Bitter Harvest (Harvest Trilogy, Book 2) (53 page)

* * *

At Morgan’s facility in Nebraska, the former members of the Earth Defense Society and SEAL were rapidly being reunited by direct order of President Miller. More soldiers and equipment from the Army Corps of Engineers had come, and were quickly turning the lab into a self-sufficient fortress, far more formidable than had initially been intended. By the time they were done, it would be a small self-sufficient city. The soldiers of the Nebraska National Guard were to be relieved by a full company of Marines from the 1
^st
Marine Division being flown out of Camp Pendleton.
 

Carl Richards barely noticed the activity on the ground below as his helicopter settled in to land next to the main building. The landing pad was nothing more than snow over barren earth now, but by this time tomorrow there would be a full-blown helipad here, including a service bay and fuel depot.

As the Blackhawk settled to the ground, Richards followed the crew chief out the cargo door and ran, bent low, toward where Morgan and Renee waited for him in the bitter cold. The sun had long since set, but there were enough high-output floodlights around the perimeter to make it seem like daytime.

“Mr. Richards.” Morgan extended a gloved hand and Richards shook it. “Welcome to SEAL-2.”

“That’s what you’re calling this now?”

“We had to call it something,” he said as Richards gave Renee a quick hug, “and that seemed as good as anything else, especially since the original SEAL facility is being reopened for data backup and research that doesn’t involve viable harvester tissue.”

Richards followed Morgan and Renee toward the building. Behind them, the Blackhawk’s crew shut the bird down and a team of soldiers rushed to refuel it. Richards wouldn’t be here long. “How’s Naomi doing?”
 

“How the hell do you think?” She gave Richards an angry look. “The girl just had her heart ripped out and you have to ask a question like that?”

“Right now I’m not asking as her friend,” he said, curbing the sharp retort that instinctively came to his lips. He’d prided himself for years on being the Bureau’s number one asshole, but he knew he couldn’t afford that prima donna luxury now, and certainly not with Renee. Her tongue could be just as sharp as his, and she never took any crap from him. That was one of the many reasons he loved her. “I’m asking because the President wants to know if she’s able to do the job that needs to be done, or if we need to replace her.”

Renee cursed under her breath. “Jesus, Carl.”
 

The outer doors swished open to the weather vestibule, then they passed through another set of doors to the lobby area, which was manned by six heavily armed National Guardsmen and as many Siberian and Maine Coon cats. The soldiers did an identity check on all three of them, even though Morgan and Renee had just passed through here minutes before on their way to greet Richards. Then they were paraded by the cats, who seemed terribly bored by the entire affair.

That was always a good sign.

“You know how I feel about Naomi,” Richards said after he bent down to give one of the cats a quick scratch behind an ear. “I’d give or do anything for her, especially now that Jack’s gone. But too much is riding on this. On her. We need to know if she can hold up under the strain.”

“And if she can’t,” Renee snapped, “who can we replace her with? Nobody knows this shit like she does!”

Richards turned to her. “Don’t you think I know that? Right now, she’s probably the single most important human being on the planet. And the president needs to know that she can function.” He hated talking about, and treating, Naomi like a particularly important cog in a heartless machine, but that’s what they’d all have to become if humanity was to stand a chance of survival. Before he left Washington, Richards had seen the revised projections of harvester population growth and estimated current human casualties. Both sets of numbers had been staggering.

“Right this way.” Morgan led them down to the first basement level where most of the labs were. After Morgan passed them through the security door, he pointed out Naomi.

She sat in the far corner at a desk loaded with lab equipment, surrounded by four large computer monitors. Even at this distance, Richards could see data flashing and scrolling by on the screens as she stared at them. He caught a glimpse of something white and fluffy hanging off the side of her chair, twitching periodically: the tail of Koshka, sitting in her lap. Sprawled across the desk, taking up every inch that wasn’t devoted to lab equipment, was a huge tuxedo-colored cat. Alexander.

Catching sight of Richards, the big cat sat up and yawned, then hopped off the desk and trotted through the lab toward him.
 

