Fear the Survivors (23 page)

The president seemed set to go on, but Neal stopped him. There were not many people who could interrupt a president. Even one that was new to the position was very aware of the precedent his opinion took in any room, especially an oval one. But as aware as Frank Denchey was of his new position’s authority, he was not fool enough to have missed the growing influence and power of the seemingly diminutive Neal Danielson, in this country and many others.

“Mr. President,” said Neal with a look of candor and directness that put the room slightly on edge, “we are all part of the inner circle here, trust me. There is no need to expound upon the virtue which our allies showed by coming to our aid. They did so because America’s troubles are Europe’s troubles, and vice versa. They also did so because in Ayala’s pursuit of the Agent Lana Wilson she has been given access to weaponry that they can only dream of, and this is an opportunity to access that technology.”

The president sat there, feeling a little schooled. He looked from Neal’s calm but firm expression to the Secret Service man on the sofa, and then his eyes flashed briefly to Ayala before returning to Neal. She had seemed somewhat controllable. But it was clear in Neal’s tone that he was no one’s to command.

But Neal went on, “But you should know that the reason they responded so quickly was because I called the prime minister, French president, and German chancellor personally, and asked them to. I also called Madeline, the head of my Research Group, and told her to expedite production of the next generation of battleskin in our production facilities, and get them to us.”

The president felt the emphasis of Neal’s words, as Neal had hoped he would. This was bigger than him. That was what was being rather unsubtly pointed out. Neal was trying to convey that he had plans and priorities that superseded the president’s wishes, and Frank’s intuition tried to tell him that he should probably not attempt to steam roll the erstwhile White House advisor.

But the new president’s ego also told him that he had stumbled into his dream just as the office was being emasculated. Like winning the lottery on the day of the collapse of the currency, he had inherited a moot throne, and something more primal than his intuition rose up in him. Ambition wrestled with instinct, and he felt an ugly emotion wire its way into his being.

Neal watched as the man digested what had been said, but the initial acquiescence that Neal had enjoyed in earlier meetings with the man seemed to be eroding. With a sense of the inevitable, Neal saw the president’s next comment brewing in the man’s throat, and braced himself.

“That is all very good, Mr. Danielson, and rather familiar. I heard the same from Ayala before you came, so maybe we should move past the showboating, and onto the meat of the issue.” Neal stiffened at the president’s tone, and noticed Jim Hacker was looking intently at him.

The president continued in a deliberately regal tone, and Neal allowed his expression to slip into a patrician’s patient smile. “Let’s remember that we are discussing
my
protective detail here, shall we? And that we are doing it in
my
office.” The display was rather nauseating for all present, especially given the way by which Mr. Denchey had come by said office. But Neal’s expression remained patient and open.

“Of course, Mr. President,” Neal said with layered deference, “and as such your wishes are, in the end, paramount.” Neal thought also of Jim Hacker, though he avoided his eyes. He knew his next statement would probably place the chief of staff’s loyalty firmly with the new president, and he was fine with that. If the wormy little bureaucrat was so easily swayed by petty national politics, then Mr. Denchey was welcome to him.

“If it is your wish to see the group be more unilateral, then we should move immediately to implement that directive.” The president and Mr. Hacker seemed somewhat surprised by the change of tone, the first pleased, the second pensive. “May I suggest that Ayala work with Mr. Crawley on bringing the remainder of his men and women up to speed, and equipping them with the latest tools to ensure your safety. Mr. Hacker, meanwhile, can use his considerable organizational skills to help rebuild the infrastructure and staff of the White House with appropriately American personnel, including aiding Mr. Crawley in the difficult task of replenishing his tragically diminished ranks.”

The president seemed very pleased with Neal’s proposal, and Ayala would have been angry at the way Neal had backpedalled away from the issue at hand, but she was too taken aback by the way her old friend was reacting to this seemingly pointless argument.

She watched as Neal bent to the will of the new president, a man who had clearly just been promoted past his level of competence, and she tried to reason why Neal was giving in. As she watched, he continued his platitudes. They discussed how to structure the new team they needed to build, Jim and the slightly dazed Chuck Crawley offering up points. All the while Neal seemed deferent. OK, here we go, Ayala thought as Neal threw in a little defiance as he stressed a point. But he had conceded so much that the president and his men all met him on that one, ever the humble victors.

