Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse

by Nicholas Ryan

  Hwung’s expression stayed fixed for a long moment of turmoil and then slowly – very slowly – his lips curled into a thin, cruel smile.

  Chapter 3:

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON D.C.

  There was enough time during the drive from Langley, over the Key Bridge and across the Potomac, for Walter Ford’s mood to darken as he despaired about the report he carried in his briefcase. Chemical weapons were an abomination; their use frowned upon by the international community. But for all that, the National Security Advisor didn’t doubt for one moment that North Korea had a stockpile of chemical agents. He just couldn’t bring himself to believe that anyone – even a tyrannical dictator like Kim Jong-un – would consider using them against an enemy, or a civilian population.

  Most recently the world had been brought to tears by video footage of innocent men, women and children in the hell-hole city of Sarmin, Syria. They were the victims of alleged chemical attacks. Ford had seen that footage; a shaky hand-held camera filming fleeing people with shirts and torn pieces of rag to cover their mouths and noses as they fled, coughing, through narrow streets. He’d seen also the harrowing film of frantic doctors, desperately trying to revive young children as they lay listless and dying on canvas gurneys while in the background their mothers wailed and wept. He’d seen men sobbing, choking on their own vomit, and he had seen the haunted eyes of the overburdened medical staff, their faces horrified behind their gas masks. Walter Ford had a son, and three young grandchildren. As a parent, it made the Sarmin horror relatable.

  By the time he arrived at the White House and pulled into his reserved parking space, he had re-prioritized the morning briefing in his mind.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ford.” It was one of the guards standing attentive and alert by the metal detector. The National Security Advisor was drawn from out of the dark place his thoughts had spiraled to. He looked up, a little startled, and managed a brief, superficial smile of acknowledgement. He handed over his briefcase for inspection and then went quickly up the stairs to his office.

  He had ten minutes before the day really began. He checked his email, and then caught a glimpse of the framed photo on the edge of his desk. It was an image of his three granddaughters.

  Walter Ford’s lips pressed into a thin pale line of determination and resolve.

  When he reached the Oval Office at the end of the long hallway, President Austin was already at his desk.

  “Morning, Walt.”

  “Good morning, Mr. President,” Ford replied. He had the Langley report in one hand and a brief summary of other noteworthy issues from the Morning Book needing attention in the other.

  The President intuitively sensed his key advisor’s somber mood. Normally Ford was upbeat and full of energy. Austin came from behind his desk to take away the barrier between them and put the morning meeting on a more informal level. “What do I need to know?”

  Walter Ford went through the list of talking points quickly – sketching out developments around the world, focusing only briefly on Virginia Clayton’s performance in the UN with all its associated diplomatic ramifications, and then setting the list aside. The President listened without comment. Apart from the conflict on the Korean Peninsula, the rest of the world seemed settled.

  “Sir, this is what I really want to talk to you about.” Ford laid the pages of the report out on the President’s desk.

  President Austin looked down at the neat bundle of papers but didn’t touch them. “What is it, Walt?”

  “It’s a report I picked up from Langley, sir. One of the guys at the Near East and Southern Asian Analysis Office put it together using satellite imagery with the co-operation of the NGA at Fort Belvoir. It’s a serious worry. The analyst who did the work believes Kim is preparing to launch some kind of desperate chemical weapon attack against the South Koreans.”

  An expression of alarm slowly spread across the President’s features. It started with the tightening of his mouth and spread to his eyes. They seemed to change color – appearing to darken to steely grey. His brow creased into a furrow of concern. His body tensed.

  “How sure are you?”

  Walter Ford made a gesture of uncertainty with his hands. “The Section Head vouches for the guy. Says he’s good.”

  “And you’ve been through the report?”

  “Yes.”

  The President paused a moment. “What’s your gut instinct?”

