by Jeff Carlson
Hernandez moved completely out of the trench, stepping up above the rock wall. There was shouting across the hill and he used his binoculars to sweep Bunkers 5, 4, and 2.
Lowrey stood at the edge of 2, yelling at someone inside. Then he glanced up with his own binoculars. Hernandez raised one fist, then showed an open hand like a traffic cop. Hold tight. Lowrey repeated the gesture before he turned and relayed the command to Bunkers 3 and 6, which were beyond Hernandez’s sight. It was ridiculous, but they only had one set of civilian walkie-talkies and just eight spare batteries. They needed to use hand signals or runners as much as possible.
Hernandez was pleased to see that his people continued to look ready, jumpy but ready, and he caught a few words of the hollering over in 2 now. “Up! Shut up so I can!”
They were shouting at each other to be quiet so they could listen for helicopters. Absolutely ridiculous. They needed radar, but all they had were two more binoculars, their naked eyes, and the broken land itself. The mountains channeled sound but also confused it, continuing to echo with the dull hammer of the jets. Hernandez scanned out across the upheaval of black spaces and snow and earth. The hazy sky. Nothing.
* * * *
Forty minutes later he’d given the order to stand down as well as calling in his two lookouts. He was out of position himself. He could have kept his scouts in place but it was shit work, missing hot coffee and food. That was a leader’s prerogative.
Hernandez had climbed up to the saddle of rock at the top of the mountain with his binoculars and a walkie-talkie, hoping for some clue down in the valleys around Leadville. Instead, there was movement far out to the east, a single cargo plane accompanied by a single jet.
At this distance, even the larger C-17 was little more than a dot, but Hernandez recognized the speed and shape of it. That must be one of ours, he thought, because no more fighters had scrambled to meet them. Still, the appearance of the transport was unusual. Nothing ever flew in from over the plains of the Midwest because there was nothing out there.
He thumbed his send button and said, “McKay, call in for orders. I have a C-17 and an F-35 coming out of the east. Tell them we’re weapons tight. Permission to fire?”
The ’talkie crackled. “Aye, sir.”
Hernandez didn’t really have any chance at the planes. He estimated their range at twenty-five miles, although that might shrink to twenty if they continued in toward Leadville. Even if he’d brought a missile launcher, the surface-to-air Stingers had a max range of three miles. Still, he knew that a request to go weapons free would get a response.
It came in less than a minute. The ’talkie hissed again and McKay said, “Hold fire. Hold fire. They say it’s a Russian envoy, sir. He’s on our side. It sounds like there was some harassment from the breakaways out over the Midwest, that’s why our jets went to meet him.”
“All right. Thank you.”
So the other fighters were providing a protective curtain far to the north. Hernandez felt a moment of empathy for the pilots. There was nowhere to eject if they were hit. Even when they were okay, they rode a tightrope above a world of ruins and death. For once he was glad to be on this mountain.
The two planes passed over the Continental Divide. The C-17 began to descend as its fighter escort pulled ahead. Hernandez couldn’t see the marsh flats north of Leadville, but he’d watched enough to learn that the long highway had become one of the main runways for local forces. Leadville command seemed to be bringing the C-17 there, rather than using the short strip at the county airport south of town.
Suddenly the cargo plane dipped hard and Hernandez tensed against the frozen ground. Then the plane leveled out again, as if someone grabbed the controls. It circled uncertainly, casting left and right like a bird that had just opened its eyes. It flew like a different plane altogether. After the violence of its nosedive and the new way the aircraft handled, Hernandez did not doubt that a different pilot sat in the cockpit—and the real proof was in the change of flight path. The C-17 was already drifting toward the city.
The fighter was more than a mile in front but accelerated into a long, high loop, trying to swing back and catch the larger, slower plane. Too late.
Hernandez stared for one instant, his fingers clenched on his binoculars. Was it a September 11th style attack? A heavy transport might destroy several blocks in the downtown area, but how could the Russians be sure that it mattered? Unless they got the leadership, it would a critical strike but not a deathblow. Unless the plane was loaded with explosives or worse. Some sort of nanotech?
