Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

One minute later he felt the first of the bombs release, then seconds later it shot out ahead of him, followed at exactly timed intervals by the other three. Seconds later the bomb, propelled by an extra rocket assist built into it, penetrated deeply into the mountain then exploded, exactly on target. The next went in with just enough time between it and the first for most of the gases from the explosion to be expelled from the deep hole it had made. The second one burrowed deeper into the crater made by the first and the third even deeper. The final bomb penetrated the voluminous underground cavern and went off with tremendous force. In the enclosed area, the pressure had nowhere to go except out the narrow entrance the bombs had made going in, and the narrow entrance tunnel only wide enough for trucks to pass, which was closed in any case. That wasn’t nearly enough. The force of the explosion and the heated gases it created ripped facilities asunder, tore equipment apart and before it had time to dissipate, and collapsed the granite roof, burying the facility under thousands of tons of rock that destroyed whatever was left.

By this time, Dov’s wingman had followed with his own ordnance, just in case the first hadn’t been sufficient or had malfunctioned. It wasn’t really needed, but it penetrated the rubble from the roof and added more tons of rock over that which had already fallen. Also by this time, Dov was already into his turn and hurtling back down toward the earth. At the proper moment he began leveling out. He was joined a moment later by the other Raptor and they streaked back toward the Arabian Sea where another tanker would be waiting. He didn’t try to notify the Israeli high command of the successful mission. Satellite imagery would show them and he didn’t want to take chances now. With the Pakistanis alerted, the return trip was the most dangerous part of the mission, but it had been part of a time on target precision attack. Even as the nuclear complex was rendered useless, other wings of the Israeli Air Force were attacking airfields all over the Middle East very similar to the way they had won the Six Day War many years ago. Dov felt an immense sense of satisfaction. His father had been a pilot in that war. He was an old man now, but still alive. He would be proud of his youngest son’s accomplishments this day.

Once Doug finished making rounds with the guards for the first two hour shifts, he returned to the little cubicle he had been assigned as an office. The other three drifted in after him, nodded and began doing the same thing as administrators do all over the world, reading reports, work schedules, abstracts and projections. Some of them Doug didn’t need to see, having already gotten the information from June.

Other items on his monitor did draw his attention, even though most of them didn’t pertain to his immediate concerns.

China was making threatening noises as more and more of her citizens fell ill, even though it was becoming apparent that many of them would recover. Taiwan was busy buying arms wherever they could find them and dispersing troops to its coasts, expecting an invasion now that the United States had too many problems at home to offer help and protection.

Almost a third of the blacks in America were showing at least some symptoms of the Harcourt virus, with the curve still rising, but hospitals were so swamped that little could be done for them other than palliative measures. The government still refused to relax restrictions on drug sales, even though the end stages of the disease was extremely painful. Doug shook his head over that one. So far as he was concerned, every restriction on the books covering heroin and morphine production should be lifted. At least easy access to those two drugs would allow the ill to die with some dignity. On the other hand, immigration authorities were so short handed that the drugs were coming into the country almost openly, so for the present it probably didn’t make much difference.

The army was burgeoning with new soldiers as every man and woman who had prior military service was subject to recall and the new draft law was calling up those of age who hadn’t. They were being given uniforms and weapons and being flung into problem areas as quickly as possible, often with little or no refresher training. Almost a third of the draftees ignored the initial summons, but he noted that a new edict of the martial law governing the country now called for penalties up to and including death for failure to report. That would take care of many reluctant soldiers, he thought. New bases were being opened and old one reactivated to take care of the influx of draftees who had to have military discipline and arms training instilled in them. The country was still holding together, though shakily.

Most of the African continent had degenerated into anarchy. Calls by the United Nations for troops to restore order had largely gone unanswered. Russia had closed its borders with China. France was in the throes of one giant party. Germany was issuing militaristic statements hinged with—

“Hey Doug, turn on the news!”

Gary Jones’ voice interrupted his perusal of the flow of new information. Doug looked up to see him standing in the doorway of his cubicle.

“What is it?” he asked, even as he clicked for a twenty four hour news channel on his larger screen.

“Israel just started a war! Goddamn, you’d think we had enough problems in the world without the Arabs and the Jews going at it again, wouldn’t you?”

“Uh huh, you’d think so,” Doug replied. “Drag up a chair if you can find room.” As the senior platoon leader, he had a big wall screen in his cubicle while the others were still waiting on theirs to be delivered.

The networks were carrying the new war as breaking news. As Doug watched and listened, he felt the presence of others come into his cubicle. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Teresa and William Jurgens had joined them. “Hi, Will, Teresa, join the crowd. Last one here gets to go back and fetch the coffee.”

Teresa grimaced, but it was a friendly gesture. “Why do women always wind up bringing the coffee?” she asked rhetorically, but was back in a couple of minutes, juggling three cups and plastic spoons with packets of creamer and sweetener.

“Black,” Doug said shortly when she asked him how he took it. He groped for the cup, trying not to take his eyes from the screen, and almost dumped it all in his lap. It was showing a map of the Middle East and beyond, with starbursts where Israel jets had purportedly bombed. There were too many of them to count immediately, but his eyes tracked toward Iran and Pakistan first, countries known to possess nuclear weapons.

“They’re attacking Pakistan, too! Why them?” Gary asked, bewildered because she thought it wasn’t an Arab country.

“They have nukes—and while they may not be Arabs, they are Muslims. Same for Iran, for that matter; they’re Persians,” Doug informed him. “The Jews are just making damn sure they don’t get an A-Bomb lobbed at them. But I don’t understand why they started a war now.”

“Maybe they’re afraid the Muslims are blaming them for the Harcourt virus. It’s killing lots of Arabs, and other Muslims besides, the dark skinned ones.”

“Could be,” Doug admitted, but he had seen nothing in the news or his briefings to support that idea.

“They’ll play hell getting us to help them this time,” Teresa remarked.

“Yeah. That’s what’s puzzling. But maybe they think this is an opportune time to get rid of the nukes in the Middle East. Other than their own, of course.”

The others laughed, but there was no humor in the sound; it was simply a typical human response, where laughter sometimes serves when nothing else will do. It was common knowledge that Israel possessed nuclear weapons and had for many years.