by Dirk Patton
“Gas… oh, petrol. Well, that’s one of the few things the PM has done right. He sent some lads to acquire a few supertankers that were just floating at anchor in the Persian Gulf. Still doing it, and we’ve got some men in the oil fields that aren’t too hot with radiation. Something like two dozen locations in Saudi Arabia are pumping, and we’ve got tankers making routine deliveries. We have several big refineries here at home and they are working round the clock. Keeping things as close to normal as possible.”
By this time, we were on the M5, heading east towards downtown Sydney, crawling along at a blistering ten miles an hour. Ahead, through pollution and humidity haze, I was just starting to make out tall buildings in the city center.
Somewhere in there was Barinov. Probably still asleep in his luxury penthouse. Comfortable and alive while Katie was in a cold, unmarked grave. I looked over when Rachel placed her hand on my mine, not having realized I’d balled my fists so hard the knuckles were white. Taking a deep breath, I slowly relaxed them.
The rest of the drive passed in silence. Well, silence other than Dog’s snores, but no one had anything to say. The traffic was brutal and it took nearly an hour to go the final ten miles into the city. The M5 ended and dumped us onto surface streets which Wellington navigated like a native. Thirty minutes later, he turned sharply into a narrow alley, followed it for a block then swung into an underground parking garage.
Access was controlled by a heavy, rolling gate which he opened with the press of a button on the dash. Wheeling into a reserved parking slot, he shut the engine down and we all climbed out.
“Where are we?” I asked as he led the way to an elevator.
“My corporate office,” he said. “We’re secure here. State of the art counter-surveillance and the whole building is hardened.”
Riding up in the elevator, Dog deposited more hair on his trousers. When the doors slid open, we were admitted to a stark lobby with a ballistic glass wall that protected the working spaces. An immensely ugly man wearing an expensive suit that was strained by his bulging muscles was seated to the side, behind an imposing desk. His hands were out of sight and I suspected there was at least one defensive weapon immediately at his disposal.
Wellington nodded at him and a buzzer sounded as a secure door was released. Walking quickly, he ignored a well-appointed office area and pushed open a thick steel door after swiping his key card. Stepping through, I realized that the fancy digs were to impress visiting clients. Now, we were in a working area with bare concrete floors and unfinished drywall. Directly ahead was a large briefing room with three men already seated around a table.
Our host breezed into the room, removing his suit jacket and hanging it on a dangerously leaning coat tree. As we filed in, he introduced Lucas, Rachel and me, then went around the room.
“Senior Sergeant Tony Brillard, retired British SAS. Works for me now as my intel chief. Captain Helmut Schmidt, retired GSG9 and my cyber chief, and Chief Inspector Ashley Tanner of the New South Wales Police Force.”
Each man gave us a thorough visual scrutiny, nodding as he was introduced. Dog circled the room, coming back to stand next to me. Wellington dropped into a chair and waved for us to take our seats. I glanced at Lucas, then the cop sitting across the table. He stared back at me, a neutral expression on his face.
“You’re a cop? Currently a cop?” I asked.
“As I see it,” he said slowly. “This fucker has broken more laws in my country than I can even count, including multiple homicides when he shot your countrymen. He needs to be stopped.”
“Stopped as in arrested, or…?” I asked.
“Arrested is the proper way to do things. But if he were to resist, I don’t suppose I could blame a man for defending himself.”
I nodded, not asking any more questions.
“I’ve heard of you.”
It was Schmidt, the German counter-terror man. I was surprised at the heavy accent that made him sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger.
“How’s that?” I asked, staring at him.
“Not much to do lately, so I’ve been snooping about in the American systems that are still functional in Hawaii. You’ve been busy.”
I nodded, not knowing how to respond to that. But I was sure as hell going to call Jessica at the first opportunity to let her know there was someone poking around in her domain.
