Dogs of War

by Jonathan Maberry

  “Are we invading North Korea?” she asked.

  “If you’re going to kick serious ass,” said Top as he patted the Junkyard’s fender, “wear the right boot.”

  The driver’s door opened and, instead of seeing a DMS field operator, I saw the curvy figure of Lydia Rose step out, her long black hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wore black combat fatigues and had a sidearm tucked into a bright-pink shoulder holster. She flashed us a brilliant white smile.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “Driving,” she said, her smile turning into a challenging scowl. “We’re shorthanded and everyone’s in the field. Why, do you have a problem with that?”

  Her glare could have started a forest fire.

  “No, I do not,” I said quickly. You pick the fights you think you can win.

  I ignored Bunny’s chuckle.

  “Okay,” I said, turning back to the team, “here’s the game plan. We have people targeting every home or office owned by Zephyr Bain. Based on utilities usage, the best bet’s Seattle. Top, you take Bunny and Cole and check that out. Rudy and I will take the helo to the DARPA camp to see if we can get the brain trust there to help us come up with a response plan for this singularity event, whatever the hell it is. If nanites are controlling the pathogens—and that’s all but certain at this point—we need our best science nerds to find a way to take control of those nanites.”

  “To what end?” asked Cole. “The infection will still be there.”

  “Yeah,” Bunny agreed. “If the nanobots are keeping the diseases in check, then we can’t shut them down.”

  “No,” said Rudy, “which is why we need to figure out a way to hack into them and keep them operating according to our needs until a solution is found. In the meantime, Dr. Cmar is mobilizing the emergency-medical-response network to begin mass-producing vaccines and other drugs.”

  “How fast can they do that shit?” asked Top. “In the movies they seem to whip that stuff up overnight.”

  “That’s the movies, I’m afraid,” replied Rudy. “In truth, our best projection for a complete program of inoculation and vaccination is probably two to five years.”

  They stared at him, and Rudy gave a slow, sad nod.

  “Years?” echoed Bunny in a hollow voice.

  “Being optimistic,” said Rudy. “This plan was put together to be unstoppable, and unless we can take over the nanites and keep them active we’re going to witness the deaths of at least half of the people on this planet.”

  Cole looked sick.

  Bunny opened and closed his mouth like a boated fish.

  Top looked at me. “What are our odds here, Cap’n?”

  “Piss poor,” I said. “So let’s go see if we can change that.”

  We ran to our rides, and then we were gone.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE

  THE BAIN ESTATE

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  TUESDAY, MAY 2, 10:29 AM

  John the Revelator pulled on a silken bathrobe and walked through the house, leaving the bedroom and Zephyr behind. Campion was in the kitchen, and the man stood up as John entered, but he was nothing, so John didn’t even acknowledge him as he walked through. When he reached the computer room, he locked himself in.

  “Calpurnia,” he said aloud, “get the Concierge on the line.”

  “Of course, John,” said the computer graciously. “I believe he is waiting for your call.”

  A few moments later, the main screen flicked on to show the crippled Frenchman in his robotic chair. There was a fine sheen of sweat on the man’s scarred face.

  “How is mademoiselle?” asked the Concierge.

  “Indisposed,” said John, and he cut a look at the wall sensors as if daring Calpurnia to make a comment. But the computer offered no observation. “Give me a status report.”

  “Everything is ready to go,” said the Concierge.

  “Everything? The bombs, the dogs, the nanites? All of it?”

  “Yes, sir. Even with having to rush things with the revised countdown, we are as ready as is possible. However—”

  “However what?” asked John irritably.

  “Well, as we are now on the very edge of the cliff, it would be a great comfort to me and to many of the chosen to know how the recovery process will work. Mademoiselle Bain and you have made extraordinary promises, and you’ve both been more than generous with gifts and support, but once the word is given there will be that transition period. What guarantees do we have that the recovery will work?”

  “You’re asking this now?”

  “I have asked before, sir. Many times. Assurances are all well and good, but I think it would be a greater comfort to have specific details now that we are literally a word away from launching Havoc.”

  John stared at him for a long moment. “Are you saying that you don’t trust us?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” said the Concierge quickly. “This is simply a matter of needing reassurance at such a crucial time. Many of our colleagues and senior staff have been asking me.”

  “And what have you been telling them?”

  “That Mademoiselle Bain would be sending information and clarification before we launch. That’s worked quite well, but today there is necessarily more tension, more fear. I would hate to see that turn into real doubt or even, pardon me for saying it, resistance or noncompliance.”

  “And if we tell them to trust us and proceed anyway?”

  The Frenchman gave one of his small, expressive shrugs. “Who can say?”

  “Try.”

  The Concierge licked his lips. “Sir … let me phrase this as delicately as possible. I think it would be disastrous to launch with so much unnecessary fear and uncertainty in the mix. To give reassurances would be to firm up those areas of mistrust.”

  “So it’s mistrust now?” snapped John.

  “For some,” said the Concierge quickly. “Not all, but some. We all want to hear from the lady.”

