An Armageddon Duology (51 page)

T
he passengers were bounced roughly
. Savas, Cohen, the president’s close adviser Tooze, high-ranking military officers, and other governmental officials were strapped into red seats lining the interior of the large troop transport—a hulking Boeing CH-47 Chinook from another era. Missing were any high-tech digital elements, the cockpit stripped and rebuilt only weeks before to render it invulnerable to any remnants of the Anonymous worm. The modern gear was replaced by a set of instruments and controls dating to the Cold War. Alongside an escort of Blackhawks shadowed their movements. York crouched beside the cockpit and spoke to a military man seated in the co-pilot’s chair.

“How much more time?” Her voice barely penetrated the rumbling of the helicopter’s engines.

“Unknown!” he shouted over the din. “Estimated launch window says ten minutes, but we don’t know the trajectory. We can’t accurately predict. It’s a navy missile for sure, fired off the East Coast, so it’s loaded and fast.”

“Are we clear?”

“It depends on where they detonate! If they stick to the convoy and city, yes, we’re out of the blast radius. Supposedly.”

“Supposedly?”

He shook his head. “We don’t have the number crunching here to check. NORAD’s estimates. And too many unknowns.”

“She’s opened up as much as I can,” said the pilot. “I’ve vectored us radially West from the coordinates you gave. Kansas City is behind us.” Turbulence bounced them viciously, and York was thrown hard against the ceiling. “Sorry, Ms. President,” he said as she regained her footing. “I don’t know what they did to this bird. She’s flying rough, but I’ll get us there. I recommend you strap in.”

Savas reached out and grasped Cohen’s hand next to him. Their eyes met, but they exchanged no words.

York exhaled, rotating to the single empty red chair beside the cockpit. She shouted as she worked the restraints. “Okay, assuming we get through this, what’s your plan?”

The pilot answered. “Follow yours, ma’am. Six hundred miles to Cheyenne Mountain. Running this fast, we’ll need a refuel somewhere along that line.”

“We’re working on it,” she said.

“If the duct tape can hold this old lady together, it’s five or six hours. Maybe less if all goes well.”

York nodded. “The other evacuees?”

“Behind but in communication. We got seven birds loaded, most a lot more packed than this one. Some with vehicles. It will slow them down.”

“Can’t be helped,” said the military advisor. “The president’s the priority. We leave anyone else behind and take the escort with us.”

York turned to him. “We’re looking into a contingency for—”

Her words stopped. A god’s lamp was lit and the landscape around them brightened like an overexposed photo. Before anyone could process or react to the radiance, a shower of sparks burst like popcorn from the control panel.

The engines made a terrible screeching noise, and the helicopter lurched to the side. Passengers screamed. The craft dropped sharply and flailed side-to-side as the pilot wrestled with the controls.

“Putting her down!” he cried.

A shadow darkened the craft. Through the windows, the bulk of a Blackhawk could be seen dropping downward, nearly careening into their Chinook. Then it was gone, the Chinook itself quickly losing altitude as well.

“Brace! Brace! Brace!”

Passengers assumed a variety of positions, confusion and fear on their faces. Savas and Cohen brought their knees close to their chests. They continued to hold hands.

The machine slammed against the ground tail-first, the helicopter crumpling from the back like a tin can. Screams and rending sounds ripped through the air. A stomach-lurching leap propelled them back into the air before gravity jerked the vehicle down again and hammered the craft into the earth. Momentum drove it shuddering like an earthquake across the ground, the cockpit mangled, dirt and rocks breaking through the front windows and flooding madly throughout the belly of the dying beast.

And then it was still.

Savas opened his eyes, his body taut and constricted, a thick dust and smoke choking his vision and breath. Cohen opened her eyes beside him, unharmed. His eyes darted forward. Upturned earth covered the president. Savas released the five-point restraints and dashed beside her.

“Ms. President?” He shoveled away handfuls of dirt from her body.

She opened her eyes. “Holy hell,” she whispered. “I hope to God you’re not an angel.” He stared back at her. “Heaven’s gotta have better-looking ones.”

He smiled wanly. “Sorry, no heaven. We survived.” He continued to free her from the mud and rocks.

Cohen placed an arm on his shoulder. “We’re maybe the only ones.”

Savas looked around in shock. At the front of the helicopter, the pilot and advisor were crushed into the control panel. Behind them—grass and plowed earth. The tail end of the Chinook was gone, and along with it the other passengers—judges, senators, and Tooze.

“George!” cried York, and maniacally tore at the restraints, freeing herself and rushing out.

Savas grabbed her. “No Elaine! It’s too late!”

Fifty yards behind them, an inferno engulfed the massive engine powering the craft, charred and mangled forms within. Black smoke vomited into the sky and spilled fuel ignited the tall grass around the amputated section.

The president stared at the raging fire in horror. Her hands shook.

Cohen whispered. “John, look—”

Savas followed her gaze. Around them like campfires were the wrecked hulks of the Blackhawk escort, the machines having struck the ground much harder than their craft. There could be no survivors in the wreckage he saw.

