The Gemini Effect

by Chuck Grossart

  She saw the Pentagon in flames.

  She saw the crater in a Pennsylvania field.

  And when the towers fell, she knew the world had changed.

  Her world had changed.

  All of a sudden, her personal comfort didn’t seem quite as important. Her country had been attacked by people for whom life held no apparent value—and chances were, they were going to do it again. She wanted to do something but didn’t know how she could help.

  The day Carolyn received the phone call, however, was the day she knew she would be able to help. One month later, she was in Utah.

  She was startled by a hand on her shoulder.

  “Carolyn, you need to report to General Rammes’s office.” It was her branch supervisor, and he had a deadly serious look on his face. “Now.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You’ll be briefed when you see him. And get ready to travel.”

  She set her cup down, sloshing a little coffee onto the table. “Travel? Where to?”

  “Missouri. You’re the team lead. Get moving!”

  CHAPTER 9

  The modified Bradley fighting vehicles were the first military vehicles to enter the city on the ground, their diesel engines thrumming loudly through the dead streets. These were the “sniffers,” equipped to sift through every single molecule of air for something recognizable as a chemical, biological, or radiological agent. Buttoned up within their armored vehicles, the specialized crews slowly made their way through the abandoned city, scrubbing the air for the reason why thousands of people had been slaughtered.

  Speakers mounted below police choppers and Army Blackhawks blared instructions to people still on the ground: Stay away from the buildings, stay calm, stay on the main thoroughfares, stay calm, head toward Interstate 29, head north, help is on the way . . .

  A trickle of people on foot, and a few in cars, were slowly snaking their way out of the city, for the most part following the directions they’d been given. Those who’d followed other routes were being held at different points around the exclusion zone—a rough circle measuring forty miles from the center of the city—and were given whatever food, water, and medical attention they required. After being tested, screened, and interviewed, they could be taken to more prepared evacuation centers, which were at that very moment being set up at five areas ringing the city. Just within the forty-mile exclusion zone, lumbering dual-rotor Chinook troop carrier helicopters began to line the ramp at Kansas City International, which was in the process of being transformed into the main evacuation point. When complete, it would be configured to handle a large number of people. There weren’t that many coming out of the city, though. Not at all.

  Inside one of the modified Bradleys, a Missouri Army National Guard major pressed his mic button. “Brooklyn, this is Brooklyn One. Status. Over.”

  The ten other Bradleys under his command radioed back in numbered order:

  “Two, all sectors covered. Negative results.”

  “Three, all sectors covered. Negative results.”

  “Four, negative results all sectors.”

  “Five, neg. All sectors complete.”

  The other five Bradley crews reported the same thing. Nothing. The air was clear.

  “Roger, Brooklyn,” the major radioed back. “Copy negative results. Good work. Rally at Bravo. Out.” The major switched his comm gear to his command net frequency. “Jersey, this is Brooklyn One.”

  “Brooklyn One, this is Jersey. Go.”

  “Brooklyn reports negative results all sectors. I repeat, negative results all sectors. Brooklyn rallying at Bravo. Out.”

  Within minutes, the information went up the command chain, and soon thereafter orders were sent back down. In the next few hours, boots would be on the ground, and hunting season would be officially opened.

  Sundown was in seven hours.

  CHAPTER 10

  Andrew Smith sat behind his desk in the Oval Office, a prepared copy of his speech at his fingertips. The teleprompter on the camera in front of him slowly began to roll. He was live in three, two, one . . .

  “Good afternoon,” he began, staring straight into the camera lens and directly into the eyes of tens of millions of Americans looking for guidance, hoping for answers. “Over the course of the past decade, this nation has suffered severe tragedies, and it is my sad duty to report to you that today, we have suffered yet another.

  “Early this morning in Kansas City, there was a wave of attacks against our fellow citizens. Sadly, many people have been lost or are missing. The exact cause of these attacks is still being determined, but I have been informed they were caused by . . . animals.”

  The president looked down from the camera, momentarily losing his famous on-camera persona. That last word—animals—hung in the air like a line from a bad science fiction movie. Suddenly, Andrew knew reading a prepared speech wasn’t what the American people would want from him. He looked up from his desk, slid the paper copy of the speech away, and spoke from his heart instead of the teleprompter.

  “This is not easy, but I’m going to be straight with each and every one of you. This is what we know. An approximately thirty-mile radius of Kansas City has been . . . Everyone within a thirty-mile radius has been killed or is currently unaccounted for. The death toll . . . There’s not an exact number I can give you, but if I could, it would be too terrible to comprehend.

  “We don’t know how, or why, this has happened. I can assure you that I will do everything in my power to ascertain why as quickly as I can, take immediate action to destroy this threat, and take care of the people who have been affected. These animals, described as some sort of large rodent, are still in the city. As of now, they’ve stopped their spread and are remaining stationary. We believe they have an aversion to light.

  “I have directed the secretary of Homeland Security, along with the secretary of defense, to take any and all actions necessary to respond to this catastrophe. Kansas City is off-limits except for military and civil defense personnel.