  “Zephyr is too sick for a conference call,” said John. “She’s too weak to pat each of you on the back and change your diapers.”

  The Concierge stiffened.

  “And we’re out of time,” said John. “Details about the recovery and about resources and protections over the next days and weeks will be sent to everyone’s private servers. They already have enough currency in numbered accounts or, as in your case, bullion, to make sure they get through. Everyone was given detailed instructions about personal security, escape routes, bolt holes, bunkers, and other things. Any other assurances are bullshit. They are cowardice, and now is not the time. Now is the time to move forward.”

  “But—”

  “I am authorizing Havoc.”

  There was silence as the Concierge sat waiting for more.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “I did, sir, yes … but the protocol is—”

  “For Zephyr to say it. I know, and I told you that she is too sick. She has authorized me to give the word for her.”

  Still the Concierge did not move.

  “Don’t fuck with me,” warned John.

  “Monsieur,” said the Concierge, “it is my understanding that this entire program was set up this way so that it was Mademoiselle Bain who gave the go order. She and no one else.”

  “That’s impractical and sentimental. How many ways can I say it? She is sick. She is too far gone to be able to give that order.”

  “It’s a single word,” said the Concierge. “I have dedicated my life to her. She is my employer, and she is the only one whom I will accept that order from. No one else. Not even you, sir. Her, or no one.”

  John drew in and exhaled a long, slow breath. “You disappoint me.”

  “I am sorry, monsieur, but—”

  “Shut up, you little toad. I’m tired of hearing you speak. No … I’m tired of you.” John turned to the wall sensors. “Calpurnia, transfer all of the Concierge’s operational controls to this station. Do it now.”
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  “All secondary operational controls have been terminated,” said the computer. “Station One is now in complete operational control.”

  “Wait, no!” cried the Frenchman. “What are you doing?”

  “Calpurnia,” said John, “initiate a flashpoint at Station Two.”

  “No!” screamed the Frenchman. “You’re mad. Don’t do this.”

  “Please clarify,” said Calpurnia, sounding alarmed.

  “You heard me,” said John. “Do it now.”

  The little Frenchman continued to scream and protest.

  For one second more.

  There was a flash of white light, and then the screen was filled with static and white noise hissed from the speakers. Then the picture changed to show a distant view of the cliffside where the Concierge’s house had been. Now it was an angry orange fireball that rose slowly toward the blue sky. Pieces of debris flew outward toward the sea.

  “Station Two has been terminated,” said Calpurnia.

  John gave the sensors a sharp look. Was there the slightest hint of regret there? Was there some disapproval?

  “Thank you, Calpurnia,” he said. “Now, initiate WhiteHat. Initiate all systems. Initiate all drone launches. And … God, have I wanted to say this and mean it for so long, release the hounds.”

  “Please speak the code word to initiate Havoc.”

  John smiled. “The code word is love.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWO

  ROUTE 5

  SOUTH OF SEATTLE

  WASHINGTON STATE

  TUESDAY, MAY 2, 11:13 AM

  The Junkyard didn’t look as if it was built for speed, but Brick Anderson and Mike Harnick had tricked it out with a new suspension system, weight balancing, and one hell of an engine. It burned north along Interstate 5, blowing past faster-looking cars. West of Star Lake, they picked up a police escort that began as a pursuit to give out a speeding ticket, but Top made a call and the cops fell into formation, a motorcycle up front and a state-police cruiser behind. A police chopper followed them from a thousand feet up.

  Bunny, Top, and Cole kept themselves belted in and braced, because Lydia Rose drove like a maniac.

  “She’s going to kill us all,” yelled Cole.

  “Don’t want to play the man card here,” yelled Top, “but woman up.”

  “‘Woman up’ is not a thing, you sexist freak.”

  “Whatever.”

  Behind the wheel, Lydia Rose laughed as she drove and the needle trembled around ninety-five.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THREE

  UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

  WASHINGTON STATE

  TUESDAY, MAY 2, 11:18 AM

  “Coming up on it, boss,” said the pilot over the loudspeaker.

  I looked out the window and saw a small landing zone in the middle of no-damn-where. No bells or whistles. I could see the telltale ripples that let me know there were camouflaged tarps covering small buildings and vehicles. Everything else was a sea of Douglas fir and western hemlock. I couldn’t even see a road from up here.

  During the flight we changed into work clothes. Bird Dog, our logistics and field-support guy, was aboard and he always knows how to pack for a trip. I put on black BDUs, flexible and durable combat boots, weapons, and plenty of fun toys. Rudy stayed in his civilian clothes. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but this isn’t a raid. We’re going to DARPA to ask for help, aren’t we?”

  I clipped my rapid-release folding knife into my right front pants pocket. “Sure,” I said, “but I want to get the right answers first time I ask.”

  He sighed but made no other protest.

  On the ground we were met by a lieutenant from the unit attached to the camp. He had a sergeant and five soldiers with him. He stood at the foot of the fold-down stairs. I clumped down to the bottom step and looked down at him.

