Dogs of War

by Jonathan Maberry

  “Closely.”

  “There are a lot of cases that pop up. Stuff that didn’t show up last time we looked.”

  Church said, “MindReader has gone through a significant upgrade.”

  “Really? Well, whatever you did, it worked, because we’re seeing a pattern now. The problem is that the math is funky. As with most disease outbreaks, the initial victims are those without reliably clean water, indifferent hygiene due to poverty and weak infrastructure. Basically, the very poor. However, given the degree of virulence, the overall number of casualties is too low.”

  “Too low in what way?”

  “I’d love to be able to say that we don’t have a higher body count because our response is that good or that we’ve been that successful with educating the public. I’d love to be able to say that the proliferation of cell phones and computers and the access to social media have given us early enough warning so that we’re responsible for stepping in and nipping this in the bud. It’s not like our response to swine flu. This is different. I’ve been going back through outbreak and incident records, and what I’m seeing looks very hinky. It’s never the same disease twice, never the same outbreak pattern, never exactly the same kind of demographic among the infected. We didn’t see a pattern because the pattern is deliberately obtuse. It’s deliberately patternless.”

  “Ah,” said Church. “Now, isn’t that interesting?”

  “Right, so why didn’t the outbreak hit in a dozen places at once? Why a cluster of families in a low-income housing project now? Why part of neighborhoods in Louisiana last fall? Why sixteen kids out of three hundred in a school in a poor village in Somalia? Why twelve families in a remote village in Chile? I think that what we’re seeing is field research. Lab work. I think the victims are test subjects. I think someone is test-driving designer pathogens and using poor people in different parts of the world as lab rats. This is some scary stuff here.”

  “What part of this is most frightening to you?”

  “The efficiency. The clinical coldness,” said Cmar. “Look, when you first told me about how Sebastian Gault used isolated villages to test the Seif al Din pathogen, it started me thinking. It allowed him to understand the bioweapon in situ, because knowing how it works in the real world tells you a lot more than you’ll ever get in the controlled environment of a lab.”

  “You’re saying you’ve found other potential cases of a controlled rabies release.”

  “No,” said Cmar. “What I’m saying is that I’m finding case after case after case of small releases of a variety of diseases. Not just rabies but anthrax, dengue fever, tuberculosis … twenty-two in all. None of them are natural versions. All of them are mutations, which a lot of my colleagues have tried to blame on everything from climate change to the misuse of antibiotics. I think they’re wrong. I think we’re seeing a group testing a whole catalog of weaponized pathogens.”

  “Give me the whole list.”

  Cmar read them off.

  “That is greatly disturbing.”

  “I know, and—”

  “No, Doctor, I mean that I’m familiar with that list of bioweapons,” said Church.

  “What?” cried Cmar, but before Church could answer the doctor blurted, “Oh … shit. Ice House.”

  “Ice House,” said Church. “NATO has been blaming ecoterrorists for this, and their team filed a report indicating that all the samples of pathogens and bioweapons stored there were incinerated. NATO dropped fuel-air bombs to ensure that the pathogens were destroyed. Your list would indicate that the arson at the Ice House was a cover to hide what was stolen, and NATO’s response merely served to assist in that cover-up.”

  Both men were silent for a few moments as they considered the implications.

  “The timing fits,” said Cmar. “The Ice House was hit a few weeks into the spring thaw. They rushed to drop the cluster bombs because they couldn’t guarantee a control zone around the ruins of the facility. Migrating animals and ice-melt runoff could have spread any lingering diseases. Now, we can’t prove that the pathogens were taken before the bombs fell. If news of that got out there would be a global panic, NATO’s credibility would never recover, and you can imagine what would happen to the stock markets.”

  “You believe this is what happened, however?”

  “Without a doubt,” said the doctor. “Nikki found evidence of controlled releases of each of the bioweapons. Until Milwaukee, every case was in what I consider to be an improbably remote location.”

