“General,” the man saluted crisply, then handed over a message flimsy. “You have been summoned to Beijing for an urgent meeting with the Politburo. I have a plane on standby for you at the airport.”
USS HALEY (DDG137)
PACIFIC OCEAN
When the growler phone on the bridge rang, Bud Slattery set down his binoculars and snatched up the handset.
“Captain.”
“Captain, XO, sir. Everyone you requested has assembled in the wardroom. We’re ready for the briefing.”
“Very well, XO. Give me five minutes and I’ll join you.”
Before he left the bridge, Slattery went to the chart table. Haley was running at best speed across the Pacific with Raven and Carmichael steaming two thousand yards off the port beam. The warships were riding the long rolling swells to a gentle metronomic rhythm that could lull an unwary man to sleep.
Satisfied, Slattery gave the Officer of the Deck a nod. “I’ll be down in the wardroom. I want you to notify me if anything changes.”
The assembled men leaped to their feet when the wardroom door suddenly opened. Slattery stepped into the room and motioned the men back to their seats. He had summoned every officer not on watch and all the ship’s chiefs not attending to duties.
Slattery stayed standing and took a moment to search the faces that were looking to him expectantly. They were confused and curious. Slattery had no doubt the shipboard rumor mill had been working overtime, the narrow passageways rife with gossip and wild speculation.
“As you all are aware, our stopover at Pearl was scrubbed. So was our original mission to join the Seventh Fleet in the South China Sea. Instead USINDOPACOM has ordered us to join a naval blockade off the west coast of continental United States.”
He paused then to let a whispered ripple of comment wash around the room. There was a general sense of bewildered puzzlement.
Slattery went on. His tone became grave. “We’re undertaking this operation in defense of America. Shortly after we left San Diego, the North Koreans fired a biological weapon into Seoul. That weapon carried a new, monstrous strain of plague that has swept across the entire Korean Peninsula infecting millions and killing millions more. Since that time other countries in Asia have been overcome. China is on fire…”
The ship had been operating under a strict communications lockdown ever since leaving port. The unexpected news came as an appalling shock to everyone assembled, as it had also to Slattery, the Operations Officer, his Command Master Chief, and his XO when a detailed update on the spread of the plague had accompanied their changed orders sent from Fleet Headquarters.
For the past few hours the senior officers had been dealing with their own private shock. Now Slattery saw the same cold clammy dread on the faces around the room that he too had felt. The voices became unrestrained and edged with panic and concern. One of the ship’s junior officers asked anxiously, “Sir? What about our families?”
Slattery put confident reassurance into his words, knowing how critical this moment was to the Haley’s morale.
“America is so far completely untouched by the infection,” he moved his eyes from face to face, holding the gaze of every person in the room, unblinking and absolute. “The infection is burning through Asia. There is speculation that if it cannot be stopped somehow in China, it might reach into Western Europe. That’s everything I know from USINDOPACOM, but as updates become available, I will keep you all personally appraised.”
“The plague, sir?” the Haley’s Chief Engineer asked. “How bad is it? I mean, what are the consequences of infection?”
“I don’t know,” Slattery admitted. “But I can tell you that this infection has the entire world on a knife-edge. Our operation to blockade any vessel that is heading towards America’s west coast is just one amongst a raft of measures the president has announced to keep America isolated and safe… including calling out the National Guard.”
The room fell speechless and silent. Slattery waited for a heartbeat before he went on. “I’ve assembled you all here because I believe you have a right to know. If you would like to read those elements of the summary update sent by Fleet Headquarters, you can do so. The XO will provide you with a copy. The other reason I have shared this perilous news with you is because I want you all to understand the absolute gravity and necessity of the mission we have been tasked with.
“This infection is highly contagious. It’s possible that ships en route to west coast ports of the United States that departed Asia around the time of the biological attack could be carrying the plague onboard.”
Slattery looked sideways and caught the eye of his XO. Tom Braye’s face was pale and drawn. Slattery nodded, then turned back to address the room with his final comments.
“The XO is going to take you through our orders and then Ops will outline the MIO procedures for this mission. Pay attention. Our Maritime Interdiction Operations have changed because of the plague and the very real risk this ship will be facing.”
Slattery looked one last time around the room as if expecting more questions. No one spoke. The sound of the XO’s chair scraping back against the hard floor was jarringly loud in the fraught silence. Tom Braye looked like he was suffering the early symptoms of flu. His face was pallid, his flesh looked cast in wax. He cleared his throat. In his hand was a sheath of paperwork.
He started reading in a faltering voice, as though the orders were written in a foreign language. After an embarrassing stutter he drew a deep breath and steeled himself. His mind was in private turmoil. His fiancé was working in Seoul…
“Our orders are to take up station off the Northern Mariana Islands in the Philippine Sea with Carmichael and Raven. We will be the southernmost point of the picket line, with Nimitz and her Carrier Strike Group 11 escorts forming the rest of the picket all the way to the Canadian coastline. More ships from Third Fleet will join the blockade as soon as they can be readied to sail from port. In support will be Hawkeye surveillance aircraft operating from the deck of the carrier and out of Anderson AFB on Guam.”
