“The governor has activated the National Guard and is deploying them to contain the largest infestations,” the Secretary of Defense explained. With a glance to the Secretary of Homeland Security, he said, “Mr. President, I’d like your permission to deploy some of the Marines from Camp Pendleton to backstop the Guard units and provide infrastructure security.” He frowned. “I hate to suggest this, but we might also want to bring in some helicopter gunships.”
“Not a chance in hell.” Miller sat forward in his chair. “I’m not going to have one of the greatest cities in the world look like Mogadishu!”
“With all due respect, Mr. President,” Richards told him, “that’ll be exactly what’s going to happen if we don’t stop these things right now, and we need heavy firepower to do it.” He pointed to the dark television. “You saw how many rounds from their rifles those National Guardsmen poured into the creatures that attacked them. Their weapons were designed to kill other human beings, not creatures with skeletons made out of carbon fiber. You can hammer away at them all day with an assault rifle and you might bring them down. But one round from a twenty or twenty-five millimeter cannon like the gunships have would do the job. And the harvesters can’t get at the helicopters like they can the troops on the ground.”
For a moment, Richards thought that Miller was going to charbroil him. Then the President’s expression softened. “All right. All right, dammit. It doesn’t help me to have experts if I don’t listen to them.” He glared at the Secretary of Defense. “But so help me, if those gunships shoot up the city, I’ll be sending you out there in your underwear to fight these things. Clear?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Miller turned back to Richards. “Anything else?”
Steeling himself for the President’s response, Richards said, “We should close every airport in the area, sir, including LAX.”
The President stared at him.
Vice President Lynch voiced what Miller was thinking. “Do you have any idea of the disruption, the panic, that would cause?”
“Sir, you’ve got to think of this as a biological threat,” Richards went on, “like an outbreak of a deadly disease. Our strategy has to be focused on containment. The counter-terrorist security procedures we have in place simply aren’t going to work against this threat. Emulating human form, these things will just walk right through. Imagine what could happen — what will happen — if they reach other major cities?” He shook his head fervently. “We’ve got to bottle them up in Los Angeles and wipe them out. Otherwise we may lose our only chance to stop them.”
“Mr. President,” Harmon said, much to Richards’ surprise, “I agree. And I’d also suggest that we put up roadblocks around the city and screen anyone coming out. I’m sure we can come up with some procedures to verify that the refugees are human.”
Richards nodded, glad that Harmon was backing him up for a change. He could see that his boss’s eyes were haunted, and suddenly remembered that Harmon had family in LA.
“As much as I hate to,” the Secretary for Homeland Security added softly, “I have to agree. Quarantine the affected areas and flood them with enough firepower to deal with these things as quickly as possible.”
Miller wearily rubbed his eyes. “All right. God help me, but make it happen. What are the casualties so far?”
“Sir,” the Homeland Security chief began, “we really don’t have enough information to give you a good estimate, because we don’t have anyone reporting those details yet. The police are fully engaged in trying to stay alive, and the local hospitals and other facilities are swamped.”
“Just give me a number,” Miller sighed. “I don’t expect anything to the twelfth decimal point. Somewhere in the ballpark.”
Before the Secretary of Homeland Security could dig himself in any deeper, Richards chimed in. He had asked Mozhdeh Kashani, the head of the Intelligence Division, to put something together for him. “Our estimates are at least five hundred dead and two thousand injured, and that’s probably conservative.”
Miller blinked in shock. “That many? But it’s only been, what, a couple hours, if that, since this started?”
“Mr. President,” Richards told him, “you have to understand that these things don’t have any other goal than to wipe us out. That’s what the original harvesters wanted, but they had to go about it in a subtle way over a long period of time because there were only a handful of them. If they were ever exposed for what they really were, they’d be killed. But the things in LA, along with the infestations in the other countries, apparently don’t feel the need for subtlety. But the goal’s still the same. They’re butchering people as fast as they can.” And eating them, he didn’t add.
