Slattery gaped, jolted and in shock.
The plague had reached the Pacific.
NATIONAL DEFENSE CONTROL CENTER
MOSCOW
The modified Mi-8 helicopter carrying the Russian President came clattering over the Moscow River and hung in the air for long seconds before settling gently on the NDCC’s rooftop helipad. Before the rotors had wound down, Nikolay Fokin was already waiting impatiently at the chopper’s open door. Two ground crewmen carrying a set of steps rushed to the helicopter.
The new National Defense Management Center was Russia’s supreme military command and control base – the beating heart of the Ministry of Defense that oversaw the operations of all the nation’s armed forces.
The President gave the waiting Commander of the NDCC a wintery smile and ignored his salute.
“Is everyone assembled?” Fokin growled.
“Yes, Mr. President. They are waiting for you in the War Cabinet Room.”
The President strode past six immaculately uniformed soldiers standing as a Guard of Honor and entered the building. The War Room was located in the building’s bomb-safe basement. A lift carried the President underground. When the doors slid open, Fokin stood on the threshold of a cavernous room dominated by a circular table. Standing, waiting obediently for his arrival, were the members of the Russian War Cabinet.
The outer edges of the room were filled with computer work stations and a huge multi-monitored screen along one wall that showed the disposition of Russian military units together with satellite photographs of the Mongolian border. Other monitors displayed TV news services from around the world.
Fokin went to the table and sat. The rest of the cabinet took their seats.
The President wasted little time. He was in a glowering, dangerous mood – still seething and outraged by the Army’s humiliating defeat at Zamiin-Uud. Every Minister at the table had heard the shocking news. Their faces were solemn and faintly fearful.
Fokin turned his menacing attention to his Minister of Defense.
“Has the worthless worm who failed so miserably against the infected rabble been apprehended?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” the Minister said. He wasn’t sure what emotion to express, so he kept his features neutral. “General Apalkov was arrested at an airport near the Ukraine border thirty minutes ago.”
“Good. Have him brought in chains to Lefortovo Prison. I’ll pronounce sentence personally after he has been tortured.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
For Fokin, that was the end of the matter, but it did not mollify his brooding mood. Nothing could eradicate Russia’s stinging humiliation on the world stage.
The Director of the FSB was the next man in the President’s sights. The FSB had been born out of the ashes of the KGB. The Federal Security Service was the principal security agency in Russia, universally loathed and feared by the population.
“Director, our shameful defeat on the border has left us looking like an ugly Minsk whore. It is your duty to paint a beautiful face on the situation to the eyes of the world. I want news reports explaining how the undead were pushed back on the Mongolian border. I want pictures of celebrating soldiers – and interviews. I also want newspaper articles. The Russian people must be reassured that everything is under control, and the Motherland is safe from the infected horde. See to it. Dissent is not to be tolerated. The western media is to be forbidden access to the region.”
“Immediately, Mr. President.”
Fokin grunted. It was all he could do. Misinformation would muddy the waters and buy him the time to launch a counter-strike.
Russia’s next move became the focus of the War Cabinet meeting. To make his address, Fokin took the extraordinary measure of rising to his feet, dominating the assembled Ministers with a fanatical blaze in his eyes.
“This undead horde destroyed a Russian Army in less than three hours. They swept our tanks and soldiers aside with contempt – and immediate mobilization of a stronger force to confront the infected is out of the question. By the time another Army can be assembled and organized the infected will be on the outskirts of Moscow. Throwing units piecemeal in the way to slow them is pointless. For those reasons, we must consider a stronger response.”
For long moments Fokin said nothing. Instead his eyes met and held the gaze of each man at the table. He stared them down one at a time – a trial of strength that reminded them all of their servitude. When he was certain there would be no unexpected challenge to his authority, he folded his arms and his expression became cruel.
“I am giving Presidential authority for the launch of tactical nuclear weapons.”
Someone in the room gasped but recovered his composure before Fokin’s eyes found him. The President studied the pale faces at the table. “If anyone has an objection, you are to speak now.”
The room remained ominously silent.
“Good. Our Iskander missile brigades assigned to the Eastern Military District will fire six tactical battlefield nuclear devices in an effort to obliterate the forward elements of the horde and drive the rest of them back into China. The terrain is sparsely inhabited. There will be minimal civilian casualties.”
The Prime Minister looked shocked. “Six devices?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. President, I know we discussed this possibility at our Security Council meeting. But you never mentioned that you were planning to launch so many nuclear weapons. You suggested perhaps just one.”
“I have changed my mind,” Fokin said with low menace, his tone a thinly veiled warning.
“What size yield will the devices be, Mr. President?” the Prime Minister sensed personal peril. He softened the accusatory tone of his question so that it sounded almost apologetic.
“Twenty kilotons,” Fokin said dismissively as though the matter was trivial. Each weapon would explode with the same approximate power of the bombs that had devastated Hiroshima and Nagasaki at the end of World Two.
“One weapon will not be enough, and this will be our only chance to end the infected tide,” Fokin said. “The terrain is arid and featureless. There will be no major cities in the blast zone. Six small yield explosions, carefully targeted, will devastate the undead and give us time to marshal our conventional forces.”
