“Fuck the wall,” Top growled, then turned to Lydia Rose. “Crazy Panda, you know how to work all the toys?”
“You know how to jerk off with either hand?” she fired back.
“Take that as a yes. Okay, I want a hole that we can drive through.”
“You want just the hole or you want me to actually drive through it?”
“What do you think, woman?”
Lydia Rose laughed out loud, and Cole gave her a look as if wondering if the “crazy” part of her call sign was more than a nickname.
The Junkyard’s engine roared and the big machine swung around in the turnaround at the end of a cul-de-sac, and then Lydia Rose floored it as she rounded the curve. The big estate loomed before them with its stout walls and armed guards.
“Fire in the hole!” she yelled, and punched buttons on the steering column. Cole heard a whoosh from either side of the big vehicle and then saw smoke trails converging on the wall. Suddenly the day was ruptured by an enormous fireball that picked up huge chunks of stone and wrought iron and flung them three hundred feet into the air. Cole saw two security guards flying, too, their bodies twisted and wreathed with flame. And then the Junkyard punched through the pall of smoke.
There was an almost immediate chatter of gunfire as other guards shook off their shock and opened up on the Junkyard. The bullets chipped at the paint but flattened against the thick body armor.
Lydia Rose steered with her left hand and took the joystick with her right, thumbing off the safety cover to expose a trigger. A split second later, the roar of two twenty-four-millimeter Bushmaster chain guns filled the air and the guards went dancing and twitching away in clouds of crimson mist.
Cole said, “Holy shit.”
“Welcome to the war,” said Top as he slapped a magazine into his rifle.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN
It was nearly impossible to keep order in the room. Too many people were shocked and scared. They had families, here in America and elsewhere. Many of them had come from lower-income areas, even from poverty-stricken areas, because genius, like integrity, artistic ability, and other great qualities, does not belong to a social class, an economic group, or a nation. They’re people who have the potential to rise, to become their best selves, to listen closely to what their better angels have to say.
Ram Acharya came over and pulled me aside, hammering me with questions.
“Why the hell didn’t you call me at once?” he growled. “I mean, before you went to Baltimore? When you got back from Prague? Why didn’t you call me about the girl who died?”
“Because,” I said, leaning close to be heard above the noise, “DARPA has kept you guys in a cone of silence. They weren’t letting any messages get to you.”
He looked puzzled. “I… I don’t understand. Why not? We’re just out here testing prototypes. There’s nothing special about—”
And suddenly Aunt Sallie’s voice was in my ear. I covered my other ear so that I could hear what she said. After a few seconds, though, I knew that it was nothing I wanted to hear.
It was everywhere. The world was blowing itself apart. Pigeon drones packed with high explosives were detonating all over. Tens of thousands of them, damaging buildings and equipment, but not specifically targeting people. I could understand the logic. It was setting the stage for the release of the pathogens. They didn’t want emergency services to get in front of any outbreak. It was a whole new level of clever cruelty. Logical but with such a blackness where compassion should be. Fires were already raging.
Another wave of drones were dive-bombing military bases around the world. Small drones, the kind that anti-aircraft defenses have a hard time stopping. It was like trying to swat flies with a baseball bat. The drones struck control towers on airfields or blew holes in runways. Robot dogs carrying heavier bombs ran down the steps of subways or galloped into commuter tunnels and exploded. Bridges, tunnels, major highways, airports — all struck within minutes of one another. The vastness of the attack and the precision of its release was astonishing. It spoke to the years of planning that had gone into this; it spoke to the calculating minds that had paid so much attention to detail.
But there were no reports of infections, Auntie said. Not yet.
That should have been a comfort, but somehow it wasn’t.
Church’s plane was about to land at the joint-use base, and then he was going directly to Zephyr Bain’s house. Top and his team were about to hit that location.
There was also a new report of a wave of insects sweeping out of the sewers and drains around the White House and the Capitol. Tens of thousands of roaches that were bright green or orange or red instead of black or brown. The Secret Service had no response for it, and it took too long for them to understand what they were seeing. The true realization came when the swarm swept across the Rose Garden toward the Oval Office. And exploded. The roaches reached the Senate floor before they detonated. In a matter of seconds, the entire operating structure of the United States government was torn apart. By robots, by drones.
Bang.
Done.
I stood there, my heart turned to ice in my chest, as Auntie hit me over and over and over with the news.
“Is the president still alive?” I asked.
Acharya, who wasn’t wearing an earbud, stiffened, his eyes snapping wide.
“Unknown at this time,” said Auntie.
“What do you need from me?”
“Answers, Ledger. So far, the pathogens haven’t been triggered. We don’t know why, or if there’s a technical glitch at their end or it’s the other shoe waiting to drop. In any case, the people most qualified to come up with an answer are in that camp with you. Get your ass in gear. Tell them what’s going on. Work this, damn it. We need a response before the world falls off its hinges. We’re having our own problems here, so you’re on your own. Do this.”
“On it,” I said, and turned to Acharya. “Doc, the shit’s hitting the fan and—”
And Dr. Acharya launched himself at me, eyes wild, teeth snapping.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE
“It stopped,” said Aunt Sallie. She still held the mic she had been using to call Ledger, but her eyes were locked on the screen. The message about love had repeated thousands of times and then vanished. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” protested Bug. “It just stopped.”
“Well, damn it, do something.”
“I am,” said Bug under his breath as his fingers flew over the keys. Behind and around him, the massive monstrosity that was the MindReader quantum computer system thrummed with energy.
To Bug, it was as if the dragon had finally fully awakened.
Suddenly all the screens went dark and the technicians in the Tactical Operations Center froze, eyes staring, fingers poised above inert keyboards. Then a light pulsed in the center of each screen. There and gone.
Again.
There and gone.
Silence owned the room for the space of a single heartbeat.
And then words began filling the screen:
Save my soul!
Save my soul!
Save my soul!
Save my soul!
Save my soul!
Save my soul!