But in a few hours, America’s priorities would change. Defense spending would skyrocket, and Katharos would be there to reap the benefits. They would emerge from the shadows to fill the void in weapons research, winning multi-billion-dollar contracts. And that would only be the beginning. When defense appropriations reached their peak, Emily would use the Servers to steal trillions. The global economy would crumble, and the people of the world would look to her for salvation. Humanity was destined for a purifying fire, but it would emerge from the ashes as a glorious Phoenix.
Emily turned in a circle, taking in the mosaic of holographic images around her. Each level in the tiered command center offered maps, images, and videos of missions taking place all over the world. Four ergonomic chairs encircled the first tier—captain’s chairs for her bio-automatons. At the moment, only one chair was occupied. A slender Chinese-American lay comfortably in the seat, his head and feet supported by foam cushions. Silver electrodes covered his bald head, and his eyes darted around beneath his eyelids. Thin wires and plastic tubes connected a digital interface to his spinal cord, maintaining his body’s autonomic nervous system while his mind was elsewhere. When connected, he experienced the world through Melody Hawkins’s robotic corpse.
A screen above the pilot’s chair displayed everything he saw. At the moment, the screen showed nothing but open water. Emily’s marvelous bringer of death was aboard a Coast Guard Lifeboat, which was racing across the Chesapeake Bay. In less than thirty minutes, the main event would begin and the pilot would have Emily’s undivided attention. Until then, there were more pressing issues to attend to.
Emily placed her hands on a gilded pearl and mahogany lectern. Its slanted face was arrayed with dials, buttons, and wheels, which she could use to swivel a turntable beneath her feet, zoom in the holographic displays, and communicate with her subjects in the field. Her left hand caressed one of the polished orbs, and the lectern turned counterclockwise, gliding on hundreds of ball bearings. A large display on the second tier showed the footage from a dashboard mounted camera. The wide-angle lens took in everything ahead of the unobtrusive Chrysler minivan, and chest-mounted cameras gave the point of view for the three Katharos agents inside. These men had been tasked with a special mission—drawing Jarrod away from the Pentagon.
Thumbing a switch on the lectern, Emily said, “Everything is in place. You may commence the attack.”
The response was as crisp as if the male agent was standing beside her, thanks to a surgically implanted microphone that detected vibrations in the agent’s trachea. “As ordered, Empress. We are two blocks away from the preschool. Weapons are locked and loaded; we can have the entire building cleared in seven minutes.”
Emily detected veiled apprehension in her operative’s voice. It wasn’t due to any moral reservations about slaughtering dozens of children, her soldiers were too dedicated to the cause for that. It was fear of repercussion. Fear of Jarrod.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” Emily said. “You are merely a distraction. The real danger is fifty miles away, and by the time he arrives, you will be long gone.”
“Yes, Empress.” The voice didn’t sound convinced.
Emily smiled. These men were right to be afraid. When they were finished with their repugnant mission, Jarrod would pursue them to the ends of the earth. So much the better; as long as he hunted them, the Pentagon would be helpless.
A light turned green, and the Chrysler pulled through an intersection. Ahead and to the right, a long building came into view, its stained-glass windows and grand steeple reminiscent of a neoclassical cathedral. Emily zoomed the dashboard camera in on a yellow sign. “New Light Montessori.” Her chest tightened at the image. She took no joy in ordering the death of innocent children; it was a shameful waste of potential. But their sacrifice would ensure her success and, ultimately, help to bring about a brave new world.
The van stopped again, caught in the never-ending stream of morning traffic. Taking advantage of the brief pause, Emily spun around to check on the other active missions. As far as she could tell, everything was progressing smoothly. She completed her sweep of the room, and her eyes caught on something strange. The corner of the minivan’s dashboard footage was blurred. She zoomed in on the distortion, and it vanished. Frowning, she zoomed back out. As the camera angle widened, the blur came back into view. Only now it was moving from right to left.
