And, with that, the candle flame blew out.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED
We put down at JBLM near Lakewood. Two vehicles waited for us. One was a Bell ARH-70 Arapaho helicopter that belonged to the local DMS field office, and the other was a gorgeous Mercedes Sprinter luxury RV that belonged to Brick Anderson. Known as the Junkyard. The RV was a rolling arsenal that was kitted out to provide tactical support for any kind of field mission up to and including fighting Godzilla. From the outside, it looked like a playtoy for very rich campers, but inside the armored shell there were banks of advanced computer and communications equipment, bins of combat gear, and rack upon rack of handguns and long guns, ranging from combat shotguns to the latest automatic rifles. Boxes of grenades — fragmentation, flash bangs, smoke — and a bin filled with uniforms and Kevlar. And metal cases of the specialized electronic equipment for which Dr. Hu had been so famous. Cole whistled when she saw it.
“Are we invading North Korea?” she asked.
“If you’re going to kick serious ass,” said Top as he patted the Junkyard’s fender, “wear the right boot.”
The driver’s door opened and, instead of seeing a DMS field operator, I saw the curvy figure of Lydia Rose step out, her long black hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wore black combat fatigues and had a sidearm tucked into a bright-pink shoulder holster. She flashed us a brilliant white smile.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” I demanded.
“Driving,” she said, her smile turning into a challenging scowl. “We’re shorthanded and everyone’s in the field. Why, do you have a problem with that?”
Her glare could have started a forest fire.
“No, I do not,” I said quickly. You pick the fights you think you can win.
I ignored Bunny’s chuckle.
“Okay,” I said, turning back to the team, “here’s the game plan. We have people targeting every home or office owned by Zephyr Bain. Based on utilities usage, the best bet’s Seattle. Top, you take Bunny and Cole and check that out. Rudy and I will take the helo to the DARPA camp to see if we can get the brain trust there to help us come up with a response plan for this singularity event, whatever the hell it is. If nanites are controlling the pathogens — and that’s all but certain at this point — we need our best science nerds to find a way to take control of those nanites.”
“To what end?” asked Cole. “The infection will still be there.”
“Yeah,” Bunny agreed. “If the nanobots are keeping the diseases in check, then we can’t shut them down.”
“No,” said Rudy, “which is why we need to figure out a way to hack into them and keep them operating according to our needs until a solution is found. In the meantime, Dr. Cmar is mobilizing the emergency-medical-response network to begin mass-producing vaccines and other drugs.”
“How fast can they do that shit?” asked Top. “In the movies they seem to whip that stuff up overnight.”
“That’s the movies, I’m afraid,” replied Rudy. “In truth, our best projection for a complete program of inoculation and vaccination is probably two to five years.”
They stared at him, and Rudy gave a slow, sad nod.
“Years?” echoed Bunny in a hollow voice.
“Being optimistic,” said Rudy. “This plan was put together to be unstoppable, and unless we can take over the nanites and keep them active we’re going to witness the deaths of at least half of the people on this planet.”
Cole looked sick.
Bunny opened and closed his mouth like a boated fish.
Top looked at me. “What are our odds here, Cap’n?”
“Piss poor,” I said. “So let’s go see if we can change that.”
We ran to our rides, and then we were gone.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE
John the Revelator pulled on a silken bathrobe and walked through the house, leaving the bedroom and Zephyr behind. Campion was in the kitchen, and the man stood up as John entered, but he was nothing, so John didn’t even acknowledge him as he walked through. When he reached the computer room, he locked himself in.
“Calpurnia,” he said aloud, “get the Concierge on the line.”
“Of course, John,” said the computer graciously. “I believe he is waiting for your call.”
A few moments later, the main screen flicked on to show the crippled Frenchman in his robotic chair. There was a fine sheen of sweat on the man’s scarred face.
“How is mademoiselle?” asked the Concierge.
“Indisposed,” said John, and he cut a look at the wall sensors as if daring Calpurnia to make a comment. But the computer offered no observation. “Give me a status report.”
“Everything is ready to go,” said the Concierge.
“Everything? The bombs, the dogs, the nanites? All of it?”
“Yes, sir. Even with having to rush things with the revised countdown, we are as ready as is possible. However—”
“However what?” asked John irritably.
“Well, as we are now on the very edge of the cliff, it would be a great comfort to me and to many of the chosen to know how the recovery process will work. Mademoiselle Bain and you have made extraordinary promises, and you’ve both been more than generous with gifts and support, but once the word is given there will be that transition period. What guarantees do we have that the recovery will work?”
“You’re asking this now?”
“I have asked before, sir. Many times. Assurances are all well and good, but I think it would be a greater comfort to have specific details now that we are literally a word away from launching Havoc.”
John stared at him for a long moment. “Are you saying that you don’t trust us?”
“Oh, no, sir,” said the Concierge quickly. “This is simply a matter of needing reassurance at such a crucial time. Many of our colleagues and senior staff have been asking me.”
“And what have you been telling them?”
“That Mademoiselle Bain would be sending information and clarification before we launch. That’s worked quite well, but today there is necessarily more tension, more fear. I would hate to see that turn into real doubt or even, pardon me for saying it, resistance or noncompliance.”
“And if we tell them to trust us and proceed anyway?”
The Frenchman gave one of his small, expressive shrugs. “Who can say?”
“Try.”
The Concierge licked his lips. “Sir… let me phrase this as delicately as possible. I think it would be disastrous to launch with so much unnecessary fear and uncertainty in the mix. To give reassurances would be to firm up those areas of mistrust.”
“So it’s mistrust now?” snapped John.
“For some,” said the Concierge quickly. “Not all, but some. We all want to hear from the lady.”
“Zephyr is too sick for a conference call,” said John. “She’s too weak to pat each of you on the back and change your diapers.”
The Concierge stiffened.
“And we’re out of time,” said John. “Details about the recovery and about resources and protections over the next days and weeks will be sent to everyone’s private servers. They already have enough currency in numbered accounts or, as in your case, bullion, to make sure they get through. Everyone was given detailed instructions about personal security, escape routes, bolt holes, bunkers, and other things. Any other assurances are bullshit. They are cowardice, and now is not the time. Now is the time to move forward.”