“I should have asked,” she said. “Will you need passwords?”
“I’ve got those already. Got a copy when I was determining what equipment to mothball,” he said, already going inside, taking a cover off a computer that had to be at least as old as her.
“Is there anything else you need?” she asked, as he removed the dustcover from the next machine, a computer so new it still had a transparent sheet covering the flat screen.
“Just a bit of time.”
“Then I’ll head back to Parliament House, check in there. I’ll ask the sergeant outside to wait for you, and drive you there when you’re finished.”
“Hmm? Oh, sure,” he said, his attention already focused on the screen.
Outside, in the dark corridor, she leaned against the wall. Aiming the flashlight down and her eyes up, she marshalled her thoughts. Panic had been replaced by fear, but that had been her unwelcome companion since the outbreak. Nervous exhaustion had popped in for a visit, bringing distraction, confusion, and an unwelcome disorientation. Days were merging into one another, while hours raced like minutes and seconds took as long as years.
This new disaster was in the Pacific, not in Australia. While some kind of rescue operation should be attempted, they must remain focused on the wider goal, on resupplying General Yoon, on evacuating Japan, on reinforcing Singapore, and establishing a defensive line across the Malaysia-Thailand border. As tragic as the loss of the planes was, it truly was only one more small tragedy that shouldn’t be allowed to become an ocean of confusion. Yes, when they knew what had happened, they’d have the PM record a public statement for broadcast tomorrow, deploy a rescue operation, but otherwise make sure that the work didn’t slow because the zombies wouldn’t.
She’d managed two more steps towards the exit when a yell came from behind.
“Ms Dodson!” Smilovitz called, sprinting from the office. “Ms— Oh.” He stumbled to a halt.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You need to come and see,” he said.
“Seismographs and ocean buoys,” he said, pointing at the screen. “That data comes here. You know what a seismograph is?”
“Sure. Measures an earthquake.”
“And we use them to monitor nuclear testing,” he said. “If we know where the test site is, and can extrapolate dissipation, we can back-work the size of the blast. North Korea, yes? Okay. This is an old system. Very old. Designed for monitoring undersea volcanic activity, and now superseded. It’s not accurate, but it’s still useful. Or it should have been. We know of at least one detonation, and assume it was at sea, but we want the specific location. In the Pacific, a ring of at-sea weather buoys form part of the tsunami detection system. While a satellite uplink is their primary method of data transmission, they also use a simple radio system to transmit data from one to another. That creates a circuit, if you like. If the circuit is broken for a sustained period, the code checks the wave height on the closest active buoys, and if it’s raised, an alarm is sounded. A signal is sent by satellite, but also by radio from buoy to buoy and back to shore.”
“Okay. So?”
“The weather buoys are gone, and this blast was off the scale. That’s not hyperbole, simply a factual statement.”
“More slowly. More details. Please,” she said.
“This is bad,” he said. “A U.S. Ohio-class submarine carries twenty-four Trident missiles. The number and force of warheads can vary, but the rule of thumb is that each missile has four one-hundred-kiloton warheads. Four hundred kilotons per missile. Nine thousand six hundred kilotons, or nine-point-six megatons per submarine. By comparison, the 1883 eruption of Krakatoa was two-hundred-megatons.”
“You lost me at the end there.”
“The force of this explosion was more than all the warheads on a single submarine being detonated at once. More than twenty submarines, and the U.S. only has fourteen Ohio-class subs.”
“This was all their submarines? And other submarines? Whose?”
“I’m saying forget submarines,” he said. “Three mushroom clouds were witnessed? This data suggests the blast was a lot bigger than that. Hundreds of warheads. A thousand. I can’t give you a precise figure with this data here. But even if I could, it would only be an estimate of the yield from which I could back-work the number of warheads. That would give a range, not an absolute figure. Do you understand?”
“Not really. How did this happen?” she asked. “Why? Is there another explanation?”
