by Jay Allan
“Well, Alexi Drogov, would you mind telling me why you are in my camp? And how you got here without being spotted?” Taylor’s voice wasn’t hostile, but Drogov had the sense there was menace there.
Be careful with this man…
“I am here to see you on a matter of extreme urgency. And I was able to get here unseen because…that is what I do.”
Taylor shook his head and began to turn around. “I’m sorry, Mr. Drogov, but I’m afraid I have a crisis to deal with and no time for riddles.” He turned toward an officer standing next to the guards. “Put him in one of the cells…and…”
“General, your crisis is the reason I am here. To help you with it.”
Taylor turned back toward Drogov. “Help me with what?”
“With stopping Anton Samovich from destroying every city on Earth.”
Taylor’s expression turned deadly serious. “How do you know about that?”
“I have been Secretary-General Samovich’s senior operative for thirty years.”
The guards tensed, and the ones flanking Drogov moved between him and Taylor.
“It’s okay, boys,” Taylor said, his eyes locked on Drogov’s. “Stand back.” To Drogov: “You’ve been Samovich’s henchmen…his murderer…for thirty years, and you think there is any way I would ever trust you?”
Drogov returned Taylor’s gaze. “No, I don’t expect you to trust me.”
“Then what makes you think I’d listen to anything you have to say?”
Drogov stood stone still, his voice deadpan. “Because you have three choices, General. You can surrender…and I assure you if you do, the Secretary-General will show no mercy, not to you nor to any of your people, regardless of any promises he makes to you. You can refuse Anton’s demand and watch four billion people die in a matter of minutes.” He glared right into Taylor’s eyes. “Or you can let me help you stop it all.”
* * *
“The trip to Boston is less than forty minutes at full speed. The Resistance there is throwing everything they’ve got at the UNGov enforcers. But four airships and almost fifty more fighters will make a big difference.” Charles was animated, upbeat. New York was as good as liberated from UNGov control. His people had come to link up with family and old acquaintances, to try and work from the ground up. But now they had driven UNGov out of one city, and they were on the way to do the same thing to another. He’d left a few of his people behind in New York at the media center, trying to hijack a UNGov satellite and report back to army headquarters. He knew the AOL had won a victory of some kind, that much he’d been able to glean from media reports and classified UNGov documents his people had found. But as far as he knew, General Taylor had no idea that North America was virtually in open revolt.
Wickes was sitting in the chair next to Charles. He looked tired and in pain, his arm freshly bandaged and held up in a makeshift sling. But there was no mistaking the satisfaction in his voice. “I want to thank you again, Captain. Your people saved my life last night.”
“They saved mine too,” Charles said, smiling. “A few minutes later and we’d have all been dead.” He glanced down at Wickes’ arm. “Are you sure you shouldn’t have stayed behind, gotten some rest?”
“What, this?” Wickes held his arm up, wincing a bit as he did. “No way,” he said, his tone becoming serious. “I’m old, I know that, and I’m beaten up and exhausted. But I’ve been fighting my whole life for this moment. I’ll be with you every step of the way. First New York, then Boston…then all of North America.”
Charles smiled and nodded. “Sound like a pl…”
A blinding light flashed through the cockpit. Charles blinked and he jumped up from his chair, moving toward the front of the flyer. “What the hell was that?”
The airship pitched hard to the side, slamming him into the far wall as alarms began sounding. The ship flipped over, Charles and half the other occupants thrown into the wall and the ceiling hard.
Charles felt a sharp pain in his leg, another in his side. He lay on the floor as the ship stopped pitching. “What the fuck was that?” he asked, trying to get up but falling back down again as a sharp pain ripped through his body.
“Holy shit,” the pilot said, staring out the cockpit. He was struggling with the controls, trying to keep the flyer steady.
“What?” Charles yelled again, gritting his teeth against the pain as he forced himself up to his feet. He staggered a few steps and fell forward as the ship shook again, grabbing onto the back of the pilot’s chair.
