by Mark Wandrey
“…all contact. The same for Cairo, Bombay, and Riyadh. Capital and densely populated cities all along the Arabian Peninsula are going dark at the rate of one an hour. The plague, only just declared as a pandemic by the World Health Organization has struck with frightening speed. The WHO experts, as yet uncertain of methods of transmission besides getting bitten by an infected person or animal, have recommended that all people stay in their home and listen for advice from government officials.”
“That sounds familiar,” Vance snorted.
“Animals?” Harry asked. “God, did he say animal bites?”
His wife was nodding. “He did. And if that means it’s passed by animals, it can be passed by insects like mosquitos and biting flies.”
“Thank goodness we’re in South Texas,” Ann whispered.
“Still,” Vance said, “we have sand fleas and other critters. Tim, get your wife, break into stores and get the bug spray out. Ann, let’s give all the dogs flea and tick treatment. We don’t want to risk them getting it.”
“We brought some for our girls,” Tim noted as he and his wife headed down to the underground storage.
Vance swirled around the dial for a few minutes, listening. The fact that so much news was still out there, flowing one way only, into his radio, told him a lot. He plugged in a microphone and warmed up his transmitter. “This is San Antonio calling, WBB7884,” he sent his identification. “Call sign P, I say again, call sign P. Standing by.”
He released the mic and waited. It only took a second. “Call sign P, this is Flagstaff calling, KFR9113.”
“Peter, good to hear your voice,” Vance said with a sigh. Things weren’t completely gone.
“You too, Vance. Shit’s hitting the fan.”
“Agreed. Sending code, ready to receive?”
“Ready,” the man on the other end said.
Vance flipped a switch and grabbed a keyboard. The little computer would translate what he typed and send it to his friend hundreds of miles away via Morse code pulses. But those pulses were in a code, only decipherable via a code key they’d shared many months ago. A cypher based on the date, day, and hour of the transmission. The computer he used, tied into the shortwave set, automatically selected the correct cypher.
“Internet here is down, over.”
“Here as well. What do you think the source of the interruption is, interrogative?”
Vance thought for a moment. “Did you hear about the nuke in Mexico, interrogative?”
“Speculation only, over.”
“No speculation. Tune 129.45 kHz. Will stand by, over.” Vance reached under the table and retrieved a bottle of water from the cooler, marveling at the results. A simple action and he had pure, ice cold water. For how much longer. Then the radio started beeping, Peter was back.
“Oh my God, over.”
“Exactly. I believe the POTUS used the internet kill switch. The shit has hit the fan. Cities on Arab Peninsula are going dark. BBC is full of the stories, over.”
“Wow, over.”
“I’m advising everyone to bug out if they can, over.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for an official declaration of emergency, interrogative?”
“I don’t think there will be one. The kill switch tells me everything I need to know, over.”
“I’m afraid you are right, over.”
Vance nodded and typed. “Sending signal, please pass it on, over.”
“Acknowledged. God be with you. Signing off.”
“And you as well, signing off.”
He glanced up and saw Ann standing reading over his shoulder. She had one hand over her mouth, the other protectively over her stomach. He nodded to her and could see tears welling up in her eyes.
“I never really thought this would happen,” she whispered.
“I did,” he said and spun the dial to a preset and unplugged the code machine, instead using the mic again. “This is San Antonio calling, this is San Antonio. Code B, I say again, code B.” He repeated the call, without his license number, for a full five minutes, then shut down the transmitter. Less than a minute afterwards he heard another voice. “This is Flagstaff, code B.”
Then another voice. “This is Little Rock, code B.” And another. “This is Wichita, code B.” And a weaker voice. “This is Ft. Collins, code B.” And then a barely audible one, full of static. “This is Davenport, code B.”
Vance turned from the radio to his girlfriend and she came into his arms. “What do we do now?” she asked.
“Survive,” he said. Outside there was a loud gunshot.
* * *
Dr. Lisha Breda listened to the phone ring, and ring, and ring for over a minute before she put it on the cradle. “Edith?”
“Yes, Doctor?”
“Are you sure of this number for the CDC?”
The young woman carefully put aside the case and slides she’d been organizing, removed the gloves and dropped them in the bright red pail at her feet, then flipped up her computer. A couple taps brought up the answer. She repeated the number. Lisha listened then looked at the screen on her phone. They matched. “That’s listed in the database as the Director’s line.”
“Do I have any other numbers listed?” Lisha asked.
“Someone named Dr. Cury?”
Lisha nodded. They’d worked together before. Cury was more than a little to the outside of normal, but an absolutely brilliant virologist. “Give me that number.”
The phone only rang twice before it was picked up. “Got those test results?”
“Not right now,” Lisha laughed.
“What?” asked the confused voice on the other end.
“David, this is Lisha. Remember, from the symposium in Nice two years ago?”
“Lisha Breda, the insufferable flirt?”
Lisha blushed and chuckled. She did tend to become a tad flirtatious after a few glasses of wine. “Yeah, that’s me. How have you been, David?”
“Great, was hoping to see you again sometime.”
