Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse

by Nicholas Ryan

  It was a balmy evening in the Chinese capital, and the President’s thoughts were still on the slim sensual body of his very young mistress, now asleep in his upstairs bed. The scent of her perfume and the memory of her willing lips were still fresh in his mind as he strode lightly through the secluded gardens of the exclusive hotel complex.

  The Diaoyutai Guesthouse was a set of villas west of Sanlihe Road, popular with visiting dignitaries and the elite of Chinese society; a tranquil environment of gardens, lakes and ornate bridges where world leaders met – and others brought women for discreet liaisons.

  Xiang – as befitting the President of China – had a permanent villa on the grounds, and an endless supply of suitably demure young women available to satisfy an old man’s appetites. The girl in his bed was a favorite, and he smiled to himself again, remembering the feel of her beneath him.

  He reached a stone bridge that crossed a lake, and stood for a moment beside a pair of majestic lion statues to inhale the perfume of the cherry-blossom trees. In the distance he could see the ornate top tiers of a pagoda temple behind a screen of bamboo, and overhead the first stars of night were beginning to sprinkle the evening sky. His two bodyguards stood a discreet distance behind him, their eyes ever watchful.

  Xiang’s contemplative silence and serenity were broken by the sudden sounds of running feet.

  The two bodyguards became instantly alert. One spun on his heel to face the approaching threat. The other guard lunged for the Chinese President, brusquely shielding the old man towards the trunk of a nearby tree. The steps came closer, and a member of the President’s entourage suddenly appeared from behind a manicured hedge of bushy flowers. He was wearing a dark suit, his face filled with urgency and alarm. In his hand was a phone.

  The guards relaxed. Xiang frowned darkly at the abrupt intrusion, and the man with the phone quailed.

  “Forgive me, President,” the man bowed deeply. “But we have just been informed that North Korea has launched a biological missile attack on Seoul.”

  “What kind of weapon?” Xiang’s expression became sharp with alarm. China had its own secret stockpile of biological and chemical weapons. The old man understood how gruesomely dangerous such munitions could be.

  The functionary looked pained. “That is still unknown, President. The missiles apparently contained a highly infectious disease. The contagion is already spreading.”

  President Xiang swore his annoyance. “Summon the Minister of Defense to meet me immediately,” he snapped. “And tell him I expect answers.”

  22,000 FEET

  300 MILES NORTHEAST OF

  THE COAST OF JAPAN

  The two Vipers found the ungainly KC-10 tanker that had been dispatched out of Yokota Air Base to refuel them and quickly began the delicate dance routine necessary to maneuver into position. Aerial refueling was a highly skilled and carefully choreographed procedure vital to mission accomplishment. Most fighter jets – the Viper included – had very limited fuel storage, and engines that burned it at a voracious rate, especially on afterburner.

  After topping off, the fully laden fighters climbed away, heading northeast to find the airliner. Inside the warm cocoon of their cockpits, Supa and Spike were both mentally wrestling with the problem of intercepting – and killing – a 747. It wasn’t a simple task: the missiles jet fighters carried were designed to destroy other small and medium-sized aircraft. The size of the explosive on the front of each missile was not powerful enough to destroy a target the size of a hulking 747, even if a fuel tank were hit directly. Missiles weren’t the magical devices depicted in Hollywood movies, and jet fuel does not explode in gigantic fireballs when exposed to just any flame. Supa recalled a demonstration of the relative safety of jet fuel from the early days of his pilot training; a video of a fireman dressed in a bulky fireproof suit literally extinguishing a cigarette by dunking it in a bucket of JP-8 jet fuel.

  The second potential challenge was overcoming an airliner’s own design features. The engines of a 747 were mounted in pods underneath the wings. In the event of an engine fire, the unique design of each pod worked to contain the flames from spreading or from causing catastrophic damage to the wings. A direct missile hit to an engine might destroy that engine, but the rest of the aircraft’s engines would be unaffected. Either missile option they had available to them – the radar-guided AMRAAM or the IR-guided AIM-9X – would probably find the engines the most attractive target, so it might take several shots into the airliner before it was destroyed.

