by Jeff Carlson
Negotiations with the Americans had begun months ago, still in the heart of winter. Everyone was aware of what the spring thaw would bring — new ‚ghting, new horror — and the Russians were both distributed badly and surrounded everywhere. Let the Afghanis, Chechens, Turks, Kurds, Jordanians, Syrians, Lebanese, Palestinians, and Iraqis battle among themselves. The Russians had bargained their way out, offering their veteran armies to India in exchange for a sliver of real estate in the Himalayas as a buffer against the Chinese.
That would be a brutal ‚ght itself, of course, but with only one front instead of twenty. Their hope was to establish a stalemate, a cold war with entrenched borders. But to get there, they needed many more planes and fuel.
The United States had been spared as always by its geographical isolation and, ironically, by the fact that the plague broke loose in California and spread across North America ‚rst. They only had themselves and the Canadians to save as the rest of the world stayed back. Other countries waited and hoped, and then it was too late. Even close allies like the British, with no high ground of their own, had been forced to airlift themselves into the crowded war in the Alps after the nanotech was suddenly everywhere.
There were a few other somewhat calm zones. In fact, most of the South Pole was safe. Antarctica had endless ranges and plateaus above ten thousand feet. The freezing weather also came with low pressure fronts, leaving vast, high stretches of ice that were often free of the plague. But it was just ice. There was nothing to sustain anyone there.
Greenland took in some of the Norweigans and the Finns and their militaries, establishing a separate peace. The survivors out of Australia joined with New Zealand, and Japan still held a few peaks at the heart of their island.
Elsewhere the ‚ghting was mixed and savage. In Micronesia, millions of people fought for a handful of island peaks. The entire population of Africa tried to shove up onto Mt. Kilimanjaro and the very few other high points on the continent even as the Israelis airlifted south into Ethiopia and burned clear several peaks for their own.
Ulinov often wondered if the Russians should have planned to run farther themselves, but it was hard. They’d wanted to stay close to their cities, their industrial base, their military stockpiles — and they were not without experience in ‚ghting on Muslim land. He knew they were using their few remaining jets and helicopters to scavenge beneath the barrier, desperate for weapons and food.
The weight of it was like hundreds of years pressing down on him, millions of lives, the history of an entire nation. His people had been pushed to the last extreme. Their existence itself was at risk. There were still more than ‚fteen million of them alive, but unless the ‚ghting saw a dramatic turnaround, they would be lost, utterly gone except perhaps for a small collection of slaves and a few scattered souls like himself, bred out in a generation. And here he sat in his plush chair with a Coke.
“What we need is everybody on the same page,” Kendricks said, making an open gesture with one small hand. “We need to work together if we’re ever going to get things straight again. Right now it’s up to India to make the right choice. We’ve told ’em that.”
“And what did they say?”
“Well, they’re playing hardball. They think they’re doing enough by giving you people some land, and that’s a good deal for you. Sure it is. Them, too. But what about us?” Kendricks tipped his head forward, bringing the peak of his hat down in an aggressive posture. “What do we get for all those pilots and planes and the guns we’ll bring over? Maybe even some food. Why are we sending our boys all around the world when we’ve got a whole stack of problems of our own?”
“The nanotech,” Ulinov said, like a good pupil.
“Exactly. That’s it exactly.” Kendricks smiled. “India’s got some good folks and they’ve got a lab full of gear or two. But they’re exposed. The Chinese could ruin what they’re doing at any time, and they’re way behind what we’re doing here anyway.”
“So you consolidate their labs with yours.”
“Yes. It’s too hard to do everything on the radio and there’s no way we’re going to keep †ying planes back and forth. It’s just smart. It’s win-win.”
“Then you are making progress with R—” He didn’t want to say Ruth’s work. “With the nanotech.”
“Yes. I think I can tell you we’re getting close to something that’ll protect us all — us and our allies. I mean below the barrier. We can change the whole planet.”
“A weapon?” Ulinov looked at Schraeder, but the general’s expression betrayed nothing.
