Power turned on the Colonel in a snarl of outrage. He jabbed the Russian in the chest with his finger. “Listen to me, Colonel. I didn’t fly half way around the world to observe the undead apocalypse from a fucking field tent.” He spoke quickly, the words spilling out in his temper and frustration. If the Russian didn’t understand every word being said, he certainly understood their meaning. “My job is to observe first hand and report to my President… and the governments of the world – including yours. So I need to get to the border, and I need to do it right now. Do you understand me?”
Colonel Morozov was a career soldier, hardened by the long years of discipline and deprivation of life in the Russian military. The blood drained from his face and his expression turned to stone. He glared at the American, all pretense of cordial détente swept away.
“I will speak again with the General,” Morozov said in an icy growl.
*
Ten minutes after landing, Power was in the passenger seat of an old UAZ four-wheel-drive being driven south towards the border town of Zamiin-Uud. Colonel Morozov watched the vehicle as it disappeared towards the horizon, jouncing on the uneven road and throwing up clouds of dust. He prayed fervently that the arrogant American would be the first man killed in the fighting.
‘BOUNTIFUL TIGRESS’ CRUISE SHIP
YELLOW SEA
According to Minister Yi Dan’s wristwatch, it took four minutes and fifteen seconds from the moment the Navy helicopter landed on the cruise ship’s bow until the Admiral of the Fleet appeared in the doorway of the conference room on Deck Five.
Yi Dan filled in the time by smoking a cigarette and studying the view of the ship’s Promenade Deck through the windows.
President Xiang saw the naval officer arrive and broke away from a huddle of dark suited aides. The Admiral saluted crisply.
“Mr. President, the North Sea Fleet is assembled just over the horizon. We stand ready to escort the civilian armada to a rendezvous with our other warships. We await your command.” The Admiral was broad chested and very tall for a Chinese. His hair was grey and cropped close to his skull. He had the eyes of a man accustomed to gazing at far-away horizons. He stood ramrod-straight, chest thrust out with pride, and his chin lifted.
President Xiang grunted. He crossed to one of the windows. Through a smudge of thick haze, the Liaodong Peninsula crouched low on the skyline, dark and sullen in the pale light. Dalian Harbor was ablaze.
Xiang stood and stared towards the land with nostalgia and longing; a man saying a silent, emotional farewell. He wondered whether he would ever see China again in his lifetime. He smiled wistfully.
“Very well, Admiral. We are ready,” he said. “Take us into the South China Sea.”
KREMLIN SENATE BUILDING
MOSCOW
“The Chinese have been almost exterminated from the face of the earth by the NK Plague. Their armies have been crushed, their population decimated. The same fate will not befall the Motherland.”
Russian President Nikolay Fokin swept his eyes around the room. The attendees of the Security Council Meeting were all grim-faced men in dark suits. Fokin’s features were lit with the impassioned fire of a zealot.
“We will drive back the undead hordes because we are smarter and superior to the Chinese. We will prevail because we are not afraid of sacrifice.”
The stirring speech prompted rousing patriotic cheers and a round of dutiful table slapping from the country’s assembled leaders. President Fokin snatched at a glass of water before completing his opening remarks.
He was a man of medium height with unremarkable features, and no distinguishing marks. He had carefully combed brown hair, expressive eyes and a pale, bloodless face. He might have been mistaken for a doctor or a librarian, if he hadn’t been the most powerful man in Russia. On the world stage he was statesman-like and charming. Behind closed doors his ruthless temper was volcanic. He ruled the country with an iron fist and dominated the nation’s political landscape in the old Soviet manner – through despotic control. He was one of the Siloviki; a hard line politician who had emerged from the Russian security and military services.
The men seated around the conference table waited in silence. Fokin deliberately let the tension in the room build. He could see the anxious strain on their features. He was toying with them; a cat in a room full of mice. Finally he spoke again.
