Tim Scott did manage to find a handful of survivors. He tended to them as best he could, but they were all in bad shape. None were mobile, and it would take more than one lone deputy to bring them in. He dressed wounds, made sure they had water, and noted their location. If a rescue effort could be mounted, well, at least they’d know where to start looking. But he didn’t hold out much hope for that. There was no one in the center of town that could be spared for anything as elaborate as a rescue. They were all needed to shore up the base.
About three-quarters of the way around, Scott finally came upon a victim he could help. A baby, still cradled in the arms of its mother. She had protected him with her own body, her expression of selfless commitment fixated on her child to the last. Scott gently lifted the baby out of her protective embrace, trying to remain as respectful as he could, while making sure that her sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. The child was scraped and bruised, likely dehydrated, but otherwise seemed okay. Abandoning the rest of the circuit, Scott cradled the baby with all the fatherly protection in his heart, and headed back.
Just a few blocks along, the ‘clouds’ that had been covering the better part of Joffrey began to dip ominously, and Deputy Scott knew that time was running out. Breaking into a trot, he did his best not to jostle the non-responsive infant. There was no way to know if the remains of the command center would hold up, but it was their safest bet. He moved fast, trying to outrun the ground shear before it met up with the atmospherics and caused something unthinkably worse. Looking at the black horizon, he felt a sinking sickness in his gut, and turned his body to shield the baby’s eyes from the horror.
* * *
“What sort of patterns are we talking about here? How could such gravimetric tornados be formed?”
“Well—and I should mention that this is all still theoretical—what we think goes on in such an event is a meeting of two fronts, between the atmospheric effects we’ve been seeing lately, coupled with the ground shear that has been ripping apart whole communities. The concern is that once these two forces meet up, the shear would funnel up to the charged source in the atmosphere, feeding it off the supply of ground-based shear. This could create an endless loop, and we’re honestly not sure what could be done to stop that once the triggering conditions take place.”
The interviewer nodded, looking equal parts concerned and fascinated. “I see. So a sort of petri dish, that’s what you’re telling me?”
The analyst gave the interviewer an odd look, but allowed the observation to stand. “Something like that. A better analogy would be the way a waterspout forms over the ocean. The atmospherics could mimic the sea, feeding the ground effect in an endless supply as long as conditions persist.”
As the analyst was explaining the theory, the producer cut to a split-screen graphic—the beginnings of gravimetric clouds over Washington D.C. were taking shape, side by side with the far heavier, spine-chilling banks of clouds over Joffrey. With a laser pointer, the analyst began indicating likely flashpoints, as well as a troubling patch around Foggy Bottom that he predicted was the next location for a flare-up.
35.
Now that the allies were lined up, the greater challenge for Jian Zhang and Randall Webster was to reign in Elena Sokolov of the Soviet Socialist Territories. Following her meeting with the American President, she’d become increasingly belligerent. Webster felt sure she was up to something, given how many headaches had cropped up on his end in recent days, but he couldn’t definitively place the blame on her. So his assumptions were just that. Nothing verifiable, nothing to pin on her.
It would take a concerted effort to turn the Soviet leader around, especially since Webster had foolishly volunteered Soviet territory to Japan in the heat of the negotiation. He was kicking himself for giving away the farm in his zeal. Forcing her into a corner like that. He’d forced her hand, making her do something distasteful, and he could’ve managed the same task without alienating her. Holding his own delegation together by sheer force of will, the last thing he needed was tension from the other side to break through and tear everything apart.
“Believe me when I tell you, Premier Sokolov,” he told her, “I have the greatest admiration for you, and respect for the longstanding bond between our two nations.” Webster could practically taste the bullshit as it slid off his tongue, and he had to fight to keep it out of his expression. The State Department insisted she was susceptible to such flattery.
As if to prove them wrong, Sokolov scoffed, rolling her eyes and looking away from the table. With a practiced grace, she picked up a coffee cup and waved it at Webster. “If I wanted to hear lies and flattery I would bring in my own advisors, Mr. President. I hardly need you for that.”
Webster picked up his own cup. Lacking the sophistication of his counterpart, he sloshed some into the saucer, recovered, and set it back down. “Madam Premier, that’s not entirely fair. I’m not here to flatter, and I certainly have no intention of lying to you. We just want to work together. Russia is vital to any agreements. It’s not flattery to say that we need you, Premier Sokolov, because we do. So what I can offer to prove to you that I’m sincere?”
