The President paused for a moment and resolve hardened his gaze. His eyes seemed to shift minutely, until he was staring directly down the barrel of the camera, the teleprompter forgotten, making the message unmistakably personal.
“The days ahead are going to be difficult… perhaps the most testing we as a nation, and indeed mankind, has ever faced. The contagion sweeping across the Korean Peninsula is potentially a doomsday weapon. Billions of lives have been jeopardized by Kim’s brutal regime. Only through determination and sacrifice do we stand a chance. This is a moment in time when we must set aside our political and religious differences and come together as one united people.
“God bless America.”
BORDER CROSSING GUARD-POST
TUMEN RIVER BRIDGE
HUNCHUN, CHINA
The bunker was drab raw concrete, stained by dirt and mud, and set on the high verge of the grassy riverbank. It looked like a cold-war pill-box; crude slabs of grey reinforced cement with machine gun slits on three sides. From its elevated position amongst the long grass and stunted bushes, it held a commanding view over the bridge and the Tumen River that defined the border between China and North Korea.
A dusty old eight-wheel lorry rumbled onto the bridge, trailing a smear of black exhaust smoke. The vehicle passed beneath the bright floodlights at the Chinese checkpoint where a red flag hung above a sign that read, ‘The Motherland’s interests supersede all else’.
Sergeant Wu Zang watched the truck all the way across the bridge until it slowed on the far side at the North Korean guard post. He set his binoculars down and rubbed his eyes. It was cold, and there was no heating in the bunker. He clapped his gloved hands together and caught a glimpse of the private manning the machine gun. The young soldier had his eyes closed. Wu Zang kicked the man viciously in the shin.
“Stand to your weapon!” Zang’s voice threatened more violence.
The young soldier jolted wide awake and his eyes welled with tears. The sergeant had raked his boot down the young man’s shin. Under the fabric of his fatigues the leg was bleeding.
Zang berated the young soldier and then stormed through the door at the rear of the bunker and stood for a long moment in the knee-high grass. The Tumen River was blanketed in mist and the night air so brittle it seemed to burn in his lungs. He fumbled a cigarette from his pocket and unbuttoned his fatigues to piss.
Nearby, lit by bright arc lights, the two other MP’s under his command were standing on the bridge behind a waist high white gate that was the official Chinese checkpoint. Both men had their weapons slung and were smoking.
Zang muttered miserably to himself as he stared back at the apartment blocks of Hunchun city.
The buildings were dark and unlit, but there were streetlights burning along the stone riverside promenade. Tendrils of swirling fog rose off the river and writhed amongst the apartment blocks. He finished urinating and crushed out the butt of the cigarette in the grass. He missed the vibrant energy of Beijing and wondered if he would ever see the city again, then cursed the luck that had seen him transferred to this wasteland outpost in the far corner of the country.
“Sergeant Zang!”
It was the tone of panic and alarm in the voice that caught the military policeman’s attention. Zang turned on his heel and rushed back inside the bunker. The young private was standing stiffly at the observation slit beside his machine gun. He had Zang’s binoculars pressed to his eyes and his hands were white-knuckled.
“What?” Zang gruffed.
“There is something happening at the North Korean checkpoint. Something must be wrong.”
Zang snatched the binoculars and trained them on the far end of the old bridge. The lorry was still at the North Korean checkpoint, but the lights at the border crossing had inexplicably gone out. He could barely make out the hulking shape of the vehicle parked in the mist. Zang felt an unsettling sense of misgiving. He narrowed his eyes and squinted into the eerie tendrils of fog. It seemed to be alive and moving.
Zang blinked his eyes and refocused the lenses. Something was disturbing the fog, making the mist writhe unnaturally. The sergeant felt his breath catch. His rising uncertainty became a premonition of foreboding.
“Stand to your weapon…” On the wall beside him was a telephone to local army headquarters. Zang gnawed his lip in consternation.
Then suddenly the mist was shredded by a mass of running figures. They burst through the haze and came swarming across the bridge, howling and baying like wild animals.
“Mother of Hell!” Zang shouted.
He spun on his heel and barked at the machine gunner. “Open fire! Open fire!” then snatched the phone from its cradle and heard a crackle of static on the line. He jiggled the handset but the line stayed disconnected. Zang swore bitterly.
He ran out into the night and cupped his hands to his mouth. His voice carried across to the MP’s at the border gate. “Prepare for attack!” Zang screamed until he was hoarse. A sudden rattling roar of machine gun fire drowned him out.
He turned in the long grass and watched in open-mouthed astonishment as thousands of figures spilled across the bridge, roaring and howling like demented fiends. In the dark they were an indistinguishable mass but they were coming on quickly, stampeding towards the bright pool of light cast by the Chinese border post buildings. Machine gun fire mowed them down in a stream of enfilade fire that chiseled chunks out of the old stonework.
Zang ran back into the bunker and snatched up his assault rifle. The two MP’s behind the border gate dropped to their knees and aimed. The undead horde emerged from the darkness and into the light of the arc lamps.
