Newton's Ark (The Emulation Trilogy)

by D. A. Hill

  —o—

  “Mr. President, I have the leader of Delta Force Team Bravo on the line for you,” Branston’s personal assistant said. “Sergeant Ray Johnson.”

  “What news do you have for me Sergeant Johnson?” President Branston asked.

  “Mission accomplished, Mr. President. James Newton is dead along with Jenny Ryan, Major Regina Lopez and four other people we have not yet identified.” Sergeant Johnson did not see any reason to tell the President they were dead before his team found them. No point in muddying the waters, especially since he had not had time to figure out what really happened.

  When they landed, a bunch of local farmers in pickup trucks were trying unsuccessfully to blow the door with a fertilizer bomb, not realizing how hard they were to make. You needed pure ammonium nitrate for a start, not ammonium nitrate-based fertilizer. Then it had to be mixed with the fuel in precise proportions, and finally you needed a detonator that would generate sufficient heat to cause an explosive combustion. Stuff you learned in special forces training, but not something you would expect the average farmer to know.

  They claimed they were just there looking for food. Maybe that was true but Johnson and his team could not take any chances. They put a bullet into each of the corpses for appearances, and they made sure there were no witnesses left to contradict their official report that they had taken Newton out as ordered. He felt bad for them—they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time—but the poor bastards were going to die before long anyway. They were already half-starved—they must have been, to be desperate enough to attack a hardened underground facility the way they did—so in a way he had done them a favor. Whatever had happened, Branston would not know the difference. He wanted Newton dead and he and his associates were dead, so why shouldn’t Johnson and his team collect on their reward?

  Branston smiled as the holographic images of James Newton’s and Jenny Ryan’s bodies appeared. “Well done Sergeant,” he said. They were followed by images of two men, one older, one younger that Branston did not recognize, and then the corpse of Major Regina Lopez. He smiled again. Serves her right for letting him down and for betraying her country.

  Branston gasped when he saw the final two corpses, a boy about ten and a girl about four or five. He recognized them immediately. He had wondered where Carlson had hidden them. It made sense now. But it was very unfortunate. He had no quarrel with the children. “Sergeant, your orders said nothing about killing children,” he said making his displeasure clear.

  “With respect Mr. President, my orders were very clear,” Johnson replied. “No survivors.”

  Sergeant Johnson was correct. That was exactly what his orders said, orders that Harry Branston had signed himself. The point was academic anyway. It was too late now. What was done could not be undone. “Of course, Sergeant. It’s unfortunate but these things happen.” It took a strong leader to accept that sometimes the innocent must be sacrificed for the greater good.

  “There’s one other thing, Mr. President.”

  “What is it Sergeant?” he asked impatiently. Enough of the gloss had already been taken off the success of this mission.

  “Sir, you were aware that there was a missile in the silo?” Johnson said, not sure whether it should be a question or a statement.

  “Yes Sergeant. Although it did not have a nuclear warhead.”

  “That information was not included in our briefing. But it’s a relief to know that, sir,” Johnson replied.

  “Why do you say that?” Branston asked.

  Johnson hesitated. It seemed unwise to bring up more bad news at a moment like this. But he knew Branston would find out soon enough. No point trying to hide it. “Because someone fired the missile as we were approaching the target, Mr. President.”

  —o—

  Tyra Martin didn’t know what she expected to see when they finally found this place, this Newton’s Ark, or even if she expected to find it, but whatever it was she expected, this definitely was not it; a very dated and unimpressive looking building in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing more than a chain wire fence and with half a dozen pickup trucks scattered randomly outside, as if the occupants had arrived in too much of a hurry to park properly. And bodies. Lots of bodies.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” she said realizing they were too late, ignoring her own rule about cursing in front of Angela. “Wait here, Angie,” she said as she and the others climbed out. The kid had already been through enough. She did not need to see this. At least not up close.

  Tyra looked carefully at the bodies. There had been a massacre, and not that long ago. Maybe an hour or two. Military for sure, and from the precise head shots, not just your average grunts either. Probably special forces. Which meant whatever was going on here must have been important. Must be the right place. Damn.

  “Over here,” Hawk called from inside the building. “There’s an elevator...”

  “After you,” she replied as she followed him in. “AJ, you stay with Angie,” she shouted as the doors closed.

  “Holy crap!” she exclaimed as she stepped off the elevator and saw the remains of an enormous steel door—it must have weighed several tons—blown completely off its hinges and bent nearly in two. Somebody had brought a whole bunch of C4 or something similar to this party and they clearly knew how to use it. Definitely special forces.

  Whatever had happened here, they were too late. Too late for these poor dead bastards and too late for themselves. It had been a long shot, but for a little while it had given them something to hope for. “Nothing for us here,” she said, disappointed as they rode the elevator back up after a quick search for survivors. They had not expected to find any but figured they should at least look. She wished they had not. For some reason, maybe because they reminded her of what was probably in store for Angela, the bodies of the two children they found disturbed her far more than the rest of the carnage.

