Fulcrum: V Plague Book 12

by Dirk Patton

  Holding the knife up, I turned it so the headlights glinted off the blade. He stared at it, transfixed.

  “Angle City,” he finally said, looking down at his lap.

  “Get the map out of the Hummer,” I said to Rachel.

  A moment later she handed me the glossy atlas. I flipped pages until I found the one for Nevada and held it in the light so the man could see.

  “Show me,” I said.

  His hands were tied behind his back, and all he could do was tell me where to look. It took a few moments, but I finally spotted it. Standing up, I moved next to Rachel.

  “Middle of nowhere,” I said, staring at the map.

  Angle City appeared only to be accessible by a primitive forest service road. It was at the base of a solitary mountain called Mormon Peak and was about 40 miles across the empty desert from our current location. Far enough that I wasn’t too worried about more of the militia suddenly appearing.

  “Tell me about Vegas,” I said to the man.

  “What about it?”

  “Is it full of infected? Are the roads passable?”

  “That’s where you’re going? Vegas?”

  “Doesn’t matter where I’m going,” I growled. “Answer the fucking question.”

  “The last squad we sent down there reported there was a lot of infected still in the city. Roads are clogged. They had to walk in. Barely made it out. Why you want to go to Vegas?”

  I ignored the man and walked a few yards away into the dark. Rachel came to stand next to me, Dog remaining close to the prisoner. Calling Sam and Long, I had them bring their two guys back so we could all talk.

  “These guys are part of a prepper militia outfit,” I said when we were all standing in a tight group. “And they aren’t the same ones that we heard on the radio.”

  “How the hell are there survivors?” Sam asked.

  “Beats the hell out of me,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “He says they were all in bunkers and only came back above ground a couple of weeks ago. Seems they were out scavenging for whatever they could find. Saw us and thought we’d be an easy target.”

  “Dumb shits,” Long muttered.

  “That’s not the worst. Infected in Vegas, and the roads are jammed. We’re going to have to find a way around. Probably off-road, but I’m worried about the river crossings.”

  “What river crossing?” Rachel asked in surprise.

  “The Colorado. Hoover Dam is just south of Vegas. There’s a roadway on top of it, but I think it was permanently barricaded after 9/11. That leaves a bridge just downstream, but who knows if it’s still standing.”

  “What are our options if it’s out?” Sam asked.

  “Follow the river down into California and hope to find a bridge that will get us into Arizona. We could just follow the river all the way to the sea in Mexico, but that will add several hundred miles.”

  “What do we do with these guys?” Long asked, gesturing at the three men.

  I turned to look at them. Considered the options, not the least of which was just putting a bullet in each of their heads.

  “Turn them loose,” Rachel said after watching my face for a couple of seconds. “Give them some water and send them on their way.”

  “Might not be a good idea,” Sam said, looking intently at me.

  I knew what he was thinking. Turn these guys loose and they hook back up with their buddies. Because of my questions, they knew where we were headed. It wasn’t hard to imagine a whole bunch of them loading up and coming after us. But, leave their corpses in the desert, and even if they were found, no one would know for sure where we’d gone, or even who had killed them.

  “We don’t do this!”

  Rachel stepped between me and the SEAL, glaring at both of us. After a long pause, I nodded.

  “Disable all the vehicles, make sure they’ve got water and cut them loose,” I said.

  Long and Sam looked at me for a beat, then turned away to do as I’d ordered.

  “And take their shoes,” I called after them.

  “Their shoes?” Rachel asked.

  “They won’t be going anywhere very fast without them,” I said. “Not in the desert. It’ll buy us some time to get out of the area.”

  15

  It was pitch black in the desert as we resumed driving south. The moon was just a tiny crescent and didn’t provide enough light to see your hand in front of your face. We were running without any lights showing. Fortunately, the night vision goggles allowed us to navigate the rough terrain without having to worry about driving into an unseen canyon.