Kendricks frowned before making his face smile again. “People have been talking, I guess,” he said. “I know you’re in the radio room a lot.”
Did he expect names? Someone to punish? Ulinov would give him that, if he wanted. “A new plague is what they say.” Ulinov shrugged. “Talk on the street. Everywhere. They say it’s a new plague that works above ten thousand feet, but controlled, like a gas.”
Kendricks just shook his head.
“They say it goes away and the land is good,” Ulinov said, shifting cautiously in his chair. He did not want to play his next card…to take this gamble…but it felt good to show strength. “We know it exists,” he said. “We know you used it on the White River.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We still control a few satellites,” Ulinov said. When he imagined them, it was always with pride and hurt — his countrymen in dirt holes and ice caves, using laptops and a ragtag collection of transmitters to control impossibly complex machines beyond the sky, machines that were now beyond their ability to replace. “We have high-gain video of the assault,” he said. “We have analysis of how the nanotech…how it consumes.” The Americans called their weapon the snow†ake, perhaps because of the way it reacted to living tissue, swirling and clotting. “We know its dispersal rate. The heat it gives off. We have even been able to determine its shape.”
“The assault was necessary,” Schraeder said.
“Yes.” Ulinov would not argue that. “But we wonder if the Chinese also had a satellite in position. There has been some speculation if they could use that information to advance their own nanotech.”
The rest didn’t need to be said out loud, the array of threats within those words, not if Kendricks understood that the Russians could choose not to protect India after all. Kendricks had to realize that the Russians still had the option of making a very different deal to save themselves, trading their muscle for real estate as shock troops against India instead of for it. They could sell their satellite videos to the Chinese as a good part of that bargain.
Ulinov knew this proposal had already been made. Envoys had gone not only to the Indian Himalayas but also to the southern range to bow before the Chinese premier.
Kendricks responded easily. “I’ve got my doubts that anyone could learn much from a few pictures,” he said with a shrug. “Either way, that’s just all the more reason for India to help us out. Our side’s got to keep the upper hand if everyone doesn’t want their babies to grow up talking Chinese.”
“Before we ‚ght them we want the snow†ake,” Ulinov said, and he smiled at the small shock in their eyes. Orbital analysis was one thing. That he also knew the name of the nano weapon revealed a much deeper level of espionage, and that he would be so bold about it should indicate something even more worrisome to them: a willingness to ‚ght.
Kendricks remained cagey. He scowled at Ulinov, but his voice was steady. So were his eyes. Nothing would shake the man. “Well, the problem there is we’re having a hard time manufacturing enough of the nanotech,” Kendricks said. “That’s another reason we need India’s gear.”
Ulinov nodded slowly, bitterly, measuring his own position and knowing that it was weak. But his orders were clear. “We want the snow†ake,” he said.
9
It was a feint, of course. His government must know the Americans would never hand over a weapon of such magnitude, alt
hough before the end of their meeting Schraeder made a few noises about possibly sending over a few Special Forces advisors in control of the snow†ake.
What were his people truly after?
Ulinov grimaced in the wind and darkness, squinting up at the rash of stars. Tonight his old friends felt very far away and he tried to summon the memory of their real beauty. Even at ten thousand feet there were a great many miles of atmosphere between him and space, altering and dimming the starlight.
From the viewports of the ISS, those distant suns had never wavered, and Ulinov missed their bright, steady perfection because he didn’t dare allow himself to miss it in himself.
He was a tool. He accepted that. There was a great deal more at stake than his personal well-being, but this new gambit was worrisome. By pushing Kendricks for the nanotech, Ulinov had revealed that he had a secret channel of communication, because his conversations with the Russian leadership were always closely monitored. Without question, the tapes were replayed again and again by NSA analysts. There had never been any charade of diplomatic privilege. Each time a talk was scheduled, Ulinov sat among a gaggle of American personnel. For him to disclose new information was a surprise.