Miller thought for a moment before coming to a conclusion. “All right. Let’s bring everything we can to bear on this.” He looked at the Defense Secretary. “Keep me informed, but do whatever’s necessary with our conventional forces to protect the people in Los Angeles and wipe these things out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Richards saw that everyone in the room had picked up on the President’s specification of conventional forces. He remembered with painful clarity being on the wrong end of a nuclear weapon at Sutter Buttes the year before, and he fervently prayed that the same fate wouldn’t befall Los Angeles or any other city.
Miller turned to Richards, which made him feel awkward. Harmon, his boss, was sitting right next to him. “Are there any signs of outbreaks anywhere else in the country?”
“No, sir. Not yet. But we’ve informed all of our field offices and legats overseas on what to look for, and we’re coordinating with local law enforcement agencies and emergency responders across the country to get the word out.” He grimaced. “A lot of people just don’t want to believe the information, but we’re telling them and we’ll keep telling them until the crisis has passed.”
Miller nodded appreciatively, and included Harmon in his gaze. “Thank you both.” Then he turned to the Secretary of State. “Do we have anything from the other affected countries?”
She shook her head, clearly frustrated. “Not much, Mr. President. Everyone still seems to be in a state of denial. We’ve passed on the information provided by Director Harmon’s people to the other governments, but aside from notes of bemused thanks, we haven’t gotten much reaction or any deeper insight into their situations. All of them still seem to think that these outbreaks are terrorist or separatist attacks, despite mounting evidence to the contrary.”
Miller frowned. “I can’t say as I blame them. I still don’t believe this myself. I keep expecting to wake up, that this will all have been a nightmare.” Shaking his head, he told her, “Keep sending whatever information we can provide them, and let them know that the door is open for any dialogue or support we can give. And maybe have someone put together a briefing package for them using what we’re getting out of Los Angeles. We’ve got to convince the other governments of how much of a threat this is, and give them any help we can on how to fight these things.”
Turning to the Director of National Intelligence, Miller asked, “Has there been any significant change overseas?”
“Just more of the same, sir, and all of it bad. China’s committed three additional divisions, and we’ve started getting indications that the cities of Chengdu and Chongqing in southern China may have harvester infestations.” He glanced at the television, then back to Miller. “We weren’t really sure what to make of the information we were getting until we saw the coverage of Los Angeles, but from the reporting we’ve seen thus far, the situation there is worse. A lot worse.”
“Go on.”
“As for Brazil, the southern part of the country is in complete disarray, with several areas completely cut off by the military. The government’s instituted a blackout on all news out of the south, and we’re working on getting some assets in place that can provide us some reliable information. But for now, I think it’s safe to assume that they’ve got some serious problems on their hands.
/>
“The same is true for India. Mass panic has set in among the rural areas east of Hyderabad in the south-central part of the country, and the Indians are deploying at least two infantry divisions, along with their independent airborne brigade, to help contain the outbreak there.”
“And France?”
The DNI frowned. “That’s the odd one of the bunch. There was clearly an outbreak in Bordeaux,” he nodded to Richards, who’d tipped the intelligence community to the fact, “but either the French have contained it or they’re remaining amazingly quiet.”
Miller turned to Richards and Harmon. “Do you have anything?”
Harmon looked at Richards, who shook his head. “No, sir, nothing so far. We tipped the French National Police to suspicious activity in Bordeaux, but our legats haven’t received any feedback on the operation, despite repeated requests.”
“Damn French,” Miller sighed.
“With all due respect, sir, at least with the investigation that we’ve been collaborating on, the French have been very helpful.” Richards shook his head. “This makes me wonder if something else isn’t going on. It’s possible that the French government has already been penetrated by the harvesters.”
“Fine,” Miller said, raising his hands in supplication. “My apologies to our French Allies. So I guess we’re saving the best for last: what about Russia?”