“Sure, but not a plausible one if our first piece of data is the sighting of three mushroom clouds. The seismological readings from a volcano-triggered earthquake are very different to a nuclear detonation, thus precluding a natural explanation.”
“Are you saying that the U.S. government just dumped its entire nuclear arsenal into the Pacific?”
“Detonated, and not necessarily all of it, and not necessarily the U.S. But with that volume of warheads, it’s almost certainly either the U.S. or Russia. We know China was increasing the size of its arsenal, but I don’t think even they could have secretly amassed so many so quickly.”
“There is no Chinese government anymore,” she said. “Not in Beijing. Nor is there a Moscow. No Paris. No London, Delhi, Karachi, or Jerusalem. And no Washington. They appointed a man called Trowbridge as president, but I don’t think he was given the nuclear football. I’ve no idea where that is, and doubt the people in Guam would know, either. Guam! Is there anything else you can do here?”
“I need…” He looked around as if seeking answers. “This is the point where I would call our local liaison. If they couldn’t help, I’d call the Secretary General and get them to call your prime minister and so on until I had access to the equipment I need. More precise equipment will give us a more precise answer. There should be some, still active, here in the city. I need to know where the missiles came from. Which nation, at least.”
“You mean, like me, you want more data,” she said. “Do you know where we can find the equipment you want?”
“If I did, we’d be there, not here,” he said.
“Fine. Come with me. You can inform the rest of the cabinet. And the prime minister. And you can tell us what we need to do next.”
“I’ve no idea,” he said. “I dealt with prevention, and most recently in epidemiology.”
“Which is a lot more than me.” She took his arm and hurried him into the corridor. “Are you certain this wasn’t a naval battle?”
“I can imagine a scenario where a crippled submarine might launch a single warhead to destroy a fleet, but as I said, this was far more than one warhead.”
“So it wasn’t an act of war,” Anna said. “You don’t detonate hundreds of warheads in the middle of nowhere to… well, to defeat anyone. Zombies or people.”
“No, you’re correct,” he said. “This wasn’t an act of war. It was an act of disarmament. That’s all I can think of to explain it, but there has to be a logical reason behind it.”
“I haven’t been in politics long, but even I know that’s not always true.”
Her imagination cycling through one scenario after another, each more implausible than the last, she led him upstairs. With each step, she picked up her pace until, when she reached the partially lit entrance lobby, she was running for the door. She skidded to a halt as she reached it. Pushing, then pulling, but neither had any effect.
“It’s locked,” she said, giving it a shake, then leaned forward, cupping her hands against the glass.
“Did the sergeant lock us in?” Smilovitz asked.
“I can’t see him,” she said.
“He’s having a senior moment,” Smilovitz said. “Locked the door when he went to the washroom.”
“He’s not that old,” she said. “Never mind, we’ll look for another door.”
“He said they’d all been locked,” Smilovitz said. “I assume there’s no hard-line to Parliament House, or to a barracks?”
“Good point,”
Anna said, shining her light across the vestibule in search of a phone. “There are lines going into Parliament House, but I don’t know the number. When they began rebuilding the switchboard, the numbers changed. But I do know the number for my department. Hoa always has someone on duty.” Behind the reception desk was an old-fashioned wire-to-wall phone. “But this building isn’t connected to the new network,” she said, putting the receiver down. “I should have brought a radio. And the escort.”
“We’ll break the lock,” Smilovitz said. “Do you have a gun?”
“Nope, didn’t bring one of those either.”
Dr Smilovitz shone his torch on a fire extinguisher. “I left mine back in the lab, too. It’s hard to get in the habit of always carrying it. That extinguisher will do.”
“I’m sure that glass is reinforced,” she said, shining her torch onto the doors, then across the reception area and its wide windows, then down a dark corridor to the left. Lining one side of the hallway, between office doors, were display cases, containing examples of every rock in Australia. But above those, a dimly backlit blue arrow pointed towards an exit. “We could try a fire door.”
