Shattered Hourglass Part 16

The boat's Chinese interpreter climbed out of the hatch with his backpack of cla.s.sified manuals on the cave facility. He gave a friendly nod to the team, already staging their gear. Although his real name was Benjamin, the team quickly dubbed him Commie, even though he was a twenty-four-year-old white boy from Boston that had never even set foot on Chinese soil or any other communist country for that matter. He had learned his Chinese in Monterey, California, after being selected to serve as a linguist for the navy's cryptologic services.

Before coming topside this evening, the operators sat down with the officer they flew in with and his partner, a Middle Eastern man.

"First and foremost I'd like to say that I'm not trying to tell you all how to run your mission. I'm simply going to go over some of the problems I encountered and pa.s.s along some of the basics on how I survived my time on foot in the undead Louisiana and Texas badlands. Some of this stuff will be second nature to you, because of who and what you are. Even so, I took a few notes in the solitude of my travels that might be helpful en route to the cave facility."

Kil was careful not to hint that he kept a detailed journal of his accounts, referring to his scribbles as notes.

He began to recite some of the main lessons learned, some of which were literally written in blood.

"Move at night-obviously you all know this one, but I need to stress it, as it is at the top of my list. Like us, they can't see well at night and your NVGs will give you the advantage. Press check your carbines. I won't elaborate on that one. Sleep well off of the ground. Unless you have a platoon of people standing guard around you, it's dangerous to sleep anywhere within reach of the creatures. They'll find you. Stop and listen often. Parallel the roads and stay off any highway. For some reason, these creatures are drawn to main roadways. Store water inside your body, meaning drink it if you have it. Keep your weapons lubed as if you will be in a firefight any minute. I had to use motor oil on my gun, escaping from a helicopter crash. It was all I had and believe me, I used it. Move fast in the open. Protect your eyes-face splatter probably means infection."

The team listened politely, but Kil felt as if they were humoring him to an extent.

"If you have no choice but to take shelter on the ground level, do so on top of a hill and inside of a car or truck with your hand on the e-brake. That way if you get overrun, you can pull the brake and roll down, away from the threat. In small numbers they're no challenge, but when you start looking at numbers over ten, they can bash a car in and pick you out of it like lobster meat from a sh.e.l.l. Now I can't explain the reason for this, but some of the things I've killed required two shots to the head."

One of the guys on the team cut in with a question. "How many did you say you encountered at once?"

Kil was annoyed at the question; the man obviously hadn't thoroughly read the reports. Kil drew a breath and said, "Huck, was it?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"Well, Huck, me and Saien over there encountered a swarm on our way back. The organization we were in contact with at the time relayed to me that the swarm was over five hundred thousand in strength."

"How the f.u.c.k did you survive that?" asked Huck skeptically.

"Long story. It involves an Abrams tank, Reaper UCAV with five-hundred-pound laser-guided bombs, a bridge, and luck. Another time."

The incursion team was suddenly attentive to what Kil was saying. The magnitude of trouble that he and Saien survived on the mainland rarely yielded survivors.

"A few more minor things. All dogs are likely now feral. I'd avoid them. I've seen them attack the dead on sight. They may attack you, too, I don't know. If they do, you could get infected by the rotten flesh they carry in their jaws. Last but not least, and pay close attention to this, Honolulu was. .h.i.t by a nuke months ago. Captain La.r.s.en thinks the Hawaiian weather cycle might have washed some of the radiation particles into the Pacific. I'd still avoid anything large and metallic like school busses or tractor-trailers if they were in line of sight of the nuclear blast. They'll likely be hot like a Chern.o.byl fire truck. That's really the least of your worries. For unknown reasons, radiation has a profound effect on the creatures."

Huck interrupted again. "We have read the intel about them being a little faster. We can deal with that."

"Okay, Huck, since you have this thing suitcased, why don't you just head out on the mission? My work here is done-good luck."

"Huck, shut the f.u.c.k up and let the man speak," one of the other men said. "I'm taking notes and I don't give a d.a.m.n what you think about the intel. I'm listening. Sir, please stay and finish."

