Dark Dragons (44 page)

“It’s just one goddamn bandit?”  Page felt anger and
terror well up inside him at the same time.  Anger, because this single
mystery bandit had used the large formation of alien fighters as bait to
provoke the flotilla into revealing its position.  Terror, because he knew
he was about to die.

Shit happens
.  Page turned around and shouted,
“Weapons free!”

The
Cape St. George’
s two Phalanx CIWS Gatling guns
instantly went into Fire mode and swept the southern sky with its radome search
antenna but could not find a single target.

Page felt the
Cape St. George
roar to thirty-two
knots and heel into a drastic, starboard-side turn into the enemy’s flight path
to reduce the ship’s profile.  ScramHawks leapt out of the cruiser’s
vertical launch cells and RIM-174’s from the four air-defense destroyers in a
vain attempt to throw up a defensive wall of metal, engulfing the vessels in
clouds of rolling smoke.

Captain Page caught something black but completely invisible
to the ship’s many sensors scream across the cruiser’s bow before disappearing
from sight.  A dragon?  He turned to shout another order when a
bright orb appeared and struck the
Cape St. George
amidships at the
water line.

*

A kilometer away, the rear admiral of Carrier Strike Group Nine
aboard the
Abraham Lincoln
’s flag bridge inhaled sharply when he watched
the cruiser literally vault out of the water onto its starboard side and flash
into dime-size shrapnel, all 9,800 displaced tons of it, with the loudest
explosion that would deafen his ears forever.  The shockwave, carrying
chunks of the
Cape St. George
with it, swept across the carrier’s flight
deck, blowing aircraft and personnel into bits, before it shattered the bridge
windows and laced everyone with molten shards of glass and metal.  The
immense concussion threw the deaf admiral against the far bulkhead, and his
last vision before the end was a brilliant blue-white light and a petty officer
sailing through the air.

*

A second lieutenant brought a freshly printed EAM up to Taggart
from the comm pit.  Towsley closely studied the general’s expression as he
read the message, but Taggart exhibited nothing which betrayed a single
emotion.  Only when he dropped the communique on his chair, loosened his
tie and calmly sauntered toward the elevator did a bemused look appear on his
face.

After the doors slid shut, Towsley walked back to The Throne
and picked up the teletype:

*** EMERGENCY
ACTION MESSAGE *** EMERGENCY ACTION MESSAGE ***

*** NATIONAL COMMAND
AUTHORITY PRIORITY ONE ***

FROM:
AIR FORCE ONE
AIRBORNE OPERATIONS CENTER

TO:
ALL UNITED STATES
MILITARY FORCES LAND SEA AIR

CEASE HOSTILITIES
EXTRATERRESTRIAL FORCES - REPEAT -

CEASE HOSTILITIES
IMMEDIATELY!

*** EMERGENCY ACTION
MESSAGE *** EMERGENCY ACTION MESSAGE ***

Friday, May 21

Colonel Towsley woke from the couch in his office and looked
at the clock on his desk——7:44 AM.  His personal quarters two levels up had
not been visited all week.  Too much activity had kept him in his office.

He stepped into his tiny bathroom and splashed cold water on
his face, some on his neck, and let it run down his torso, wetting his
camouflage uniform.  Outside the open door, the entire Third Deck
comprising the office wings and the COC was the quietest Towsley had ever
heard.

He put two Zoloft on the edge of his desk, crushed them
under a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and wiped the powder into a rocks
glass.  A stiff measure of scotch swirled the medicine around.

“Breakfast?” Major Weinholt asked from the doorway. 
The look on her face matched his mood.

Towsley tipped his head back and his scotch-laden,
anti-anxiety concoction disappeared down the hatch.  “I’ll have eggs and
hashbrowns later to soak it up.”

