by Earl Merkel
As one, the room rose to its feet and saluted.
As Sivigny gathered his notes and charts, an officer appeared at his side. It took Sivigny a moment to recognize the mission intelligence officer, his visage made insectlike by the goggle eyes of the mask. Like Sivigny, Chuck Mason was normally tasked to the Special Operations squadron.
“You’ve got the Tallahassee segment of the ring, Pete,” Mason said, his voice pitched low. “Be advised that the situation on the ground is highly volatile, understand? Rioting, buildings burning. It’s like an armed insurrection down there—probably everything from the Aryan Brotherhood to Greenpeace is packing heavy iron. It’s out of control, is that clear?”
Taken aback, Sivigny tried to treat it lightly. “That about covers the whole damn state, doesn’t it?”
“It’s worse where you’re going,” the intelligence officer said. “I don’t know if you’ve heard. Civilian electricity’s out in a number of areas inside the Quarantine Region, including the state capital. The militants and the crazies are blowing up transmission towers, for God’s sake.” He looked around, as if he was speaking out of school.
“Thanks,” Sivigny said. “I’ll watch myself up there. I got the message about the small-arms fire.”
His informant shook his head ominously.
“Small-arms fire, hell. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. A Florida Highway Patrol aircraft tried to drop leaflets over Tallahassee this morning. The aircraft went down, Pete—right after the pilot reported that somebody was shooting the hell out of his plane. An A-10 flew over on a low-altitude scouting mission about a hour ago. It got holed pretty badly, barely made it back. Fifty-caliber rounds, at least; maybe even forty millimeter—they’re not sure. It must be mobile, ’cause we can’t pin down a location. But anything that flies over the city is taking fire from it. Pete, somebody down there found themselves a damn big machine gun, and figured out how to use it.”
Sivigny pushed the big plane down the runway, watching the ground-speed indicator ease well past V-one before he rotated off the runway. Compared to some loads he had carried, the VIX and its accompanying apparatus were a negligible addition to the takeoff weight; still, there was no need to hot-dog—not with twenty-two canisters of virus affixed to tubing the length of the fuselage.
He passed over Highway 90, which separated Hurlburt from the military housing south of the field; today, no children looked up to wave from backyard swing sets or wading pools. Still climbing in the bright sunlight, he passed over the thin strip of sugar white beach and above the impossible green of the gulf before banking left on a northeast heading.
Pete Sivigny had always displayed a light touch on the yoke, taking a secret pride in the delicacy with which he had trained himself to handle the huge bird even under difficult situations. It was a skill that had come in handy during covert operations in which he had been involved. He had been shot at from Iraqi antiaircraft emplacements, successfully dodged a SAM in a little-publicized incident near Afghanistan, and had his Hercules holed by a dozen heavy-caliber rounds over the high jungle of Peru.
In none of the instances could Sivigny remember being frightened, or even experiencing an increased pulse rate; he did not anticipate a flight over Tallahassee would be an exception. Even wearing the bioprotection equipment—a requirement that he had heard the F-15 jocks loudly bemoaning—did not constitute a significant problem for the Hercules pilot. Maybe the coveralls were heavier and stiffer than the usual Nomex flight suits; so what? But gloves were gloves, and Sivigny found the mask that covered his face less bothersome than the night-vision apparatus he was often required to don while on a mission.
Besides,he thought,when was a pilot ever supposed to feel comfortable? For damn sure, not at a time like this.
Not on a combat mission.
Chapter 50
Three Miles NNW of Tallahassee, Florida
Altitude: 4,700 Feet
July 24
“Holding pattern? The hell do they mean, ‘holding pattern’?”
The voice of the crew chief was outraged. They had reached their rally-point coordinates in less than fifteen minutes of flight time—on schedule, maybe even a little ahead of it. The sergeant knew well the potential of what the aircraft carried in the nylon harnesses he had helped affix to the cargo bay bulkheads; the sooner they jettisoned the damn stuff, the sergeant felt, the better it would be for all concerned. Particularly himself, and the aircraft he considered his personal property.