By now, the Americans would have triple-checked their radio room for bugs and viruses, searching everywhere until they cut him off. He didn’t like it. He was already so isolated. Worse, it felt very ‚nal, and Ulinov rubbed his thumb against the hard shape of the 9mm Glock inside his jacket pocket.
The night was frigid, especially on this third-†oor balcony. Ulinov was exposed to the breeze, but the main doors of the hotel were locked and he hadn’t even considered trying to get into the courtyard. Hardly anyone was allowed outside after curfew. Leadville had hunkered down until sunrise, with only a few windows glowing here and there.
“No signal,” whispered the shadow beside him, holding a cell phone in the dim light. “Still no signal.”
Ulinov nodded curtly, wondering at the white slash of teeth on Gustavo’s face. Some of that grin was fear, he thought, and yet there were also equal amounts of de‚ance and self-con‚dence. Gus had tricked the Americans before. He swore he could do it again.
Gustavo Proano was a thin man and no more than average height, but Ulinov was still learning to remember their size difference. In zero gravity, it hadn’t been so obvious, and Gustavo had been his communications of‚cer during their long exile in space, left aboard the ISS to appease the Europeans.
Gus had a big mouth and busy hands. Ulinov had warned him twice to stay quiet and yet Gus still commented on the obvious as he tapped at his phone. His free hand rustled and scratched at the back of his wool cap. Beneath it, he had a bald spot that he liked to rub as he worked.
Ulinov was calmer, even melancholy, motionless except for his thumb on his pistol. The sidearm had not been hard to come by in this war zone. Four days ago in the mess hall, the pistol had found its way from the gun belt of a weary Marine into the folds of Ulinov’s sweater.
“This damn thing,” Gustavo muttered, holding himself awkwardly to re†ect what light there was onto his keypad.
Acquiring a phone and a PDA was easier. The Americans seemed to have saved many, many millions more of their fun little gadgets than they had of their own people. Nearly everyone was connected to their grid by cell phone, iPhone, Bluetooth, or Blackberry. Again, Ulinov had stolen a phone, while
Gustavo traded outright for several more.
“Shall we stop?” Ulinov asked, almost smiling himself.
“I can get in,” Gus said.
“If they shut down the entire network—”
“Let me try another phone.”
Ulinov shrugged and nodded and made certain his smile did not show. It seemed to him that the Americans had missed a good bet with Gus. If they’d trusted the man, he could have been a signi‚cant asset. If nothing else, Gus was a familiar voice to survivors everywhere, but the Americans had more radiomen than radios and Gus was a foreign national.
After con‚rming access and control codes to the space station, they’d left Gus unemployed. It was a problem he’d anticipated. The Americans had wanted all of Ruth’s ‚les and the entire backlog of Ulinov’s surveillance work. They wanted the use of the cameras and other instruments. Even empty, the ISS made a valuable satellite — and Gus, like Ulinov, had reprogrammed his computers long before they disembarked, knowing it might be useful to leave open a few back doors.
Gus had deliberately created a bug that only he could correct, blaming the problem on the avalanche of data relayed through the ISS in the past year, not all of which was clean. “Fixing” the bug gave him two days to send code back and forth from the station after the Americans got frustrated. Two days to study. Two days to rig his patches.
Ulinov had always planned to act alone in his mission, using the ISS databases to store, send, and receive messages. The Americans agreed that he could still access the station to provide photos and weather reports for the Russian defenses, which gave him every excuse to transmit complex ‚les — but the Americans watched too closely. They recorded every keystroke. They made sure they had experts on hand to “help” him, combat engineers and meteorologists who were unquestionably CIA computer techs, no matter how competently they discussed demolition efforts or high pressure fronts.
Ulinov’s only transmissions to the secure database had been a weather report and then a duplicate of the same report, a clear signal to his countrymen that nothing else was safe.
His next message, however, was a short burst of text via wireless modem, reestablishing contact. Gustavo had three ways to pirate into the local system, delay-and-relay programs that attached packets of data to larger transmissions. Whenever the Americans uploaded commands to the ISS, which was constantly, Ulinov’s notes leapt into the sky as well.