“Mother of Hell,” Zang repeated the curse in an awe-struck gasp. The figures on the bridge were the stuff of nightmares; evil, hideous creatures that looked barely human. They were drenched in blood, their faces frenzied with insanity. He watched as the machine gun fired again on the front ranks, cutting them down like scythed grass. But still the horde came on, and many of those hit by gunfire incredibly scrambled back to their feet.
“What manner of evil is this?” Zang gasped.
He lunged for the phone again and this time heard local military command on the end of the line.
“Alarm!” Zang shouted. “Four Five Delta, this is OP Six One. Alarm. Invaders are streaming across the Tumen River Bridge in battalion strength. Alert the army.”
Ten seconds later sirens began to wail across the city.
The infected undead overwhelmed the two soldiers at the bridge checkpoint and streamed into the outskirts of Hunchun. Zang and his machine gunner fled from the bunker and ran along the stone promenade bordering the river. As he ran, Zang cried out at the top of his voice, calling for help and calling the alert. Lights in the nearby buildings began to blink on. Zang broke right and dashed down a dark riverfront alley. Close behind him he heard his machine gunner scream in sudden agonizing pain. Zang did not dare to slow, or look behind him. He could hear the pounding footsteps of his pursuers and their gasping snarling groans. Fear clutched at his heart and squeezed so tightly that he staggered into the brick wall of a building. He fell face-first into a stinking drainage ditch and had just enough time to roll onto his back before the first ghoul lunged for him. Zang’s mouth gaped open in terror as the hideously disfigured creature crushed the last air from his burning lungs. He tried to scream but the sound was a reed-thin gasp, drowned out by the ferocious snarls of his attackers. He was still alive, thrashing weakly, when the infected ghouls began devouring him.
THE PENTAGON
ARLINGTON
VIRGINIA
The Secretary of Defense picked up his phone and dialed directly through to the Oval Office. He felt a kind of buoyant elation, though he kept his voice to a careful monotone when the President finally answered his call.
“Sir, we have a development in Japan. We’ve received a message from survivors of the apocalypse.”
Patrick Austin let some of the enormous strain he felt creep into
his voice. He felt overwhelmed. The call was an interruption and a distraction. “Jim, I’m kinda busy…”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President… but it’s about someone special.”
He heard Patrick Austin give a last small sigh of irritation and then a subtle change came into the President’s voice. “Okay. You’ve got my attention. Who are we talking about?”
“Sir, the message was from an aide to former Emperor of Japan, Akihito.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No, Mr. President. I’m deadly serious,” finally the deadpan of Jim Poe’s voice became animated. “Six hours ago one of our electronic surveillance ships in the Sea of Japan intercepted a radio message. The vessel has been sailing up and down the coast of North Korea since the outbreak of war, vacuuming up ELINT intercepts for passing on to the Republic of Korea’s military. At the time, the message fragment was lost amongst the rest of the traffic. Analysts have only now begun sorting through the data. They sent the details out as a CRITIC fifteen minutes ago.”
“Akihito is still alive?”
“According to the message, yes, sir. The Emperor abdicated in early 2019 due to poor health and old age. He retired to a private retreat in the north of the country… a place called the Nasu Imperial Villa. That information is on the public record. We think that’s where the radio message originated from.”
President Austin sat back in his chair with the phone still pressed to his ear and stared at the Oval Office ceiling. A hard, knotted sensation in his chest stole his breath. Conflicting emotions bubbled up inside him.
“Sir… do you want to try a rescue attempt?” Jim Poe asked delicately into the long silence.
There was another pause down the line. “Do you have a plan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me.”
Jim Poe had been busy since the CRITIC message had arrived on his desk, consulting with the Joint Chiefs and their Pentagon staffs. He took the President through the plan step-by-step.
“We still have drones on station over the Korean Peninsula. One of the Reapers we used to identify the North Korean TEL’s was an MQ-X Reaper MALE – that’s an acronym for Medium Altitude Long Endurance. The bird has been heavily modified and can stay on station for up to seven days. The UAV still has more than half that flying time left before its fuel runs out. The pilots at Creech Air Force Base kept her orbiting over the Demilitarized Zone once the world went to hell because they didn’t know what else to do with it. The bird is still there.”
“You want to find Emperor Akihito using a drone?”
“Yes, sir. The plan would be to start a search for the survivors under the direction of a small Intel unit and a team of operators from 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment – Delta. We’re talking about four intelligence people and ten operators aboard two Black Hawks. They would join the Seventh Fleet and organize the mission from aboard the Ronald Reagan in the South China Sea. When Intel locates the Emperor with the drone, they’ll fly the team of operators in and effect a rescue.”
“Risks?”
“Limited,” Jim Poe said. “We’ve been using the exact same system in the Middle East for over a decade against terrorists from ISIS and Al Qaeda. The routine has pretty-much been perfected… and we don’t issue a mission ‘go’ until the drone locates Akihito.”
