by RW Krpoun
“Says you,” the big Gnome mumbled, carefully scraping off the thin shaving crème. “Are we still in Kansas, dude?”
“Not for long; the state line is closing fast.”
“Good. I hate Kansas.”
The word was passed for a commander’s meeting, so Marv and JD made their way across Hard Eight’s flatbeds, past the still-sleeping operators, and into the command Amtrak car. They found Anton Grase, impeccably dressed as ever, drinking coffee with Dirk Chambers.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Please help yourself,” the DSR official waved towards the coffee pot and a tray of muffins. “We’re waiting for Mister Walters.”
“Colonel Walters,” JD grinned as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Indeed. What are your thoughts on Rolling Hunger so far, Mister Burleson?”
“The flatbeds are insufficient for troop comfort,” Marv took a muffin but skipped the coffee. “Especially heading north in October. I’m not suggesting sleeper cars, but adding a flatbed per company with a couple shipping containers on it would vastly increase the comfort level.”
“I was on the phone late last night, a conference call with the other Group action officers, and that is a universal observation. We will add three flatbeds in Grand Forks for the trip south, and DSR is looking into a purpose-modified shipping module for this sort of situation. I understand that a company that builds buses for music groups is preparing a contract bid to convert standard twenty-foot shipping containers into barracks modules with either a heating or a cooling unit. For our purposes you will have to make do with two basic containers on the return trip.”
“At least we’ll be out of the wind and rain,” JD sipped his coffee. “That alone will help.”
“What about the operation itself, Mister Burleson?”
“Well, one mission isn’t much proof of anything, but the fact is we moved six tons of salvage and took out a good number of infected for very little fuel. If this wasn’t just a trial run we could have shuttled the entire contents of that warehouse to the train before sundown. The train ensures that my operators are better-rested than they would be if we had been driving for the same amount of time, and the savings in fuel is staggering. In my opinion the key is going to how target areas are chosen, and the decision process on how far you will ‘launch’ the operators.”
Anton nodded. “The launch distance is critical to the project’s success. If we can successfully deploy and recover operators on missions of sixty or more miles from the train, then Rolling Hunger will be able to reach the majority of the inhabited United States. Ah, here is Mister Walters.” The Colonel, carefully groomed, was entering the car. “Good morning.”
Walters nodded in reply as he took a seat.
“So, in less than an hour we will stop at a Relocation Center in Nebraska and drop off the supplies gathered in yesterday’s mission, along with the ten people who were rescued. We will pick up twenty-one persons who need relocation to Grand Forks or Texas, and proceed onwards. Your staff may dismount, but the turn-around will be brief, so ensure that they remain close to hand. I understand Mister Chambers will be obtaining a few brief interviews and some stock footage. Are there any questions?”
“When is the next launch?” Walters asked.
“Around ten am, depending upon travel time.”
The Relocation Center, Nebraska NB-14, had been established alongside the railroad, adjacent to Highway 75, on a hundred acres of pasture which included an old fairgrounds. It was hemmed in by an ad-hoc barrier of barbed wire, concertina wire, chain-link fencing, and concrete traffic barriers. Besides a few battered clapboard building and a huge barn sided with weathered galvanized tin which were left over from the fairground the facility consisted of rows of white travel trailers and a single building under construction near the center of the area.
“Fun-looking place,” Dyson observed
“Looks like those FEMA places after Katrina,” Bear agreed. “But however Rube Goldberg the barrier line looks it should seriously impede zombies, and they’ve got police officers guarding the perimeter, so the people are safe enough.”
“Its just a transit facility for displaced people. From here they go back home or to a Patriot Homestead,” Addison observed. “The government is pushing for a return to normalcy.”
“Good luck with that-there’s freakin’ zombies running around,” Dyson said. “Lurching around, actually.”
“I figure the cold will kill the zeds off,” Bear waved at a group of kids. “At least in the snow states.”
“It won’t be long to test your theory,” Dyson glanced up at the clouds. “Its sixty right now, and I bet it doesn’t get any warmer.”
“Nope. And we’re heading north.”
Even covert organizations require paperwork to track the logistics efforts, and the processes that paperwork is based upon create an environment which becomes, to the trained and acclimatized eye, very much like the floor of a forest. Efforts to bypass, embezzle, or defraud the process leave traces in this environment that are as clear to the knowledgeable as the passage of feet is to a tracker.
Doctor Davenport had deliberately gotten a full night’s sleep before tackling the traces he had found, and he quickly established that however gifted a scientist and clever a manager Hodges was, he was not a trained or skilled white collar criminal. The duplicitous nature of the cabal in Project Static Overlook had been detectable because the scope and duration of the fraud was such that even the highly skilled managers of the plot could not conceal it from a serious inquiry.
Hodges, however, was not highly skilled. He had thought to deceive FASA by simply not reporting certain things and withholding certain reports from underlings. This caused the logistical and administration data bases to fail to balance; not to such a degree that it would trigger an alarm so long as the project was running smoothly, but enough for Cyrus to put together an outline of what Hodges wanted to keep secret.
