After America (37 page)

“That’s actually kind of a pity, Jed,” Kipper said, and meant it. “Sometimes it’s good to get an alternative reading of a situation. What chance you reckon any of these embeds might be able to file independently, via satellite phone or something?”

“I suppose they could,” said his chief of staff. “But it’s unlikely they’d ass fuck the army like that. The embed system works for them. Increases traffic to their sites. Mostly, they won’t jeopardize that relationship. They’re on board. Look at what happened after the attack. I was wrong to think the casualties from Castle Clinton would turn them against us. Even Arianna is baying for pirate blood now. I think staying behind while we evacuated the casualties on your chopper really helped.”

Kipper frowned.

“Jed, it wasn’t about spinning the story. Those people would have died.”

“I know, I know,” he apologized. “But someone has to think the ugly thoughts in this administration, Mister President, which brings us to Blackstone. I’ve had a few ideas …”

“Just hold that thought, Jed. We can work through your Texas problems later today.”

“My Texas problems?” Jed replied archly.

“Yes.” Kipper smiled. “Yours. Didn’t you get the memo? I’m sure there was a memo. Anyway, that’s for later. Right now I want to talk to a man about a bomb.”

“You’ll have to wait, Mister President,” said Jed Culver with a touch of satisfaction. “It’s only three a.m. in Honolulu, leaving plenty of time to work through my Texas problem.”

The man charged with guarding and maintaining the strategic deterrent of the United States of America found himself staring out at a light blue Pacific sky not long after sunrise. A glass of juice sat untouched on a paper napkin on his desk while he waited for the video link to tie him in to his commander in chief. While he waited, Admiral James Ritchie looked over the latest updates from the Pacific Fleet’s deterrent force of Ohio-class submarines, six boomers in all, down from a pre-Wave total of eighteen, deployed in a pattern to allow maximum coverage of all potential targets on the face of the globe. After sixty years during which the awful specter of nuclear war sometimes seemed to be the only thing preventing it, some people had grown awfully blase about tossing atomic weapons at each other. The death toll from Israel’s first strike in 2003 was now conservatively estimated at six hundred million as the secondary die-off continued. They had decimated humanity.

But who was he to think ill of them, having played his own part in firing a nuclear warning shot across the bows of Hugo Chavez a few days later?

The Russians had nuked three of their own former republics six months after that, and of course the Indo-Pakistani War had killed another two hundred million before the surviving nuclear powers intervened with a threat of general annihilation for both countries. Meanwhile Brazil had restarted its nuclear weapons program for the South American Federation, something Ritchie knew long before the news media did. And nary a week went by without the Australian ambassador calling on him to inquire about transferring two of those decommissioned boomers into her country’s rapidly growing arsenal. Some days Ritchie thought it was a blessed wonder that anyone was still alive on this poor little planet.

“Links secure,” an army communications officer said on the twenty-six-inch widescreen, breaking the admiral’s train of thought.

President James Kipper appeared on the big Sony display, his image slightly pixelated and jerky. Chief of Staff Culver sat in the background, pen in hand. There seemed to be nobody else in the room, which looked like some sort of hotel conference space. Ritchie had worked with Kipper’s administration long enough to know the president’s informal ways, but there were times he wondered whether the president understood he wasn’t just running a city council department anymore.

“Mister President,” Ritchie said. “Mister Culver.”

Kipper waved, and Culver nodded.

“Admiral,” said the chief of staff. “Good to see you again. Did you get that package I sent you?”

Ritchie held up his untouched glass of juice. “Yes, I did, sir. I appreciate the gesture.”

“And did you have a chance to look over my query concerning the use of special weapons in tactical situations?” Culver asked.

“Neutron bombs, Admiral,” the president interrupted. “Let’s not be coy. He means neutron bombs. I want the option for New York if necessary. To cut down on our casualties.”

Ritchie winced inwardly. He had indeed received via secure Pandora link the e-mail about the use of neutron weapons in the pacification of the eastern seaboard. “Yes, sirs, I received your message,” he said.

“So what’s your opinion?” Kipper asked, leaning forward into the camera. You had to hand it to James Kipper. He did not fuck around.