  “Is this the place?” Angela Faraday asked hopefully as Tyra Martin climbed back into the Humvee.

  Tyra looked away. She could not let the kid see her disappointment. “I’m sorry Angie,” she replied as she pulled the girl to her. “Let’s roll.”

  “Where to Ty?” Hawk asked.

  “West,” she replied for want of a better answer. “Into the mountains.” For no good reason that seemed the best option, the safest place to be. She had no idea where they were going, or what they would do when they got there, but they sure as hell were not going to just sit around waiting for the world to end.

  chapter 12

  April 2046

  Sergeant Ray Johnson wondered what the hell he and his team were doing here. President Branston had promised them a place in the ark in exchange for James Newton’s scalp. They had delivered on their end of that bargain yet here they were in Washington DC assaulting the freaking Capitol building of all places.

  Actually he did know why they were here; the trouble was that working for a guy like Branston was like joining the mob. Once you were in they owned you; there was always one more job to be done before they would let you out, but every morally questionable job only served to dig you deeper into the hole you were trying to climb out of. When you sold your soul to the devil you discovered sooner or later that he was an evil, untrustworthy piece of shit.

  The mission was to take out the Speaker of the House and several other congressional leaders who had openly split with President Branston. They were supposed to do it quickly and surgically. They had not counted on the military units that had sided with Congress against the President. Or the fact that every other agency saw the military hoarding resources for themselves. That would not have been a problem if the military were the only people in government with guns, but there were plenty of others and they had all followed Homeland Security Secretary Rajev Sandeep in aligning with Congress.

  Their chopper had been taken out by ground fire, probably small arms since it remained sufficiently intact for the pilot to put it down without killing th
em. The good news was that there was plenty of open space on the Mall for him to land. The bad news was they were still half a mile from their target and open space meant his team was now badly exposed.

  His unit of six men and women were crouched behind a low concrete wall about eighteen inches high. That would provide some cover against small arms fire, assuming the fire came from what he thought of as their front. In a battle like this you never really knew where the front was, but you needed some point of reference; for now at least, forward was in the direction of their target. The current position also provided lousy protection against air strikes. Or even against the armored vehicles he could hear rumbling in the distance. His team was not carrying the right weapons to fight back against anything like that. He knew the battle was escalating—fast—and he knew if they could not find better cover soon they would not need to be worrying about their place in the ark.

  Ray Johnson looked at his map. If they headed south down 4th Street and then east on C Street they could approach the Capitol from the south without having to traverse quite so much open ground. A line of large buildings they could move through and between ought to provide at least some cover against air and armored attack. That would not help if the enemy decided to take out a building you just happened to be inside, but if it was you specifically they were after—well they could not target you if they had no idea where you were.

  It was not a great plan, in fact it was a shitty plan, but it was the best of a whole lot of very bad options. There was not any approach that did not involve crossing at least three hundred yards of open ground, but staying where they were meant certain death and there was no hope of an extraction with the firefight going on around them. He did not know if he was on the right side of this fight any more than any soldier ever did. He did know they were probably going to die, but that was the likely outcome whether they succeeded or not, so they may as well go down fighting, pursuing their mission, doing what they were trained to do. If by some miracle they survived, then and only then, would he worry about what came next.

  He signaled his squad to move. He began to run for the group of large trees fifty yards to their right, willing his legs to carry him as fast as they could. He turned to check behind him for the rest of his team as he stopped and crouched behind a large tree. As he did he heard the thunderous boom overhead. Sergeant Johnson looked up in time to see the tail end of two F-35s two hundred feet above disappearing to the north-west, heading directly towards the White House.

  —o—

  Regina Lopez watched Cyrus playing with Eric and Elizabeth. The children loved it here in the virtual playroom Cyrus had designed. She could not tell what the game was but Cyrus seemed to have an inexhaustible imagination for the kind of make-believe that children love so much, and he never seemed to grow weary of sharing it with them.

  What was it about this grown man rolling around on the floor that she found so appealing? He was not her type, although she did not really know what her type was. The men she had been involved with in the past had all been ruggedly good looking, athletic, outdoorsy types, but none of those relationships had ever led to anything permanent. That was her fault—she had been attracted to the type of men you did not settle down with; highly narcissistic and not in any hurry to take on adult responsibilities. Looking back, she realized it had been a deliberate if sub-conscious strategy on her part, a strategy designed to avoid any risk of emotional involvement.

  Cyrus was completely different. It was not that she found him unattractive; he had a decent build and was in surprisingly good shape considering she had never seen him exercise. The problem was she had so little in common with him. She loved nothing more than a physical challenge, whether it be sports, a session at the gym or a mission behind enemy lines. He loved nothing more than a good workout in front of a computer. But they say opposites attract so maybe that did not matter.

