“No. DARPA’s been doing it for a long time. Homeland uses game simulations to work up protocols for terrorist attacks. Everyone does it. And Artemisia Bliss created a killer of a game called VaultBreaker that was designed to test the security of every major facility and high-profile base in the country. It was great, too, because it led to over ninety significant security improvements.”
“Bliss did that?” said Montana dryly. “Anyone else getting chills?”
“We made a lot of changes after Artie was arrested,” said Bug. “But now that we know it’s Bliss and knowing that she might have a system like MindReader, then it’s possible she really did read the data on the VaultBreaker disk Reggie Boyd gave her. A system like that could fool the anti-intrusion programs written onto the disk.”
“Fuck me.” Montana shook her head. “So this Mother Night bitch could be in there waiting for us.”
Bug didn’t answer.
Lydia cut in. “Could VaultBreaker be used to crack the security at the Locker?”
When neither Bug nor I answered, Ivan said, “Well, kick me in the balls.”
Chapter Eighty-seven
Centers for Disease Control and Prevention
Special Pathogens Branch
Building 18
Atlanta, Georgia
Sunday, September 1, 11:08 a.m.
Colonel Riggs placed the laser site of his pistol on the center of Lieutenant Neale’s chest.
“Stand right there, hands out to the side,” he warned.
Carrie Marchman—call sign Wicked Witch—angled in from the side and took the security chief’s weapon and gave him a fast pat-down. Hipster stood nearby providing cover.
“Everything’s fine here,” said Neale quickly. He was a nervous man with a sweaty face and bright eyes. Was it fear of what might be happening on his watch or the sudden excitement for a man whose usual day-to-day life was quiet to the point of tedium? In either case, he didn’t want the man walking around with a loaded gun. Bad aim and bad intel weren’t the only reasons for “friendly fire” deaths; bad nerves and bad aim accounted for a lot of it. “Really,” insisted Neale, “my team did two full sweeps since receiving your call.”
“This will make three, then,” said Riggs.
Neale looked up at Riggs. “Are you FBI or NSA? They didn’t say.”
Riggs ignored the question. “Where are your people?”
“Everyone’s inside. I was told to have them all meet you in the conference room.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
They entered the building. Rico—Gangbanger—moved in and cut left and stood at an angle that offered a clear view of the entire room. It was a large receiving and storage room. Towers of boxed supplies stood in neat rows under the downspill of fluorescent lights. The air was cool and very dry. Gomer raised his BAMS unit and turned in a slow circle.
“Green,” he said.
Riggs signaled for Hipster to walk ahead of the line with Neale while he faded back to call in. He tapped his earbud and spoke quietly. “Big Kahuna to TOC, copy?”
Aunt Sallie was managing the Tactical Operations Center with Yoda online for real-time field support. “Go for Auntie. What’s your status, Big Kahuna?”
“So far it’s all quiet. We’re going to interview the security staff. Where are we on thermals?”
“Satellite’s in position,” said Yoda. “Reading two clusters of signatures. Group of six in the loading bay—”
“That’s Shockwave plus one. How’s the signal strength?”
“Spotty. Lot of shielding in that structure. Some of your signals are weak.”
“What about the other cluster?”
“Reading seven—no, correct that, five—bodies in the first-level conference room. Wait, it’s seven again. No. Damn, the signal is really fruity.”
“Kick the damn thing,” said Riggs.
“It’s a satellite—”
“Find a way to give me clear intel. We’re expecting five friendlies. I need to know if there are two unknown signals or not.”
“The other signals are gone. Might have been ghosts created by interference.”
“Big Kahuna,” said Aunt Sallie, “proceed with caution. We’ll sort out the technical details a.s.a.p.”
“Kahuna out.”
He checked his BAMS unit and saw the comforting green light.
Neale produced a keycard and opened the door into the main facility, led them down a maze of empty corridors lit only by soft night lights, and finally to the door of a large conference room. The security lieutenant swiped his card and opened the door. Gangbanger and Hipster had their weapons up, covering the room as they entered. Five men stood inside, each wearing uniforms identical to Neale’s. They all looked nervous as Shockwave team poured into the room.
