by Dirk Patton
“Here!”
I heard her voice, but was more worried about getting the door closed and secure before the females arrived. Tugging hard against the wind that didn’t want to let it move, I muscled it shut and shot home the deadbolt. Spinning, I looked around and brought the rifle into position. Lots of cars, but nothing moving. And I didn’t see the girl.
“Down here,” she called.
Stepping forward, I looked down a ramp that descended to a lower level. She was standing at the bottom of it, waving for me to follow. I started to go after her, whirling when the metal gate crashed as females began to slam against it, their voices echoing in the garage. They must have heard the girl, too.
With no way for the infected to break through, I turned and trotted down the ramp to where the girl waited. She gave me a funny look.
“What’s that on your face?”
“Lets me see in the dark,” I said.
“Really?” she asked in disbelief.
“Really,” I said. “Now, where’s this tunnel and where does it go?”
“Very bottom,” she said, pointing at another ramp that extended deeper underground.
“Show me,” I said.
“Let me have the thing so I can see in the dark.”
“Think I’d better keep it for now,” I said, swinging the NVGs up and turning on the light mounted to the rifle.
“They’re not real, are they?”
“How about we find the tunnel, then I’ll let you look through them. Okay?”
She looked at me for a beat, trying to decide if I was being straight with her, then nodded and headed down the next ramp without another word.
I walked next to her, glad the sounds from the screaming females were fading as we descended. Thinking about the infected, I glanced at the girl with a frown on my face.
“What’s your name?”
“You couldn’t pronounce it,” she said matter of factly. “No white man could.”
“Then what do I call you? Kid?”
She gave me a look that’s universal. The look that knows no nationality, social status, race or ethnicity. It’s a woman wondering why the hell she puts up with a moronic man. It was all the funnier coming from a child.
“Call me Mavis,” she said.
“I’m John. So, Mavis. How is it you aren’t freaked out by the infected. You seem to have it together.”
She shrugged her small shoulders, then pointed at another ramp on the far end of the level that descended even further.
“Been hearing about them for a long time now. Saw them on TV a few times at a soup kitchen. Figured they’d be here sooner or later. Now they are. Been on my own a long time. Not much point in getting all scared. Gotta think and take care of yourself.”
I was a little taken aback by her answer. On her own?
“Where’re your parents?” I asked gently.
She shrugged in answer to my question. I looked at her a moment, waiting, but she didn’t seem interested in elaborating.
“How old are you?”
“Twelve. I think. How old are you?” she asked, challengingly.
After a moment, I grinned at her.
“Old,” I said with a chuckle. “So, you’ve been living by yourself? Where?”
She sighed as we started down the ramp. As we descended I could smell a musty dampness that intensified with every step.
“Look,” she finally said. “I got no parents. I grew up in a catholic orphanage, even if the nuns did look down on every Abo. Soon as I was old enough, I left. Been on my own ever since.”
“How long?”
“Couple of years,” she said like it was the most normal thing in the world.
We reached the bottom of the ramp and stepped into a cavernous level. There were no cars parked here. In several places were neat piles of supplies and material for maintaining the building, all wrapped tightly in plastic to protect them from the damp air.
“Over there,” she said, pointing at a particularly large stack by the farthest wall.
“A tunnel,” I said, noticing her pick up on the tone in my voice.
“It’s better than it sounds,” she said defensively.
I shrugged and followed her around the pile of materials. At first, I didn’t see anything other than a blank wall. But a closer inspection revealed a sheet of plywood attached to the surface, painted to match. Mavis shoved on its edge and it swung to the side, allowing her to step through. She held the makeshift door open and gave me an impatient look until I joined her and then let the plywood fall back into place.
15
“What are you doing, Chief?”
Jessica looked up to see Lieutenant Hunt, her CO, standing next to her station. She was so absorbed in her work that she’d failed to note his approach.
“Sorry, sir. Didn’t see you. I’m trying to find the photo of Rachel Miles, Major Chase’s friend, that I used for the satellite facial recognition when she was in Oklahoma.”
“She’s not with him in Barinov’s building?” Hunt asked in surprise.
“Apparently not. A friend of his with the Australian Special Air Service Regiment heard from him shortly after the gas was released. The Russians took her with them.”
“Then isn’t she on a plane?” he asked, confused.
“That was the assumption, but after the Royal Australian Air Force attacked the Russians on the ground at Wagga Air Force Base, she seems to have escaped. At least that’s what Lucas Martin was told by a Russian soldier who was left behind.”
“So, she’s lost again?”
“It would seem so, sir,” Jessica said. “Staff Sergeant Martin is in the area, searching for her, but not having any luck. He called and asked if I could help. Since Barinov’s flight is over the south Pacific, with nowhere to land, I figured it was okay to divert some resources to help find our people on the ground.”
Hunt considered that for a minute, watching as Jessica searched archived files. With a muted cry of success, she found the old surveillance photo of Rachel that had been taken at Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma. Quickly, she loaded it and initiated the command to send it up to the NSA satellite orbiting above the southern hemisphere.