Kil expected that and turned around to continue as if nothing happened. "All right, as I was saying, radiation makes them very fast, and smarter. It's not just the speed you'll need to worry about though. Call me crazy, I don't care, but on the night of . . . wait a second, let me find it."

Kil flipped through his notes, looking for the specific encounter that might turn on the lightbulb for Huck. "Here it is. I was on the run, taking shelter in an abandoned house. While scavenging the downstairs, I dropped something out of my pack, alerting a creature outside to my presence. The thing began using a hatchet on the door to get to me. I escaped out the upstairs window that night. The next day I was climbing on the hood of a school bus to stow my gear when the same creature took a swing at me with the hatchet. I knew it was the same corpse because I risked a look through the peephole inside the house the day before. It was definitely different from the others. I've seen them run and sometimes reason, at least on a rudimentary level. I've seen them play dead after being shot, too. I lost a marine to one of them onboard a coast guard cutter, a ship that was taken down by only a few radiated undead. I call the ones with skill the talented tenth, because I've found that one in ten are different. I'd also like to add something that I can't really prove but might come into play. This island was nuked at its population center. I'd be willing to bet that my mainland talented tenth theory does not apply here on the island; the ratio is likely much higher in favor of the radiated creatures. Maybe as many as three or four in ten could be radiated here."

The same man who had defended him against Huck minutes earlier jumped in with his own question. "I'm Rex, you may not remember. I'd like to ask you about your experience with movement and evasion. Is there anything different about moving that we'll need to know about?"

"Good question. A ten-foot bubble around me was the best way to avoid surprises. You know, the kind of surprises that pull you into an open car window or the kind that bite your hand off from inside a freezer in an abandoned convenience store."

"Huh?" Rex uttered, confused.

Kil went on, "This might be counterintuitive to what you did before the dead walked. You might be inclined to stick close to cover, walls and such. That might get you killed against these creatures. What kind of NVGs are you running?"

"We're running PVS-15s and PVS-23s. We also have a scope that's sensor fusion capable, night vision with a thermal overlay. Good for getting a visual ID on warm bodies. Why?"

"You probably know this already, but the eyes of the undead don't reflect in your goggles like living eyes. Just a little something for you guys not running thermal."

"Gotcha."

Kil walked closer to the men and shook their hands. "Good luck, men. I mean that."

"Thanks, Commander."

Their gear had already been taken topside and the RHIB was ready to take them to sh.o.r.e. The chaplain entered the SOF staging area and asked to speak to the men before they departed.

"I know that some of you don't believe in G.o.d anymore, but some of you still do, and I know I do, and I'd like to lead a prayer for you men, if you don't mind. A prayer of safe return."

"Go ahead, Chaps," Rex said.

"Let us pray." The men bowed their heads. The chaplain continued, "Lord, though these men will soon walk through the valley of the shadow of death, please give them the strength to fear no evil. Please guide them on their mission and see them safely back to the USS Virginia. We know that if it is in your will, they will succeed. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen."

There were a few scattered amens in the group, but even those were feeble. Seeing the dead go after everyone you ever loved had a tendency to ruin your religious perspective and convert you quickly to the Flying Spaghetti Monster religion. Even so, military chaplains were always given the time they requested; you might be wrong about G.o.d, after all. Best to humor the chaplain and avoid any stray lightning bolts.

"Okay, men, G.o.dspeed," said La.r.s.en.

After a nod to the captain, Rex led his men to the dive locker to suit up in their protective garments before going topside.

Kil knew that these men were probably not coming back alive, at least not all of them. There must be another motive, he thought. Although his duties kept him off sh.o.r.e and safe inside the sub, he still eyeballed the small arms rack. He caught Saien doing the same thing. You never know.

"Rico, how's the RHIB?" Rex said, his voice m.u.f.fled through his protective hood.

"It's loaded, fueled, and ready."

"Get it in the water."

Rico and Huck shoved the front of the RHIB from the submarine deck into the ocean. Behind the sail, the UAV ground crew launched their small surveillance aircraft into the night sky from a temporary catapult system. The sound of the tiny gas engine was barely audible over the thundering creatures on the sh.o.r.e. The UAV climbed away into the Oahu skies.