She almost smiled at the show, and then had to withhold a frown as she puzzled at his motives. Because there was something else in his demeanor. Something under the subservience. Something in the way he backed away from the essential point of the discussion: ensuring the president’s safety.

Because that wasn’t the essential point anymore.

It was almost like resignation she saw in him. Almost like he had given something up. But Neal never, ever gave up on a fight that he believed in. It was this same stubbornness that had kept him in the scientific minors for the first thirty years of his life, and it was the trait that had driven him to the spearhead of the effort to save humanity in the last two.

Ayala watched. Every now and then she agreed to something and took a note. Focus on training up Mr. Crawley’s team. Select members of a new team that had come from US forces, divert the rest to building up her strike force for hunting Lana, switching out her US team members to Chuck’s detail in return.

This would help avoid international strain. There was no need to snub the loaned forces from our allies, suggested Neal, conciliatorily. They would be trained as part of Ayala’s force and put to good use.

Of course, of course, agreed all. No need to cause offence.

- - -

Ayala was quiet as she and Neal walked back to his office. They followed the corridors in silence. They passed one of the scars of the attack; freshly plastered bullet wounds in a wall near to the cracked sidings and stained carpet where some of Lana’s many victims had fallen. Getting to Neal’s office, he switched on a stereo, turned up the volume, and stepped up to Ayala, taking her by the shoulder and bringing his mouth to her ear.

She did not step away. She knew what he was doing. His hand over his mouth, his whisper was quiet but clear.

“What did you think of our little conversation back there?”

She cupped her own hand over her mouth and his ear, and replied, “Honestly, I was more than a little disappointed at how easily you acquiesced to his requests. He was being a schmuck, and if you had let me get a word in, I would have told you that it was really just that bewildered fool Crawley who wanted to establish some control over my team. Denchey was just along for the ride.”

She was not harsh in her tone, just honest, and she felt Neal’s smile against her cheek as he replied, “Ayala, that was all just a byline. I meant the president. Did you see him? He was posturing. He was trying to establish that he is in control.”

“So? Of course he was. He just took on one of the biggest jobs in the world. One we all know he was hoping to take at the next election anyway. He wants to put his stamp on things, that’s all. In the end, you could have gotten him to see reason, you know you could. Jim would have backed you. Well . . . he would have until you bent over and took it from the president.”

“I wouldn’t worry about Jim,” whispered Neal. “He was a fair-weather friend. We’re better off without him. But the real issue was the way Denchey flared when I tried to tell him that this was part of the greater issue at hand.” Neal felt Ayala’s head move ever so slightly, her attention focused by his comment. So this was the thing she had seen in Neal. This was the change she had sensed.

He went on, “I spent the last two days briefing him on the single biggest event in human history. I told him that we are engaged in the preparations for the fight for our lives. I told him that we are at the beginning of an effort to construct an intra-stellar navy hundreds of ships strong, anyone of which could outgun an aircraft carrier.”

As he whispered to her, she saw it too.

He finished his point as she nodded gently, “America has just lost one president; they can’t afford to lose another. The economy is in freefall, the people are almost in open revolt. Given that, a president who, in the face of a war larger than anything any of us has ever known is more worried about his political career than listening to the people he knows full well have more information than him … such a man is worse than useless to us.”

He pulled back and looked into her eyes, only inches from her face.

“Ayala, it’s time to end this chapter in our work. I need you to arrange for my transport from DC to Sao Tome within the week. We have to assume Lana may be watching us, so I’ll need an escort from your team, and I should probably get one of those battleskin suits as well, just in case.”

She nodded her understanding, and Neal went on, “You mentioned to me that your team-lead Miller may have a way to entrap Lana. Get on it. Pick a representative to handle the transition to Crawley and then set it up. Once you have everything ready, call in John and Quavoce and proceed. Sao Tome is a veritable fortress now, and our Research Group is holed away enough to fend off any trouble while you bring an end to that almighty bitch. Once that is done, I need you out of the US.”

