An Armageddon Duology (58 page)

T
he stairs opened
to a dark room punctuated by thousands of blinking lights and a heavy hum. Seeing the server farm on the cameras was one thing, but standing in the midst of it like Theseus in the labyrinth plunged them into an electronic sea. The individual servers, their fans and hard drives, the electrical coils and transformers used in power supplies and motherboards, even the vibrations of the metal chassis, multiplied by thousands of units created a strong, constant wind modulated by a droning heartbeat.

A clear corridor through the server racks led straight ahead and Lightfoote followed the path toward the center of the room. They passed numerous rows fanning sideways, the passageways lined with rack after rack of processors, resembling a cybernetic public library. Overhead, air conditioning vents blasted air into the frigid space, as if the units funneled the wintery chill outside directly into the building.

The canyons of computer racks stopped abruptly and they stepped into an open space. A large table with numerous monitors greeted them. Uneaten food and coffee mugs sat perched at the sides, one still steaming.

“Looks like the techies made for the hills,” said Houston.

Lopez scanned around them and up to the ceiling, moving quickly to spray-paint a camera above them. “This place is an electricity black hole. They have to have other generators somewhere.”

“I’m going into their system. Keep an eye out.” Lightfoote sat down in front of the keyboard. She placed the paper with the scrawled codes on her left and began to type furiously.

Lopez and Houston kept vigil, back-to-back with weapons out. In the white noise and hum, they began to lose their sense of time and space. Each found themselves anchoring their position on the other, the table beside them, and on the repetitive clacking of the keys.

“This is amazing,” called out Lightfoote. “They have direct links to the major world financial centers, biggest banks, trading floors, the Federal Reserve. I mean superuser type privileges, complete access and control. Right here I could change money flow across continents, manipulate stocks and trading. It’s all automated, the Nash equations steering everything to preset ends, but I could also go in manual, too.”

“Chase Bank, account 5748395033. I’d like to be a billionaire please,” said Houston, her eyes on the passageways in front of her.

Lopez mirrored her scanning. “Darling, don’t you remember, Uncle Sam froze all your accounts last year?”

“Those bastards.”

“Listen!” said Lightfoote. “It’s not just the banks and exchanges. That neckbeard was right. They have access and control of intelligence, even
military
systems. It’s a click away—Homeland Security, DOD, CIA. Records, accounts, agents in the field.” The clacking continued. “Oh my God.” She pushed the chair back from the table.

Houston turned toward her, lowering her sidearm. “What, Angel?”

“Holy shit. They’re plugged into the fucking nuclear arsenal. NORAD, submarines, satellites. They have the president’s
access codes
, complete targeting control. They could launch a nuclear war against anyone they wanted.”

“That’s about as bad as it gets,” said Lopez.

“Actually, it isn’t,” said Lightfoote, back at the keyboard and squinting at the screen. “Because if I’m understanding this readout, they
are
launching a nuclear war. Right now.”

“What?” said Houston, her face incredulous.

Lightfoote continued to type. “There’s access to multiple silos in the US, upload of target coordinates. Some kind of timer waiting for a signal.”

“What signal?”

Lightfoote shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s not clear. Waiting for some kind of communication inbound.”

“Trigger what, exactly?” asked Lopez, leaning toward the screen, his face grim.

A list of names and numbers scrolled before them. “Armageddon,” said Lightfoote. “New York, Washington, Chicago, LA, Houston, Philly.” The list continued to scroll. “
Jesus,
it must be twenty or thirty sites. Key population centers, government, military targets, oil, gas, mineral deposits. It’s a crippling strike. From within. With our
own
missiles. USA cluster
fucked
. Gone.”

“For God’s sake, why?” asked Lopez.

Lightfoote shook her head. “I don’t know. Only, look. Something here in the modeling programs. See? Two networks of lines in this global map. The gray web looks like what we calculated in the hacker bunker—Bilderberg at the center, nodes at major centers of power. But look—here in color, like some new world order, the web is broken. The New York node is gone.
Nothing
connects to the US. The other nodes re-balance with different weights and connections.”

“It’s like they’re cutting off the United States,” said Houston. “Putting it in a coma.”

“Which is exactly what you’d expect to happen if there were a nuclear decapitation strike,” said Lightfoote.

Lopez looked around. “We don’t have much time. We’ve got to get to the office and capture the Director, whoever he is.”

“Agreed,” said Houston. “We’ve given him too much time, already. And maybe he knows how to stop this. Come on!”

“No!” said Lightfoote glaring up at the pair. “You two go. This is too close. Once a signal is sent, whatever it is, there isn’t much time to stop it. I’ve got to see what I can do here while I still have access. Before they lock me out or this server farm fails.”

“Or before someone comes up and shoots you in the back of the head,” said Houston.

“You think you can stop it?” asked Lopez.

“I don’t know!” said Lightfoote.

Houston gestured around them. “You’ll be blind here, Angel. Vulnerable.”