“I have called this meeting to formulate our plans. We must agree on a course of action for each possibility. As you are all aware, troops from our Eastern Military District are assembling on the Mongolian border and are preparing to engage the infected hordes when they cross from China. I expect a great victory to be won. If this is the case, we must have measures in place to capitalize on the triumph. If the unthinkable happens and our army is defeated, we must consider an even more unthinkable contingency.”
There were six men around the table: the Prime Minister, the Finance Minister, the Interior Minister, the Foreign Minister, the Chief of General Staff and the Defense Minister.
Russia’s government was run through both formal and informal structures where the individuals in power often mattered more than the institutions they governed. Informal arrangements and amorphous power alliances developed to shape government policy by seeking to present information to the President in a manner that influenced his decision in their favor. The most powerful block was the hawkish triumvirate at the far end of the table where Defense, Interior, and the Chief of General Staff sat together.
“What contingencies are you considering, Kolya?” the Minister for Interior asked, deliberately using the shortened version of the President’s name to subtly remind everyone that the relationship between the men was long-standing and personal.
Fokin gave a brief wintry smile. “If our army on the border wins a victory against the undead, I believe our best and most effective option is to launch a massive airborne operation to reinforce our position. We can move paratroopers and light armor to the region more quickly than we can get tanks and regular soldiers to the battlefield.”
Fokin saw heads nodding.
“And what if the battle goes badly, Mr. President?” Defense asked more formally. He did not share the same friendship with Fokin that the Interior Minister enjoyed. He was still a ‘young’ man of sixty-two – one of the new guard of leaders gradually replacing the old Russian hierarchy as death and infirmity created vacancies.
“Russia is a world superpower,” Fokin began his reply as if he recited a well rehearsed, prepared speech, “and our superpower status comes from our vast array of advanced weaponry…”
Across the conference table the Finance Minister and the Prime Minister noted the President’s statesman-like tone of speech and exchanged veiled but alarmed glances.
Had everything already been settled in a secret agreement? Was this whole meeting just a stage-managed piece of theatre for Fokin to announce measures that had already been decided?
“…Such weapons cannot be left languishing in our armory when the very existence of Russia is threatened,” The President continued his address. “We built these mighty weapons as a deterrent to the West, and also as protection for the Motherland. If Russia’s plight becomes so dire that her survival is imperiled, then the only responsible option left to us – as guardians of the nation – is to detonate a nuclear device that will exterminate the infected scourge forever.”
BRUSSELS MILITARY AIRPORT, MELSBROEK
BELGIUM
Virginia Clayton stood in the open doorway of the aircraft for a moment and cast her gaze over the flat featureless terrain that surrounded the air base. Her arrival was a deliberately low-key affair. There were no waiting Belgian dignitaries, no cute children with flowers, and no polite speeches to make. She came down the truck-mounted stairs to be greeted on the tarmac by America’s Ambassador to NATO.
Phil DeLalio was an overweight man in his late forties, his hair already grey and thinning, and his eyes myopic behind thick glasses. He was sw
eating under the mild Belgium sunshine. The son of Italian immigrants, he had graduated from Georgetown University with a B.A. in International Affairs before joining the Department of State as a Foreign Service Officer on his twenty-fourth birthday.
“Madam Secretary. Welcome.” DeLalio’s breath smelled of garlic as he shook Virginia Clayton’s hand.
Virginia – ever the poised diplomat – smiled warmly. “Nice to meet you, Phil. Thanks for meeting me here.”
Parked nearby waited a black American limousine and two black SUV’s. A handful of dark-suited Secret Service agents stood their posts, their eyes restless and wary behind sunglasses. One of the agents opened the rear door of the limousine. Virginia climbed into the wide back seat. Ambassador DeLalio sat beside her. The car’s interior was cool and air-conditioned, and the windows heavily tinted. Two Belgian police motorbike outriders appeared from the shade of a nearby hangar and swung a wide loop towards the security gates. The limousine and the SUV’s followed.
