Luna Marine (21 page)

“But far more importantly, the ability of the United States to continue prosecuting this war would be ended. Permanently. We will have literally carved the heart from the beast. Their troops would barely be sufficient to maintain order at home, in the face of widespread losses of water, power, transportation, and medical services. And that, of course, is the point.”

As Balmont continued talking, continued trying to convince the uncommitted members of the Council, he studied the face of each member in turn. He was, first and foremost, a politician; he'd led the European Union Socialist Party for five years, before being elected chancellor of France, then Secretary General of the Union, before finally being appointed as his country's representative to the UN. In all those years, in all those power struggles, he'd learned how to read the faces of enemies, of friends, and of the people he needed to sway.

The Security Council's makeup had changed a lot in the past decade. Originally the five permanent members were the United States, the Soviet Union, China, Great Britain, and France, but the changing face of the world's major governments had forced the Council's evolution into a more flexible, more powerful form. The United States had been expelled from permanent membership for refusing to accept the UN-sponsored referendum on independence for the proposed new nation of Aztlan. The Russian Federation—heir to the old Soviet state—had been expelled as well for refusing to recognize China's age-old claims on much of Siberia.

To replace the two vacancies, the North Indian Federation and Brazil had been added to permanent-member status. The current problem child was Great Britain, which both continued to refuse to join the European Union—a
rebellion ongoing now since the last century—and, worse, insisted on a policy of strict neutrality in what they called the American war. In the face of Britain's stubborn intransigence, the Charter rules had recently been rewritten so that binding resolutions could be passed with only four of the five permanent members voting aye…though still with a total of nine necessary for passage. Lately, there'd been talk of a major reorganization of the Security Council, in order to grant permanent status to other nations, such as the Islamic Union, Iran, and Argentina, to better reflect the true balance of power in the world.

It would not be enough, Balmont knew. The tendency these days, more and more, was for superstates to fragment. It had happened to the old Soviet Empire in 1989, to Yugoslavia in the 1990s, and to Canada a decade later. It had happened to both India and to China in the late 2020s, and there was growing fear that the relatively young European Union would not be able to remain united for long.

And the conclusions of the Geneva Report still hung over them all. The year 2050—just eight years away—had been identified as a kind of point of no return. If the world was not united by then, fully united under a United Nations able to set policy and law and enforce them, the future of humankind would be bleak indeed, with a population of ten billion, dwindling reserves of oil and other natural resources, and the prospect of disease, starvation, and cannibalism on a global scale.

The war
had
to be ended, and it had to be ended now, with a decisive UN victory that would give the presumptive world government the teeth it needed to begin the rationing programs that might,
might
save humanity.

The alternative was too dark to contemplate.

And yet, even within the UN Security Council, the bickering, the divisive power plays, the games continued. It was enough to make Balmont sick. Operation Damocles, he was certain, would bring more nations to heel than the US, Japan, and Russia. There were other enemies to be defeated, enemies still nominally members of the United Nations.

Enemies like…

George Sinclair stood suddenly, his face flushed. “I find the details of this plan of yours…disturbing. Even terrifying. What you propose…” He stopped, shaking his head, groping for words. “It is well-known that an asteroid striking the Yucatán Peninsula millions of years ago changed the climate of the entire world and brought the dinosaurs to extinction. You could do the same to us, to all mankind! This, this Damocles of yours is a doomsday weapon!”

“It is genocide!” Abdel-Malek added. “You threaten our entire world!”

Balmont smiled. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, the numbers say it all. The so-called dinosaur-killer asteroid was ten kilometers across and must have had a yield of some tens or even hundreds of thousands of megatons. Asteroid 2034L is barely a kilometer across, and the trajectory it will be following gives it a relatively low-speed impact. This is good, for it ensures that the mass will not explode high up in the atmosphere but will penetrate through to the ground. This will cause far more damage at the impact site, but in a smaller, more contained area.”

As he spoke, he typed out a quick message on his PAD, addressed it with the appropriate encryption, and hit the send key.

“I told you we expect the total yield to be between two and four hundred megatons,” he continued. “The exact figure depends on how much velocity it sheds during its passage through the atmosphere. This is far greater than any nuclear weapon ever constructed, true…but it will be a pinprick compared to the strike that destroyed the dinosaurs.”

“And no radioactivity,” Zhao observed. “A
clean
destruction in fire and darkness.”

“Just so. One that leaves us free, then, to mop up surviving US units in their West and Southwest, then turn our full attention to the Russians and the Japanese.”

He was watching Abdel-Malek as he spoke. With widening eyes, the Islamic Union representative was reading
his own PAD now. Reading the message Balmont had just sent him.