Richards felt a momentary twinge of guilt as he knelt down to stroke Alexander’s head: he’d forgotten to bring him and Koshka any treats like he used to when he came to visit Jack and Naomi in San Antonio. Alexander nuzzled and licked his hand. “Sorry, big guy. Maybe next time.”
 

Seeing Alexander hammered home the reality of Jack’s death. Richards was suddenly struck by a deep sense of loss, even more acute than what he’d felt at the bedside of his former director when she passed away in the hospital a year ago, the victim of a particularly brutal murder by a harvester. Jack had been a good guy, and the closest thing Richards had ever had to a real friend. He’d also been a patriot and someone who did the right thing, who did his duty, no matter the cost, and that was something that Richards could identify with. He couldn’t even imagine what Naomi was going through.
 

“I’m sorry, Alexander,” he whispered hoarsely as he picked the cat up in his arms and carried him to where Naomi was working.

She didn’t look up until he called her name, and it seemed like it took her a moment to recognize him.

She’s still in shock
, he thought as he set Alexander back down on her desk.
 

“Carl, what are you doing here?” She set Koshka down and stood up, facing him.
 

“Naomi, I’m so sorry.” He stepped forward, intending to embrace her, but she held her hands up, gently but firmly pushing his arms away.
 

“No, Carl. No. Thanks for your concern, but I’m fine. Just fine.”
 

Richards looked at her. Her expression was perfectly neutral, revealing nothing. Her eyes were clear but unreadable. He may as well have been looking at an emotionless robot in the guise of a beautiful woman.

“Was there something you wanted me to show you?”

“In a little while. I just wanted to come down and see you first. I’ve got some things to talk to Morgan about, then maybe you can give me an update.”

She gave a small nod. “Just let me know when.” Then she sat back down at her desk and resumed her work.

Giving Alexander one last pat on the head, Richards made his way back to the door where Morgan and Renee had stood waiting.
 

“Is this how she’s been since she got the news about Jack?”

Renee nodded. “She’s been like a goddamn robot. She won’t sleep except for quick naps. She’s eating, but not enough. And she doesn’t say diddly to anybody unless it’s about the lab work or testing on the harvester specimens.” She paused, sparing an agonized glance at Naomi. “She hasn’t had time to grieve, Carl. She never cried or cussed or anything after the president told her about Jack. She just got up and walked out of the conference room, went straight to the lab and went to work. She won’t do anything else.”

That’s exactly what we need
, Richards thought grimly.
A heartless, tireless robot genius that’s hell-bent on finding a way to defeat these damn things
.
 

With a final glance at Naomi, he followed Morgan and Renee out of the lab.

* * *

He was trapped in a nightmare. Horrible shadows danced and screams echoed in his mind. There was a bright light and fire, burning heat. Then he was falling, forever falling into the endless, bitter cold that was slowly choking the life from his body.

Jack’s eyes flickered open as his chest heaved. It was dark, pitch black, and his eyes felt as if someone was rubbing sand into them. His senses told him that his body was in an odd position, neither standing nor laying down, and that his extremities were pinned. But that was for later. Of more immediate concern to his muddled mind was the sensation of having something cold and wet lodged in his windpipe. He couldn’t breathe.

Snow. He remembered now. He had jumped into snow. And it was choking him to death.

As he coughed, trying to clear his airway of the snow that he’d accidentally inhaled when he hit, he twisted his body, drawing his elbows in close to his chest. Then he gradually forced his hands toward his face and began to punch the snow away to clear a breathing space around his mouth and nose.
 

Gagging and wheezing, he cleared his lungs, gratefully sucking in fresh air from the pocket he’d created.
 

He knew he couldn’t be too deep, or there wouldn’t be so much air. Using his already numbed hands to explore, he found a loosely packed channel of snow that he suspected had been left by his body when he plowed into the snow bank.