  We had about 90 miles to cover before we reached Vegas, and it was going to be slow going if we stayed off the lone highway that crossed the desert. I didn’t want to go back to the pavement where the likelihood of being ambushed again was much higher, but was about to convince myself it was necessary. We were just moving too damn slow.

  Sure, the Hummers were tough and capable, but we were having to keep our speed around 30 because of the rugged moonscape of southern Nevada. That meant three more hours just to get to Vegas. At a minimum. And that was just too much time.

  I had no idea what condition the pilot was in. About all I knew was that he was adrift in a tiny life raft. Did he have water? Was he injured? Would he survive the coming day, baking in the sun on the surface of the sea? We needed to get there as fast as we could. But then what?

  The SEAL was right. It was going to be next to impossible to find him somewhere in thousands of square miles. It would be like looking for a specific grain of sand on a beach. If we didn’t know where to look, the chances of us finding it were pretty damn slim. I shook my head as I made my decision.

  “We’re getting back on the highway,” I said over the radio.

  Neither Sam nor Long responded, but they stayed close behind as I steered towards the narrow strip of asphalt.

  “Why aren’t we staying off-road?” Rachel asked.

  “Moving too slow,” I said, grunting as we hit a depression in the desert floor that momentarily sent the big vehicle airborne.

  She nodded and braced herself as we bounced over a series of rocks. I had to slow to negotiate a deep drainage ditch, then we were back on the marginally smoother asphalt. Quickly I had us up to the vehicle’s top speed, the needle bouncing somewhere between 60 and 65.

  “So I’ve been thinking,” Rachel said after several quiet miles.

  “About what?” I asked when she didn’t continue with her thought.

  “The virus and why these people aren’t infected.”

  “Because they were in bunkers. Protected. Right?”

  “Maybe. But remember the Canadians when we landed at Offutt. As soon as they were exposed, some of them started turning.”

  “Ok…”

  “I think it might be environmental.”

  “I’m not following,” I said.

  “Alright. Remember how the Canadians were OK because the virus couldn’t survive in the extreme cold?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, it gets pretty hot here, right?”

  “Very,” I said. “Maybe a little cooler than where I’m from in Arizona, but it’ll still reach 110 in the summer. You think that’s it? The virus can’t handle extreme temperatures?”

  “It makes sense,” Rachel said, nodding slowly as she thought. “Besides, that’s normal for any virus. They like a nice, temperate environment. In general. I mean, just look at this place! When’s the last time it rained? Weeks? Months?”

  “Maybe. Probably,” I said. “But, if that’s the case, why are there infected in Vegas? The attacks were in the summer. If it can’t survive the heat…”

  “Humans can’t survive the heat, either. That’s why we have air conditioning and easily available water. Our planes, cars, trains… all of them are cooled and would make a perfect environment for the virus. Perhaps it was people that had been exposed but hadn’t turned yet, maybe fleeing California, that brought it here.

  “I
t would be on their clothing. Their personal possessions. Everything they touched or breathed on would become contaminated. If it was an object outside, in the sun, the virus probably wouldn’t survive more than a few minutes at best. After all, how hot do things get in direct sunlight when it’s 110?”

  “Door handles are hot enough to blister your fingers if they’re in the sun,” I said.

  “There’s probably no way the Chinese could have hardened the virus to the point that it could survive that. But, all it would take would be one infected person to walk into a hotel or casino, or a convenience store to buy a drink, and the environment suddenly becomes hospitable. That’s probably why there are infected here.”

  I thought about what she was saying as I drove. Checked the mirrors to make sure Long and Sam were still back there. Returned my attention to the road ahead.

  “So, this place was free of contagion, but now that winter is coming, and the weather has cooled off, it’ll be back?”

  “Not necessarily,” Rachel said, shaking her head. “I don’t know if the infected remain contagious. Maybe, maybe not. I’m sure Dr. Kanger could tell us, but that’s not something that ever came up when I was around.”

