The Third World War: A Terrifying Novel of Global Conflict

72

'Everything within a one-mile radius is destroyed,' said Patton. 'Everyone is dead. It was an airburst so there is early fallout. Wind speed is twenty miles an hour. The radiation zone will be ten to twenty miles, with the contamination of water and food supplies stretching further.'

Patton was speaking, leaning heavily on the conference table in the situation room, reading off a computer screen and typing instructions into another keyboard as he did so.

'The transport system within the target area is destroyed. We will airlift out what casualties we can. But it means going in with NBC protection.' He looked up. 'Mr President, a lot more people are going to die. We are probably looking at 100,000 killed in the target area and another 100,000 dead over the next few days. We just won't be able to get them out.' He glanced up and pointed. 'This is it. We're getting the first pictures.'

The wind had carved a shape out of the heavy haze, giving a clear view to the ground. West stared at what he saw. At first, he could barely distinguish them from the images of Delhi, Tokyo and Pyongyang. These were fresher, though. The cameras had moved faster. Everything was shattered amid huge flickering pillars of yellow flames. There were no visible traces of the neighbourhood where until a few hours ago people had gone about their daily lives. It had vanished utterly, leaving not even a remnant of what it had once been. No corpses. No twisted buildings. No advertising hoardings. No sign of society at all. Just sudden and thorough destruction in the most extreme form. Hospitals, schools, homes, offices, fire and police stations — everything which made up a community was gone. No other weapon created by man could reduce a place to nothing so completely.

And what about when the rescue services had managed to cut through and evacuate and airlift? What about when the nausea and vomiting started? The diarrhoea, fever, the bleeding from the skin, the ulceration of the mouth, loss of hair, the slow, agonizing and unstoppable regression to death.

West stopped pacing the room and headed for the door. 'Mary,' he said, 'can you join me for a moment?'

They stood in the corridor, the lights seeming brighter because of their exhaustion. West's expression was difficult to read. There was fatigue as if he had taken on another age and it was still settling. His hair fell awkwardly and needed a cut. One shirt sleeve was rolled up, just underneath the elbow. The other was down, with the cuff hanging open. The ink from a ballpoint pen had leaked on to his right hand. He looked behind him to check they were alone, except for a secret service agent far down at the corner of the corridor.

'I want to say this to you, before I say it to the nation,' he said. 'I'm sorry, Mary. I should have followed your advice.'

Newman breathed deeply. 'Mr President, this is not a path we want to go down right now.'

'If I had been your age, I would have struck first. I would have been rash. But I'm an old warhorse who doesn't want to fight. I see too many sides of the story, and I have the worst handicap of them all. I have doubt.'

'There are a few leaders out there who are about to lose big time.' She took both his hands and clasped them in hers. He looked at her, his eyes boring straight through her, and suddenly he did not feel tired at all.

'If I was ten years younger, I wouldn't say this, but we're going to give it one last shot. Try Kozlov and Song. Work your way down until you get someone. And try their ambassadors here as well.' Newman dropped his hands and nodded. 'And Mary, can you ask Chris Pierce to join me out here?'

West watched his Secretary of State turn back into the situation room. In the few seconds before Pierce came out, he found himself looking straight down the corridor at a secret service agent. 'They've nuked Oakland,' said West, his voice bouncing off the walls of the narrow passageway.

'So I heard, sir,' said the agent.

'What would you do?'

'I would never have run for your office, sir.'

'Good answer.' West rolled up his loose cuff. 'But if you had?'

'I guess I'd kick ass, sir.'

Pierce, hearing the conversation, paused as he came out, glancing up towards the agent and back down towards West. 'Maybe you should have run,' said West, walking away from the agent, and letting Pierce fall into step with him.

'I'm going to give Mary an hour to get something substantive from either Kozlov or Song — or both,' he said. 'Cuba's our bargaining chip. If we can start negotiation on Cuba, maybe we can hold off on everything else. But if we don't succeed, you have to be ready.'

'Against Cuba?'

'And China, Chris,' said West firmly. 'And China itself.'

Pierce nodded. 'Just heard from CINCPAC, sir. We've seen inside Park's bunker.'

West's eyes flickered with renewed interest. 'And?'

'We're still identifying his body. But we have confirmation that he was using human guinea pigs to test the virus. Some of the chambers were intact.'

'We need any evidence that traces it back to China. Anything. A scrap. Let me know.'

Without another word, West turned and walked back into the situation room. 'Tom, I'm going to head down to the smallpox ward at George Washington Hospital. How many cases do we have now?'

'More than three hundred confirmed here, plus sixty-five in Britain — and it's moving across Europe and down to Latin America.'

'Get me a suit,' said West. 'And when I'm there make sure I have time alone with Caroline. John, as soon as I get back, a live address to the nation, from the Oval Office. Then Air Force One to Oakland.'

'Mr President,' said Patton. 'Sorry, but we need to get you to a secure location.'

'I didn't hear that,' said West. 'I didn't hear it at all.'

'Jamie Song. Line three, Mr President,' said Kozerski.

West took the call. 'Jamie,' said West, trying to keep it friendly.

But instead of Song, he heard the voice of an interpreter, translating, then Jamie Song's voice speaking in Chinese, and then the translation. 'Yes, President West, how can I help you?'

West pressed on, trying to cut through the formality. 'Jamie, let's do a deal on Cuba, and unwind everything else from there.'

He waited for the tortuously slow translation process, drumming his fingers on the telephone receiver. 'Cuba is a sovereign nation and a close ally of the People's Republic of China,' came the reply.

'Jamie, if you're hearing this—' he glanced at Kozerski, who nodded, meaning that the voice signature matched that of Jamie Song. 'Jamie, you are hearing this. So I'll say again. You know that some elements of Cuba are non-negotiable. But if you want, we can talk about it. OK?'

West gripped the receiver and looked down at the floor. Far from being angry, he was sounding desperate. It wasn't as he had planned.

'President Song will speak to you shortly.' It was the voice of the interpreter. Song had delegated. West dropped the receiver into its cradle. 'OK,' he said slowly. 'I'm not sure this is going to work. I need to talk to Kozlov.'