  “I have ordered a complete evacuation of every person within a forty-mile radius of Kansas City. If you’re within this zone, please follow the directions of the military and civil authorities. I need you out of the immediate area. Most of all, I need you to stay calm. The military forces of the United States are being mobilized as we speak to enter the city and eliminate these things. For your safety, and the safety of those I’m ordering into the Kansas City area, I need the exclusion zone cleared.”

  A little over sixteen hundred miles to the west of DC, near Colorado Springs, Vice President Allison Perez watched the president’s speech from deep within the Cheyenne Mountain complex. She’d known Andrew for a number of years and wasn’t the least bit surprised he’d gone off script. It was a habit that drove his speechwriters batty, especially on the campaign trail, where a carefully crafted message meant votes in November, but it was simply who he was. They’d won anyway.

  She turned to Admiral Keaton Grierson, commander, United States Northern Command—USNORTHCOM. “What are the numbers from KCI, Admiral?”

  Admiral Grierson shook his head. “Not good. There’s a few hundred, but nowhere near what we prepared for.”

  “Jesus, Keats. A whole city.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” There was nothing more he could say.

  Allison looked back up at the screen. The man delivering a message to the nation was, she knew, the right man for the job. As a leader, Andrew Smith had no equal. But as with any president, the constant pressures of the job were starting to take their toll. And after the loss of his wife . . .

  Allison didn’t want to admit it, but Andrew seemed different now. The entire nation had mourned alongside him, but when he buried his beloved Kate, part of him went into the ground with her. His flame had grown dimmer. She’d noticed, but his staff had not. At least not yet. If—or more li
kely, when—they did, Allison would protect him as best she could. She hoped he could hold it together well enough to keep the American people from noticing. Or, for that matter, others around the globe. A weak president invited disaster—a cold, hard fact they’d all lived through with Andrew’s predecessor. They’d be watching him closely, especially now, and if they sensed weakness . . .

  “The threat boards, Admiral.”

  “Clear, Madam Vice President. Nothing outside of the norm.”

  Allison nodded. “Keep both eyes open, Keats. The wolves at the gate can get a little frisky as soon as we hit a crisis like this.” Foreign policy was one of Andrew’s strengths, Allison knew. Talk to them, Andrew, wave the torch. Warn ’em off.

  The president continued.

  “In closing, I realize this may not seem real to some of you outside of the Kansas City area. When I was first informed of this situation earlier this morning, I honestly felt like I was trapped in a bad movie. I wish that’s all it was, but this is real. I promise each and every one of you that your government will take all steps necessary to control what has happened and to help all of you who have suffered, and are suffering, great loss.” A pause. A deep breath. “In my free moments this morning, I’ve prayed. I urge all of you to do the same, whatever your beliefs may be.”

  His gut told him things were going to get worse. Now it was time for the president to speak to the rest of the world.

  Andrew leaned forward, his piercing blue eyes peering straight through the camera lens to the millions of people watching this broadcast around the globe, both friend and foe.

  “To those nations and people who wish us ill, I issue a simple warning. The United States has been wounded this morning. That is a fact. This is also a fact: although wounded, we are not weakened. You may delight in the news that we’ve suffered a terrible loss, but do not let our misfortune provide you the sudden courage to decide that now is the time to move against us. We are a peaceful people, a peaceful nation, but our sword is out of the sheath this day, and can be swung in many directions with an unforgiving, fearful vengeance. Stand fast.”

  No president had ever been so direct, especially on live TV to a worldwide audience. His message was simple and clear: Don’t fuck with me right now, because I won’t think twice about ripping your heart out with my free hand.

  Andrew’s gaze softened as he returned to addressing the American people. “My fellow Americans, we will persevere. The strength of the American spirit can overcome anything. We’ve shown our incredible fortitude in times of crisis, and I ask each of you to display that same courage now. Together, as a nation, we will get through this, and we will prevail. May God bless each of you, and may God continue to bless the United States of America.”

  “We’re clear, Mr. President.” The camera was off.

  The first person to approach Andrew was his national security advisor. He looked up at Jessie as she walked around the corner of his desk.

  “Mr. President . . .” She wasn’t sure what to say.

  Andrew stood and buttoned his suit coat. “Well, that wasn’t what we’d written, but I couldn’t read a prepared speech. I had to be straight with them.”

  “Sir, you did just fine.” Jessie smiled, trying to give her president some assurance that the speech he’d delivered was probably the most heartfelt, direct message that’d ever gone out from the Oval Office. She put her hand on his shoulder, a gentle touch—definitely a break from the professionalism Andrew demanded from his people, but right now, it seemed appropriate.

  He welcomed it.

  “Thanks, Jessie,” Andrew whispered. “Now let’s go figure out how to kill these goddamn things.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The big choppers’ dual rotors sliced through the air with a reverberating, chest-rattling thwacka thwacka thwacka as the helicopters settled on the tarmac at Kansas City International, now devoid of any airliners or other civilian activity. KCI was now a military base of operations, the central evacuation point. For hours, the CH-47 Chinook crews had repeated a steady pattern of arriving, unloading, and departing, the evacuation of everyone within the forty-mile exclusion zone surrounding Kansas City now nearing completion.