  “Okay, Two,” Supa broke the bleak contemplative silence. “The formation is going to be shooter-eye as we briefed. When we approach, I want you to take up a position at the airliner’s dead six o’clock and be ready with an AMRAAM under the hammer. I’ll be up on the left side identifying the jet’s markings and registration.”

  “One, don’t forget to get a good picture of the markings before we shoot.” Spike replied. Her voice sounded unnaturally hoarse in her own ears.

  Aircraft on air defense alert carried hand-held cameras on board to get photographs of the aircraft they intercepted. Sometimes it was the only way to get up-close views of the front-line military aircraft of an adversary. During the Cold War photos taken during these mid-air encounters had been analyzed by intelligence personnel to identify changes in enemy weaponry and to pinpoint the bases that hostile fighters had originated from. For this mission photographic analysis might provide key information for Supa and Spike’s superiors.

  “Yep, I’ve got it ready.”

  Supa glanced back down at the card on his knee. He had been reading through the checklist of what to do during an intercept, and continued to brief Samurai Two.

  “Once I get a good look at the airliner and ID the tail number, I’ll take some photos, see what I can see through the side windows, and then move out of the way, clearing you to shoot.”

  Spike was reading through her own copy of the same intercept checklist. Supa had skipped the lines that outlined the procedure for contacting the crew of the intercepted aircraft on the radio and the methods for directing the plane to turn away or land at a friendly airfield. Spike almost keyed the mic to ask Samurai One if he was going to first contact the crew via radio, but a recurring flashback to what her commander had said all those years ago during the 9/11 crisis stilled the action before she spoke.

  “….They’re already dead.”

  She sighed heavily to herself. There was nothing to be gained from talking to someone you were about to splash to their deaths in the Pacific.

  Suddenly Supa’s voice sounded loud in her helmet and Spike’s focus was jagged abruptly back to the mission.

  “Take one AMRAAM shot, then clear high and right so you don’t get hit with debris, and we’ll see what happens.” Supa said, then took a deep breath, grappling with the contingencies and fighting off a sense of despair so heavy it threatened to suffocate him. He forced steely resolve into his voice “If your first shot misses or malfunctions, be ready for a second. If your first shot hits, and it looks like we need another, plan on me moving back to take an AMRAAM shot and you staying off clear to the right side.”

  “Two” Spike replied.

  Stating her call sign number was fighter pilot shorthand for, “I understand”.

  BEIJING

  PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA

  Defense Minister, Yao Junhui, arrived at President Lin Xiang’s private office in a gloomy, troubled mood.

  He was greeted by an attractive young secretary with long black hair and lively, dancing eyes. She phoned through to the inner office, then stood and walked the Minister to the closed door. She knocked politely and waited for the gruff, “Enter!”

  The secretary gave Yao a final enigmatic smile and held the door open for him. The Minister entered the President’s inner office. The room was thick with a haze of cigarette smoke. Xiang sat behind a large desk, his face lit by lamplight.

  The two men were old friends, and such a relationship in China
necessitated a preamble of polite decorum. The President and his Minister exchanged pleasantries until the secretary returned carrying a serving tray with elegant porcelain cups and a teapot.

  “Thank you,” Xiang said curtly. The secretary retreated like a wraith and pulled the door closed behind her.

  “What is happening in Pyongyang?” President Xiang wasted no more time. “What has that young fool, Kim, done?”

  Minister Yao loosened his tie. He was bone weary. He ran his hand through his thinning hair and reached into his pocket for a cigarette. His long bony fingers were stained yellow with nicotine.

  “Xiang, I do not know what that ignorant fool has done. Neither he nor any of his generals are answering our calls. It is as if they have fled to their underground bunkers and disappeared like rats.”