Neither would Ritchie. He shook his head. “I am sorry, Mister President. The option is no good. Most of the weapons you’re referring to were demobilized and destroyed at the end of the 1990s. I’ve spoken to my engineers about the matter, and they tell me that it might be possible to build a weapon or two for the purposes you had in mind, but we are probably looking at months, untold millions of new dollars, and questionable effectiveness of the warhead when it’s made, anyway. Furthermore, even if it worked as advertised, it’s not like the old movies, Mister President. It won’t just vaporize the enemy. There is still a significant heat and blast effect that will knock flat a huge part of the city, and even then, even with massively enhanced lethality from increased radiation, many of the enemy will recover from the lethal dose and enter a walking dead phase.”

Ritchie paused at that, struck by an odd image running through his mind: pirates with AK-47s lurching through the streets of Manhattan like zombies.

“Walking dead … ase?” Kipper asked as his image and audio faltered a little. “Wha … at?”

“I’m sorry, Mister President. You’re breaking up. If you’re asking what the walking dead phase is, it’s exactly what it sounds like,” Ritchie replied. “The enemy so targeted and not killed immediately will recover from an initial bout of illness and survive free of any symptoms for a period that could last anywhere from a few days to a few weeks in any given case. During that time they could cause a great deal of havoc, especially given that they’d know they had nothing left to lose.”

Kipper rubbed the bridge of his nose as though he had a bad headache while Culver shifted through his papers.

“What about other weapons?” Culver asked. “Have you had an opportunity to survey our options?”

Ritchie nodded. “I talked to the chemical warfare folks over at Twenty-fifth Infantry before you called. The United States was already in the process of demobilizing and destroying our biological and chemical stockpiles when the Wave struck.”

Kipper looked up at the screen, then back at Culver, his face deeply lined with fatigue.

“I understand there are small stockpiles at locations I can disclose via encrypted text transmission. However, there remains the same question as to whether or not those weapons are viable for use,” Ritchie said. “Moreover, their tactical value may well be degraded by the specific theater conditions. Despite the mythology, neutron weapons were conceived of as a defense against Soviet armor massed out in the open, not as a way of denuding enemy cities of all life. Plus, of course, it’s not an insignificant thing, opening this particular chest of wonders, Mister President. I would like to place on the record my very strong advice that we do not even consider going down this road.”

The president stared off to the left somewhere, as though looking out a window, perhaps. When he turned back to the screen, he asked, “Are those weapons secured?”

“The facilities are,” Ritchie replied. “We do not have a full inventory of all of the weapons and their status, but that is mainly a human resource issue. The depots themselves are secure.”

They were secured, as Ritchie well knew, by a cluster of W62 and/or W78 thermonuclear warheads surrounding the perimeter of each facility. These warheads, with a yield of 170 to 300-plus kilotons, were in turn surrounded by another perimeter of antipersonnel weapons and watched by satellite and hardwire video surveillance. The warheads were arranged in a way that ensured maximum destructive yield over a facility such as the Deseret Chemical Depot in Utah or the Johnston Atoll Strategic Weapons Reserve in the Pacific Ocean. Part of Ritchie’s job was to secure all such weapons of mass destruction by any means possible. Since his 1,000-strong Strategic Command Security Force was not nearly enough to even begin to garrison all the sites, it was logical to simply booby-trap them, especially given the fickle nature of loyalty these days within certain elements of the U.S. Army. Blackstone’s siren song reached all the way out into Ritchie’s command, though he was confident that most naval personnel remained immune to the charms of terrorizing migrants in Texas.

If Mad Jack ever got his hands on a nuclear weapon, however …

“I know ground operations aren’t your thing, Admiral,” said Kipper, “but do you have any thoughts on the current problem? In New York, I mean.”

Drawn away from contemplation of his daily nightmare, Ritchie shook his head.

“I am afraid there will be no easy solution, Mister President. There never is. I will offer this for consideration: How long will the bulk of New York City last without human intervention? We have found significant natural deterioration of the places we’ve already resettled. Am I correct?”

The president nodded.

“Even if we were to secure the New York City area, and even I agree that it has to be secured somehow, just how long will it be before we need all of the possible living space?” Ritchie asked.

Culver leaned forward. “If current immigration trends continue and our birthrate remains nominal, perhaps a hundred years from now.”

