by Bob Mayer
“We can stay here at the bottom for another 42 days,” the Captain said.
The Sarov was unique, part of a new breed of submarines that countries without as much money to burn on nuclear powered subs were developing. It was a diesel-battery submarine that also had a small nuclear reactor, which recharged the batteries.
Normal diesel driven submarines could not stay submerged for more than four or five days working off their batteries before they had to surface, start their diesel engines and recharge the batteries. The Sarov could run for twenty days at cruising speed on the batteries as they were trickle-charged by the reactor before having to surface. Since they were sitting on the bottom in whisper mode, that time frame was extended to 45 days.
None of the three reacted to the statement, which they already knew.
“However,” the Captain said, “Poseidon will detonate in one hundred and twenty-six hours. I would like options.”
The Nuclear Officer, Volkov, whose province the weapon fell under, indeed his major reason for being on the boat besides taking care of the reactor and engines, had already formulated his plan. “We launch it.”
“Where?” the Captain asked. “What target?”
“Our war target. The American Trident submarine base. We fulfill our mission. Our destiny.”
Vladimir nodded his support.
“Why?” the Captain asked. “We are not at war with the Americans.”
“Does it matter now?” Volkov said.
“’Does it matter now’, sir,” the Captain corrected the young officer.
“Apologies, Captain.” Volkov regrouped. “If we change the targeting out to sea we need at least four hundred miles of stand-off for detonation not to damage our hull. If we remain on target with Kitsap, we can make for the open ocean at full speed. The effect, channeled in Puget Sound and dampened coming out of the Strait of Juan de Fuca will be minimal once we are away from the coast.”
“’Four hundred miles’?” the Captain repeated. He tapped the chart on the small table. “What direction? South along the American coast? Along the Canadian coast?”
“The mid-Pacific,” Vladimir said. “Where it will not hurt anyone.”
“The tsunami?” the Captain reminded him. “Say we target mid-Pacific. As far from shorelines. Where is that?”
The Executive Officer (XO), who had served with the Captain in a previous command and knew his ways, had already plotted that. He tapped the chart. “That would be here, sir.”
“And the tsunami?” the Captain asked.
“The tsunami would have some effect, sir,” Volkov acknowledged. “Detonated here it would be roughly twenty feet in height along this shore.” He was indicated the northwest coast of the United States. “And here.” He tapped the Hawaiian Islands. “The other side of the Pacific? At most ten feet. Of course, we only have the computer simulations.”
“Simulations for Kitsap,” the Captain said.
“There have been other simulations, sir,” Volkov said.
“Yes,” the Captain said. “And the salt?”
“The what?” the XO said.
“The Cobalt-60 that Poseidon will release in the blast,” the Captain said. “It will ride the water with the tsunami and also into the air with the blast. What will that do? Will that not be worse than the blast or the tsunami? Kill everything living far beyond the radius?”
The three officers had no answer.
“Poseidon is indeed a doomsday weapon,” the Captain finally said. “Beyond being the most powerful nuclear device every designed, salting it with Cobalt, makes it a dirty bomb. The fallout will spread around the world. We have no idea what the effect will be, do we?”
“That is already happening,” the XO said. “India and Pakistan have seen to that.”
“Their weapons weren’t dirty,” the Captain said. “There will be effects, but the radioactivity should be confined to the Asian subcontinent. We ran that scenario many times.”
“But global temperatures will fall, sir,” Volkov pointed out.
The XO laughed. “’Temperatures will fall’? Really? Is that something we need to worry about given what is hanging over the planet? For all we know, the aliens have already landed and killed everyone.”
The Captain held up his hand, stopping the exchange between the two. “Tasha!” he called out in a louder voice.
The door cracked open immediately. “Sir?”
“Some tea for all, please.”
“Yes, sir.” The door shut.
The Captain noted that Vladimir did not look at the female sailor.
