*
The ISS
General Pavel Yurimentov gasped in climax as Mary Adams trashed beneath him, her motion causing them to spin and tumble in the cargo hold of her Aurora. Most of the women loved weightless sex. His ‘Millas orgasms were so powerful he had to clamp himself to her to avoid being expelled, but this Mary Adams, with her porcelain skin, pale green eyes and dark brown hair was his favorite. She was so flexible she could impale him and spin like a top, causing him to explode like Vesuvius. He stroked her cheek and kissed her pale pink lips as his pulse slowed in aftermath.
*
In the central computer room, Ludmilla nursed her son Yuri and clicked the image of her husband and his latest mistress off her monitor. She scowled at the blank view screen and her inner turmoil caused Yuri to stop sucking and give a distressed cry. She quieted him by stroking his tiny head and returning her nipple to his mouth. Why did she care? Why did she allow Pavel’s straying to hurt her so? It wasn’t like they loved each other. And it wasn’t like he was cheating, not really. He was doing his duty and creating more little Russians. If only he didn’t enjoy it so visibly.
With a small sigh she flicked her monitor back on and switched to a view of Earth, where the South Pole now seemed to be somewhere off western Chile, just below Easter Island. A new ice cap was rapidly forming there even as the glaciers and ice fields of Antarctica, which now lay in the mid-southern latitudes, melted. Her mind betrayed her, turning for an instant to the tender smile on Pavel’s face as he caressed Mary Adams, but she forced her attention back to the Earth below, never dreaming that she wasn’t the only one spying.
In his quarters, Muhammad Rahotep ground his teeth as he closed his laptop. That whore, Zarita Morshidi was at it with Mr. Superman again. He thought he’d made it clear to her that she was to keep herself only for him. How else could he insure a child from her was Arab? That slut Aeriella Goldstein was already pregnant and her baby would be Jewish. She probably didn’t know who the father was. Well, it certainly wasn’t him. He’d never befoul himself with a Jew. Still, the thought of Jews outnumbering Arabs caused him to contemplate extremes.
He’d skillfully hidden his anti-Semitic prejudice from the psychologists in charge of vetting him for Project Genesis, but his avoidance of Aeriella in the closed confines of the ISS and Luna City had come to the attention of more than one of his companions, especially since his outburst during the last drill. He would have to be more cautious, play nice, like a cat with a mouse.
The ISS
Marissa Riley spun from the monitor, grabbed an airsick bag and spewed.
“Morning sickness?” General Alice Anderson asked, handing her an absorbent wipe and a sip of water from a squeeze bottle.
Marissa shook her head and pointed at the screen. Several spy satellites remained in high enough orbit to survive the ejecta storm following the impact and by tapping into them the members of Project Genesis could view in amazing detail any event below not obscured by clouds.
Alice cocked her head, studying the display intently. “Is that a barbecue?”
“Yes,” Marissa whispered. “Look at the bone pile.”
Alice flinched back from the screen so violently she lost her handhold and drifted back across the cabin. “My God,” she said, her eyes huge. “They’re butchering people.”
She triggered her throat mike and said, “Clark, we need you in the ‘eyes’ room.”
“Can it wait? I’m in the middle of…”
“Now,” Alice said, interrupting him with her command voice.
A slight pause, then, “Coming,” Clark Kent replied with a clipped tone.
“Sorry darling,” he said, withdrawing from Zarita Morshidi’s warm embrace and grabbing his clothes. “Duty calls.” Her dark brown hair wafted above her golden brown face like a chocolate halo.
She favored him with a tender, slightly crooked smile that he found absolutely charming and said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Five minutes later he was peering at the monitor and asking, “Where the hell is this?”
“California,” Alice said.
“Near San Francisco,” Marissa added.
“It looks like a bloody feast!”
Alice laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “Pan to the North. There.” She pointed, stopping him.
He leaned in close, brows furrowed, lips pursed. A girl, no, a small woman, stood beside an enormous man in the middle of a huge crowd. Slowly, she lifted something that glittered and placed it on his head as the multitudes cheered and applauded.
“Bloody hell,” he said, easing back. “It’s a coronation.”
“And the cooks,” Marissa said, swallowing hard, “are preparing a feast for the honored guests.” Tears filled her emerald eyes and she blotted them before they could float free. “They’ve all gone mad down there,” she added, in a voice so soft it was hard to hear.
*
California
Lola Madonna controlled a shudder as she placed the golden crown on Joey’s head. Who could have dreamed it would come to this? A monster anointed King of California at a cannibal feast. Her thoughts were a jumble, uncertain how much more degradation she could stand. She’d held the line against eating people, in spite of Joey tormenting her by insisting it was just meat.
She marched beside him, inwardly smirking at the purple cape he wore. She thought it made him look like a macabre comic book villain, but Joey had made it more than plain that such opinions were best kept to herself. She was his eye candy slave for important functions and as brutal as he was with her in private she was almost grateful to him for not sharing her with his freakish sons. So she played along, feeding his ego and hoping against hope that he’d make a mistake one day. She harbored no thought of escape, for entertaining hopes like that would be too painful. She just wanted a chance to kill him before she died. It was the best and only hope she allowed herself.