Ritchie nodded. “By that point, Mister President, we would need to demolish what is there and build something new. Well, not us, of course, but you know what I mean. Nature will have destroyed the city for us even if we are able to drive the pirates out.”

“What do you suggest, Admiral?”

Ritchie backed away from suggesting anything. The idea of mushroom clouds consuming a dead city full of memories and pirates was just too much.

“I have no easy solution, Mister President. That is the best I can tell you.”

Kipper did not look happy, and part of Ritchie urged him to leave it at that, but he couldn’t. “Do you mind if I speak freely, sir?”

The president seemed surprised he’d asked, but then, he was neither a military man nor a career politician.

“No. Go on,” he said.

“Mister President, I understand it is a terrible thing sending men and women into combat. If you are a halfway decent human being, it should weigh on you like no other decision you will ever make in your life. But sir, just because it is emotionally difficult and morally challenging, it is not necessarily wrong. Those men and women were not press-ganged into service. It was not just a choice for them. It was and remains a calling. And sir, no nation on earth can hope to survive long without people who will answer that call. No nation can hope to survive if it does not respect what they have offered and do the hard things that history sometimes asks of us. Sometimes, Mister President, there is no answer but blood.”

James Kipper stared out at him from the screen, his hands held together as if praying, pressed against his lips. He seemed to be weighing what Ritchie had said. After a moment he replied.

“Thank you, Admiral. I’ll think on that some more.”

New York

“CLAYMORE!” Milosz shouted. He squeezed the clacker three times. The intersection before him lit up with a flash and a roar of three claymore antipersonnel mines set up to optimize the body count. When the dust, the smoke, and the ringing in his ears cleared, he could see an intersection full of shredded offal and bone where screaming asswits had been.

“This is like the shooting of monkeys in a barrel, yes?” Milosz shouted as he exchanged an empty magazine for a full one. “Except we are these fucking monkeys. No racial offenses to be intended, Wilson.”

Tracer fire punched into the polished stone column behind him, chewing out chunks of powder and sharp, stinging fragments of marble. An armored truck sporting the logo of the Wells Fargo Company lurched into the intersection with a 12.7-mm DShK mounted on top. A rail-thin Somali worked the machine gun around the intersection, spraying the walls with heavy fire. Sergeant Veal laid down return fire with his M240, firing off short bursts of 7.62s while his partner worked her radio. Veal’s rounds shattered the armored glass of the truck.

“None taken! I’m more offended that you didn’t bring the fifty-cal, Fred!” Wilson roared as he lifted his carbine over the windowsill of the bank at the corner of East 29th Street and Madison to squeeze off a few as Somalis and Yemenis started to pour in around the Wells Fargo truck. Return tracer fire zipped through the air in torrents like deadly horizontal rain, but inaccurately, as if blown everywhere by a squalling wind. Milosz kept his head tucked in so tightly that his neck started to cramp, but straying even an inch too high could mean losing the top of his skull. This was the problem with operating behind enemy lines, he thought:
Always it sounds like such a very glamorous sort of adventure until the fucking enemy turns around and realizes you are there.

“Throwing white,” he yelled over the infernal din before pulling the pin on a smoke grenade and tossing it through the shattered windows and into the street outside, aiming for the center of the intersection.

“White smoke at your three o’clock, over,” Tech Sergeant Gardener yelled into her radio headset. There was a brief pause before she yelled again. “Target in platoon strength, one hundred yards south of smoke. Enemy in the open, moving toward us. Over.”

Milosz picked up his M4 carbine again and risked a peek over the solid gray stonework behind which they were sheltering. He got a quick picture of two dozen or more men running and darting from doorways to smashed cars, moving from one scrap of cover to the next, firing and yelling as they came. In among them he spotted a lone man who seemed to be directing traffic, his head swathed in what looked like a red scarf. A single round sizzled past Milosz’s ear and clanged off something metallic behind him. He heard the speeding projectile as a distinctly separate entity inside the storm of battle, a single shot out of the bullet swarm that raged around them. He leveled the muzzle of his M203 on them and fired a forty-millimeter high-explosive grenade into a car across the street where many of the nig nogs were taking cover. A crunching explosion blew chunks of shrapnel and fresh man meat into the street. A quick check. The scarf was nowhere to be seen.