“Something is wrong with your front camera,” Emily said, squinting at the display. “Do you see anything unusual ahead of you?”
“Negative, there’s—” the man cut himself short. He hesitated, then mumbled, “What the hell is that…”
“What can you see?” Emily asked, her voice rising.
“I—I don’t know. You guys seeing this?”
The other agents affirmed that they could see something, but they weren’t sure what.
Emily’s mind raced. It couldn’t be. She had taken every precaution to keep the daycare mission a secret. But what other explanation was there?
“Shoot it,” Emily barked. “Shoot it now.”
The point of view cameras swiveled as the men reached for their shotguns. And a chorus of screams rang out. The vehicle in front of the minivan disappeared from view, replaced by an azure view of a cloudless sky.
Emily fumbled for the switch and said, “What’s happening?”
The dashboard camera swept across the sky, and an upside-down image of a pickup truck descended into focus. The sound of breaking glass and bending steel momentarily drowned out the screams. Cocking her head, Emily realized the minivan had been flipped, end to end, onto its roof.
“Answer me!” she demanded.
“There’s something out there,” someone said. “It was waiting for us, and—”
The brief report was cut off by renewed shrieks of terror. Two of the chest cameras shifted, giving separate views of a man being pulled toward the window. His face was twisted with pain, and his seatbelt cut into his shoulder like a wire.
“Get it off of him!” one man shouted.
“Cut the belt!” the other yelled.
Two glass-like hands, visible only by the faint fog they gave off, pulled harder on the man. Bones snapped under the pressure, and his shrieks were replaced with a wet rasping sound.
For a moment, the creature outside seemed to let go. Relief passed like a wave over the man’s face, and he sank lower in his seat, but the foggy hands were still firmly attached to his torso.
Emily wasn’t sure what happened next. Something snapped and blood coated all three chest cameras. The men screamed in terror, then howled in sickening agony. Then there was only silence.
With a trembling hand, she pushed the communications switch. “C-can you hear me?”
There was no response. She hit the switch again and yelled, “Someone answer me!” A clicking noise came through, and her breath caught in her chest. “Hello? What’s your status?”
A deep, harrowing voice echoed through the room. “You will pay for what you have done, and you will pay for what you tried to do.”
The overhead speakers cracked and popped, and Emily’s blood ran cold.
37
Fen, as his brothers and sisters in Katharos knew him, was afraid. It wasn’t the looming battle or even the chemical weapon on his back that rattled his nerves. It was the thing next to him. It stood three inches shorter than him, and at one point had been a beautiful woman. Now it was something else entirely, a grotesque conglomeration of wires, sensors, and human tissue. It was Casket, their secret weapon. Fen shivered and tried to console himself with the fact that there was a living person controlling the bio-automaton. Somewhere, on the other side of the planet perhaps, a normal human being was at the wheel.
The thought made him feel a little better, but didn’t completely put him at ease. He wished he had never seen the thing, its torn skin and bulging muscles only partially concealing the mechanical implants. As the team was prepping for the mission, he accidentally
saw its naked body in the changing room. It had looked up, gazing at him with its wide black cameras. It was as if he had locked eyes with Medusa. He froze, terrified that the machine would rip him apart for the intrusion. Instead, the pilot merely directed the machine to dress itself in a skin-tight suit of black armor and yellow firefighting gear.
As the Coast Guard LifeBoat skimmed along the Potomac River, Fen tried to focus on what lay ahead. From what he had heard, Casket was a master in the art of killing. When the fighting started, it would keep Fen and the others safe while they prepared to turn the Pentagon into a toxic wasteland.
Fen and his five teammates were attired in bunker gear—thick coats, trousers, and self-contained breathing apparatuses worn by firefighters. But the heavy tanks on their backs did not contain air; they were filled with a silver powder. The substance was composed of thirty-seven chemicals, but just one active ingredient: Polonium 210.