She still looked away, nose in the air, but a near-imperceptible widening of the eyes gave her away. It wasn’t common for such a powerful man to offer a blanket appeasement. What she didn’t know was that Webster knew that too, and had phrased his question carefully—with the express purpose of enticing her.
“What did you have in mind, Mr. President,” she asked, lowering her head and looking up at him, making him notice her long eyelashes and intense gaze.
He knew where this was going. What she wanted, what every Russian wanted, was a seat at the table. For too long they’d been cast aside, not taken seriously, seen as less powerful compared to their glory days of empire. But her country was about to be worth a great deal more, though she didn’t realize it yet. Time to let her in.
“Madam Premier, if you work with us, I can guarantee you security. That, plus the chance to be an economic powerhouse again within the space of five years.”
She rolled her eyes once more, then looked at him with the annoyed expression of one who feels they’re being toyed with. He needed to give her more, otherwise she’d never buy it. Looking up at the door, he signaled for the assistant watching through the peephole to enter, bearing the documentation Randall Webster had been so carefully sitting on since the summit began.
She examined Dean Eckert’s analysis for several minutes. Thought it had been dumbed down to layman’s terms, it was still a weighty piece of work. Looking at the shift of planetary mass and resources, it fast became clear who was in the driver’s seat. When she finished reading, a smile spread across her face, and Webster knew that she finally believed him.
“With such expansive economic power,”—Webster moved in for the kill, enticing her—“the only thing lacking is the political capital to back it up.”
She was silent for several seconds. When she spoke, it was with a renewed confidence. She knew how significant a change this represented. “And you are willing to provide such support, despite our adversarial history?”
“As I said, Madam Premier,”—Webster picked up his now-cold coffee and swirled it around—“I will do whatever it takes.”
* * *
“We have her agreement, then?” Zhang asked.
The Chinese general secretary was looking haggard this morning, his typically sleeked-back hair unkempt, his shirt rumpled. And is that a coffee stain? No. More likely tea, Webster guessed. Webster wondered if he’d slept at all.
“She’s onboard,” Webster answered, “with numerous concessions, of course.”
“Such as?”
“Well, let’s just say neither of us will come out of this with as much influence as we had before. Important thing is she agreed.”
“Yes.”
“And your coalition?”
Zhang sighed. His eyes were drooping. Definitely no sleep.
“Th
ey will cooperate, Mr. President, if they must. Now, we need to discuss upcoming resolution meeting. There isn’t much time.”
“Agreed. What’s your take? Do we have the votes, or—”
“It doesn’t matter, Mr. President,”—Zhang leaned forward and lowered his voice—“it can’t come to a vote.”
The conspiratorial style of the comment was no surprise, but Webster was taken aback by the idea of going against the group. “You think we can’t prevail?”
“I think we can. However, I have reached a conclusion that it is inadvisable to bring everybody, how do you say…along for the ride.”
Webster felt a chill. It sounded so clinical. He decided to leave it alone, and move on to matters they both could agree upon.
“Once we get ourselves shored up, assuming we even can, can I trust you not to oppose relief efforts?”
“Yes, Randall, I agree with you. We will mount an effort to save those we can, and you can lead. You Americans are so good at such things. But first, we must protect our own. There can be no vote.”
You couldn’t let it go. “I’ll have to think it over,” Webster replied.
“Of course. Take all the time you need.”
* * *
In the end, conversations with Harvey Roberts and the rest of his staff wound up a deadlocked mess, and Webster was forced to concede. It was true, the odds of success were greatly diminished when they factored in the ill-equipped nations.
They wouldn’t like it. They’d likely fight back. They might try a counter alliance. At the end of the day, though, they would have to come crawling back. After all, some aid is better than no aid, particularly in a crisis. Their people would demand no less, and the leaders would be powerless against the tide of popular sentiment. Zhang was right, they had to be cut loose.
That didn’t mean Webster had to like it. He spent the rest of the day dreading the confrontation that never ended up happening. The danger had shifted, and it was now possible for the leaders to return to their home countries. Besides that, their current location was now an active seismic zone, subject to upheaval at any moment.
The sudden bug-out was unexpected, but it was fortunate for some. The impact of groups meeting under summit conditions was nullified, and the gloves could come off without immediate repercussions. Webster wondered whether Zhang had orchestrated the thing somehow. It didn’t seem that way, what with the combined military forces making consensus calls about danger zones, but the man was savvy. And sly. It was always a possibility.
