Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse

by Nicholas Ryan

  “It began with China’s East Sea Fleet surging into the Yellow Sea, and was quickly followed by the South Sea Fleet which left their bases and moved en masse into the South China Sea. Not to put too fine a point on it – these two combined fleets represent the bulk of China’s Navy, and the two fleets that are in most direct conflict with American forces. The Chinese have a third fleet, named the North Sea Fleet. Strangely, they remained in their ports and have not yet shown signs of preparing for sea.”

  “The Chinese can’t be moving against Taiwan or Japan,” one of the generals at the far end of the table said. “Both countries have already been overcome by the NK Plague. They’re wastelands.”

  “Agreed, General,” Blakely nodded. “It makes no sense for China to move against locations already devastated by the plague, and nor does it make sense for the Chinese Navy to begin a sea action while their armies are still fighting desperately to hold the infection back from reaching Beijing.”

  “So what are they doing, son?” Admiral Mulligan asked.

  “I believe the combined Chinese Fleets are preparing, sir,” Blakely acknowledged the CNO.

  “For what?”

  “To answer that, Admiral, I first need to explain the other part of the puzzle – the Chinese merchant fleet. The Chinese fleet of commercial vessels is the biggest in the world; thousands of ships that range in size from the largest container vessels and oil tankers, to small freighters that ply the coastal waters around Asia. Over the past few days all of these ships have been gravitating to one port… Dalian.”

  “All of them?”

  “Every single commercial vessel the Chinese own is either already berthed at one of Dalian’s piers, or anchored in the harbor, or making their best possible speed in that direction. Ships carrying cargo have been ordered to dump their goods at sea.”

  “Jesus!” someone in the room gasped. “That makes no sense.”

  “No, sir. It doesn’t… or rather, it didn’t. Satellite images taken from passes over the port show incredible construction on a scale so vast it almost defies comprehension. There are tens of thousands of workers operating day and night shifts at Dalian while Chinese Marines defend the peninsula that the harbor is situated on from a horde of infected.”

  Blakely held up two images from the folder and saw heads bow as everyone in the room scrambled to find their own copies.

  “The first image shows Dalian Harbor and its location in relation to the rest of China. You will notice how the peninsula pinches into a narrow isthmus north east of the port. That is where Chinese Marines are currently fighting off a wave of infected, estimated to be a horde of over a million strong. You will also notice the marked port bases of China’s North Sea Fleet, headquartered at Qingdao on the Yellow Sea. You can see the relation between Dalian and the Fleet…

  “The second image shows the vast number of Chinese commercial ships already gathered off Dalian Harbor. This represents just a fraction of their total merchant shipping fleet.”

  “So, you’re suggesting there is a correlation between China’s North Sea Fleet remaining in port, and the construction work currently taking place at Dalian, Mr. Blakely?” Virginia Clayton frowned.

  “Yes, Madam Secretary,” Blakely said. He was gaining confidence now, becoming more assured of the material he presented. He could see by the faces around the room that his audience was intrigued. “I believe the two are directly related.”

  “How?”

  “The nature of the construction work at Dalian has kept analysts fretting for days. Why send every commercial ship to one harbor? Why defend the peninsula from infected when there are so many other harbors along the China coastline that could have been used for similar modification work? And why begin some gigantic, frantic shipping construction program at the exact same moment that the world is tipping into the abyss of an apocalypse?”

  No one spoke into the silence of his rhetorical questions. Blakely took a sip of his water before he went on.

  “I believe the Chinese have begun a desperate plan to convert as many of their commercial ships into container carriers… and to use those converted vessels as Arks to transport refugees off the infection ravaged mainland and into the South China Sea. Dalian is the only Chinese harbor capable of such a vast and urgent undertaking.”

  Thud.

  The stunned silence around the room was crushing. A couple of the generals went shuffling through their folders looking for more photographs. Others exchanged puzzled glances. A few – a very few – began to look troubled.

