The Demon Plagues

by David VanDyke

  Then he waited.

  The buzz of a turboprop passed overhead, but Skull continued to wait. The whine of an executive jet came next, but still he waited. It was only when the roar of a midsized commercial airliner, two engines at full thrust for its heavily-laded takeoff, that he relaxed his mind, his vision and his breathing and loosed the shot.

  Recoil slammed his shoulder but he ignored that and held the weapon firmly inward, his cheek welded to the stock and his eye as close to the padded sight as could be without striking his brow, focusing on his aim point. Normally a spotter would fulfill this role but today, as every day for the past ten years, he played the lone wolf.

  Observing the explosion of bark three inches above and to the right of his point of aim, he adjusted the sight accordingly. He then gently placed the butt of the weapon on the bedroll surface and got up to stretch. Walking the perimeter of the loft, he peered through the cracks and knotholes in the rough wood of the walls, looking for anyone who might have heard the shot, however improbably, above the din of the ascending aircraft.

  Cows lazily cropped grass. A small combine mowed and baled hay in the distance.

  He lay back down and took up the rifle again, to once more wait for the loud roar of a commercial liner. His patience was rewarded after almost an hour, when he fired and confirmed his shot’s fall exactly at the crosshairs. He now had a true zero for five hundred meters; he would adjust for any other range and for wind by using the fine crosshairs within the sight.

  As he made the circuit of the loft once more, he froze as he observed a tractor coming up the road with a flat trailer carrying bales of fresh wildflower hay. Taking out his earplugs, he watched the two men, one driving and one riding on the back, pull into his field. They drove the tractor to a point in the middle of the area, then dumped off the hay bales. The cows and their spring calves hurried over to eat.

  The tractor’s next stop was the water trough, filling it from a tank of perhaps two hundred gallons fixed to the trailer, then the vehicle turned toward the shed.

  Skull cursed to himself, quickly surveying the ground floor from the top of the loft’s ladder. Other than the missing hatchet, he didn’t see anything out of place. He picked up the tool, now a weapon, and lay down on the bedroll, his eye to a crack in the floor where he could observe the door.

  One man came inside; he had the hale, energetic look of a Plague carrier rejuvenated from age, the slightly deliberate movement of someone who had once been old and wasn’t completely comfortable being young. He picked up a hammer, some tongs and some soft copper rivets, and left the shed.

  Soon Skull could hear him hammering on something, probably the water trough, making repairs. He didn’t move, merely tried to relax as the men chatted away in French as they ate a midmorning meal and watched their cattle eat and drink; he caught a few words here and there.

  Half an hour later the man dropped off the tools and they drove away. Skull let his breath out with relief. More best-laid plans had gone awry from chance and circumstance – from Murphy’s Law – than from enemy action.

  Setting his Patek to chime every hour and his computer to notify him if it noted movement on the video feed above certain parameters – the door opening, for example, or vehicles moving – he dozed, conserving his strength and concentration.

  Every hour he surveilled his zone of fire, the ground where his enemies must, by the immutable laws of physics, take their positions. Assuming his logic was sound – by no means certain – the only hole in Markis’ security, the only place they had no control, was on his aircraft’s departure. He had to believe the Swiss would attempt to cover it; it was elementary security to occupy the ground beneath the travel path of high-value aircraft. Therefore his enemies must have a hide, a secure place to use and avoid the Swiss security long enough to engage and shoot down the plane.

  No security could cover every place to engage an aircraft, but only certain locations yielded a high kill probability, and then only with certain weapons. Such weapons had to be portable, they had to be available, and they had to be effective. This reduced the possibilities to some form of MANPADS, man-portable air-defense systems. The layman usually called them Stingers, after the US-made weapon of that name, shoulder-fired missiles designed to chase and blow a low-flying aircraft out of the sky.

  Engagement envelopes of these missiles against jets was very limited; depending on the make and model, they had to fire from specific angles, usually directly to the rear, and at certain narrow ranges. Too close, and the weapon would be flying too slow or perhaps would not even have armed itself before impact, resulting in a miss or a hit with no detonation. Too far and the missile would run out of fuel and fall to Earth. Too much deflection – left or right angle from the bearing of flight – and the missile may not ‘see’ to effectively engage the heat of the target. Prepare the weapon too soon or too late, and the supercooled heat sensor in the nose of the missile would not be at its narrow critical temperature. If the system was one of the few that used lasers or radar illumination instead of infrared to guide the missile, then there were also system-specific limitations that yielded a roughly similar set of results.

  All these technical items added up to a limited ground footprint, a long oval that predicted where a firing team could set up, and allowed Skull to take his position overlooking that footprint, hopefully to interfere.

  That is, if his long and delicate chain of assumptions was correct. If he heard on the news tomorrow that Markis had been blown to bits by a car bomb in downtown Geneva, he was going to feel very, very embarrassed. On the other hand, then he could take a couple weeks off in Switzerland, get in some skiing, maybe some mountain climbing.