The DNI looked grim. “Not surprisingly, there’s a lot of confusion in the Russian government. But what we do know for certain is that they put their conventional forces on full military alert a few hours ago, about the same time that one of their airborne units was wiped out in southern Russia.”
President Miller looked again at Richards. “Wasn’t that where your guy, Jack Dawson, was headed from India?”
“Yes, sir,” Richards answered softly.
“Any word from him?”
“No, Mr. President. Not since yesterday.”
Miller pursed his lips. “He wouldn’t have been directly involved in any of their operations. I’m sure he’s okay.”
“Yes, sir, I’m sure he is.”
In his gut, Richards wasn’t quite so sure.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The concussion from the RPG rocket exploding and the violent yaw that followed nearly sent Jack and Mikhailov tumbling out the still-open ramp of the helicopter. Jack scrabbled along the deck, trying to dig his bare fingers into the metal with one hand while he held onto Mikhailov’s combat harness with the other. The Russian captain’s legs were dangling over the side of the ramp. Jack cried out with the strain as he grabbed a nylon cargo strap, secured to the side of the fuselage and whipping about in the cabin.
Coughing from the smoke that poured from the destroyed starboard engine, Jack caught a glimpse of the pilots, struggling to keep the stricken Mi-17 in the air. Near the gaping hole that had been blasted in the right side of the craft, Jack saw that the crew chief was dead. There was nothing left of him above the waist.
The port engine was still running, but sounded like a garbage disposal that had been fed a handful of metal knives. A torrent of fluid poured from the top of the cabin from the ruptured hydraulic and fuel lines.
Jack was surprised, and not just a bit relieved, that they hadn’t caught fire. Yet.
As he held Mikhailov, who had come to, but wasn’t strong enough yet to hold on by himself, Jack tried to count off the seconds they stayed in the air. Every one of those precious increments of time would take them farther from Ulan-Erg and the dreadful horrors there.
In the dark, he had no idea where the pilots were headed. All he knew was that it was roughly fifty kilometers to the town of Elista, and over two hundred and fifty back to Stavropol. He’d settle for Elista, but doubted they’d get that far.
Then he happened to look down, behind them. The roiling flames of the burning harvesters had long since receded into the distance and the drizzling rain. Now he could see pairs of lights, moving in straight lines. Vehicles. Cars. Not many, but enough to make him realize that the pilots must be following the main road, A154 if he remembered correctly from the map Kuybishev had shown him, that had been the phase line for the attack on Ulan-Erg.
Nodding to himself, Jack gave a small whisper of thanks to the pilots. At least if they went down, someone would find them. But this close to Ulan-Erg and the mysterious facility, anyone in the cars below could be a harvester.
Jack had no words for how much he wished Alexander was with him now. He knew the cat would have been petrified, but at least he could have told Jack friend from foe.
Mikhailov, recovered somewhat from the ordeal, managed to claw his way alongside him to grab onto another cargo strap. “Rudenko?”
“He didn’t make it,” Jack told him. “I’m sorry, Sergei.”
In the dim light of the cargo hold, Jack couldn’t see Mikhailov’s expression, but he did see Mikhailov lower his forehead to the floor. His lips moved in what Jack guessed was a quiet prayer for his friend.
They both looked up as something in the grinding machinery of the surviving engine gave way. Spinning chunks of sharp metal, accompanied by a gout of flame, raked the cargo area. Something else broke almost directly above them, somewhere in the base of the tail boom, and the helicopter went into a spin as it lost altitude.
“We lost the tail rotor! Hold on!” Jack looked out the back to see the horizon, blackness riding upon darkness, punctuated with a few lights along the road, whirling.
Before he looked away, he caught sight of something else: a town in flames.
Still spinning, the helicopter hit, its right main gear slamming into the ground. The nose rose into the air and the tail boom smashed into the ground, shattering the tail rotor.
Then he was falling through the open maw of the cargo ramp, straight into the whirling wreckage of the tail rotor.