  “A field lab of sorts, with no chance of an uncontrolled spread,” mused Church.

  “Yes. Exactly how Gault tested Seif al Din. You’re sure he’s actually dead, right?”

  “Without question. Captain Ledger made quite certain of it.”

  “Okay. Then someone learned some nasty tricks from him, and if it isn’t someone else from the Seven Kings, then it’s a talented newcomer. Either way, it’s scaring me to death, Deacon.”

  “Yes,” said Church. He removed a package of vanilla wafers from his desk, opened the plastic sleeve, and selected a cookie. His cat, Bastian, jumped up on the desk, sniffed the cookie, and waited until Church broke off a small piece and gave it to him. Then Church took a bite. They both munched quietly.

  “Now,” said Cmar, “let’s talk about Zika.”

  “Zika wasn’t one of the Ice House pathogens.”

  “No, but I’m more than a little sure it’s connected to this. Whatever this is.”

  “How so, Doctor?”

  Cmar plunged in. “The spread pattern of the Zika virus over the last couple of years has been odd. Like … really odd. Outside of all predictable patterns, which the press has been having fun with but we’re not. My colleagues who have been working on that problem have tried to tie it to movements of populations, to the Olympics, and to refugees fleeing from Zika-infected areas and taking the disease with them, but the statistical models don’t quite add up. At least, I don’t think so. I know we’re spraying pretty heavily to try and cut down the mosquito population, and that’s worked pretty well, but the virus keeps popping up in unexpected places.”

  “How unexpected?”

  Cmar paused. “Very, actually, and that’s what has been bothering me. I could build a better argument in favor of deliberate release than I can for natural spread of the vectors.”

  “How does that tie to the stolen bioweapons?”

  “Not sure it does, but a pretty smart guy I know once warned me not to believe in coincidences.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Here’s the thing, though,” said Cmar. “The Zika is spreading around the globe really fast, and we’re chasing it with education, treatment, and, of course, the spraying. We’re killing populations of mosquitoes in significant ways, and a case can be made that we’ll eventually chase Zika all the way to the wall and kill it. Or limit enough of it that it’s no longer a global threat.”

  “But…?” said Church.

  “But think about it. The Baltimore thing got me thinking. I mean … those sprays are basically concentrations of nanites carrying a virus lethal to that specific species of mosquito, right? What if that’s not all they’re carrying?”

  Church’s hand paused with a cookie raised halfway to his mouth.

  “Deacon,” continued Cmar, “what if Zika isn’t a weapon? What if, dangerous as it is, it’s a dodge, a distraction? What if we’re supposed to believe in the ultimate victory of science over Mother Nature, a victory we can watch on TV and on the Net, a victory the press can report, a victory that’s entertaining and distracting enough to keep us riveted? Even with infant mortality and other related deaths, Zika is nowhere near as dangerous as weaponized anthrax or rabies, or the other stolen diseases. We know that the rabies and pertussis were somehow controlled by the software in the nanites. So … what if we’ve been watching thousands of teams spray the delivery system for the world’s most dangerous pathogens? How many people live in the areas that have been sprayed? Conservative estimate, t
wo to three billion. The Zika spraying has been aggressive, funded by huge donations from governments, corporations, foundations, private donors, even the public. It’s the single most comprehensive disease-control program since polio and smallpox.” He paused, and the silence seemed to ring like a bell. “But what if it’s not? What if all those people are infected and the nanites are there, in their bodies, controlling the internal spread, controlling hormones and blood chemistry, waiting for a signal to go active?”

  Church closed his eyes for a moment. Bastian meowed very softly.

  “I need to make a great number of phone calls, Dr. Cmar,” he said.

  “Yeah, I think we both do.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  JOHNS HOPKINS HOSPITAL

  1800 ORLEANS STREET

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  MONDAY, MAY 1, 11:27 PM

  I showered in the doctors’ lounge. Changed into jeans and an Orioles shirt that I wore with the tails out but unbuttoned so that I could get to the gun in the shoulder holster.