“There’s no time,” Smilovitz said. “Besides, I wasn’t planning to simply smash the lock. A pressurised container makes a decent torpedo, assuming you don’t mind the mess? In case it ricochets we’ll need some cover,” he added. “And I’ll need a—”
A loud clatter came from the corridor and the fire escape to the left of the doors. Anna, who’d been shining her light around the lobby in the hunt for a sturdier defensive bunker than the flimsy reception desk, spun around, pointing her light towards the sound. The light glinted off the glass cabinets, and glittered on some of the specimens inside, and illuminated the doors to meeting rooms and offices.
“Maybe we should find a different exit,” Smilovitz said.
“Or the main breakers, get the lights on,” Anna said. “I think they were—”
Even as she began to turn, an even louder clatter came from the corridor, followed by a thump and a crash of breaking glass. A man had lurched out of an open office door, and into an exhibit display-case. He still had the razor-sharp crease in his trousers and the mirror-shine on his shoes, while the green jacket was zipped up tight. But Sergeant Troy Brown’s face was twisted, distorted. His eyes were wide, and his grey beard was flecked with blood from where he’d smashed his face into the glass.
“Zombie,” Anna said.
“Definitely,” Smilovitz said. He flipped the extinguisher, blasting the undead sentry with a jet of pressurised foam, before backing up a step. “Worth a try.”
The zombie, now drenched and dripping, lurched towards them, swiping its arms into the display case.
“Got any other ideas?” Anna asked.
The zombie slipped on the now foam-speckled floor, landing hard, on its back, with a thump.
“See, my hypothesis wasn’t completely disproved,” Smilovitz said.
But even as it landed, the zombie kept moving, rolling, twisting until it was on all fours. Scrabbling on hand and knee and occasionally foot, kicking foam into spray, it lurched forward while they backed up.
Smilovitz blasted it again. And again.
“Get back!” Anna said. “You’re not even—”
The zombie got both knees beneath its body, managing to launch itself forward, arms flailing, but legs straight. It lacked the coordination to turn it into a proper leap, landing chin-first with a sickeningly loud crack. Both its outstretched arms were close enough for its hands to curl around Leo’s foot. The zombie tugged, pulling itself forward while pulling the scientist off-balance. Leo fell, just as hard as the zombie, landing on his back. The fire extinguisher flew from his hands while the zombie used its own to grab and haul itself up his legs.
Anna grabbed the extinguisher as the scientist kicked, pushed with his hands, trying to get distance between himself and the zombie dripping gore and blood from its broken mouth.
“Don’t move!” Anna said.
“Are you kidding?” Smilovitz replied, still kicking.
“No!”
Holding the extinguisher by handle and nozzle, Anna thrust it down on the zombie’s head. The extinguisher bounced off, while the undead man’s skull slammed, once more, into the hard polished concrete. Despite the thunderclap snap of cracking bone, its hands still clawed, ripping at Smilovitz’s trousers.
Anna raised the extinguisher above her head and swung. Skin tore. Bone smashed. Blood arced. The zombie spasmed. Its arms flew out and its head lolled forward as the scientist finally scrabbled out of reach. But the inhuman monster wasn’t dead. Its arms flew sideways, almost flapping against the floor while its legs kicked, swimming, dancing, knees and toes smashing into the concrete.
“Fascinating,” Smilovitz said.
“Not now, Doc,” Anna said, and swung the extinguisher down again. This time it impacted against an already fractured skull. Brain and blood flew across the lobby, across her. But the zombie, finally, was still.
“There’s a washroom there,” Smilovitz said.
“Hang on,” Anna said. “We need the keys. I can’t see a wound. Won’t find it now. But he got infected, which means more zombies out there, in the streets. Must have come in here, locked the doors, but turned…” She trailed off, walked into the bathroom, still thinking.
“Any keys on him?” Smilovitz asked, following her in.
“No,” she said, opening the cleaning closet and pulling out a bottle of bleach. “And no gun. Must have dropped them. You’re immune, aren’t you?”
“I ran a test, and I’d call this another,” he said. “So almost certainly, yes. And I can test you when we get back to the lab.”
