Matthew Reilly: Scarecrow Returns

“SIR,

DRAGON ISLAND TAKEN BY AN UNKNOWN FORCE.

SATELLITE ANALYSIS HAS REVEALED THAT ATMOSPHERIC GAS DISPERSION FROM DRAGON HAS BEEN ACTIVATED FOR SOME TIME, PERHAPS AS LONG AS 41 DAYS.

REMOTE ANALYSIS HAS CONFIRMED THAT SIX URANIUM SPHERES AT DRAGON ARE BEING PRIMED FOR IMMINENT USE. PRIMING TAKES APPROXIMATELY TWELVE HOURS AND IT APPEARS THAT PRIMING BEGAN SEVEN HOURS AGO.

WE HAVE FIVE HOURS TO STOP THIS UNKNOWN FORCE INITIATING THE ATMOSPHERIC WEAPON.”

Gordon put down the transcript.

Silence gripped the room.

The President looked at a wall clock. It was now 5 P.M., or 6 A.M. at Dragon. “Are you telling me that in five hours an unknown force is going to set off some kind of superweapon that will ignite the atmosphere of the northern hemisphere?”

“That’s correct, sir,” Gordon said. “We have five hours to save the world.”

The President stood up. “Get the Russian President on the phone right now—”

The door to the Situation Room was flung open.

A young Air Force major charged in. “Mr. President! The Russians just launched an ICBM from Omsk in Siberia! It’s bearing down on a target in the Arctic Ocean, a remote island base. They’re firing a nuclear missile at one of their own islands!”

THE KREMLIN

MOSCOW, RUSSIA

AT THAT exact moment, in a similar underground room in Moscow, the Russian President and his own Crisis Response Team were watching a live feed from a missile-tracking satellite.

A blinking dot indicated the nuclear-tipped intercontinental ballistic missile heading directly for Dragon Island.

“Impact in four minutes,” a console operator said.

The blip pulsed closer to Dragon.

The room was deathly silent.

Every eye was on the display.

“Three minutes to— wait! Missile is changing course. What the hell—?”

“What’s going on?” the Russian President demanded.

“The missile. It’s . . . it’s turning around. It’s coming back toward its launch silo . . .”

In the White House Situation Room, the President and his Crisis Response Team watched on a similar screen as the Russian missile retraced its flight path.

“It’s going back toward its launch site?” the President asked. “How?”

“They’ve hacked the missile’s guidance system . . .” Alicia Gordon said ominously.

“Who has?”

“Whoever’s at Dragon Island.”

“Is that even possible?”

“We can do it,” Gordon said simply. “And it looks like whoever’s taken Dragon can do it, too.”

The Russian President watched in horror as the blip on the screen sped back toward its original launch location.

The console operator beside him spoke urgently into his headset: “Omsk Missile Control, listen to me! It’s coming back at you! —No, we can see it! Issue self-destruct order—What do you mean, the missile is not responding—?”

A moment later, the blip hit the launch site in Omsk, Siberia, and Omsk went off the air.

The horrified silence that followed was broken by a second console operator.

He turned to the Russian President.

“Sir. I have an incoming signal from Dragon Island.”

“Put it on-screen,” the Russian President said.

A viewscreen came to life. On it, facing the camera, was a man wearing gaudy Elvis sunglasses and a snow-camouflaged Arctic parka.

The parka’s hood covered his head. Combined with the glasses, this meant that the only part of his face that was visible was from the nose to the chin, but even that small area was distinctive: a foul strip of horribly blistered, acid-scarred skin ran from his left ear down the length of his jawline. He looked more like a demented rock star than a terrorist.

“Mr. President, good morning,” the man said calmly in perfect Russian. “I could tell you my name, but why bother? Call me the Lord of Anarchy, the General of the Army of Thieves, the Emperor of Annihilation, the Duke of Destruction, call me whatever you want. My glorious, furious army—my Army of Thieves—an alliance of the enraged, the starving, the disenfranchised and the poor, is rising. It is the dog starved at his master’s gate that will starve no more. Now it is time for you, the masters, to be held to account. I am the instrument of that reckoning.

“My army of reprobates holds your nasty little island and we intend to use its terrible weapon. As you are clearly aware, I can detect and counteract any missile strike you send against me. Your missiles’ guidance systems are crude and easily corrupted. Be assured that the next nuclear missile you fire at me will be redirected not at its launch silo but at the nearest major city. The same goes for any other nation that dares to fire a nuke at me. And don’t even think about sending in a bomber or counter-terrorist force. I can see and will shoot down any aircraft that comes within five hundred miles of Dragon Island.

“Mr. President, you and I both know the weapon I have at my disposal. Instead of wasting time firing missiles at me, call a priest and make peace with your god. It would be a better use of the precious few hours you have left. Let anarchy reign.”

The screen went black.

THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM

THE PRESIDENT slammed down the phone. He’d just spoken with the Russian President.

“An air approach is out of the question,” he said, “and the Russians don’t have any units close enough to get to Dragon by sea within five hours. What about us? Do we have any assets in that area? Anyone who’s close enough to get there—undetected, by sea or over the ice, within five hours—and stop that weapon from going off?”

“I’m sorry, sir. The Air Force has no such assets in that region,” Air Force said.

“Neither does the Army, sir,” Army said, shaking his head.

“We do, sir,” Navy said. “Got a SEAL team in a sub about seventy nautical miles north-east of that island. Ira Barker and his boys. Doing Arctic training. They’re tough, close and all geared up. They can get there in maybe three hours.”

“Call them,” the President ordered. “Call them now and send them in. Tell them to sabotage, disable or destroy anything or anyone that will stop that device from going off. And while they’re on their way to Dragon, dispatch a larger force that can get there later, just in case these SEALs do somehow succeed in delaying this.”

While all this was happening, the Marine Corps representative had moved off to a corner of the room where he spoke into a secure phone. He hung up and turned to the President. “Sir. There’s also . . . well . . .”

“What! What? ”

“I’ve got a small equipment-testing team up there, camped on the sea ice about a hundred miles north of that island. Been there for the last seven weeks. A few Marines, a DARPA guy and some civilian contractors testing new gear in extreme weather conditions. It’s not exactly an assault unit but it’s somebody and they’re up there.”

“Who’s in command?” the President asked.

The Marine general said, “A captain named Schofield, sir. Call sign ‘Scarecrow.’ ”

“Scarecrow?” the President said, recognizing the name. “The one I spoke to the French President about a few months back? The United States citizen that the French military put a floating bounty on?”

“That’s him, sir. That French business is the main reason he’s up in the Arctic now. They sent hit teams to kill him twice when he was stationed at Parris Island. Both times, he survived. We wanted to get him out of harm’s way so we sent him north with that test team.”

There were other reasons, too, the Marine general knew, but he didn’t feel they needed to be mentioned right now.