Gustavo had shared this trick with Ulinov for reasons that Ulinov never fully trusted. For friendship, yes. And to keep busy. And yet he knew that Gus had been cooperating with American intelligence almost from the start of their twelve months in orbit… surely on orders from his own people…
What game were the Italians playing?
The situation in the Alps was not much better than in the Middle East. There were multiple battlefronts, a patchwork mess of alliances and counter-invasions, with Italy holding on to a few small shards of land against the French, Germans, Brits, Irish, Dutch, Poles, Greeks, Czechs, Belgians, Swedes, and Slavs. Ulinov had to trust Gustavo’s resentment. The whole world wanted to bring the Americans down a few notches to better their own chances of begging or buying help, but Ulinov was also aware that Gus could win favor by exposing him. The Italian spy agency, SISMI, had surely tried to copy all of Ulinov’s messages. If they’d succeeded, by now they must have broken the simple encoding.
The relay through Gus was never more than a short-lived chance to update and con‚rm contingency plans. Gustavo would betray him. Perhaps it had already happened. The Russian leadership must know this, and yet twice in the past twenty-four hours they’d alluded to their envoys to the Chinese. They’d also instructed Ulinov to demand the nano weapon, making certain the Americans learned of his deceit.
He was a tool that had been sacri‚ced, but to what purpose? Why did they want him in trouble and how did they want him to act? To try to minimize the problem? Make it worse?
“I’m in,” Gus said, beckoning for him to move closer.
Ulinov reluctantly took his hand from the pistol inside his heavy jacket. His bare ‚ngers tensed in the breeze as he accepted Gustavo’s phone. He had never felt so vulnerable.
“Thank you,” he said.
Gus nodded and grinned. He stepped away to give Ulinov a margin of privacy and Ulinov forced himself not to stare after his comrade. His enemy. It wasn’t that he expected men to crash into the room behind them, shouting, like a drama on American TV. Not yet. How did they say it in their Old West? They would hand him enough rope to hang himself.
Ulinov stabbed his ‚nger expertly ov
er the tiny face of the cell phone, holding it and his PDA in his left hand, using his right to enter his own codes now that Gus had keyed him into the Trojan database across town. He needed the PDA to remember his passwords and to encode and decode his messages, even though the cipher was very basic, substituting numbers for the Cyrillic alphabet. Again, it was only meant to keep the Americans guessing for a few days.
He used shorthand and abbreviations, perhaps three words in a row without most of the vowels, then one fully written out. He ran the numbers together so that 25 might as easily be a 2 and a 5. Also, the number substitution began arbitrarily, 1 for R—but only for messages transmitted on Sunday. The number representation shifted forward and back depending on the day of the week.
Ulinov was good with data, but he couldn’t instantly make sense of a hundred numerals squeezed together. Composing his reports wasn’t any easier, encoding a hundred letters after deleting vowels at random. He needed to organize his messages ahead of time, then key them into the phone as he read off of his PDA. Likewise, when he received text he transcribed it into the PDA as rapidly as possible and only later worked through it.
Even before he’d returned from talking with Kendricks, the Americans had disturbed his few belongings in the thin private area that was his living space, the back part of a suite that had been walled off with plywood. It wasn’t much, blankets and a mattress on the †oor, two spare shirts, underwear. And they hadn’t searched too hard. They’d moved things just enough to show they’d been there — to see what he would do, if he would panic — but Ulinov had stashed his contraband elsewhere in the old hotel. He’d found a small slot behind the exposed studs of the wall in the second-†oor stairwell where the paneling had been removed for ‚rewood.
The gun was not to kill Gustavo, nor himself nor anyone else. It was not for ‚ghting at all. There was no chance for Ulinov to escape Leadville, nor any reason. He intended to use the weapon to destroy his PDA and the pitiful few ‚les he’d created and received, no matter that the Americans might already hold copies of most. Let them think there were more. Let them worry there were real secrets.