Extinction Machine (57 page)

“Nukes?” laughed Shelton. “Shit, that’s another archaic concept. Nukes are messy. They’re as dangerous to the user as they are to the target. No, Ledger, think bigger. Think ‘clean energy’ as applied to warfare. You see, every single one of these T-craft can deliver a Truman Engine to any point on Earth at twenty times the speed of sound. And then I can remote detonate them by
removing
life support for the pilot. It’s easy enough. It’s a small sacrifice, but it works. Don’t believe me … ask the kamikaze
.
Ask the suicide bombers who strap on a vest. They know that the sacrifice of a single life can make a profound impact on the whole world. Now, magnify that by the power of the Truman Engine. If China wants to fight us, let them use their craft to blow up an aircraft carrier or shoot down a few fighter jets. It’s seven thousand miles from here to Beijing and any of these T-craft can be there in less than an hour. An airburst over Beijing will reduce the entire city to dust in a millisecond. Twenty million people will cease to exist that fast.
Bang!”
As he said that he slapped his palm flat against the cover of the Black Book.

“And they’ll launch every nuke they have right back at you.”

“Will they? Before they can hit the launch codes I’ll blow Shanghai into orbit. Twenty-five million people.
Bang!
Gone! Guangzhou? Thirteen million.
Bang!
Shenzen, Tainjin, Dongguan.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
” He kept slapping the cover of the Black Book. “With half a dozen ships—with only six pilots—we can burn away over one hundred and seventy million of our enemy’s people. How long do you think they will want to fight that war? And … even if they decide to throw away their own ship in a suicide run at us, they can take New York or Washington. But only one. It’ll hurt us, but we will be poised to strike back and the American people will demand that we do. In less than a day China will become a wasteland. I have forty completed Truman Engines. We have nineteen craft built, and thirty more in production. How many do you think we’ll really need to conquer
all
of our enemies? After China burns, do you think Russia will attack us? Or those bumblers in North Korea?”

“Those generals—your ‘guests’—they’ll stop you.”

“Not a chance,” said Mr. Bones. “We will be giving them a practical demonstration. Before any debate starts they’ll see the destruction of Beijing. It will be a fact of life, Captain Ledger. That page of history will have already been written. Which means they will have to decide what to do next.”

“Then our own allies will—”

“Will
what
, Captain?” laughed Shelton. “Name one country that will stand up and take a swing at us once they’ve seen what we can do. What they
know
we can do. Name one country with the balls to stand up to this fleet.”

“America,” I said.

He stared at me, half smiling, waiting for the punch line.

So I gave it to him.

I touched my earbud.

“Did you get all that?”

Mr. Church said, “Every word.”

His voice boomed from the speakers of Howard Shelton’s Ghost Box.

And then all the lights went out.

Chapter One Hundred Eighteen

The White House
Monday, October 21, 8:12 a.m.

“Did you get all that?” asked Joe Ledger, his voice mildly distorted by static.

“Every word,” answered Mr. Church. His voice was clear as a bell.

President William Collins glared at the open laptop on his desk. He felt the stares of the two men standing in front of his desk. Attorney General Mark Eppenfeld and Secret Service Director Linden Brierly.

Collins licked his lips.

“It could be faked,” he said. “Deacon and Ledger could be faking this whole thing.”

“Bill,” said Eppenfeld gently, “for god’s sake…”

Bill Collins got up and turned to the big windows. Few things were more beautiful than the Rose Garden seen by dawn’s light. The other men stood there, watching him, saying nothing.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Collins.

Chapter One Hundred Nineteen

VanMeer Castle
Near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Monday, October 21, 8:13 a.m.

Carpe diem.

Seize the day. Useful phrase. Didn’t really apply to the moment.

I seized the gun of the guard next to me.

I didn’t need lights to find him. I pivoted, whipped my hands out, found him, adjusted my angle so that I had one hand on the rifle and used the other to chop him across the throat. That’s a trick they teach to blind fighters or anyone fighting in the dark. If you can find any part of your enemy you can instantly estimate where the rest of him is. A body is a body, and we all know where the parts are.