* * *
The imposing visage of Premier Sokolov filled Smythe’s monitor. She stared down Smythe with a vindictive eye—if he didn’t manage to appease the woman, he’d certainly be her next victim.
“I’m sorry, Premier Sokolov. This was an unfortunate series of events that were entirely out of our control, I assure you. Naturally we couldn’t have anticipated the Americans showing up like that.” And you might’ve warned us, he added to himself.
“You’re not paid to make excuses,” she replied in a venomous tone. “They never should’ve been out in the first place. Are you going to blame the Americans for that?”
He opened his mouth to protest, mention the drone attack perhaps, but it would do no good. He stopped himself, took a breath, and moved on to the better news. “I’ve been informed that the American’s only managed to acquire two of the assets, Madam Premier.”
“You were informed incorrectly.”
Smythe was caught flat-footed, but only for a moment. “Give me one more chance. I only want to make this right.”
She fumed a minute more, then seemed to tire of it.
“There is one thing you could do for us, assuming you’re sincere about redeeming yourself,” she said, sounding as if she were suddenly bored of the conversation. He knew this was her way of switching from threat to negotiation. A good sign.
“Anything, Madam Premier.”
“You would do well to take care, promising to do anything. That can be a dangerous offer, anything. What I propose is beyond anything you’ve done so far. I don’t believe you will like it.”
Smythe’s pulse rose in resonance with her icy tone, but he remained silent.
“You’ll be working with a rebel group of our acquaintance in order to provide a diversion,” she continued. “An extreme act, something few men are capable of. Naturally, you will be well paid. But if you fail us this time…”
Smythe ran through the sorts of ideas that she might be alluding to, but only one seemed to fit with such grandiose threats. He realized that he was willing, for the right price, though his blood ran cold to contemplate it.
“What would you have me do, Madam Premier?”
36.
The army had good reason for handling Jo as a hostile, given the way she’d invaded their compound, but once they’d debriefed the rescuees, they had attempted to rectify their error. In fact, the soldiers bent over backwards to afford her, her test pilot escort, and Doctor Eckert—by some accounts the most important human being on the planet—with all the deference they could muster. But Jo appreciated none of it. She scowled and stormed, threatening any who crossed her path, even those who dared make eye contact.
Shane was himself preoccupied with debriefings, so the two hardly had time to compare notes. He’d explained all he knew when they’d first met back up. By the time they broke camp and headed back to Poland, her bad mood had intensified to the point where others were asking for his help. But all he could offer was the explanation that he had no control over her, never had, and probably never would. They were on their own.
As much as Dean Eckert loathed the idea of confronting Jo, he too had noticed her foul mood, and the treatment of the soldiers. And he thought he had some idea of what was behind it, too.
“Got a minute?” he asked the next time he found her alone.
Her reaction was predictable, a mix of annoyance and rage, but she seemed to soften when she realized it was him. That was new.
“I just wanted to apologize, and thank you. For what happened back there before we got found.”
She looked at him with a quizzical expression, then seemed to decide that wasn’t enough. “What the hell are you talking about?” It didn’t come off as particularly unfriendly though. At least it was voiced in a more casual kind of sarcasm.
“You know, the drone. When I almost got us caught. You did something out there to distract them. I wanted to thank you for that.”
The next moment was so confusing Dean thought for a second he’d misspoken. She doubled over, almost like she was about to be sick, but when she straightened up there were tears in her eyes. When she burst out laughing, he honestly thought he’d driven the woman over the edge.
“I’m sorry, what’s funny?”
That only made her laugh harder, and she reached out with one hand to steady herself against his shoulder, then slapped it for good measure.
Dean decided there was nothing to do but wait it out. When she calmed down, she sniffed, wiped her tears away, then laughed again the minute she got a look at him. Finally she got herself together enough to speak, and the words came as a complete surprise. “You’re thanking me? Honest to God, if you weren’t so clueless you’d be downright dangerous.”
He looked at her sideways, completely at a loss.
“Eckert, you saved our asses out there. Didn’t you even once think about it? If you hadn’t distracted them…”
He found it hard to believe, but she was being serious. “I did?”
“Hell yeah you did. You wrecking that drone was the only thing that stopped them from beating us to the punch. The only reason I found them was because you took out their toy. After that I was able to distract them, and, well…”
And that was when they’d been rescued. All but her.
Dark Alignment Page 23
