Project Apex (21 page)

"Some. A lot of our men are deployed as per your instructions to help overseas."

"What about reserves?"

"Already called in sir."

"Good," the President said, glancing at the TV screens which were showing news footage from all over the world. "Get them out assisting local law enforcement. I want this contained."

"Sir, we don’t have enough reserves to stretch to every area with rioting."

"Then prioritise damn it!" Fitzgerald said, glaring at the Secretary of Defence. "It's your job to make sure the country is safe, so send them to the heaviest hit areas until we can get some assistance. The French and British are sending whatever troops they can spare, but as you know they're having their own issues. The Russians refuse to release anyone and insist on dealing with their situation alone, so it doesn’t leave us many options."

"It's not too late to go with the air strikes sir," Carter said, staring over his glasses at the president.

"Come on Paul, let’s not have this shit again. I already told you, as long as we can control this from the ground, I’m not prepared to send the jets in and cause even more panic."

"Forgive me sir, but I think the situation dictates a more direct response. You've already lost the public. Things are only going to get worse."

Fitzgerald didn’t answer at first. He took a moment to control his temper and remind himself he was in a position where he had to retain control. Despite the fury which raged inside, he spoke calmly when he addressed the vice president. "Look, Paul, we discussed this earlier. Frankly, I’m getting tired of you trying to push your idea of what we should do on to me."

"I'm sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it, I’m just trying to stop you from making a mistake."

"It's my mistake to make! I told you this earlier. If you can’t do your job then you better get the hell out of here. In case you haven’t noticed, we have a situation on our hands here that we don’t need to add to by sending in airstrikes and having the people think its world war three."

Carter squirmed, his cheeks flushing.

"Go ahead and spit it out, Paul. It’s obvious you have something to say."

"Sir, I’m sorry, but I have to stress how this is the wrong decision. We need to contain this situation now, not give them more time to spread and grow. Every moment wasted will just make it harder to recover. In my opinion, you need to control this situation or you risk losing the confidence of the public. God knows, they must be wondering what the hell's going on."

"Finished?"

"Yes, sir."

Fitzgerald sat for a moment, letting Carters words sink in. This was the reality of his job. When the big decisions needed to be made, his cabinet and advisors were first to step back from the process so they wouldn’t be to blame if the wrong call was made. On the one hand, he was determined to stick to his guns and deal with the situation with as little conflict as possible. On the other, Carter had a point, and the more time they wasted the more the situation was likely to get further out of control. Decision made, he cleared his throat.

"Okay, First things first. Ron, how are we coping down on street level? By that I mean, are we winning?"

"We're containing them. I’m liaising with military leaders from the affected countries and am sharing information. As determined as they are, for the time being they're just too small a force to battle the combined might of the international forces, even as stretched as they are."

"Okay, in that case, I want to proceed as planned. That means solely on the ground. No airstrikes," he looked at Carter as he said it, making sure the vice president understood the command. "I know it's not what you wanted to hear Paul, and I’m sorry about that. But I’m commander in chief, and it's my job to keep the country safe. Causing widespread panic here and internationally won’t help anyone, nor will sending in airstrikes that will wipe out countless civilians as well as the targets. You do raise a good point, though, and it's something I should have already addressed with the public by now. Call a press conference. It's time I addressed the nation."

"For the record, I think this is a huge mistake," Carter said, plainly seething at Fitzgerald’s decision.

"Be that as it may. If you're right, then maybe you will get to sit in my chair and call the shots sooner than you thought. If you're wrong, then maybe, just maybe you'll learn something valuable. Either way, this is how it's going to go down. If you don’t like it, now would be the time to say so."

Fitzgerald waited, holding Carters gaze. The vice president looked like he wanted to leave to the point where it seemed to be taking an extraordinary effort to stay in his seat. Colour flushed into his cheeks and his hands were clenched into fists. Eventually, he exhaled and broke the Presidents gaze. "No sir, I have nothing to say."

"Glad to hear it. Now let’s get back to the business in hand. It's time I told the country what we're dealing with here."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY

WASHINGTON DC

MARCUS WATCHED THE FOOTAGE of the Mumbai attacks on the news, their unfiltered images showing in detail the death and the bodies. He knew his wife was there somewhere amid the chaos. He hoped she was alive but feared that she, like the rest, was another victim. The guilt at not trying harder to make her stay raged in him, throbbing like a rotten tooth. He tried to imagine things he should have said that might, just might have made a difference. He stared at the images of the attack on screen, drumming his fingertips on the table top and feeling the glare of his colleagues and advisors, who would never say the thing they all feared.

“Excuse me for a second,” Marcus said, snatching up his phone and leaving the room. He was more than aware that he stood in the exact same corridor less than two days earlier and tried to convince Suvari to stay at home. He took his phone and cycled to the number in his phonebook, not sure if he had the guts to make the call until he had already pushed the button and the line was being connected. He waited, grimacing as the agitated Secretary of Defence picked up.

“Mr. Secretary? Marcus Atkinson at homeland.”

“If you’re calling to tell me you have more bad news, then I have to tell you we have more than enough to handle.”

“No, sir it’s not that. It’s… My wife was in Mumbai. Dhavari, to be exact, where an attack has just taken place.”

“I see,” Rose said, not giving anything away.