  “How does this help us?” I asked after several more miles of quiet.

  Rachel shook her head, biting her lower lip in thought.

  “I don’t know that it does,” she finally said. “It’s just a puzzle that I was trying to work out in my head.”

  We lapsed into silence at that point. Only the hum of the tires on pavement and the constant rumble of Dog’s snoring from the back seat broke the quiet.

  “Major.”

  I was startled when Lieutenant Sam’s voice came over my earpiece. Rachel noticed me jump slightly, and grinned.

  “Go,” I answered, ignoring her.

  “How close are we going to be to Nellis when we pass through Vegas?”

  He was referring to Nellis Air Force Base. I knew it was near the city but had no idea where it was located.

  “No clue,” I said. “What are you thinking?”

  “That we could use some heavier weapons. How about a quick stop to raid the armory?”

  I thought about that for a moment, liking the idea. But, would we be able to get to the base?

  “Check the map,” I said to Rachel after telling Sam to standby. “You’re looking for Nellis Air Force Base. It’s somewhere near Vegas, but I’ve got no idea where.”

  Rachel dug around on the floor, lifting the road atlas into her lap a few moments later.

  “Check around for a red-lensed flashlight,” I said, stopping her from turning on a small light that would have washed out my night vision goggles.

  She rummaged some more but didn’t find one.

  “What do you want me to do?” She asked after searching the interior of the vehicle.

  “Hang on,” I said to her, then activated the radio. “Anyone got a red lens?”

  It turned out that Igor had some red cellophane in his pack for this exact purpose. With a sigh at having to lose more time, I called a halt and braked to a stop in the middle of the road. I hated losing even a minute but wasn’t about to turn on the vehicle’s lights so I could see while Rachel read the map. That would be as good as sending up a flare for any of the groups in the area that might want to intercept us.

  We’d only been stopped for a couple of seconds when Igor appeared at Rachel’s door and handed her a sheet of the stuff before running back to his vehicle. Rachel wrapped the noisy plastic around the lens of her flashlight, commanding Dog’s immediate interest and undivided attention. It crackled like the kind of plastic used to wrap food, and it took him an extended session of thoroughly sniffing every object in Rachel’s lap to satisfy himself he wasn’t missing out on a treat.

  “Found it,” Rachel said almost a minute later. “Looks like it’s just south of I-15 as we come into the north part of town.”

  “We can get there without having to go through the city?” I asked, confirming what I’d hoped I was hearing.

  “Yes. The highway we’re on connects to the 15, then it’s maybe about 10 miles or so to the base.”

  I nodded and relayed the information to the other vehicles, accelerating away immediately. Quickly, Long and Sam were back on my ass. Ok, so it didn’t take that much time.

  If there was a large contingent of infected when we got there, I wasn’t going to stop. We didn’t have time to fight our way in and out. But if it looked clear, and we could make a quick run onto the base and secure some heavier weapons, it was worth the time.

  16

  Admiral Packard snugged down his seatbelt as the big Seahawk helicopter lifted off the ground. He was on his way to Mt. Kaala for a personal look at the defensive positions that were being prepared. Fifteen minutes before, he’d gotten word from an observation flight that the Russians had successfully intercepted and shot down all of the bombers, and most of the escorting fighters, that were part of Falcon flight.

  All of the main communication systems were still down, Jessica working furiously to restore the Navy’s servers. As a stop gap, high-speed boats had been sent out into the open ocean to form a daisy chain of repeaters that would carry a radio signal from Pearl Harbor to a severely degraded Carrier Strike Group that was steaming to meet the invaders.

  The CSG was merely a shadow of what it had once been, now not much more than a ragtag collection of ships and damaged submarines, which were preparing to engage the enemy fleet. The Admiral well knew they had no hope of stopping the Russians. That wasn’t the point. The brave men and women on those ships and subs were sacrificing themselves to buy time for the defenders on the shore. Time that was desperately needed.

