Code Zero: A Joe Ledger Novel

by Jonathan Maberry

  “Go for Birddog,” he replied. He was the crew chief on the second bird.

  “Status on the stinkbots?”

  “They’re scratching at the door, boss.”

  “Then let ’em out.”

  The pilot of my chopper went high and wide, turning to give me a better view of the other helo. The side door on the second Black Hawk rolled back and I saw two figures crouching there, the folds of their hazmat suits whipping in the rotor wash. They each held a small machines that looked like a metal wasp. Elegant in an ugly way. Birddog—the biggest man on the tech team—leaned out and flung one of the drones into the wind. It swirled out of control for a moment, then as it reached the outer edge of the rotor wash its own engines stabilized it and it flew away smooth and straight. Another followed, and another.

  The official designation for them was some gobbledy-gook like man-portable hand-launched self-propelled aerial bio-aerosol mass spectrometer. Flying BAMS units, for short. We called them stinkbots. Birddog gave them individual names. Huey, Dewey, and Louie.

  Understand, Echo Team had to go in there, we had to see what was happening in the Locker even if the sensors on the stinkbots lit up like Christmas trees. However, there was a splinter of comfort in know exactly how high and how smelly was the pile of shit we were about to step in.

  When the last of the stinkbots was deployed, Birddog rolled the door shut and the helo lifted high into the air. Top and Bunny huddled with me over the screen display on the tactical computer strapped to my forearm. Three small windows opened up to display the data feeds from the drones. Each box included a sliding color scale, safe green on one side and alarming red on the other. We were all clustered together so tightly that I could feel the waves of tension rolling off of the others, and it was a match for my own.

  “What happens if we get a hit now?” asked Dunk. “Outside the containment?”

  “Then you’d better be right with Jesus, son,” muttered Top.

  Dunk tried to laugh it off, tried to smile through it. No one else matched his grin, and it drained away pretty quickly.

  I pointed at the ceiling of the Black Hawk. “Mr. Church is keyed in to the telemetry from the stinkbots. If the seif-al-din or any of the other class-A pathogens is out, then there’s only one fallback plan. Total sterilization of everything within six square miles. Somewhere up there are fighter bombers carrying fuel-air bombs. And if that doesn’t get the job done then to save the country they won’t hesitate to turn this part of Virginia into a big, glowing hole in the world.”

  “That’s some total wrinkled yak balls,” observed Ivan.

  Bunny gave them a frank stare. “If you were in the driver’s seat on this, how would you play it?”

  Ivan shook his head. “I’m not saying I’d do it any other way, Hoss. What I’m saying is that this is some total wrinkled yak balls right here.”

  Bunny considered. “Yeah. Can’t argue with that.”

  Top snapped his fingers. “The stinkbots have processed the first air samples.”

  We looked. The feed was coming in from Huey. We stared at the sliding arrow and willed it to stay in the green. Dewey and Louie sent their data. The arrows on all three ’bots trembled.

  Trembled.

  But they stayed green. For now.

  “I don’t know whether to feel relieved,” said Lydia, “or not.”

  “Not,” said Bunny. “’Cause it means we still have to go in there.”

  “Yak balls,” Ivan said again.

  We all nodded.

  “Okay,” I told the pilot, “put us down.”

  Chapter Ninety-one

  Residence of the Vice President of the United States

  One Observatory Circle

  Washington, D.C.

  Sunday, September 1, 11:17 a.m.

  Collins walked through the rooms of an empty house.

  His wife was in Boston with the kids. It was a publicized event for her, a speech at a fund-raiser for one of her causes. Education or some such shit, he really didn’t know and didn’t care. All that mattered was that she was there and he was here. It was the forty-third day out of the last forty-nine that she’d been somewhere else. As he poured a scotch he had to admit to himself that she knew.

  Somehow, despite all his precautions, she knew.

  Not specifically about Bliss. Nor did she know, he was sure, about the two pages, the reporter from USA Today, or that French broad—what the fuck was her name? Amy Something?—from the European Trade Commission. There was no way for her to know specifics about any of them. No, it was simply that she knew. Knew he was screwing around. Knew their marriage was a joke, a thing that existed in name only. Knew that it was over for them. Just as he knew she would not officially leave him while there was even the slightest chance that he could become president. The power was too juicy. After all, Hillary didn’t leave Bill even though everyone in the world knew he was dicking around. No, she wouldn’t divorce him. She was married to the power.

  But goddamn if the place didn’t seem empty without her and the kids.

  The Secret Service thugs downstairs and outside didn’t qualify as company.

  He went into his study, turned on the TV to watch the latest on the C-train thing, freshened his drink, and flung himself onto the couch. The press, in a remarkable and unprecedented show of solidarity, was frying the president for the slaughter. U.S. Special Forces in a mass execution of citizens. That was going to change the entire shape of the government.

  His cell rang, and when he looked at the display it said MOM. He always appreciated that. If, for any reason, his phone records were subpoenaed they would show that the call did, in fact, originate from his mother; however, it was all part of the magic Bliss did with her little mutant computer

  He debated whether to answer it or not. Every bit of contact with Bliss—or with Mother Night, as she insisted on being called—was a deadly risk.