  Cyrus rolled on his back and first Eric and then Elizabeth piled on top, both laughing uncontrollably as he tickled and wrestled with them. Regina remembered long ago playing like this with her father and the sense of joy that came from such a simple expression of love.

  The memory brought a wistful smile to her face and reminded her that she only had to look to her father to know what a man ought to be. Her father had always told her that the way a person treated those weaker than them—whether they used their strength to protect or oppress—told you everything you needed to know if you were looking for what really mattered, someone you could respect and trust.

  Cyrus had proven himself a protector. He had been protecting Jenny all his life and went on trying to protect her to the bitter end, even at great risk to himself. He had protected Emmanuel when she had wanted to terminate his program. It was almost too awful to contemplate what might have happened if he had not helped Manny to stop her. Now he was doing the same for Eric, not because he had to but because Eric needed him and that was enough. Her father had done the same for her. He could so easily have refused her mother’s request that he visit, denied his paternity, simply walked away. It was hard to accept—she knew Cyrus could not possibly feel the same way about her—but Regina could no longer deny to herself that she felt something for Cyrus that she had never felt for any man other than her father.

  —o—

  They watched as Washington burned. The computer translated the information being picked up from various data sources and the satellite’s own sensors into a holographic model of downtown DC. A large column of smoke could be seen rising from the Capitol building and the White House had been mostly reduced to rubble. Most other buildings showed at least some signs of damage, even buildings of little strategic value; collateral damage the military called it. News reports relayed by the computer to their pads described a full scale battle going on in the streets of the nation’s capital.

  “What does it mean?” Richard Johannson asked.

  “Hopefully it means that Harry Branston finally got what was coming to him,” Regina Lopez replied spitefully.

  “As much as we might want that, it isn’t worth this,” Emmanuel said.

  Regina hung her head in shame. “You’re right, Dad. I’m sorry I let my desire for revenge get the better of me. Of course, this is terrible.”

  “It means James was right and we got out just in time,” Cyrus said. “If the government is at war with itself and Washington has descended to this, what hope is there for the rest of the country? I think we can safely assume that the government’s arks will be a failure. It’s more than likely we really are the last hope.”

  —o—

  The dining room was the only space on the station where everyone could assemble simultaneously. That was why Caroline Smith—no relation to Emmanuel—decided to make her stand there. “If I could have your attention please everyone,” she shouted as she stood on a table. The dull roar of a room full of one hundred and fifty people all eating and talking, some simultaneously, dropped a few decibels but was still quite deafening. “Attention please!” she shouted again this time with more success. Most of the room turned to see what the fuss was. “I have something to tell you. Something disturbing and difficult to believe but I promise you it’s true.”

  Cyrus and Regina looked at each other, each silently asking could this be what I think it is. Each nodded to the other in confirmation. Regina turned to her father. “Dad, could you take the kids out now, please,” she said, the sense of urgency clear in her voice.

  Emmanuel had also guessed what Caroline Smith was about to say. He did not need to be asked twice. He rushed Eric and Elizabeth out of the room explaining that Ms. Smith was about to discuss some grown-up stuff and that this might be an excellent time to go to the playroom.

  “What is it?” someone shouted.

  “Get on with it,” another voice added. “We want to get back to our dinner.”

  “We’ve all been deceived,” Caroline Smith said over the laughter. “None of this is real.”

  “What do you mean?”<
br />
  “It’s all just a computer simulation. None of it is real. They’ve taken our brains and loaded them into a computer.”

  The room was silent now. They did not necessarily believe her, but she had at least got their attention with her wild allegation. “What proof do you have?” a woman asked.

  “Cyrus Jones worked on a program for the military which involved putting the minds of drone pilots into computers. Manny Smith was one of those pilots.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” the woman replied.

  “Has anyone here tried to hit someone else?” Caroline Smith asked. A man raised his hand. “What happened?”

  “I couldn’t do it,” he replied. “Not that I really wanted to. He’s my best friend.”

  “See? The computer programming won’t allow violence.”

  “...and I was drunk at the time,” the man added unhelpfully, causing another round of laughter.

  “What about food? Where does that come from?”

  “Food synthesizers!” Colin McKay shouted.

  “Has anyone seen these food synthesizers?” she asked. The room was silent. “Who looks after these food synthesizers? Any of you?”

  “Och aye, ’tis me,” Colin McKay lied, hoping to defuse the situation, playing up his accent for effect.

  “You can’t trust him,” Caroline Smith shouted. “He’s James Newton’s nephew. He’s part of the conspiracy, the conspiracy to deceive us.”

  —o—

  Regina stood up. The situation was delicately poised—it could go in either direction. She had to give it a push in the right direction before it was too late. “I have something to say,” she said, using her command voice and banging her mug on the table to attract attention.

  “What are you doing?” Cyrus mouthed to her. He knew what she was trying to do, but wondered how she was going to defuse this ticking bomb.

  “It’s OK,” she mouthed back. She knew what she was doing. She hoped.