“It’s New York, sir…” The pilot was clearly shaken, and his voice trembled as he spoke.
“New York, what do you mean…” Charles climbed back up behind the pilot’s chair and he held himself up, staring, transfixed. It was on the extreme right of his field of view. New York. Or the rapidly-expanding cloud of smoke and fire that had almost engulfed it. He stood in horror and watched as the massive metropolis they had just left was consumed by thermonuclear fury.
There were millions of people in New York. He’d left a dozen of his own behind, and the rest of Wickes’ Resistance fighters were there too.
They’re all dead now…
His squinted against the brightness, but he couldn’t take his eyes off what he was seeing. He stood, bent over, propping himself against the chair, watching as the last bits of the city vanished in the yellow-white cloud of death. Then he felt as if the floor had dropped away from him. The ship was going down.
“I can’t keep her up, Captain,” the pilot said, his voice on the verge of panic. His hands gripped the throttle tightly, struggling to maintain control as the ship bounced around wildly.
Charles grabbed onto the back of the chair, leaning forward and looking through the cockpit. The ground was close…and getting closer.
“Everybody hang on,” he yelled, dropping low and holding on. “We’re going down…”
He could feel the ship falling, his stomach lurching as they plummeted to the ground. And then…impact. A loud crash, the ship rolling…screams of fear and pain…
Charles lost his grip and slammed into the side of the cabin. There were bodies flying around everywhere, creaking sounds as the ship came apart, finally settling
Charles tried to focus, to stay alert. But then he felt the impact, pain across his face…then silence. Nothing. Blackness.
* * *
“I’m sorry, General Taylor, but there is no deal without your guarantee. Neither I nor any of my operatives will be held responsible for any acts committed in service of UNGov. I don’t care what you do with the Secretariat, the security forces, any UNGov personnel. But you will pardon the Shadow Company and me. Or we can sit here together and listen to the reports come in. It is a simple choice, General. Two hundred of my people…or four billion innocent civilians.” There was no arrogance in Drogov’s tone, but his resolution was like iron.
Taylor sat still, not saying a word. His mind raced with the horrible things he’d imagined Drogov had done, the murders, the torture, the wreckage and misery he had left in his wake. To let such a man escape justice—escape vengeance—it was anathema to all he had fought for. But he knew Drogov was right. He couldn’t surrender his army…he wouldn’t. But he couldn’t watch billions die either.
“I am willing to commute any death sentences for your people, but…”
“Then there is no deal.”
“Mr. Drogov…”
“Jake!” Hank Daniels came rushing into the room. Daniels was the coldest of Taylor’s inner circle, the most committed to the quest. His face was white as a sheet. “It’s New York, Jake…”
“What?” But Taylor knew.
“It’s gone.” Daniels’ voice was weak, raspy. “The reports are still coming in, but the explosion was massive…hundreds of megatons.”
Taylor’s stomach lurched, and he felt the bile start to rise from his stomach. He looked at Daniels for a few seconds, and he saw the same horror in his friend’s face. Then he turned toward Drogov, and
his expression turned to ice.
Drogov met Taylor’s gaze. “This is only a preview, General,” Drogov said, his tone cold, utterly lacking emotion. “No one knows Anton Samovich as I do…and no one else has a chance to stop the cataclysm that is coming in just over ten hours.” He paused. “So do we have a deal?”
Taylor turned away, but his eyes caught Hank Daniels’ stricken face again. Every fiber in his body wanted to refuse, to throw Alexi Drogov in the deepest, darkest hole he could find. He hated Samovich with a passion, but now he wondered if he wasn’t even more disgusted with the turncoat sitting across the table, his hands drenched in three decades of blood. But he knew what he had to do.
“Very well, Mr. Drogov. If—and only if—we successfully prevent Samovich from destroying any more cities…” Taylor paused for a few seconds then forced himself to continue. “…you and your men will be pardoned for all crimes.”
Drogov nodded.
“So what is the plan? What do we need?”
“We need my men, General. And two hundred of your very best. And we have to be ready to go in two hours.”