No
, thought Riggs.
They looked scared.
The conference room was dominated by a massive oak table and twenty chairs, the walls lined with sideboards and a coffee station. Two big black metal storage cabinets stood against the rear wall, looking incongruous, towering like obelisks.
Four things happened at exactly the same time.
Yoda was suddenly yelling in his ear. “Big Kahuna, confirmed seven signals. Repeat, confirmed
there are seven signals in the conference room
.”
The light on the BAMS unit flicked from neutral green to a bright and burning red.
Every guard in the room tore pistols from holsters and pointed their weapons at Shockwave.
And the doors of the metal cabinets flew open as two figures burst forth, shedding lead-shielded X-ray capes.
They were Berserkers.
Then two more things happened as the moment slid into hell.
Lieutenant Neale, still smiling his nervous smile, flung himself at Wicked Witch and buried his teeth in her cheek.
And the air was rent by the sounds of screams and gunfire.
Chapter Eighty-eight
Virginia Airspace
Sunday, September 1, 11:12 a.m.
“Let’s not dig graves yet,” said Top. He sat on an ammunition box, running his fingers through Ghost’s thick fur. “Even if Mother Night is inside the Locker, that doesn’t mean she’s strolling through there putting important shit into her purse. There’s a thirty-man security team, and none of them are pussies.” He touched various points on the floor plans. “And there are airlocks at multiple points. You can’t just punch in a code and waltz through. Takes some human interaction.”
“So what?” asked Dunk.
“So all of that’s going to take time,” he said.
“Can we predict how much time?” asked Montana. “I mean, where are the labs with the pathogens?”
Top nodded. “That’s my point. The Ark is all the way down at the bottom. On Level Fourteen. Something like eight airlocks between the front door and the prize.”
“What’s the Ark?” asked Noah.
I tapped some keys to bring up an image of a metal cylinder that looked like a portable decompression chamber. It was heavy, wrapped in bands of tempered steel and studded with massive bolts. The thing squatted on a wheeled cradle.
“The Ark,” I said, “is a special containment system in which samples of every bioweapon, pathogen, and genetically engineered disease in the world is stored. It is the single deadliest repository of biological agents anywhere on earth.”
Everyone looked as pale as ghosts.
Ivan said, “Dangling gorilla balls.”
I expanded the image again to show the airlock that provided access to the Ark. “That’s the only door that accesses Level Fourteen. It’s four feet thick and armed with thermite charges that can be remote-detonated by the duty officer, the security officer, or Mr. Church. There are similar charges inside the Ark. There are also fail-safes in the event of tampering. The idea was that even if somehow the Ark was ever stolen, those charges could be set off. The door charges would seal the vault where the Ark is stored, but if the thing is removed from the vault the charges inside would incinerate everything. Even the prions in the
seif-al-din
would be turned to carbon dust.”
“Shouldn’t we just send that signal now?” asked Dunk, then he corrected himself. “I suppose that command function was lost when the place was compromised?”
“Yup,” I said. “So we better all pray to God that Mother Night and her team has not breached Level Fourteen. Because believe me when I tell you that if there is a genuine entrance to hell, then that is it.”
There was a
bing-bing
and the pilot said, “We’re here.”
Chapter Eighty-nine
Centers for Disease Control and Prevention
Special Pathogens Branch
Building 18
Atlanta, Georgia
Sunday, September 1, 11:12 a.m.
Samson Riggs heard much more than he could see in those first moments.
He heard Yoda shouting in his ear, warning him of the hidden thermal signatures. He heard Aunt Sallie demanding a sit-rep. He heard gunfire as everyone in the room—the security team, the Berserkers, and his own people—opened up and created a maelstrom of tumbling lead, wood splinters, shattered glass, torn flesh, and flying blood.
He heard Wicked Witch shriek as Lieutenant Neale—if it truly was Neale—tore at her face with his teeth.
He heard the roar of the Berserkers. Massive, ugly sounds that hurt the ears and threatened to crack the world.
And he heard his own voice.
