Along the rim of the eastern horizon, the sky glowed red and menacing.
The battalion commander called a halt to the column and went to stand on a small wooded promontory. Company commanders came forward, dust crunching between their teeth, their eyes crusty with the grit kicked up in thick clouds by the gouging tank tracks.
The battalion commander consulted his map. Biezhen was dark – there were no streetlights to orientate positions.
“The enemy are far away and the city is deserted,” the commander said. “There is no need for stealth or concealment – but make sure your company tanks are all able to move immediately at sunrise.”
It was easier for the northern prong of the pincer attack; the ground was level, and the journey to Dabazhen was just twenty-five kilometers. The battalion commander sent his tanks into the city’s deserted streets and parks.
It was a cool night, the air tainted with the stench of drifting smoke. It blotted out the moon and the stars, passing overhead like thick banks of cloud. The crews slept fitfully on the ground beside their tanks, and in the small hours of the morning they shivered.
*
After his aides had retired to their tents, the silence of the night was crushing. General Guo paced the ground and smoked a cigarette. He felt unsettled, aware of a nagging barb of apprehension and foreboding. He walked with his head bowed, his thoughts jittering and melancholy.
The moon was a few days away from full – it painted the barren landscape in pale shades of grey light and leaden smudges of shadow. The nearby sounds of the camped army carried faintly on the still air. He heard a man cough and another stir restlessly. Somewhere far away an engine started, then shut down.
“It will be decided tomorrow,” Guo became fatalistic. The success of the attack would depend on his tanks. There was nothing more he could do. He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the dirt and ground the embers under the heel of his boot, then retired to his command trailer for a few hours of fitful rest.
NEAR EAST AND SOUTHERN ASIAN ANALYSIS OFFICE
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY
Nick Blakely snatched for the phone the instant it started ringing.
“Hello?”
“Nick. It’s Andy Winspear calling you back.”
“Hi, bud. How did you go with the Dalian Harbor imagery?”
“Good, I reckon. But I don’t think you’re going to like what I’m about to tell you.”
“Is it bad news?”
“It could be. It might be very bad for a lot of people.”
“Oh? Okay, let me have it. What are the Chinese up to?”
“They’re building arks, Nick.”
“Arks? What do you mean?”
“Like Noah’s fucking ark,” the Australian said testily. “Except their building arks to transport people, not animals – potentially millions and millions of people.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Yeah. Based on everything I’ve seen on the satellite images.”
“Arks?” Blakely repeated, his voice incredulous as he tried to come to terms with the concept and understand its myriad of implications.
“That’s what all the shipping containers are for,” Andy Winspear said. “The Chinese are going to use the containers for accommodation, Nick. They’re fitting refrigeration units on every level, and they’re connecting the tiers of containers by ladders, like stairways between hotel floors.”
“The steel gantries?”
“Yeah. They’re ladders, mate. The Chinese are turning every ship they own into container accommodation and fitting them with refrigeration units to store food, I suppose. God knows what else they’ve containerized.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well some of those containers they’re stacking might be fitted out as medical units, for example. Or maybe they’re fitting containers out with cooking equipment so people can feed themselves.”
“Or weapons..?”
“That was another consideration,” Andy Winspear admitted.
“Damn!”
“The Chinese own a lot of huge commercial vessels. Given the right conditions, enough time, and allowing for some overcrowding issues, they could transport maybe five million people on those ships. And if they had food, water, cooking facilities…”
“They could sail anywhere.”
“Yup. They could wait at sea until the contagion burned itself out, or…”
“Or they could mount an invasion against another country the infection hasn’t decimated.”
“Right.”
“Fuck!”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck!” Nick Blakely said again. He stared off into space for a long moment, his imagination filling with geopolitical nightmares. Five million Chinese soldiers was a mighty invasion force, especially if that armada was shepherded by one of the biggest navies in the world, capable of transporting heavy military equipment.
“It might be completely innocent,” Andy Winspear spoke into the ominous silence from his Freemantle home. “This could just be the Chinese finding a brilliantly innovative way to save millions of their people from the plague.”
“Yeah,” Nick Blakely said. “The Chinese have always been a benevolent people,” his voice dripped sarcasm.
Andy Winspear said nothing.
Nick Blakely scribbled quick notes on a pad and then turned his attention back to the phone.
“Andy? Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And you’re sure about this, right?”
“Not entirely,” Winspear admitted. “But the evidence in the satellite images I studied is compelling. Lots of pumps, hoses, the gantry set-up… it all adds up to one thing in my opinion.”
“Yeah. Okay. You’ve convinced me.”
Nick Blakely broke the connection and dialed an internal CIA number. He waited impatiently, gnawing his lip. A familiar voice broke across his thoughts.
“Mark Bowen.”
“Mark. It’s Nick. Have you got five minutes to spare? My contact called back. He’s worked out what the Chinese are up to at Dalian Harbor.”
*
“Fuck!” Mark Bowen slumped back in his chair like he had been heart-punched. His face registered shock and then concern. “Is your guy sure about this?”