  The Pool Boys were still in surgery. Ali and Em were in recovery. Em’s injuries were minor, but she had been treated for shock. Ali had eighty-three stitches holding together nine deep cuts. She would need cosmetic surgery to repair the damage to her face. Church, I knew, would arrange the best for her. I had some stitches, too, but who gives a shit?

  Lefty …

  Ah, God. Top surgeons worked on him all night long. Nine and a half hours. I heard nurses talking in hushed voices about the celebrity doctors who were there. More of Church’s doing; and there were other experts attending via videoconference.

  Sean on a couch in the lounge closest to the door, Rudy on one side of him, me on the other. Dad came and sat across from us. Top and Bunny arrived later, too, and they had the police officer with them. Tracy Cole. A new recruit, or someone caught up in the wave? To be determined. We shook hands and said words to each other that I don’t remember. Sam Imura joined us at around ten. Even his Samurai cool had slipped.

  Alvin Pool died at 11:59 that night.

  Tommy Pool died at 12:01 in the morning. As if they were linked somehow. As if it meant something. Or as if it was some kind of sick joke. Sam went outside for a cigarette. At least that’s what he said, though I know he doesn’t smoke. He was out there a long time. He knew those guys better than I did.

  We all drank a lot of coffee. The minutes crawled by with sadistic slowness.

  At five minutes to five in the morning, the chief surgeon came out to find us. He looked so thoroughly beaten down, deeply haggard, and unbearably sad that Sean began sliding out of his chair. Rudy and I caught him, helped him stand, held on to him while the doctor gave us the news, all of us bracing our feet against the tilt of a sinking ship.

  The doctor studied Sean’s face for a long, long time. Then he nodded and gave us a battlefield smile. He said something about having to wait, that it could still go either way, that we’d know by morning. Stuff like that. The smile said it all, though.

  Sean sobbed hard enough to punch a hole in the world and pulled the doctor into a fierce hug of gratitude. Or maybe he held on to the doctor as if he was the only fixed point in a world of quicksand.

  * * *

  I looked over at Top, at Bunny. They each nodded.

  “Hooah,” murmured Bunny. Rudy pulled Sean away from the doctor, placed a brotherly arm around my brother’s shoulders, and led him off to share the news with Ali. The doctor stood and watched, then he turned and looked at me.

  “You’re his brother?” he asked. “Captain Ledger.”

  “Yes. I want to thank you for everything you and your people did.”

  The doctor shook his head. “Your nephew is still in critical condition.”

  “Will he live?” I asked.

  The pain in the surgeon’s eyes ran so deep. “It’s too soon to know that. We may have to go back in tomorrow. There is some neurological damage to his abdominal wall and to his left shoulder. Our mutual friend the Deacon has two specialists en route from Geneva. Once they’re here, they’ll be able to determine if the boy will regain function of his arm … and if we can avoid a colostomy.”

  I didn’t fall down. I’ll never know how. Lefty was in there fighting not just for his life but for quality of life if he did survive. I heard myself say, “We all call him Lefty because he throws one hell of a fastball. He wants to be a ballplayer when he grows up.”

  There was a sad, haunted look in the doctor’s eyes, but he didn’t put voice to what he had to be thinking. Instead, he shook my hand and shambled away.

  My earbud buzzed to tell me that Church was on the line. I went outside to have that conversation, and Top and Bunny walked out with me. Cole followed but stood a few feet apart, awkward and alone, and she wore no earbud. I listened as Church told me about his conversation with Dr. Cmar.

  “I’ve initiated a full investigation of every person and every company associated with the Zika spraying,” said Church. “We are actively collecting samples of the nanites in the sprays and will analyze them.”

  “You think Cmar’s right about this?”

  “I do, and if he is, it makes several parts of this fit together.”

  “How did we not see this coming?” I asked. “This is exactly the kind of pattern MindReader looks for.”