Shouting.
Screaming.
Bullets punched him back against the edge of the door frame, but the Kevlar kept him alive. The impact was fierce, though, and black flowers bloomed all around him. Then something big and dark came at him from his left. A Berserker. Three hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and rage.
It was yesterday morning all over again. Blood and monsters. His people were dying. The world was trying to kill him.
The Berserker’s hands filled his vision as it leaped at him.
And that’s when Samson Riggs felt that burn, that high, that adrenaline rush. He heard his scream change into a roar, felt his mouth curl into a brutal smile.
At the edge of death he came alive.
He went in and down, twisting right as the Berserker lunged; Riggs chopped sideways with an elbow, knocking the monster’s mass over and past him. The creature hit the corner of the door frame, spun awkwardly, and fell outside in the hall. Riggs drew his pistol as he rose. He fired, fired, fired. A security guard with a bloody mouth staggered away from the bullets, his face disintegrating. Another clutched at his throat and vomited blood.
Gomer was beside Riggs, but the young man was not firing. His gun hung limply from one hooked finger as his body juddered and danced with convulsions as the infection from his bites did their terrible work. He gave Riggs one terrified, despairing look and the colonel shot him between the eyes.
He saw a third guard’s head snap back as Gangbanger punched a round through his eye socket. But then Gangbanger screamed as the second Berserker plowed into him and bowled him over behind the conference table. Blood splattered the walls.
Riggs fired at the Berserker, but then someone grabbed both of his ankles and yanked with such sudden ferocity that Riggs fell forward. Too hard, and too fast. He got one hand and both forearms out in time to try to break his fall but the force was too overwhelming.
His chin hit his right wrist and his gun went spinning across the floor.
Riggs twisted around as the Berserker from the hallway began climbing up his body. He saw a massive fist driving down toward his face.
And then the world became a fractured dreamscape of red and black and nothing.
Chapter Ninety
The Locker
Sigler-Czajkowski Biological and Chemical Weapons Facility
Highland County, Virginia
Sunday, September 1, 11:14 a.m.
We came in low, making maximum use of cover from the forest and the mountain slopes, and we swung around so the sun was behind us. The road leading to the tractor store snaked along, looking like it came from nowhere and went nowhere. The store was a wide spot on it, high up on the mountainside. There were six vehicles in the parking lot. One late-model gray Lexus—Van Sant’s car—one SUV, and the rest were pickups. This was Ford country.
Well beyond the building, we could see the SWAT teams at the one-mile perimeter. Lots of guns, lots of backup if this got weird and spilled out into the open.
My earbud buzzed and Church was there. “Deacon to Cowboy.”
“Go for Cowboy.
“Be advised, Shockwave Team has encountered significant resistance at the second location.”
“What kind of—?”
“We have lost all contact with them,” said Church. “It is possible we have lost those assets.”
Lost those assets.
I sagged against the door frame as my heart turned to ice. How can three small, clinical words truly carry the weight of their meaning? The assets were people I knew and cared about, including my friend and role model, Samson Riggs.
Lost?
There was only one meaning for that word and it was so huge and ugly that I wanted to close it out on the other side of the door. To deny its reality. The Civilized Man inside my head felt close to tears. The Warrior wanted to taste blood.
Beside me Ghost whined softly.
Church gave me no time for grief, though. “Give me a sit-rep.”
In as human a voice as I could manage, I said, “We’re at the landing zone.”
“Cowboy,” said Church, “Shockwave walked into a trap. Expect the same and proceed accordingly.”
The words were as clinical as the others, but the meaning was very clear and filled with an anger Church would never allow himself to show. He was telling us that the rule book had just been run through a shredder. The Warrior grinned at that thought.
“We know we’re being played,” I growled. “Maybe her endgame is the Easter Egg.” That was the radio code name for the Ark. “And maybe not. Either way, she has to know we’re coming. If she expects to take possession of the package, then she has to clear the road. That means if she’s here, then she has to cancel us out. If she’s not here herself … then we need to determine where the handoff will be. It’s got to be a place she can control. Somewhere we can’t control.”