A cold sheet of horror propelled him up from the ground and he turned to run, glancing back despite himself. His gaze fell briefly to the miles of up-and-down terrain between himself and Leadville and then Frank Hernandez sprinted away, screaming into his walkie-talkie.
“Cover! Take cover! Everybody down right now!”
13
In downtown Leadville, Nikola Ulinov emerged from a Chevy Suburban into the sound of aircraft. He carefully ignored it. His head wanted to turn up toward the distant thrum of jet turbines, but he kept his gaze on the sidewalk as he followed Senator Kendricks and General Schraeder from the car. It wasn’t so difficult. The sound was everywhere, rolling from the mountains, and he didn’t need to look. He knew what was coming.
“This way, Ambassador,” said a young man in a trim blue suit. Pale and clean-shaven, the senator’s aide had obviously never spent much time outside in this high place, and the lack of a beard was its own signal.
The men surrounding Ulinov all shared this luxury, like a uniform. It was the one thing in common between the security units that had accompanied Kendricks and Schraeder to the small plaza in front of city hall. The four civilian agents wore dark suits and carried only sidearms, whereas the two Army Rangers were in camouflage and boots and carried rifles, but they were all smooth-faced and none of them had that painful thinness he’d seen in so many other survivors.
“Well, it looks pretty good,” Kendricks announced, surveying the bright ribbons and flags that decorated the plaza.
The lead agent said, “Yes, sir.” But he was glancing over the rooftops, where soldiers stood in pairs in clear view. There would be snipers tucked into key spots as well.
So far as Ulinov knew, today was only the second time since the plague year that the top levels of the U.S. government would appear in public together. The layers of protection around this spot were intense. There hadn’t been any need to come in two Suburbans. They could have walked. The city had been shut down and the streets were empty, except for the armor and machine guns at key intersections.
“Nice day for it, too,” Kendricks said, directing a grim smile at Ulinov.
Ulinov only nodded. Kendricks seemed exceptionally pleased and was early for his little ceremony. He wanted to make this place his own before the Russian envoys were driven in from the airfield. The scene was well-crafted. Kendricks had transformed himself to match. He’d put away his cowboy outfit and donned a business suit instead, keeping his string tie but giving up his white hat, exposing his rich brown hair to the sun and the cool hint of a breeze.
The squat face of the city building had been lined with red, white, and blue bunting. In the open square in front stood a podium, four cameras, two clumps of folding chairs, and the beginnings of a crowd. There were the film crews and select media. Ulinov also saw a small pack of children with three teachers who’d wisely decided to keep the kids busy by talking to an Air Force general in dress blues.
Kendricks moved away from his Suburban in a phalanx of men. Ulinov limped after the group. Kendricks didn’t look back, but Schraeder extended his hand to Ulinov’s elbow.
“We’re all the way in front,” Schraeder said gently.
Ulinov nodded again, lost in his thoughts. As if it was possible to hide from the drone of the plane.
He looked exactly like these privileged men, he knew, sharp and tidy. That made him surprisingly uncomfortable. Ye
sterday, Schraeder had sent over two men with scissors, soap, a razor, and new clothes, and little by little it had felt like giving himself up. He didn’t know why. He’d spent a lifetime keeping everything in its place. For a cosmonaut, neatness and details were critical, and yet Ulinov would have preferred to wear his nation’s uniform. There had been more than one in his duffel bag in the Endeavour, but it was better for the Americans to feel that they controlled him down to the smallest details.
The only thing of lasting importance was his conduct. His heart. His memory. He knew he’d done well, and that helped him control his fear. More and more, he’d taken refuge in his past, recounting the people and places of his life, his father and sister and the simple comfort of home, his girlfriends, the magnificent killing beauty of space. He was glad Ruth wasn’t here. He would have liked to listen to her tease him about his haircut and his suit, but the two of them had always been separated by duty and now he realized that it for the best. If she was still alive, he wished her nothing but success.