I tore the gun out of his hands, dropped into a squat, and hosed the room.

In the muzzle flash I saw two guards spinning around, punched into a ragged dance by the rounds. I saw Bones hook an arm around Shelton and pull him down to the floor. I saw the Black Book fly from Shelton’s hands and go slithering across the floor. I saw Burke dive behind the couch.

Then the magazine was empty.

In the sudden darkness I moved, cutting low and left, crabbing toward one of the guards, but I misjudged my distance and couldn’t find them. I flung the empty rifle away and the instant it struck a wall there were three quick shots from Burke. The muzzle flashes gave me the snapshot of the room that I need.

I rolled right and slid in the blood of one of the dead guards, then crawled over him, feeling for rifle and magazines, praying I had time before the emergency lights came on.

The lights came on right then.

“There he is!” screeched Bones, and I saw Burke swing his barrel toward me. But at the same time one of the guards tried to lunge at me. Burke’s first round tore off the back of the man’s head. I dove under his body and rolled hard against the sofa, slamming it back against Burke. It caught him solidly in the thighs. His pistol dropped onto a cushion and then bounced on the floor. As I swung the rifle up, Burke threw himself over the back of the couch and tried to smash me flat. Bug’s warning about him echoed in my head. Burke was a cage fighter from a circuit where people actually died.

I’m actually fine with that.

I had some issues that I wanted to work out.

As Burke landed on me, he wrapped his thighs around my torso, parried my right arm with his left, and used that mounted position to try and punch my face into junk. This sort of thing works really well in cage fights where the other guy fights the same way. It works when you’re fighting the kind of martial artists who are really sportsmen—the board-breaking, tournament-trophy crowd—and it even works sometimes when they’re fighting a barroom brawler.

The reason you don’t see a lot of these guys get their asses handed to them is that the guys who study hand-to-hand combat
as
combat tend to use their skills to kill people. They don’t compete and they don’t need to prop up their egos by winning trophies. In real combat, when bullets are flying and people are dying, you don’t see the real fighters try to wrestle their opponents down into a floor pin.

Here’s why.

I swept my elbow into the path of his punch. Not as a block—I
hit
his fist with my elbow. Big elbow bones trump much smaller hand bones every time. His fist exploded. Then I reached my right hand up, hooked two fingers in his mouth between teeth and cheek, and tore the front of his face off. Before he could even scream, I shot my hips up and twisted, toppling him hard and fast. I rose up ten inches and then dropped elbow-first into his nuts. To do that right, you aim past the balls and try to break the pelvic bones. Which I did.

As I rose I ran over his body and stepped down hard on his throat.

Combat isn’t a fucking sport.

I turned to find Shelton and Bones, but I caught only a glimpse of them, flanked by the remaining guards, scurrying through an emergency door. Shelton had the damn Black Book in his hand. I snatched up Burke’s gun and began firing as I ran. I thought I heard a single scream of pain as the door slammed shut.

Tried the handle. Tried to kick it. Even tried to shoot it. The door stayed shut.

Ivan started yelling in my earbud.

“Hellboy to Cowboy, Hellboy to Cowboy, you will not believe what just flew past me.”

“What’s the status on the craft?”

“Tried to take it down with an RPG but no joy. T-craft took off heading west like a bat out of hell.”

Another voice cut in. “Deacon for Cowboy. Fighter squadrons have been scrambled from here to the Taiwan Strait. All planes have been ordered to destroy that craft.”

“Good luck. Any of them firing missiles that can match Mach twenty speed?”

“No. The Air Force hopes to intercept the T-craft in a head-on encounter.”

“Definitely good luck. I hope someone’s on the phone to Beijing.”

“That call is being made,” said Church. “What is the status of the Black Book?”

“Shelton has it. I need to get out of this damn room so I can get it back.”

“Bug has your transponder signal. Prankster and Warbride are on the way to your twenty.”

“Already here,” cut in Lydia. “We’re outside looking at an airlock.”

“You bring party favors, Warbride?” I asked.