“Indeed,” Balmont added, “the mere threat of another asteroid impact on those countries…or, in the case of Japan, in the sea just offshore, will most likely be sufficient to force their immediate and unconditional surrender.”

“Even if we have no more asteroids coming in?” Abdel-Malek asked. He was typing on his PAD as he spoke. An instant later, a message appeared on Balmont's PAD, a single word.
Agreed
.

“They won't know that,” Balmont said. “All they will have is the knowledge of what has happened to the United States, and the dread that the same fate awaits them.”

“What about the dangers of changing the climate?” Da Cunha, of Brazil, asked.

“That, perhaps, is the best news of all,” Balmont replied. “Our simulations suggest that the dust cloud thrown up by the impact could have a slight but definite effect on the climate, slowing the global warming trend significantly. Our scientists predict that global temperatures could run between half a degree and two degrees cooler for the next decade. That could buy us some time with the Geneva Report, by allowing larger harvests.”

“I will have no part of this!” Sinclair declared. Abruptly, he stood, gathering his papers into a briefcase and closing it with a snap. “Further, I intend to make a full report available to the governments of the United States, Japan, and Russia at the earliest opportunity. This, this callous toying with genocide, with global catastrophe, is nothing short of irresponsible, and I and my government will have no part of it!”

As he turned to leave, Balmont touched a symbol on the touch surface of the table, and the Security Council's door slid silently open. Four UN Blue Guards, in full ceremonial dress but with unmistakably serviceable H&K 980s at the ready, stepped in.

Sinclair stopped, then turned. “What is the meaning of this!”

Balmont ignored him. “Escort the former representative
of Great Britain to a holding room and keep him there, please. He is to talk to no one, have no electronic access with the outside.”

“Sir!” one of the Blues rasped. Both turned their weapons on Sinclair.

“You can't do this!” Sinclair cried. “I have diplomatic immunity!”

“And you are being placed under diplomatic protective custody until this matter is settled, George.” He jerked his head. “Take him.”

Minutes later, after two of the guards had departed with Sinclair and the explosion of urgent conversation around the table had died down, Balmont resumed his seat. Two of the Blues remained inside the room on either side of the door, in violation of all tradition and precedent, their automatic weapons at port arms. “I submit, ladies and gentlemen, that the Islamic Union, currently represented by Mr. Abdel-Malek, should be elevated to permanent-member status on this Council. All in favor?”

The motion passed, as he'd known it would. And, though another three hours of debate was necessary, so did the resolution to employ Asteroid 2034L as a weapon against the United States. His message to Abdel-Malek had been, simply, “Will you support my position if the Islamic Union is given permanent-member status?” That much of a shift in the balance of power had been enough to ensure a successful vote.

It was, Balmont thought, a satisfying ending to a trying day.

TUESDAY
, 24
JUNE
2042

Interrogation Room 12
Joliet Federal Prison
1004 hours CDT

“Well, Dr. Alexander,” Carruthers said with a smile. “Are you enjoying your stay at Joliet?”

Escorted by a guard, David shuffled into the bare room with its institution-green cinder-block walls and single table and set of chairs. His hands were chained to a locked belt about his waist, his feet hobbled by a short chain that kept his steps crabbed and short. He was wearing blue prison dungarees and soft shoes.

“That's
Joliet
,” David replied, giving the name as close to a French pronunciation as he could manage—a softer and more musical
Zhoal-lee-ay
quite different from the harsher Anglicization Carruthers had used. “And I'm beginning to get used to it.”

His mispronunciation was, in fact, a small joke. Reputedly, there was a law on the books dating back more than a hundred years which made it a crime to say the name of the town any other way than with a hard “J,” short “e,” and hard ending “t.” Deliberately using the “illegal” form of the name was a tiny, but somehow satisfying bit of rebellion on David's part.

It was the only rebellion he was capable of at the moment. That, and not giving the bastards what they were asking for.

“It's been four weeks, now,” Carruthers told him. “It could get a lot longer. And more uncomfortable, too.” He nodded to the guard. “Go ahead and unlock him. He won't give me any trouble.”

The chains, David had decided, where part of the show, a way to intimidate him, along with chucking him into prison with the threat of no trial. Joliet, he had to admit, was a scary place. Once a state prison in the town of Joliet, sixty kilometers southwest of Chicago, the facility had been converted to a federal prison in 2010 as part of a government prison buyout plan. It was a hot, noisy, and dismal place, a place in which he had no intention of staying.

Even if he didn't yet know how he was going to get out of this.

“You guys are playing pretty fast and loose with the Constitution,” David said as the guard unlocked the cuffs and chains. He sat down in the chair opposite Carruthers, who was opening up an executive-model large-screen PAD. “Last I heard even spies had a right to a speedy trial.”

