Extraction

by Marcus Richardson

  All major metropolitan areas within the continental United States glowed red, showing 90% or higher infection rates. The blood red infection coloring had spread deep into the American countryside, leaving virtually no area of the country untouched. Except for the spine of the Rocky Mountains and patches of the high northern plains, most of the country had been infected with the virus released by the North Koreans and engineered by the Council.

  Continuously updating data on fatality rates hovered over the cities. New York City, Baton Rouge, and Detroit looked like craters—the expanding black color indicated high fatality rates.

  The president clenched his jaw. North Korea. The bane of his existence. He turned to a screen on the opposite wall showing a real-time update of the situation on the Korean peninsula. The demilitarized zone separating North and South and all known NKor military installations, glowed yellow. In the South, they were blue with white dots in the middle. All around the peninsula, a string of solid blue icons showed the 7th Fleet’s blockade of the rogue nation.

  Hovering on the edge of the screen, several red triangles showed Russian and Chinese warships keeping tabs on the situation. Not shown on the screen were the Air Force's strategic bombers, and the Navy's attack and nuclear submarines, all prowling offshore.

  All I have to do is give the word, and North Korea will cease to exist.

  He turned to a third screen, set in between the other two. This was another interactive map of the United States, only the red on this map indicated territory controlled by the North Koreans during their surprise invasion. A glaring swath of the western United States—all of Washington state, most of Oregon, California, and parts of Nevada and Utah all glowed red. The North Koreans had pushed faster and farther than anyone had ever expected. They'd caught America flat-footed, and for the past 6 months they’d held fully one third of the population of the United States hostage.

  Threats and counter threats had been made—but it boiled down to one simple truth: if the president wiped North Korea off the map, there was a very real possibility that millions of Americans would be executed in retaliation by enemy soldiers now controlling several states.

  President Harris reached for his coffee mug out of habit, then pulled his hand back. The bitterness of the situation had killed his taste for coffee, food, or anything—including sleep. The United Nations was supposed to prevent situations such as this—it was in their damn charter—they were supposed to be the world's police, to maintain order and peace. He frowned.

  But that job and fallen to the United States for the past seventy years. And where had it gotten his country? America had tried to take the lead on North Korea several times in the previous half-century when the UN wouldn’t. And now…America had been invaded, attacked from without and within, and put in an untenable situation—one that could mean the death of a third of her population or the start of a global war, bringing about the deaths of millions more.

  President Harris rubbed his face. All of his advisers agreed that if he attacked North Korea without UN approval, China and Russia would be forced to step in and defend their erstwhile allies—at the very least they would take advantage of the situation, with Russia likely attacking Eastern Europe and China going after Taiwan. Allies would be called in on both sides of the equation, and before long the world would be wrapped up in another global conflict.

  He shook his head. So many people around the world were still sick and dying from the pandemic virus, even with the Herculean efforts of the entire American pharmaceutical industry to band together and produce the vaccine for free—in exchange for unprecedented tax credits and compensation—for global distribution, it would take time…

  Time he didn't have, time the people of California didn't have, time the world didn't have.

  Unlike most presidents, Orren Harris was fully prepared for his name to be a mere footnote in history books. Future Americans would look back on what he did and say he either tried his best in a terrible situation, or made the wrong decision and doomed the world.

  If the UN summit in Scotland had proceeded as planned, the world might be in an entirely different situation. A voice of doubt flared to life in the back of his mind again: but would it, really?

  The president closed his eyes and sighed. Could the UN be trusted to do anything except serve its own purposes, or the purposes of nations like China, Iran, and Russia—always it seemed, determined to counter the United States and the efforts of people around the world who desired a lasting peace and real progress for mankind?

  The president shook his head and sipped his coffee at last, frowning that it’d gone cold—again. The UN could've been so much more. Formed as an ideal, in a time of grand visions and titanic struggle, the UN could have—should have—been the organization that finally united all of mankind.

  The president picked up a stack of papers and thumbed through the reports from Defense, a second stack from State, and the latest intel reports from NSA. All of them pointed to the same result: all of this could've been avoided had the UN summit succeeded. Even Russia had been willing to concede punishing North Korea to be preferable over full-scale global war, if only it could be done in partnership.

  He sighed. There's always something…

  President Harris rose and slammed the papers down on the desk.

  Two thirds of the world is sick and recovering from the bioweapon virus—if I tried to rescue the Americans held hostage by North Korea, I doom the rest of the world to war. If I do nothing, the Koreans get away with the greatest invasion in history. How many more Americans will die no matter what I do?

  Orren Harris was not an overly proud man—he had raised his family, seen his children grow to adulthood, and liked to think he’d done well by his constituents during his time in Washington. He’d never wanted the job of Speaker of the House, let alone president.

  Yet, here he was.

  The president clenched his jaw in true Midwestern stubbornness. He'd be damned if he didn't make the best of the situation for the American people. If that meant igniting a world war and ruining his legacy, then so be it. He would not go down in American history as the president who lost a third of the country.