  He kept up his routine throughout the day; once night fell he switched to a night scope and fitted a low-light vision attachment to the camcorder, and changed the batteries from his many spares. By midnight he decided that it was very unlikely that Markis would be taking off for the rest of the hours of darkness. He did leave the computer running, his silent watcher. Sleep claimed him for a time, light but refreshing.

  -16-

  “Colonel Nguyen, you’re insane.” Alkina put as much contempt and derision into her voice as she could. “A nuclear first strike would cause massive retaliation. It would ruin all of our lives. You’d be court-martialed. No one is that crazy.”

  Major Muzik looked over at Nguyen with wide eyes. “Colonel…as second in command I’d appreciate an explanation of what you just said.” He licked his lips. “You know I’ll follow all lawful orders…”

  Colonel Nguyen smiled. “Of course, Major. I would not expect otherwise. Forgive my precise but dramatic language. I said ‘launch those missiles,’ I never said ‘nuclear first strike.’ At least, not on people. But there are unmanned assets that are critical to our enemies’ efforts, assets that keep the Free Communities under continual threat of strategic violence. We need to be able to get our space and missile program going without having every facility destroyed on detection. While the Big Three have heeded the Neutral States’ warnings about nuclear strikes, they have ignored all pressure to cease their non-nuclear kinetic and cruise missile strikes that they claim are ‘surgical’ and ‘proportional’ and ‘warranted’.”

  “So we are going to hit…what? Please explain it to a stupid grunt.”

  Alkina spoke instead, realization in her eyes. “Their satellites. You’re going to EMP them.”

  “Correct, Miss Alkina. We are. Vulnerability to electromagnetic pulse is the Achilles heel of strategic warfighting. Short of a doomsday exchange, every possible use of nuclear weapons takes EMP into account, because it can disrupt or destroy everyone’s electronics. That’s what drives the concept of launch-on-warning. No one can afford to wait for a detonation before launching their arsenal or they may lose the ability to use it. It’s just updated Mutual Assured Destruction from the First Cold War.”

  Spooky went on, “But a few high-yield weapons in the stratosphere and in certain or
bital locations will knock out most of their advanced detection, their satellite observation and some of their command and control capability. I say ‘most’ because many satellites are shielded to a certain degree. Yield, distance and shielding calculations have already been done by the experts. Our technicians will program them.”

  “Yes!” Muzik’s enthusiasm was in stark contrast to the two others in the room. “That will level the playing field for the first time since it all started.”

  Alkina’s eyes glittered. Her lips pressed together in something like satisfaction, and she nodded once, sharply. “I will be honored to support this plan. But I would appreciate access to the communication equipment to contact my government.”

  “No.” Nguyen’s tone was final. “To do so we would have to rise nearer the surface, extend the ultra-long-wave antenna cable, and risk detection. We will communicate only after firing the missiles.”

  The Australian clenched her fists and turned away, brow furrowed with suppressed frustration, to march out the door and down the passageway.

  “She doesn’t like you much, sir,” commented Muzik.

  “The feeling is mutual.” Spooky sat down next to the Major, leaning in close, his voice low. “But my feeling is based on fact – or at least evidence. Did you ever wonder how the Australians have been able to kill, to be ruthless at need, yet be governed by Plague carriers and part of the FC?”

  “That’s putting it pretty strongly, sir. I mean, there have been incidents, but…”

  “But nothing. They have devised some method of circumventing their own consciences. How do ordinary uninfected people do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Circumvent conscience. Do bad things and avoid feeling bad about them?”

  “Uh…I suppose by not taking responsibility. By letting someone else decide and saying ‘it wasn’t me’. Put the power into someone else’s hands.”

  “Very good, Major, you’re not as dumb as you look.” Spooky smiled warmly to take the sting out of his words.

  Muzik laughed. “I’m teachable, sir. It’s an Army thing.”

  “So to whom could the Australians give up this responsibility?”

  “The rumor about Samoa is they turned it over to their fleet computer system.”

  “That’s one possibility. But what about the PsychoMax initiative?”

  Muzik’s brow furrowed. “You mean the prisons for FC Psychos?”

  “Yes. Australia gladly volunteered to intern them all in the middle of the trackless Outback. What if they turned a liability into an opportunity?”

  The major grunted as if gut-punched. “You mean they are using Psychos to do their dirty work?”

  Nguyen shrugged. “It fits.”

  Major Muzik sat back, letting his breath out in a long low whistle. “Holy shit. They’re playing with fire.”

  “Yes.” Nguyen stared at Muzik, silently waiting.

  “What?”

  “Connect the dots, Major. Prove me right about what I said regarding your looks.”

  Muzik’s brow furrowed again in thought, then his face cleared with shock and horror. “Alkina,” he breathed.

  “Perhaps. She certainly doesn’t seem very…virtuous. Did you notice how she didn't object to the loss of life when she thought I wanted to strike cities, only the inconvenience or illogic of doing so?”

  “Oh.” Major Muzik thought back over the conversation. “You're right. Not a normal reaction at all.”

  “Certainly not an Eden reaction. She also tried to get control of both missile launch keys.”

  “Damn. Tried?”

  “Yes, I have one. No single person should have control of both keys in any circumstance, Eden or not. It is too much power for one person alone.”