“How many people might be affected?” asked a senior advisor.
Fokin shot the man a withering glare, then shrugged his shoulders and scowled. He was becoming irritated by the questions, interpreting them as challenges to his authority. “Less than a million,” he swatted the question away like an annoying fly.
In truth, this meeting was a charade; little more than theatre to give the impression of government consultation. In reality, only two men in the room mattered to Fokin; the Minister of Defense and the Chief of General Staff. Like Fokin, these two men carried Cheget nuclear briefcases. For nuclear missiles to be launched, release authority from all three of them was required.
He studied both men carefully as he spoke again. “I am calling for a show of hands to vote on this decision,” the theatre reached its climactic scene. “Those in favor?”
Every member of the War Cabinet raised his hand. The Prime Minister made the decision unanimous, though Fokin noted thinly veiled reluctance on the man’s face.
“Good,” Fokin said. “The Minister of Defense and the Chief of General Staff will accompany me to the NDCC office. Gentlemen, retrieve your Cheget briefcases from your aides. We will convene in thirty minutes.”
Fokin waited for a heartbeat to test for last-second objections. The Ministers around the table sat blank-faced and submissive.
“This meeting is adjourned,” Fokin declared.
*
“You will personally supervise the nuclear targeting and missile launches,” Nikolay Fokin instructed the Minister of Defense when the three men were alone behind the locked door of the NDCC office. Each man had placed his nuclear briefcase on the conference table.
“I understand,�
� the Minister looked somber, only now coming to terms with the enormity of the decision they had reached.
“Do not be impulsive,” Fokin warned. “Wait until you are certain the strike will maximize the death toll. The undead must be obliterated. Do not waste this opportunity to save the Motherland.”
“I understand,” the Minister said again.
Once the three men approved launch authority for the release of nuclear weapons, several more steps would be necessary before the weapons could be fired. First the orders would be transmitted by the General Staff to the 12th Main Directorate, known as the 12th GU MO, which handled all nuclear warhead storage, their maintenance, and their transport. Then Operational-Strategic Command of the Eastern Military District would be notified, who would in-turn relay release authority to the commander of the rocket brigades equipped with Iskander-M missiles.
It was the individual rocket brigades that would launch the six nuclear missiles.
With the gravity of ceremonial mystics performing a sacred ancient ritual to the Gods, the three Russians went silently through the verification and authorisation process. When it was done, even Fokin felt drained and breathless.
He gave a heavy sigh, and then his tone became oily and conspiratorial. “There is one last matter to be discussed,” he said.
The Chief of General Staff frowned. He was an old soldier of the Soviet regime, a hard-line pragmatist who had thrived in a corrupt system by being even more corrupted than his rivals. His eyes became foxy and cunning.
“What else remains to be decided, Nikolay Fokin?” his voice had been roughened by fifty years of cigarettes and forty years of parade-ground shouting.
“We must make a contingency plan,” the President of Russia said. “For if the nuclear strike fails, Russia will fall and we – all three of us – will be overthrown by rioters or killed by the infected. We need an escape route to the west, or the Middle East… and we will need the money necessary to guarantee our own survival. I suggest you prepare yourselves in case a swift escape is necessary.”
PLAN DESTROYER ‘YALOU’
SOUTH CHINA SEA
The Luyang II-class destroyer was one of China’s most technologically advanced warships, and Commander Zhao Zongxun felt a swell of immense patriotic pride standing on the ship’s bridge wing. He and his crew had been given the great honor of protecting the massive Chinese flotilla, and to Zhao, this was the pinnacle moment of his long, distinguished career.
Somewhere back over the horizon, shielded by his missiles, was the nation’s revered leaders. They had put their very lives, and the survival of China in his hands. He would not fail them.
His shadowing destroyer – the Jiangunan – had closed to within three nautical miles of Zhao’s stern. The two vessels were communicating by signal lamp to maintain strict radio silence. Zhao would take no chance of alerting the unsuspecting American destroyer who was now just forty nautical miles to his south. No, when the Jiangunan unmasked her missile systems, the moment must come as a complete and crushing surprise to the enemy; the Chinese strategy depended on it.
The Luyang II-class had been designed for a fleet air-defense role, and Yalou bristled with a 360 degree phased array radar that worked in conjunction with a vertically launched HHQ-9 long range air defense missile. There were forty-eight missiles aboard, mounted in launch systems located forward behind the ship’s 100mm gun turret and aft of the ship.
For defense against other warships, the destroyer carried eight YJ-62 anti-ship cruise missiles in two 4-cell launchers that were mounted just forward of the helicopter hangar. The missiles were brutal ship-killers, with a range of over two hundred miles.
Commander Zhao smiled with grim confidence. If the American commander to his south did not heed his warnings, it would be the ship-killers that would be launched. His orders left no room for ambiguity, and he was not a man to question his superiors or consider the wider geopolitical implications of such an attack. He was a sailor – a warrior to serve China’s greater glory. He would not balk in the face of confrontation.
