“Can you estimate the force of each explosion, based on the data that has been gathered to this point?”
“My guess is that these were each twenty kiloton devices.”
“The bomb dropped on Hiroshima had a blast yield of fifteen kilotons,” President Austin said stiffly. He knew his history. “We’re talking about six nuclear devices, each of them more powerful than that.”
“A twenty kiloton air burst device actually doesn't cover all that much area – not as much as the layman might think – sir. Detonated at low altitude, we’re talking about a mile wide radius with one hundred percent probability kill.”
The president turned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, sitting at the far end of the long table. “General Knight. Do we have an estimate on the consequences of the Russian nuclear explosions?”
“Sir, analysts are still pouring over the most recent imagery, but early estimates suggest that as many as ten million infected were vaporised by the combined blasts of all six weapons. These twenty kiloton devices used by the Russians are essentially small city killers. The weapons would have been more effective if the undead had not been spread across such a wide expanse of terrain.”
“But still…ten million dead?” The President felt a lift of sudden hope. “Have the infected been stopped?”
“No, sir. We don’t think so. They’re still pushing into Russia and still moving north and west. They have been slowed, but more undead are pouring out of China and surging across the border. All the Russians did was stall the inevitable. I’m afraid the plague is still spreading.”
THE OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
When the President’s secretary tapped politely on the open door and then leaned in across the threshold, her face was pale with shock.
“Sonia? What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President,” she said. “But I have been told that the Russian President cannot be contacted. He’s… he’s apparently unavailable to take your call.”
National Security Advisor, Walter Ford, looked up sharply. Jim Poe had been pacing the room, his arms folded and his features tight with tension. The Secretary of Defense stopped in mid stride. Both men shot glances at Patrick Austin.
“Thank you, Sonia. Please close the door,” the President remembered his manners. When the three men were alone, his expression turned dark with ominous foreboding.
“Could the Russian President have been toppled in a coup?”
Jim Poe’s eyes turned wide and alarmed. “Christ! It’s possible.”
“It could be something innocent,” Walter Ford was the voice of reason and caution. “Remember, the decision to call Russia was spontaneous. Maybe the President is legitimately unavailable…”
The normal process to execute a head-of-state call through the Situation Room was complex and painstaking, beginning when the National Security Council executive secretary informed the Situation Room’s Senior Duty Officer that a call to a head-of-state was required at a particular time. The SDO then notified the senior director for Russian affairs on the NSC staff, and placed a direct call to the designated contact in Moscow to verify the Russian President’s availability.
If an interpreter was required for the call, the SDO contacted the State Department Language Service to arrange for an interpreter to be on hand in the Situation room at the allotted time.
Only then could the SDO place the call to the Kremlin phone number listed in their directory as the primary contact for the Russian President. Once the call was connected, the SDO introduced the President while other duty officers prepared to take notes of the conversation, listening in to the exchange between the leaders. In this instance, none of the preceding steps had been followed before the attempt to call the Kremlin. It made Walter Ford circumspect about leaping to dire conclusions.
“Should we use the MOLINK?” Jim Poe suggested.
The MOLINK was a computer-driven satellite communication link between Washington and Moscow for the exchange of written messages in secure email form. It had been used rarely since its activation in 1963. The main terminal was located in the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon, but there was a backup terminal downstairs in the Situation Room that was also manned by White House Communications Agency staff. The WHCA was a military unit that provided and operated most of the Situation Room’s communication systems.
President Austin shook his head. “If the Russian President can’t take my call, then he’s not going to see a MOLINK message,” he said bleakly. In the absence of any answers, rising fear began to fill the void.
Out of desperation, President Austin stabbed at an intercom button on his desk. Sonia answered from the outer office.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“I need to talk to Ambassador Glass in Moscow, Sonia. It’s urgent.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
While he waited for the call to be connected, POTUS got up out of his chair and began wandering around the room. Suddenly the walls felt like the suffocating enclosure of a cage. He prowled around the furniture. The tension in the room seemed to make the air crackle with electricity.
“If there has been a coup…” President Austin fretted, “…and if it was a splinter faction of military rebels who fired those nuclear weapons at the approaching undead…”
“They could fire more nukes,” Jim Poe picked up the train of the President’s thought, his voice rising. “And the next ones they launch could be ICBM’s aimed at us.”
“Right,” the President frowned.
“Should we increase our alert status?”
“Yes. Do it,” the President ordered. “Let’s get the word to NORAD and everyone else. We’re going to DEFCON 2.”
“And what if it wasn’t rebels?” Walter Ford offered. “What if the Russian government is still in place and President Fokin simply decided the best way to slow the tide of infected across their borders was to fire tactical nukes?”
The President considered the thought. It was possible, but there was no way of knowing for certain.
“Then God help us all,” POTUS said grimly. “Because you can’t save the world by covering it in a blanket of radioactive fallout.”
