Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga (13 page)

The upper-right screen showed a replay loop of the footage the NSA had obtained from a man filming clouds the instant the bomb went off.
 
The Vice President had seen it over and over again already, but could not stop watching.
 

The camera zoomed in on one of the dark-bellied cumulous clouds, then the screen went white.
 
Slowly, the image faded back into view but it shook violently.
 
The camera swung all over place, from the grass to the trees, as the man ran up a slight hill to see where the flash had come from.
 
The Vice President noticed that everything had a white-pink tint to it, an after-effect he had been told, of the nuclear blast on the camera’s imaging sensor.

At the crest of the hill, the camera panned around shakily before settling on the skyline of Atlanta, a few miles to the north.
 
There it was.
 
Growing upwards on a twisted, writhing column of smoke not unlike some demonic bean plant, a mushroom cloud was rising and expanding, glowing a sullen orange from the inside.
 

It was the most unsettling, obscenely
beautiful
yet haunting thing he had ever seen in his entire life.
 
The image trembled as the shockwave blasted its way through Atlanta in the distance.
 
He could actually
see
skyscrapers as they collapsed into a cloud of debris billowing in the wake of the nuclear inferno.
 
The image froze.
 
It was the last thing the cameraman recorded—he turned and ran for his life at that point.

The Vice President ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed as he looked at the lower-left side of the screen, showing a detailed aerial map of Atlanta.
 
Damage estimates and fatalities were highlighted in garish shades of red and orange.
 

Two-thirds of the city was just flattened rubble now, glowing with atomic heat that would take decades to dissipate.
 
The damage, he noticed, seemed to be worse in the northeast corner of the downtown district.
 

“Fuck
me
,” he whispered in disbelief.
 
Right there, before his eyes, there was an actual
crater
on the image from a passing satellite.
 
Someone had used a
damn
big nuke.
 

On the lower-right screen, he saw a home movie from another part of the country, almost as scary as the one from Atlanta.
 
The scene was a peaceful beach on the Atlantic coast of Florida, just north of Daytona.
 
Someone was filming their kids playing in the surf.
 
Then off in the distance, a splash of white on the horizon heralded something unusual had happened.
 

The sharp-eyed cameraman then had zoomed instantly to catch a long, black and white striped missile rise majestically from the frothing ocean.
 
There was a puff of smoke and the missile rose on a column of smoke and fire.
 
It headed straight up at first then arched back to the northwest over the beach.
 

The camera panned down to witness people on the beach pause in their frolicking and late summer sunbathing to shield eyes and stare up at the missile that was soaring high overhead.
 
When the camera went back to the mysterious rocket, it was already shrinking to a mere point of light on a long finger of smoke, racing toward some unknown destination.

Harold put a hand to his face and rubbed away the tears that threatened to escape his eyes.
 
His secure phone chirped in his pocket.
 
He recognized the tune.
 
It was Reginald.

He ripped the phone from his pocket and put it to his ear.
 
“What the
fuck
did you do?” he asked in an urgent whisper.

There was a long silence before the neutral-accented, supremely confident voice of Reginald came on the line: “
We did what
had
to be done for the plan to succeed.
 
You are quite welcome, by the way.
”

“Don’t you
dare
tell me that, you
son of a
bitch
, you murdered hundreds of thousands of innocent Americans!”

There was a polite chuckle.
 
“
Mr. Vice President, I did no such thing.
 
Not even my countrymen did this deed.
 
No, if any one person is responsible for this deed, it is you
.”

“Me? Screw you—”

“
If calling me names will make you feel better, then by all means, curse away, Mr. Vice President.
 
But remember, it was the codes that
you
gave me
−”

“That was for getting your people inside the country, so you could release your damn flu.
 
The
flu
, Reginald!
 
I
never
agreed to…to…
Jesus
,” the Vice President said, watching the mushroom cloud spread over Atlanta again.

“
On the contrary, you did
precisely
that.
 
We used the codes you gave us
 
to…ah…gain entry, so to speak to certain of your defense institutions.
 
It wasn’t as big a window as we would have liked, but it will suffice.
 
A few messages here, a few instructions there.
 
When your own submarine went rogue and launched a nuclear missile—”

“
What are you talking about?
 
Nobody went
rogue
.
 
That missile couldn’t have come from an American sub.
”
 
His mind raced with possibilities.
 
Had a sub captain been turned by Reginald, too?
 
“It’s impossible,” he said again, less convinced than ever.

“Well,
I
certainly did not launch it.
 
Did you receive warning that a foreign submarine had entered your territorial waters?
 
I hear you have quite the state of the art fleet protecting your shores these days.
 
The reports I’m seeing on the news seem to indicate it was an American Trident-class missile, so the experts say…”

An American sub launched a missile that destroyed Atlanta?
 