  The latest estimate was that the first Russian ship would be coming over the horizon in slightly less than 40 hours. Not much time when the positions his people were preparing were moldering and overgrown with dense, jungle foliage due to decades of neglect.

  No, not neglect, he reflected. Dismissal. The belief that technology and the military might of the US would stop any potential aggressors well before they could make landfall. After all, land invasions of this sort were something from the distant past. It had been a very long time since anyone in the Pentagon had seriously considered the possibility of an enemy landing troops on American soil. Certainly not since the Cold War ended.

  With a shake of his head, Packard acknowledged to himself that only a year ago he would have dismissed the possibility out of hand. The days of assaults like the invasion of Normandy by the allies in World War II were nothing more than the occasional movie to the modern military. A military that was almost totally dependent on its technological superiority.

  Not that all of the advancements of the past 70 to 75 years weren’t quantum leaps forward in how war was fought, but sometimes it came down to the simplest of terms. Strip away all the tech and what was left? A man in a foxhole with a rifle. With a sigh, the Admiral realized they weren’t far from that becoming the new normal. Until current stores of ammunition were exhausted. Then what? Bows and arrows? Rocks and sticks?

  It was a very real concern for the Admiral and his staff. There were no factories in Hawaii that manufactured rifle ammunition, or anything else that was needed. And, with the Russian presence along the west coast of the mainland, he couldn’t send scavenging crews to replenish their stores. Fortunately, there were tons upon tons of ammo and munitions stockpiled on the island. But, once the enemy arrived, they’d burn through those reserves in a hurry.

  “Admiral, Fulcrum has been successfully picked up by the North Carolina. The team is on board, and they’re proceeding at best speed to the target.”

  Packard’s aide’s voice coming over the noise canceling headset startled the Admiral out of his reverie. He turned his head, met the Commander’s eyes and nodded.

  Fulcrum was a team of SEALs he had dispatched in a last ditch effort to stop the impending Russian invasion. They had been flown out of Pearl Harbor in a B2 stealth bom
ber, heading southwest in a large circle to keep plenty of distance open between them and the Russian fleet that was sailing from Midway. They’d jumped from 30,000 feet, 600 miles due south of the Solomon Islands, into the vastness of the empty south Pacific.

  Once the team was in the water and formed up, they dove beneath the waves to a waiting submarine, the North Carolina. A Virginia class, fast-attack boat, it was hovering at periscope depth, waiting for the SEALs. They were quickly aboard, entering through an airlock specifically designed to support special operations personnel. Once they were aboard, the Captain sent a burst transmission from a slender mast that was the only part of the boat showing above the surface.

  The B2, loitering in the area, received the message as the North Carolina retracted the antenna and dove for the protection of the ocean depths. The signal was repeated by the bomber and picked up by a KC-135 tanker that was flying a racetrack pattern 800 miles to the northeast. It was waiting to refuel the SEALs’ plane, as well as act as a radio relay.

  From the tanker, the message bounced through another aircraft patrolling south of Hawaii, then was repeated by half a dozen small boats that were positioned to act as relay stations. It eventually arrived in Pearl Harbor’s CIC and was immediately passed on to Admiral Packard’s aide.

  As the North Carolina dove, it accelerated to 35 knots and set a heading of 180 degrees, or due south. Their destination was 1,300 miles away, and if the speed could be maintained, they would arrive in slightly less than 33 hours. Once at their target, the SEALs would lockout of the submerged boat and deploy two RIBs housed in a specially constructed addition to the hull of the submarine. Once on the surface, they would begin a fifty-mile journey to shore under the cover of darkness.

  Entering Sydney Harbour, they would navigate to Elizabeth Bay before making landfall at 0200 local time. From there, a short, one-mile walk would bring them to the luxury penthouse apartment that was the new home of President Barinov. Their mission was simple, and they had been unleashed by the Admiral. No rules of engagement. They were to locate and capture the Russian president.