  Shouting to be heard over the choppers’ roar, Colonel Garrett Hoffman, United States Army, grabbed his sergeant major by the arm. “Sergeant Major! What’s the count?”

  The senior enlisted soldier glanced at his clipboard. “We’ve got three birds on the ground in the city, Colonel, three more outbound, and four more on the way in. Once those four are loaded up and out of there, helo ops are complete. There’s five trucks on the way out of the city on I-70 West, and another six trucks going east.” He made a few quick mental calculations and added, “The city should be clear in another hour, ninety minutes tops.”

  “Okay, pass the word,” Garrett ordered. “The city will open in ninety minutes.” He looked to the sky when he heard the multi-engine rumble of a C-130 Hercules approaching the field. There were already a number of Air Force cargo haulers on the ramp, mostly C-17 Globemasters and a few other C-130s, including three of the deadly AC-130 gunships. The cargo haulers were being used to fly people in and out of the airport, and the big gunships were arming up for possible use against whatever was in the city. Garrett had heard the president’s address to the nation, and afterward he was definitely in a hunting mood. He’d seen what the AC-130s could do—up close and personal—and he couldn’t wait to see their firepower unleashed on whatever had taken the lives of so many of his fellow citizens.

  He quickly noticed the Herc that just landed didn’t have USAF markings. As a matter of fact, it had no markings whatsoever. He turned again to his sergeant major, who, from the look in his eyes, obviously knew what he was about to be asked. In a low voice, Garrett asked anyway. “Sergeant Major, who the fuck is that, and what the fuck is he doing landing on my fucking strip?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’ll get on it.” With that, the sergeant major double-timed toward the terminal.

  From experience, Garrett knew unannounced C-130s—sans markings—were almost always a portent of additional ass pain, something he definitely didn’t need at the moment. It was probably carrying CIA, DIA, or some unnamed black agency muckety-mucks who were “here to help.” Garrett had a well-tuned operational ballet going on right now, and the last thing he needed was a bunch of black ops bastards—or worse, sport-coated bureaucrats—crapping in his sandbox.

  Garrett scowled as the lumbering whale of an aircraft pulled to a stop, shut down its two inboard engines, and opened its back ramp. Garrett walked toward it, lighting a cigar as he went, and when he noticed the first person to exit the back of the Herc was a civilian woman—in a skirt, of all things—he muttered two simple words. “Fuck. Me.”

  To make Garrett’s moment even more special, he watched four additional people in various combinations of civilian attire come plodding down the Herc’s ramp.

  The sergeant major came running up from behind, matching his commander’s stride as Garrett made a beeline toward the skirt-clad sandbox crapper. “Sir, we received instructions to let this bird land and give the people on board whatever support they require,” the sergeant major said, huffing, short of breath.

  Garrett wheeled on his sergeant major. “Instructions from whom?”

  “Direct call from General Worthington. From the Pentagon. A few minutes ago. Sir.”

  “Worthington. Great.” Hoffman took a long draw on his cigar, and cursed when he realized it had already gone out. He tucked it into his ACU blouse pocket. “Did General Worthington happen to mention who these people are?”

  “No, sir.”

  Garrett spat a piece of tobacco as he watched the civilian woman inventory her gear as it was unloaded from the back of the C-130. She was having a hard time keeping her hair from blowing in her face from the rotor wash of a Chinook landing nearby, and she was desperately trying
to keep her skirt from ending up around her neck. For a second, Garrett thought she looked like a brunette Marilyn Monroe standing over a steam vent . . . and he couldn’t help but register the fact that this lady had one hell of a set of legs. “All right, Sergeant Major,” Garrett growled. “Let’s go find out what kind of fucking support they need.”

  Carolyn’s team’s gear was offloaded quickly, and the unmarked C-130 immediately closed its ramp and taxied toward the active runway. The small group of civilians huddled around their equipment and sheltered their eyes from the propeller wash as the big Herc pulled away.

  Carolyn fumbled in her jacket for the orders she’d been told to provide to whoever was in charge at the airport. From the urgent manner of the two men walking toward her in Army camouflage uniforms, she figured they must be the ones.

  “Ma’am, I’m Colonel Hoffman. This is Sergeant Major Wallace.”

  Carolyn stuck out her hand and was a little surprised that it wasn’t taken immediately. After what seemed like an eternity, the tall one with the silver eagle insignia on his hat—a full-bird colonel, she knew—took her hand and shook it. Very firmly. “Colonel, I’m Carolyn Ridenour,” she said.

  “Good,” Garrett barked. “Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, you can tell me why you’re here.”

  Well, he’s a direct bastard, isn’t he, Carolyn thought to herself. She handed him a copy of her orders. “I’m here under orders from General Derek Rammes.”

  Behind them, the unmarked C-130 thundered back into the air.

  Garrett scanned the orders and handed them back, disgust crossing his face.