  “I asked Bug the same question,” said Church. “He’s put a team on that analysis, and we should know something soon. If you can break away from your family, now would be a good time to head to the DARPA camp.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Good hunting, Captain.”

  It wasn’t yet dawn. It was that hour when the world seemed darkest, when all light was absent, gone, dead. We stood there in silence until the sky changed and began to bleed red on the far horizon. It seemed to repaint the faces of Top and Bunny into something other than what they had been these last few months. Where they had been softer, weaker, damaged, traumatized, victimized, brutalized, and broken, they now stood facing the lurid dawn with faces like the death masks of old kings, of knights. The crimson light touched them like blood, like war paint. I could feel the same light on my own face. Not warm but cold. So very cold. We had each taken our own wounds in the last couple of years. Mental, physical, existential. We’d each been on the edge and nearly dropped off the world.

  But we hadn’t. Our enemies had tried so hard to break us, and they almost had. For a while, they had. Now, though…? Maybe Nietzsche was right, after all, about things that don’t break us making us stronger. I looked into the eyes of my fellow soldiers, and I knew that our days of being the walking wounded were over. If the Bad Sister and her crew had hoped to run us around and wear us down and burn us out, then she was about to find out how serious a mistake she had made.

  Something had changed. Some process had fused us in the broken places and rebuilt us into something else. In my head I could feel the Killer, the Cop, and the Modern Man standing side by side, each of them splashed in crimson light. Just like Top and Bunny.

  We were coming for her and for everyone in her operation.

  Every.

  Last.

  One.

  PART FIVE

  HAVOC

  Hatred is gained as much by good works as by evil.

  —Niccolò Machiavelli

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  AIRPORT IN BALTIMORE

  TUESDAY, MAY 2, 3:41 AM

  We headed for the airport, where Shirley was fueled and waiting. As I climbed out of the DMS van, I shook myself out of a stupor and realized that Tracy Cole was still with us. She wore civilian clothes, but I could see the bulge of a gun on her hip under her jacket. She had a slightly scuffed look about her, as if she hadn’t had enough time to clean up after what happened in South Carolina. Or, if she had the time, had prioritized it. I walked over to her.

  “It’s Cole, right?” I said.

  “Yes, sir.” She stood to attention, and I told her to knock it off.

  “We don’t say �
��sir,’ we don’t salute, and we don’t carry badges. That’s not how the DMS operates.”

  “I’m not in the DMS yet,” she said, and jerked a thumb toward Top and Bunny. “They told me to come along and meet you.”

  “They tell you the score?”

  She studied me with wise eyes. “He told me enough to scare the crap out of me. You guys are pretty much Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

  “Close enough.”

  “I’m only a cop.”

  “So was I,” I said. “So is my brother. And you used to be a soldier. Me, too. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t know of anyone who actually set out to do this kind of work. We all found our way here one way or another. Or the job found us.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “This shit that’s going on, do you know who’s doing it?”

  “No,” I said, “we don’t.”

  “Will you?”

  I smiled. “Yes. We will.”

  She nodded. “That little boy back there? That’s your nephew … he still might die. Or he might live and be crippled. Is that going to mess you up? Is that going to knock you off your pins? If that happens, are you going to go all ape shit?”

  “I’ll feel it,” I said.

  “Your nephew and niece aren’t the only kids being hurt. I heard about the kids working as prostitutes. I heard about them, and about the housing project in Milwaukee. There were kids at the crab restaurant, too.”

  “This isn’t a personal fight,” I said.

  “Yes, it is,” said Cole. “You a dad?”

  “No. My woman and I can’t have kids.”

  Cole nodded. “Me, neither.”

  There was a cold wind whipping across the tarmac. The others stood by the stairs, out of earshot.

  “Your boys Top and Bunny nearly lost their shit back at the crab house,” she said. “They tell you that?”

  “They did. They tell you why?”