UNITED STATES EMBASSY
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
“Wilton, we’ve got a real crisis developing right around the world,” President Austin’s connection to the embassy in Moscow was through a secure encrypted line. “And from where I’m sitting it seems like Russia is going to hell in a hurry.”
The Ambassador to Russia was one of America’s most senior and most experienced diplomats because the Moscow station had long been regarded as a pinnacle in the diplomatic service. Wilton Glass was a sixty-five year old native New Yorker; a career diplomat and a respected scholar.
“Mr. President, that is a fair and accurate appraisal,” Ambassador Glass said with dry understatement.
“You know about the six tactical nuclear missiles that were detonated near the border of Mongolia?”
“Yes, sir. We’re scrambling to get a handle on that right now, but no one in the Russian government seems to be any wiser than we are. We’ve also reached out to their military personnel about the battle against the undead. We’re drawing a blank there too.”
“Has there been any statement from President Fokin?” Patrick Austin edged his way towards the real purpose of his call.
“No, sir. We’ve heard nothing official from either the President or any of his Ministers for quite some time.”
“Have you heard any rumors?”
“Rumors, sir?”
“About the health and wellbeing of the president?”
Ambassador Glass was a smart man. He could interpret the crude code easily enough. “Sir, there have been no rumors of that kind whispered anywhere. On the streets, there is chaos. The Russian Army seems to be dissolving. The police are overwhelmed, and looting has broken out in some sections of the city – but to the best of my knowledge, President Fokin is still v
ery much in control, and in power.”
“Okay,” Patrick Austin didn’t know if he was relieved or not. If Fokin was still in control, then why weren’t Moscow’s streets filled with armed troops to clamp down on the panic? “You’re in the process of evacuating the embassy and flying to Germany?”
“Yes, sir,” Ambassador Glass confirmed. “The embassy staff is destroying all sensitive equipment as we speak, and we’re bagging and burning all documents as a precaution. I have charter planes on standby at Vnukovo airport to fly us to Mainz-Finthen.”
“Is Vnukovo airport still under the control of authorities?”
“Yes sir. It’s the airport your Mr. Power used to fly back from the Mongolian border, and he arrived in one piece. In fact, he’s sitting impatiently in the outer office right now. He was hoping to talk to you, sir.”
“Put him on,” President Austin said, “And Wilt? Take care to get everyone to Germany safely, okay?”
“Will do, Mr. President.”
Ambassador Glass put the president’s call on hold and sent his secretary to fetch Nathan Power. She was a tall willowy woman in her forties who had served the previous two Ambassadors in Moscow. She had a fussy, precise manner and wore a constant expression of mild disapproval on her face. She came back into the Ambassador’s private office with Nathan Power behind her.
“The President is on the line,” Ambassador Glass told Nathan Power, then turned to his secretary before leaving the room. “Judith, be sure to bag all the files in my desk. They must be taken to the basement for burning before we leave.”
The secretary nodded. Nathan Power was forced to stand beside the desk to take the President’s call, so Judith could get to the locked desk drawers and empty their contents.
Power set aside the noise and distraction. He snatched up the handset. “Mr. President. Thank you for taking my call.”
“Glad you’re still in one piece,” Patrick Austin’s voice was slightly distorted by the sophisticated equipment that ensured the line was free from Russian intercept. “What did you learn from the Russian Army on the border?”
“Sir, the Russian generals made the mistake of going toe-to-toe with the undead, and as a consequence they got slaughtered. The undead seem to have acute hearing, and they can only be killed with head-shots. I saw infected bodies riddled with bullets get back to their feet. A head shot is the only thing that will put them down and keep them down.”
“Good,” Patrick Austin said. “That’s useful. NATO is putting together a plan to defend the west bank of the Rhine. Has that news reached you?”
“Yes, sir. I heard,” Power confirmed. “It might work. It’s certainly better than fighting the undead at close quarters… but for us to come to terms with the plague, Mr. President, I believe we need to go back to the source.”
“The source?”
“Sir, I believe we need to send armed troops into North Korea. The Aoji-ri chemical plant is where the biological weapons originated. The scientists who worked on the project might have left notes, records, documentation… If we could raid the site and confiscate their research, we might stand a chance of being able to formulate an antidote.”
“Jesus..!” President Patrick Austin gasped. The notion had escaped him and his entire staff. Then sudden alarm gripped him. “North Korea will still be swarming with infected.”
“Yes,” Nathan Power admitted. “But it has to be worth the risk. The answer to the plague’s origins – and perhaps its eventual control – is inside that chemical plant, sir.”
“Are you willing to bet your life on it, Mr. Power?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then I’m going to have you included in the operation. We’ll need someone who knows what to look for who can fly in with the troops. Are you up for that mission?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Okay. When you reach Mainz, I’ll have transport standing by to fly you direct to Asia. Get some sleep on the flight. You’re going to need it.”
*
Alone in the basement of the embassy, the Ambassador’s secretary emptied the documents from the Ambassador’s desk into the burn box and then made a call to a memorized number from her cell phone. It went against all good tradecraft practices and all her careful training – but the potential reward was so great it justified the enormous risk.