That was when the realization struck him that he had somehow survived the fall from the stricken An-2. When he’d seen the fiery trail of the approaching missile, he’d jumped. He had heard stories about Russian paratroops in the nineteen-thirties leaping from the wings of transport planes into deep snow drifts without using parachutes, but had written them off as urban legends. Maybe they were, or maybe they weren’t. Regardless, he’d been lucky enough to somehow survive the blast of the missile and the fall. For that, he gave silent thanks.

He wasn’t sure how long it took him to kick, claw, and dig his way to the surface, but he was gasping with the effort as he flopped out into the open air.
 

It wasn’t snowing as hard now, and some distance away he could just make out a pillar of smoke rising from behind a stand of trees, marking where the An-2 must have crashed.

The Russians would come looking for the wreckage, he knew. Part of him wanted to just go to the wreck and wait for them to arrive. Even if they arrested him, at least he wouldn’t freeze to death, and the State Department might be able to free him.

He was about to start off toward the wreck when a sound carrying through the curtain of snow stopped him. It came again, and his gut turned over in fear. It was the sound of a woman crying out for help. The words, faint but clear now, were in Russian, but there was no mistaking the voice.
 

It was the Khatuna-thing. It had somehow survived the explosion and the crash. When the Russians came, unless they knew what to look for, they would be caught completely by surprise. Or, worse, the thing would simply allow itself to be taken back to civilization.

There was nothing Jack could do, either to warn the Russians or prevent them from taking the harvester back with them. He couldn’t kill it before they arrived: even if it were injured, he had no weapons but his bare, frozen hands. And if it knew that Jack was alive, it would hunt him down and kill him.

No, going to the crash site and waiting for rescue wasn’t an option.

He looked around, trying to get his bearings. But in the dark and snow, without a compass, he had no idea which way was north. The only thing he could figure was that the plane had been flying on a northerly heading when it went down. In theory, the line between his position and the crash site should point northward. It sounded good, but he knew that even if it were true, the theory would be useless as soon as he hit the first tree line. From there on, he wouldn’t have any reference points to keep him on course.

“Well, there’s not much for it,” he said to himself as he started off toward a set of trees, sinking calf deep into the snow. His intended path would take him well away from the harvester, but hopefully would still be “North.”

With every step he took, the cold wormed its way deeper into his bones. The uniform and boots he wore weren’t intended for arctic use, and he had nothing to cover his head or his hands. On top of that, he was hungry and dehydrated. He was tempted to eat some snow to ease his thirst, but it would cost him body heat that he couldn’t afford to lose.

“Not good, Jack,” he muttered. “Not good at all.”

Time passed as he staggered forward. He left the wreck and the menace of the harvester behind as he passed through the first stand of trees, his original goal, and then another. And another. More trees and stretches of snow blended into an endless wasteland of torment as he lost all sensation in his feet, then his hands. His face and ears went numb, and his eyes felt as if someone was driving pins into them.

He had almost made it across another clearing when his legs collapsed beneath him and he pitched forward into the snow. He lay there for a minute, maybe more, his lungs heaving, his body completely exhausted.

“Come on, you bastard,” he rasped through frozen lips. “Get up. Get the hell up!”

He made it onto his hands and knees, then tried to get to his feet. But his legs were too exhausted to move, glued solid to the snow.

With a weary sigh, he sat back and stared at the shadows of the tree line ahead. It seemed so close, but his body had nothing left to give.
 

“Shit.” He closed his eyes, wishing that he was home in bed, with Naomi’s warm body wrapped around him.
 

He opened his eyes again, and noticed that some of the trees seemed to be moving.
No, that’s not right
, he corrected. Something in
front
of the trees was moving. Stealthy, almost invisible shadows.

Shadows in the shapes of men.

“Who are you?” Jack’s call was weak, and for a moment he wasn’t sure the shadows had heard him.

“Dawson? Jack Dawson?”

The largest of the shadows moved closer. As it did, the others, perhaps a dozen in all, seemed to melt away and disappear.

A man wearing an arctic camouflage uniform and holding a white assault rifle shuffled forward on cross country skis. Stepping out of them, he knelt in the snow in front of Jack. “Dawson?”