But Savas was no longer looking at the remains of the aircraft, but eastward, behind them, high into the sky. “Dear God.” A line of monstrous apparitions sprouted into the air, dwarfing the smoking fires at their feet. Dark mushrooms tainted the blue thousands of feet above the plains, casting long shadows across miles of fields. The prevailing winds had begun to chip away at their structure, eroding the rising titans into trails of smoke billowing slowly east.

“EMP,” Cohen whispered. Savas and York stared at her uncomprehending. She looked away from the nuclear blasts. “Why we all went down. Electromagnetic pulse. Fried the circuitry. Pilot lost control. We dropped.”

York continued to stare at the flaming tail section of the helicopter.

Savas nodded. His jaw set. “The convoy is gone. Kansas City—gone.” He looked around the carnage before them. “Our evac group—gone.”

Cohen shook her head. “We got lucky.”

“Not just luck,” said York, finally turning her back on the flames and the remains of her advisor. “Our lift was the most outfitted to resist the worm. Engineers went back decades. Tore out the damn guts and built it back. There just wasn’t as much to fry inside.” With a final quick glance behind, she turned back to Savas and Cohen. “But enough to do the damn job.”

“What now?” asked Cohen hoarsely.

York walked back into the shorn half of the helicopter. She grabbed several bags and weapons. “Salvage what you can. We’ve got six hundred miles in front of us.” She glanced up to the towering smoke giants. “And a madman on our tail.”

“
A
dmiral Myers
?”

The voice belonged to a young officer at the door of a chaotic office. A stout man with a gray shock of hair spun around in his chair, a landline to his ear, the cord wrapping taut around a desk lamp and bottle of scotch. Both crashed to the floor.

“Goddammit, son!” The young aide rushed over and began to mop up the spilled alcohol and glass. “Hendricks? Hold on, I’ll call you back.” He slammed the phone down. “That was a conference call to the Canadian air defense headquarters. I specified I was not to be bothered until we square out those damn false alarms on their infected computers! This better be good!”

The young man turned pale. Blood dripped from one hand as he cradled shards of glass. “Yes, sir!”

Admiral Myers sighed. “Benson, right?”

“Yes, sir! Jeremiah Benson. Deputy Commander Duval’s aide, sir.”

“They promote you Canadians quickly. Benson—spit it out.”

“We’ve had contact with a flagged name from the York party. Part of the FBI team we were briefed on.”

“Savas group?”

“Yes, sir. Lightfoote, Angel, Special Agent in Charge, Intel 1 Cybercrimes.”

The admiral stood up. “The worm-girl?” Benson nodded. “Team Hastings knows about her. You verify her identity?”

“She claims to know the president. She knows details of the worm.”

Myers shook his head. “Not enough. It could be a phishing attempt. How the hell did she reach us?” The admiral bent down and pulled out a handkerchief. “You’re a bloody mess, Benson. Wrap it off and put the damn glass down. We’ll have custodial take care of this.” He looked toward the ceiling. “Maybe someone’s trying to tell me something about the bottle.”

“God? Sir.”

Myers laughed. “Or worse—internal affairs.” He frowned. “Lightfoote—how did she contact you?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry. That’s just it. She’s
inside
the system. She must have hacked in. We’re getting contacts from internal email and instant messaging servers. It’s a flood!”

“Hacked in?
Jesus
. Should’ve had that girl do our penetration tests. Well, that’s probably better than a retinal scan. I don’t think there are too many cyberwarriors at that level. It’s got to be her with everything else.”

“Yes, sir, that’s what we figured.”

“We’ll make sure. York gave us some security questions. We’ll use those. “ Myers glanced down at the shattered bottle. “Damn I need a drink.” He stood up, Benson mirroring him, the aide’s hand wrapped in bloody fabric. “Let’s get to the floor.”

A
small crowd
gathered around a cubicle in the Command Center inside of Cheyenne Mountain. An array of monitors tiled the walls around them showing maps of the nation and world, newscasts, and streams of data comprehensible only to analysts. Heads craned from other cubicles lining the floor space, trying to catch a glimpse or overhear what was transpiring.

Myers stared into the green eyes glowing from one of four monitors on a wide desk. The girl’s face was streaked in grime and blood, her head shaved, piercings decorating her ears and nose. Beside her sat another woman, brunette with short hair showing blond at the roots. On the other side loomed a dark face, Mexican, a broad skeletal and muscular structure mostly in shadow.

Myers nodded. “So, Angel Lightfoote, and the two ciphers: Gabriel and Mary. Normally I’d call this a con-job, but, miraculously, you fit the exact profiles we were given.”

“You’ve spoken to Savas? To York?”

“One thing at a time,” he said. “You need to answer a few questions. We need to be sure you’re who you say you are.”

“Understood.” Her gaze didn’t waver.

“Uh, Gabriel,” he began, looking at a piece of paper, reading glasses now sitting on his nose. His eyes wandered to Benson. “Is this some kind of joke?”

The aide shook his head. “No, sir. That’s what they gave us.”

“Well, how the hell am I supposed to read this? It looks like Latin!”

