Extinction Machine jl-5

by Jonathan Maberry

“The fuck they are. They’re meat by-products. And, even though I use Tull because he gets the job done, that cat gives me the creeps. All of them do, so let’s not romanticize them, okay? There’s not going to be a Hallmark Christmas special at the end of this. Either they serve their purpose or we put a shiny new bullet into each of them. End of story.”

  Mr. Bones cleared his throat to clear the air. “If it’s not the Russians and it’s not the Chinese, what are the chances that the North Koreans rebuilt their lab?”

  “‘Rebuilt’?” repeated Howard. “Rebuilt what? That lab is a hole in the goddamn ocean. No, the Koreans only ever had two genuine D-type components, and they lost those when the lab blew. And maybe — maybe — they’ve acquired one or two more parts since then, but that’s a long way from having a device. Besides, if it was them, and they could take the president out of the White House, then we’d have found his body hanging from a tree in the Rose Garden. I’m not saying they’d sign their handiwork, but they wouldn’t risk holding him hostage or waste time with a catch-and-release.”

  “They might,” said Hoshino. “If they were able to take him, imagine what kind of threat they could make. Instead of the usual saber rattling with their missile program, they would be able to whisper right into the president’s ear: ‘Look what we can do!’ Think about it. Think about how that would impact every decision the president made.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t buy it.”

  “Who does that leave? Brazil? Israel?” asked Mr. Bones. “Do we start looking at our allies now? We knew that there was always a possibility they’d turn on us if they got a working device, but I can’t see it this soon. It’s way ahead of any projection.”

  “Actually,” said Hoshino slowly, “I think you’re wrong about that. There is one more possibility we’re overlooking. It skews everything, but the more I think about it, the more I’m beginning to believe that all of this fits one of our earliest projections.”

  “Which one?” demanded Howard Shelton.

  Yuina Hoshino looked from one to the other.

  “The Truman Projection,” she said.

  The silence was as fragile as spun glass and it lasted a long time.

  “Oh my God,” said Mr. Bones.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Camden Court Apartments, Camden and Lombard Streets

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Sunday, October 20, 6:12 a.m.

  It took me three minutes to dress, grab my gun, yell a goodbye to Violin, hustle Ghost into my car, and start the engine. I called Church as I backed out of my parking slot.

  He told me what was happening.

  That sobered me right up.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said.

  I put the pedal all the way down.

  And broke every speed law in the state of Maryland.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The White House

  Sunday, October 20, 6:13 a.m.

  As Lyle Ames ran interference for him, Linden Brierly slipped into a quiet corner where he could make a discreet call to Mr. Church. His cell phone had a built-in code scrambler based on a design originally used by Hugo Vox and the Seven Kings, but which Church had reconfigured for the DMS. And friends.

  “Linden,” said Church, “has there been any change of status?”

  “Nothing good.”

  “Better tell me anyway.”

  “First, there’s nothing new on the president, and per your suggestion I’ve put a lid on that crop circle we found. It’s a needless complication. I put two agents on it, but I’ve also isolated the agents who found it and the helicopter crew that took aerial photos of it. They’re not talking to anyone right now.”

  “Good.”

  “But I just heard from a friend in the AG’s office — a former agent now with the DoJ. The acting president has requested that the attorney general meet him right away.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know for sure, but my friend said that he heard the president use two names. Yours and Joe Ledger’s. My guess is that Collins is going to try and get a warrant to allow him access to MindReader.”

  “The cyber-attacks thing,” said Church.

  “What else can it be?”

  “Thank you for the heads-up, Linden.”

  “Deacon … if the president doesn’t come back … If he’s hurt or dead … then Collins will well and truly be our president.”

  “I know,” said Church. “And won’t that be interesting?”

  He disconnected.

  Chapter Seventeen

  On the road

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Sunday, October 20, 6:17 a.m.

  I took a corner on two wheels and as my Explorer thumped down onto the side street I tried to kick the gas pedal through the floor. Ghost yelped and dove for the footwell. He was trained to be passive during high-speed driving, but I think he had doubts about my skills while hungover. Fair enough.

  Church put me on hold to take a call from Washington. While he did that I switched from cell phone to the tactical communicator — a tiny earbud for a speaker and a high-fidelity mike that looked like a freckle next to my mouth. One of the guys at the Bose lab makes these special for Mr. Church.

  He came back on the line, but before he could say anything I yelled, “How in the wide blue fuck does the President of the United States go missing from the goddamn White House?”

  “We don’t have answers,” said Church. “The vice president has assumed temporary power—”

  “That shithead shouldn’t be allowed to manage a Taco Bell.”

  Church agreed with a sour grunt. He related his recent call with Brierly. It did nothing to improve my view of our temporary commander-in-chief. Vice President Bill Collins was, at best, an opportunistic dickhead who had a hard-on for the whole DMS and once used the NSA to try and tear us down. At worst, he was a closet traitor who may have been in bed with the Jakoby organization, one of the worst cabals the DMS ever tackled. Or he could just be a total damn fool. Whichever way, Collins was a wizard when it came to keeping shit off his own shoes. Even Church hadn’t been able to prove that Collins was bent. Knowing that Collins was now in power, however conditionally, made my nuts want to climb up inside my chest cavity.

