Rage (5 page)

“Lowering Ark station 1138 on my go!” He maneuvered the helicopter, making slight adjustments. “And … go!”

The sound of the winch in the belly of the oversized chopper began groaning, the chains rolling out.

The chains so long that they had been rolled on mammoth wheels, the rolled spools stretching from the floor to the roof of the chopper.

Hill got out of his seat.

He walked back to the winch, where he could look down the opening, watching as the Ark moved smoothly down from the sky—with amazing accuracy—right into the crater that had been made for it.

The Arks were designed so they could burrow in either direction. But in this case, this deep shaft had been made well ahead of time.

The scientists’ preference.

Let’s reduce the chances for a screwup. We’ll
place
the Ark.

So the next time—the only time—the thing would burrow was over a hundred years from now.

The chain kept playing out, and the Ark slipped deeper into the narrow shaft at the bottom of the crater, sliding into it like a bullet into a chamber. A bullet of humanity being shot into the future.

Could have been me down there, Hill thought for probably the thousandth time.

Except—fate had other plans. And what of Raine—was he the right guy? he wondered.

Raine certainly had nothing tying him to this doomed world. No wife, no kids, his own family long gone. Raine kept quiet about whatever passed as his personal life.

For Raine, it was all about the mission.

And what exactly was that mission?

To survive? Yes, but it was more than that. To emerge and locate some of the caches of supplies—the weapons, tools, and precious seeds that might make food on the planet once more.

And foremost, Raine—and the other soldiers on different Arks—were to keep control and protect the survivors.

In case things didn’t go right.

In case everything is worse than we ever imagined it could be.

Did Raine know that was the real mission? Face the unknown, and—if necessary—lead what’s left of humanity?

The Ark had disappeared.

But the winch kept moving, and the chain clanged its way down into the shaft, link by hefty link. Hill squatted there, peering down, watching its progress.

Until the winch stopped. Then Hill looked up at the machine. There were a few meters of chain left on the spool, but the Ark had hit its final resting place.

Like a strange kind of burial.

He muttered the word to himself. A benediction.

“Amen,” he said.

And then he stood up.

Even as the last meters of chain rolled back onto each chopper’s winch, a team of bulldozers were already at work pushing the mounds of dirt and rock back into the hole, like planting a bulb.

In hours, it would look like any other spot in the desert.

Back in his seat, the pilot looked over at him.

“Want to stay a bit, Captain?”

“No,” Hill said. “I think we’re done here.”

Only after the words passed his lips did he register the irony.

We’re done here.

True fact, he thought. In more ways than one.

“Take us back, Sergeant.”

And together, the choppers banked slightly and flew off into the brilliant blue sky.

G
eneral Martin Cross looked over at Colonel James Casey. They stood in the control room for an Ark station.

Except this was unlike any other Ark station.

Even amidst all the secrecy that surrounded the project—and all the madness, the panic, the rioting that surrounded the revelation of the doom heading toward the planet—there were things people had not been told. Even after people learned of the existence and horrifying implications of the Ark Project, there were still secrets.

Like
this
place.

People, many of them, seemed somehow able to accept the premise of the Arks. Saving those few would guarantee hope for humanity, and deep down—possibly on a genetic level—the biological imperative for the species was kicking in.

But not everyone. One Ark station had been uncovered in
northern Oregon and then overrun. It was to be one of the last Arks inserted, and now the place was trashed: computers and monitors smashed, the innards of the Ark ripped out.

Civilians—self-described militia—had shot soldiers and hung their bodies on the fences as if it was their fault. The Ark and its bank of controlling computers had been totally destroyed. Shockingly, even the intended passengers were executed, as if they had done something wrong.

Still, with locations and the selection process secret, the Ark Project remained largely protected.

But there was one secret that even the military brass protecting those other stations didn’t know about. Especially now.

Because it would be like throwing kerosene on a fire.

There would be a few … super Arks.

Mammoth, building-sized Arks. Arks designed to hold nearly three hundred people, all selected—and this was the tough part—strictly for their age, gender, and genetic makeup. A pool of people whose genotype would guarantee diversity, enough diversity so that whatever humanity survived would have the full range of genetic components the human species might need.

To survive. To thrive.

Only a couple could be built before the end arrived. But scientists knew that even a few such super Arks could make the genetic difference between the end of humanity or a new beginning.

And so it was here, hidden by a building, that one of the super Arks had been buried. It was limited, of course, by how deep they could place it. One of the scientists had told Cross that it was a “crap shoot.”

“We’re just not sure it’s deep enough,” the man had said.

Could be all three hundred people in deep cryo would be crushed when Apophis came roaring down.

A big secret.

But not nearly as big as the one Cross and Colonel Casey had. For like all secrets, there was always one more level. And now it was time for that secret—for that plan—to start.

After all, one look out the windows told everyone that time was clearly up.

Cross watched Casey on the phone, listening.

“Yes, Madame President,” Casey said. “I know. We have it on the monitors.”

Casey, an adjutant to President Campbell, had been the administration’s special advisor on dealing with the dozens of counterinsurgency “wars” that spread from the mountains of Tora Bora to nearly every continent in the world.

Antarctica had seemingly been spared.

And Casey, though an advisor to the President, had begun talking about how things were being mishandled, the country’s power squandered—and not just behind closed doors.

Eventually Cross took note, and he started meeting with Casey.

Discussing the failure of leadership. A failure of vision. Of the need for change—and not just another meaningless election.

And this was well before Apophis.

They both realized that what they talked about was treason, revolt. But that was a chance they were willing to take.

Casey became Cross’s eyes and ears in the White House. They had formed a bond, shared a vision—even if they didn’t know yet what to do about it.