Mikhailov tried to grab him, but only succeeded in losing his own grip.
Jack screamed and closed his eyes, but in the time it took him to fall, the helicopter continued to spin, and the lethal egg beater of the tail rotor was gone by the time he hit the ground. He landed hard on his side, knocking the wind out of him. His head slammed into the wet muck, and he lay there, dazed.
Beside him, only a few feet away, Mikhailov crumpled to the ground like a big rag doll.
Above them, the helicopter spun around three more times before it tipped over. The rotor blades, still driven by what was left of the port engine, tore themselves to pieces against the ground, sending fragments through the fuselage and for a hundred yards in every direction, and what was left of the tail rotor flew apart as the boom collapsed. The stubs of the rotor blades pushed the helicopter around in a full circle before there was nothing left but the rotor hub, still whirring around above the mud.
Getting to his feet, Jack staggered toward the wreckage, intending to help the pilots, when the fuel that had sprayed everywhere caught with a surprisingly soft whump. Raising his arms to cover his face, he moved toward the cargo ramp, which was the only part of the Mi-17 not wreathed in flame.
“No, Jack!” A hand fell on Jack’s shoulder, pulling him back from the intense heat. “They are gone!”
Jack resisted for just a moment, then gave in. The front of the helicopter was covered in burning fuel. He only hoped the pilots had been killed or rendered unconscious in the crash.
Letting Mikhailov lead him away to a safe distance, they collapsed to their knees and watched the helicopter burn. Beyond the flames, what must be only a few kilometers to the east, they could see smoke billowing up from the town that Jack had caught sight of before the crash.
“Is that Elista?”
“Da,” Mikhailov answered wearily. “That does not look so good, does it?”
“Sure as hell doesn’t. But I wonder who set it on fire? Surely not the harvesters.”
“Haven’t you ever seen the movies with villagers chasing monsters with torches and pitchforks?” Mikhailov managed a humorless chuckle. “In chaos, Jack, there is alw
ays fire. Perhaps someone even discovered that it will kill the beasts.”
“We can always hope. But that means we can’t go there. What now?”
“We have to get back to Stavropol, or at least call the regimental headquarters and let them know what has happened.” He narrowed his eyes as he saw a pair of cars pull up on the road, which was maybe fifty meters away. “But I am hesitant to get in a car here with a stranger.”
“Yeah.” Jack got a queasy sensation as he watched four people, two from each car, get out and stand there, staring into the flames. None of them spoke. Instinctively, he lowered himself into a prone position, and Mikhailov followed suit. “Do you still have your sidearm?”
“Yes, and two magazines. That, my knife, and my wits are my only remaining weapons.”
“Two out of three isn’t bad.” Jack grinned as Mikhailov snorted.
“Here, take these.” Mikhailov handed him the gun and spare magazines. “You can hold it and shoot. I cannot. Not now.”
Jack took the weapon and shoved it in his empty holster, then put the magazines in a pouch. “So what’s the plan?”
Mikhailov pondered for a moment as they watched the “people” near the cars. Apparently content that there were no survivors, and clearly not wanting to venture closer to the flaming wreckage, they returned to their cars and drove off, heading back toward Elista.
“The world has just become an extremely dangerous place, my friend,” Mikhailov whispered.
“Yeah,” Jack said, shaking off the chill that went deeper than the cold muck as he watched the cars leave. “That was pretty damn creepy. It’s strange, though: I would have thought they would have acted more normal.”
“Perhaps they have not yet learned?” Mikhailov mused. “Or perhaps they did not feel the need to, if all four of them were harvesters.”
“Something else for Naomi to figure out, I guess.”
Mikhailov shook his head. “What you observe and tell her will be just as important as anything she learns in the lab, and perhaps more. It is like with weapons: seeing how they perform at a test facility is one thing. How effective they are on the battlefield in the hands of a soldier is something else.”
The Last Days: Six Post-Apocalyptic Thrillers Page 26