“’Tea’?” The XO was amused. “Why not vodka, sir? I don’t think we need to save it for a special event.”
The Captain chuckled. “Perhaps. But we still have some time.”
“Why do we not attack the aliens, sir?” Volkov asked.
“We would need to know where they are,” the XO said, “and our orders are to sit tight for at least thirty days.”
“I want options,” the Captain said. “Can we turn Poseidon off? If we can’t turn it off, can we neutralize its effects?”
“Sir!” Volkov said. “What if the aliens have taken over the world? Shouldn’t we fight them with Poseidon.”
“And destroy the world in the meanwhile?” the Captain said. “What is the point? Revenge?”
“Then at least let us battle the Americans, sir,” Vladimir said.
The Captain sighed. “When I took command, I knew the implications of Poseidon. It is part of the insanity of our world, where we make war on our own kind. I viewed it as a device to keep us from taking that insanity to a level from which we could not retreat. I was wrong.” He held up a hand. “I do not think orders apply much any more. You are correct,” he said to Volkov, giving him back some of the face he’d lost. “We should attack the aliens if we can. To do that we must have intelligence. Sitting here on our hands will not accomplish that. We will surface in twenty-four hours unless something changes. To determine what the status of the world is.”
WARDENCLYFFE, SHOREHAM, NEW YORK
“Reuben?” Linda said.
He looked up from the board he’d been soldering. “Yes?”
“We’re going to die, aren’t we?”
Reuben Shear put the soldering gun down. “Most likely.”
“What if those ships are just gathering data?”
“They’ve already attacked the planet,” Shear reminded her.
“But maybe that was just defensive to prevent our attacks on them? Why are those ships hovering up there? Maybe they won’t come down?”
“Perhaps,” Shear said, feeling her desperation. His mind was still spinning from the quick review of the Strategy. He was aghast that he’d been part of a larger plan that had called for the eradication of most of the population of the planet, yet the scientist part of him understood the inherent logic. He hadn’t been surprised to realize that there had never been a plan to bring the people from Wardenclyffe, or for that matter most of the Myrddin, on the mothership. That was par for the course given the immensity of the cleansing.
Linda began coughing so hard she doubled over.
“What’s wrong?” Reuben asked. He went to her and put a comforting hand on her back. She was burning up. “Linda?”
When she looked up at him her eyes were red-rimmed and her forehead was covered in sweat. “I feel terrible.”
It took every ounce of muscle control for Shear not to jerk his hand back.
It was too late anyway.
SOLAR SYSTEM, INSIDE MERCURY’S ORBIT
The Solar System’s star is a G2V main-sequence, also known as a yellow dwarf. This was typical for a system that held Scale life. Stars are normally formed by the collapse of matter into a mass that becomes so hot it initiates nuclear fusion in the core. This star’s diameter is 1.39 million kilometers, over one hundred times greater than the planet the Swarm was going to reap. Roughly three quarters of the mass is hydrogen, most of the rest helium, and there are s
mall quantities of heavy elements such as neon, iron, oxygen and carbon. It fuses 600 million tons of hydrogen into helium every second which causes 4 million tons of matter to become energy in that instant.
The Scoop stopped at a distance where it could maintain position against the gravitational pull of the star. The warships had already halted further out as they had less powerful engines than the Scoop.
The tip of the Scoop irised open. It began firing five-meter diameter black spheres at the star.
Forty-two were shot out, one every few minutes, then the opening closed.
As the spheres dropped into the star’s gravity well, the Scoop took an orbit around the star, heading for the far side.
ON THE FOURTH DAY: THE WAIT
AREA 51
For the first time in his life, Turcotte wished he had access to the Internet. He was looking at information from Duncan’s ka. This was material she’d gathered during her time on Earth. Included were her own personal musings on things she’d observed over the millennia.