“The president has asked for a meeting at oh-nine-hundred.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know.  The president’s National Security team
made it out of Washington along with the Congressional leadership. 
They’re holed up at the Alternate Site.  The president wants a
conference.  He’s also going to address the nation from our studio around
eleven-hundred.”

The president, the First Lady, Secretary of Defense and the
Joint Chiefs of Staff were currently residing in the executive suites on the
NESSTC’s top level.

Towsley sat down at his desk, and the first thing he spotted
was Sarah’s Atlanta phone number on a notepad he had placed there last
night.  After returning from the COC.  Still, he did not have the
resolve to call his daughter after nearly twenty years since their last spoken
words.

Weinholt sat down in the seat in front of Towsley’s desk and
placed a glass vial of something blue and powdery next to his lamp.

Towsley felt a quick jolt of apprehension pulse through
him.  “Is that what I think it is?”

She nodded.  “Two infectious disease specialists from
Fort Detrick flew it to us for analysis.  Their teams say this stuff is
all over Washington D.C. like snow, in some places four, five inches
deep.  Someone came up with a million and a half metric tons.  You
can relax, sir, it’s dead.”

“Dead?”  Towsley picked the vial up and brought it
close to his nose.  It felt surprisingly heavy.  The stuff looked
more like sand grains instead of a powder or dust.  “Let me guess . . .
microscopic robots?”

Weinholt nodded.  “‘Non-replicating nanobots of an
advanced technological production’ is how Mr. Jacobi put it.  They can
link together and form large, solid shapes, anything that’s in their
programming . . . like little flying meat grinders.  Our engineers haven’t
figured out how they fly.”

“What killed them?”

“They did themselves.  Some kind of chemical
self-destruct.  Don’t know if it was initiated by self-infliction or
remote downlink.”

“Has there been an estimation of dead?”

“In Washington or worldwide?”

“Washington.”

“Fort Detrick is saying two million, maybe three . . . plus
a hundred thousand wounded.  Some with a single cut, others missing
limbs.  The bubble was only seven miles in diameter so it didn’t cap the
entire city.  It could have been six million dead.  Fort Detrick is
sending in teams to gather bodies, but there’s so many, the Army is saying they
won’t be able to find them all in time for disposal, so they’re sealing off the
infected areas and declaring them biological hazard zones . . . they’re also
setting up funeral pyre sites on the National Mall.”

“Jesus Christ,” Towsley whispered.  He shook his head,
his eyes fixed on the blue grains of destruction tumbling over one another as
he turned the vial in his fingers.  “You know the Mongols catapulted
corpses infected with bubonic plague into the city of Kaffa to convince the
citizens to surrender?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Tamerlane built a pyramid of ninety thousand human heads
before the walls of Delhi to convince the citizens to surrender.  Vlad
Tepes had thousands of Ottoman soldiers impaled through the rectum with
sharpened stakes and suspended in the air while they were still alive . . .
just to convince the Turks to surrender . . . now this”——he gave the vial a
saltshaker-sounding didder——“brilliant  psychological warfare.  They
could have easily dropped an asteroid on Washington or used an orbital laser
strike.  But that wouldn’t have proved the point.  They picked the
capital of the most powerful military on Earth to make a statement——‘we’re the
top predator now . . . we dictate policy.’  And it worked.  Shook the
president out of his socks so hard he ordered a cease fire.”

“Would you have done the same?”

Towsley placed the vial of blue slaughter on his desk and poured
another pull from his bottle of scotch.  “Probably.  What’s the
enemy’s status?”

“They stopped their orbital attacks about four hours
ago.  There’s nothing strategic left for them to strike.  We, the
Russians and Chinese, the Brits and the French, all got our asses kicked. 
ICBM and bomber bases gone, ballistic missile sub pens, too, although we have
all four guided-missile submarines still active.  The president ordered
them to go deep and stay there until further action.”

“What else?”

Weinholt paused, shaking her head, frustrated with her
reluctance to answer his question.

“What else, major?”