  He'd seen the tracking polls and all the data—he knew that in the upcoming special elections, it would be a real nail biter—it was too close to call whether he'd be given a mandate by the people to continue in office, to keep trying to heal the country, to move Washington D.C. to a more secure location in Denver, to bring America out of the worst national crisis since December 7th, 1941.

  Looking at the final monitor in the room, he moved over to the control board and cycled through external camera images until he found the ever-present protesters. People waved signs demanding everything from and end to capitalism, to preventing alien abductions, clustered together with groups screaming about the capital move.

  He understood that most of the world recognized moving from D.C. to Denver as a strategic decision, perhaps even tantamount to declaring a willingness to start a world war. The North Koreans must be getting nervous, but the bioweapon attack had confirmed what many defense analysts had been saying for years—the nation's heart had to be more centrally located, and now was as good a time as any to do it.

  Moving the seat of power almost 1,700 miles west was no small undertaking, and would not likely be completed for years, but it was a step in the right direction—a step Orren Harris was willing to make. Besides, it might help jumpstart the flu-ravaged economy by creating hundreds of thousands of new jobs for the survivors.

  The question remained though, was he willing to take the steps necessary to liberate the Americans trapped under North Korea's rule on the west coast? Was he willing to risk the lives of perhaps billions of people worldwide to save millions of people at home? Could he not and still live with himself?

  The president stared at a small stack of letters he carried with him daily, letters from average Americans pleading for him to rescue their loved ones, parents, and child
ren trapped in the Occupied Zone. He heard the horror stories of the rape camps, the executions, the theft, and the outright barbarism perpetuated by the North Koreans upon civilians west of the Rockies. Some of it was obviously dramatized, but the CIA and NSA both confirmed that a good portion of the horrors reported in the OZ were very real.

  He’d also read the heartening reports of bands of patriots offering organized resistance, scattered all across the Occupied Zone, impeding the North Koreans at every turn. Thinking of those brave Americans as he so often did, the final decision that he needed to make at last took shape in his heart.

  His resolve hardened. If those isolated patriots were willing to risk their lives to save strangers for no other reason than the fact that they were all Americans—even in the face of the bioweapon attack and overwhelming odds—how could he not do all that he could to help them?

  The president had seen a report just that morning, as he woke from a restless night on the Oval Office couch, that a group of thirty patriots had been cut down attempting to rescue a convoy of prisoners the North Koreans were transporting between two cities on the edge of no-man's-land. He’d watched the drone footage, rage building inside him as the North Koreans sent in wave after wave of soldiers to grind down the American resistance. In the end, the resistance fighters had been captured and executed—in front of those they had tried to rescue.

  To make matters worse, the North Koreans then executed the prisoners being transported—in full view of the drone—leaving the bodies of dozens of Americans to rot in the alpine pass while the drone watched from a safe distance.

  The president watched the video again now, clenching his hands into fists. It was just the latest atrocity in a string of atrocities, and in that moment Orren Harris knew what he was going to do. The North Koreans had been taunting him for almost a full year, reveling in the fact that they had gotten away with invasion and murder on a massive scale.

  A sudden calm came over the president. He reached for his coffee mug. The dark drink, despite being cold, tasted better than it had in weeks. Renewed strength flowed through his body with the intake of caffeine. His shoulders felt ready to carry the burden of leadership once more. He adjusted his shirt, tightened his tie, and thought about the announcement he'd make.

  Despite Vale Klaussman’s vociferous—and constant—pleadings to let the UN do its job and come up with a multi-lateral solution, the president was tired of waiting. He was tired of receiving letters from people—Americans, his people—begging for help, stained with the tears of grieving mothers, fathers, and children. He was tired of the arrogance of the North Korean conquerors.

  Most of all, he was tired of being on the losing side. President Harris tapped the faded intercom switch on his desk.

  "Yes Mr. President?” asked a young Air Force lieutenant, stationed just outside the war room.

  "Send in the Joint Chiefs, please."

  "At once, sir."

  No sooner had the intercom link disconnected than the door behind him opened. The president turned to see Admiral Bennett stride in, trailed by the rest of the Chief of the Armed Forces. They arranged themselves against the far wall and waited.

  "Gentlemen," the president said, not taking his eyes off the invasion map. "Tell me again the odds of successfully propagating a war on two fronts?"

  He heard, rather than saw, the unease ripple through the Joint Chiefs. Admiral Bennet cleared his throat.

  "Mr. President, it's our opinion—and I think we've stated this before, sir—that we need to neutralize North Korea before we take on the occupying force. We haven't had time to bring our global forces into any semblance of cohesion—"

  "I'm not interested in what we haven't got, admiral." The president turned and stared at Bennett, who returned the stare without blinking. "If we’re going to do this, gentlemen, we’re going to do it in such a way that the rest of the world won’t want to stop us.” The president glanced at the invasion map again. “I want you to pull out all the stops. I want North Korea wiped off the map, and I want the liberation initiated at the same time. The question remains, can we do it?"