These particular notes were an addendum to the information from her own planet about the Swarm. Duncan had been of the opinion that there was some sort of common memory that the branches of the human race shared across different planets. She had found too many things similar, such as myths and legends, among the humans on Earth and from her home planet. Naturally, if the Airlia ‘invented’ and seeded us, that made sense.
But if they didn’t? Turcotte wondered.
Duncan hadn’t needed to Google anything; she’d lived it. She and her partner, Gwalcmai, had traveled this world for over ten millennia off and on. They’d met many people and experienced numerous cultures. They’d listened to stories around campfires, tall tales in town squares and seedy taverns, sat at the feet of the famous Greek orators and absorbed much more.
According to what she wrote, Duncan was amazed at the similarities in the cultures. Reinforcing the possibility of a shared genetic memory. Turcotte scanned what she’d written: her take on the commonalities in folk and fairy tales, religions and gods, and more. She’d spent a good deal of time comparing and contrasting Norse mythology with a major religious sect from her home world.
Interesting but not necessarily applicable as the world was facing its doom.
However, there was an asterisk, looping him to a theory she had about the Swarm: that humans had experienced the Ancient Enemy before, somewhere else in the universe, and that some had survived. And that the stories from those survivors of what happened had become sublimated into the collective unconscious of mankind in the form of monsters.
It was also possible that these common ‘memories’ came from the Airlia, especially if they had invented humans.
Turcotte lightly rubbed the back of his head, careful not to move the bandage.
Turcotte scrolled through her notes quickly, noting the array of monsters whose drawings and images she’d collected over the years. If one-tenth of that reflected the truth about the Swarm it was going to be very, very bad.
But this still didn’t give him any sort of solution to the looming problem of the warships encircling the Earth and the Battle Core in orbit. Or why the implant had come alive with the arrival of the Core. What was the connection? Who exactly was he?
Most importantly: what was the Swarm’s next step?
EAST SIDE, MANHATTAN
The Assassin held Marly’s head while she vomited. At first she’d worried about her culinary skills but, seriously, even she couldn’t mess up soup. This was something else.
The red eyes, the fever, the vomiting, indicated worse than food poisoning. The Assassin lifted the girl and carried her to the canopied bed. She placed her down, then got a cold compress, applying it to the girl’s forehead.
“How are you?”
“I want my papa,” the girl whimpered. “I want my papa.”
That isn’t going to happen, the Assassin thought. She forced Marly to down a couple of aspirin, but beyond that, she was at a loss. GSW—gun shot wounds—she could deal with. Sucking chest wound? Got it covered. Field-expedient tourniquet? Did it, done it.
But sick? The Assassin didn’t do sick. She did violence. “You’ll be all right.” That was the same: always reassure.
The Assassin walked to the window and looked out. Usually she could see a few people here and there. Looters. People wandering aimlessly. But the streets were strangely empty. She put her rifle to the shoulder and looked through the scope. She had a good angle up Fourth Avenue if she leaned out slightly. She finally saw two people walking. Three blocks north a woman was half-supporting a man. The man went to his knees and the woman lost her grip. He leaned forward on his hands. From his movements, the Assassin could tell that he was vomiting. The woman turned away, but then she too, threw up.
The man weakly lifted one hand, waving at her to move on. The Assassin zoomed on his face. There was blood running out of his mouth, his nose and his eyes. He gestured once more, his mouth moving. The woman stared at him for several seconds, then turned away and continued up Fourth. The man crumbled into the fetal position.
The Assassin’s finger curled over the trigger, but then her training over-rode her mercy. The shot would not only give away her position, but indicated she was armed in a city where there were very few firearms.
The Assassin put the rifle down. Through a break in the dark clouds she saw the alien ships overhead, motionless, lurking. “Fuckers,” the Assassin muttered. “Can’t even fight us straight on.”
She walked into the bedroom. Marly was moaning, lightly trashing about. A thin trail of blood crept out of one nostril.
