Burn (25 page)

His Sidekick inquired, in its flat voice, “Do you wish to declare Red Alert?”

“Negative,” he answered. “Run search.”

Somewhere in the Department of Defense complex in D.C. a red light was blinking away valuable time. Suddenly the Powell lurched ahead, spun on its left track and wove its way through a propane fire to a rusted, nondescript container lying on its side. The end doors were accessible, and Solaris magnified the view fifty percent. The numbers were correct, and he saw with relief that the locking mechanism and plug were undamaged.

Solaris scrambled out of the track and into hell. The Powell had protected him from the searing heat of the propane fire and from the caustic vapors from nearby tank cars. In this industrial area even more screams rent the air, these from the thousands of families who lived in and among the empty cars.

A blackened husk of a man pleaded with him.

“Por favor”
he begged, pointing through the wall of flame just meters behind them. “My wife, my babies . . .”

Solaris already had his Sidekick plugged into the lock. He nodded towards the Powell.

‘Take it,” he told the man. “It will take you through.”

“Gracias,
”
the man said, wiping the tears from his eyes with the black smears of his hands. “Muchísimas gracias, señor. Vaya con Dios.”

“Yes,” Solaris answered without looking, “go with God.”

The lock buzzed free and one of the double doors dropped down, nearly crushing Solaris, who jumped aside barely in time. Inside the container, bolted to the floor, lay the device that he sought. It did not look in the least bit deadly.

The neutron device was over thirty years old. Except that it was stainless steel, it looked much like an old steamer trunk. Solaris found the arming plug on the side facing away from him. As the Powell backed away from him and into the inferno, Solaris plugged his Sidekick into the receptacle and uploaded the arming sequence.

He knew, from Marte Chang’s report and lot number confirmations, that some virus already swirled aloft with the smoke and debris. Fire created its own wind, and the wind from a thousand fires even now spread the Deathbug throughout the city. He knew that the effective range of this device was not great, but by destroying as much virus as possible as quickly as possible, he hoped that the delay would give Chang the precious time she needed to protect the rest of the world from any of this horror that slipped through. A horror that was his sorry contribution to human biology.

And maybe I’ll get them all,
he thought.
There’s absolutely nothing to lose.

He keyed the final code verification sequence into his Sidekick, took the clay whistle from his jacket pocket and looked upon the pitiful struggles of his fellow humans one last time. He put the dog’s butt to his lips, blew a shrill, clear tone as loud and as long as he could. Then, as his breath ran out, he pressed the command key: “Run.”

Time, for Trenton Solaris and millions of others, ended right there.

Chapter 37

Waiting is bad.

—Miyamoto Musashi

President Claudia Kay O’Connor had two minutes to herself in the relative silence of the Communications booth bathroom. Two com-line headsets hung above the toilet paper beside her, and a row of status lights blinked their green, yellow and red semaphore at her from above the urinals against the opposite wall. Two flat screens flanked the status slate, and a peel shimmered on the back of the door. All were blanked, at her command, and speakers muted.

President O’Connor sat on the toilet seat lid and shook out her fingers, trying to relax. Her black wool pants itched like mad because she’d been sitting and sweating most of the day. In less than a minute she would explain to Juan-Carlos Herrera, President of Mexico, and Raphael Klein, Prime Minister of Canada, what she knew about EdenSprings water. The media called it the “Sabbath Suicides,” and it was especially virulent among Gardener outposts throughout Mexico.

The President opened the door to Communications, and Dwight shoved her formal statement to Herrera into her hand.

“They need to hear that help is on the way,” Dwight reminded her. “This is for their media people.”

A piercing
Whoop
blared from a speaker overhead just as static replaced Mexico City on the status screen.

“We have a nuclear situation, Ms. President,” General Gibson told her. He ran a hand through his thinning gray hair. “A detonation. Mexico City.”

“Shit,” President O’Connor said.

No one was trying to outshout anyone else. She watched the light on the Defcon panel go to Red Alert.

“Authorize?” the panel asked her.

With the flick of her thumb she would mobilize the world’s largest nuclear arsenal to counterstrike anything construed as an attack. She pressed her thumb to a plate on her desk, and it recorded her print.

Babble was picking up.

“Who?” O’Connor asked the general. “Who hit Mexico City?”

She leaned her elbows on a hexagonal tabletop that housed six control stations. She sat at one of six captain’s chairs that rolled freely atop the shiny oak floor. The oak covered twelve feet of reinforced concrete which, itself, was lined with steel, lead and reinforced with concrete beyond that. “Nuclear” had been spoken in this room before.

General Gibson was uncharacteristically pale, and slow to answer.

“It’s a Trojan Horse, Ms. President,” he said.

“One of ours, then,” she said.

