Scarecrow Returns

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.