How the hell could
that
have happened?
 
There was
no way
a sub captain would willingly destroy an American city like that.
 
It couldn’t possibly happen.
 
Reginald had to have tricked the sub into launching…but he would need—the
codes.

 
Oh my God
, thought the Vice President.
 
If they can do that…
 

“Remember, Mr. Vice President, this was
necessary
for the good of—“

“
What?
 
You think destroying an American city and killing half a million innocent people—” the room started spinning.
 
The Vice President imagined the confusion of children looking out school windows at the bright flash, the horror of parents as they saw the shock-wave destroying everything in its path and rolling toward them.
 
He had a sudden terrible vision of thousands of suffering people with their faces accusing him of killing them, erasing all their dreams and families…men, women, children…

When would the next missile fly?
 
Who would be the target?
 
Did he just start World War Three?
 
The room started to spin around him faster.

“Oh my God,” he said in a shaky voice.
 
He quietly threw up all over the carpet.

“
Mr. Vice President?
” asked Reginald’s voice from the discarded cell phone on the carpet next to the weeping Vice President.
 
“
Remember, this is the only way for you to achieve your goals, for you to save your country.
 
Half a million died today, a million will die tomorrow, ten million next week.
 
It doesn’t matter, because nearly two hundred-fifty million will survive to see the future.
 
Because of you.
 
You knew this was the cost—the cost for saving your country.
”

The Vice President moaned softly, his mind reeling.
 
Two hundred and fifty-million people?
 
That’s only half the country’s population!
 

“Too high,” he muttered, blindly groping for the phone.
 
He lay on his back, eyes closed, and put the phone to his head again.
 
“I can’t do this…” he whispered, hands shaking.

Reginald laughed, a hollow, soulless sound that sent chills down the Vice President’s spine.
 
“
My dear man, you are in too deep now to be getting cold feet.
 
There is no turning back.
 
Remember, you are saving your country this day.
 
Saving it.
”
 
There was a pregnant pause. “
Do not make me regret my choice in you, Mr. Vice President.
 
You are not the only one with a lot on the line.
”
 
The thinly veiled threat pierced the Vice President’s melancholy like a lightning bolt splitting a dark night.
 
“
I would hate to see your children suffer…
”

Harold Barron opened his red eyes and stared at the ceiling, seeing his little girl’s face before him.
 
“What have I done?” he asked the empty room.

“
You have done all we asked.
 
You have done all that was required of you.
 
And now, you need to focus on running your country
.”

“What are you
talking
about?
 
I’m in my bunker.”
 
He looked around, nearly delirious with guilt.
 
The plush carpet, the paintings, the books with gilded edges, the alcohol.
 
People were going to start dying.
 
People had already died.
 
His
people.

“The President is still in charge.
 
I’m just—”

“
The President will be dead by Monday
.”

Harold sat up, for the first time smelling the vomit that smeared his shirt.
 
“That wasn’t supposed to—”

“
I know.
 
It’s shocking.
 
The virus strain that was released has proven to be a bit more…aggressive…than even my employers expected.
 
Believe you me, it put a crimp in our plans.
 
But, that is to be expected in situations such as this, is it not?
 
Sadly our friend the President chose to continue his campaign stops in California this week and has come down with the flu.
 
Quite tragic
.”

“Oh my God,” breathed Harold.
 
“How do you know?”

Reginald chuckled.
 
“
Please do not ask me that.
 
I have my sources.
 
The President is only a matter of minutes from being admitted to a hospital in Los Angeles.
”

“But, surely they’d fly him to Andrews or some other base—”

“
Sadly the President’s condition is too critical for transport. His inner circle is trying to get him stabilized first.
 
I believe that he will not leave that hospital.
 
As I said the last time we spoke, the President has set himself up quite nicely.
 
So!
 
Our timeline is stepped forward.
 
This time next week you will likely be the President of the United States
.
 
Your economy will begin to collapse and my friends at the United Nations will invite themselves to your country to stabilize the global financial network.
 
You must be ready to welcome them with open arms in the cause of peace.
”

“I…this can’t be happening…
no
…”

“
Relax, my friend.
 
There is nothing to worry about.
 
We just discovered some information that may complicate things, but it will be handled
.”

“What?
Complicated
?
 
How much more fucking
complicated
can this all get?” asked the Vice President, fear suddenly making his heart hammer in his chest.
 
What city was next?
 
New York?
 
How many millions more would die because of him?

“
I should not tell you this
…” Reginald paused.
 
“
But you are nervous and rattled, and I am sympathetic.
 
Perhaps I am too friendly with you.
 
Some of my colleagues tell me— ‘Reginald, you care too much.’
 
But that is me.
 
All heart.”

The Vice President frowned but held his tongue.
 
He nearly broke the phone in a death grip.
 
The arrogance of this little—