Sivigny was not happy with the delay, either. But it is a time-honored tradition in the military that important bitching goes upward, following the chain of command all the way up to the gold-plated imbecile who issued the order initially. For that reason, the pilot’s tone was mild and conciliatory when he keyed the intercom to reply.
“Relax, Chief. Don’t you enlisted personnel get paid by the hour anyway?”
His copilot for the mission, a lieutenant, grinned behind his rubber mask.
Patrick Mayo had not previously flown with Sivigny, but like the rest of the squadron he had heard all of the stories. Distilled, they said this: Pete Sivigny ate fire for breakfast, crapped smoke and sparks, and flew the big Hercules like it was an extension of his body. He had also flown more black ops than anybody else in the service, and it was rumored that had he shown any inclination toward retirement, the resulting security concerns would have forced the CIA to shoot him. If they could.
When Sivigny’s usual backup pilot had been dropped by the virus’s initial onslaught, Mayo had jumped at the chance to fly left-hand seat with him. Now Mayo’s biggest concern was to avoid doing something that might forever mark him as a hopeless rube in the eyes of his idol.
“Give me a fuel status, Mayo.”
The copilot jumped, Sivigny’s voice snapping him to attention. He scanned the control console, and did a quick cross-check against the notes he had scribbled on his thigh pad.
“Twenty-seven hundred pounds, WATO,” Mayo said, “current fuel at two-six-oh-oh-niner.”What did the guy expect? he thought but did not say.Weight at takeoff had included a full load of Jet Fuel-1; a ninety-mile flight couldn’t cut much into it, not yet.
“Thank you.” Sivigny looked out at the vivid blue of the Florida sky, accented only by the occasional puff of cloud. The delay was no problem; with his current fuel load, he could stay up here all day, if need be. That was, after all, why you flew with topped-off tanks.
But Sivigny could not push Chuck Mason’s warning from his mind. He had no fear of ground fire, but no one who has ever taken heavy-caliber rounds at low altitude failed to acquire a healthy respect for it. His bird was not designed to be agile; at the slow approach speed mandated by the mission orders, the controls would be mushy as last week’s cantaloupe.
And if some mutt on the ground gets in a lucky shot, a full load of kerosene makes for a pretty impressive fireball on impact.
Sivigny shook the thought from his mind and focused on his flying. Whatever the reason for the hold, at least it would let him burn off a few extra gallons of fuel.
Montgomery, Alabama
Ilya lounged in the deep cushions of his chair, idly thumbing through a magazine he had found somewhere. Occasionally he would stop, holding the opened page up to the light. Once, he whistled appreciatively, and Beck looked up from the chair where he too waited, though with far less patience.
“Playboy?”
Ilya held up the magazine; it was a copy ofMotor Week.
“You have discovered my secret,” he said. “I have a particular weakness for Saab automobiles—the turbocharged models, of course. Tell me, do you own a vehicle?”
Washington, D.C.
The telephone at Carson’s elbow buzzed discreetly. He picked up the receiver, then listened for a few moments before turning to the man slumped behind the large desk.
“Still nothing to report from Russia, Mr. President,” Carson said.
“Putin must know who the conspirators are, for God’s s
ake. What the hell are they doing over there?”
“It’s better if we don’t discuss it. That way, we both maintain plausible denial, if we’re ever questioned about it in an impeachment hearing.”
The President glared at the ceiling of the Oval Office. When he spoke, his voice was low and furious.
“I don’t have to ask, do I? Hell, I did everything but tell him to do it.” He slammed a fist onto the desk, hard. “Jesus. The president of the United States encouraging the president of Russia to torture information out of his countrymen. What the hell have I become?”
He did not expect an answer, but Carson provided one anyway.
“With all due respect, you’ve become what you’ve been since all of this began,” Carson said evenly. “A man who is running out of time.”
