Tactical Operations Center
Sunday, August 29, 4:27 P.M.
Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 67 hours, 33 minutes
“Copy that, Cowboy,” Church said. “Deacon out.”
Church leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips. Grace, Bug, and Dr. Hu surrounded him, each of them waiting to learn what had happened down in Costa Rica.
“Every time I think we have a handle on the definition of evil,” Church said, almost to himself, “someone comes along to prove that we’re shortsighted.”
“As a conversational opener,” Bug said, “that makes me want to run and hide.”
“The computers at the Costa Rica facility have been destroyed. Some form of thermite-based fail-safe device. Captain Ledger thinks it was remote detonated. However, Echo Team has found some paper records and a handful of flash drives and disks. There was also one laptop that wasn’t networked in and it did not receive the self-destruct code, so we may get lucky there.”
“That’s something,” said Grace.
But Church shook his head. “At first glance all that Captain Ledger has found are references to the Extinction Wave, and the date, but most of the paper records are coded and we don’t have the code key. Without that we don’t know how many pathogens, their exact names and strains, or any information to tell us where, how, and by whom they will be released. Africa is a big continent.”
“Effing hell.” Grace punched Bug on the shoulder. “I thought your lot were supposed to be able to crack any bloody code.”
“First…
“Better than you?”
Bug didn’t rise to the bait. “Maybe. But I have better toys, so I’ll crack it. Big question is whether we crack it in time to do any good. Be nice to find the code key, or-if there are multiple interrelated codes-a master code key.”
“Birds from the
“True,” Bug said, “but it’s already August 29 and the Extinction Wave is set for September 1. We not only need to break the code; we need to devise a response and then put it into place.”
“We should probably bring World Health and the CDC into it now,” said Hu. “And CERT, National Institutes for Health… a few others.”
Church nodded. “Yes, but carefully. We don’t know if any of those organizations have been compromised.”
Grace studied him. “I have a feeling that there’s more. Care to drop the other shoe?”
Church nodded. “This, perhaps more than anything, will give you a window into the souls of the people we’re up against.”
He told them about the New Men.
Chapter Ninety-One
The Hive
Sunday, August 29, 4:46 P.M.
Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 67 hours, 14 minutes E.S.T.
I found Carteret where we’d left him. He was awake and furious and had wriggled his way across the floor and had rolled onto his back so that he could kick open the door to the New Men’s barracks.
“Come on, you slope-headed fuckers!” he screamed. “Come out here and cut me loose.”
I came up quietly and saw through the small door glass that several of the New Men were indeed shambling toward his cries. Even now, even after he’d brutalized them and tried to exterminate them, they were obeying the conditioning that had removed all traces of free will. It made me furious. If I didn’t need answers, I think I might have just slit Carteret’s throat and called it a job well done.
Instead I grabbed him by the plastic band holding his ankles together and dragged him away from the door.
“Hey!” he yelled. “What the bloody ’ell do you think you’re playing at?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I said quietly. I went back to the door, opened it, and called, “Downtime!”
The single word burned like acid on my tongue, and the sight of the New Men slowing to a confused stop, then turning without question and heading back to their cots made me heartsick. Carteret was still yelling when I turned back to him, but the look on my face quieted him for a moment.
I dragged him by the heels past the dead or unconscious bodies of the other guards and into an adjoining room, then closed the door.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” he demanded.
I flicked the blade on my Rapid Response knife and knelt over him.
“Steady on, mate,” he said quickly. “Let’s not do something we both regret.”
I held one finger to my lips. “Shhhhh.”
With two quick flicks of the knife I cut his plastic bonds. As I cut the bands on his wrists I saw that he had numbers tattooed on the back of each hand: 88 on his left and 198 on his right. I recognized the code from some gang work I did while on the cops.
“Get up,” I said as I rose and backed away. I laid the knife on a table.
He got slowly and warily to his feet, rubbing his wrists and studying me, but I could see the effort he put into keeping his eyes from flicking toward the knife.
“You’re a Yank,” he said.
“You’re a genius,” I said.
“You working for the Twins?”
I said nothing.
“No… you look the military type. You’re Special Forces, am I right?”
I said nothing.
“I did my time in the service. Don’t suppose you’d like to look the other way while I scarper? Little professional courtesy?”
“Doesn’t seem likely. What I’d rather do,” I said, “is beat some answers out of you. How’s that sound for an afternoon’s entertainment?”
He sneered. “This is a private facility, mate, and we’re in international waters. Check the map; we’re three miles outside of Costa Rican-”
“Which means no one’s watching, Sparky.”
“You think you’re going to strong-arm me? You’d better have a lot more than a knife.”
“I have what I need.”
He tried a different tack. “I thought you Yanks didn’t do torture anymore.”
“Torture is something you do to the helpless. Like the stuff you did to those New Men.”
“Boo-fucking-hoo, mate. They ain’t even people.”
“Not all that sure you are,” I said.
“Arrest me or whatever, but I’m not saying a bloody word.”
I slapped him across the face. It was fast and hard, but I was going for shock rather than damage. He blinked in total surprise. Slaps hurt so much because the palm strikes so many square inches of face and all those facial nerve endings cry out in surprise.