*
Joseph Scarlatti savored the moment like a chocoholic entering Ghirardellis. Everything was perfect from the clear, blue skies, to the soft as butter breeze that cooled his brow. Odd how he’d never considered that a crown could be heavy, awkward and somewhat sweaty. Red and white carnations lined his path as he led his loyal subjects to the royal feast.
His spies would watch any who refused to partake of the meat, for those were not to be trusted.
He dismissed such thoughts for this was a celebration and marked more than his coronation. It was also the day his engineers would trip the switch and allow electricity to flow to this part of California. The Indian Valley hydroelectric plant was fully restored and ready to go online. His subjects would worship him for this boon, while his enemies would tremble. He’d promised his followers he’d restore civilization and now they would have proof. Soon his position in California would be unassailable.
*
Medford, Oregon
Sara Garcia limped up to the checkpoint with Raoul hobbling alongside her. She noted the wary eyes of the guards and how their hands tensed on their weapons.
“We’re peaceful,” she announced.
“Everybody says that,” a gruff voiced man wearing Harley bandanna over his bald head said. “You sick?”
She shook her head. “Just tired and footsore and glad to be out of California.”
The man nodded his understanding and asked, “What part of California?”
“Most recently from Stanford,” Raoul said and at the man’s wide-eyed expression added, “I think your leaders will want to talk to us about the King of California.”
“That may be,” the man acknowledged. “But first you’re going to spend a few days in quarantine.”
“We aren’t plague carriers,” Sara said. “I’m a doctor and--”
“Then you’ll be welcome here,” the bald man said, taking off his bandanna and tying it around his face like a western outlaw. “But everyone goes through quarantine and since I’ve been exposed I’ll be there with you, so come along.” He led them
to a nearby house that was landscaped with razor wire, had a brief conference with a guard there and took them inside. The first people they saw were Will and Clarissa Benton.
After exchanging hugs and handshakes, Sara asked, “Where’s Trish?”
Clarissa inclined her head toward the back of the house and said, “She’s in the kitchen. We rotate kitchen, cleaning and laundry duty and today’s her day for cooking.”
Raoul stepped back from them, concerned. “How long have you been here?”
“Four days,” Will answered, pointing to an ace bandage on Clarissa’s right ankle.
“I twisted it stepping over a downed tree,” she said.
“But we get out tomorrow according to Canary over there,” Will added, pointing to a thin man with a heavy, black beard, who was talking to baldy.
“Canary?” Sara asked.
“What we call him,” Clarissa said with a shrug. “He never introduced himself but he was on guard duty when we showed up so he had to come inside with us.”
Raoul and Sara both nodded. They got it. The guards were like the canary’s coal miner’s used to warn them of bad air.
“Seems harsh,” Sara said.
“It’s how we survived,” Baldy said from across the room, adding, “And it’s worked so far.”
Sara gave him a sympathetic smile, unable to argue with that. She used her fingers to brush some of the tangles out of her short, curly brown hair and thought, at least we’ve escaped the King.
*
Luna City
Muhammad Rahotep scowled as Aeriella Goldstein turned from the central hallway into the infirmary. He’d prayed long and hard over his Koran and no clear answer came to him. With a single thrust of his knife he could possibly exterminate the Jewish race for all time, but how would the others react? He didn’t need a crystal ball or even a Koran to know the answer to that one. Probably toss him out the nearest airlock without a suit and exterminate the Arab race as well. So, an accident then, carefully contrived to lay no blame on him.
His thoughts raced even further. If he was quite clever a series of accidents involving the other males could assure the rise of the Caliphate. Rani Hamide and Zarita Morshidi were fellow Muslims, though they were mere women and not of the Wahabi.
*
Aeriella felt Muhammad’s eyes on her as she veered into the infirmary. Unconsciously, her right hand felt the scalpel concealed beneath her left sleeve. Trust, but verify. She knew in her bones he was planning something fatal, but with no evidence she couldn’t go to the others, not even Kenny.
She placed both hands over her womb, knowing it was too soon for movement, but hoping nonetheless. The fate of her unborn child was not going to rest in the hands of an increasingly unstable Arab. She moved with long lunar steps to the medicine locker and prepared a syringe of potassium chloride, then tucked it into her fanny pack. If he forced her hand she could make it look like a heart attack. Her Hippocratic Oath took a distant back seat to the welfare of her child.
*
The ISS
“Holy shit!” Henri Dupree shouted. He spun from the view port and beckoned frantically to Alice Anderson. “Get over here, General. You need to see this.”
She flew across the cabin and he caught her, then they almost bumped heads looking out the porthole window.
“Are those lights?” She asked. They’d seen isolated electric lights before where small groups had generators, but never on a scale like this since the impact.
“Looks like four, no...five small towns and one city,” he said.
“Where are we?”
“Northern California.”
“No...not the same--
“The very same place,” Henri said.
Alice snorted, something no one on the ISS had ever heard her do. Something she hadn’t done since she was a girl on the family ranch in Wyoming. “So, the cannibal King has the lights back on. Well, even Mussolini made the trains run on time.”
