The vice admiral calling the chief by his first name wasn’t unusual. They’d known each other for almost twenty years. They played golf together whenever the chief was in Naples. Their wives were active in the same charities and events from Wreaths Across America to the Annual Charity Ball. “Local authorities are already involved,” the chief said, continuing. “We’d simply be escalating and sharing our intel so all parties know what we’re up against. The cover story of unspecified threats is wearing thin. Hell, a bomb just went off in public.”
“Civilian and military commands know the risks. Containment remains our best chance of success. Keep this a quiet operation. Keep this on a need to know basis. Civilian authorities at the local level do not — repeat, do not—need to know the full scope or extent of the threat. You yourself said we don’t know where safe ground is. You have until sundown to square this away, then the fleet will be in range to take over and lock everything down. Understood?”
“Understood, sir,” the chief said formally before ending the call. He turned to the Kearsarge’s Operations Commander, who’d been standing a few feet away, and hung his head. Calling the vice admiral was a Hail Mary. The chief knew the chain of command and would never violate it unless asked — and he had been asked, and so he had tried. He tried because the fate of a half million people was at stake.
Chapter 4
Behind him, as he dialed Captain Parker, the chief heard the Operations Commander shout, “Operation Valletta Sundown is a go. Repeat, Operation Valletta Sundown is a go. Get the word out to our teams.”
Think, the chief told himself, his confidence shaken. Sundown was less than two hours away, but his sources said they didn’t even have that long before this all turned into an apocalyptic nightmare. Into the phone, he said, “Captain, do you have an update for me?”
“Leaving the scene now. Response teams have the situation under control and forensics will be called in. Evers and I remain on point,” Captain Parker said, clear tension in her voice. “What’s the status of hazmat and bio containment?”
“Hazmat duffels are being distributed but are to stay out of sight per Command,” the chief said. “Mobile bio containment units are being prepped for quick response in likely target zones. Some are being set up openly in the guise of Red Cross blood collection sites. In a staging area at the President’s Palace too. Get to one, if it comes to it, promise me.”
“Will do, chief,” Captain Parker said. “Are they ever going to call this thing and make our job easier?”
“Full-scale evacuation is out of the question. We still don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with and we don’t want Malta’s only airport to become the target,” the chief said. It wasn’t the truth, but the exact truth wasn’t something he was at liberty to share. He continued, “Prevention and suppression remain the primary objectives and failing that, isolation and quarantine. If what we’re facing is as bad as some of our analysts think it is, the fact that Malta is an island nation may be the only saving grace.”
When the chief heard Captain Parker take in a deep breath, he knew he’d said enough to make her reassess the situation. He couldn’t speak openly, but he could try to warn those that mattered. Searches of Blake’s residences in the U.S. and abroad hadn’t revealed much, but documents found there, along with ones hidden in his University of Chicago offices had revealed plenty about a man who often stayed in the professor’s downtown apartment.
Hints of a radicalized, transhuman agenda had emerged; hints that he wasn’t at liberty to share. He himself didn’t truly understand how an intellectual movement with a goal of fundamentally transforming the human condition using technology to enhance the human experience could be radicalized in such a way.
Talk of singularities and biblical Genesis, the convergence of Omega and the fifth epoch of mankind, all seemed maniacal. How could one save mankind from superintelligences that didn’t yet exist by creating a cataclysm that would wake the universe? How could anyone save the world by destroying it? What did Revelations have to do with anything that was happening?
While analysts and deep thinkers were working on answers, everyone in Washington was convinced that the man calling himself David Owen Blake was the real deal, with not only the know-how, but the means to cause a catastrophe of biblical proportions. The evidence to back that up was contained in a single vial found in a place no one was ever supposed to look.
The pathogen in the vial was so deadly and viral, standing orders were for a complete lockdown of Malta’s ports and shipping lanes if the virus were to be released. They were to go as far as shooting down any planes and sinking any ships that sought to leave the island.
The chief didn’t know how long the total quarantine would last once it began, but he did know that none of the half million people who lived on the island were expected to survive. It was the lives of a half a million weighed against the lives of millions, and perhaps even billions if the virus was as virulent as it seemed. As of a few minutes ago, his operatives and anyone else he deployed to the island were making a one-way trip. He didn’t like his orders, but his Hail Mary pass to bring about change had failed.
The FBI and Homeland were interviewing neighbors, colleagues and associates of the real David Owen Blake, trying to ascertain the identity of his frequent house guest, but so far there was no progress to speak of.
Chapter 5
Six heavily armed marines and two AFM soldiers accompanied Scott and Edie on their ride. The marines, part of the increasing tactical response, were all business as Scott expected them to be and though their unit leader was a captain, they took their orders from Edie. To a one, they were angry, itching for a fight and payback. Their brothers and sisters in arms were dying and the ones responsible were still at large.
Edie was on command private over headset with the chief, so Scott had no one to voice his thoughts to. He was angry too, and he channeled that anger into his work, using the transit time and the Internet connection on his phone to learn what he could about their destination. Valletta, the capital city of Malta, was built in the 16th century during the rule of the Knights of Malta. Originally a gift to the knights, Il-Barrakka ta' Fuq was a public garden set at the highest point of the city walls. With its commanding views of Grand Harbour, old town and other low-lying parts of the capital, the garden was a crown jewel of the historic waterfront, with upper and lower sections separated from each other by several city blocks.
While getting answers about Valletta was easy, getting answers out of Kathy was anything but. After the attack, she was even less present than before, her face paler, her lips quivering faster than before. Her only response to his queries about everything that had happened was a one word question: “Angel?”
“Gone,” was his response. “Gone and lost to us.”
A quick search of the body of Peyton Jones had turned up nothing of use. She didn’t have a cellphone or anything on her person other than a slip of paper with some numbers written on it. The bathing suit though had caught Scott’s eye. It was unusual, local and, Scott was sure, something that might help retrace her steps before the attack. He’d asked Edie to have local authorities check swim and surf shops.
Peyton Jones had worn the suit and tied her hair back to blend in and it had worked, but what was she doing there at that particular time? How had she known they were coming? Had someone tipped her off?