  “Fuck it,” he mumbled, and punched the button.

  “Hello, sonny boy,” she said.

  “Don’t call me that,” he growled. The voice simulation software she used as part of her scrambler technology did way too good a job of making her voice sound exactly like his mother’s. It was freaky and it made him feel like he wanted to go wash his hands with strong soap.

  She said, “Are you keeping up with current events?”

  “Funny. Remote tribes in the Amazon know what’s going on. You certainly went whole hog on this, honey. Talk about market saturation.”

  “Power of social media,” she said. “They’ll probably impeach your running mate. I may have just made you president.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  “Why are you so sour?” she asked.

  He sipped his scotch and crunched some ice. “Really loved the anthrax thing. That was a bit of a surprise. They said there was enough anthrax in there to kill half of Washington.”

  “Not really. Maybe half of Congress, which wouldn’t be as tragic.”

  “Tragic? Really? Do you even know what that concept is all about?”

  “Of course I do,” she said. “I’m immoral, not amoral.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t sound so happy about it.”

  “Aren’t you? Not about the anthrax, I mean. About the whole thing?”

  “Happy? Of course I’m not happy. Christ, don’t you know me yet?”

  “Yeah, I know. You’ve given me the speech. It’s not about destroying America, it’s about rebuilding America. A patriot’s revisionist view. Necessary evils, like performing an emergency amputation to prevent gangrene from spreading. Yes, Bill, I know the story.”

  “It’s not a ‘story,’ damn it,” he said, anger burning in his chest. “This is the only way to save—”

  “—America from itself. Yes, I know,” she insisted. “I really do know. Calm down.”

  “Don’t fucking tell me to calm down, you crazy bitch. And don’t you dare trivialize this. We’re doing God’s work here.”

  The si
lence on the other end of the line was profound and heavy, and it went on so long Collins thought she’d hung up.

  “Are you there?” he demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Then fucking say something.”

  “What do you want me to say? We’ve always known that we come at this from two different places. What are you trying to do here? Try and convert me? It’s never been about politics for me, so let’s not pretend that I give a wet fart about it. Yours or anyone’s.”

  “I can’t believe that,” he said with a gentleness that surprised even him. He lay back on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. “No matter what else you are, Bliss, you’re an American. Maybe not by birth, but America gave you everything you have, everything you—”

  “Don’t even try,” she interrupted. “You’re going to give me that same tired old speech about how someone of my intellect would never have been allowed to shine if I’d grown up in China. How, as a woman, I’d never be given rank or status. Well, here’s the newsflash, honey, I didn’t get a lot of that here, either. I worked my ass off for America. I helped save the country from one threat after another, and if it wasn’t for me, half of the DMS operations would have failed in whole or part. That means I saved millions of lives, Bill. Millions.”

  “I know and—”

  “Let me finish,” she snapped. “You always cut me off, you always think I’m just ranting. I let you go on and on about your New American Revolution, and you say I don’t understand you. Well, now it’s time for you to try to understand me. I put the best years of my life into the DMS. I even tried to work around their antiquated procedures in order to make them more efficient. And what did I get for it? I was never allowed to file patents and I was never allowed to publish. With my gifts I should have been world famous. I should have been on the cover of every magazine. When was the last time there was a superstar scientist of my caliber who wasn’t an old white guy? I’m young, I’m pretty, and I deserve more than I was given. For every life I saved, for keeping the world from going to hell, for keeping the world from fucking ending, I deserved so much more than a pat on the back and a paycheck that amounted to pocket change. And let’s not forget that I was fired and arrested because I was helping you. If you hadn’t insisted on trying to take down the DMS I would never have been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. I literally gave my life for you. Artemisia Bliss died for you and your American dream. Mother Night won’t make that kind of mistake, Bill. Not for you and not for anyone. America has let me down too many times. Now it’s time for me to get what I deserve. And everything I deserve.”

  It was such a surreal thing for Collins to hear this passionate rant spoken in his mother’s voice. He closed his eyes and rested the icy whiskey glass on his forehead.

  Into the crushing silence, he said, “I hear you.”

  “Do you?” she asked harshly.

  “Yes,” he said, “I really do. And, no matter what else you think, please believe that I honestly want that for you. I want you to have all the things you deserve.”

  His words seemed to throw her, because the next thing she said was “Look, Bill … about the anthrax. I knew it would never get anywhere near you. I thought it would help you, help reinforce you as a victim of this. Maybe point a finger at the presidency. Him as bad guy, you as one of the many Americans enduring the terrorist attacks, et cetera. You know?”

  “It was clumsy.”

  “Was it? It worked, didn’t it? People are glad you’re alive. They see you as one of the targets of the wave of violence. That put you solidly into the good-guy category.”

  “Sure, sure,” he said, sitting up so he could finish his drink. “Nicest present anyone ever gave me.”

  She laughed. A little too quickly, showing nerves and uncertainty. He made himself laugh, too.