Chapter 25
Jake Taylor’s Order to Karl Young:
Karl, events continue to defy even my most thoughtful analysis. Of everything I had envisioned, a madman holding the world hostage was not one of them, and even less was trusting one of UNGov’s coldest, most unrepentant killers. But I have no choice. Perhaps I walk into a trap, go willingly to my death. But I must follow my instincts, and I must take any chance.
I am taking Hank with me, along with our 200 very best Erastus veterans. They will give me the best chance to survive this mission, a way to resist, even if this is a trap. But just as importantly, I am leaving you behind. If I fail to return, you must take my place, guide the army to its final victory. No matter what happens, how many people die, you must complete the quest we have begun.
If this proves to be my final order to you, go forward with my blessing and my staunchest confidence in your abilities. There is no one I trust more to carry on if I die. And if I do not return, let this be my farewell to you, my friend. My brothers.
“What about Geneva’s defenses? What about the detection grid? How can we get this close?” Taylor sat in the airship, staring across the cramped cockpit toward Drogov. His voice was tense, and doubts were creeping into his mind. “I committed most of my air strength to this operation. If you’re trying to lead us into some kind of trap, I am telling you now…”
“It is no trap, General.” Drogov was hunched over one of the flyer’s workstations, his fingers moving frantically over the keys. “Geneva’s defensive installations are not what they should be. UNGov never considered a military attack a serious threat, not once they had suppressed the old national military formations. And I have access to what is there.” He paused, punching another few keys. Then he turned and looked up at Taylor. “And I have just disabled it all.”
“All of it? Weapons? Scanning devices?” Taylor looked disbelieving. “Don’t you think that will be suspicious? With the current situation, they will put every installation on alert.”
“You don’t have to like me, General, but give me more credit as a professional. No system will show any malfunction. The scanners will continue to operate…they will simply provide normal reports, readings that will show nothing of your airships.” Drogov paused. “We have been enemies, General, and I realize our cooperation is born of necessity and not choice. But I acknowledge you are an extremely capable soldier. Please accept that I too am skilled at what I do.”
Taylor just nodded. He didn’t like Drogov, and he hated having no choice but to cooperate with him. But there was no question that Samovich’s henchmen was incredibly good at what he did. Just getting as close to headquarters as he had proved that. Besides, Taylor didn’t have any alternatives. Four billion people were going to die in a few hours unless Drogov’s plan worked.
“Bring us down at the coordinates I just sent you,” Drogov said to the pilot. The officer turned and looked toward Taylor, who just nodded.
“And transmit the coordinates to all ships. We need to get on the ground as quickly as possible.” The pilot repeated his glance toward Taylor.
“General Taylor,” Drogov said, “perhaps you could instruct your people to take my directions. I am the one here with an intimate knowledge of Geneva’s layout and defenses.”
“Do as Mr. Drogov says,” Taylor said, sounding like he’d just tasted something bad.
“Yes, sir.” The pilot didn’t look happy, but he turned back to the controls.
Taylor turned and stared at Drogov. “There, that’s my good faith. Now, you tell me exactly where we’re going and what we’re going to do right now, or I will turn these fucking ships around, regardless of whatever your insane ex-boss is planning.”
Drogov returned the gaze, silently for a few seconds. Then he said, “We’re going to a spot where we can land undetected. It’s ten klicks out of Geneva, a low spot with a high ridge between it and the city. I’ve disabled all the detection grids, programmed them to give clear readings. And there’s an underground tunnel that leads right into the heart of the city…right to UNGov headquarters.”
“A tunnel?”
“It’s an escape route, intended for the Secretariat if they had to flee the city. The access point is well hidden, and usually inaccessible from the outside. But I entered the override codes. It should be open by the time we get there.”
Taylor sighed. “That sounds like a risky plan. If we get caught there, if someone sees the airships coming and reports them…”
“It is a risk. Everything is a risk. But Geneva is in an uproar…people are running scared, trying to figure out what to do, how to survive, to preserve their wealth and position. There’s a good chance we can get in before anyone knows we’re there. A very good chance.”