  “This is a restricted airstrip,” he said. “You do not have permission to land here.”

  “We already landed,” I said.

  “I’ll need to see your identification.”

  I was wearing a pair of aviator glasses with no correction in the lenses. What I had instead was a high-def camera in the temple piece and a screen display on the inside of the left lens. The camera was synched with MindReader’s facial-recognition software.

  “Lieutenant Pepper,” I said, and liked how hearing his name made the kid twitch. “You work for Major Carly Schellinger, correct?”

  Lieutenant Joe Henry Pepper burned off three seconds trying to figure out how to answer that and settled for a brief nod.

  “She’s your boss,” I said. “You know who her boss is? And I don’t mean the director of DARPA. I’ll give you a hint. Her boss lives in a big white house in Washington, D.C. with lots of roses in the yard, and he signed this.” I held out a sheet of paper embossed with the seal of the president of the United States. He took it with great reluctance. His squad tried to scare me to death with tough-guy stares, but it was the wrong day for that. I wasn’t the right audience for that performance. Beside me, Ghost was showing everyone his teeth. There was not a lot of love in the air.

  Pepper handled the letter as if it was radioactive. “I … I’ll have to call this in.”

  “You do that.” The lieutenant had no idea what my rank was, but he threw me a nervous salute and hurried over to a Humvee parked in the shade of a canopy, opened the door, and climbed in.

  Bird Dog and his assistant trotted down the steps with a duffel bag and a locked metal case and set them next to the Humvee.

  Rudy studied the soldiers and leaned close to speak. “Did you notice the sergeant?”

  “What about him?”

  “He has extensive facial scars.”

  “So?”

  “All of these men do,” said Rudy. I glanced over at Pepper’s men. I’ve become so used to seeing soldiers with battered faces, because the DMS tends to have that effect, that I didn’t notice that they were visibly scarred. It was an unusually high percentage.

  “What’s it tell you?” I asked. “That they’re recruiting combat vets?”

  “More than that,” said Rudy, “though I could be wrong. DARPA has been doing a lot of work with Medtronic, a Minneapolis firm that developed an implant for Parkinson’s-disease sufferers in a bid to strengthen short-term memory and even restore lost memories.”

  “What’s that have to do with these guys?”

  “DARPA was experimenting with soldiers who’d suffered traumatic brain injuries. Rebuilding memories, restoring cognitive function, essentially reversing all kinds of brain damage. They use special chips inserted directly into the brain. Boston Scientific is also involved. Hu said that there had been great advances beyond the restorative medical ones. Soldiers implanted with chips could get uploads of new information to make them more combat-efficient. That includes artificial regulation of some of the brain chemistry and nerve conduction.”

  The sergeant and his men continued to stare at me, and now I found their glares a little more unnerving.

  “Tell me, Rudy,” I said, “would any of that stuff involve nanotechnology?”

  “Yes,” he said, “it would. That’s what made me think of it. There are so many nanoscience experts here, and then we see a group of soldiers who could very well be part of the brain-enhancement program.”

  Lieutenant Pepper got out of the car and walked briskly over to me. He stopped and assumed a parade rest posture. Very neat and correct.

  “You are Captain Ledger,” he said, making it a statement. “I’ve been instructed to bring you to the camp. However, I’ll have to ask that you turn over your cell phones and any communications equipment before we go.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Sir, I’m afraid I must insist.”

  “Maybe you should go make that call again,” I said. “Ask very specifically how much of whose ass needs to be kissed here. I’m pretty sure it’s my hairy butt that’s going to be getting all the love. Go on, make the call.”


  Pepper tried to kill me with a stare of pure hatred, but I knew he’d already asked that question. Because he didn’t, in fact, go and make a follow-up call to let me know that he knew. Too bad for him if he wasn’t smart enough to bluff with the wrong cards.

  “I need to advise you to turn off your Wi-Fi,” he said. It was weak and lame, but I let him have that little victory. Rudy and I made a big show of turning our cell Internet connections off. I also turned off my ringer but put the phone on vibrate.

  They had two Humvees. I got in the back behind Pepper, with Rudy and Ghost beside me. Bird Dog sat on the top step of the plane with a bottle of Mountain Dew and tried to look as if he was just another working stiff taking it easy. Pepper left two soldiers behind with him. As we were leaving the airstrip, I saw a flock of pigeons go flapping up from behind the helo. The soldiers didn’t take notice of them. Nor, I imagine, did they notice the smile Bird Dog hid behind his bottle as he took a long swig.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR

  THE HANGAR

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  TUESDAY, MAY 2, 2:19 PM

  “Auntie,” yelled Bug. “I think I got something.”

  Aunt Sallie was in the TOC, and she wheeled toward the glass wall of the MindReader Q1 clean room that lined one side of the big chamber. Bug—who was anything but clean—slapped a pizza box from his desk and hammered some keys to send data to the main screens. All the technicians and operations officers looked up to see a text message scroll across.