“We don’t have time,” she said, drenching her hands with bleach, then rinsing them in the sink. “And we don’t have time to find where he dropped the keys. So if you really think you can break down that front door, go find another fire extinguisher.”
Chapter 21 - Bad News Loves Company
The Bunker, Parliament House
“Strewth, you look like you’ve been dragged sideways through a blackthorn jungle,” O.O. said, when Anna and Smilovitz entered the Bunker. The description equally matched the communications centre. More panelling had been removed, more wires were exposed, but the screens were still dark. The smell of burning plastic had been added to that of sweat and fear, while a bank of lights above the middle of the room had gone dark.
“It was zombies,” Anna said, but before her frustration could boil over, Erin Vaughn and Ian Lignatiev approached.
“Zombies? How many?” Lignatiev asked.
“We only saw one; the sentry guarding Geoscience Australia,” Anna said. “He was also guarding a campsite which I know was overfull with refugee-tourists. We should send a patrol to investigate.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Lignatiev said.
“No, send some of these conscripts,” Anna said. “Because zombies aren’t even close to our biggest problem. Leo needs to update you. And the prime minister. We should tell her as well.”
The prime minister was in the War Room, seemingly engrossed in a stack of printed papers.
“Prime Minister, we have news,” Anna said. “Leo?”
“Some scientific equipment is still functioning, and sending data back to the city,” Smilovitz said. “It’s bad news. Very bad.” They’d left the door open. Outside, in the main chamber, the dozen uniformed personnel had stopped to listen. “This is only a preliminary interpretation,” Smilovitz continued, “but it appears as if multiple warheads detonated in the Pacific within a relatively short time frame, and in close proximity. Maybe a thousand warheads.”
“It’s over,” Vaughn whispered, collapsing into a chair.
Anna turned to the PM who stared ahead, vacant-eyed.
“Do you hear that?” O.O. said. “Dame Nellie’s begun to sing, but will she give us an encore?”
“How much immediate danger are we in?” Lignatiev asked.
“None,” Smilovitz said. “Which is an under-exaggeration worthy of an Oscar, but it’s the end of the scale you need to focus on. At least in the short term. In the medium term, we’ll have fallout and radioactive contamination of the oceans to deal with. Right now, it looks, initially, as if the U.S. or Russia detonated their arsenal in the ocean.”
“You said this was a preliminary interpretation?” Lignatiev asked. “When can you give us more details?”
Smilovitz shrugged. “In time, and I can’t be more precise until I know what equipment I have available.”
“I’ll spread word to my to men,” Lignatiev said, “and have a team search for that zombie.” He marched out, Vaughn close behind.
“Ma’am?” Anna asked, turning to the prime minister, but Bronwyn Wilson was, once again, staring into space. Anna turned to Smilovitz. “Leo, can you see if anything can be done with any of that communications gear? If not, we’ll have to relocate.”
“Somewhere deeper underground would get my vote,” O.O. said.
Anna ignored him, and went to find some clean clothes.
She had many spare sets upstairs, mostly provided by Hoa Nguyen who insisted that it was important for leaders to appear professional in manner and dress. But she didn’t want to stray too far from the prime minister, not when it would mean leaving O.O. as the sole politician close enough to whisper in Wilson’s ear.
Ignoring the corridor leading to the senior politician’s private quarters, and where she presumably had an unclaimed room of her own, she ventured down the other hallway.
The armoury door was open, the lock disconnected, the racks of weapons, from nightsticks to shotguns, all long gone, distributed among those sent to the outback or coast. But in the stockroom next door, in a room gloriously well-stocked with disinfectant, were four unopened crates of clothing. The underwear and t-shirts came in many different sizes, though ranging from voluminous to elephantine. The trousers and windbreakers, in one-size-fits-no-one, came with a clasped drawstring at ankle, waist, and sleeves. They’d do for now.
Life Goes On | Book 3 | While The Lights Are On [Surviving The Evacuation] Page 20