.

  “We carried out our orders,” said Wedding, his lips tight. He tapped a few buttons, and the auxiliary engines activated.

  “Just orders then?”

  “Lieutenant,” snapped Wedding, “just concentrate on getting us home now. We’ve done our part. You can wrestle with your conscience later.”

  “We’ve done our part for now,” said Kingsway. “This is just the beginning. I’m promising that, Captain. We’ll be back.”

  “Captain Wedding to Mission Control. We have completed our objective. Returning to base.” They set course for an airbase in Japan. All Japanese airports were now open to the American military.

  “Understood, Captain—safe flight,” replied Mission Control commander Birk.

  ***

  Roberta Birk was a formidable woman in her fifties. With a black perm and little makeup to speak of, she commanded the Pentagon operations room with an iron fist. She informed General Richards directly that the first squadron was returning. The heart of American military planning and strategy, the Pentagon, was in crisis management. The general had just arrived.

  “Keep me informed,” replied Richards. He stood in the center of the large military operations room, where over a hundred personnel coordinated the efforts of American military forces around the globe—or what was left of them. “Roberta, get them all home.”

  “I will,” she replied. Birk ran a tight ship, something she was famous for.

  “Busy evening,” said Richards.

  “Not half,” she replied. “The Bush carrier group has reported a ninety-three percent success rate.”

  “Verified?” asked Richards.

  “Satellites in orbit concur,” said Birk. They both took steaming hot mugs of coffee from a passing trolley. “They want permission to begin supplementary bombings with their own fighter aircraft.”

  “Authorized,” said Richards. He skimmed through a report showing high-definition black-and-white photographs of Korean cities burning. “Sooner we kill this virus, the better.”

  “The Obama carrier is requesting permission to begin launching fighters to finish off any remnants along the coast.”

  “Authorized. Pull up live footage of the Chinese/Korean border.”

  The l
argest center screen changed from bomber statistics to a satellite feed of the border.

  “Feed transmitting with three second delay, sir,” replied a staffer.

  “Life sign scan,” said Richards. A white line sped across the screen, revealing thousands of dots along the border on the Korean side with only a smattering on the Chinese side.

  “Not in the least bit adequate,” said Birk. “Aren’t the Chinese meant to be flooding that area with troops?”

  “Yes,” growled Richards. “They are. There can’t be more than five thousand there.”

  He lifted the telephone, getting patched through to the president.

  “General,” said Thomas quickly.

  “Sir, it looks like the Chinese have royally fucked up. They only have a smattering of troops along the border with Korea.”

  “What?”

  “Confirmed,” mouthed Birk. She had the computer count in front of her.

  “We have it confirmed, Mr. President,” said Richards. “Unless they take action immediately, the border will fail.”

  “Get me the Chinese premier, now!” shouted Thomas to Gail. “I’ll need to put you on hold.”

  “If that border line falls,” said Birk quietly. The room seemed to get busier, more staff running in, trying to ascertain a timeframe for border collapse.

  “We won’t let that happen,” said Richards. “We can’t. What’s the current location of the MOABs?”

  “The MOABs?”

  “Yes,” said Richards again.

  “They landed in Japan ten minutes ago, General.” MOAB was an acronym for Mother of All Bombs. It was second only to nuclear weapons in destructive power.

  “Have them loaded onto planes. Inform all bomber squadrons to refuel and rearm as soon as they return to base.”

  “Yes, General,” said Birk.

  Richards wanted every weapon at his disposal primed.

  Birk paused, looking at the border region again. “If we have to take action on the border itself, Chinese citizens will die.”

  “We might have to destroy not only the border, but a few kilometers each side of it, as well,” said Richards. “Many Chinese citizens will die. The virus cannot escape into the Chinese population. That’s over a billion people.”

  The red telephone began ringing.

  “Richards,” he said.

  “General,” said Thomas. “The Chinese premier is finding it difficult to get trained troops down to the border. Panic is raging across China, and the government is preoccupied with a border evacuation.”

  “Their only priority should be maintaining a sealed border with North Korea,” said Richards. “What the hell are they thinking?” He could feel his nerves begin to itch. Every second that passed brought them closer to a possible infection.

  “I get the impression the Chinese government is scrambling,” said Thomas.

  “Mr. President, if the Chinese do not allow us to act, panic will not be the only thing raging across their country.” Richards watched as his staff worked frantically around him. He could see their struggle to control the feelings of dread, fright, and worry. In a way he envied them—he could display nothing of sort. Besides the president, he was the symbolic head of the United States armed forces. Confidence and an unwavering certainty in his abilities were prerequisites for such a position.

  “What’s the status of Operation Cleanse?” asked the president.

  “We’re carrying the plan out, but it takes time,” said Richards. He was pulling every bomber he could down to Korea, but incinerating every meter of land took time.

  “What would you have me do?” asked Thomas.