The Assassin was still for several moments, then reached into the top pouch on the left shoulder of her combat vest, the one she could get to with just her mouth if needed and open with her teeth. It held a Quik-clot emergency bandage and a small foil packet. She removed the packet. Went to the kitchen and brewed hot chocolate. She crushed what was in the packet, then tore it open and dropped the crumbs into the mug. She washed her hands and went back to the bedroom.
“Hey,” the Assassin said. “Marly.”
The girl was delirious with fever. The Assassin sat on the edge of the bed next to her. Slid an arm underneath her head and lifted her partly up. “Drink this. It will help.”
Marly shook her head, moaning.
“Do you want to see your father?” the Assassin asked. “Your papa? Drink this. Please.”
“Papa?” Marly murmured and as she opened her mouth, the Assassin tipped the mug.
“Good, girl,” the Assassin said. She slid more hot chocolate into Marla’s mouth as she moaned.
Marla coughed, gagged slightly.
Took another swallow.
Then she died.
The Assassin gently laid her head back on the pillow. Got up and walked away, shutting the door without a backward glance.
SURVIVAL SILO, KANSAS
Tremble, Doc and Jack were in the sniper’s nest. Jack was watching the perimeter while Doc smoked a cigarette, shoulders slumped. Tremble was pacing back and forth, trying to formulate a course of action.
“Would you stop?” Jack finally asked. “It’s getting on my nerves.”
“This is getting on your nerves?” Tremble was incredulous.
“Hey, I told you to kick the kid out,” Jack said. “What difference would it have made now?”
“You’re an asshole,” Tremble said.
“I’m an alive asshole,” Jack said. “And that’s how I’ve stayed alive. By putting self first. You fucked up keeping that sick kid inside.”
“If he’s the only one who was sick,” Doc said.
“Does anyone else have it?” Tremble asked.
“No one else has shown symptoms,” Doc said.
“Yeah, they have.” Jack pointed outside. “Earlier I shot a mother carrying a kid. It was bleeding from the mouth, nose, eyes and ears. Fucked up. I shot ‘em both.”
“Did the mother show symptoms?” Doc asked.
; Tremble was trying to catch up. “You did what?”
“No,” Jack said. “She looked healthy. She must have figured we were her best shot at medical care. Pun intended.” He laughed bitterly. “Guess I cured ‘em both.”
Tremble picked up his own rifle and looked outside, through the scope. A dozen or more bodies littered the landscape. “You shot all of them?”
“No, I invited them in for tea,” Jack said. “Wake up Tremble.” He looked over at Doc. “What did you do with the kid’s body?”
“He had a name,” Tremble said. “Michael.”
“Wrapped it securely,” Doc said. “But if the kid was exposed to something, then his family was and now we all have. That happened the moment we let them in, so it doesn’t matter that we didn’t exile the kid. It was too late. With a virus, it’s the kids and the elderly who succumb first. The weak.”
“Do you know what it is?” Jack asked.
It was Doc’s turn to give a short laugh. “’What it is’? Shit, man, I saw Ebola during a rotation in Africa. This is worse at the end. Slow buildup, looks like normal flu, then bam, it took him out in less than thirty minutes. He was bleeding faster than I could put fluids in. I had two IVs wide open, whole blood and saline going in. Didn’t matter. He was also shitting his guts out. Coughing his lungs up. Never seen, never heard of anything like this. Ebola takes much longer to ramp up from the first sign of symptoms until death. A lot longer.”
“You’re sure no else is sick?” Tremble asked.
“No one has reported being sick,” Doc said. “But I’ve heard some coughs. We don’t know when Michael was exposed to the virus, so we don’t know the timeline. But like I said. That last part was unbelievable.” He shook his head. “I took a course on biological warfare where they told us about the nastiest shit the lab guys could come up with and this is beyond that. There’s a reason biological warfare isn’t popular and its not just because it’s indiscriminate in who it kills. It’s just never been very effective.”
“But this is?” Jack asked.