He checked his watch and narrowed his eyes. He turned and stared at the line of the horizon. The sky was overcast, the ocean steel-grey. The wind off the water had turned cold and forbidding.
Zhao stepped off the bridge wing, went through the bridge and entered the ship’s command center. It was a small space, made cramped by the men who stood gathered around the plotting table. The ship’s executive officer stood staring at the display while the ship’s radio talker called out bearings from the American destroyer and then the outer umbrella of friendly warships that encircled the Chinese flotilla. Another crewman recorded everything, plotting positions.
“The American destroyer has increased speed,” the ship’s XO said stiffly. “She is closing on our position quickly.”
Zhao grunted. The protective perimeter between the enemy and the flotilla was being squeezed. He had anticipated the American destroyer turning away, or perhaps slowing to await fresh orders from its Fleet. But the American commander had surprised him. Zhao saw the action as a deliberate act of belligerence that could not be ignored.
“Very well,” Zhao sighed like a man about to embark on a long journey. “Signal Jiangunan. It is time.”
Ninety seconds later, under Commander Zhao’s watchful eye, the Yalou executed a radical ninety degree turn to the west, increasing speed from twenty to thirty knots so the destroyer heeled over and dug her shoulder into the ocean. The water around the ship churned white as Yalou came onto her new course.
“Prepare to fire.”
“Sir, ship is ready. All launchers are at the vertical and ready for your order.”
“Tell Jiangunan that her moment has arrived. Order her to light off her missile system and prepare for launch.”
Zhao went to the starboard bridge wing and closed the door. One of the crewmen dogged down the port side door. A siren began to wail, the sound howling and ragged on the wind.
“Jiangunan has activated her systems,” the XO reported.
“Very well.”
The shadow destroyer had sailed into the piece of ocean vacated by Yalou. Now, suddenly, the American destroyer would be presented with two armed destroyers. Zhao tried to put himself into the shoes of the enemy commander and the thought brought a smug, contemptuous smile to his lips. He imagined the shock on the American’s face as Jianguanan suddenly appeared magically on their tactical display.
Zhao checked the time. It would take a few minutes for all of the Jianguanan’s complex electronic warfare systems to become fully operational. He expected the American destroyer to make a radical turn away from danger. It would be the only action that would save the US ship and the lives of all those aboard her from fiery death.
VNUKOVO AIRPORT
MOSCOW
The L-410 Turbolet transport plane came to an abrupt halt on the tarmac, having only used a fraction of Vnukovo’s long runway, thirty kilometers southwest of the center of Moscow.
Vnukovo was Moscow’s oldest operating airport and had been built during World War Two for military operations. The site still retained a discreet area far from the commercial terminals for military purposes.
In 1988, Ronald Reagan had flown in Air Force One to Vnukovo for the historic Moscow Summit. Andrey Gromyko, an honor guard, and a brass band’s rendition of the Star Spangled Banner had greeted the American President on the tarmac.
Nathan Power came down the steps of the small military transport to a much less auspicious welcome; a single Russian Army officer with a worried expression on his face stood waiting.
“You are Power?” the Russian asked in stilted English. The officer’s breath reeked of strong alcohol.
Nathan Power nodded his head.
“You must go to your embassy. It is the only place where your safety can be assured. I have a car waiting for you.”
“What’s going on?” Power felt a sudden tremor of alarm.
“The Army – it is on the verge of coll
apse,” the officer said. His eyes were nearly hidden in the pale fleshy folds of his face. He looked anxious, his gaze furtive. Somewhere far in the distance they heard the unmistakable sound of machine gun fire.
“Will the military move to overthrow the government?”
“No,” the officer was scornful. “Nobody gives a shit about the government! What will be left to rule when the fucking infected are pouring into Red Square?” He shook his head and marveled that after all these years westerners still knew nothing about the mentality of Russia’s working classes. “The Army is disintegrating, comrade – most of the high-ranking officers have already fled, and many of the regular units stationed around Moscow are in disarray. Everyone is deserting. It’s each man for himself.”
“Then what military units still stand between the undead and the capital?”
The officer shrugged. Then more gunfire sounded from somewhere north of the airport. The Russian became agitated. “There are none,” he said brusquely. “Word has spread about the fiasco at the Mongolian border. Everyone is panicking. They’re pissing their pants.”
A car appeared from behind a huge steel hangar. It was a beat-up old Lada taxi with bald tires and dented bodywork. A huge bearded ape of a man sat behind the wheel. The Russian officer took Power by the arm, eager to send him on his way.
“This is Matvey. He is a good man. I know his mother’s brother. Matvey will take you to the US Embassy.”
Power noticed a machine gun lying on the front passenger seat of the car. He said nothing.
“If anyone in the streets tries to stop you,” the Russian officer gave a final warning, “you should lay down across the back seat until Matvey has dealt with the problem.”
WHITE HOUSE
SITUATION ROOM
The President was in the Situation Room when the alert from COMSEVENTHFLT arrived. Jim Poe read the message and summarized.
Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse Page 43