*
Colorado
Michael placed the night vision monocular against his right eye and slowly scanned the street ahead. Viper’s sentries stood out bright green against the eerie greenish background the scope revealed. Their campfires, well, a man learned quick not to look at campfires, lanterns or flashlights in a night scope. Farther down, in an open area, he saw five Bradley’s arrayed in a line, turrets pointed up toward Bluebird Hill.
He scanned the Bradley’s again and grimaced. They all had the same number of antennas. None bore a flag with a viper on it or in any way stood out from any of the others. How the hell was he supposed to find Viper in an encampment that showed no sign of a command center? Was the man even with his troops?
S.A.L.U.T.E. he thought, recalling the recon acronym drill sergeant taught him all those years ago.
Size--still thousands of the bastards.
Activity--encamped for the night.
Location--hell, we know where they are, locating Viper is the problem.
Unit--doesn’t apply.
Time--too damned little left before dawn.
Equipment--small arms and Bradley M2A2 Infantry Fighting Vehicles with those double-damned M242 25 mm auto-cannons and M240C 7.62 mm coaxial machine guns.
There just wasn’t enough time for him to slip dynamite into the tracks of all of them. He knew he could get past the sentries--ghosting past their rear guard had proved no problem--but Viper had teams of patrols checking around and under the Bradley’s every fifteen minutes. Stymied.
If he couldn’t get close enough to take out the Bradley’s he’d just use the Remington on Viper himself. If he shows himself. He had a good description from Denise and Jacques Lachelle, and Jim had imitated the man’s panther-like walk, so Michael thought he could ID the target if he could ever see the target. Discipline and patience. Those were the main tools of a successful sniper.
So he ran through his acronym again. Size, Activity...wait a minute. Even if Viper was asleep, and that was likely, considering it was about four in the morning, those patrols had to be reporting to someone. All of his patrols and sentries had to report to someone. And just like that he had the pattern. Every patrol stopped briefly beside the Easternmost Bradley. Individuals he now assumed were officers or NCO’s in Vipers army drifted by and paused, never for long, but always at the same Bradley.
He smiled like a wolf. Now all he had to do was wait, and he could wait like a rock.
*
The large aspen quivered with bullet impacts from an AK-47 popping at them from over the ridge line.
Dikeme poked her head out and snapped a couple of unaimed reply shots, just to keep their heads down while Otha reloaded.
“I do believe our luck has changed,” she said. They’d been on the run for a couple of miles after being jumped by one of Viper’s outlying patrols.
A brief smile flitted across Otha’s face at her totally unperturbed British accent.
“How’s that?” he asked, slamming a fresh thirty round magazine into his AR-15.
“It’s gone from bad to worse, of course,” she said and flinched as a splinter from a near miss struck her cheek.
“Uh-huh, then you probably don’t want to hear that this is my last magazine,” Otha said. He took careful aim through the brushy deadfall he’d taken cover behind and loosed a single round, rewarded by a grunt and the sound of a body falling.
Several AK’s fired, shredding everything near them. A grenade bounced off a tree and exploded harmlessly ten yards away.
“You do keep upsetting them,” Di said. She swung a daypack full of .45 caliber ammunition for their pistols over one arm and added, “I’m ready.”
They’d been trying to reach a large pink granite outcrop that would afford them better cover and a better field of fire.
“Go,” Otha said, as he stood and peppered the ridge above them. Damned stupid getting trapped on the low ground, he thought, as he counted shells, ten, eleven... From the corner of his eye he saw Di leap behind the boulder then
spin and begin laying covering fire.
He exploded from cover, racing for her. She was more than his wife, she was his life. He fired the last rounds from his AR-15 and dove behind the rocks. He saw a bullet chip the granite next to her, pulled his Colt, rolled over and emptied it into the three men who’d come up behind him. Must have been flanking us, he thought. He ejected the empty magazine and shoved in a fresh one.
Another grenade sailed in and this one landed close. The explosion stunned them both senseless.
*
Captain Brandon Silva kicked the pistol from the woman’s nerveless hand and barked, “No!” at the men aiming at the fallen man. “We need them alive, remember?” His mission was to capture Freeholders so Viper could discover what other surprises the Freeholders had up their sleeves.
“Tie them up. We’re taking them back to camp.” Besides, they’ll make good slaves. The big man is strong and the woman is...he studied Di’s long, lean form...unique.
*
“I think they’re telling the truth, Captain,” Sergeant Ladell Shore said. He wiped blood from his gloves before peeling them off of his hands. Interrogation sometimes got messy.
“Hard to make up a story like that,” Captain Silva agreed, eyeing the man’s battered face. “Before you started working on him I could have sworn I’d seen him before.”
“Well, if he ain’t lying, his mug was plastered all over TV.”
Captain Silva shook his head in disgust. “Okay then, throw them in with the slaves.”
*
“Your poor face,” Dikeme said, touching a bruise on his cheek.
Otha winced and struggled to sit up.
“Why don’t you just lie back and rest?”
The Dying Time (Book 1): Impact Page 38