Under better circumstances he would bring in an expert with a scientific background to develop a clearer understanding of what was afoot, but since he was uncertain as to whom he could trust he did not have that luxury. In any case he had sufficient data to uncover enough of the truth for his purposes: Hodges was siphoning off Project Lantern resources for an unknown undertaking.
He had some clues-Hodges hadn’t been aware that the salvage teams submitted their own reports, so he knew that Hodges had required supplies from veterinarian facilities as well as some very high-tech lab supply houses. He had used FASA secure satellite communications for a great number of transmissions which he had not reported, again apparently unaware that there was a dual reporting system in place.
These suggested that Hodges’ infiltration of FASA was minimal, and that most of his operation was being conducted by ERF personnel, which gave Cyrus a bit of relief.
One point that bothered the Doctor was that Lantern required the 618 virus; with the loss of the labs and production facilities they were reduced to harvesting saliva from zombies and culturing it. The project plan had had a breeder team with a truckload of infected diverted to the Project’s control to serve as salvia production. Instead, after initial work Hodges had had the breeder cell use the zombies in a conventional truck-borne attack and then set the breeder cell to gathering new zombies, which were kept for a few days (and presumably harvested), then released; the process was repeated every six days. There were indications that Hodges was receiving captured zombies from other sources as well, perhaps an ERF team operating covertly in the area as a safeguard for that faction’s interests.
Cyrus frowned at the screen; Project Lantern was progressing nicely, but the side operation seemed to involve lab-quality equipment, veterinary supplies, and access to drafts of zombies every six days, with the ‘used’ zeds being released back into the war. It didn’t make much sense, but perhaps it would to a scientist. It was something viral, he was certain: Hodges was a virologist, he was securing lab equipment for viral work off the books
and for some reason he was catching and releasing zombies under the cover of Project Lantern.
He reviewed that summary as he stroked his fingertips: this was a microcosm of what had happened within Project Static Overview, and that could not be a coincidence. The phrase ‘the 618 virus is a particularly unstable strain’ came back to him, and he leaned forward and started working the keyboard.
The bombs which had deployed the 618 virus had not been literally bombs, but rather devices based on industrial sprayers whose release had been controlled by a rather sophisticated control unit programmed to activate under very specific conditions. That was something he already knew, at least in general; what he wanted to know now concerned the physical design of the sprayers.
After some digging he found it: the device included three different sprayer units, each with a payload of nutrient fluid containing weaponized biomaterial known as the 618 virus. To ensure a reliable deployment each sprayer was a single system, completely separate from the others. Even if one failed the other two would launch.
Three payloads per bomb, and one-third of the material produced was the result of the ERF’s inner cabal. Hodges had set up the emergency program of producing the virus, and it was only the work of minutes to determine that he had set up a protocol that required that each payload in a bomb be drawn from one of the three production runs to ensure that even if one production run had flaws the bomb would still be effective.
At the time it must have seemed like yet another reasonable redundancy built in to ensure that no single failure at any stage of the process could stop the bomb from performing. Now Cyrus looked at the diagram of the bomb design and wondered if one of the three payloads in each of the bombs was something other than the 618 virus.
Something had to be done-the ERF had split with FASA because the ERF’s goals were incompatibly extreme, so whatever Hodges was doing on the side was definitely not in FASA’s interests. Accusing Hodges through channels was not practicable; the Doctor didn’t know who else was an ERF plant, and in truth his case was circumstantial. Nor could he simply tip off the government to the location of a CATL member, as the rules had changed drastically since the war’s start: Hodges would be compelled to tell all he knew, and at the moment what he knew best was Project Lantern.
No, Hodges would need to be killed by an off-the-books operation, and for that to work whatever security ERF had assigned to the turncoat had to be diverted. Cyrus sat and pondered those requirements and parameters for several minutes. Pressing a button on his phone, he waited.
The door behind him opened. “Yes, sir?”
“Mister Weatherford, how are our data links into government operations in and around Minnesota?”
“Somewhat patchy in regards to the higher tier operations, sir.”
The Doctor thought about that. “What about line units and contractors?”
“Accurate, sir.
“I will require a list of the military and mobile contactor assets within or adjacent to Minnesota for the next five days.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How are our intelligence surveys on non-affiliated forces in that area?”
“Rather good, sir.”
“Very well. Get me those reports as well, and place a plane and pilot on alert for an excursion.”
“Yes, sir. We also have a report from Project Far Seal in Tennessee that I believe you should see.”
“Very well.”
“Gentlemen, we will now launch our medium mission,” Anton Grase announced as a staffer handed out map packets. “Each of your companies will carry out an operation a minimum of thirty miles from the launch point. Hard Eight will travel thirty-six miles to this point,” he pointed on the map pinned to a free-standing map board. “And recover a dozen people caught in a road blockage. I understand they have forted up in a bus of some sort, and the zombie presence is large.”