  "Absolutely, sir," said Marine Commandant Rykker.

  Bennett sent a withering look at the Marine—who grinned—then turned back to the president. "Sir, we can do it, but the current rules of engagement—"

  The president held up his hand to stop Bennett. "Gentlemen. This is not a war to win hearts and minds. This is a war for our very existence. They brought this on us, but by God we will finish it.”

  Rykker’s grin morphed into a feral smile.

  The president continued. “Now,” he said, looking over his military leaders, “I'm going to ask you one last time. If we take the gloves off, can you do it?"

  Bennett didn't need to confer with the others. The color drained from his face, but he answered. "Mr. President, we will, or we’ll die trying."

  “Either way, sir, we’ll take plenty of those sons of bitches with us," added Rykker.

  The president held the Commandant’s eyes for a long moment and saw something dark and hard as steel in the old marine.

  You won’t ever give up, will you? A peace settled over the president. Perhaps with men like these to lead the soldiers, sailers, airmen, and marines—who were themselves itching to get into the fight by all accounts—America had a chance, a real chance at salvation.

  Satisfied, President Harris nodded, and turned back to the screens arrayed before him. "Make it happen, Roger,” he said, staring at the red swath of the Occupied Zone. “May God forgive us all…but make it happen."

  28

  Cut and Run

  West of Smolensk, Russian Federation

  Mikhailovich Estate

  Mikhailovich looked between the monitor depicting the burning van nestled up against the side of the house, and the hallway of death—just a few doors down from the room he himself occupied. He grabbed the radio from the table.

  “No! He did not die at the van, you fool. I said pull back! He’s already inside!” He slammed the radio down.

  “Trouble?” asked Petroval, lounging by the door.

  Mikhailovich snorted. “Remind me to kill Igor Voroshilov when this is over.” He took one last glance at the monitors and shook his head in disgust. Mikhailovich had been counting on the men in that van to catch the American in a pincer, but they’d all been killed without firing a shot.

  He glared at the black-and-white image of Braaten moving down the hallway like the Grim Reaper himself, cutting down his men with precise, accurate, and controlled fire from his snub-nosed rifle.

  I will find a way to kill you. I’m going to make you suffer.

  Mikhailovich frowned at the screen watching his men bunch up in the hallway. Idiots. They’d learned nothing from the assault so far.

  Eager fools, all of you. So much for being spetsnaz. Mikhailovich made a mental note to have the man who recommended this squad be brought in for a little…talk.

  An explosion rocked the house, causing him to grab the desk. He put a hand out to steady the screen and saw nothing but smoke in the hallway. Static lines flickered across the signal as the camera struggled to relay what it saw.

  Mikhailovich, however, had seen enough. He caught Petroval’s eye. "It's time—get the wife and bring her—we’re leaving."

  Petroval arched an eyebrow and drew the pistol from inside his pocket inside his coat.

  Mikhailovich waved away the silent question like swatting a fly. "Just kill the ambassador, I don’t care. Now grab the wife and meet me in the garage.”

  Petroval nodded, then slipped out of the room without a sound.

  Mikhailovich pulled his own pistol free of his coat and yanked the slide back. He rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to relax. He’d spent his entire life in the bratva. He grew up fighting to survive on the streets of Moscow, in the post-Soviet chaos—he knew how to survive—how to fight.

  Mikhailovich looked at the screen. It was all too obvious though—his opponent knew h
ow to fight on a whole other level. There was a difference between mafia enforcement and war-fighting that even a kid right off the street could see…but…

  Mikhailovich wiped a hand across his face, irritated that his upper lip was damp with sweat. If the American fought his way through the house and burst through the door.…

  He raised his weapon and aimed at the door as he grabbed his cell phone and the emergency hard drive from the table. As a precaution he’d already dumped all his files and accounts onto the burner drive, then fried the house’s main computer. Any moment now the lights would go out as the house controllers died an electronic death. That wouldn't stop him from putting a couple bullets through the American’s face if he popped through the door before Mikhailovich could make his escape.

  He reached the door Petroval had gone through and slapped at the handprint security panel. A green light glowed over the door and Mikhailovich grinned as he slipped through and shut it, hearing the electromagnetic locks clamp down and seal the hardened door. The light on his side of the door glowed red, his escape route sealed. Mikhailovich holstered his pistol, adjusted his coat, and turned to follow Petroval down the steps.

  Where his hitman had gone to the left through the open door into the interrogation room—the woman’s screams brought a smile to Mikhailovich's face—he continued straight and descended a flight of stairs down to the secret garage access. He discovered this route after purchasing the dacha a few years back and told no one. The biometric lock he’d installed insured no one other than Mikhailovich himself could slip into the garage undetected.

  Just to be on the safe side, Mikhailovich checked the screen next to the door to make sure someone wasn't waiting for him on the other side. So far, the American had shown little interest in anything but reaching the interrogation room—how he'd known where it was remained a mystery to be solved—but Yevgeny Mikhailovich hadn’t survived in the Russian mafia as long as he had without being smart and cautious.