  “I think the analysis is right,” Walter Ford said without hesitation. “We have satellite images of long military flatbed transports assembled at a location in northern North Korea. That sight has been confirmed as a previously undisclosed chemical weapons complex run by the Kim regime. It’s been kept out of the media spotlight… but we know about it, and our resources have been monitoring it for some time, apparently. It all points to the communists preparing to load some kind of chemical warfare missiles for transport to an unknown location for possible firing on targets in South Korea.”

  “Unknown location… Walt, it’s a big place. Is that the best we can come up with?”

  “At this stage, yes it is, sir. But if the analyst who did the work is right, the missiles that are coming out of that factory are the type that can be fired from a TEL – a wheeled vehicle capable of being the platform for firing the missile – which means they could be fired from anywhere.”

  President Austin folded his arms and walked a slow circuit of the Oval Office; the way a lion might prowl the confining bars of its cage. At last he stopped pacing and gestured at the report still lying on his desk. “How old is this information?”

  “The transport vehicles arrived at the Chemical Complex about six hours ago.”

  “So they could still be loading these chemical missiles right now?”

  The National Security Advisor nodded his head. “It is possible, sir. But the greater probability is that they’re already being moved to their ultimate destination.”

  The President decided. “Get some drones into North Korea, Walt. Do it right now. Wake people up if you have to. Kick over a hornet’s nest to make it happen. I want those trucks and missiles found – immediately!”

  PYONGYANG

  NORTH KOREA

  They came for him at sunrise – four armed and uniformed agents of the State Political Security Department.

  Defense Minister Choe was asleep in a narrow cot. He was awoken by the harsh glare of the overhead light and the shouts of violent voices. The soldiers dragged him naked from his bed. One of the men thrust the barrel of his pistol into the Minister’s ribs and spat in his face.

  “You will come with us!” the agent’s face was a mask of vile hatred. “Immediately!”

  They dragged him from the small room in the east wing of the underground bunker, a guard at each elbow lifting him bodily, so the Minister’s feet dragged across the abrasive concrete floor. He was trembling, dazed and confused. He wailed in horror and protested. One of the guards snatched a handful of his hair and wrenched his head back, exposing his throat. The man had a long-bladed knife in his hand. He set the edge of the weapon against the soft flesh.

  “Silence!” the guard hissed. The Minister’s arms were wrenched back behind his body, and he felt the grip of cold steel handcuffs.

  “I am the Minister for Defense!” Choe rasped. He looked at the faces of the men surrounding him, wild-eyed and frantic. They stared back with belligerent contempt.

  “Not any longer,” one of the agents pronounced.

  The steel doors of an elevator opened and Choe was pushed inside. The guards stood around him.

  It took almost three minutes for the elevator to rise the three-hundred-and-sixty feet to the surface. When the doors opened, Choe was standing in the abandoned marble-floored foyer of the Ryugyong Hotel.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Choe felt nauseous, his hands clammy and cold with dread. “Where are you taking me?”

  One of the agents pushed him through the high-ceilinged ho
tel lobby towards the glass entrance doors. Through the building’s windows, Choe could see the damage wrought by the enemy’s bombing. The South were bringing long range artillery to bear on the outer edges of the capital, and the first of the South Korean air-strikes against key facilities across the capital had commenced the night before. Now the streets were filled with rubble and dust. On the horizon, obscured by foreground buildings, he could see three tall columns of smoke rising into the dawn sky. Sirens wailed in the background, but the streets were empty.

  The soldiers from the State Political Security Department dragged the Minister to the front steps of the hotel and then forced him to kneel. Choe was trembling with cold and fear. His head was bowed, his gaze fixed on the rubble and dust between his knees. Then, from out of the early morning shadows, he sensed new movement. Choe lifted his head in hope and the elation of sudden relief.

  “Comrade Hwung!”

  Hwung Pae-hae stared down at the Defense Minister. The Director of the General Political Bureau had a gun in his hand, held against his thigh. Choe saw the gun, then saw the merciless look in Hwung’s eyes… and his bladder voided. He urinated over his own legs, the acrid stench pungent in the still morning air.