Polonium 210 was a radioactive isotope. Under normal circumstances, it was relatively harmless A few centimeters of open air or a sheet of paper were enough to render it inert. It was safe to transport and extremely difficult to detect. But given the right opportunity, it was one of the most dangerous substances known to man. When inhaled or ingested, one gram of the isotope was enough to kill fifty million people, and the team’s SCBA tanks contained nearly three kilograms.
Of course, the team would be nowhere near the tanks when they went off. The chemical weapons would lay in key corridors, their digital timers counting down. When the moment arrived, they would erupt and disperse the Polonium into the air. The building that stood as a symbol of American military might since World War Two would become a memorial for the thousands of men and women inside.
Fen took a deep breath of the salty air and exhaled slowly. It was a historic day. Though no one knew it, he and the rest of the team were about to push the domino that toppled the United States.
The powerful vessel sped across the Potomac until it was nearly parallel with a towering white obelisk—the Washington Monument. The nose turned, directing the craft toward the Pentagon Lagoon Yacht basin. A man on a patrol boat waved them forward, even tipping his hat as they passed. It didn’t surprise Fen; Empress had orchestrated every step of their journey perfectly. They had been welcomed with open arms at every checkpoint and ushered toward their objective.
The motor dropped to a dull thrum as they passed beneath the stone arches of the George Washington Memorial Parkway. The team pressed on, passing rows of million-dollar power boats parked at the Columbia Island Marina and easing up to the concrete walkway at the far end of the lagoon. Fen, two fellow Katharos agents, and the remotely-piloted cyborg disembarked the vessel and climbed the stairs beneath the Pentagon.
Eugene and Ford rounded the southeast corner of the Pentagon at a trot. Their patrol served dual purposes, allowing them to check on security and calming their frayed nerves. Eugene gave a thumbs-up to a soldier manning a machine gun turret in an HMMV. The soldier nodded back apathetically. Like many of the other men and women on guard duty, he was unaware of the stakes. Eugene grimaced and jogged on. As he and Ford approached a VIP parking lot, they spotted four firefighters striding toward the famed “River Entrance.”
“They should know better,” Eugene said. “Auxiliary firefighters need to check in at the Visitor’s Entrance like everyone else.”
Ford nodded. The Secretary of Defense and the President often passed through the River Entrance; for visitors to do so was unceremonious, even disrespectful.
“The guards will set them straight,” Ford said. “Why don’t we head back and check in with Daron?”
Eugene slowed to a walk, then turned around, but he couldn’t keep from looking over his shoulder. With the elevated threat, the firefighters should have had an armed escort. And why did they have their masks on when there was no fire?
His suspicions were confirmed by a peal of gunfire. Without hesitation, he and Ford sprinted toward the River Entrance, their H&K MP7 submachine guns in hand. They bounded up the eleven steps in three strides and skidded to a halt. Eight guards lay in pools of blood on the terrace, and a set of whiskey-colored doors were in splintered ruin. They put their shoulders to the concrete wall and contacted Daron.
“I’m following the video surveillance,” Daron’s voice crackled through their earpieces. “It’s exactly what we were afraid of—they brought their ringer.”
Eugene grit his teeth as gunshots and screams reached his ears. “We have to go in after them.”
“Negative, Jaeger,” Daron responded, “Hold your position. There are armed response teams inside; if you go in, you might get caught in the crossfire.”
The gunfire grew more distant, but it was still clearly accompanied by victims crying out. Eugene closed his eyes and clenched his fists so hard they shook. Each passing minute felt like a thousand failures, and he eventually couldn’t take it anymore. He fixed Ford in a steely gaze. “I’m going in. Are you with me?”
Ford nodded. “Warming a bench isn’t really my thing. I’ll take point.”
38
Things weren’t going as smoothly as Emily had hoped, but she was optimistic. There was a distinct possibility that Jarrod was on his way to the Pentagon, but nothing could be done about that. The operation couldn’t be stopped now. Like a Rube Goldberg machine, it would continue down its intricate path to an inexorable conclusion.