She looked at him. He was saying they were going to leave their single biggest ally to its own devices. The resignation she had seen in him had been his decision that he could no longer rely on America as his primary advocate. She looked at him, and realized the astonishing callousness it took to give up on a nation of over three hundred million people. But as she stared at him, a series of images came to mind: of the riots across the Midwest, of refugee camps, of empty, irradiated Eastern seaboard cities, of a closed stock exchange, and suspended trading in the face of a market in freefall.

She thought of these things, and she thought about Neal’s decision, and she knew he was right. It was time to leave.

- - -

In another part of the building, Jim Hacker sat and wrestled with his thoughts. He had seen the resignation in Neal’s eyes as well. He had seen it and it had saddened him. Not because it was unjust, but because, deep down, he could not disagree with it.

But he knew full well how badly the US still needed the support of Neal and his team. He thought of how the US needed access to the ever-greater technological leaps coming out of the Research Group’s laboratories. How they would need them to fight the coming Armada, of course, but also to win the fight for control of his own country.

If it could be won.

Jim Hacker cursed his role in it all, cursed the way his dedication to his work and his country had been repaid with this unholy mess. He looked for a way to continue to contribute. He looked for a way to help. Jim Hacker despaired at the future of America, and the future of the world, and deep in his heart he wondered which of them more pressingly needed his loyalty.

Chapter 21
: Sierra Mike Whiskey Eleven

The Black Hawk
came in to the helipad on the White House lawn on schedule, as it always did. When the chopper was still twenty feet from the ground, the twelve-person unit aboard it started leaping from its open doors. The black figures landed at speed and sprinted away on bionically assisted legs to replace one of the two units currently onsite at the White House. As they took up their positions, the units they were replacing took off at a run and boarded the helicopter. The whole operation took less than thirty seconds, and the big helicopter barely touched the ground. As the departing team leapt aboard, its engines were already throttling up to take it skyward once more.

Among the departing unit, Lieutenant Hektor Gruler took his place crouching amongst his teammates. Though at least four units were on permanent rotation now, and had been for a week, this was Hektor’s last time switching out. It had become clear after an initial push that all the actual White House guards would be sourced from American forces, and Hektor, who had been volunteered by the Deutsche Kommando Spezialkräfte, had joined his French, British, and Israeli counterparts in a series of wholly different exercises.

Then eleven of them had been tapped by the taskforce commander, Ben Miller, and been called to attend a briefing in the early hours of the morning. In the quiet of the predawn, they had been driven to the White House, and then they had broken into threes and quietly rotated out one of the units on guard there. For four hours they had sat in for the other team for the rest of their watch, as per their orders, and then they had boarded the helicopter in the morning just as a team would when going off watch.

They flew low and fast. Every flight path in and out of the White House was now randomly selected from a range of options, never offering a predictable target. But this one was unique in and of itself. About half a mile from the White House, it banked hard left and flew south. A mile later it was landing at the deserted Reagan Airport, closed to civilian traffic since the attack that had claimed the president’s life.

Hektor hesitated. Their orders had only included getting onto the helicopter, and they had assumed they would then be returned to the base. He had assumed that they were switching out the other unit so it could perform some other, more important task. It had seemed futile, but then so had calling in some of the very best soldiers from around the world, and then having them play second fiddle to the very people they were there to support.

It was all adding up to a very frustrating deployment for Hektor, despite the opportunity to wear the new power-assisted suits the Americans had access to. He had been one of the top hand-to-hand fighters in his unit back in Koln, and the misleadingly diminutive bulldog had become known by his unit as hektik for his slightly insane fighting style. He had hoped for active deployment, maybe in the Middle East, maybe in Eastern Europe. He had hoped for combat.

But Hektor was not the only one confused by what was happening, or by their landing spot. The pilot had only received his new destination in midair.

With a start, something in Hektor clicked, and he realized that there were too many people on the helicopter. There had been eleven of the black-clad soldiers at the briefing that morning … now there were twelve. He instinctively braced himself, sensing something was very wrong with what was happening.