Tom Braye let out a heavy breath of relief and looked around the wardroom like he was startled to see everyone. He nodded to the Ops Officer with a jerk of his head.
Haley’s Operations Officer, Mitch Handscomb, was one of only three other men that Commander Slattery had shared the shocking news with when their new orders had first been received. He was a tall man with dark eyes and a nose that had been broken at some point in his murky past. His features gave him a rugged, uncouth appearance; the face of someone typically found in the midst of a bar-room brawl.
Now he rose to his feet and spoke slowly and deliberately.
“The rules for MIO are clear cut,” he said. “Every ship approaching the picket line must be stopped and turned around. If the ship refuses to stop as commanded, MIO ships have authorization to fire warning shots. If the belligerent vessel still remains non-compliant, and it is the judgment of the ship’s commander that the vessel intends to continue towards the U.S. mainland, the ship must be sunk with all hands aboard. Under no circumstances should any vessel be boarded for inspection, and no warship should approach within two thousand yards of any suspect ship.”
“How will we know if the ship is carrying the infection?” asked the Haley’s Chief Hospital Corpsman.
“We won’t,” Ops said. “And it should be noted that our orders do not require onboard infection to be confirmed. If the ship approaches the picket line and refuses all demands to turn about, it is to be sunk on suspicion.”
*
When the briefing ended, Commander Slattery motioned discreetly for Tom Braye to follow him along the passageway to the captain’s cabin.
“Close the door, XO.”
Braye closed the door. Slattery sat, but the XO remained standing.
Slattery narrowed his eyes shrewdly.
“We don’t know each other,” he began. “And I know I’m new to the ship. I don’t know any of the junior officers or the c
hiefs well yet. But I do know people, XO, and I know your performance during the briefing was far below what I would expect from a senior officer in the circumstances. Those young men in that meeting were looking to you and me for reassurance. Now I’m looking to you for answers.”
Braye’s expression was set in stone but his eyes betrayed him. Slattery could see the umbrage his stinging appraisal had caused the man.
“I apologize, sir,” the XO’s words were stilted.
“I don’t want an apology, XO. I want an explanation.”
The XO’s eyes suddenly swam with welling tears of emotion. “My fiancé, sir. She’s attached to the US Embassy in Seoul.”
Suddenly Slattery understood. The edge in his voice softened. “And she was still in the country? The Korean war broke out more than three weeks ago. Wasn’t she evacuated then?”
“No, sir. She volunteered to stay with essential staff.”
“Then she was probably evacuated on the eve of the biological attack, XO. What’s her name? I’ll try to make some enquiries if it will put your mind at ease.”
“I would appreciate it, sir,” the relief in the XO’s voice was fulsome. “Her name is Jascinda. Jascinda Poole.”
NEAR EAST AND SOUTHERN ASIAN ANALYSIS OFFICE
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY
It was a conference room in the northeast corner of the building – a space with no windows and low ceilings of fluorescent lighting. There were tables arranged in the middle of the floor, pushed together, with chairs around the outside. The walls were covered with satellite photos taken by the reconnaissance birds orbiting over China, and there were more images scattered across the tabletop.
Section Supervisor, Mark Bowen, picked one of the images off the table and held it up. A dozen heads in the room turned. The photo was an enlargement forwarded by the National Geospatial Agency from an overhead pass above the port of Dalian. In the image could be seen the starboard side of a berthed container ship and the edge of a harbor dock.
“What are the Chinese up to?” Bowen asked the assembled think-tank of the CIA’s brightest analysts, raising his voice with an edge of frustration. “What does this NGA image tell us? What are the Chinese doing in Dalian Harbor – and is it important? Does it matter to us? Are they doing something we need to be aware of?”
The picture showed a dock infested with workers and heavy equipment. There were more workmen crawling over the ship. The image was just one in a sequence of photos. There were others, from other Agency sources, which showed intense activity right across the expanse of the entire harbor complex. There were ships at every available berth, and hundreds more anchored and waiting in the harbor.
“They’re working. Making modifications,” one analyst said.
“Genius,” Bowen said with sarcasm. “What kind of modifications – and why?”
“They’re converting their oil tankers and general freight vessels,” Nick Blakely picked up another image from a different sequence. It showed a tanker stripped of its hatches and fitted with rails across its broad deck. The ship was being nudged by tugboats to move it away from its berth and into the mouth of the harbor. “They seem to be turning them into container ships.”
Other analysts around the table snatched up images and fitted them against Nick Blakely’s new narrative. It seemed to make sense. The team sorted through the evidence and eventually circled back to the oil tanker, stripped of its hatch covers. “Could these rails be used as stacking guides for shipping containers?” a woman wearing thick glasses asked.
No one in the room was a commercial maritime expert, but it appeared plausible. One by one, the surrounding images contributed to the theory until the circumstantial evidence seemed so apparent they wondered how they had ever missed the clues.