“Enough of that,” Wellington said. “Let’s get down to business. Lucas, if you’d repeat what you told me while we were driving?”
Lucas cleared his throat, paused a second to collect his thoughts then began speaking. He went into greater detail than he had in the Range Rover, providing more background on me, then expanding into details about the virus and the coming planetary blight. Each man in attendance was a professional and, despite the expressions of concern, they kept their questions on topic.
“Very good,” Wellington said when Lucas was done. “Now, we didn’t have all that information, but when you called I made a logical assumption that the plans we’d previously discussed were being accelerated. By the way, where are your lads?”
“Driving,” Lucas said, glancing at his watch. “Should be arriving late tonight.”
Wellington nodded and jotted a note.
“I’ll make sure we have appropriate accommodations prepared. Are they on comms? Can you get an address to them?”
Lucas nodded and Wellington tore off a piece of paper and scrawled on it before handing it across the table.
“I’m glad you’re here, Lucas, but this is going to be even more difficult than we anticipated. There’re some new developments. Gentlemen?”
He turned his head to look at the three men seated next to him.
25
Captain Jack Morrow stood on the bridge wing of the supercarrier USS Ronald Reagan, enjoying the brisk wind in his face as the ship sliced through the gentle swells of the Gulf of Mexico. The giant carrier had been several miles offshore when the Russian missiles had detonated over the Bahamas, and that was the only reason it was still operational. The intensity of the shockwaves that battered it had resulted in heavy damage to the island, or superstructure, of the ship, destroying all its exposed radar and communications equipment.
The thick glass that made up the bridge windows was blown out, killing and maiming many of the sailors on duty at the time of the attack. All aircraft that were on deck were either destroyed in place or blown over the side to sink into the ocean. Those that weren’t lost to the sea had their tanks ruptured, fuel spilling out and igniting to form flowing rivers of fire.
The Reagan had taken more damage from these than it had from the nuclear shockwaves. It had been designed and built to survive almost anything short of a direct hit, but the flaming fuel found every crevice, seam and crack in the flight deck, dripping fire into the spaces below.
Rear Admiral Kelly, commander of the Carrier Strike Group (CSG), had been on the bridge and died in a storm of shattered glass. Captain Morrow and the Executive Officer, Commander Teller, were fortunate to have not been on the bridge, and both men led the efforts to battle the fire that quickly spread. The damage was extensive and the giant ship had lost power when several large electrical distribution systems burned. Flames spread throughout the hangar deck, threatening dozens of aircraft.
It was only through the heroic efforts of the crew, of whom over three hundred perished in the flames, that the ship was saved. Emergency repairs were made at sea, many of the technicians ignoring blaring radiation alarms as they rushed to restore power. The Reagan was adrift, a strong current slowly carrying them closer to the nuclear inferno that was all that remained of the Bahamas.
More lives were lost, but they did their jobs and the Captain was able to limp the ship to a safe distance. They were deaf and blind, and alone. Weeks earlier, the two submarines that accompanied the CSG had been lost to the enemy. Slowly, the once formidable formation of ships was whittled down as a lone Akula attack sub sank one after another.
The
Reagan CSG had received the same software update as many of America’s ships had, and was unable to detect the Russian vessel. A single line of code, inserted by a civilian contract programmer who had been paid handsomely by the GRU, rendered their sonar deaf to the signature of all Akula class submarines.
As they’d continued to lose ships, a senior sonarman aboard the Reagan had solved the problem. After forty-eight panicked hours of troubleshooting hardware and software, all while fellow sailors were being killed as their ships were destroyed, he had tried a Hail Mary.
Without his department chief’s permission, let alone the Skipper’s, he’d reformatted the servers and loaded a previous version of the code that ran the system. The moment it came online, the enemy was detected. After a brief chase, the sub was sent to the bottom by a Sea Hawk helicopter dropping a torpedo directly above its location.