“Unit Sierra Mike Whiskey, on me,” came across their comm links, and without further warning, one of the twelve black-clad men leapt from the chopper and started out across the short distance to a sleek black jet waiting a hundred feet away. Hektor watched him run, and saw that he was a little unsure of his footing. He was not used to the extra power the battleskin gave you. He had not practiced day-in day-out with the thrust and landing of a powered footfall. It did not take a genius to figure out that this was the unannounced addition to their ranks.

The rest of the team stepped from the helicopter warily, covering the ground in sweeps as they approached the plane’s hatchway. It lowered as they stepped closer, and a man in US Air Force uniform stepped out. The mysterious twelfth man stepped up to the bottom of the ladder and exchanged a few words with the man. Clearly getting the information he needed, he stepped lightly up the ladder and then turned to the team.

His voice came across the radio once more, “Gentlemen, if you will join me aboard, we will get going,” and with that the man disappeared into the plane’s cabin.

For want of something else to do, they began filing onto the plane, covering each other’s rear as a matter of course, and only lowering and flicking the safety of their stocky custom assault rifles once they were aboard. The Black Hawk was already airborne behind them banking away. The pilot’s confusion at what had just happened probably never to be sated, but soon to be lost among the sea of other strange goings-on around the capital.

Inside the cabin, the mysterious twelfth man removed his helmet and looked around his eleven cohorts as they lined the stark, black ribbed interior of the plane’s long, thin fuselage.

“Gentlemen, if you will safety and stow your weapons, and make yourselves comfortable, we will be taking off shortly.” The man smiled with obvious pleasure at their confusion, but did not elaborate further.

There were no seats in the plane. It was a purely utilitarian interior. But with their suits, they did not need such comforts. Using the limited but adequate space available, they each either sat or lay out, leaning against the walls or each other, happy in far less commodious conditions than this from their years of hard training and less-than-glamorous deployments.

Glancing out the windows, Hektor watched as they approached the runway. We have an escort, he thought, as he saw the two F-22 jets waiting on either side of the broad jetway for their strange black jet to join them. So, whoever this man is, he warrants an air force escort, as well as eleven of the most highly trained and best equipped men in the world.

One had to be a little impressed.

The black jet pulled level with the F-22s, and with that, the two powerful jet fighters gunned their engines and surged forward, taking off in smooth unison less than eight seconds later. It was common for an escort to be airborne before its ward. In fact, they usually met in the air.

But this jet’s pilot was not going to wait for the F-22s to bank around and come back for him. He was not so meek. No sooner were the fighters off the ground than their own pilot engaged their jet’s mighty engines. The force with which the plane powered forward was phenomenal.

“What the f …” came over their radios before whoever had said it caught themselves.

They accelerated after the other fighters at astonishing speed, the men aboard sliding backward into each other as they scrambled to get a hold. Powerful black fingers and feet grasped at the ribs that ran along the inside of the plane, and soon they were pulling themselves into a semblance of order, but the pressure remained colossal, and they felt the plane lift into the air only seconds after it had gunned whatever demonic engines must be powering it.

In the cockpit, the pilot, one Major Jack Toranssen, laughed in spite of himself at the show of outrageous power from his new toy. It was the fifth time he had flown the plane, the first three being her maiden flights from the Research Group’s test facility; the fourth being the long haul to DC the previous night. By his side, Captain Jennifer Falster grinned broadly as well, sharing his joy at the power that the fusion thrusters Birgit Hauptman had designed gave them.

The F-22s had been surprised by the order to come to heading instead of looping back for the other plane. After all, they were here to escort this passenger jet, albeit an unusually sleek-looking one, so surely they should wait for it. So they throttled back on their engines once airborne, and waited politely for their ward to catch up.

“Escort Squadron, this is Sierra Mike Whiskey One,” said Jack, over the radio, “bring your course to 95 degrees, and climb to cruising altitude of 35,000 feet at 900 knots.”

“Sierra Mike Whiskey One, this is Escort Squadron, course 95 degrees, altitude 35,000 feet confirmed. Coming to new course now. We have you on our tail. Please confirm airspeed.” The two pilots shook off the strange request. Nine hundred knots was supersonic. It was within their planes’ abilities, but well outside their effective cruise speed.