“Small potatoes,” Colonel Walters observed sourly.
“Perhaps, but important to the potatoes involved. The Yard Gnomes will travel thirty-eight miles to this point and extract twenty-one people who have taken refuge in a grain mill at that location. The zombie presence will be substantial, I understand.”
“The mill is literally in the middle of nowhere,” Marv studied the map. “Where did the zeds come from?”
“They apparently were in transit from the town of Waterbury, some fifteen miles away, to points unknown, and came upon a group of uninfected people. Ultimately the situation you are facing arose.”
“Wait a minute, you’re saying that these zeds just took off?” JD leaned forward, concern stamped on his face.
“There are reports of zombies forming into large bands and following roads,” the DSR agent spread his hands. “As of yet there are no real explanations. The phenomena has not been confirmed, and there could be pursuit issues involved. At this point we are simply dealing with the concrete fact that these zombies have persons cornered and we are in a good position to render aid. This is exactly the sort of thing that Rolling Hunger is intended to develop: a fuel-efficient force projection system utilizing existing technology and resources in new configurations. When these two missions appeared on the DSR controller boards I seized the opportunity to test our response capability.”
Marv finished looking over the material in his briefing package. “Well, its off to the races,” he said as he stood.
“I would like to go with your team,” Dirk Chambers also stood. “Me, my cameraman, and one staffer. I was with Hard Eight on the last mission, so I need to get some footage of how the other half lives.”
“It means bouncing around in the back of a duce and a half, sir.”
“Won’t be the first time for me,” the big man gave a practiced grin. “Out there on that Nebraska plain there’s innocents who need saving, Marv. How else could you go about it than to race across the distance with the wind in your face?”
“Inside an M-1 main battle tank, for one,” the Ranger grinned. “You’re a poet, Mister Chambers.”
“Dirk. And I don’t deny it; poetry was born as the language of warriors, and was only perverted into a litany of whining Nancy-boys and confused females in later, more debased times.”
Chapter Eight
“Another thing we need if we do a train op in the future is a container in which to secure the gear we leave behind,” JD observed to the assembled senior Gnomes.
“Good note to make,” Marv agreed. “I’m wondering if we ought to look into developing our own containers for these operations. I don’t care for the idea of getting sleeping quarters some other outfit just finished using. Those shipping containers are all over.”
“Its worth lorth looking at.”
He spread out the map on the battered deck of the flatbed and quickly briefed them on the mission. “We’ll roll light, just personal gear, pull the captives and head back. JD, set up an inspection of weapons, Dyson check ammunition and magazines, Brick, Chip, and Addison inspect the vehicles. Question: do the ladies come along? I know we said we would use them to act as a control factor with rescued people, but this bunch will be with us for a forty-minute drive so the point is moot. The thing is, this is a head-on assault mission given that this part of Nebraska is flat and all fields; the zeds are going to see us coming.”
“We could use somebody to guard our stuff,” Chip nodded.
“Wrong answer, fat man,” Dyson shook his head. “They’re drawing Operator pay. We can’t send Associates into an assault mission while one-dots stay behind just because they’re involved with senior Gnomes. That’s a bad morale issue just waiting to happen.” The Georgian rubbed his jaw. “And that’s me saying it with Anna coming aboard soon.”
“No favor to them, leaving them behind,” Addison mumbled, catching the others by surprise. “They will have to fight sooner or later, so they should get as much experience as they can.”
“Valid point,” Bear nodded. “Plus its probably sexist or something, leaving them on the train.”
“I agree,” Marv nodded. “Their job is to rally rescued subjects; so far that’s been easy work, but we need to prep them for when it isn’t. They’ll need to start carrying stuff to support that mission, say a folding crutch, teddy bears for kids, asthma and diabetics meds…the sort of thing to help and comfort rescued people. They’ve got hammers for emergency use, but they have a separate mission. Plus they’re both tough girls; we can use them as stretcher-bearers and runners, too.”
“I don’t really like the idea of women in the fighting line,” JD admitted.
“I don’t like the idea of zombies,” Marv straightened up and folded the map. “But nobody seems concerned about my likes and dislikes. We will get recruits where we find ‘em, but in the case of our refugee specialists, we keep them out of melee as much as is practicable. They didn’t join up to kill zombies the way we did.”
“I didn’t join up at all, my freakin’ car broke down,” JD observed sourly.
“Hey, you ever hear back from the insurance company, dude?” Chip asked.
“Yeah: act of war, so piss off, was the message. I was a customer for twenty-three years, and that’s the treatment I got.”
“Damn. No lube,” Dyson clapped the promoter on the shoulder. “That’s rough.”
“You know I was with the ‘good hands’ people for over twenty years, and they decided to just give me the middle finger of the good hands,” JD grinned, getting a chuckle from the group.
“OK, we have Dirk with us on this run. Brick, you are the liaison with him, so stick close.”
The Pole punched Chip on the shoulder. “DO IT LIKE DIRK!”