  “So,” I asked, “what’s our official involvement?”

  “Official? None. Linden Brierly has been expressly ordered to keep us out of this. Apparently President Collins believes that we may be tied in some way to the cyber-attacks. No, Captain, don’t try to make sense of that, you’ll hurt yourself.”

  I didn’t. Instead I cursed a lot, in several languages. Church rode it out; he neither stopped nor contradicted me. I did some weaving in and out of traffic. Lot of horns blared; lot of people flipped me the bird. I spread love and peace everywhere I go.

  “What’s the alert status?”

  “The military is bulking up at all the appropriate hotspots, notably the Middle East and the Taiwan Strait. The official word is that this is an unscheduled preparedness exercise, so nobody is launching missiles,” said Church, “but we’re not far enough back from the brink. Everyone is suspicious of ‘exercises’ because they can be used to hide just this sort of emergency protocol.”

  In the White House there are protocols for everything. Presidents have been assassinated, they’ve died in office. There have been shots fired at the White House, there have been bomb scares. There’s even a protocol for an armed invasion of the capital by enemy troops, crazy as that sounds. Depending on the scale of the crisis, phones ring throughout the city, causing the pillars of government to shudder.

  “However,” Church said, “the base commanders have not been told the nature of the alert.”

  I could understand that. Ever since 9/11 and the subsequent wars, we’ve gone to high-alert status way too many times. Homeland and the Department of Defense don’t always share the “why” of this, even with base commanders. The Joint Chiefs have become very cagey — you could use the word “paranoid” without too much e
xaggeration, and for good reason. Sure, most of those alerts were false alarms, but there have been a number of times when something very big and very bad was looming and everyone had to be ready — just in case. Often it was the DMS who put the monster back in its box.

  “We need to keep this totally away from the public,” I said.

  “No doubt. A whiff of this would cause panic and likely crash several of the world markets.”

  The yellow light ahead was about to turn. I did something fast and irresponsible, and as I shot through the intersection a pedestrian threw a bottle of Coke at me.

  “Hey, the sky is falling, jackass,” I yelled out the window.

  “Captain?” said Church mildly.

  “Almost there.”

  I laid on the horn as I blew through another intersection. My Ford had lights and sirens, and if the local cops ran my plates they’d get a message that basically said “fuck off and leave him alone.” But this was my town and I knew most of the cops anyway. Didn’t hurt at all that my dad, former chief of police, was mayor of the fine town of Baltimore.

  Ghost barked continually, his nerves jangling in rough harmony with mine.

  To Church I said, “How does someone kidnap the president out of the White House? Isn’t that supposed to be impossible? I mean actually impossible?”

  “Yes,” said Church, and disconnected.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Little Palm Island Resort

  Little Torch Key, Florida

  Sunday, October 20, 6:21 a.m.

  Erasmus Tull stood by the slatted wooden rail of the deck and watched the woman walk from the surf wearing a scuba tank and a bikini bottom that was barely more than a swatch of colored cloth. The ocean was a soft blue, shades lighter than the sky, and it was unseasonably warm for October. Water streamed down the woman’s tanned legs and beaded on the undersides of her small breasts. Her nipples were bright pink after her exertions and they looked somehow more sensual and more vulnerable that way. Tull felt a heavy throb deep in his loins.

  He sipped his Scotch and smiled.

  The woman called herself Berenice, but that was as false as the name he’d used when they had booked this vacation.

  Berenice stopped by the chaise lounges on their private stretch of beach, hit the release on the tank harness, and slid it off. Tull watched her, appreciating the care she took as she lowered the tank to the sand rather than letting it drop. That kind of consideration went a long way with him. He despised the casual arrogance of so many of the scions of the super-rich. The ones whose access to wealth encouraged them to value nothing, and to even show contempt for property — anyone’s property, even their own — merely because it had no true value in their minds.

  This one was different, even though she was the daughter of the billionaire Dutch owners of Donderbus Elektronica, the second largest military weapons manufacturer in Europe. Berenice stayed out of the tabloids as often as possible, and gave the paparazzi nothing to sell beyond the occasional long-distance topless photo. And who cared a damn about that? Not when the Internet was rife with celebrity sex tapes pedaled by disgruntled exes of lower income or station. Not her, though. Not this lovely woman with the long legs and liquid green eyes. Berenice was quiet — boring by media standards — preferring to linger inside her own head, to explore her thoughts with as much diligence and receptive interest as she maintained for the seas in which she swam. She and Tull had snorkeled and dived in the ocean, sometimes swimming naked under star fields scattered with ten billion diamonds.

  Tull wondered if he was falling in love with her.

  He wasn’t sure if he could. Some of the others in his family seemed to manage it; others did not. So far, he hadn’t.

  It troubled him, as it often did when he wondered at the big empty places inside his head and heart. He took another brooding sip. The rich Balvenie 191 burned its way down his throat with such elegance that he closed his eyes for a moment to explore the complex subtleties of the whiskey. This, he decided, was what love probably felt like. So — was that what he felt for Berenice?