  Blakely saw the President exchange a significant glance with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. General Knight winced. Around them, the rest of the room suddenly erupted in a flurry of urgent, alarmed conversation. The voices rolled around the walls and tempers became frayed. The President slammed his hand down on the table and the empty water glasses rattled. Silence and order returned abruptly.

  “Arks, Mr. Blakely? You mean living accommodation at sea?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “You’re suggesting that the Chinese leadership is going to abandon mainland China and sail into the sunset in steel boxes?” the President asked pointedly. Blakely felt himself flinch. The glare from President Austin was withering.

  “Yes, sir,” Blakely defiantly stood his ground. “I’m suggesting the Chinese leadership will board cruise ships – of which they own several – but that the converted container ships will become accommodation for their people, complete with refrigeration equipment and perhaps even small gardens that could sustain a huge population at sea until the NK Plague burns itself out. The idea is not as radical as it sounds – there is plenty of evidence to suggest that containerized living is viable. It’s just never been tried on such a vast scale before.”

  President Austin searched through the folder on his desk. There were several enlarged images of shipping containers on a dockside, and other photographs that showed a steel gangway system of ladders being welded to stacked piles of ship-loaded containers. The images were in separate envelopes, still marked in the right hand corner with Top Secret stamps and coded numbers. The President frowned.

  Seated half-way along the table on the opposite side of the room, General Knight sat forward suddenly.

  “How many people are we talking about? How many Chinese could fit onto all these ships?”

  Blakely looked hesitant. “It would depend on how many vessels can be converted, sir. It would also depend on whether the Chinese leadership decides to put some of their refugees aboard their Navy ships. But, assuming a hundred people per warship, and assuming they converted enough merchant vessels in time… we could be looking at the mass evacuation of over five million people.”

  “Jesus…” Defense Secretary Jim Poe gasped. “Where would they go?”

  Blakely shrugged. “I don’t know, Mr. Secretary,” he admitted. “But my guess is that the North Sea Fleet is waiting until the merchant ships are loaded at Dalian. Then the armada will set sail, escorted by the fleet, towards the South China Sea where it will meet up with the rest of China’s warships.”

  “The Spratlys?” someone speculated.

  Blakely shook his head. “The small atolls in the South China Sea will not sustain the population. If I had to guess, I would bet on the entire fleet anchoring somewhere close to the China mainland where they could wait the infection out in sheltered waters.”

  “You’re assuming these ships are going to be filled with Chinese factory workers and rice-paddy farmers,” Walter Ford said cynically. “And you’re also assuming the NK Plague will run its course and quickly burn out. What if it doesn’t… and what if these container vessels are not populated with workers and farmers…?”

  “What if the ships are loaded with soldiers?” Admiral Mulligan breathed the words that no one else had dared to. “What if this is the biggest invasion force ever assembled?”

  The thought sent a fresh shockwave around the Situation Room. The President sat back in his seat, eyes
staring at the ceiling. His mind drifted back to his antagonistic meeting with the Chinese Ambassador. Had there been clues in that terse exchange? He flicked his eyes to where Virginia Clayton sat. She was locked in an intense discussion with one of the Joint Chiefs. The President let the conversation swirl around the room for another sixty seconds.

  “Mr. Blakely, are there any other possible options that would suitably explain China’s actions?”

  “No, Mr. President. As incredible as the facts are, they all point to just one possible explanation. The Chinese have come up with an ingenious way to save millions of their people’s lives, using the assets they have in abundance – ships that can be converted, and a willing army of workers. If there is another possible explanation, I don’t know what it could be.”

  “Have satellite images shown a build up around the port of military personnel – soldiers that might be waiting in camps for embarkation, for example?”

  “No sir,” Blakely said. “I’ve been monitoring the raw intelligence. The Chinese have thousands of Marines along their defensive perimeter north east of the harbor, but there have been no other significant troop movements to my knowledge.”