  “You thought I would betray our Dear Leader,” Hwung’s voice was thick with his contempt. “You would have sought to undermine him and plot the overthrow of our government. For these crimes you have been sentenced to death, by order of Kim Jong-un.”

  “No!” Choe cried out.

  Hwung shot the Defense Minister between the eyes. The man’s skull collapsed in a pink cloud of blood and brains. The body fell backwards and splashed into the puddle of his own urine. Hwung holstered his weapon and then looked to one of the soldiers.

  “Find kerosene. Drag the corpse into the center of the street and burn it.”

  CREECH AIR FORCE BASE

  NEVADA

  The two-man teams who flew the MQ-9 Reaper drones didn’t know they were part of a kill chain that had been initiated by the President. For them it was merely another routine mission. Not even the location surprised them; the 432nd Operations Group had been piloting UAV’s over North Korea since the outbreak of war.

  From their workstations in the Nevada desert, they remote-launched four Reapers into northern North Korea, flying along pre-programmed search patterns. One of the Reapers stayed on station over the secret chemical complex. The other three UAV’s orientated to the southeast and southwest, following the snaking paths of major roads.

  Seated at their consoles, flying by joystick, each pilot’s eyes darted across a bank of twelve computer monitors to orientate themselves. Several separate screens provided live camera footage from each Reaper. Other screens were dedicated to maps and data relating to the UAV itself. The influx of information streamed in real time was the equivalent of flying an F-16, all further complicated because of the additional need to process the details in two dimensions and translate that into a three dimensional situation. Beside each pilot, the team’s sensor operator began carefully adjusting the directions of each drone’s cameras.

  The hunt had begun.

  NEAR EAST AND SOUTHERN ASIAN ANALYSIS OFFICE

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  LANGLEY

  “Nick, you might want to take a look at this feed from the Reapers,” one of the officers in the NESAA office called out.

  Agent Nick Blakely ran into the room holding a mug of coffee in one hand. On one wall of the cramped windowless room was a bank of six flat-paneled monitors. Two of the screens were black and blank – the other four were showing real-time video feed.

  Blakely snatched up the remote control. In the upper corner of each monitor was the UAV’s altitude and position. Blakeley narrowed his eyes. The first screen showed the familiar shape of the Aoji-ri chemical complex. He had studied so many satellite images of the secret facility he recognized it instantly. The drone was circling at high altitude. He went closer to the monitor and peered. There seemed no obvious signs of activity on the ground and the high iron gates appeared closed – but he would need the sensor controller of the UAV to zoom the camera in to be sure. He shrugged his shoulders and then turned his attention to each of the other three monitors, frowning as he tried to relate the digital location information to a map in his head.

  The CIA officer who had been watching the monitors pointed at the screen in the bottom corner with his pencil.

  “Q-Four-Five is following the expressway south. Nearest location of interest is probably Kilchu. There was some activity there about a week ago. In the past the area has been used by Kim’s army for exercises.”

  Blakely nodded. “And the other two?”

  “Q-Three-Two is following lesser roads to the southwest. It’ll join up with the expressway again north of Paegam. Q-Two-Four is following the railway lines. At the moment it’s over the city of Musan, near the Chinese border.”

  Blakely nodded thoughtfully. The other agent shook his head in slow wonder. “Take a look at those roads, man. They’re the width of commercial airstrips and there’s not a fucking car to be seen. I’ve been watching this feed for almost an hour – not a single car on any road. It’s insane.”

  Blakely gave a distracted smile. The feed from Reaper Q-Four-Five showed a four-lane highway, unmarked with dividing marks. Each side of the long lonely stretch of road was lined with tall leafy trees. The UAV was cruising along at low speed and high altitude. Blakely watched the screens and felt himself becoming mesmerized. He could only imagine how mind numbing it must be for the pilots.

  “Who else is getting this feed?” Blakely asked.

  The other agent swung round in his chair and raised an eyebrow. He was in his mid-thirties with a thinning sweep of sandy hair that was losing the battle to cover a growing bald spot. He looked at Blakely, bemused. “Everybody, man,” he said.