“Gotta risk it,” she said turning back to the screen, her fingers working the keyboard. “It really looks like these maniacs are serious.”

Lopez stared at Houston, who reluctantly nodded. “If you think you’ve got a chance to interfere with an attack, do it,” he said. “Sara and I will take care of the Director.”

Lightfoote shot them a quick glance. “Be careful! I don’t want to save the damn world again if you two aren’t going to be in it.”

“
W
e’ve lost
twenty-three silos!” came a voice from the back of the Command Center.

Admiral Myers’ thick hair danced in disarray, the gray like an explosion from a geyser. To exacerbate the chaos, he repeatedly grabbed chunks and yanked them mercilessly, glaring down at the terminals in front of him. “I can’t believe this is happening. Morris—anything on the subs?”

Another voice called out from behind him. “Negative, sir. All the boats are quiet.”

“Any targeting info?”

“No, sir. Not yet. We’re getting the data now, but so far, just the silo readings. And things are definitely powering up.”

“Sir, we’ve got a live stream from Montana.”

“Put it up.”

Myers glanced up to the giant monitors in the front of the Command Center. A grainy video appeared on one of them, the image of two men in a small room furiously working the control panels. Some panels had been torn out, wires dangling.

“These boys trying to sabotage the thing?” asked Myers.

A man below him at the desk looked up. “Believe so, Admiral.”

Deputy Commander Duval walked into the Command Center trailed by three others. He headed straight for Myers.

“Any pattern?” he asked the Admiral.

“Nothing. Seems random. Silos here, silos there. Most of the arsenal is still under our control. These others—Christ Almighty.
Charlie Foxtrot
.”

Behind Duval were York, Savas, and Cohen. Filthy, clothes soiled and torn, scrapes and bruises covered their exposed arms and faces. Savas was the worst, a shattered nose red and swollen, dried blood caked around the nostrils, the entire middle of his face a violet patch. Myers turned to the trio and shook his head.

“You three look as bad as we feel. Sorry to welcome you here under these circumstances, Ms. President, but I’m glad you made it.” He saluted.

York saluted back. “Duval tried to brief us on the way up. You’ve lost contact with several nuclear missile silos, I understand?”

“Not exactly,” said Myers. “See there? We’ve still got video feeds and communications with the operators. But a lot of good it’s doing us. The missiles are severed from their control. No presidential orders. No football bag with codes. No two-man rule. Someone else is running this show. The damn things are going into a pre-launch state, signals from the silos indicating they’ve been prepped and target coordinates uploaded.”

“Impossible,” whispered York, staring at the frantic efforts of the men on the screen.

“God knows I wish it were. It’s spread all over our Minutemen locations, across multiple states simultaneously. Seemingly random except in each case the silos are also sealed off from the rest of the facility. We can’t get anyone near, and we don’t have the personnel to go after each one on the outside. Although we’re putting it in motion.”

“Hackers?” asked York.

“These systems are dinosaurs, Ms. President. Hell, they run off nine and a quarter inch disks. They’re not even networked.” He shook his head. “No, this has got to be far older.”

Cohen whispered, “Bilderberg.”

Myers and York turned to her, but a loud voice from in front interrupted.

“We’ve got coordinates on ten missiles! Going to the monitors.”

Numbers rolled across the screen along with associated map names. Gasps vented across the Command Center.

“All the targets are internal,” said York.

“All targets identified!” came the voice. The numbers and names continued to pass by on the screen.

“NORAD?” asked Myers as a map of the nation appeared, red circles indicating the missile targets.

The man at the station in front of him spoke. “No, sir. Doesn’t seem so.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand. If it’s Bilderberg, why not us? We’re the enemy, not the rest of the nation!”

Cohen spoke. “NORAD’s a very hard target. Too buried. Too ready. The other targets are soft.”

York turned to her. “It’s
madness
. Why? And how?”

“I don’t know how,” said Cohen. She looked at Myers. “You said this wasn’t hackers, it had to be something old. Probably something long in the planning and maintained. Think about what Bilderberg is, what they’ve been doing for decades: pulling all the strings at every level. Why would they leave control of the most powerful weapons on earth out of the equation?”

“And the why?” asked York. “This isn’t Hastings trying to take me out. This is the end of the nation!”

“We need to reach Angel,” said Cohen. “They’re at Bilderberg. They might have found something out!”

“We’ve been trying to contact them for days,” said Myers. “Nothing. Only static since they touched down.” He turned back to the screen, staring at the soldiers in the silo. “Besides, it’s not gonna matter much
why
if we don’t find a way to stop it soon.”

T
he Director screamed
on the phone, his bodyguards flinching and tense, the air in the room stale and claustrophobic. He gestured to a computer screen in front of him, the emergency lights bathing the lush office in flashing bursts of red.