  After weeks with her he still wasn’t sure.

  The cool breeze off the ocean ruffled his blond curls.

  Berenice picked up her sunglasses from the table between the lounges and put them on, then she stood for a long minute looking off toward the swaying trees that grew lush and dense here on Little Palm Island. Tull followed the line of her gaze and saw a small key deer step daintily out from between the trunks of two torchwood trees. It was a young doe whose coat was still splashed with faint spots and was only now growing into the gray brown of adulthood. The deer seemed unaware of the woman as it poked around on the ground for fallen thatch pine berries.

  Tull knew that Berenice was as unaware of being watched as was the deer, and her unguarded smile was lovely. Peaceful and uncomplicated in a way that lent her face a look of profound serenity.

  Yes, thought Tull, you are falling in love, old sport.

  The cell phone on the porch railing began to ring. It was a soft sound, not enough to startle deer or woman. A very specific ringtone. Tull picked it up and clicked the button with a thumbnail.

  “Go,” he said.

  Berenice heard him and she turned, still smiling, and gave him a small wave. Tull blew her a kiss.

  The caller said, “There is a fire in heaven.”

  Tull sighed and parked a haunch on the rail. He frowned into the amber depths of his drink as he swirled the Scotch around and around.

  “Are you sure you have the right number?” he asked. It wasn’t the agreed-upon response code, but he was annoyed at having the moment spoiled. There were so few moments like this in his life.

  There was a slight pause at the other end. “There is a fire in—”

  “Yes, I heard you,” sighed Tull.

  Down below Berenice was trying to approach the deer with the bread and lettuce from the sandwich she’d left unfinished before going diving. The doe peered at her with a blend of innocence and natural wariness, her muscles tensed for flight.

  The silence on the other end of the line was ponderous.

  Tull shook his head and wondered if it wouldn’t be better to simply chuck the phone out into the salt water. He didn’t need to work anymore — he had enough money squirrelled away to live in sybaritic comfort for the rest of his life. Granted, he enjoyed the work, but today he was in a different head space.

  Berenice crept closer to the deer, and the animal still had not fled. The princess moved like a tai chi practitioner, keeping her weight on her back leg, letting the other move out slowly to find its place, and then using a controlled shift of her body to empty her weight from one leg and fill it onto the other leg. It was so smooth it was as if she glided across the sand. No jerky steps. Lots of pauses to allow the deer to find its trust and its courage. Tull found it both fascinating and very sexy. Not because of the similarity to tai chi, but because a beautiful woman wearing only a skimpy bikini bottom stalking like a hunter pushed a lot of the right buttons in Tull’s libido.

  The caller tried it one more time. “There is a fire in heaven.”

  Tull really wanted to drop the phone and stomp on it. Instead he gave the counter-code. “Where are the angels?”

  “In the east,” said the caller.

  “Hello, Mr. Bones.”

  “Hello, Mr. Tull. I trust you are well.”

  “I was better before the phone rang.”

  “Ah. Then, on behalf of the governors, please accept my apologies. However, your services are needed.”

  “Send someone else,” said Tull.

  “We can’t,” said Bones, and Tull heard a note of alarm in his voice. “There are complications.”

  The doe spooked and bolted, vanishing into the woods. Berenice stood, the sandwich in her hands, her disappointment written in the lines of her body. Even so, the day remained beautiful. Bees and dragonflies flitted from flower to flower and far away a few white clouds floated like sleeping giants on th
e bed of the horizon.

  “What complications?”

  “Religious complications.”

  It took a moment for Tull to grasp the meaning from the obtuse language. His pulse quickened. Religious complications.

  Religion.

  Church.

  God almighty.

  “Tell me,” he said. Mr. Bones told him.

  With each word the colors seemed to drain out of the day. The music of the waves turned to noise; the sound of the songbirds became the discordant chatter of pests. It was how it always happened. It was how it usually was for him. Sadness crept into his heart as he felt the magic that defined this day, this place, this moment, slip like oiled flesh through his fingers.

  Below, the princess turned and began walking along the beach toward their bungalow. Sunlight reached for her through the trees and dappled her breasts and shoulders. Tull sighed, and the sound of it, even to his own ears, was filled with weariness and sadness.

  “Very well,” said Tull.

  “You’ll accept the assignment?”

  “Yes.” His voice was a soft croak. “Send me any intel you have. I’ve got a little travel time ahead of me, but I can be there soon. Have my jet fueled and the airport cleared. Call Aldo — I’ll need him. In the meantime, make sure there are some good people on this guy Ledger. See if you can put him in a box until I can get there.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tull. We have assets in play as we speak.”

  The line went dead.

  Tull finished his Scotch and set the glass down and leaned on the rail with both hands. It would be so hard to leave this place. To leave this woman. To leave this chance at being like other people. At being normal.

  At being human.

  Tull sighed again, and went inside to pack.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The White House

  Sunday, October 20, 6:22 a.m.