  SITUATION ROOM

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  “Get them to zoom in closer,” there was a sudden edge to the Duty Officer’s voice. “We need to be sure what we’re seeing.”

  The communications assistant snatched at the phone mounted to his desk-top console that connected him directly to Creech Air Force Base. He relayed the message, and a moment later the sensor operator of the UAV obeyed the instruction. The image on the monitor became magnified on the screen.

  Situated one level beneath the Oval Office in the West Wing of the White House, the Situation room was the President’s alert and intelligence center, manned twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week by a rotating staff of carefully selected intelligence and military officers. There were five men in the room when the video feed from the Reapers over North Korea went active. All the images were being relayed on just one screen, like different channels through a television. The Duty Officer flicked through to check all the other feeds coming live into the Situation Room and then went back to Q-Four-Five.

  On the monitor he could see a column of several flat-bed transport trucks. He went close to the screen, and his eyes were bright with triumph.

  “I count six TEL’s,” he said, studying every vehicle, and five of them are carrying a missile.”

  The intelligence officer on duty was CIA. He came and stood beside the Duty Officer. He sniffed. “Under escort,” he pointed to the other vehicles that were ahead of the convoy.

  The Duty Officer nodded. “That’s them,” he said confidently. “It’s got to be.”

  He spun around and nodded to the communications assistant. “Notify the National Security Advisor,” he said with grim satisfaction. “We’ve found the bastards.”

  UNDERGROUND BUNKER

  PYONGYANG

  NORTH KOREA

  Hwung Pae-hae stood rigidly at attention in the small underground office, his eyes fixed on a spot on the concrete wall behind Kim’s head. The Director of the General Political Bureau felt unsettled; Kim’s volatile temper was to be feared, and even his most trusted followers were unsure how to interpret the Dear Leader’s mood. Hwung stood, dutiful and obed
ient, not daring to move or sway while the tense silence drew out.

  Finally, Kim looked up, his expression contemptuous.

  “What happened to the traitor’s body?”

  “It was burned, Dear Leader.”

  “You witnessed this? You saw him shot?”

  “It was my honor to carry out your order to execute the conspirator personally, Dear Leader.”

  Kim’s stern glare softened. It was an almost imperceptible twitch of his fleshy petulant lips, the barest touch of a malevolent smile.

  “Good,” Kim said. He pushed himself away from the desk and stood, hands clasped behind his back, his rotund bloated stomach stretching the fabric of his black Mao suit tight. He was tired, his hair awry, his face waxen and leprous.

  “When will the ‘Songun’ missiles be ready for launch?” Kim barked the question with such unexpected venom that Hwung flinched involuntarily.

  “Tonight, Great Leader. The missiles have been transported to their launch location and our soldiers are currently preparing them for your final order.”

  Kim narrowed his eyes and stared hard at Hwung, searching the man’s face for any signs of treachery or deceit. He saw naked fear swimming behind the older man’s eyes – but not betrayal. He nodded abrupt satisfaction.

  Hwung went on in a rush, fawning and servile to win the Dear Leader’s favor. “The Americans and their Imperialist dogs are cunning, and their ring of missile defenses around Seoul proved more effective than we anticipated when we launched the first great strike into the heart of the enemy three weeks ago.”

  “So…?” Kim’s voice took a sudden ominous tone, sharp and menacing as an unsheathed blade. He stepped so close to Hwung that the older man felt himself physically quail before the threatening glare.

  “So I have given orders for our concealed mobile missile reserves to be made ready for firing at the same moment you give your glorious order, Great Leader. Every launcher that remains in our arsenal will open fire together. With so many missiles raining down on the enemy’s capital at the same time, our ‘Songun’s’ will be hidden beneath the cloak of the conventional missiles, and the enemy’s defense systems overburdened. The Imperialists cannot hope to shoot down every missile in such a concentrated barrage.”