“Okay,” Mark Bowen went to a corner table and refilled his coffee cup. There were a dozen doughnuts left in a box. He snatched up two and came back to the group dropping crumbs and cinnamon sugar down his tie. “Now tell me why? Why would the Chinese want so many container ships? Are they cleaning out the country’s coffers and storing valuable treasures – or are they up to something even more sinister?”
The room stayed silent.
Nick Blakely reached for an image on the table the way a man draws one card from the deck in the impossible hope of filling a straight flush. It was a photo of Chinese workmen clambering over a stack of containers.
“They might be constructing some kind of gantry system,” Blakely frowned with curiosity. “There is a kind of ladder frame in this image. I… I don’t think it’s part of a typical bracing system, but I can’t be sure…”
Bowen took the photo and stared at it through the spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He frowned. “Might be…” the supervisor was not convinced, but nor was he knowledgeable enough to say either way. Bowen sighed. Without additional insight they were at an impasse. “But what the hell would the Chinese need ladders aboard a ship for – and what has it got to do with all the containers they’re loading? What’s the cargo?”
“I think I know someone who can help decipher what we’re looking at,” Nick Blakely said quietly.
“Who is he?”
“He’s not authorized.”
“Who is he?”
“A guy I met a long time ago. He’s a shipping industry expert.”
Mark Bowen’s frown deepened. “How well do you know him?”
“Well enough to think he can help.”
Bowen rubbed his chin. He hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. He needed a shave and a shower – and Washington needed answers. He handed Nick Blakely back the satellite photo. “You know the rules about security and top secret clearance,” he stabbed a pointed finger of warning at his analyst. “Don’t fucking break them… or I’ll break you.”
BEIJING
PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA
The air in the darkened room was so thick with swirling cigarette smoke that General Guo Lingfeng’s eyes prickled. He stood at the end of the long conference table, rigid at attention, under the harsh light of a lamp while the seated members of the Politburo studied him from the dim shadows. The jutting bones of Guo’s cheeks left stark angles and deep shadows across his fatigued, exhausted face.
His dress uniform with all its shiny buttons, medals, braid and badges felt stiff as cardboard. He kept his gaze fixed on a dramatic portrait painting of Mao Zedong that hung above the closed door.
President Lin Xiang cleared his throat and sat back in his leather chair. He blew a thin feather of smoke at the ceiling, then called the meeting to order.
“General Guo, we have summoned you from the battlefront so that we may gain a sense of your progress. Please report the latest developments with the infected, and the work you have undertaken to ensure the protection of China.”
Guo jerked his head and began to detail the efforts to prepare his defensive position. The Politburo members listened in stony silence, their expressions impassive.
“Over one hundred kilometers of fencing and trenches have already been prepared on the southern flank, and Fuxin City is adequately defended, President. My engineers are working on the northern arm of the perimeter around the clock. I expect the wire barrier to be completed within twenty-four hours.” That was an exaggeration, General Guo admitted to himself, but it would do his position no favor to be pessimistic. These men were politicians. They did not want to hear of the geographical difficulties presented by the terrain, nor the logistical challenges being faced. They wanted to be reassured.
“Good,” President Xiang said smoothly. “How far away are the undead?”
“About seventy kilometers, President,” Guo said. “Shenyang has fallen and is in flames. The undead move westward on a broad front.”
“How soon before they reach your lines, General?” Another voice asked from out of the shadows.
Guo turned his head. He recognized the man who had asked the question instantly. It was Finance Minister, Jiang Xiaogong.
Jiang was a mildly spoken man with soft brown eyes behind steel-framed spectacles. He was skeletally thin, wearing a crumpled black suit. He was aged in his late seventies, almost bald, his skin spotted and ruddy.
“I estimate two… maybe three days, Minister,” General Guo gave a small polite bow as he answered. “But this depends on a great many factors.”
Jiang bowed his head over a sheaf of papers on the tabletop, so Guo could see the man’s soft pink scalp through the furrowed wisps of his remaining hair.
“Factors such as the terrain, General?” Jiang seemed to be studying a printed map of the Shenyang region.
“Yes, Minister,” Guo said respectfully. “The terrain will play a part in how the upcoming campaign is fought. But so will our actions in the days ahead.”
Sitting at the President’s side, silent and watchful from the shadows, Minister Yi Dan suddenly sat forward with a grumble of irritation and rapped his knuckles on the desk. In the oppressive, tense silence, the sound was like three quick-fire gunshots.
“Enough!” Yi Dan said with weary frustration.
The room fell into brittle silence.
“General Guo, your respect for this meeting has been noted… as have your guarded, careful answers,” Yi put some sting of accusation into his words. “But this is not the time nor the place for half-truths and cautious replies. We have summoned you to Beijing for a full and proper understanding of the crisis building along our border. We can discern everything you have so far told us from maps.”
General Guo flinched under the lash of the Minister’s tongue. “I understand, Minister Yi.”
“Good,” Yi Dan said crisply. “Now, tell us without prepared careful statements, exactly the situation. Are you confident you can hold back the undead massing to your east? Do you think you have the necessary resources and equipment to exterminate this foul infected pestilence?”
Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse Page 29