Mark Alpert - Extinction

Once the SUV rolled through the cavern’s mouth, two PLA soldiers escorted the Modules down a stairway that descended twenty meters underground. Luckily, the shelter was equipped with radio repeaters that allowed Supreme Harmony to communicate with the Modules. The complex was spacious and new and included a private office for each of the committee members. The largest office belonged to the general secretary, and that was where the soldiers led Modules 73 and 152. One of the general secretary’s bodyguards, a large man in a gray suit, met them at the door to the office. He ushered the Modules inside and dismissed the soldiers, who returned to their posts at the shelter’s entrance.

The general secretary sat behind his desk, flanked by two more bodyguards. China’s paramount leader looked distraught. His suit was rumpled, his thick hair was uncombed, and his face was frozen in a pained grimace. As the Modules stepped toward his desk, the general secretary focused on the one he believed was the vice president. He stared in particular at the bandages on Module 152’s head, which closely resembled those on Module 73.

“You’re injured,” the general secretary noted. “What happened?”

Supreme Harmony ordered Module 152 to lean his overweight body slightly forward, reproducing the vice president’s cocky posture. “Our car had just left the Command Center when the bombs hit. The driver lost control and crashed, but luckily we weren’t hurt too badly.”

“Did anyone else survive the attack?”

“No, the bunker was totally destroyed. We underestimated the capabilities of the American missiles. Their new penetrator, the GBU-57, was able to breach the Command Center’s walls.”

The general secretary frowned. “I’m afraid we underestimated many things about the Americans. Our ignorance has put us in a difficult position.”

Module 152 moved a step closer to his desk. The vice president, Supreme Harmony recalled, had often behaved aggressively. “We’re not beaten. We can strike back. We can move the long-range Dongfeng missiles out of their shelters and launch them within minutes. Plus, our Jin submarines carry another twenty-four missiles.”

The general secretary didn’t respond right away. One of his bodyguards coughed, but otherwise the room was silent. Judging from the bulges under the bodyguards’ jackets, Supreme Harmony guessed that each carried a semiautomatic pistol in a shoulder holster. But the men stood at ease behind the desk, obviously not anticipating that their services would be needed.

Finally, the general secretary shook his head. “I don’t see the usefulness of a nuclear strike. Yes, it would destroy America’s largest cities, but it wouldn’t disable their strategic forces. They would retaliate with a massive nuclear counterattack. Hundreds of warheads would rain down on China and more than a billion people would die. And as the radioactive fallout spreads around the globe, all of humanity would have to live in shelters like this one, perhaps for years. Do you really want to live in that kind of world?”

Module 152 took another step forward and balled one of his fleshy hands into a fist. “The Chinese people would survive! Even if we lose a billion, we’d still have hundreds of millions. We can retreat to the mountains, just like Chairman Mao did, and rebuild our army. Nothing can defeat us if our will remains strong!”

“I appreciate your courage, comrade, but the best way to rebuild China is to end this war. I plan to contact the Americans and ask them about the terms for a ceasefire.”

“You’re going to surrender? After less than twenty-four hours of battle?”

Scowling, the general secretary rose to his feet. “I don’t enjoy doing this. But sometimes we have to bow to our enemies so we can live to fight another day.”

“This is unbelievable! It’s… a disgrace! I can’t… I can’t—”

Module 152 suddenly clutched his chest with both hands. He let out a groan of pain and doubled over, jackknifing his body. Two of the general secretary’s bodyguards rushed toward him, while the third looked on. Module 73 observed their positions, and Supreme Harmony calculated the optimal firing angles.

When the bodyguards came within a couple of meters of Module 152, he grasped the two small NP-34 pistols he’d hidden in the inside pockets of his jacket. In one fluid motion, he stood up straight, extended his arms, and shot each bodyguard in the head. At the same moment, Module 73 fired his own pistol at the third bodyguard. Then the Module stepped toward the general secretary. The paramount leader blanched as he stared at the gun.

If the circumstances had been less urgent, Supreme Harmony would’ve incorporated the man, who appeared to be quite intelligent. But the process of incorporation took approximately twelve hours, and the network couldn’t wait for the new Module to become operational. It needed to immediately take command of China’s nuclear forces.

Module 152 put the two small pistols back in his pockets. Then he bent over one of the dead bodyguards, removed the man’s gun from its holster and pointed it at the general secretary’s forehead.

“We apologize,” the Module said. “You were a credit to your species.”

It was 3:00 A.M., the deadest hour of the night, when the Black Hawks arrived at the Kachin camp in northern Burma. The thumping of their rotor blades awakened Kirsten, who’d spent the past few hours getting some much-needed rest in one of the canvas tents. She quickly put on her glasses and rushed out of the tent, heading for the landing zone at the other end of the clearing.

She got to the LZ just as the two helicopters touched down. Agent Morrison was already there, along with the Kachin commanders. About twenty U.S. Army Special Operations soldiers jumped out of the Black Hawks and ran across the clearing with their carbines. They were huge, muscular men wearing night-vision goggles. One of them approached Morrison and shook hands with the young agent. “I’m Sergeant Briscoe,” the soldier said. “I hope to hell you got some fuel here. We almost ran out of gas coming over the mountains.”

Morrison nodded. “Don’t worry, we have nine hundred gallons. How did you get here so fast?”

“The Indian Air Force gave us a hand. We took a C-5 from Afghanistan to Chabua, the Indian base in Assam State. Then we unloaded the Black Hawks and took off from there.”

Sergeant Briscoe abruptly turned away from the agent and looked straight at Kirsten. His forehead and cheeks were smeared with camouflage paint. “You’re Chan, right? From NSA?”

She stepped toward him, biting her lip. Kirsten had forwarded all her information to Fort Meade seven hours ago, and the NSA’s analysts had been studying it ever since. Although she thought the evidence was pretty damn compelling, she knew the Pentagon and the White House would have a hard time believing it. Washington was in combat mode now. Once the shooting started, it was very difficult to stop and think. But now she felt a glimmer of hope. “Did Special Ops brief you on the intelligence I collected? About Supreme Harmony?”

Briscoe shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am, I’m just a grunt. They don’t tell me shit. But one of our passengers said you’d be here. He said he was a friend of yours.”

“A passenger?”

“Yeah, the agency sent him. He’s running this show.” Briscoe pointed at a man emerging from one of the Black Hawks. “Here he comes now.”

The man was thirty feet away, and in the darkness only his silhouette was visible. But when Kirsten switched her glasses to infrared she saw the Z-shaped scar on his cheek. It was Hammer.

Ten minutes later, while the Special Ops troops refueled their helicopters, Kirsten sat in one of the tents with Hammer, drinking green tea from a dented tin cup. The CIA agent was no longer dressed in his Afghan shalwar kameez. Now he wore a black T-shirt and camouflage pants and a belt holster with an M-9 pistol tucked inside. His face was lined with fatigue, but he smiled as he sipped his tea. “Don’t get me wrong, Chan,” he said. “I’m not happy about what happened to the Seventh Fleet. But I’m sure as hell glad to get out of Afghanistan.”