“What’s the Major’s status?” he asked.
“I’m hoping he’s still secure in the building,” Jessica said, swiveling around to look up at Hunt. “A big tropical storm just made landfall. Good, because the experts are telling me the intense rain will degrade the nerve gas very quickly. Bad, because even thermal imaging isn’t getting through the dense, moisture laden cloud cover.”
“Wait… you said the Major called his friend with the Regiment. If he can call out, why can’t we call in?”
“Tried, sir. All the lines that go into the building. A couple of them are already down, but the ones that are still functional go unanswered. I’m hoping he’s just not near a phone.”
They shared a look, both understanding her hopes were unreasonable, but neither voiced their thought.
“Very good, Chief,” Hunt finally said. “But don’t lose sight of the Russian planes, even if they are over open ocean with nowhere to go.”
“Keeping them tracked with a low-res system, sir. Don’t need to be able to count the rivets in their skin to see what they’re doing. Does intel have any ideas on where they’re going?”
“Not that I’ve been told, but I’m betting on Southern California. They’re just swinging far enough south to avoid anything we could launch out of Hawaii.”
Jessica swung back to her terminal and pulled up a live feed from the satellite. A dozen massive Antonov transport aircraft, surrounded by more than a hundred Russian fighter jets, were on a course due east from Sydney. There were nearly six thousand miles to go before they would reach the coast of Chile.
From there, it was another six thousand miles north to California. A very long detour to be sure, but it kept the Russian president well away from the operational area of the remaining US military assets in the Pacific.
The console popped up a window and emitted a beep to announce the upload of Rachel’s photo to the satellite was complete. Jessica quickly acknowledged the message and after drawing a box around the Wagga Wagga area, initiated the facial recognition search.
“I’m going off duty, sir,” she said to Hunt. “Will you be around? Can I set the system to notify you if there’s a hit?”
“I’ll be here, Chief. Have a good evening.”
Jessica thanked him, spent less than a minute configuring the system, then headed for the door.
When she emerged from the building, she paused in appreciation of an absolutely perfect tropical evening. The sun was just brushing the ocean to the west and a gentle breeze was blowing off the harbor below. She started to head for her quarters, but paused when she spotted the heavily armed Marines who had formed a perimeter around a concrete bench.
Changing direction, she walked to the closest one, noting Admiral Packard’s ramrod straight form seated thirty yards away on the bench. The Marine recognized her, smiling a greeting.
“Here to see the old man?” he asked, hand poised over his radio.
“If he’s not busy.”
“By himself,” the Marine said as he called Captain Black.
It was only a matter of seconds for Jessica to be cleared and she thanked the Marine as she moved past.
“Hey, Chief,” he called before she’d gone ten feet. She turned to look at him with eyebrows raised questioningly. “I was wondering if I could buy you a beer sometime.”
Jessica stood there in surprise, looking up at the man who was easily twice her size. After a moment, she moved closer, peering up at his face.
“You’ve heard about me, right?” she asked.
“You mean that fuckin’ traitor whose dick you cut off? Got what he deserved, you ask me.”
“And you still want to go out for a drink with me?”
The Marine looked down at her and nodded.
“You didn’t do nothin’ none of the rest of us wouldn’t have, if we’d had the chance. Maybe I wouldn’t ‘a’ cut his dick off, but that’s only ‘cause I wouldn’t ‘a’ thought of it. You’re a fuckin’ legend, least in the squad bays, Chief, and I’d be proud to buy you a beer.”
Jessica stared at him for another long moment, not answering. Trying to decide if he was serious.
“Long as you don’t bring your knife,” he finally said, a shoulder shrug and sloppy grin softening the comment.
Despite herself, Jessica laughed.
“Okay, Gunny. A beer. And no promises on where the knife will be, so you’d better be on your best behavior!”
With a smile, she turned and moved away, covering twenty yards before realizing she’d put a little something extra into her hips as she walked. Shaking her head, she nodded to Captain Black, the Admiral’s head of security, then came to attention in front of Packard. He looked up at her, smiled and waved a hand for her to take a seat at his side.
“How are you this evening, Chief?”
“Quite well, sir!”
He heard something in her voice and cast a sideways look in her direction, holding her eyes until she looked away and smiled.
“I won’t ask, young lady,” he said, extending a pack of cigarettes.
Jessica took one, thanking him after he held a lighter for her.
“Lucas Martin heard from the Major,” she said after taking a deep drag.
The Admiral turned to her in surprise. “He survived?”
“Made it inside Barinov’s building and got a call out, but I haven’t been able to reach him. Also, sir, Ms. Miles seems to have managed to escape from the Russians at Wagga Air Base. She’s missing, but I’ve got a satellite search underway.”
Packard nodded slowly as he absorbed the information. Lighting a cigarette of his own, he and Jessica sat quietly smoking for a few moments.
“Do you still have control of the Russian satellite that directs the infected?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Just waiting for your order to start using it to redirect them.”
“Soon, Chief.”