Lisha nodded. I bet he was. Antisocial introverted type. Flirting with him had been like giving a steak to a starving puppy. “Listen, David, I didn’t call socially. I have some really important data that I want to get out into the field, and all my other contacts have gone dark.”
“I know, they’re restricting phone traffic. I’m surprised you got through to me. This is the first call outside of the CDC I’ve gotten all morning.”
“I have a friend at FEMA,” Lisha admitted, but stopped there. She might need him again, and burning the man was a guaranteed way of ending that friendship permanently.
“Handy. What do you have?”
“I have some data on an invasive virus that is likely global by now. I think it’s behind all these outbreaks of insanity we’re seeing.”
The line was silent for a long time. “Lisha, what do you know about strain delta?”
“Is that what you’re calling it?”
More quiet followed. “Lisha, I don’t know what I can say.”
“I didn’t call you to help me, I called to help you. I have a series of encrypted files I’m going to send through this call, if you initiate a link.”
“I can lose my job for doing that, we’re under lockdown. Fuck, I shouldn’t even be talking to you now!”
“We’re going to lose the country if you don’t get on top of this, and fast. Damn it, David, it’s in the food supply!”
“Only raw or undercooked fish,” he admitted. “We’re sending out an advisory on that as we speak.”
“No David, it’s working its way through all the food chain right now. I’ve found it in everything from phytoplankton to shark. And cooking doesn’t kill it!”
“Of course it does, no earthly organism can survive temperatures in excess of 200 degrees!”
“Exactly, no earthly organism.” She paused to collect her thoughts. “We can’t beat around the bush on this one, David, it’s not terrestrial in origin, and you have to know that. No t
errestrial virus uses silicon binding at the molecular level. No terrestrial organism reproduces independently in three forms, then if any two are combined, create a fourth completely different organism through some form of mitosis! And certainly no damned terrestrial organism goes right for the brain and starts trying to rearrange synaptic pathways.”
“Jesus Christ, Lisha, where did you get all of this?”
“We had an outbreak here at HAARP.”
“Oh no, bad?”
“Bad enough. I lost half my staff. We kept one alive for testing. Then a few hours ago, we had some fresh fish caught and decided sushi night sounded like a good idea. We lost three more, one of them is in my lab right now being observed as he loses his mind. David, please, let me send you this while I can?”
A second later a data link was established over the phone line. Lisha didn’t hesitate, she had the files compressed and ready to send. The second the line went active, she stabbed transmit and sent them on their way. It took a couple minutes for the files to go, but David must have been reading them as they were arriving because he spoke up only half way through.
“Lisha, are you sure of this temperature data?”
“Tested a dozen different ways,” she replied. “The two non-infecting versions of the virus can survive temperatures of over 300 degrees. The more dangerous one, the one that enjoys human brain tissue so much, is considerably more vulnerable. We’ve killed it at temps as low as 160 degrees. Still higher than any terrestrial infectious organisms, but it doesn’t matter.”
“Why?”
“Well, it can’t exist outside of a living host. I don’t know why, but in any media we try it dies within twenty minutes. David, you have to do some tests on this with other organisms. All we have are rats, rabbits, and guinea pigs. The infectious version only catches in the guinea. I restructures the brain, though not as aggressively as human beings. I’ve seen reports about unusual behavior from higher order mammals. I’d get some monkeys, but the director’s specifically forbidden that mode of research, and besides, I can’t get any of the suppliers on the phone.” Lisha didn’t say it, but she was afraid that based on the stories relayed intermittently through the surviving media, civil authority was breaking down.
“I can’t thank you enough,” David said once the last of the files had transferred. “Better stay out there for a while, until this blows over.”
“Hadn’t planned on any shore leave,” she said.
“I’m going to jump the chain of command and change the directive on cooking. Good lord, that temperature is high enough to survive commercial pasteurization!”
“Yes,” was all she said.
“Only preserved foods,” he thought aloud and she could almost hear him thinking. “It’s in the food supply, we’re going to have mass starvation at the very least.”
“Only of those that avoid infection,” she pointed out. Lisha heard his phone ring.
“That’s my lab supervisor,” he told her, “I’m going to order a primate series. I’ll try and get you the results. I can’t share with anyone else…”
“I’ve already managed to get messages to associates in France, Australia, and Russia.”
“I see,” he said as the phone rang again. “Take care, Lisha.”
“You too, David.”
* * *
A Global Hawk drove flying at 10,000 feet along an anonymous section of border fence continually replayed its data to the USCBP Command Center in Laredo, TX. There a team of ten experts, mostly ex-military, operated the drones that fed their data to officials in charge of border interdiction. This was the much vaunted ‘virtual fence’ that many progressive politicians liked so much more than a physical border fence. A kinder, gentler way to monitor the border. If groups were noticed violating the border, officers could be dispatched to intercept them. Or not, depending on the political wind. Thus was the advantage of this system.
The Global Hawk was nearing bingo fuel, the point it would have to be directed to return home and be serviced, when an operator spotted something. It banked on long sleek wings, powerful telescoping lenses focused and took images that were instantly relayed via satellite to the command center.