Now Cross looked out the window. He saw daylight, but he also saw the sky filled with the yellow-white streaks, the chunks
of the advance meteors racing ahead of Apophis 99942 as if trying to escape its relentless wrath.

Maybe that’s what it is, he thought. The asteroid was the avenger of the Almighty. Just payment for a world that wasted an opportunity to master it. It made things easier to think of Apophis that way.

Cross turned back to the monitor.

There it was.

Apophis.
Not computer animation, but in wide-screen high-definition. The city-sized asteroid raced toward the planet, its trajectory taking it so close to the moon, which itself would be spared.

Cross looked at the other screens.

And there’s humanity, he thought. Humanity responding to the onrush of doom.

People had climbed the Eiffel Tower … for whatever reason. Some falling off, others tossing down Molotov cocktails to the crazed crowds below.

Madness.

Beijing police firing into thousands of rioters, mowing them down.

Around the White House stood a wall of soldiers, as the ring of an enraged mob grew tighter around them and the building; the breaking point couldn’t be far away.

And on and on.

Streets in Chicago burning like they hadn’t since the great fire. Christ, a People’s Government had even been set up in San Francisco, claiming to be in charge of the city.

Demanding answers.

Who made the goddamn Ark selections?

Who decided who lived, who died?

Who indeed?

Cross started to turn away when Colonel Casey came over, his last call with President Campbell over.

The President had shown nerves of glass even before this crisis.

Now she was shattered, buried in the White House bunker, grimly awaiting the end.

“So?” Cross said to the colonel.

“Just about done.”

“And? She have any clue?”

Casey shook his head. “No. Just a ‘good luck’ as we sink the last Ark.”

“Great. That means we’re ready. We should begin then, hm?”

They both looked at the monitor, at the mammoth asteroid.

Not religious at all, Cross said the word:

“God!”

Apophis was due to fly within a hundred miles of the lunar surface. The gravitational pull had been calculated, taking into account the speed and estimated mass of the asteroid. Even entering the asteroid’s various course shifts that had occurred in deep space—the cause still unknown—it would only soar close to the moon.

A flyby for the satellite.

But Cross and Casey could see what the satellite cameras picked up—the thing that scared the hell out of them, and had helped force their hand concerning this Ark:

The asteroid seemed to
shiver
as it came close to the moon.

A definite shake, then wobbling, the back-and-forth weaving as if something inside the asteroid reacted to the moon’s gravitational force, or maybe whatever lay at the moon’s core itself.

In a way no one could have predicted.

Because—they both could see it—the mammoth asteroid tilted slightly toward Earth’s moon.

“Christ. It’s going to hit it,” Casey said. “It’s going to hit the goddamn moon.”

“That can’t be,” Cross said.

But it was.

It made no sense. How could that happen? And what of their plans? Did he even
want
Apophis to miss?

And yet what occurred in the next few seconds told him that—if anything—their plans might be more … relevant. More important. More vital.

The two men just stood there, both saying nothing.

They watched the edge of Apophis smack into the lunar surface like a jagged-edged cue ball. A chunk of the moon shot out, flying wildly off into space, perhaps to inflict the same damage on another planet that Apophis would soon deal to Earth.

At first Apophis itself seemed intact. But as it flew past the impact gouge—the gargantuan hole it had bitten out of the moon—the asteroid split into three nearly equal pieces, each veering in slightly different directions.

All three smaller pieces still resolutely heading toward Earth.

Other screens showed the mayhem and horror around the world. One by one, as if resigned that human news mattered no longer, the media outlets had all changed to show Apophis, now transformed into three hammers about to fall.

Undoubtedly some crazed commentators—seeing the impact with the moon—started preaching deliverance.

We’re saved!

Until it dawned on everyone now that three bullets streamed toward Earth.

Cross turned to Casey. “Let’s do this fast, Colonel.”

“Yes, General,” Casey said.

Cross nodded. Casey had one master. It was not the President, not the head of the Joint Chiefs. Not even his wife, lost to her booze and left behind to die in leafy Georgetown.

“Give the orders,” Cross said.

Immediately the troops surrounding this Ark station went into full battle alert. The gates slammed closed. No one would get in or out, no matter what the hell their clearance.

Cross raced ahead of Casey, both dressed in Ark suits.

They had passed into the inner staging area, and once they did that, another phalanx of loyal—if terrified—guards would see that no one got in, and no one got out.

Casey went to the lieutenant in charge of the planned survivors, a respectable list of doctors, scientists, scholars, and even, yes, a theologian.

Theologian …

Lot of use that would be.

Casey delivered the order.

“Lieutenant, by order of the President of the United States.”

Casey handed the lieutenant the orders on White House stationery, with the recognizable hand of the President.

Perhaps the document wasn’t even really needed, not with Casey’s say-so.

Still—

“Sir, the Ark passengers—they are to be—”

Casey snapped.

“You can read the damn order, Lieutenant! The situation has changed. The security needs are different. I have alerted the team who will be going in their place.”

That team—all handpicked, all military, all knowledgeable about what was happening …

All loyal to the core to Cross.

The lieutenant’s eyes told of his unasked question.

Any chance. Perhaps. I could—

But Casey needed to keep a squad down below to keep the esteemed guests in order while the Ark and its new passengers got planted.

“C’mon,” Cross said. He barely could restrain himself. “Do your goddamn duty, Lieutenant. Same as in war.”

Then in a gesture so false that he barely could believe he did it, Cross raised a hand to the young soldier’s shoulder.

“None of us wanted this, Lieutenant. This is about the future, about humanity’s survival.”

The lieutenant nodded. Then, a crisp salute.

“Yes, sir.”