  Muzik nodded vigorously.

  “What are you agreeing with so enthusiastically, Major?” Jill Repeth stood in the mess doorway.

  “Hey, Reaper. Ah, just talking about principles of command and control.”

  “Well, sir, I’m sure one of those principles is to relieve me and stand your watch on time.” Her eye might have twitched in a wink. Or not.

  “Yes Gunny; on my way, Gunny; whatever you say, Gunny. Hut, two, three, four.” Muzik nodded to the Colonel and proceeded down the corridor to the control room at a mock double-time.

  Once he was out of earshot Repeth snorted in amusement. The more she needled him, the more cheerful he became. She was starting to think he had a thing for her. Might be fun for a while, but not my type for the long haul. Still…those abs…

  “What was that all about?” She went into the small galley to find herself a meal.

  “I’m glad you asked. When you get your food, sit down and I’ll tell you something about our ‘liaison officer’.”

  ***

  Four more days passed in the sub, a curious mixture of hard work, tension and relaxation. There was always more to be done; the modification of the missiles was painstakingly slow. The delicate work on the warheads took even longer – bypassing or fooling their lockout codes and reprogramming. Even with perfectly fit, perfectly healthy, perfectly young minds and bodies kept in optimal balance by the Eden Plague, they could only maintain concentration for a while before crushing fatigue set in and they had to sleep.

  The team set up a jogging course through the submarine, up and down ladders, through passageways, one direction fore, one direction aft. Normally they would have used the large missile access room, running laps around the tall weapons containers, but that would have disturbed the technicians.

  There were cardio machines – stationary bikes, rowing machines, step machines – packed into the oddest spaces, and without the crew on board they could all be set up for use at once. There were video players and there was endless fresh hot water for showers and washing clothing, powered by the inexhaustible energy of the ship’s nuclear plant and its processing systems. Eight people put very little load on the machinery.

  Alkina noticed the covert glances, the careful watching of the rest of the team. She was acutely aware that these were not her people. They were a picked crew enlisted in the small but elite Free Communities common military, ostensibly an FC Council asset but rumored to be under the direct control of the Chairman. Certainly they didn’t act like they owed allegiance to any particular nation; in fact, they didn’t talk much about nations at all. She didn’t understand them.

  She ate her food alone; she exercised alone; she did not try to socialize, but limited her conversation to factual questions and observations designed to influence the crew toward her way of thinking. Despite her psychological training, she made little headway, and she was always, always careful to keep her thoughts and attempts away from Colonel Nguyen. He would show up at the strangest times, watching her from behind, she never knew for how long. It was uncanny.

  She had always felt superior to the people around her, and becoming infected had not changed that assessment of her own capabilities. She had never met her match at this kind of covert work…until now. Each of the team members was her superior in one or more disciplines. This she could accept; these people were hand-selected for the mission, the best that could be had. But several of them frightened her on a more personal level, beginning with the Colonel they called ‘Spooky.’ She would never dare to call him that, but the easy manner the others did caused her something like…envy. She had always been a loner; for the first time in her life she wondered what it would be like to be part of a functioning team instead of always a solo operative. In her imagination it would be a tremendous relief to trust someone, to depend on someone other than herself.

  Then she thought about Nguyen’s eyes as he had made his threats, and she banished such weakness from her mind. Her job, her only job, was to do what her government had asked of her and to preserve herself for that purpose. Anything else could destroy her. She walked the razor’s edge, biding her time.

  At the end of the fourth day the timbre of the vibrations in the boat changed, bringing Alkina
out of the cabin where she spent most of her time. She stalked into the control room.

  “What is the situation, Chief?” she asked.

  “We’re here, more or less. The Ross Sea near Antarctica. We have to slow down because the circular error of the inertial guidance system hasn’t been updated by a GPS reading for four thousand miles. We have to come up to the surface to pinpoint our position.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Nguyen, entering the control room with his ever-present P90 slung under his arm. “Chief, make your depth fifty feet.” His mouth quirked in a smile. “Did I get that right?”

  “Almost, sor. Aye aye, sor. Five-zero feet it is. Five degrees up angle on the planes. Up we go.”

  “Once we’re at fifty feet we can get a good reading? Why does that matter?” asked Alkina.

  “First, for navigation close to the Antarctic shelf. Running into the sea floor would be a Bad Thing. Also, a sub-launched ballistic missile has to know where it is before it can go where it wants to with any accuracy. That means getting the computers all synched up and correct.”

  “Four zero zero, sor.”

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  “How soon are we launching?” Alkina asked.

  “About five hours from now, according to the techs.”

  “And how do I know these missiles will be exploding – or landing – where you say they will?”

  “You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “And if I don’t…you’ll just take the key from me and do it anyway.”

  “Of course.” He smiled. “Let’s not have a problem at this late stage, Miss Alkina. As I said, as soon as we launch, you may transmit to your government. Assuming we survive the retaliation, we will be off Garden Island within the week. And if we don’t survive…” He spread his hands as if to say, it won’t matter.

  “Since we’re exchanging veiled threats, Colonel, just remember that my report will have a lot to do with what happens when we do get there.”