He thought of the other astronauts and the friendships they had shared in the ISS despite their differences. American. Russian. Italian. None of that had been a problem up there and it made him feel both wistful and glad.
At last, Ulinov looked up.
The noise was unending. Louder now. As the C-17 passed over the nearest peaks, the basins around Leadville had caught and echoed the sound. A moment ago there had been another subtle change as the hum of the engines deepened.
Kendricks missed it, making eye contact with a Special Forces colonel who stood near the last row of folding chairs. “Hello, Damon,” Kendricks said easily, offering his small hand. “Early bird gets the worm, eh?”
“You and me both, Senator,” the colonel said.
But at Ulinov’s side, the lead agent put his fingers to his ear-mike and muttered, “Ah shit.” Ulinov also saw several of the children lift their heads, restless in their perfect clothes. An eight-year-old boy poked an elbow into his friend’s side and was reprimanded. “Stop it,” their teacher said.
At the same time, the silhouettes of the men on the rooftops shifted and turned.
“Sir. Excuse me.” The lead agent stopped Kendricks just as he began to stride through the corridor between the folding chairs. “Senator? We’re on alert.”
Schraeder reacted first. “Where?”
“The airfield. Their plane. It’s not landing.” The agent kept his left hand cupped over the side of his head, listening simultaneously as he talked.
The schoolboys traded jabs again. But their teacher was staring in the other direction.
“It’s coming toward us,” the agent said.
Kendricks’s face shrunk into something made of stone. He shot a long, searching glance at Ulinov and said, “Are you trying to strong-arm us? Change the deal?”
Ulinov didn’t answer.
Schraeder clutched his sleeve and yelled, “Damn it! Tell us what’s going on!”
Kendricks seemed not to see any threat or triumph in Ulinov, however. Kendricks took aside the agent with radio connection and Schraeder ducked his head into the conversation, too, pausing only to stab his finger at Ulinov. “Search him,” Schraeder said.
One of the Army Rangers touched his pistol against Ulinov’s forehead. “Don’t even breathe,” the Ranger said as his partner shuffled his hands through Ulinov’s clothes, looking for weapons or electronics. All gone. He’d destroyed his PDA and cell phone two nights ago and ditched the stolen 9mm Glock through a toilet seat into the septic tank beneath.
“Back in the car,” Kendricks snapped.
The bass grumble of the plane rippled over the city, vibrating ahead of the slow-moving aircraft itself. Everyone looked up. Mixed with the sound was the higher, lifting whine of a jet fighter, but neither plane was yet in sight from where Ulinov stood inside the plaza. The row of flags undulated once in the breeze. Then a woman shrieked and Ulinov staggered as the Army Rangers hustled him after Kendricks and Schraeder, running back to the street. “Move! Move!”
The civilian agents also had their guns drawn, as if this could make any difference. It did. One of them reached the cars first and waded into the tightly packed vehicles, brandishing his pistol at a GMC Yukon that had just arrived.
“Move over!” the agent shouted.
“I’m with Congressman O’Neil,” the driver said, but the agent yelled, “We’re taking the car!”
Beside them, other units of men slammed into the parked vehicles, pushing and hollering. Within this small chaos, Ulinov’s calm finally broke. Please, he thought. Oh please.
But it wouldn’t stop. Their panic increased his own adrenaline. He saw two soldiers hauling a shoulder-mounted missile launcher out into the open. Some of the children screamed, their voices lost in the noise. Then the human sounds were punctuated by the explosive bark of recoilless rifles opening fire from the rooftops all around the plaza. Hidden weapons teams were trying to take down the plane—and for one instant, Ulinov hoped they would succeed.
* * * *
Kendricks had been rough with Ulinov, outraged at his spying and deceit. Through him, Kendricks had pushed the Russian leadership hard, threatening to abandon them altogether. First he let them beg. Then he relented and agreed to honor their arrangement for U.S. planes to airlift the Russians into the Indian Himalayas. Anything beyond that must bear a steep cost. Limited munitions. Limited food. Leadville would not include any livestock and there would never be any weaponized nanotech.
