Day by Day Armageddon: Shattered Hourglass (15 page)

“I still don’t understand why this group would want the carrier nuked.”

“I have no idea, Billy, but I do know they can hurt us during the day. And don’t get Disco and Hawse worked up, but I’m not so sure they can’t go high order on us at night.”

“Yeah, I was thinkin’ it, just didn’t want to say.”

The pile of corpses at the bottom was a gruesome sight, with some still twitching. Both were careful to avoid getting too close—a bullet to the brain didn’t always mean the threat was eliminated. Even after trauma to the brain, the biting reflex was sometimes still present. Whatever caused the dead to rise didn’t give up easily; even severed heads required extreme caution.

Doc pulled out his blade and cut the strings holding the flapping chute to the drop. The fabric fluttered up into the darkness on the whim of a night wind. Doc thought of a man o’ war jellyfish as it drifted over the ridge area, dangling its stinger-like paracord strings.

There were white letters painted to the outside of the plastic wrap that held the drop together, but the elements and the wearing
of time had made it unreadable. The drop rested on its side against a wedge of dirt. Doc swiped the plastic wrap with his blade, spilling the black hard cases onto the ground.

“Billy, get on perimeter while I check this out.”

“I’m on it.”

Doc started the unpacking process one box at a time, carefully, as if there might be booby traps in the containers. He listened for the action of Billy Boy’s carbine as he opened the containers—all quiet.

The first box contained a weapon that Doc thought curious, marked
swarm control gun
. The instructions were written in a simple manner, resembling the pictorial directions that one might find on how to operate a seatbelt in a commercial aircraft. The gun was somewhat cumbersome, requiring the user to literally wear it; an illustration depicted a man wearing the gun attached to what resembled a harness.

The other boxes that Doc inspected contained the compounds that were required to fuel the gun. According to the documentation, two different bottles attached to the gun. When the gun was actuated, it was supposed to expel a stream of foam at ranges of up to fifty feet. The two compounds mixed when exposed to the air and the foam would harden within two seconds. Doc read the cautionary note on the documentation:

WARNING: FOAM COMPOUND WILL HARDEN COMPARABLE TO CURED FIBER CEMENT/FIBER RESIN. USE EXTREME CAUTION WHEN AIMING. THIS FOAM WEAPON IS LETHAL.

As Doc continued scanning the instructions, he noticed a section mentioning the possible uses of the weapon.

—Immediate temporary immobilization of large groups

—Immobilization of moving vehicles and heavy armor

—Freezes doors and other access points

—Chemical bonding of any material to another

Doc estimated the gear weighed about eighty pounds in all. There was nothing else in this drop. Doc called Billy over to discuss
the cost versus benefit of humping the extra weight back to Hotel 23.

After looking over the gun documentation, Billy commented, “Man, if this thing can do what it says, I’ll hump it back myself. Our M-4s are good for running and gunning and the surgical wet work and all, but this thing might help against the likes of what we saw on that overpass. I wouldn’t mind having a fire hose that can shoot instant concrete on demand, would you?”

“Yeah. We’ll split up the gear and hump it back. But we’ll test it out another night. We’re losing night cover.”

After rigging the gear to their packs, they headed back to Hotel 23. Doc marked an
X
over this particular drop on the map, crossing it out. As they crested the ridge heading back, Doc paused.

Was that the sound of an engine in the distance?

He intended to ask Billy if he had heard it, too, but the wind shifted and the sound vanished like a fleeting thought.

The carrier briefing room buzzed with brass. Admiral Goettleman and Joe Maurer sat at the table in front of the auditorium, facing the small group of officers and a handful of senior enlisted.

The admiral leaned over to Joe. “Make sure the doors are secure. There’s already scuttlebutt circulating about the deck plates.”

“Yes, sir.”

Joe sat up and told one of the officers in the front row to check the starboard doors before personally verifying the port and returning to his seat alongside Admiral Goettleman.

“All secure, sir.”

“Very well. Let’s get started.”

The admiral tapped the microphone button in front of him. “Thanks for coming today—not like you really had anywhere to go.”