Montgomery, Alabama
“You are ateacher, then?” Ilya’s voice was dubious. “This is truth?”
Beck nodded. “Is that so difficult to believe?”
Ilya shrugged. “It is just that I do not encounter many teachers in my line of work. At least, not in some years.”
Beck raised his eyebrows in polite inquiry, not fully believing that the conversation was taking place.
“In Chechnya,” Ilya said. “With the guerrilla bandits there. Teachers were often officers in their ranks. Occasionally, we would capture one alive.”
He shrugged, a gesture that to Beck seemed almost apologetic.
“And I would be summoned.”
Washington, D.C.
Once again, Carson hung up the telephone. He looked up at the President and shook his head wordlessly.
For a few seconds, the President sat unmoving, his eyes focused somewhere beyond the far wall of his office. Then his jaw hardened.
“Order the planes in,” he said, still not looking at anything in particular. “They are authorized—by direct order of the commander in chief—to release the VIX. Now.”
Approach Path,
Above Tallahassee, Florida
“Roger that,” Sivigny said. He keyed the intercom that connected him to the crew.
“Okay, folks,” he said. “We’re back in business and good to go. Chief, final check the dispersal system and let me know when you’re green light. I will arm the aerosolizing system when we’re thirty seconds from weapons away.”
He paused, then keyed the switch again.
“Let’s do this right, gentlemen. Once everything is armed and ready, I want every crew member to stand away. That is a direct order. I—and only I—will initiate the final release. Please remember that, all of you.”
He released the intercom switch, turned to see Mayo’s eyes looking steadily at him through the acrylic lenses of his exposure mask.
“That goes for you too, Lieutenant. Unless I say differently, the only hands on the controls will be mine.”
Without another word, Sivigny pulled the Hercules into a wide sweeping curve. When the aircraft finally leveled, it was on a heading of due east.
Through the cockpit windshield, the cityscape of Tallahassee was a glittering jewel. Only the tall columns of smoke that rose randomly from the ground marred the otherwise perfect picture.
Chapter 51
Moscow
July 24
The curious aspect of all this,the interrogator thought to himself in mild bemusement,is that none of these men expected that this treatment would ever be accorded to them. Odd—in particular since without exception the group was the product of the former Soviet system.
He shook his head, either in sympathy or at the folly he perceived.
They have forgotten the rules of survival that have always been uniquely Russian. They allowed themselves to become careless, in the belief that they were invulnerable.
He bent forward, made a minor adjustment to the intravenous drip that originated at the now limply hanging bag of clear fluid and terminated in the large-bore needle taped to secure it in his subject’s forearm. Carefully, as if he were indeed the physician that his lab coat and stethoscope suggested, he checked the man’s vital signs once more.
His forehead furrowed as he listened to the tachycardiac pounding of his subject’s heart. It was, of course, dangerously high; the pink flush on the man’s bare chest had spread upward, dappling the neck in darker reddish blotches. Still, the face was not yet congested and the whites of the eyes remained relatively clear. That was good; as interrogator, his assignment was not to murder, though at some point the difference became academic.
This was his second subject of the morning; the first had, unfortunately, been unable to withstand the intensity of the session. Regrettable, but it could not be helped—he had been told that there were a number of subjects available, and that speedy results were preferable to the survival of any particular suspect. What was needed were answers—in particular, one specific answer—and without any avoidable delay.
Briefly, he wondered who else had been summoned for this assignment. Kadelov, probably; the Tartar they called Ghengis, almost surely. Perhaps Ilya, though rumor had it that he spent most of his time on foreign assignments these days, specializing in wet work.
Just as well,the interrogator thought.In truth, Ilya had begun to enjoy this work a little too much. When an interrogator allows his professionalism to erode in that manner, it is inevitable the product obtained begins to slip—and we do not do this for personal enjoyment. At least, not often.
He touched the forehead of this subject almost tenderly, gauging how much of the man’s resistance was simple intransigence rather than the unavoidable semistupor that the drugs and the pain always engendered. He did not consider that the man simply had no information to share; such thoughts tended to be self-defeating, allowing pity to enter the equation and skew the results.