“He’s as certain as he can be, based on the evidence he’s seen. We have access to a lot more images. It all fits, Mark. It’s the only theory that makes absolute sense.”
“Yeah,” Bowen rubbed his chin. “Christ! It’s a fucking genius idea.”
Blakely nodded his head. “It might just be the first original idea the Chinese have had in a generation. They’ve built a vast empire by stealing everyone else’s plans and producing their own imitation version at a fraction of the price. Now they’re suddenly innovating.”
Bowen grunted. He realized he was holding a stick of dynamite. He punched a button on his phone and waited for his secretary to reply from the outer office.
“Caroline? Can you find out where National Security Advisor Walter Ford is at the moment? I need a meeting. And Caroline..?”
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s urgent.”
FUXIN CITY
JINZHOU-TONGLIAO DEFENSIVE LINE
NORTHEAST CHINA
The helicopters were in the air at first light, scouting for signs of the infected. The night had been cold, and at dawn the ground was brittle with frost as the pilots trudged to their choppers. But now, as the sun crested the skyline, the morning glowed clear and blue.
The helicopters clattered east over the peaks of the mountain range, then swooped low into the vast valley beyond. The bowl of the far horizon was still stained with the smoke of Shenyang as the city continued to burn to the ground.
Back at his command post, surrounded by staff APC’s and trucks, General Guo listened intently to the radio chatter. He was nervous, his face tight with anxiety. In his mind’s eye he could see the battlefield beyond the ragged sp
ine of the mountains; he could see the southern and northern pincers of concealed tanks and the vast depression of the shallow valley that the enemy would spill into as they drove westward. Guo could see the two prongs of his massive armored attack, kicking up huge rooster-tails of dust as they charged to close the steel jaws of his trap…
But first he needed the enemy to act in a predictable manner.
He fretted as the seconds of pregnant silence became agonizing minutes.
Then suddenly the radio sparked to life.
General Guo lunged for a headset that would allow him to hear clearly. One of his staff Colonels hunched over the radio.
“Bravo Command, this is Echo Six-Two. Enemy sighted.”
“Location, Echo Six-Two.”
The pilot in the helicopter relayed the data and General Guo turned his attention to the screen of a nearby monitor. Old fashioned maps were a thing of the past on the modern battlefield. Like most other countries, China had invested heavily in military technology. The monitor the General stared at displayed an image through a digital Battlefield Management System. It was twenty-first century warfare. The BMS ran a program that correlated terrain data and the tracking transponders of every friendly vehicle, then presented it as live information, superimposed with reference grids. The integrated network allowed Guo to track helicopter and tank movements – but it was not just a passive display. The BMS also allowed Guo to send orders through the network, eliminating radio chatter and the confusion of war.
For a long moment his face was creased with deep concern as his fingers hovered over the display monitor. Then suddenly he smiled and his face became pinched and foxy.
“They are right where I expected them,” he said aloud to no one in particular. “But they have moved quickly overnight. They are closer than I had anticipated.”
He clamped his hand on the shoulder of the Army’s operations officer. “Colonel, alert the tanks,” General Guo announced solemnly. “Let them know the enemy has been sighted and give them their position. Tell them to launch the attack immediately.”
The Colonel got on the net and broadcast the General’s orders to the waiting tank battalion commanders. A sense of anticipation and infectious enthusiasm washed through the command post. Guo allowed himself to be swept up in the moment of hope. Something primal stirred in his blood; it was the warrior’s instinct – the thrill of the hunt. He turned and stared over his shoulder. A helicopter sat hunched at a nearby intersection, waiting for him. The General could see the pilot, sitting in his flight gear, smoking.
“Come!” Guo decided impulsively. He could not remain here at his command post, blind to the battle. He had to be in the air, directing the tanks personally.
*
Commander Kong Zengshen listened to the barking orders issued from command and felt the excitement and elation of impending battle. His heart began to thump loud in his chest and he felt a sudden overpowering swell of intense nationalistic pride. He spoke to his crew over the internal comms system, then marked the tank’s own BMS with their objective, which was instantly relayed to the driver’s small digital display screen.
“We go!” he snapped, and waved forward. The huge steel monster they were mounted in trundled smoothly ahead, trailing cloud of grey exhaust. Inside the tank, the crew felt nothing but a gentle vibration. Vehicle development had made the clanking monsters of previous wars into museum pieces. The modern tank environment was comparatively quiet, made even more so by the crew noise-defending headsets and the pressurization of the NBC system.
Kong was a young man for such an important command. Still not thirty years old, he was ruthlessly ambitious and keen to make his reputation as a great soldier. He felt deeply honored to be aboard one of his country’s front-line battle tanks. It was a weapon worthy of a great warrior.