Rex moved back behind the mast to speak to the UAV crew. "Thanks, guys, we appreciate it. Give the pilots below our best and our thanks as well for keeping an eye on us."

"Will do, sir, good luck."

"You, too. Have a good 'un."

Rex boarded the RHIB. It started on the first pull, a good sign.

33.

Hotel 23 Facility-Southeast Texas Task Force Phoenix slipped into a comfortable rhythm. This was not necessarily a bad thing, just something that Doc felt might prove dangerous if they became complacent. Their current location was secure and there was no sign that Remote Six knew of their occupation. No one in Task Force Phoenix had much knowledge about Remote Six; they all read the reports, noting the huge gaps in the intel.

A week ago, Doc had started the launch drills. At first the exercises were very unpopular to the other three men-Doc woke them up at all hours for a practice launch against a notional target. They were starting to get acclimated to the drills and understood the reasons behind them. Doc was right all along-they could have very short notice to strike.

Last night, Disco and Hawse headed outside the wire to check the launch doors. On arrival, they observed that the doors were overgrown with foliage, and covered with weathered and cracked camouflage netting.

"Hawse, rip that s.h.i.t off the doors. I'll cover."

"What? You think I'm gonna trust an army guy to watch my a.s.s while I play minimum-wage landscaper?" Hawse said, laughing.

"Whatever, swabby meat-gazer. How happy are you that don't-ask-don't-tell was abolished before the s.h.i.t hit the fan?" Disco said.

"Pretty f.u.c.kin' happy-leaves me more women. As long as it doesn't scare the horses, I don't give a d.a.m.n what another dude does in his house."

"Just clear the launch door so we can get the h.e.l.l-"

Both men heard a noise-something too loud to be wind.

"What was that?" Disco said in a near whisper.

"s.h.i.t. Get 'em up, Disco, I'll take east, you take west."

"Yep."

They scanned their areas for any movement.

"Not too far, stay near the missile doors," Disco said.

Minutes pa.s.sed as the wind picked up some, swaying the trees back and forth ten meters out.

"I got something," Disco said quietly over his shoulder to Hawse.

Hawse was instantly shoulder-to-shoulder with Disco. He brought his carbine up and activated the IR laser. "Where is it, man?" he asked.

Dis...o...b..ought his own carbine up to high ready and activated his laser. "There, that. What the f.u.c.k is that?"

A cloud pa.s.sed, revealing a full moon, illuminating the expanse. Minds of men have a tendency to degrade and flounder in stressful situations like this. So naturally, Hawse's first instinct was to pull his trigger.

FUMP, FUMP, FUMP.

The rounds struck meat; the sound was tragically too familiar. The creature came at them from the darkness of the tree line. Disco and Hawse instinctively put three rounds into the creature's skull; its head exploded, sending rotting chunks of the top third into the night sky. It fell to the ground ten feet from them, the sound of skull pieces falling through the foliage coming shortly after.

"Holy f.u.c.king h.e.l.l!" Hawse exclaimed.

"Dude, don't. Want more coming? Save it."

"Sorry, man, that was way f.u.c.king close. Was that thing stalking us? That sound-and I only took the shot because I felt something looking at me."

"I heard it, too," Disco said.

"Okay, f.u.c.k. Cover me again. I'm gonna clear the launch doors and then we'll haul a.s.s. It might be nerves, but I feel like I'm being watched again."

"Look at that thing. Looks fresh," Disco commented, staring at the corpse.

"Concentrate. Keep your distance; it might be hot. Intel said that the bombs preserved 'em-twisted."

Hawse cleared the door, removed the brush and the camouflage netting, and tossed the rubbish aside. The two double-timed it back inside Hotel 23, ignorant to the dead that might be watching from the tree line, and the evidence they left behind-a cleared launch door that could be seen by anyone or anything that spied from above.

Remote Six Two Weeks Post-Outbreak "Status?" a voice called out from the shadows.

"Well, um, the cities are now what I would consider uninhabitable."

"Elaborate."