  “Seriously, Bliss, I appreciate the gesture. Really. As weird as it sounds right now, it’s nice to know you have my health and well-being so much in mind.”

  “Always, big guy.”

  He sighed, long and slow. “You know … I’ll miss you, you crazy bitch.”

  “We’ll see each other again.”

  “Sure,” he snorted. “In like two years if I don’t run for the big chair. Longer if I get in. Probably never.”

  “We’ll see each other.”

  “Even if we do, you won’t even look the same.”

  She chuckled. Low and throaty, the way she used to. “Depends on how closely you look.”

  “Damn. Wish it was now. Where are you holed up?”

  “C’mon, you know we can’t play that game.”

  “Right, sorry. Guess I meant to say, ‘What are you wearing?’”

  She laughed again. A real laugh. “Trite and sleazy, but cute. I’m wearing a big smile, how’s that?”

  “Good enough. Keep smiling.”

  “Bill…?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I hope you get what you deserve, too.”

  The line went dead, and Collins slumped back against the cushions and did not move for ten minutes. Then he sighed once more and punched in a number on his cell. The call was answered almost at once, as he expected it would be.

  “Yes,” said a male voice. Neutral, soft.

  “Did you trace the call?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  The man gave him an address.

  “How soon can you take care of this?”

  “Local assets are already in motion.”

  “Call me when it’s done.”

  Collins switched off the phone and got up to build one more drink. On the TV, reporters were interviewing people who wanted the president to be impeached and arrested for the subway massacre. A scrolling banner promised that the president would address the nation at one o’clock in the afternoon. Collins could imagine the roomful of speechwriters and spin doctors trying to make sense of the situation enough to be able to draft a speech that didn’t sound like the patronizing horseshit it would have to be.

  He walked over to the window and looked out at the morning sky. A Secret Service agent noticed him and turned to give him a nod. Collins saluted with his whiskey glass and continued to stare out at the endless blue sky.

  “Goodbye, you crazy bitch,” he murmured.

  The words were mean, but his tone was filled with love and regret.

  Chapter Ninety-two

  Westin Hotel

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Sunday, September 1, 11:22 a.m.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her cell phone.

  The call to Bill Collins had been strange. She’d expected him to appreciate the anthrax ploy. It was just the sort of thing that he needed to separate him from the president. A victim, standing with the other victims in an America under assault. While at the same time the president, whether deemed innocent or guilty in the court of public opinion, would forever be seen as the man who reacted wrongly, with too much power and a total disregard for human life. She was sure that no amount of spin control could repair that kind of damage.

  Thinking about that made her feel immensely powerful. It drove back the monsters of doubt that kept trying to nip at her. It drove nails into the slinking remnants of her conscience that kept trying to crawl after her long past the point where it should be dead.

  Ledger had been wrong about that. So had Riggs. Conscience couldn’t easily be carved out and strangled into silence. It was a persistent little bastard.

  Only power—more power—kept it at bay.

  Her thoughts, however, kept drifting back to Collins.

  Was there something in his voice?

  She was sure there was. But what was it?

  Bliss trusted him a great deal. After all, he had engineered her false death and escape from prison. That had been all him, and it must have been a difficult and necessarily dangerous operation.

  Which meant that he had to care enough about her—love her enough—to take such a risk.

  So what was
that in his voice?

  She opened a can of Diet Coke and sipped it. CNN was on the TV and AP on her laptop. The country was going nicely out of its goddamn mind. It was close to chaos out there. More bombs went off. The last doses of the quick-onset Ebola were released in a cab filled with Japanese businessmen—let the State Department make something out of that. They’d have to assume it was Chinese agents acting on American soil. The last wave of random street attacks was pushing police and other first responders to the outside edge of operational efficiency. Just a couple more pushes and it would be chaos in point of fact.

  Her cell rang, and she answered it on the first ring.

  “Hello, Ludo,” she said, smiling.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  “Are you in position?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this going to be a problem?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good. I’ll text you with a go code. You remember which is which?”

  “Yes, Mother. One is go, two is execute, and three is drop and run.”

  “Very good. You deserve a biscuit.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And, Ludo—”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want a bullet for this one.”

  “Oh.”

  “Something was left in the safe in your room. Use that.”

  “Okey-dokey.”

  “Ludo, for Christ’s sake stop saying okey-dokey. We’re master criminals. We’re supervillains. Can’t you for come up with something that doesn’t sound like we’re a couple of hicks?”

  “Yes, Your Exalted Evilness. How’s that? Or should I call you Dark Lady?”

  Mother Night sighed. “Take your meds and stay by the phone.”

  She disconnected the call.

  Between the bittersweet call to Bill Collins and the surreal call to Ludo, Mother Night felt odd and lonely. Tears burned in the corners of her eyes.

  A voice whispered into her ear. The ghost of a voice.

  Walk away.

  “No,” she told the voice. It was her old unevolved self. The voice of Artemisia Bliss. The weak self. The old self. Though now that voice sounded strangely firm and powerful.

  You can do it. You have enough money. The bank transfers cleared. You’re richer than you ever dreamed. You have the power. Take it and go.