“I wondered if I could take temporary leave to go out there and find her.”

“I hate to say this Atkinson, but how do you know she’s even alive? Hell, you more than anyone know what we’re dealing with here.”

Son of a bitch. Marcus didn’t say it, but he was tempted. Instead, he cleared his throat and reminded himself that he needed to play nice. “Sir, I have to hope she’s alright. What other option do I have?”

“I understand that Atkinson, but we’re in the middle of a major crisis here. We need you to stay where you are.”

“Sir, I have to know. She’s my wife. I’m not going to be either efficient or productive until I know if she’s safe.”

“I thought they said you were an emotionless sort, Atkinson. Isn’t that why you kept your job after that mess at the school?”

“That’s hardly relevant to this situation, sir,” Marcus replied, giving his superior the same kind of short tone as he had received.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you leave. Not until this is over. You have responsibilities. Frankly, I find it unprofessional of you to even ask.”

Marcus hesitated, mouth slightly agape as the words sank in.

“Are you still there, Atkinson?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now get back to your desk and keep us filled in about this ongoing situation.”

“Yes, sir,” He said again, robotic and without emotion. The line went dead in his ear, and he shoved the phone into his pocket. He looked into the briefing room, then the opposite way to the corridor which would take him to the exit. He chose the latter, doing as he always did and trusting his instincts. He knew there was a UN aid team heading out to Mumbai to assist in the relief efforts, and he was determined that one way or another, he would be on board when it left. He walked briskly down the corridor, hoping against hope that his wife was still alive.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SILOHOME

ADIRONDACK STATE PARK

SANTIC RIVER VALLEY

NEW YORK STATE

JOSHUA SAT IN THE dark, cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed. He was in the bottommost chamber of the silo, the area designated as his own personal quarters. Furniture was minimal. A mattress and sheets, a toilet. Nothing else.

There was something special about knowing he was deep underground, far away from the prying eyes of the world. Soon enough, such luxuries would be a thing of the past, and everyone would know his face. He remembered as a child seeing TV footage of rock stars being mauled by the public as they landed in airports, or crowds of people in Rome desperate to see the pope as he was driven past in his bulletproof glass-roofed vehicle.  Before long, it would be him they would flock to. Him they would clamour to see, to touch. The idea made him nervous, and despite his supreme confidence all would go as planned, there were a certain number of variables which could skew things in the worst way. He let out a slow exhale as he looked within himself for the strength he would need, looking for the confidence from his newly changed body to make the next vital step. He was very aware that this next stage was the most vital point of the whole operation. Everything up to that moment could be reversed, abandoned if he chose to. They could break off the attacks, perhaps drift away and go into hiding and live out their lives anonymously. That, however, wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't what his father would have wanted either.  Joshua had always been told he would go on to do great things, and yet he never truly believed it. He was sure it was just a case of a parent trying to nurture their offspring in an effort to inspire them to make an effort in life. Never did he anticipate where he would find himself, and to what lengths he would go to free the world from its curse.

Beyond the silence, like a dull rumble, he could hear them chanting his name, the rhythm repeating over and over as they waited for him to make his grand entrance.  He knew it was the point of no return. If he went ahead with the next phase of the plan, then he – and his brothers – were in it until either success or death came. He smiled in the dark. He liked the idea. There was something beautiful, almost poetic about it. He could sense them, almost as if they were extensions of himself. Not just the ones with him in the silo, but all of them all over the world. It was an incredibly overwhelming feeling.

A knock on the door roused him from his half trance. "Come," he said as he rose.

Genaro entered the room. "It's done," he said, his face one of pride.

"Show me."

Genaro approached and held out three vials of faintly luminescent liquid. "As per your instructions, I have modified the virus to give it certain specific characteristics and traits in those who are infected by it. The red vial will increase aggression considerably and reduce feelings of empathy. It will also greatly increase muscular strength. These will be the warriors."

"Why the colour change?" Joshua asked, looking at the faint yellow hue of the veins under his skin.

"Identification. At a glance, you will be able to know what type of virus the user is carrying. Almost like an insignia."

"Very good," Joshua said with a smile. "What about the green one?"

"The green is tailored towards those who you wish to work. Their compulsion and obsessive nature to finish a task is boosted, along with stamina and strength. These will build your new empire from the ashes of the old world."

"And the blue?"

"Breeders. In men their libido and ability to perform are heightened, in women, their virility increased. These will be the blueprints for the first natural births of our kind. They are our future."

"And what a bright future it is. Did you increase the effectiveness of the contagious element?"

"Yes. As requested, these new variants are much more aggressive than the standard formula. A single drop of blood, sweat, or saliva ingested by a target will begin the change, which itself is greatly accelerated. With these tools, you can build your army, Joshua."

"Thank you, Dr. Genaro,” Joshua said, placing a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “You have excelled yourself. Prepare a list of the men here in the silo of prime candidates per strain of the virus."

"As you wish."

They stood silent for a while, listening to the incessant chants.

"They have been waiting for you for three days now. Their devotion is remarkable."

"And it will be rewarded," Joshua replied. "As will you. The struggle to reach into the forefront of science which was hampered in the past by a lack of funding or political red tape will soon be a thing of the past. You will have free reign to reach into the unknown, to push the boundaries of science. "