  He was momentarily surprised. His previous experience with presidents had been, for the most part, not pleasant. They had refused to take advice from their seasoned military commanders. To have the current president directly ask for his honest advice was refreshing. Finally, maybe a president had been elected whom the Pentagon could work with.

  “Our priority is the security of the United States, yes?” said Richards.

  “Of course,” said Thomas.

  “Then the infection cannot breach the border. China must not become infected, Mr. President. We will have to do whatever is required to ensure such an event does not occur.”

  “Agreed,” said Thomas. Richards could feel the determination in his voice. For being a new president, just inaugurated, he displayed a courage which some of his predecessors lacked after eight years in office, let alone a few days.

  “Mr. President,” said Richards. He could feel the gravitas of this conversation fully now upon his seasoned shoulders. The threat was not of a regional war. He knew they were talking global catastrophe now. It was up to America to strike with force and without hesitation. The rest of the democratic world would expect nothing less. “As your most senior military officer, I recommend we take immediate action to protect not only the future security of the United States, but also the remaining 194 countries in the world.”

  “Some of that border fencing is only ten feet high, and not even barbed,” said Roberta Birk.

  “Numbers?” asked Richards, still on the phone to the president.

  “One hundred thousand infected on the border,” said Birk. “We’re running out of time. General, if we are to go, we must go now.”

  “Understood,” said Richards, returning to the President. “Mr. President, I need immediate orders. This requires a presidential decision.”

  “One minute,” said Thomas. He switched receivers, now talking to the Chinese premier.

  “If he doesn’t act…” Roberta was getting agitated. They were watching, in real time, the border region beginning to fail.

  “Then we’ll have lost the first battle, and the war will be over,” said Richards.

  “Fucking hell. Bomb it, them, everything.”

  “The Chinese?” said Richards, waiting on the line.

  “Whoever we have to,” said Birk.

  “Patience,” said Richards.

  “General,” said the president. Richards knew the next few seconds could determine the course of history.

  “Go ahead, sir.”

  “I’m authorizing you to take whatever action is necessary to contain the infection from entering the Republic of China,” said the president. To Richards, he sounded resolute.

  “Any action we take will involve the death of Chinese nationals.”

  “Noted,” said the president. “Our authority comes directly from the Chinese premier himself.”

  “Immediate bombing of the border region, inclusive of two kilometers each side, with supplementary bombings on the Korean side. That is the Pentagon’s recommended course of action,” said Richards. He wasted not a second in explaining what had to be done. Usually, the Pentagon’s policy was to present extreme action in bits and pieces, allowing the commander in chief time to digest what had to be done.

  “Do what you have to do,” said Thomas.

  Richards nodded. America was heading to war.

  Chapter 23

  The Ministry of State Security in Beijing, China was a fearsome intelligence agency with some of the most advanced technology and best trained spies in the world. In contrast to the rest of an ailing state, the Secret Service had maintained an edge on par with Western agencies. For the past forty-eight hours, the ministry had refocused all its activities on one objective—determining the origin of the virus that threatened Chinese existence. The minister in charge of this deadly ministry, Chen Liang, had a reputation for fear on his own. He had his best agents in North Korea before the crisis broke out. They were there to find the North Korean underground nuclear laboratory. Now, their mission was much more important.

  “It confirms American involvement. This is not North Korean,” replied Liang. Hi
s lead intelligence officer nodded in agreement on the screen, through the video link. The agents had recorded a small old woman speaking with a child in the complex and telling her she was from the United States of America.

  “An underground American research lab, in North and South Korea,” said Yang Jen Shu, his best agent.

  “Current location?”

  “Dandong, sir.” Dandong was a large Chinese city along the North Korean border. His agents had just watched as American bombers destroyed all of Korea and now were preparing for a coordinated attack on the border itself.

  “We need a specimen. Get me one and bring it to Beijing,” said Liang coldly.

  “Transport?” said Shu.

  “A medical containment unit will be delivered to Dandong—it should be there in an hour. A jet will be standing by at the airport. I’ll meet you in Beijing.”

  “Yes, Minister.” Once the quarantine unit arrived, Jen Shu led his team across the Yalu River in a black military speedboat, under the cover of darkness. All they needed was one infected specimen.

  Chapter 24

  “Shut up,” shouted Captain Brendan Rodgers. He didn’t know how he’d lived through the border attack; he was more focused on survival at the moment. He couldn’t shake that feeling of “already on borrowed time.”

  “Grrrrr,” growled the woman beside him. She was the same woman in white from the battlefield. She had no idea what was going on around her. Every time he looked, she was in a daze. He’d given up trying to communicate with her.

  “This is your last warning,” he said. He’d never wanted to hit a woman until now. Driving through the carnage of North Korea, with infected everywhere, he’d lost his last iota of patience.

  “Arrghhhh.” Saliva drooled from her mouth, past deeply cut lips.

  “Stop it,” he warned. Racing through a dilapidated road in the dark of night with no street lamps, this army jeep was taking punishment.