Some tired laughs ebbed around the room.

“The reason I have called this meeting is to provide an update on Task Force Hourglass. As most of you are aware, they are currently underway, onboard the submarine USS
Virginia
and a week from Oahu. As the TF commander, I’m privy to information relating to all phases of the Hourglass mission. All of you are read into the special-access program known as Horizon and what likely occurred in China, or at least what we think happened. Phase one of Hourglass has so far been a success, as
Virginia
continues steaming west with a team of special operators and consultants aboard. Phase two of Hourglass is about to commence—that is the reason we’re here today.”

The admiral paused for a moment, surveying the small crowd while he took a sip of water. “Phase two involves the Nevada specimens.
The Continuity of Government has decided to run a test, exposing one of the specimens to the anomaly. We don’t know if CHANG is of the same species as our specimens, but we still may learn a great deal from the experiment. At the very least we may find out why all of our HUMINT assets went dark not long after CHANG was moved to the Bohai region; at most we may find some way to return the contents of Pandora’s box.”

The chatter in the auditorium began to roll in waves and thunder about. One of the officers in the back raised his hand.

“Go ahead, Commander,” the admiral prompted.

In a cautious tone, the commander began. “Sir, we have no idea the effects this might have on the Nevada specimen’s physiology. The Mingyong anomaly was measured by the Chinese at over twenty thousand years old. Our specimens were recovered in the nineteen forties. Was this plan really thought out by the COG or was this only a plan to throw an idea at the wall to see what sticks?”

The admiral glared at the officer. “Well, Commander, I think you make good points, but COG folks with brains larger than ours and that are in power as the result of laws passed by officials elected long ago have decided that this is the best way ahead. Besides that, I propose to you the following: What if Hourglass fails to succeed? What if the
Virginia
never makes it to China? Then what? These are all reasons we will conduct these experiments. Hourglass may
not
succeed.”

The admiral scanned the room, surveying reactions. “Right now as we sit here onboard the USS
George Washington,
preparations are being made to extract one of the damaged specimens from long-term cold storage. I’ll circle back to you on the findings.”

Wild chatter erupted throughout the auditorium.

Breaking through the noise, another officer asked, “Admiral, what if exposing the Nevada specimen is the catalyst that causes the anomaly to jump airborne? We just don’t know. It’s uncharted territory!”

“So is the dead walking. That is all!” Goettleman barked.

“Attention on deck!” Joe called out, before the admiral stood and abruptly departed the room.

December. Outside was a relentless bombardment of snow and ice. Crusow opened the heavy hatch to the unforgiving atmosphere. Not quite whiteout weather but close. No matter, it would be this or worse the rest of the year and into the next, until spring. If they waited on perfect conditions they’d die hungry and frostbitten. They were well into the long night; probably ninety days of dimness remained before the sun resumed its familiar arc.

Bret arrived from behind Crusow. Kung and Mark would begin readying the dogs to pull up the frozen bodies from the bottom of the gulch soon. It would take Crusow and Bret at least an hour to get to the bottom and secure the bodies to the lines. Crusow left his rifle behind in his quarters and wore only his Bowie knife and ice axe on his hip. They didn’t have moving parts and would not fail him in fifty-below-zero conditions. All the bodies at the bottom of the gulch were frozen solid. Perhaps the polar bears would have a go at them.

Crusow spun around in his snow shoes to face Bret. “You ready for this? Gonna be brutal. Hope you had a big breakfast.”

“Fuck you, Crusow. I’m in no mood for your . . .”

“Good morning to you, too, bitch tits,” Crusow prodded.

Bret didn’t cave on the harassment as Crusow hoped. Their packs were stuffed with rope and rappelling harnesses. Crusow brought a small amount of water and even some food along for energy. With the cold and the moving around in this fur, a man could burn hundreds of calories per hour out there. For good measure he also brought a firelog of compressed wood, an insurance policy if something went wrong and they had to wait on Mark and Kung.