“Commander!” the watch officer yelled. “Mass incursion under way!”
The sweeping wall of the modern information center was a massive collection of LCD monitors, configured to be as many ‘windows’ as necessary. A myriad of views routinely cycled on the wall depending on what was currently going on. A senior agent stepped into the command room and put on a headset. “Put it on the big screen,” he said. The man loved doing that, it reminded him of Jean Luc Picard.
The display wall split and a big middle section showed one view from a Global Hawk. What appeared to be a solid wall of army ants moving across the landscape. The room was always abuzz with conversations between operators and field agents. In moments it fell almost completely silent. No one, not even the oldest agent, had ever seen anything remotely like this before. “What the fuck is that?!” someone yelled.
The senior agent turned and almost ran from the command center, turning into the first office he reached, closed and locked the door. He activated that room’s computer, and inserted a thumb drive. The screen flashed and cleared from the normal eagle emblazoned CBP logo to a simple blue screen and the prompt “Lockdown?” He typed Y, and pressed ‘Enter’.
He took a special wireless phone from his pocket and pressed a speed dial. A moment later someone answered. “Director’s office.”
“Sector 9, Wildfire,” he spoke into the phone. “I say again, Wildfire.”
“Sector 9, acknowledged. Lockdown in effect?”
“Affirmative.”
“Monitor and stand by for orders, Director out.”
His orders complete, the agent put the phone back in his pocket and returned to the floor. Already his operators were yelling about all outbound communications being cut. He ordered them to continue monitoring all inbound data and record observations. Two more Global Hawks spotted hordes coming northnorth. Then another passed over the Rio Grande River and found it choked with bodies, thousands more climbing over the corpses. Another drone watched from above as Brownsville was destroyed.
* * *
“The order is Hatchet, repeat, the order is Hatchet.”
“Roger that, base, Hatchet.” The communications officer took the little piece of paper and inserted it into the slot marked “Code Group”. Lights flashed and a computer card appeared. He took the card, slid it into another slot and one of a dozen miniature armored doors popped open. He removed the contents, three manila envelopes with red stripes, and climbed to the flight deck. “Orders, Sir,” he told the Captain. “Orders, Ma’am,” he repeated and handed the copilot a set as well.
“Deliver the other set to the ordnance officer,” the captain instructed as the comms officer headed aft. “Copilot, open your orders.”
“Roger that, opening orders.” The copilot’s eyes were sharp, her jaw set as she tore the special plasticized paper envelope open and removed a laminated card. It had a word matching the one printed on the envelope. “Hatchet”. “Confirmed coded order Hatchet,” she said.
“Pilot confirms,” the pilot said. At the same time he grasped the cards and bent, splitting them along the perforations and pulled them apart revealing another paper card inside. They removed the cards and compared the numbers against a list each held in their thigh boards. “Pilot shows strike package 21 Zulu.”
“Copilot confirms, 21 Zulu. Does the ordinance officer confirm?”
“Checking,” the man behind them locked in the ordinance seat replied. They could hear the sound of his code card breaking. “Confirmed, 21 Zulu.”
“At least it isn’t nuclear,” the copilot hissed under her breath.
“Yet,” the pilot said, then went back to his command voice. “Ordinance, follow weapon selection.”
“Roger Captain, order reads strike package of all on board precision guidance iron witho
ut release of ALCM. Coordinates as follows.” He read off a series of numbers, the pilot and copilot jotting them down for backup.
“Confirm package and coordinates,” both the pilot and copilot confirmed.
“Navigator, set course,” the copilot instructed.
“Turn to heading 226 and descend to flight level 250, sir.”
“Heading 226 and fight level 250,” she repeated. The captain just nodded. He was punching into his own navigational aid. When the target location came up he sucked air through his teeth.
“Barney, you got eyes on the rest of the wing?” he asked their radar operator.
“Roger that, Skipper. All but four are turning to match our course.”
The captain’s jaw muscles bunched as the copilot completed the turn and began their descent.
“Orders sir?” the copilot asked. He glanced at her, into her blue eyes and sighed. What else could he do? He’d known her for ten years. She was only second seat today because Major Lugo was down with kidney stones. Her own plane sat on the field still in Minot. If he didn’t go through with this, she would. “Begin the bomb run,” he instructed.
The B-52 descended until it was at 25,000 feet, racing along at nearly 500 miles per hour. Her crew quickly went through the routine to ready the 60-year-old plane to do what it had done so many times before. It barely resembled the plane that had rolled off the Boeing assembly line in St. Louis so many years before. Her avionics had been completely replaced three times, engines twice. Just about every rivet and bolt had been redone five times, and she’d flown more miles than the space shuttle Atlantis. Her wings, once crowded with eight engines, now only had four, but also four weapons pylons had been added in the 1990’s. Now each pylon carried ordnance. When the Buff had lumbered into the air twelve hours ago with only one third of a load of fuel to let her take off with more ordnance, she’d had more firepower on board than any four WWII B-29 bombers.
“Ordnance, we’re ten miles out, report,” the Captain called.