But by this time the CSG had been severely degraded. Two of the three Ticonderoga class cruisers had been lost as well as five of the seven Arleigh Burke class destroyers. When the Russian ICBMs detonated, the last remaining cruiser had been in port and was destroyed. The two destroyers, which had remained with the Reagan farther out at sea, did not fare as well as the massive carrier when the shockwave tore across the surface of the ocean.
One of them was broadside to the detonation and was blown so far over it passed the point of no return. The ship had capsized, trapping most of the crew in watertight compartments that were beneath the surface of the ocean. The second destroyer was several miles farther away and didn’t sustain significant damage, but the Electromagnetic Pulse shielding failed to protect the sensitive electronics the ship relied on to operate. It was instantly disabled and only years in a shipyard and a complete refit of every wire and circuit would ever allow it to sail again.
By the time the fires were extinguished and power was restored aboard the Reagan, it was too late for the men and women aboard the capsized destroyer. It had slipped beneath the waves, the crew slowly suffocating in sealed compartments from which there was no escape. Captain Morrow had taken aboard the officers and crew from the disabled destroyer and set course for Norfolk.
Once they arrived, nearly a day had been spent as Marines were ferried to the docks to clear out infected and secure the area. When that task had been completed, the Reagan was brought in and repairs had immediately begun. The crew had worked around the clock for weeks, replacing damaged and missing equipment. It had been a monumental task, but they had gotten it done. At least it appeared so while the big ship was tied to the dock. The real test would be how the Reagan performed at sea.
Thousands of sailors had lined the deck, watching intently as two massive tugs struggled to push it away from the dock in the Norfolk Navy Yard. Engines bellowed, black diesel smoke pouring from their exhaust stacks as they guided the more than one hundred thousand tons of warship. Almost imperceptibly at first, the Gipper, as it was affectionately known by its crew, had begun to move.
Not everything had worked properly at first, but they had attacked the problems with a ferocity that is only seen in time of war. By the time they rounded the tip of Florida and entered the Gulf, the Reagan was operating at nearly one hundred percent. Flight operations were resumed, the pilots of Carrier Air Wing Five maintaining a twenty-four-hour Combat Air Patrol out to a two-hundred-mile radius around the ship.
“Captain,” the XO called from the hatch that led into the bridge. “Target Whiskey is just over the horizon. CAP is talking to them.”
Morrow turned and quickly followed the slightly younger officer inside to hear the report. The bridge windows had been replaced in Norfolk. The crew had done their best to clean up all signs of the carnage that had occurred, but there hadn’t been time to replace the Captain’s chair.
When Rear Admiral Kelly had been found, he was seated in that chair with a two-foot shard of glass embedded in his stomach. The stains from his blood hadn’t completely come out, and Captain Morrow remained standing as a bulkhead mounted speaker played the conversation between a pilot and an air controller on board the Reagan.
“Sounds like they’re still alive and kicking on that platform,” he said to the XO after listening to the conversation.
“You really believe this shit?” Teller asked softly so the crew manning the bridge couldn’t hear him. “A fucking time machine? Are we sure Pearl Harbor hasn’t gone a little off the deep end?”
“You heard what I heard,” Morrow said, equally as quiet. “We’re supposed to make contact, verify the presence of Americans and whether or not the information is correct.”
“Bullshit if I’ve ever heard it! Goddamn Russkies must’ve put something in the water over in Hawaii.”
Morrow grinned because he’d had similar thoughts. But he was the Captain. It wasn’t his place to voice doubts about their orders, even to the XO. Five minutes later they were close enough to the Athena Platform for Morrow and Teller to see it with the assistance of high-powered binoculars.
“Captain, we have them on secure comms.”
Morrow accepted a radio handset and spoke for a few minutes, handing it back when he was finished.
“Ready, XO?”
“On my way, sir,” Teller said, already heading for the flight deck.