“So Ms. Dutton has been telling us. In peacetime, normally, that's true…though, you know, the dockets are awfully crowded lately. In wartime, well, even the best court system can fall behind on the paperwork quite a bit.”

Julia Dutton was his lawyer. “If you're here to question me,” he said, “I think I want Ms. Dutton here with me. I have
that
right, too, even in wartime.”

“Jailhouse lawyer, huh?” Carruthers smiled. “Well, we'll have her come on down, if that's what you want. But I'm not here to question you right now. In fact, to tell you the truth I think we have all the evidence we need to put you away for a long, long time. I don't
think
you'll get the death penalty for espionage…though these days, with juries the way they are, and all the bad public feeling against the UN, you just never know….

“And for the hundredth time, at least, I wasn't spying on anybody!”

“You faxed a model to François Villeret at the Sorbonne. You've been communicating with Jean-Etienne
Cheseaux for months. You've been transferring classified electronic documents to this Pastor Blaine kook in Chicago. Now, maybe you don't call that spying, but the Federal government does.”

David sighed. They'd been through this before. “I told you. I admit to communicating with Cheseaux and Villeret, and even a few others. But they're scientists. And friends. My relationship with them has nothing to do with the war.”

“Your
problem
, Doctor, is that you have this
problem
with enemy identification. Those people are working for the European Union. Which means they're working for the United Nations.”

“Maybe. But the information we exchanged had no military value. As for the records sent to the Church of the Divine whatever, that's total nonsense. I never did any such thing.”

Carruthers pursed his lips. “Actually, I think I believe you on that point.”

“Eh? You do?”

“After we started monitoring your home system, we checked the times of the transmissions to Blaine against your whereabouts. You weren't at home when the transmissions were made.”

“Then what…ah! Liana.”

“Now, we
could
assume that your wife was making those transmissions at your orders. I mean, the files in question were passcode protected, weren't they?”

“Of course.”

“Of course. Still, given your wife's, um, extreme religious beliefs, and her connections with Blaine and some other cult leaders, we'd probably have trouble proving in court that you had anything to do with it.”

“I'm relieved to here it.” Liana! How the hell had she gotten at his files? The woman couldn't program a toaster without getting into trouble. He didn't think she could handle any part of the home system except the entertainment channels. Maybe he'd been underestimating her; in an odd, almost perverse way, he found he was proud of her.

“But we could still nail you just for not keeping con
fidential material safe on your home system. And we're for sure going to run your ass up the flagpole for passing confidential information to the UNdies.”

“Look. I'll say it again, as clearly and monosyllabically as I can. I did not violate any security regulations by talking to Dr. Cheseaux or any of the others. Yes, I faxed a copy of a plaque I found at Picard to Dr. Villeret at the Sorbonne. As far as I was aware, the thing was not even classified. Certainly, there was no information on it that would have compromised security! No plans for super-bombs. No maps to hidden fortifications. Nothing that would have hurt the United States!”

“For your information, everything that came back from the Moon with your expedition was classified! You'd have known that if you'd read your debriefing forms! As for the plaque's message being harmless, who the hell appointed
you
as a judge of American security? What makes you think you can say what might be important to the enemy, and what isn't? Maybe just the fact that we have the thing is important, you ever stop to consider that? You damned scientists are all alike, talking about global scientific communities, but you're not able to see past your next government grant! Well, I've got news for you, Alexander. You are in violation of some very heavy regulations. In fact, you are in one hurtin' world of trouble. Unless you decide to cooperate with us.”

“By selling out my friends.”

“By helping your country! Look, I'm not a hard guy. And I'm not hard to get along with. All we're asking is that you do just what you've been doing with these, ah, backdoor contacts of yours. Talk to them. Maybe ask them some questions. Maybe pass along some select information that we'll provide you with, from time to time.”

“No.”

“Don't be hasty, now.”

“I said no! These people are my friends. They trust me, and I trust them. I won't have anything to do with this!”

“Ah. Your final word?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, if you say so, then that's the way it'll be.” He
stood, then stretched. “So, you say you're getting used to this place? That's good. That's real good.” He turned and started to leave, then appeared to think better of it. Turning again, he gave David a twisted smile. “So, you been taking your TBEs lately?”

The question was so unexpected—and such a non sequitur—that David blinked, unsure of the FBI agent's point. TBEs—Telemere Binding Enzymes—had been available to the general public for a number of years now. The tablets were expensive, and no one could yet say how well they worked, but David had always figured the chance they offered was worth the cost. But how had Carruthers known? “Uh…yeah….”

“Thought so. You look pretty young. Younger than your forties, that's for sure. Figured you must be on the regime. Those things are supposed to add…what? A hundred years to your life? A hundred fifty?”