“Did you have a good flight?” DeLalio mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He had a fleshy face and red full lips. He was nervous in the Secretary of State’s presence.
“Long,” Virginia sighed. She felt wrung out. She had spent half the flight on the phone and the other half getting briefings and updates on the spread of the NK Plague.
*
“Okay,” Virginia stifled a yawn as the Belgian countryside sped past the limousine’s windows. “Fill me in. What’s the sentiment at the NAC?”
It was the acronym for North Atlantic Council – the principal political decision-making body of NATO, made up of Ambassadorial representatives of all its member countries. The Secretary General chaired the NAC’s meetings, and decisions were only made when unanimity was reached. That meant all twenty-nine member countries had to be in agreement before any NATO action could be taken. The NAC met twice a week, once informally, and once for a decision-making session. As with every other aspect of politics and diplomacy, intense lobbying took place behind the scenes and loose alliances formed.
Virginia nestled herself into the far corner of the seat and stared thoughtfully out of the window as the limousine suddenly slowed to a crawl through a snarl of traffic.
“The French are up for a fight,” DeLalio said. “They can see the writing on the wall. What happened to China has everyone scared. My guess is they’ll put forward a resolution to the NAC calling for a NATO military response of some kind. The Brits seem quite keen too. The Channel isn’t wide enough to make them immune – I think they know that – and they’d rather be fighting the infection somewhere in mainland Europe than on the outskirts of London. So they’re both going to vote in favor of some kind of united European army to fight the infected.”
“An EU Army?” Virginia asked. It was a proposal that the French President had first mentioned in 2018, suggesting that such a force could work side-by-side with NATO’s own military structure. The idea had drawn support from other European leaders at the time but little had been done to further the notion since.
DeLalio shrugged.
“What about Germany?” Virginia asked suddenly.
Phil DeLalio made the pained face of a man suffering from indigestion. He shook his head and frowned. “They might prove more reluctant,” he admitted. “They have a new left-wing government, as you know. The Social Democrat Party formed a coalition with the Free Democrats. From what I understand the relationship is strained and the alliance fragile. Their new Ambassadorial representative is a woman. I’ve met with her a couple of times. She’s very intense, and very committed to following instructions from Berlin. I’m not sure how they’ll react. The Government will have one eye on the domestic political situation for sure.”
Virginia pursed her lips. France, Britain and Germany were the three most influential NATO nations in Europe. If she could get the Germans to understand the urgency of the situation, the rest of the member nations would most likely fall into line.
“Turkey?”
DeLalio nodded. “They can see the writing on the wall. I’m surprised they didn’t invoke Article Four of the Treaty before the French did. They’re looking at Russia and watching carefully. They know they’re the next big domino to topple if President Fokin’s troops are overwhelmed.”
“Montenegro?”
“They’re still finding their way,” Phil DeLalio gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “They’ll follow suit. If everyone else votes to fight, they’ll come on board. They want to be seen as willing and co-operative.”
Montenegro was the newest member of the NATO alliance, a small country in the southeast of Europe with a coastline along the Adriatic Sea and key borders with Albania and Serbia.
Virginia became silent and contemplative. The limousine accelerated again, finally free of choking city traffic and back once more onto open road. The afternoon sky was filling with cloud. She sighed. Waves of treacherous lethargy washed over her. There was a lot of diplomatic work to be done, and precious little time left. But first she had to sleep.
“Phil, can you arrange a meeting with the British and French Ambassadors for me? Nothing public. Nothing lavish. Just a quiet, private get-together at Truman House where we can talk the issues through, away from the press?”
DeLalio nodded. “I’ll get right on it.”
ZAMIIN-UUD BORDER CROSSING POINT
MONGOLIA-CHINA BORDER
General Lieutenant Mikhail Apalkov looked the dust-covered American up and down carefully, noting the haggard features and the weary fatigue in the man’s eyes.