A large Sea Hawk helicopter waited, engines already running and rotor spinning slowly. Climbing aboard, he nodded a greeting at the Captain who was leading a squad of heavily armed Marines. As soon as he was strapped in, the pilot lifted off the deck. The flight didn’t take long, the helicopter circling the expansive platform to give the pilot a better look before he attempted a landing.
“Looks like any other oil rig I’ve ever seen,” the pilot said over the intercom. “But this sucker’s huge!”
The XO looked down as they continued to orbit, agreeing with the man’s assessment. There were some massive platforms in the Gulf, but this one was a magnitude of scale larger. As they came around, he saw two figures step out of a hatch to stand near the side of a helipad. Borrowing a pair of binoculars from one of the Marines, he focused in for a better look.
Both were men, one black and one white, and he was surprised to see them dressed in conservative suits. The shorter, white man appeared to be of average size, but his companion was much larger. When they passed out of sight, he returned the glasses to the Marine.
“Looks good from here, XO,” the pilot said.
“Agreed,” Teller said. “Let’s go see what all the fuss is about.”
The pilot brought them out of the orbit, approaching the helipad slowly until the landing gear’s tires gently bumped the steel decking. He kept the engines running as the XO slid the side door open and jumped down. The Marines were right behind him, spreading out with their rifles tight against the front of their bodies.
Teller walked forward, looking over the two men as they approached to greet him. The shorter man extended his hand to Teller.
“Welcome to the Athena Project, Commander. I’m Ian Patterson, the director of this facility,” the man said, then turned to the hulking figure at his side. “And this is Special Agent William Johnson of the FBI. I can’t say I’m not happy to see the Navy, but now that you’ve announced our presence to anyone watching, I trust you will be remaining in the area to provide security.”
26
“What’s your name?” Irina asked the old man after stepping around Igor.
“Mikhail Popkov,” he wheezed, extending a hand. “And I must say you are a vision of loveliness to this old man’s tired eyes.”
Irina smiled, flattered by the prisoner’s old world manners.
“Thank you for not giving us away,” she said. “But why? You could almost have certainly gained favor with the guards if you had betrayed us.”
Mikhail smiled and slowly sank onto the bunk Igor had occupied.
“I was sentenced to this camp twenty-one years ago. I’ve never cooperated with the guards, and I’m not about to start.”
“Twenty-one years?” Irina blurted. �
��Why?”
“I was a poet,” he chuckled. “The government did not appreciate what I had to say about them in my writings. At first, it was harassment. A warning I refused to heed. Then, late at night, they dragged me from my home. Before lunch the next day, I had been put on trial, convicted and sentenced. Now, young lady, perhaps you will tell me your name and what you and your big friend are doing here.”
Irina started to speak, but Igor stopped her with a big hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him and he shook his head, earning a cackling laugh from Mikhail.
“You should listen to him! You cannot trust anyone. There are those who will betray both of you for a pack of cigarettes.”
“If I can’t trust anyone, why should I trust you?” Irina asked, earning another laugh.
“I suppose you don’t know that you can,” he said, catching his breath after a fit of coughing. “But I will be dead soon. There’s nothing the guards can give me that I want. I may be old and dying, but my eyes still work. You don’t belong here. Either of you. You’re clothing is close, but you didn’t get it here. And women aren’t sent to this camp. You’ve obviously just arrived, and if a guard gets a good look at either of you, he’ll know something is off.”
Irina and Igor exchanged a quick glance, then she slowly looked around at all the men who were crowded in to stare at her and listen to the conversation. None of them were young, several even older than Mikhail.
“Who were the men who attacked my friend?” she asked, buying time to make her decision.
“I already told you. Bullies and thieves. They are recent arrivals, all less than a year ago. They were young and strong enough to take what they wanted and none of us could stand up to them. They worked for a criminal in Moscow who ran afoul of the government. Didn’t belong here, but I guess the normal prison camps are full. There’s more like them in other barracks.”