“There is no choice!” he screamed. “We’re completely compromised, main power cut, security neutralized. Our computer system is infiltrated. I don’t know how! But I’m locked out. They have access to everything. They could shut the entire program down!” A voice shouted indistinctly from the speaker. “Correct. We need to accelerate the launches. We need to amputate this node and transfer control to another. Yes, long term. Don’t you understand? We’re completely blown. Bilderberg is finished!”

One of the guards leaned toward the Director. “Sir, we’ve lost another camera.” His gun was out, and he assumed a crouched position behind the desk. The other guard mirrored him.

“I’ve got invaders approaching as we speak, Alpha. We don’t have time to argue. Yes, I
know
you and Zero are not out! So we spare the New York node, at least for now. Damn the simulations! We don’t have time to check the repercussions.” More shouts from the speaker. “And we don’t have time to confirm or debate. If we don’t launch now, we could lose the opportunity forever!”

The Director glanced at his screen. The monitor was tiled with squares. All of them were black but one, a camera looking toward the server farm. Two dark shapes sprinted toward the lens, one reaching a hand toward it. The last video feed went black.

“Damn!” He pulled out an ancient looking revolver. “They’re standing outside my office door. This is it, Alpha. Transfer control to Maryam. Abort the New York warhead. Then launch the rest.”

The guards aimed toward the door as the Director placed the receiver down on the phone. He checked the bullets in his revolver.

“We don’t know their numbers, but if—”

His voice was swamped by a thundering roar, the door blasting inwards, debris and dust slamming the three men backward and against the wall.

“
S
hit
!” said Houston as the she turned toward the Director’s office. The door was gone. Along with it a portion of the wall, an enormous dust-choked hole opening its maw toward them like a hungry beast. “I never get the damn yield right. We need him alive!”

The pair jogged forward cautiously, weapons raised in front of them. Darting into the wrecked room, they approached the three bodies behind the desk. It was as they had seen in the video feeds—the old man and two guards. Now coated in dust and pieces of rubble, their weapons flung against the wall and out of reach. The guards opened their eyes.

“Barrel on each of you!” yelled Houston. “Don’t even—”

The men leapt at them, one throwing a large wooden plank at Lopez, forcing the former priest to deflect it, and preventing him from firing. Houston pulled the trigger twice as her target crashed into her and sent her sprawling. Dust kicked up in the scuffle. But her shots had flown true, and the assailant was badly wounded. The wind knocked out of her, she managed to pull herself to a crouch, gasping for air and steadying her aim as the guard in front of her rose clumsily. Her third shot struck him in the forehead, the body hanging in the air, paralyzed, then dropping like a rag doll.

Lopez had tried to reorient after deflecting the projectile, but he didn’t have time to aim and the shot went wide. The guard slammed into him and they toppled backward. Lopez rolled with the motion, drawing his knees to his chest and propelling the attacker over his head and behind. The man’s momentum did most of the work, hurling him against the wall, before crashing to the ground.

Lopez flipped to his feet and spun around, a fire in his eyes, his feet planted in a fighting stance. Disoriented, the man braced himself with one hand against the wall, and rose as well, turning with his fists raised to engage.

He never threw a punch.

Lopez darted forward, closing the distance with a step, nearly inside the reach of the guard. The first impact came from his knee into the man’s groin. The guard’s cry was stifled by the second blow, a double strike from each hand to the side of the head as Lopez swung his arms like a pair of short fighting sticks. The impacts were titanic. The man’s jaw cracked loudly. He dropped to the floor unconscious.

“Leave the weapon!” cried Houston.

Lopez spun around. She pointed her gleaming Browning at the Director. The old man’s arm was reaching up the desk to his handgun. Lopez walked toward him, bent and retrieved his own weapon, and took the revolver as well.

“What have you people done?” moaned the old man, silt crusting his lips and face, like macabre makeup for the dead.

Houston righted a fallen chair and sat across from him, careful to remain out of reach. Lopez trained his weapon on the Director.

“The question is what have
you
done, you crazy fuck. Nuclear war?”

“You understand nothing, nothing of what we have accomplished, what your dear president York had gone along with for years.”

“She didn’t have much of a choice, I’d bet. You people had your hands in every pot, on all the dirty laundry. Did you think you could try to control us all forever?” She brandished her weapon. “Now, we’re going to have a little chat. About the nuclear silos and how to shut that shit down.”

The man said nothing but brought his hand to his mouth.

“Sara! Stop him!” cried Lopez.

But it was too late. The heavy jowls bit down and a liquid flowed out from the sides. The Director swallowed as Houston rose, a grim smile on his face.

“Poison,” said Lopez, a disgusted scowl on his face. “You son-of-a-bitch.”

“It’s a special blend,” choked the Director, foam beginning to burble in his mouth. “High dose. Very...fast. Acid adjuvant.”

He doubled over wheezing, the foam more prodigious. His body convulsing. Lopez and Houston watched in horror, powerless to stop the inevitable biochemistry. The convulsions continued for several minutes, increasing in severity, and the old man toppled over on his side beside Houston’s feet, unmoving.

“Well, fuck.” She turned to Lopez. “Now what?”