The Type 99A was the most modern main battle tank used by the PLA – a third generation fighting vehicle that was as good as the vaunted American M1A2 SEP Abrams, and better than the Russian T-90A. It was strong, well-armed, nimble to maneuver, and fast. And it was speed that mattered most to Kong at this very moment. As he led his column of vehicles through the outskirts of Dabazhen, his only focus was on being first to engage the enemy. It was a race between his northern column and the rival force that would sweep up from the south. No, it was more than a race.
It was a matter of honor.
Kong issued his orders across the open comms net that connected him to every one of the tanks in his force.
“Forward at full speed!” he demanded. “Form into two lines. We will take the infected horde in the flank and smash right through them.”
*
A rising, billowing cloud of thick brown dust was the first thing General Guo saw as his helicopter crossed over the peaks of the mountains. He snatched up his binoculars. Far away to his left, a column of tanks was fanning out across open arid ground, angling southeast as they moved to intercept the approaching horde of undead. He turned and peered in the opposite direction. The southern pincer of heavy armor was boiling out of Biezhen City, still formed in columns two vehicles wide and still some miles from where the undead would appear.
Guo grunted. He ordered the pilot to climb five hundred feet to give him a more elevated view of the battlefield. Now, at last, he could see the approaching horde of infected. They appeared as a solid mass of bodies, moving slowly beneath a veil of dust. They moved like the shadow of an immense, ponderous cloud; a dark stain on the skyline along a front that was several miles wide.
It was exactly as General Guo had envisioned. The undead had followed the contours of the ground, funneling themselves into the broad ancient riverbed that ran towards the mountains. The tide of undead bodies reached all the way beyond the edge of the horizon; a mass of many millions that crept inexorably closer.
“Great Mao’s ghost!” the General muttered his most vehement oath. The vastness of the infected defied imagination. Never had he seen such a sight.
In 2008, General Guo had sat high in the grandstands of Beijing National Stadium with 91,000 others from around the world to witness the opening ceremony of China’s Olympic Games. Now he tried to gauge the immensity of the horde, measuring in ‘stadiums’.
Forty? Fifty? Could there be as many as five million undead, surging west towards his frail defensive line?
By comparison, the two formations of tanks that loomed on the flanks of the horde were puny.
Guo elbowed his Colonel in the ribs. “I want the helicopters in the air,” The General demanded. “Tell them to concentrate their attack on the tail of the snake.”
*
The tanks crested a gentle shoulder of ground and Kong gaped aloud at the staggering sight before him. The undead covered the ancient basin of the river course, packed bodies in a dense phalanx that seemed to stretch for as far as he could see. They were hazed beneath a veil of dust that hung suspended in the still morning air. Kong swore beneath his breath. His tank was in the center of the front line. The second line of Type 99 monsters was in tight formation, two hundred meters to his rear. The infected began to turn towards the attack and move forward, coming on with a rising howl in their throats. The sound was like the disturbed irritation of a million bees.
The range was a little over a thousand meters.
“Firing!” Kong’s gunner shouted.
The tank’s main 125mm gun fired. The vehicle seemed to pulse around Kong’s body, rocking on its heavy suspension. Other tanks in the front line took up the attack. Huge licking tongues of orange flame leaped from the barrels and the morning tore apart with explosions and smoke.
The Type 99 tank could fire eight rounds every minute, with twenty-two rounds ready in the autoloader. For almost three continuous minutes the guns roared in a relentless barrage.
“Attack!” Kong felt his fervor rise, swept up in a blood-boiling fighting frenzy. His tank rolled forward eagerly and plunged down the soft shoulder of the bank, accelerating in a throaty bellow of sound.
&
nbsp; “All tanks must hold formation!” Kong insisted. “Stay together and drive right through them. Do not stop. Do not slow down. Grind them in to the dust!”
*
“Yes!” General Guo growled his approval, stirred by the magnificent sight of his northern tank pincer charging into battle. It reminded the old veteran of a glorious cavalry charge.
He gestured urgently for the pilot to descend. Guo wanted to be overhead to see for himself the power of the first impact.
In the south, the second column of tanks was only now beginning to fan out into a line. Guo frowned. The battalion commander leading the southern attack was slow, the movement of his tanks somehow ungainly and fussy.
“Too pedestrian!” Guo cursed the commander’s timidity. There would be a stern rebuke for the man after the battle was done.
The helicopter plunged until it hovered just a hundred meters above the shallow basin. Higher in the sky and to the north, the first echelon of attack helicopters appeared. They formed into a black buzzing knot and then dived to swoop on the rear of the undead column in single file.
The deafening roar of combat climbed to a new peak as the battle rose steadily towards its critical climax. Then the charging formation of tanks hit the fringe of the undead horde.
*
Kong’s tank crashed into the horde of infected ghouls at forty kilometers an hour; fifty-eight tons of steel struck flesh and bone like a battering ram. It was a surreal moment for the Chinese commander. It felt oddly obscene to be plowing recklessly into crowds of people, and Kong had to jam down on the instinct to recoil, to flinch away. The undead were no longer human – they were a plague upon the world that he was tasked with destroying.
Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse Page 31