The phone rang twice before a gruff man answered.
“This is SIREN,” Judith gave her codename to the spymaster. “I have urgent news for President Fokin about an American mission into North Korea…”
LYUBASHIVKA
UKRAINE
It was just a muddy rutted road on the outskirts of a small village three hundred kilometres south of the capital, yet Yuriy Lyachko instinctively felt himself tense when he saw blue flashing lights suddenly appear through the fog ahead.
For the first hour after fleeing Kiev he had been alert and anxious, gripping the steering wheel tight, with a pistol resting across his lap, while Lyudmyla sat quietly weeping with fear in the passenger seat. He had begun to relax when he realized there had been no apparent pursuit from an SBU hit squad.
The built up areas around the capital began to thin. Yuriy started to feel less trapped. The ground gave way to open farming fields and small villages. He flashed Lyudmyla a reassuring tight smile. She cuffed away tears and smiled back. She seemed very small and fearful, squeezed into the far corner of the car. Yuriy decided that if they encountered a government roadblock, he would sacrifice the girl to save himself. There were plenty of women in the world, but he only had one life – and it wasn’t worth putting on the line for Lyudmyla. Women like her were as cheap as a bottle of vodka.
For endless miles the road blew by in a blur, and with each passing moment Yuriy’s confidence returned. They stopped at a roadside farm stall and bought pieces of fruit. They filled the little sedan’s fuel tank brimming with gas and drove on towards Odessa.
Now, suddenly, there were blue flashing lights on the road ahead and Yuriy became instantly tense and on edge. He slowed as the lights drew closer. Through the mist he saw two vehicles parked across the road. One was the size and shape of a jeep, the other looked like a small lorry. Yuriy’s heart began to thump in his chest.
Lyudmyla sensed his sudden tension and sat bolt upright in her seat. She saw the lights and turned to Yuriy like a lost lamb.
“What will we do? The road is blocked.”
“I know, you stupid bitch!” Yuriy spat. His mind was a whirl. He couldn’t hope to outrun the vehicles across the road.
“What will we do?”
“I’m thinking.”
He couldn’t turn off the road. He couldn’t pull into a barn. His only option was to confront the men at the roadblock.
“Unbutton your blouse,” Yuriy said. “Quickly. And mess up your hair a little bit.”
“Why?”
“To save our lives, damn you! Now do it!”
Lyudmyla obeyed, silent and meek. Yuriy tucked the pistol under the seat and slowed the car to a crawl. Out of the fog two armed soldiers emerged, weapons held across their chests. They were young, faces pale in the car’s headlights. Yuriy braked to a halt and wound down his window.
“Where are you going?” one of the soldiers asked.
Yuriy kept his head slightly turned away from the soldier and gestured at the girl. “Delivering a whore,” he said dismissively. “A man in Odessa bought the bitch from my boss. I’m transporting the merchandise.”
The young soldier looked past Yuriy and saw Lyudmyla, sitting quiet and still in the passenger seat. The folds of her unbuttoned blouse gaped open, revealing tantalising pale patches of flesh.
“Nice,” the soldier said. He called to his partner. The other soldier went around to the passenger side of the car and pulled open the door. He set his rifle aside and openly ogled the girl. The soldier had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. A tendril of smoke crawled up his face and made his eyes water.
“How much
did the man pay?” the soldier wanted to know.
“Two thousand hryvnia,” Yuriy said. It was the equivalent of about five hundred American dollars. The soldier whistled his appreciation.
The man at the passenger side reached into the car and ran his hand over Lyudmyla’s shoulder and down her arm. She stiffened. Yuriy narrowed his eyes.
“You want to take the bitch for a ride?” he offered the soldiers.
The two young troopers exchanged glances. Their expressions were tempted but tortured.
“No,” the man at the driver’s side said regrettably. “Our sergeant…” he didn’t need to say anything more. The rest was written on his face.
“Are you sure?” Yuriy pulled Lyudmyla’s blouse open. “She’s sweet and fresh. I guarantee. Just two hundred hryvnia for the both of you.”
“Fuck off,” the soldier standing by the car said. “We can’t, so just piss off and be on your way.”
Yuriy held up his hands to apologize. “No sweat. No sweat. We’re going.”
One of the soldiers stomped back to the lorry and reversed the truck onto the muddy verge. Yuriy rolled the car forward and waved farewell through the window. The car disappeared down the road towards Odessa with a final belch of grey oily smoke.
WQZT-TV TELEVISION STUDIOS
WASHINGTON D.C.
“Twenty seconds to out. Stand by for the closing shot,” the Director’s Assistant said. She had a stopwatch in her hand, but her eyes were flicking between the wall master clock and the closing script. Beside her in the control room sat the Switcher and a Graphics Operator. The Director paced restlessly in the background, his eyes glued to the ‘on air’ monitor. The Producer began gathering up paperwork from her station nearby.
Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse Page 51