He nodded just slightly, and his gaze of steel held steady.

“I’m afraid so, Ms. President.”

“Media’s calling it an aftershock,” Dwight said. “Let’s keep it that way, for now. . . .”

President O’Connor tuned Dwight out. She was now the second American President responsible for a nuclear massacre. And she still had a country to protect.

What would I do if I were Mexico?
she asked herself.

“I’d attack,” she answered. “As soon as I knew they’d betrayed me.”

“You’re reading my mind,” General Gibson said.

Suddenly, something behind the general frightened her more than the bomb. As General Gibson explained how he would deploy southwest units to discourage a Mexican invasion, President O’Connor watched a plumber working under a sink across the room. The man slid out from under the sink with a white canister in his hand. He tossed it into a bucket on his utility cart, unwrapped another canister and began crawling back under the sink.

“Hey!” President O’Connor shouted. “What are you doing there?”

The plumber crawled back into the room.

“Me?” he asked. “Replacing water filters.”

“It looked new from here.”

“It
is
new,” the tech said. “But we’re getting complaints on the taste.”

She had noticed a mineral undertaste to the water, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

“It doesn’t taste bad,” she said.

“It’s not supposed to taste at all,” he said.

By the time she asked the next question, the noise level had dropped again as everybody listened in.

“Who made the filters?”

The tech pulled the last one out of the garbage.

“Eden Well Supply,” he said.

“Gardeners,” the general said.

“We’re fucked,” the President answered. “You better warn the others.”

She saw for herself that it was already too late for General Gibson.

Chapter 38

A wise man fears and departs from evil: but the fool rages and is confident.

—Proverbs

Rico tapped Scholz on the shoulder to get her attention as the rest of the patrons got to their feet behind them. Their focus, like his own, was the smoking rubble of Mexico City that a shaky camera operator broadcast to the bar screen.

“Are you sure your game’s still on?” he asked her.

Rico called up the volume, and a hysterical reporter offscreen tried to deliver the story of her career.

“. . . worst predictions came true. The controversial evacuation that followed Earthquake Watch’s timely warning has undoubtedly saved millions of human lives. Once again, I’m Michelle Spencer, live from our airliner over Mexico City. We are witnessing live an earthquake that has just flattened the center of the most populous city in the world. Earthquake Watch was right, and as a result millions of people are alive tonight, though homeless.

“Fewer than half of the citizens of Mexico City evacuated reluctantly after geologists confirmed an eight-point-oh buildup in progress and the U.N. moved armored units in to clear the Zocaló. Critics of the evacuation warned that billions of production dollars would be lost and looting would be a ‘feeding frenzy.’ Both points are now moot.

“Many of the city’s poor stayed in defiance of the evacuation order, and rescue teams worldwide will have the task of digging them out. Fortunately, hundreds of volunteer rescue workers are on hand, but considering that millions of lives are in question, that number may prove insignificant. Property loss, from our vantage point, is immeasurable. It’s horrible, the worst I’ve ever seen. But, again, thanks to the Earthquake Watch early warning system, millions of lives have been spared. . . .”

The news clicked off, and the two suits behind Rico and Scholz pressed closer.

“White House requests your immediate return to the States, Colonel.”

Rico didn’t move, not even his lips.

“Isn’t babysitting cripples kind of light duty for war whores like yourselves?”

“You’re in no condition to piss me off, Colonel.”

“What about my boy? And Sonja?”

Scholz shifted her weight slightly, and Rico knew she was ready to play.

“Don’t do it, lady,” the other suit said. “You’re booked on the same flight.”

“I’m no lady,” Scholz said. She held her drink in the “throw-and-go” posture.

“My boy and Sonja,” Rico insisted.

“I don’t know anything about that, Colonel. My orders are to move you two immediately to the airport. This comes directly from The Man. Let’s go.”

Rico felt the unmistakable press of an airgun muzzle against his ribs and decided against pointing out to the contractor that, since the President was a woman, orders no longer came from The Man. He glanced down and saw an eight-shot disposable Hornet convincing him that the contractor could say whatever he liked. One suit by the door jacked a high-pressure hose into the side of his briefcase, and jacked the other end into the hardware under his coat. All of the patrons showed their hands on tabletops without further encouragement.

Eight shots apiece for these two,
Rico thought.
But that guy at the door could take the walls out of this place.

Rico didn’t hear the dart that dropped Mr. Briefcase, but he glimpsed the white blur as it streaked across the mirror. In the same instant, three more white-feathered darts pricked the necks of the other three suits. Each of them swatted out of reflex at the bug that bit them, and each crumpled to the floor without a twitch. The rest of the patrons studied their drinks very carefully.

“What the hell . . . ?” Scholz asked.