  Xiang sat back in his chair and stared at the smoke shrouded ceiling. “At least his father was someone we could work closely with and keep under control,” the President said wistfully. “But this puppy is reckless.”

  “We have always known this,” Yao said tactfully. “And we have seen signs of Russia’s growing influence in recent years. They have tried diligently to strengthen their ties with Kim since he took over leadership; they covertly flaunt the UN sanctions against the regime and continue to secretly supply Kim with weapons and technology.”

  Xiang grunted. It was well known throughout the Chinese politburo’s leadership that the Russians were working to weaken China’s connection with their neighbors, loosening the ties between countries.

  Traditionally China had always been North Korea’s most important trading partner, and the main source of the impoverished dictatorship’s food and energy. Historically China had opposed harsh international sanctions against the North Koreans in the hope of preventing a regime collapse. China’s support for North Korea dated back to the Korean War when Chinese troops swept into the country to aid its northern ally.

  The first crack in the relationship appeared in 2006 when Pyongyang tested a nuclear weapon and Beijing supported UN Security Council resolution 1718, imposing sanctions.

  It was the opportunity the Russians had been patiently looking for, and over the past decade they had continued to explore clandestine ways to weaken the Chinese-North Korean alliance and bring their own influence to bear on the Peninsula. Xiang wondered if the recent UN resolution to support Peacekeeping forces on the Peninsula had been the final straw for Pyongyang. Had he miscalculated the volatility of the young dictator on his border? Should China have done more to keep Kim’s impetuous grandstanding on a tighter leash – or should China have stood defiant of the western world in order to keep the Russians from splintering their tight grip on North Korea’s dependence?

  Now there were reports the North had fired a biological weapon into the heart of Seoul.

  Xiang asked the next questions, like a man fearful of a doctor’s diagnosis.

  “I was told that Kim has fired a biological weapon. Is this true?”

  “Yes,” Yao said. “The first accounts are being broadcast on western news outlets.”

  Xiang’s eyes seemed to cloud over. “Is it one of ours, Yao?” he croaked.

  For many years the two countries had shared technology and weapons research, including nuclear technology and sensitive biological weapons study in defiance of the UN’s Biological Weapons Convention. Now the President’s greatest fear was that forensic investigation might somehow link the Chinese to the weapon.

  “No,” Yao said confidently. “Early reports coming in to my department suggest this weapon is unlike anything we have available. All of the weapons in our stockpile are of the Bacillus anthracis bacteria type. The manner of the device’s delivery system, and the initial effects on the population I have seen in western media reports suggest a strain of contagion that is much more virulent and more monstrous than anything we have in our armory.”

  “You are sure of this?”

  “Yes.”

  It was small comfort, but Xiang breathed a sigh of relief. His mind leapt to the next obvious conclusion.

  “The Russians then?”

  Yao made a gesture of quiescent supplication. “Who else?”

  Xiang cursed bitterly. He hadn’t touched his tea. He lit another cigarette and the two men sat in silence, squinting against the sting of the smoke, their thoughts turning to fears.

  “What will be the impact of this attack?” the Chinese president asked after a long, troubled silence.

  “I do not know,” Yao admitted. “The biological agent appears to be something we have never seen the likes of before. Our analysts and scientists are studying film footage from the western media outlets as we speak, but as yet there is very little data. The toxin used appears to be highly contagious with a very short incubation time. The infection seems to…” Yao’s voice trailed off uncomfortably.

  “Yes..?” Xiang prompted. He turned in his chair and leaned on the edge of the desk.

  “The infection… seems to spread through bites and blood, Xiang. Those who are bitten quickly die… and then are reanimated back to life.”

  *

  When the meeting between the two men broke up, President Xiang summoned his secretary into his office.

  “Assemble the members of the Politburo.” The president was deeply troubled. His voice rasped hoarse in his throat. He paused to stare absently at a place on the far wall, his imagination tortured by nightmarish images of infected blood-drenched undead. It hardly seemed creditable… but Yao was a sober, serious man. Xiang felt himself cringe with fear.