“Finest kind, Cowboy. You got any cover?”

“Give me ten seconds.”

I shoved the couch and heavy leather chair into a corner and dove behind it, then curled into as compact a ball as I could manage.
“Go!”

The airlock door weighed somewhere around four tons, but Dr. Hu’s lab provides us with some interesting goodies. Each member of Echo Team carries two large self-adhesive explosive charges called “blaster-plasters.” I don’t know the chemistry, but cutting off a two-inch square will blast a deadbolt lock out of a solid oak door with sufficient explosive force to drive it like a nail into the first interior wall it hits. I’m pretty sure Lydia used all four of the heavy-grade blaster-plasters she and Prankster were carrying.

“Fire in the hole!” she bellowed.

The airlock muffled most of the bang on my side, but the whole frame around the airlock leapt heavily into the room, struck the floor with a resounding
karang,
pirouetted once and fell right on top of Burke’s corpse. The shock slammed the couch backward and nearly flattened me against the wall, and blew the heavy-grade windows out of the observation room and into the big cavern below.

I peered over the edge of the couch and saw the red lines of laser sights cutting back and forth as two black-clad figures moved in, Colt M4A1 carbines held high and tight, heads bent, elbows out.

“Echo! Echo!” I yelled. “Cowboy on your eleven o’clock.”

“Come out,” said Lydia.

I rose from my hiding place and pointed at the door Shelton had used. “Open that door.”

“Last plaster,” said Prankster as he knelt by the lock, stripped the plastic off of the adhesive and pressed it into place. While he did that I took weapons and ammunition from the dead guards. We ducked into the hall and Prankster triggered the blast.

The last plaster was more than enough. The explosion destroyed the lock and the door swung wide, revealing a stone corridor that was splashed with blood.

“You hit somebody, Cowboy.”

We ran into the passage and followed it around a curve and down multiple sets of zigzag stone steps. It was clear that we were heading to the cavern. The blood was steady and heavy. Either one person had taken a bad one and was going to bleed out soon, or I’d hit a couple of targets.

When we rounded the curve we found out which.

Mr. Bones sat in the corridor, his back to the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. He had a pistol in one hand and as we slowed to a cautious walk he tried to raise it. Not at us. He tried to eat the barrel. Prankster reached him in two long strides and kicked the gun out of his hand.

I touched Warbride and pointed down the hall. “Check the tunnel.”

She and Prankster moved off, leaving me with the dying governor.

I squatted down and he raised glassy eyes toward me. He was past the point of fear. All he had left was pain and despair.

He tried to smile. His teeth were slick with blood and spit.

“You … can’t stop … us…,” he said, wheezing out the words, using up what was left of him to try and turn a dial on me.

“Yeah? What does it matter to you? You’re dead. And here’s a news flash for you, sparky, no matter what happens, no matter how all this plays out, no matter what becomes of everything you and all the other members of the Majestic Project have spent your lives to accomplish … you’re not going to be there to see any of it. You’ll never know. That must suck.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said in a way that clearly meant that it did.

I stood up. His eyes followed me, looking from the gun in my hand to my eyes and back again.

“Go on … end it.”

I smiled.

“Fuck you,” I said. “Lay there and bleed.”

I ran to find my team.

Chapter One Hundred Twenty

VanMeer Castle
Near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Monday, October 21, 8:18 a.m.

I rounded the next bend and saw Warbride and Prankster hunkered down by the entrance to the cavern. As I moved up behind them I could see that things were going into the crapper very quickly.

Hatches on all of the T-craft were open and pilots in orange jumpsuits were climbing up as techs disconnected hoses and cables. I wondered how many of the pilots knew that they were flying suicide missions. Not many, I guessed. Easier to fool people than to try and manage a large number of highly intelligent, highly trained pilots who had to go kill themselves. The kamikaze had Shinto going for them. I didn’t see Shelton as a spiritual leader who could make realistic promises about a glorious afterlife.

I tapped my earbud.

“Cowboy to Deacon.”

“Go for Deacon.”

“Where are we with stopping that T-craft.”