Spook, Al and two strangers smiled, tapping small blow-guns in their palms. Rico picked up one suit’s Hornet, and Scholz grabbed another. Father Free slid his blowgun into his back pocket.

“Handy, aren’t they?” he said, then laughed. “Of course, it’s just an artifact. For display purposes only.”

“Thanks, Spook,” Rico said. “Listen, the lid’s off. We need your help and we need it right away.”

“Does this have to do with that warehouse standoff in Mexico City?” Spook asked. “And the sudden arson problem we’re having here in La Libertad?”

Rico and Scholz raised eyebrows at the same time.

“What do you know about that?” Rico asked.

Father Free smiled, his perfect teeth brilliant. He pulled a faded white collar out of another pocket, and slipped it into place in his shirt.

“I know that the Agency has been sweating blood over a Peace and Freedom subcontractor that took a warehouse away from the Children of Eden,” he said. “I know that you managed to pull off an earthquake alert and evacuation, and that you lost Yolanda and a dozen other high-level contacts.” His gaze took in Rico’s bruises and stitches. “I know about ViraVax.”

“Lost Yolanda?” Rico asked. “What . . . ?”

“Sorry,” Father Free said, “I thought you knew. One of her own people, apparently, in an alley in Mexico City. I just heard, myself.”

In the few seconds of stunned silence, Rico heard the
whup-whup-whup
of ceiling fans and rifle fire from down the street.

“The kids wouldn’t be here now without her,” Rico whispered. “Neither would I.”

“‘She should have died hereafter,’” Spook quoted, “ ‘there would have been a time for such a word.’ I don’t know why you didn’t square with me in the first place.”

Father Free turned to the mirror and hand-signaled someone behind it. Two women came out of the back to help Al and the others quietly drag the suits through a doorway behind the mirror. Rico glimpsed another half-dozen people back there, intent on the holo projections shimmering in front of them. They took absolutely no notice of the unconscious men dragged through the room and into a closet behind them.

“I don’t know what was in that warehouse,” Spook said. “But it cost the Agency plenty—people, contacts, money. And favors.
All
favors, even from me. Even, it appears, from you.” His gaze flicked over Rico’s stitches, scabs and scars. “And now, Yolanda.”

One of Spook’s men tossed him the briefcase and the automatic. He tossed it to Rico.

“Here,” he said. “You might need it.”

“Thanks,” Rico said, “but this enemy can’t be shot. We’ve got ourselves a Jonestown Special.”

Father Free’s blue eyes glittered a hard acknowledgment. The Agency considered a Jonestown to be the destruction of an isolated population from within. A Jonestown Special was destruction of unlimited population, also from within a single group. A nation- or worldwide poison or plague.

“Special?”

Father Free looked to Scholz for confirmation, and got it.

“Absolutely,” she said. She nodded to indicate the toll of earthquake destruction being run on the peel. “This could be every human being on the face of the earth.”

“We need a broadcast team with satlink capability,” Rico said. “We need security, transportation and quarantine facilities for a virologist and two kids.”

“All we were going to do was snatch the kids and this virologist and hide them out in a safe house up in the Jaguars,” Scholz said, “Now it looks like a nuclear sub would be about right.”

Father Free smiled.

“I can still help you,” he said. “I don’t believe that
St. Elias
is booked up this afternoon. She’s not nuclear, but she’s reliable. Now, this ‘Special.’ There’s no antidote?”

“The virologist says she can neutralize it,” Scholz said. “But there’s production. Then distribution. She also says this thing spreads
very
fast, and that we can’t beat it. With luck, we can outrun it.”

“How fast?”

“Two days max, from exposure to Meltdown.”

“Meltdown? What do you mean,
‘Meltdown’
?”

“Spontaneous human combustion,” Scholz said. “You get a fever and you melt off your bones and you burn up. Something to do with virions and the mitochondria, Chang says.”

“That’s the source of the fires around town?”

“Probably,” Rico said. “ViraVax tainted their ritual water supply, so they’d all start going up on Easter.”

“Why didn’t we hear about this before?”

Rico swallowed hard, but didn’t let Spook’s accusing gaze stop him.

“Because I buried it,” Rico said.

His face, a painful mask behind the stitches and the gels, betrayed no expression.

“It killed Red,” he added. “Then I followed orders and buried it.”

“Will you let your guilt bury
you,
Colonel?” Father Free asked. “And the rest of us along with you?”

“Lay off, Father,” Scholz snapped. “Yeah, we had orders.”

She put her nose to Rico’s nose.

“But we didn’t want every tinhorn politician with a thick wallet to invest in the idea, either. Remember?”

“Yeah,” Rico nodded, “I remember. And that goddamn committee’s doing the same thing….”
 

Father Free cleared his throat.

“My sympathies,” he said, his voice flat. “The facility shouldn’t have been built in the first place.”