  “Could the Chinese be using stealth? Could they be moving troops in the windows of opportunity between our satellite passes? Their intelligence would know to the minute when our birds are overhead,” Virginia Clayton worried.

  Walter Ford spoke up. “Sir, we could order the NRO to task a couple of Misty-2 passes…”

  Misty-2 was a stealthy electro-optical reconnaissance satellite also known as USA 144. It had been launched from Vandenberg Air Base in May 1999, aboard a Titan-4(03)B rocket. The stealth satellite originated as a countermeasure to the Soviet Union’s attempts to conceal weapons development. The Director of National Intelligence had canceled the program in 2007 – but Misty-2 remained, still shrouded in secrecy and still quietly orbiting the earth, undetected.

  “No,” President Austin shook his head. “Not even the Chinese can hide five million people from regular satellite passes, Walt. If they were massing troops for embarkation, we’d know. But that doesn’t mean it’s not about to happen. If Mr. Blakely here is as bright as he seems to be,” the President paused pointedly, “then we need to know who is going aboard those ships, where the ships are heading… and why.”

  “Mr. President, it would be timely for us to start talking about a response,” Admiral Mulligan spoke up.

  Patrick Austin nodded his head. “My nature makes me inclined to hope this is a humanitarian exercise – a brilliant idea hatched by the Chinese that will save millions of their citizens from the scourge of the plague,” he let the words hang in the air. He could see the expressions on the faces of the military men around the room become downcast with concern. “However the Chinese are secretive people without an acknowledged fondness for humanitarian causes,” he said. “Their leadership has shown itself to be as selfish and as cruel as the most infamous of despots the world has known. For that reason, I’m worried. I think we all should be.” He stood up, signaling the meeting’s abrupt end, and turned to Blakely with a nod of acknowledgement. “Good work,” he said in a quiet voice, then turned back to the assembly and spoke louder.

  “General Knight, please put the Seventh Fleet on alert. They are to use all possible means to keep close surveillance on the Chinese fleets gathering in the South China Sea.”

  THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA

  General Qin turned his wizened face to the sky and estimated how much daylight remained until sunset.

  Not enough to finish laying the barbed wire, he grumbled morosely.

  He had spent the entire day supervising repair work to a crumbling section of the Great Wall a few kilometers east of Beijing; a small gnome-like figure who prowled behind the engineers, his features wrinkled with sour disapproval at every delay, berating incompetence and moving with restless energy to cajole greater effort.

  He made the men work into the night by the light of arc lamps and to the sounds of throbbing generators. He was tireless, his tiny old body seemingly filled with boundless reserves of endurance. One by one the exhausted engineers threw themselves down, broken and panting, but still General Qin demanded more. Fresh engineers were marched up the steep slope to the foot of the crumbling wall, and the work began again, until, when dawn came, two full kilometers of broken ancient stone had been replaced by fifteen-foot high barbed wire fencing.

  The steep, difficult terrain had made access to this section of the Great Wall challenging; equipment and materials had needed to be carried up the slope by long trudging lines of men, working like ants under back-breaking strain. A narrow winding path had been worn in the broken earth, trailing from the cluster of command vehicles at the foot of the rise, all the way up to the work site.

  Now, at last, the collapsed section of old stone had been adequately repaired. General Qin stood back with his hands on his hips and inspected the makeshift barrier with a soldier’s critical eye. All along the eastern wall, similar repairs were taking place in a frantic race against time. The engineers around the old General dropped like leaves from a tree. They were filthy, sweating, and bleeding. It had been the grueling manual labor of slaves. They sat, slumped and gasping, and passed around canteens of water. Most had not slept in twenty-four hours.