Jessica finished her cigarette and stood.
“Good night, sir,” she said, hesitating before walking away to make sure the Admiral didn’t want to talk about anything else.
“Good night, Chief,” he said, giving her a smile as she left.
“Captain Black,” he said when she was out of earshot.
“Sir?”
“Any word from Eagle Team?”
“Still radio silent, sir,” Black answered. “They should be on the ground by now, though. We can verify with satellite imaging, if you like.”
“No,” Packard said immediately, shaking his head. “Outside of the team we dispatched, you, Captain West and I are the only people that have been briefed into the operation. We should keep it that way for the time being.”
Black looked at the Admiral, a frown of concern creasing his face.
“We have another leak, sir? Another Russian agent?”
Packard was quiet for a moment, finishing his cigarette before answering.
“Just an abundance of caution, Captain,” he said, standing. “Let’s swing by the planning group. I want to check on the status of the preparations for exodus.”
16
Igor finished his circuit of the Hunter, satisfied that the vehicle’s tires were in good shape. At the back, he paused to double check the security of the straps that held half a dozen cans of fuel in place. The road ahead was rough and they couldn’t afford to lose even a drop of fuel.
The gas nozzle sticking out of the tank clicked off and he moved to it, carefully squeezing until fuel reached the lip of the filler neck. Noting the ancient pump’s readout, he walked across the snow-covered asphalt to where a bored old woman sat in a small booth. He’d convinced the pilot to give him all his cash and now shoved nearly half of it through the window she opened.
Grunting, she slowly checked each bill to ensure it wasn’t counterfeit before putting them out of sight beneath a narrow ledge. Pushing three coins of change back through, she slammed the window without a word. Taking the money, Igor headed to the Hunter where Strickland, Irina and her uncle waited inside. The pair of girls they’d rescued had opted to remain behind in Irkutsk with a distant cousin of one of them.
Getting behind the wheel, Igor cast a glance over his shoulder into the back seat where Strickland was snoring loud enough to rattle the windows. Shaking his head, he started the engine and pulled them a few yards away from the pumps before stopping. He left the engine running, but there wasn’t much heat to make them more comfortable.
“We should go here,” Irina said, tracing a route on a faded paper map.
“We are here,” Igor said, pointing at a small dot. “Moty. We go around Lake Baikal and head south through Mongolia. Then cross China to the Yellow Sea. They can pick us up there. That is half the distance.”
“Have you ever been to Mongolia, young man?” Shevchenko asked, receiving a shake of the head.
“The roads are impassible this time of year. At least in this thing. Perhaps with a properly equipped military vehicle, but this rust bucket would not survive the journey.”
“And entering China would be bad,” Irina chimed in. “If there is not a hot zone from all the nuclear weapons the Americans used on them, there will be too many infected. Do not forget how large their population was.”
Igor sighed and bent his head back to look at the map. Irina slowly traced her finger along the route she was proposing. Currently, they were fifty kilometers south of the Irkutsk airport, having stopped to top off their fuel supply. They would continue on south, around the tip of Lake Baikal, then east, skirting the Chinese border until able to turn south toward Vladivostok.
Before reaching the Russian city, which they knew had been devastated by American attacks, they would turn back to the east and the Sea of Japan. A total of four thousand kilometers in a Russian winter.
“This is a bad r
oad,” Igor said. “Many stretches are unpaved. There is some very rugged terrain. Mountains, snow and ice.”
Irina and her uncle remained silent, recognizing he was simply thinking out loud.
“But there will not be infected on the route. And we will have to find more fuel.”
“Food and water, too,” Shevchenko said.
Igor glanced at the older man, then Irina.
“We seem to have no other option,” he said, maintaining eye contact with her.
She reached out and placed her hand on his arm. After a moment, he nodded agreement and began folding the map. Driving to a small store at the edge of town, he stopped again and went inside. A few minutes later, he returned, several bulging bags in his arms. Loading them into the back seat, he got behind the wheel as Shevchenko began digging through the purchases.
“Black bread and goat cheese. That is all you could get?” he asked as Igor gently pulled out onto the snow-covered road.
“It will fill your belly,” Igor said, unconcerned if the Admiral of the Fleet disapproved of his choice in rations.
Irina gave her uncle a look, then took one of the hard loaves of coarse bread and broke it in two, handing half to Igor. With a sigh, Shevchenko finally tore into the simple food, devouring an entire loaf without stopping.
An hour later they rounded the western point of Lake Baikal, the road hugging the shoreline as it headed east. Dense, Siberian forest pressed in on the narrow, crumbling ribbon of asphalt that was hidden beneath a blanket of snow. The going was rough due to all the unseen potholes that jarred their teeth with no warning. Near absolute darkness further hampered their progress, the weak lights of the old vehicle seeming to reach no farther than a few meters.
Igor slowed, not concerned with comfort but afraid of damaging the vehicle and becoming stranded in the middle of nowhere. Since leaving the tiny village of Moty, they hadn’t seen a single other car or truck. There would be no help if they ran into trouble.