Jack glanced at Jennifer as they came up on the two jets. The F-22s were flying about three hundred feet apart, per standard escort formation. They were climbing fast, already past 15,000 feet, and thrusting upward into the thinning air. But they were holding at 550 knots. The black jet slid between them, its jets hugging the rear part of its fuselage. If the pilots had been able to see the plane before taking off, their professional eyes might have seen that the jets were thinner than normal. If they had been able to see their air intakes up close, they would have seen no rotor, only ducts allowing air backward over a smooth, black cone.

As the jet drew level with them, they both glanced at it, and saw the strange-looking engines along its rear. The black cylinders mounted on its side were trailing two luminescent blue flames out of each black pod. Jack opened the comm again, some of his mirth coming through the line as he reiterated his orders, “Escort Squadron, this is Sierra Mike Whiskey One. Let me reiterate that airspeed, gentlemen. That’s nine … hundred … knots.”

And with that, Jack throttled up the two fusion jets powering the missile he called a plane, and the engines amped up their heat output, firing the air to cosmic temperatures. It was like he had opened up portals into the heart of a star, and the two thin blue flames flared sun-bright as the black jet rocketed forward. Stunned, the two fighter pilots gunned their engines and went off in pursuit, watching as the black wings on the animal in front of them slid gently inward, warping smoothly, as they formed into tight fins against the side of the plane’s fuselage.

Smoother, faster, the jet powered upward and eastward, the three planes announcing their departure from Virginia with a thunderous crack as they broached the sound barrier.

Back in the black jet’s sparse cabin, a grinning Neal Danielson spoke to his daunted colleagues at last.

“I am sorry to have sprung this on you, my friends. But we have some time before we reach our destination, and I promise you I will answer any and all questions I can. For now, I would like to start by telling you that you have been handpicked. You represent the most effective of our new shock troops, and therefore I have selfishly requested that you form the basis of a new team at our main location. I am Dr. Neal Danielson, the head of this taskforce, a taskforce which you are all going to become very familiar with over the next few months. For now, though, know that we are heading to Sao Tome, to the famous SpacePort One you have no doubt heard so much about.”

There were some stirs among the men at this news.

Neal went on, “Your personal effects are being gathered and will be sent on separately, and those of you that have families back in DC will be given the opportunity to bring them to Rolas Base once initial operations are set up and the base is secured.”

As he filled them in on their new assignment, including details of the training they were going to receive at the hands of Quavoce Mantil once onsite, the F-22s banked away from them, their job complete, their flight path already extending out over the Atlantic.

As their slower escorts left them, the black jet began to climb once more, up, into the stratosphere. They all felt it, and Neal explained, “Gentlemen, as you can no doubt tell we are climbing once more. The plane you are flying on is the first of its kind, but it will not be the last. It is called a StratoJet, and, like the suits you are wearing, it is a little special. We are currently climbing up out of the lower atmosphere, to a cruising altitude of 85,000 feet.”

A few helmets were coming off now, revealing surprised looks on the faces of the commandoes crammed into the tight cabin. Hektor was removing his, getting comfortable for the long flight to Africa.

“We are also still accelerating, though not as dramatically as when we took off.” Neal said with a smile he simply could not get under control.

“It is six thousand miles to our destination, my friends. A flight that would take a normal passenger jet twelve hours. Concorde could have done it in five …” they waited for the punch line and Neal paused a second to relish it.

Finally he said, with undisguised glee, “We will be there in two. Welcome to the StratoJet, my friends.”

- - -

Cutting a swathe through the jungle on the southern peninsula of Sao Tome, the long, broad airstrip ran almost from one side of the island to the other. Though the strip was actually north of the perimeter fence that isolated the southern tip of the island, landings were still strictly controlled. Jack knew he could have easily outrun the Typhoons that came to meet him, but he stayed within the stringent parameters laid out for him and landed at a leisurely 120 knots, his StratoJet’s wings now spread wide once more, after the stratospheric Mach 4 flight they had enjoyed.

Quavoce and General Milton greeted them at the landing strip. After saying hello to Neal, and exchanging a heartfelt reunion with Jack and Jennifer, Quavoce turned to the eleven black suits behind them. While the general guided the other three to a jeep, Quavoce walked along the line of men and greeted each of them by name.