“Boys school, Montreal,” said a lanky officer in a foreign uniform. He put his hand out for the paper.

“You know Latin, Pierre?” asked the Admiral.

Deputy Commander Duval nodded and took the paper. “But it’s been a while, Jim. Let’s see—
Comple in Sacerdote tuo ministerii tui summam
. And there is a final phrase Gabriel is supposed to provide.”

The dark figure in the monitor nodded. “
Et ornamentis totius glorificationis instructum coelestis unguenti rore santifica.
”

Duval nodded, his eyebrows raised. “That’s it. What the hell is it? Some Catholic prayer?”

Lopez rumbled over the speakers. “A blessing during the ordination of a priest.”

Myers shook his head. “This one’s for Mary. Javed Ahmad, otherwise known as?”

Houston replied instantly. “The wraith.”

“Two-for-two. Now, Lightfoote. Five years ago you figured out a pattern. You drew it on a computer screen. It was an object pointing to a target. What was the object?”

Lightfoote’s face tensed. “A hammer.
Thor’s
hammer.
Mjolnir
in Old Norse.”

Myers nodded. “It’s them.”

“Now, can we stop wasting time and get to business?” asked Lightfoote. “Where is York? Savas and Cohen? We haven’t been able to reach them. We’re on the run, Hastings troops on our asses. If you know about us, you must know about Bilderberg.”

“We do,” said Myers. “And your mission. You’ve found something then?”

“Yes. We have proof this group is behind everything. They’ve been orchestrating world events for decades, breaking international law, undermining national sovereignty. Most importantly—we now know where they are. We’re going there.”

“Going there?” asked Duval. “To do
what?
”

“Stop them,” said Lopez.

Duval squinted at the screen. “Who are you?”

Myers cut in. “We’re going on the president’s word here, Pierre. York claims they’re as good as a Seal commando team, and she’s put them on point for this. Not that we have any real options. We can’t get anyone out from here with Hastings on our asses 24/7.” He gestured to the monitor. “This crew is our shadow force.”

“This is insane,” said the Canadian.

Lightfoote nodded. “Every bit of it. Now, where the hell is York? We need her to authorize transportation for us.”

Myers exhaled. “We don’t know where she is.”

Houston leaned in. “What do you mean? What happened? She should be there by now!”

“They were outside Kansas City, six hundred miles out from here. Hastings put up a last stand to stop her. He lost, or was losing. Then, the unthinkable. He launched a ballistic missile and dropped a bunch of warheads on the convoy and the city. It’s been radio silence since.”

Houston angled back in her chair. “Oh, my God.”

“We had advanced warning from satellites, and York and the FBI agents were being bugged out on an emergency flight. But before they got far the bombs hit.”

“They didn’t make it?” asked Lightfoote.

“We don’t know. But with the EMP, there’s no telling what happened. They could be alive with fried communications equipment, charred in the blasts, or pulverized when their aircraft lost power.”

“EMP?” said Lopez.

“Electromagnetic pulse,” muttered Lightfoote. “Nukes cause them. Supposedly fries anything except the most hardened electronics.”

“Does that explain the power outages?” Houston asked.

Myers cocked his head to one side. “There were outages?”

Lightfoote nodded. “Middle of the afternoon two days ago. It’s still down here. We’re running off a stolen generator.”

Duval leaned toward the camera. “Timing is perfect. Our reports from the East Coast are minimal—Hastings controls your territory. But that’s the best explanation. We’re heavily shielded here, but the pulse must have damaged more civilian equipment than we anticipated.”

Lightfoote slammed her hand down on a table in front of her. “We need her help! We need a transport to get us out of the country.”

“Slow down,” said Myers. “We’ve ID’d you to our satisfaction. She’s left instructions, said if you called—and I guess hacked-in counts—you’d need help. And we’re here to give what we can. You say a transport? To where?”

“Europe. The Netherlands. ASAP. Bilderberg is holed up there. We know exactly where. If we can get there, stop them, we can cut the head off this beast and Hastings will be a clean-up job.”

“One hell of a clean-up, by the way things are going.”

“Yes!” cried Lightfoote. “But he’s a puppet. Take him down and Bilderberg will replace him. Take down Bilderberg—”

“Yes, yes. We ax the puppet masters,” said Myers. “I have to say, this is one of the craziest conspiracy theories I’ve ever heard. But I serve the president, and she says to give you what you need.”

“Can you?” asked Lopez.

Myers stroked his chin. “Honestly, I don’t know. You need a plane. Hastings owns the seas. But air is still risky. Ridiculously risky. Commercial traffic is grounded. Since the worm and through this civil war. We’ll have to get you a military transport. But how we do that without Hastings finding out ... I don’t have a goddamned idea.” Duval leaned over and whispered in Myer’s ear for several seconds, and the admiral nodded. “Where are you?”

“Outside of Newark. Big ass airport right next door,” said Lightfoote.

“Hold your position. Monitor this feed. We’ll get back to you.”

Lightfoote pressed. “Can you help us?”

Duval nodded. “We might just have an idea.”