  “It will do,” General Qin grumbled. He too was frail with sleepless fatigue, but he would not let his men see such a sign of weakness. He had gone without food and rest, just as every one of them had, disdaining his meager rations until the task was finished. Now at last he gathered his engineer officers around him, staring through the lacework of barbed wire to the ranges and forests in the west that were still sleeping in shadows and untouched by the new day’s light. Qin paced the wire, bow-legged and small as a jockey with his hands clasped behind his back. He could sense the imminent danger of the undead. He felt their proximity like a vibration on the air, his instincts honed and tuned by a lifetime of military service. They were gathering, he knew – massing somewhere in the valleys beyond his view, but coming inexorably closer. He felt it the way an old man feels the cold hand of death in his last days.

  “You have done well,” he gave the praise to his officers gruffly, as though it pained him to speak a compliment. “But there can be no time for rest when there is still so much to be done. Gather your troops and truck them to the next site,” he swept his gaze around the attentive faces. His officers too were haggard and drawn with fatigue. Qin could see the flat lusterless glaze in their eyes of men at the very edge of exhaustion. “They must be on site and working before noon. We may only have this day before the undead are upon us. Tomorrow… sometime tomorrow, they will arrive. When they break from the fringe of the forests and come swarming up the slopes, we must be ready to repel them.”

  SINGAPORE

  As far as Rhonda Grey was concerned, Max Winslow was a contemptible sexist bastard – a sleazy arrogant asshole who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. But she smiled dutifully from her seat in the helicopter and gave him a reassuring thumbs-up.

  “Remember, Georgie will be doing the cross from the studio in Sydney but because we’ve got no relay monitor to see her broadcast, you’ll have to go on my cue, so no chat. Just say, ‘G’day Georgie’ and go straight into your report. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  The Australians were wearing headphones, talking to each other through the helicopter’s comms. Rhonda was sitting turned in the front passenger seat, twisted to face Max and the cameraman who were in the back. The floor was covered in a rat’s nest of all the cables and equipment necessary for live cross. The cameraman wore a harness securing him to the inside of the chopper so he could stand on the skids when the broadcast began. Behind Winslow, the cabin door of the helicopter was open and the cameraman had Max framed to show images of the Singapore skyline shrouded in a thick haze of fiery smoke behind him.

  “Is my hair okay?” Winslow asked his producer.

  “Perfect,” Rhonda sa
id.

  “And what about the shirt? I’ve got the top button undone to show a little chest hair, y’know.”

  Macho, egotistical asshole!

  “Yeah, fine. Max, just remember you’re not a globe-trotting reporter for 60 Minutes. This is just like a helicopter traffic report, that’s all. So don’t dramatize anything. All the drama is in the images. Let the pictures behind you do the talking.”

  He flashed her a sexy, arrogant smile and Rhonda felt herself cringe. She had been stranded on tiny coral atolls in the Java Sea with Winslow for ten agonizing days; just him, her, a cameraman, and their chartered helicopter pilot, filming an environmental documentary for a cable network channel.

  The assignment had been a nightmare. Every night she had been forced to fight off the journalist’s clumsy, drunken advances and listen to his endless boasting about his sexual conquests.

  Sure, she conceded, he was a handsome man; he had one of those made-for-movies faces… but his ego and his attitude had revolted her. Winslow thought of himself as a lady-killer.

  Rhonda wanted nothing more than to push the bastard out through the open door and watch him fall five hundred feet to his death.

  “Are you sure my hair is okay? The wind is fluttering my shirt. Maybe we could do the piece with the helicopter door closed. What do you think?” His gaze wandered down over her body, his eyes lingering like lecherous fingers. It was just a look, but it made Rhonda’s skin crawl. She sat perfectly still, her face wrenched into an expression of curdling horror.

  “We’re here to report on the plague, Max. To do that, people need to see the situation.”

  You fucking asshole.

  The helicopter started a slow banking turn and began to descend. She heard the pilot in her headphones. He was a middle-aged Malaysian man with a leathery-brown face and misaligned yellow teeth.