Stephen Hunter - Dead Zero

“What FM tone?”

“Zarzi’s got a miniaturized FM transmitter in his wristwatch. The Russians built it for him. He pushes a button, it’s good for ten seconds of broadcast, missile flying through its cone reads it, locks on, and bang. They’re launching from the Iwo Jima Memorial. It will be in the air less than seven seconds. They’re going to detonate it on Zarzi. It’ll cut down everyone on the podium and half the audience. Now, I’ve told you, please, get me out of here.”

Nick suddenly achieved clarity, and understood exactly what had to be done and in what order. First Zarzi. Stop him or at least lock him in place so the president could get away from him.

“Sniper, hit Zarzi, take him down hard. Do it now!” Nick snapped.

Now: clear the fucking area.

He went to his unit, hit broadcast, held the button down.

“Break-break, all units, all units, emergency, incoming missile, clear the area, clear the area, this is no drill. Incoming missile, evacuate!”

Cruz rolled from the car, saw he didn’t have a shot because of a screen of trees, rotated around the iron fence until the angle came clear. He brought up the rifle, his finger ticking off the safety, and with his fine offhand skill he caught the face of Zarzi quadrasected by the crosshairs, and heard, “I lase two thirty-five, make it two and a third mil-dots above the hairs, one quarter value left windage,” and felt Swagger next to him, on the laser ranger, and as the slack came out of the trigger he saw Zarzi with a hand at the watch and though he hurried, he had to hurry smoothly and even as the shot broke and the scope image leaped after leaving a nanosecond’s view of shattered face, he knew he was too late.

“And so, Mr. President and my American friends,” Zarzi said in his fine baritone, “I stand before you, my honor regained, and I bring you greetings from my country and the bosom of my faith,” as his fingers played with the button on his watch. He smiled. He was happy. God is great. He was home. The years of debauchery, the lust for women and boys, the pleasures of alcohol and drugs, the addiction to the smoothness of silk, the softness of fine wool, the glitter of beautiful jewelry, it was all behind him.

“Incoming missile!” someone screamed. “Run, run, incoming missile!” And the crowd began to scream and disintegrate as panic filled the hearts, minds, and legs of those before him while at the same time men were tugging on the president. At that moment he touched the button on his watch, felt it click, and stepped through the gates of paradise, and then the Black Hills 168-grain Match bullet cracked into his cheekbone beneath his left eye and turned his brain to atomized jelly.

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

1938.13 HOURS

As the policeman stopped and started to get out of his car, Bilal fired an AK-47 burst into his front tire, ripping it up, the percussion of the burst driving all tourists into panicked terror and the cop back into his car.

“Hurry up,” he screamed. “More will be here in seconds.”

“There is nothing,” screamed Dr. Faisal.

“Oh, Allah, I beseech thee,” implored Khalid, “send your sinning son a signal so that he may complete a-”

The blinking red light on the scanner signified success.

“It’s there,” screamed Dr. Faisal. “Yes, it’s-”

Khalid pushed the key.

Nothing happened.

“Oh my God!” shrieked Faisal.

His mind blanked, then came back and he remembered the launch sequence, repeated it, felt resistance in one of the keys, examined it, saw some piece of debris in the mechanism, scuffed it away, continued the sequence. Then he pushed the launch key again.

The missile’s engine fired and in.0005 seconds it acquired the 800 pounds of thrust necessary for flight and it fired from the van, appearing to rip the fabric of the universe, affording a glimpse into one of hell’s furnace rooms so hot no eyes could stand it, and all who saw it looked away as the rocket motor burned through its three seconds of solid fuel and in 300 yards had acquired enough velocity to arm itself, but still it accelerated, reaching 1.4 mach in another second or two.

It climbed to 800 feet and there acquired the message from Zarzi’s Casio watch, for it peaked as it skidded through the air, the vanes of its fins adjusting accordingly as its CPU solved the differential calculus necessary to guide it to its destination, then it yawed, bent around the sky, and began to hammer downward.

The two old men could follow it in the dark air from the slight trail of smoke, though no eyes were fast enough to focus on the missile itself. It seemed to ride a diagonal plumb line down to earth, without deviation, hesitation, qualm, or mercy, and it disappeared behind some trees, and then a flash lit the night sky over Washington and a second later the noise of the blast reached their ears.

“Allah Akbar,” said Khalid.

“You have returned to the faith, oh my brother,” said Dr. Faisal. “It is a night of miracles.”

WASHINGTON, DC

1938.20 HOURS

A screaming came across the sky.

Two hundred thirty yards out, at the foot of the wrought-iron fence, Swagger turned on the noise just in time to see a streamlined blur incoming at a speed which has no place in time, turned again, and threw himself on Ray, driving him to the ground. In another instant the detonation cut the sky in half with a blade of light that reached the stars and simultaneously drilled a tremor through the earth and seemed to drive a nail into each eardrum. Then the blast wave struck, momentarily crushing everything erect in its mighty rush to infinity, sucking all the air from the planet. Next, an almost eerie silence, until someone began to scream.

Swagger rose.

Next to him came Ray, rising from the ground, and then Nick.

They saw the zone of destruction from 230 yards out. The missile had hit the podium and cratered a 20-foot gap in the earth, smoking now. All the windows on the walkway from the West Wing to the main residence were shattered, as were those of the West Wing, and many of the window frames were blown askew. The building’s famed white flanks were seared with the ochre of extreme but brief heat. Trees everywhere were toppled or shattered and shrubbery was torn out by its roots. Flames licked out of one of the Oval Office windows, and another fire announced its presence in a line of bushes closer to the main residence.

Across the lawn, in the flickering light of the fires, the bodies lay, flattened, twisted, smashed to earth horribly. But then… movement. Then some more movement. One by one, then ten by ten and twenty by twenty, the frail sacks of flesh stirred and began to pick themselves up, the stronger aiding the weaker; they climbed to their feet or rolled to sit up, groggy, shaky, hair a mess, unbelieving and begrimed.

A voice crackled over the radio, “The president is unhurt, the president is unhurt,” and then others, “Break-break, get emergency medical here fast, goddamnit, I have many people down,” and the sirens began to sound.

“Good God,” said Ray.

“Jesus H. Christ,” said Nick.

“Where’s Susan?” said Bob.

They walked back to the SUV as the howl of the sirens rose and the first of the emergency services vehicles roared by.

The SUV wasn’t there.

Susan lay in the grass. She was so beautiful. Her hair was slightly mussed, which made her even more beautiful. The wise, serene diamond eyes were open, the face calm, the cheekbones taut under the alabaster skin.

Her throat had been cut.

WILSON BOULEVARD