President Austin closed his eyes. He was tired. His mind seemed filled with white noise, but from somewhere deep inside he felt a rising sense of compassion that had been numbed by the holocaust of death decimating the world. Rescuing the Japanese Emperor wouldn’t change the fate of mankind. But maybe it would be symbolic; a gesture that would remind the world that humanity and decency had not been entirely abandoned in the frantic fight for survival.
He opened his eyes and drew a tight breath. “Okay,” the President said. “Do it.”
ZHONG NAN HAI PRECINCT
BEIJING
Minister Tong Ge stood gazing at the mirror-smooth surface of the water, lost in a moment of unnatural peace and tranquility. The artificial lake seemed at odds with the surrounding mix of grey brick office buildings that dominated the high-security precinct. In the distance he could see one of the ornate Qing Dynasty Palaces that had once been features, but were now more like curiosities… as though such beautiful architecture no longer had a place in the modern progressive monolith that was the new China.
The precinct was China’s ‘Kremlin’; offices of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, the State Council, the Central People's Government and the Military Commission of the Party Central Committee were all located here. It was the Chinese Government’s leadership compound; the home to its senior ruling officials, and the administrative heartbeat of communism, all hidden from the people behind high walls and a sturdy set of guarded access gates that opened on to Changan Avenue west of Tiananmen Square.
Tong would have happily dwelled longer, if only time permitted. It didn’t. He skirted the carefully manicured gardens, and hurried along the stone path until it opened into the central square. He almost ran up the steps and in through the entrance of the forbidding brick edifice, his briefcase thumping against his thigh with every hastened step.
Minister Without Portfolio, Yi Dan, was waiting for him. A young secretary with huge eyes and a serene expression opened the door to the Minister’s inner office. Yi was sitting behind his desk. There was a television in the corner broadcasting an American news service, the sound muted.
“Ah, Tong,” the old man came out of his chair politely and smiled. “So good of you to find time to meet with me.”
Tong bowed slightly, as was his custom. The room smelled of tobacco smoke and there was a packet of western cigarettes on the old Minister’s desk, though he could see no ashtray.
“It is my honor,” Tong said formally, still surprised at the unexpected summons. “I hope I can be of help to you.”
Yi gave the secretary a curt nod of command, and she obediently pulled the door quietly closed behind her. It was late in the afternoon and because of this meeting, for tonight, at least, she would not have to share her Minister’s bed. She shut down her computer and left the building with the Minister’s other secretaries. The outer office became silent.
“Enough of the formalities,” Yi said after a few minutes. “We are alone.”
Tong nodded. There was still a veil of governmental secrecy over the news that millions of infected undead that were approaching the border with North Korea. Martial Law was to be announced through the state’s broadcasting network in a few hours. Until then, Yi would take no unnecessary chances, even though he was quite sure the walls of his office were adequately soundproofed.
“Now,” the old man’s tone became brisk and business-like. “Tell me exactly how you plan to implement Operation ‘Red Ark’.”
THE OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
It was a tense time in the White House. In the corridors and halls, voices became raised and tempers frayed. Phones rang like alarm bells and staffers scurried to their work with barely suppressed panic.
In the Oval Office, President Austin was fighting off an overwhelming sense of melancholy. The shooting down of Flight 553 weighed heavily on his conscience, nagging self-doubt and regret pressed like great weights on his shoulders.
“Colonel Fletcher is convinced this pandemic will reach into China and Russia,” POTUS was alone in the room with his National Security Advisor. “I want a man we can send to monitor the spread of the infected as technology and communication assets begin to fail. Find me someone, Walt. Find a guy who can search for clues in case this infection spreads right across Europe.”
Walter Ford sat pensive on one of the sofas, hunched forward, with his hands clasped between his spread knees, like he was praying to the carpeted floor.
“What about Quentin Fletcher?”
“No, we’re going to need him here,” the President shook his head.
“And what about the foreign governments?
Are you planning to send this man in covertly?”
“No,” the President said. “He needs the co-operation of each country’s military and bureaucracy, otherwise he’s going to be useless. I need someone who can stand on the frontline and analyze the infected; how they move, how they react, and the nature of their attacks.”
Walter Ford made a speculative face. “I’m sure our German, French and Polish friends won’t object – if the infection reaches into Western Europe,” he said. “But the Chinese and Russians?”
“Forget the Chinese,” President Austin said. “Even if you found the right man tonight, we’d be hard pressed to have him in place in time to be useful. It’s Russia we need to prepare for.”
“Do you think the Russian President will agree? Things between us and Moscow have been frosty for the past couple of years…”
“He’ll agree,” POTUS narrowed his eyes and some of the determined edge came back into his voice. “Because I’ll promise to share anything we learn. It’s in their own best interests.”
“With respect, sir, that’s a phone call only you will be able to make.”
Austin nodded. “Find the man, Walt. I’ll smooth the way with the Russians.”
DANDONG
CHINA-NORTH KOREA BORDER
“Mother of all whores!” the commander of the APC whispered in horror and awe. He stared disbelieving at the nightmare of chaos swarming towards the troop carrier and then raised his voice into a fearful shout.
Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse Page 19