They reached the edge of the gulch; Crusow wondered why they called it that and not a cliff. He leaned over the steep lip and looked down, flipping on his headlamp. Visibility was about thirty feet below the edge—they would be blind most of the way down.

“I’d feel safer tying up to the Sno-Cat for the climb down instead of pounding ice anchors for a top rope,” Bret said to Crusow with some concern in his voice.

“That’d be a great idea if she wasn’t nearly out of juice. It would cost us a quarter-gallon of diesel to get the Sno-Cat started, warmed up, and moved over to the edge. Plus, we don’t know how stable the ice is out here. We could end up falling into that abyss with the Cat chasing us down to the bottom.”

With that, they began hammering their top rope anchors into the solid ice. Three anchors per line were secured in different areas to reduce the chance of losing a line. With all anchors secured, both Crusow and Bret threw their lines out over the edge. They could hear the line slap and tumble down the face. They had a difficult time getting the harnesses out of their packs as their Arctic gloves diminished their dexterity. It was like trying to open a door with your elbows. The wind picked up as the two slipped on their harnesses. They checked each other over, ensuring that their gear was secure for the trip down. Crusow yanked off his snow shoes and tied them to his pack with a bit of cordage. He then clamped the sharp steel snow spikes to his boots and stomped a shelf of ice to see that they were fastened tight.

Crusow reached for the Motorola radio in his coat, fumbling for the transmit button. “Mark, me and Bret are about to start heading down. It’ll probably take about thirty minutes or more to get to the bottom and get set up, over.”

Crusow was accustomed to the HF radio and caught himself closing the transmission by saying
over
instead of just letting the automated beep do the job.

Mark keyed his radio. “Roger that, man. Kung and I are at the dog paddock and we’re prepping them now. We’ll throw down fresh ropes when you say the word. Our end will be attached to the dogs, your end to the . . . you know. I don’t think we should use the ropes you just rigged to pull them up.”

“Why not? They’ll already be down here.”

“Because the dogs might weaken your anchor points or the friction over the ice could fray the ropes. Bad day if that happens.”

“Good point, thanks. Okay, we’re headed down. Talk soon.”

Mark doubled-clicked the transmit button in acknowledgment.

Crusow didn’t risk his life out of want; things had degraded into dire need. If they could not harvest enough body fat from the corpses below, they would never reach thin ice. Fuel was more valuable than water in this harsh, frozen world.

Crusow reached down to his sides to make sure his tools were secured tightly. Even though his gloves were too thick to feel the texture, just knowing his twelve-inch stag Bowie knife was safe in the leather sheath on his hip made him feel somewhat better. It did any job he asked of it, every time.

“You ready, Bret?”

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Let’s go.”

They leaned over the edge, paying out slack, and down they went into the void of Clear Conscience Gulch, one of many graveyards of man.

Kil sat in his stateroom reading a book.
Tunnel in the Sky
by Robert Heinlein. John had passed him a copy before he boarded the helicopter and told him not to lose it. He remembered that John had an extra copy of the book, identical cover and all. Kil had been immersed in the novel since he learned the fate of Oahu, as it was an escape from what the mission might be up against. It was a tale of a group of young students, dropped off in a strange land, trying to survive. The scenario depicted in the book was bad, just not nearly as bleak as what Kil saw during his time in exile after the helicopter crash. He reached up to feel the scar on his head as he thought about this for a moment between paragraphs.

Saien was beneath Kil’s rack in the bunk below playing solitaire with an old deck of Afghanistan’s Most Wanted playing cards on top of his sheets. Saien had made efforts to absorb the happenings onboard since his arrival. He told Kil that he’d never thought he would find himself a member of the crew of a fast-attack nuclear-powered submarine, and he’d even taken on work during his time onboard, standing engineering watches. He wasn’t responsible for much, just to monitor gauges to make sure they were inside normal parameters. This allowed some of the overworked engineers to get some much-needed sleep and also made him a few friends in the process. He wasn’t just the awkward and out-of-place foreigner anymore.

Kil turned the page to the next chapter and lost his grip on the paperback, dropping it to the deck below. He swung one leg over the side of his bunk, then he heard Saien.