“All eleven carrier strike groups have been destroyed. 
At least we’ve lost communication with them.  It’s reasonable to say that
America no longer has a surface navy.  Basically we have a tactical Air
Force and our entire Army and Marine Corp.  The enemy apparently has
decided that they’re not a threat.  For now.”

Towsley took another swallow of Johnnie Walker and
chuckled.  “They’ve bombed us back to a third-world country,” he
mused.  “Nicaragua could fly up and napalm Houston in an F-86 Saber and we
wouldn’t see them coming.”

“Sir, let’s go upstairs and have some breakfast.  You
need some eggs and hashbrowns to soak up that alcohol.”

“I have a better idea, major.  Let’s go down to the
infirmary.”

“Sir?”

Towsley stood up carefully, the alcohol beginning to take
effect.  “I’m going to have Ngatia stop the Propofol drip and ready four
syringes of Dexedrine, Epinephrine, Starbucks espresso or whatever the hell
he’s got.  We’re going to have those boys on their feet in fifteen
minutes.”

*

The inside of Darren’s mouth felt like sandpaper. 
“Gimmie some’ t’drink,” he murmured.

“Hey, buddy.”  Somebody’s palm flapping against his
cheek.  Sweet boozy breathe on his face.  “Elbows and assholes,
soldier, c’mon wake up.”

Darren opened his eyes, Colonel Towsley above him.  He
quickly realized he was again horizontal on a medical bed and not remembering
how he got there.  Super pissed once more, he suddenly snapped awake and
sat up quickly, nearly head-butting Towsley in the process.

“Goddamn it, what is it with you guys and the
tranquilizers?” he cried out, tearing the EEG leads from his head.  “You
guys have tanks full of that stuff?”

“This was not my idea.”

Darren put his hand to his chest.  “Why’s my heart
going a hundred miles an hour?”

“Dexedrine.  It’ll wear off in a bit.  On your
feet, soldier.  We’re getting you guys out of here.  And your
fighter’s sensors have been repaired, Darren.  You got your eyes back.”

“For real?”

Towsley nodded.  “Come on, get up.”

Weinholt, Ngatia, and one of his assistants were practically
dragging Tony, Jorge and Nate out of their beds.  Eyes still closed, Tony
rolled his head to the side and buried his face in Weinholt’s buxom
chest.  The major rolled her eyes and gave him a curt jab to the head, and
Tony sat upright quickly with feigned surprise.

“Terrible things happened while you guys were out,” Towsley
said.

“You mean the voice?” Darren asked.  “I heard it.”

“So did I,” Tony said.  Nate and Jorge both nodded.

“Then you know what the enemy wants,” Towsley said.

“We’re not going to offer our children like lambs,” Darren
said.

“You didn’t see what happened to Washington D.C. as a small
taste of punishment of what would happen if we don’t.”

“What happened?”

Towsley gave them a detailed version of the high-tech, mass
slaughter which took place.  “Possibly one to two million dead,” he
finished.

Darren stared at the floor, his stomach turning.

“I probably shouldn’t have told you guys that, but . . .
maybe it’s important that I did.”

“Yeah,” Darren said, looking him in the eyes. “Yeah, I’m
glad you did.  That needle ship is going to be target number one.  So
. . . how are we getting out of here?”

Towsley went to the sink and splashed cold water on his
face.  “My job is to get you guys past our incredibly inquisitive,
hair-trigger Response Team guards to the electronics lab one level up. 
Major Weinholt is going to deactivate the security cameras in the corridors
upstairs so you can get to the hangar without being spotted.  Once you’re
in your combat suits, the order of battle is up to you.”

“How am I deactivating the security cameras?” Weinholt
asked.

“I haven’t planned that far ahead yet.”

“Why don’t you just hit the guards with anesthetic?” Darren
told her.  “You guys are the shit when it comes to knock-out.”

“Not a bad idea actually,” she replied.