That’s it, Kendricks said, and the Russians had played into his power game. The Russians admitted they were desperate. They clung only to one additional point. Along with providing aircraft and pilots to help ferry their populace to India, the Russians also wanted the U.S. to accept fifteen hundred women and children as well as a few top diplomats directly inside Leadville, both to establish a small secondary colony and to assure the relationship between the U.S. and Russia.
Too many, Kendricks said. We’ll take a hundred.
A thousand, the Russians bartered back. Then they sweetened the deal. Leadville would also be entrusted with the treasury and museum pieces of the motherland, and Ulinov wasn’t surprised that this meant a lot to the Americans, capitalists to the end, no matter that the crowns and paintings of pre-plague history could feed and protect no one. To some minds, those artifacts would now be even more priceless.
The haggling went down to fifty people to make room for the money—fifty lives and tons of cold metal and jewels. They were more hostages than rescuees, of course. It went unspoken, but Leadville would have total control of their fates, and these fifty people were the wives and children of the premier, the prime minister, the generals, a famous composer. The exchange was supposed to be a new beginning, a mutual gesture of trust. The Russians surrendered their families and their wealth, and in turn the Americans promised to allow five hundred more refugees to find safety in Leadville when the American planes finally returned from completing the Russian evacuation to India.
That’s a generous offer, Kendricks said, but one plane cleared in through Leadville’s defenses was all the Russians wanted. Just one.
* * * *
It rumbled over the city, a snub black shape glinting in the sun. Ulinov closed his eyes against the noise and jerking of the security men, trying to quiet himself. This wasn’t how he wanted to die, in a hubbub of rifle fire with Kendricks shouting at him.
“We’ll leave every last one of your people to die, Ulinov!” Kendricks screamed as his men tore open the doors of the GMC. “Don’t you get it!? You screwed your only chance!”
“Sir!” the lead agent interrupted, pulling Kendricks around the tall silver hood of the truck.
The bitter irony was that Ulinov thought perhaps he’d brought this on himself by relaying such huge numbers through his radio link, counting jets, reporting the buildup of armored reserves. His people must have decided there was only one way they could ever stand up to Leadville’s strength
.
* * * *
The Americans would have scanned the treasure and reported it clean before loading it on the other side of the world. Somehow that hadn’t been enough. Either one crate or more had been substituted before the plane took off, or one crate or more had been lined with dense, cheap silver that merely looked like Czarist-era relics in X-ray and infrared. The U.S. forces hadn’t wanted to stay on the ground any longer than necessary, within reach of Muslim rockets and infantry charges, and of course they had the money on the plane. They also had the families, with every identity confirmed by state records and fingerprinting.
Ulinov did not doubt that these promising young sons and daughters were exactly who they were purported to be. It was only fifty lives—grandmothers, cousins, and wives. And yet he’d noticed one mistake among the dozens of the files sent back and forth. There had been one name that was never mentioned again after appearing on a single manifest, no doubt entered by a clerk who didn’t realize what was being confirmed.
Kuzka’s mother.
The name itself was not uncommon, and the early manifests were full of such listings, stressing the family ties of the proposed rescuees instead of their actual names. Minister Starkova’s aunt and son. Director Molchaoff’s brother. And yet put together, the words Kuzka’s mother were also part of a Russian idiom that meant “to punish.” More importantly, during the height of the Cold War, in a speech to the United Nations General Assembly, Soviet Premier Khrushchev had used the phrase as he warned the planet of an unprecedented, massive nuclear test to demonstrate the might of the USSR.
The bomb had been more of a stunt than a viable weapon, so grossly oversized that it could only be carried by a specially retrofitted tactical bomber. October 30, 1961. They’d detonated a fifty-megaton hydrogen bomb on an ice-capped strip of land above the Arctic Circle. By comparison, modern warheads ranged in yield from one megaton submarine-launched first strike missiles to ten megaton ICBMs.