Apalkov sniffed. He had three stars and was the Commander of the Eastern Military District, ordered urgently into Mongolia from his headquarters in Khabarovsk to be the first man to confront the undead plague that was boiling on the rim of China. He was a fighting man, with a big hulking physique that was beginning to turn to flab, and a face of crags and sharp angles. The greying bush of his eyebrows knitted together. “Are you a fighting man, Mr. Power?” he asked in careful English, “or a book-learned professor?”
Power’s expression stayed fixed, “Both, Comrade General,” he said. They were standing beside a camouflaged BTR-80 command vehicle. There were four whip-like antennae mounted on the back of the 8x8, and spread across the angular prow of the APC was a map of the region. Through the open doors on the side of the vehicle Power could hear the incessant garble of Russian voices reporting through the radio network. “I’ve seen combat action, if that’s the question you are asking.”
The stern Russian General’s face flashed a touch of arrogance. “Good,” he said. “Then you will be interested in the tactical situation we are presented with, yes?”
Power nodded and Apalkov gestured at the map.
“See here,” he said, drawing the line with the nail of a dirt-covered finger. “This is where my infantry are entrenched.”
“Along the border?”
The General nodded. “Beyond the town of Zamiin-Uud. I have strict orders not to engage the enemy until they cross into Mongolia, Mr. Power. I have a total of two infantry regiments in a prepared defensive line six kilometers long, and we have APC’s and armor centered on the town’s railway station. The rest of the division I am holding in reserve. In total? Maybe twelve thousand men and over two hundred tanks and APC’s.”
Nathan Power said nothing for a long moment. “Artillery?”
The General laughed but the sound was somehow hollow. “Yes, Mr. Power. This is something Russia always has much of. The heavy batteries are back behind us several kilometers. But if you look carefully, you will see that we also have self-propelled artillery on that small hill to our left.”
Power turned his head. He could see maybe a dozen truck-like vehicles in a ragged line, their howitzer barrels pointed south. The vehicles were all dug in, just as they might have been in a conventional war against an enemy armored assault. But this wasn’t a conventional war.
The gentle rise that General Apalkov had chosen for his command post gave an unobs
tructed view of the barren plain that stretched all the way to the border. Between the position and the rise to the left where the self-propelled howitzers were stationed was a shallow basin of earth that might have once been an ancient water-course. Power saw over a hundred trucks parked in neat rows and a steady stream of vehicles clogging the road as they shuttled more and more infantry to the forward positions. Power wished he had binoculars. The town of Zamiin-Uud was just a distant bump on the horizon, iron roofs glinting in the shimmer of the afternoon’s heat-haze. To the east and west of the township he could see trails of brown dust, kicked up by the heavy wheels of the transport trucks.
“Aircraft?” Power asked.
“Twenty-four Mi-28’s,” the General boasted. “They are like your Apache helicopters, yes?” Power nodded. He had never seen a Mi-28 in action, but he had read the reports and seen the photos.
“They are stationed in Ulaanbaatar. They do not so much like the dirt and dust,” he shrugged. “So they can be here quickly if we need them.”
Nathan Power caught the General’s eye and held his gaze. “Sir, I suggest you get those birds in the air. You will need them.”
General Apalkov looked bemused. He regarded the American carefully. “Mr. Power, we are fighting an unarmed enemy that lacks the discipline of an organized army. They’re nothing more than a horde. I do not think – ”
“Comrade General,” Power’s voice was strained but stiffly respectful. “The enemy coming out of China is a weapon, and when they fall upon your prepared position they will come in overwhelming numbers. A million, maybe more. Maybe ten times that number. And all your artillery and armor won’t make a difference to them because they have no morale, sir. The enemy can’t be driven back, can’t be demoralized. You can’t give them pause on the battlefield because their only frenzied instinct is to kill.”
Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse Page 38