“And you know where we need to go to deactivate the doomsday system? To disarm the weapons.”
“No,” Drogov said. “There is no way to disable the system, not once it has been armed. Not in the time we have.”
“Then what is the plan? Why are we here if we can’t disarm the weapons?”
Drogov took a breath. “We can’t deactivate the system, General Taylor, but we can prevent the final detonation code from being entered.”
“How?”
Drogov hesitated, a pained look passing briefly over his emotionless expression. “By killing the one man who possesses those codes. By killing Anton Samovich.”
* * *
Stan Wickes stared up at the sky. It was dark, hazy, an immense cloud of ash and dust completely blocking the sunlight, creating a bizarre midday dusk. The deep gray of the sky glowed softly, the reflections from the fires consuming New York the only light in the darkness.
He moved to the side, gritting his teeth against the pain. He was hurt, in more places than he wanted to think about. But none of that mattered. He had a stark choice. Get up and on his feet…or lie where he was and wait for death. And Marines didn’t give up.
His mind was fuzzy. He remembered crawling from the wreckage. The actual crash was a bit obscure. He remembered the shouts in the airship, strapping in to his seat and bracing for impact. But he couldn’t actually recall when they’d hit. The next thing he remembered was lying in the shattered craft, surrounded by chunks of metal and plastic…and bodies.
He struggled up to his feet and staggered back toward the ship. He was dizzy, and he had to concentrate to avoid falling down. But his comrades were in there, and he had to get to them, help them out. He leaned against the broken fuselage and looked around. Nobody. It looked like he was the only one who’d gotten out. He froze when his eyes moved back toward New York. The massive cloud was still there, dissipating a bit, but still hanging over the entire city. He could see the light of a massive firestorm in the gaps in the smoke and dust. He was a groundpounding Marine, no expert in high-yield nuclear weapons. But he couldn’t escape an obvious conclusion. Not one pers
on in twenty could still be alive in the ravaged city…and most of them would die in a day or two from radiation poisoning, even if they escaped the rampaging firestorms.
In all his years in the Resistance, all his dreams of rebellion, of freeing the city, and later the world, from UNGov’s tyranny, he’d never imagined retribution on such a scale. He found himself frozen, unable to tear his eyes away from the vision of hell before him. Everyone he knew, all the Resistance warriors he’d left behind, friends, comrades…they were all dead now. They had won a great victory, struck a blow toward freeing the world, but their celebration was short-lived. Their struggle had cost them their lives.
No, there’s nothing you can do about New York, no way to help your comrades there…
He took a deep breath, steeling himself against the pain, and he pushed his way back into the remains of the airship. It was a nightmare. There were bodies everywhere. His eyes panned around, looking for movement, any sign of survivors. But there was nothing. Nothing but bodies, bloody and mangled.
He stumbled forward, grabbing onto anything he could reach to steady himself. The main body of the ship was at an angle, and a large section of roof had caved in, making it difficult to move around. He looked down at each body, reaching out, checking vainly for a pulse, for any signs of life. But they were all dead.
Finally, he found Charles. The man who had saved his life…twice. The man who had commanded the AOL soldiers who had made the Resistance’s victory possible. He knew in his gut as soon as he saw his friend. Charles’ was lying on top of a bulkhead, his legs covered in blood. But it was when his gaze fell on the AOL captain’s face that he was sure. Charles’ head was twisted at an obscene angle, his neck clearly broken.
Wickes knew his comrade was dead, but he reached out and put his fingers to Charles’ neck. Nothing.
Wickes felt the strength draining from him. New York destroyed…his home. All his comrades, old and new. He was old, alone, in pain. He felt an almost irresistible urge to give up, to stay where he was, lie down and die next to his comrades. If he hadn’t gotten a lethal dose of radiation yet, he knew he would if he stayed put. The effort could end, the pain. Death would bring relief, it would bring peace.