David shrugged. “No one knows.” What the hell was Carruthers getting at? TBEs were one step up from the popular fad drugs and herbal remedies available in health stores; supposedly, they bound up the telemeres—the protein caps on the ends of DNA molecules that became unraveled with age—and helped stop or slow the aging process itself. The stuff hadn't been sanctioned by the FDA, yet, but millions of people took daily TBE tabs in the hope that they held the key to long and youthful life.

“No one knows,” Carruthers repeated. “I'll tell you, I always figured TBEs were a crock. Like some of the claims the cultists make for their ancient astronauts, y'know? The claims people make sound pretty wild, and there's no good way to test them. I mean, people haven't been taking them long enough yet to see if they work as well as advertised. They might not do anything at all.”

“What's your point, Carruthers?”

“Oh, nothing much. I was just wondering, though, what it must feel like knowing you could be in here for another, oh, century and a half. You're forty-one, according to your record, right? That's not too old, but, still, without your TBEs, you might be in here another thirty, maybe forty years before you finally kicked off. That's a long, long
time. Especially for a bright guy like you. But another century or two? Man, that's a hell of a stretch. A guy could go mad, being locked up in here for a couple of centuries, nothing to do, no way out, no friends except the guards and the other inmates. And, you know what? The food here just isn't that good….”

David swayed a bit in his chair, a roaring in his ears, a dryness in his throat. He'd tolerated life at Joliet for these past few weeks knowing that he wouldn't be there much longer; the charges against him were ridiculous…trivial, even. He'd given nothing of political or military value to “the enemy”; at worst he was guilty of bad judgment.

But for the very first time, now, he teetered at the edge of an abyss, knowing that these people had the power to take away his freedom for the rest of his life, however long that might be. The prospect was terrifying.

“Maybe I'll stop taking them.” Somehow, he kept his voice from shaking. “Just to spite you.”

“Yeah? And maybe I'll leave orders for the dietary staff to mix 'em in with your food. I'm that kind of guy, you know?” He sounded cheerful about it.

“You can't keep me here for the rest of my life, damn it! Go ahead! Put me on trial! The worst I could get is a few years, And I didn't get any money for this supposed espionage of mine. The case'll be thrown out. Hell, I might sue you for false arrest!”

“Well, we'll worry about that when the time comes. It'll only happen, though, if your case actually comes to trial. You see, what lots of folks don't know is that the government has certain powers it can exercise in wartime. Suspension of
habeas corpus
is one of 'em. Your right to a speedy trial, well, things slow down in wartime. And people get lost in the cracks.” He folded his arms, leaning back in his chair. “Not many people know this, but ever since 1933 the United States has essentially been operating under an ongoing declared presidential state of emergency. All it takes is the stroke of a pen to revoke a lot of ‘rights' Americans take for granted. They can be arrested for saying the wrong things. They can be relocated to special camps. Held without trial. ‘National security' is a very
large blanket that can cover a hell of a lot of pretty nasty stuff. Why, you'd be amazed—”

“
You can't keep me locked up in here forever, goddammit
!”

“Just try me, Dr. Alexander. Just try me! You could simply disappear in here, and no one would ever know! You could lose any right you have to access the Net, so you wouldn't even know what others were doing with your research. You'd be cut off from your career, from everyone you know and love, from everything you've done and hoped for, as completely as if you were dead!” He smiled. “But, as I was saying earlier, I'm a reasonable kind of guy. If you make me happy, why, I just can't do enough for you. But, man, if you piss me off, I'll just go out of my way to make life as miserable for you as I possibly can. And if that means seeing to it that you don't see daylight for two hundred years, that's
exactly
what I'll do.”

Something thumped against the door to the interrogation room, and David heard muffled shouts outside. A moment later, the door banged open, and Julia Dutton walked in, a tall, slender black woman with steel in her jaw and fire in her eye. A guard hurried after her.

“Damn it, I said we weren't to be disturbed!” Carruthers shouted at the guard.

“Tough!” Dutton said. “Just what the hell do you think you're doing, Carruthers, questioning my client in my absence?”

“Just offering him the best deal he's going to hear. I'd advise him to take it, if I were you.” He gave them both a satisfied smile, then left them alone in the room.

She dropped her briefcase on the table. She wore a conservative suit; the only jewelry David noticed was a quiet subdermal pattern of yellow stars and moons flashing on and off around the outer corner of her left eye.

“Haven't you learned yet, David?” she said. “Don't you talk to any of these sons of bitches, don't you even give them the
time
unless I'm here with you!”

David found his heart was pounding hard and fast after the encounter. He was sweating, and it had nothing to do
with the temperature of the room. “I didn't agree to anything.”

“What did he want?”

“I think they want to use me to plant disinformation in the enemy camp. Maybe spy on some friends of mine.” He shook his head. “I won't do it, counselor.”