He pondered the man, naked and strapped spread-eagle on the now fouled and stained examining table. This was a healthy man, he noted—a touch too self-indulgent, judging by the slight paunch. Such is the penalty of prosperity, or its reward. But there was an underlying muscle tone, too, and the hair was black and thick, though it was plastered wetly above eyes that—
Ahha!
The interrogator had caught the movement, the glint of eyes wary behind slitted lids in a way impossible for one truly unconscious.
This one is capable, and an adept playactor. I was almost fooled, and that is a compliment indeed.
He moved to a position where he knew the immobilized man could see him clearly. Then he pursed his lips and smiled in a way that was both chiding and conspiratorial.
“Speak to me of vaccine and viruses,” he said. “And this will all cease.”
He waited a brief moment, then resumed his tasks. This time, the screams were even louder than before.
Above Tallahassee, Florida
Over the intercom, there was a sound not unlike that of a firecracker exploding inside a steel barrel—muffled, but resonating beyond the initial detonation.
“Another hit, dammit.” The voice of the crew chief rang in Sivigny’s earphones, and sounded peeved rather than anxious. “Colonel, I’m counting a half dozen new holes back here, case you were curious.”
“Roger that, Chief. Got a couple up here too. Stand by, and keep a tight one. Two minutes to weapons release.”
It was still sporadic, the ground fire that was increasingly peppering the skin of his Hercules. It was also unavoidable, given the near-stalling speed and a flight path that now had the aircraft less than a thousand feet above the rolling hills of Tallahassee’s outskirts. Rifle fire, he judged by the size of the hole above his head, where a bright shaft of Florida sunlight now streamed through: nothing heavy, and nothing automatic. Yet.
There were houses now, cars parked on the streets below. A few of them appeared to be burning, as were several of the buildings toward which he was flying. He saw the dome of the state capitol, and beyond it what appeared as a twin-towered castle surrounded by neatly mowed grassy expanses that were themselves flanked by neatly aligned ivy-cove
red buildings.
Florida State University,Sivigny thought.Go, ’Noles.
He banked slightly, a minute adjustment to the target point, then glanced at the GPS time/distance readout.
“Ninety seconds,” he said. His gloved hand moved to the console and flipped up a safety shield over the weapons release switch.
Moscow
“Confirm it? Of course you must confirm it.”Idiot, Vladimir Putin thought but did not say. He listened to the voice at the other end of the line, impatience shadowing his features. “Thendispatch the troops and confirm that he spoke the truth. Be quick, but be accurate.”
He was quite aware that, on the other side of the world, the American president was close to soiling himself in his anxiety. He—or rather,Putin thought with a frown,his surly lapdog Carson— had called at least a dozen times in the past half hour.
So be it,Putin thought.One confession does not an answer make, particularly when that confession is the result of scientific persuasion—and I am not inclined to present myself as a fool.
Arrangements were already being made to transport vaccine, if it existed, across the expanse between the two continents. Standard military transports would be far too slow, and like the United States, Russia had never developed its own supersonic transport aircraft. The Americans had immediately contacted the British and French governments, which had offered the services of its Concorde passenger SSTs. But only three of the dozen aging aircraft still in service were currently flight worthy; and two of those were now at Dulles Airport outside Washington, where they had been when the flu outbreak grounded most flights.
In the end, it had been Russian ingenuity that provided a solution—based, of course, on the concept that had earlier transported the American historian Casey to Moscow. The Russian Federation could field more than two hundred MiG- 27 and Su-35 fighters, each capable of speeds approaching Mach 3. A fleet of refueling aircraft—again, Russian; NATO air tankers lacked the requisite fuel-docking cones for the Russian fighters—were already in the air, heading toward Western bases from Germany to Spain. There they would be loaded with jet fuel, and prepared to be vectored to locations where they would link up and refuel the fighters.