“You cashed our check when we consulted you on the communications job,” Rico said. “Let’s get back to the bug. The virologist says it’s designed for contagion. Besides the ritual water, it’s in vials of childhood inoculations, millions of doses, that’s what’s in the warehouse.”

“So, what’s the problem?” Father Free asked. “If you can’t snatch your cargo, destroy it. That earthquake did us all a favor. It’s destroyed.”

“Not this cargo,” Rico said. “Open one of those vials, and anyone within ten meters is dead in two days. You’d have to nuke it to stop it, and nobody wanted to nuke Mexico City.”

“And this earthquake just turned it loose?”

“Exactly.”

The busy room had grown quiet, hotter, thick.

“What’s the survivability?”

“Zero,” Rico said. “Chang computes the maximum exposure-to-Meltdown time at forty-eight hours. Infants and old people can go in two or three.”

Father Free blinked a couple of times, as though to clear his vision.

“Two
hours
?”

“Two hours. In two hours your baby gets sick. In ten minutes it melts down and burns before your very eyes. . . .”

“. . . And who wouldn’t pick up a sick baby?” Scholz said.

“How much of that time are they . . . can they spread this thing?”

“Don’t know,” Rico said. “But if you’re exposed, you’re contagious within moments and dead within two days.”

“Could
you nuke it?”

Father Free’s voice was soft, smooth. Rico was sure that Spook thought what he thought—if someone
could
nuke it, they probably
would.

“Too late,” Rico said. “That air’s contaminated already. According to Chang, it rides on steam, smoke, dust, runs off in rain and collects where the poor collect water for their beans. If one vial’s broken, it’s too late for Mexico City.”

“So, it’s loose here, too,” Father Free said. “If we can’t fight, we run. But where?”

“Underwater,” Rico said. “Underground. The space station or a biosphere. The only solution is to get ahead of it and seal off.”

“Exactly,” Scholz said. “Seal yourself off completely from the outside world. Then you have to stay inside for at least two months—air, water, septic, food . . . the works.”

Father Free’s Sidekick interrupted with three bell-like tones.

“Yes?” he answered, and triggered the “unscramble” toggle.

“Targets on the move,” the machine reported. “Pan-Pacific Lancer out of hangar and fueling. Flight crew arriving.

“Check,” Spook said. “Position Team Two for intercept. We’ll want that plane, too.”

“Roger that. Secure targets and aircraft.”

Two scratches of a microphone signaled, “Out.”

He’s pretty casual about who listens in,
Rico thought.
Or he’s that well shielded.

“What’s up?” Colonel Toledo asked.

Father Free smiled and tried to look humble.

“Thanks to a few whispers, I anticipated certain of your needs,” he said. His voice hardened.

“I did not anticipate such extreme needs. Not even with Yolanda on the inside.”

It was Rico’s turn to blink.

“Yolanda worked for you?”

Father Free shrugged.

“Not exactly,” he said. “We . . . well, we go way back. She worked for you, of course. And for the Peace and Freedom people. We do . . . did . . . some private work from time to time, just the two of us. . . .”

Father Free’s jaw muscles twitched as he clenched his teeth. He motioned the Colonel and Scholz into the office behind the mirror.

The Colonel had made it his business to survey Father Free’s office, as well as his two stories of “storage” and “living quarters,” years ago. Spook had upgraded his personal electronics considerably since then.

Same four walls,
Rico thought.
A lot more sophistication.

He realized, now, where the Peace and Freedom party got its electronics. El Indio wasn’t their supplier, after all.

Shit,
he thought,
El Indio’s probably another “private partner.”

Rico realized, now, why Yolanda rescued him after the embassy bombing—a favor from his old ethics professor, Spook.

Yolanda and Spook!

No wonder the Peace and Freedom people were gaining popular ground. Yolanda had kissed Rico as he prepared to break his son out of ViraVax. He tried to recall the press of her body against his, but he’d worn coveralls and a tool belt, so there had been no body-pressing. All he remembered clearly was her perfume, “Poison,” and the cooling of her kiss on his lips.

He could imagine how bad Spook wanted the men who killed her. That wouldn’t be possible now. Nor necessary.

“Which of our needs did you anticipate?” Rico asked.

“Your kids, of course,” Father Free said. “And escape. Whisper told me that somebody was taking them someplace for study. I didn’t like the sound of it. I presume that whisper came from you.”

“It did.”

“You could have ordered their study yourself, Colonel,” the priest said. His steely eyes glittered in his dark face. “Remember, Colonel, I’ve known Harry since birth. Sonja, nearly as long. Frankly, Colonel, you’ve been in the bottle for the last ten years, and I didn’t trust your judgment. Instead of studying the possibility, I made some arrangements.”