"G.o.d, what the f.u.c.k do you want me to tell you? D.C., New York, Atlanta, Los Angeles, Seattle . . . nothing to elaborate. They are all dead!" The operator hit a sequence of b.u.t.tons on his touch screen and a satellite view of an island metropolis appeared. He manipulated the zoom while the ominous figure over his right shoulder looked on.

The operator panned and zoomed to Manhattan.

Scattered debris and sporadic fires defined the scenery on the screens. Slow figures lumbered through smoke, moving about in the streets. Faster movement caught their eyes as a small group of survivors armed with baseball bats were weaving around the creatures and between abandoned cars.

The orbital mechanics of the reconnaissance satellite above New York caused the viewing angle on the screens to skew oddly.

Both men silently watched the survivors. Doomed. The phenomenon was spreading too quickly and there was nowhere to run. The Lincoln Tunnel billowed smoke from both ends. Fighter aircraft had already destroyed the bridges in a failed attempt to keep the contagion from spreading, locking the barn after the horse had bolted.

It was being reported by remaining news feeds that even those who had died from natural causes were turning. The men at Remote Six had no answer for this phenomenon. The data a.n.a.lyzers could only propose one solution: Everyone exposed to the open air must contain a dormant rendering of the anomaly.

The dark figure standing over the status screens was known as G.o.d. Real names were a useless and forbidden taboo here. The codenames that were given in the tank were used to loosely represent the positions of the people to whom they were given.

G.o.d began his career in the Central Intelligence directorate of operations, developing and executing black-ops programs inside the United States. He had been trained by the best, the nastiest. His long-dead mentor had the dubious but extremely cla.s.sified honor of creating the playing rules behind Operation Northwoods-a plan to execute false-flag attacks inside the U.S., murdering civilians and blaming it on radicals in order to garner American backing for the military invasion of Cuba.

G.o.d was the prodigy of true tyranny. His shadow organization had fronted the startup money that gave birth to Google and other DARPAnet giants. At the highest levels of compartmented intelligence, his agency, in partnership with NSA, had pure and unadulterated access to all-private email, individuals' Web searches-everything. G.o.d's old ident.i.ty had been erased and replaced with a star on a wall somewhere in Virginia. Shortly after erasure, he was ordered to command what only very few inside government officials knew as Remote Six. G.o.d only knew the rest.

Many covert think tanks in and around the Beltway region dealt only in information. Remote Six did that, of course, but they were also an executing ent.i.ty. They could make decisions, carry out kinetic operations with the resources and power granted to them by fearful elected officials-people that didn't want to get their hands dirty and didn't want to know the details. This covert decision node was not located anywhere near the District of Columbia-it existed far from the political radar and influence of any Beltway bandit or dreamy-eyed, newly elected politician. Remote Six, established before World War II, had been a variable in everything from dropping the atom bomb on j.a.pan, to a.s.sa.s.sination of key NVA leaders in the Phoenix Program, to similar and more recent destabilizing operations in the Middle East. Remote Six made the big decisions. The three branches of government ensured the balance of power and illusion of Const.i.tutional leadership, but covert ent.i.ties like Remote Six pulled the strings behind the wizard's curtain.

Twin advanced quantum computer systems existed deep underground inside Remote Six, under G.o.d's control. Multiple and redundant quantum hologram storage drives held every piece of the human knowledge base from how to make fire to the technical details of the Large Hadron Collider, and far beyond.

Every song ever written and every movie ever made was stored and archived here. The entire Internet was regularly crawled and chronicled on the quantums' storage as well. When humanity fell, precious scientific knowledge and art would not.

An incoming message indicator flashed on the flat panel, addressed to Chief of Station. G.o.d walked over to the flashing screen and ordered an aide to print the doc.u.ment. As the message spun off the printer, G.o.d began to read.

Situation dire and unrecoverable. Request R6 option package, uploaded all viable options to Pentagon II Situation Room LAN.

G.o.d laughed out loud, imagining the president on the other end of the transmission at the alternate site in the Shenandoah Mountains sweating f.u.c.king bullets. He would do what was asked of him, for now. G.o.d would feed the quantums.