Deep down, Emily was thrilled by the unexpected turn of events. There was a chance that her two greatest creations would finally face off in a clash of titans. Nerium versus Lateralis, husband versus wife, man versus machine. Of course, she had stacked the deck in her favor. Even now, the bio-automaton was surrounded by an invisible shield, a cloud of vaporous poison that Jarrod could not penetrate. It wouldn’t be a fair fight, but Emily was still eager to see it to its bloody conclusion, and through the eyes of Melody Hawkins, no less.
Staring at the screen above the pilot’s head, Emily watched her creation dance. Men and women, armed and unarmed, evaporated into pink mist before the marvelous cyborg.
“Granted,” Emily said. “Granted.” She repeated the word as if it were an incantation, giving the pilot permission to gun down everyone in his path.
Every shot was fired with perfect accuracy, and when the guns ran out of ammunition, the pilot simply grabbed two more from his slain enemies. The unfathomable precision wasn’t due to any skill the pilot possessed; the cyborg’s multi-spectral vision worked in perfect harmony with its hands, targeting specific points automatically.
Hand-to-hand combat was different, requiring the operator to have a basic aptitude in order to reduce reaction times and improve lethality. The pilot was chosen for his skills in martial arts, which he could employ through the automaton with more strength, speed, and efficiency than he ever could in his own body. With the abundance of weapons available, however, fighting skills would not be a factor.
Emily couldn’t suppress a smile as four SWAT police fell before the cyborg’s blazing guns. Then the machine turned a corner and mowed down a cluster of fleeing employees.
“Proceed to corridor five,” Emily said. “We need to clear it out and place a bomb inside.”
“Will do,” the pilot said.
Counter-assault forces flashed by on the screen, the muzzles on their weapons blazing. The pilot ignored them, trusting the automaton’s armor to protect it. When corridor five came into view, Emily said, “Granted,” and the pilot killed six Marines.
“Good,” Emily said. “Now check the outer halls.”
“Yes, Empress,” the pilot said. He guided the automaton through miles of halls, stopping at each spoke that led outside. No one offered any resistance. Whoever was in charge had put the counter-attack on hold.
Emily glanced over the lectern until she found the appropriate button and held it down. “Are the chemical bombs in place?”
Three separate voices answered in the affirmative.
“Good,” Emily said. “Set the timer
s for fifteen minutes and commence with your individual escape plans.”
“Yes, Empress,” the trio responded.
Emily reached above her head, stretching her tired body and basking in the triumph of a perfectly executed plan.
“Two targets,” the pilot said.
Emily snapped back to attention. The screen showed a man’s face as he ducked out from behind a doorway and sprayed the cyborg with tightly grouped shots.
Emily frowned. Something about the man seemed familiar. “Show me the second target,” she said.
The screen flashed to another face, and a gasp escaped Emily’s lips. The dark hair and handsome features sent a jolt of electricity through her body.
“Authorization?” the pilot asked, impatience creeping into his voice.
Emily’s mind raced. Give the order, she pleaded with herself. He means nothing to you.
“Empress?”
“Give me a moment!” she snapped.
The pilot fell silent and maneuvered the cyborg behind cover.
The answer came to Emily a moment later, and she said, “Wound the target on the left. It’ll create problems for the response teams.”
“Yes, Empress,” the pilot said. Rounding the corner, he shot the first man in the armpit. The man stumbled, but kept shooting, so the pilot put another round into his pelvis.
That did the trick. The man collapsed, his weapon clattering across the polished floor. Eugene unleashed another barrage of gunfire, then rushed over to his fallen teammate.
The pilot smiled. The first round had undoubtedly punctured the man’s axillary artery. The bleed would be too close to the chest to be stopped with a tourniquet. The second shot to the pelvis was meant to cause severe pain, though may have also hit a vital blood vessel.
Spurts of blood shot into the air at the man’s side, and he rocked in agony. Eugene, showing no regard for his own safety, tried desperately to stop the bleeding.
The Path Of The Nightmare Page 24