  “Tell them there will be a full meeting to discuss the Korean Peninsula crisis in twenty-four hours.”

  39,000 FEET

  300 MILES NORTHEAST OF

  THE COAST OF JAPAN

  It took only minutes for the 747 to make a sweeping turn in the sky and commence its doomed flight back toward Korea. The two F-16s in line abreast formation were flying large ovals, like circling birds of prey, searching with their on-board radars to find the airliner.

  “Samurai One, Red Crown, bogey, BRAA 030, 170 miles, thirty-five thousand.” The Navy radar controllers at sea, thousands of feet below, had been keeping a close watch on the 747 throughout the ninety minutes that Samurai One and Two had been airborne, and had been passing position updates to the fighters every hundred miles as the airliner headed back toward them.

  “Samurai,” Supa replied. The airliner was still outside of the range of the F-16s radars, but at the 400 MPH it was traveling; it would be only a matter of moments before contact was made.

  The F-16s continued their race-track pattern in the high clouds; the two fighters flying in tactical formation a mile apart from one another. The distance between the fighters made it a challenge for Spike, the wingman in the formation, to maintain her correct position relative to Supa. Flying line abreast, with six thousand feet spacing between them and with a slight altitude difference relied on her ability to keep position while both aircraft were thundering at four-hundred nautical miles per hour, using only her well-trained eyes to see variations in line-of sight between the two aircraft. It was that same difficulty that made the formation so tactically useful because it would prove challenging for an adversary aircraft to see both fighters simultaneously. Deception was a key tenet in the tactical play-book developed and flown by modern day fighters.

  The distant 747 first appeared as a white shape at the very top of Supa’s radar screen; a small five-inch square video display in his cockpit. Supa moved his radar cursor over the top of the shape, and pressing down on a switch located on the throttle, locking the radar on to the big airliner, and dedicating all the fighter’s radar energy towards it. As the RF energy was reflected back to the fighter, the radar’s internal computers began to build a digital file on what the airliner was doing; how high was it flying, how fast was it going and exactly what altitude it was flying at. The details began displaying in the F-16’s cockpit and were also simultaneously relayed to everyone else listening on t
he digital network, including his wingman, Spike.

  “Samurai One is locked, BRAA 092, 65 miles, thirty-five thousand. Spades there.”

  “Two”

  Spike moved her cursor over the target on her radar screen, but did not lock in. Her first priority was to keep her radar in search mode to ensure they were not going to be surprised by any additional aircraft in the same area – airliner or otherwise.

  As the target image drifted down their radar scopes, coming inexorably closer, the two Vipers began to maneuver, creating the angles in the sky that would be necessary for them to maintain their speed while turning onto the big airliner’s tail. It was the same technique they used every day to find and rendezvous with the air-to-air refueling aircraft, only this time the end game would be very different.

  Through his helmet-mounted display, Supa was the first to spot the 747, his trained gunfighter’s eye detecting a small speck against a vast distraction of cloudy sky from over thirty miles away. Spike had moved into a formation position further aft, which allowed her to keep Samurai One in view while also maintaining a watchful eye out for the airliner or any other aircraft in the vicinity. The F-16’s commenced their intercept almost five thousand feet above the airliner, but as they drew closer and began a sweeping right turn to get behind it, they descended until they were level with the big jet. The two fighters rolled out perfectly, less than a mile aft of the 747, flying slightly faster than the airliner was traveling to allow the sleek Vipers to coast into attack positions.

  Supa dropped his radar lock and moved into position several hundred feet off the 747’s left wing.

  From his observation position, Supa could clearly see the airliner’s registration number painted on the aft portion of the jet. He checked the note-card strapped to his thigh, verifying this was the same registration he had written down when talking to the CJCS on the SATCOM radio.