Bitter Harvest (Harvest Trilogy, Book 2) (24 page)

“And you’re sure it’s not an exercise?”

“Positive, sir. If you look at the first appendix in today’s PDB, you’ll see imagery that spells it out in rather vivid detail.”

Miller picked up the document and thumbed through it to the appendices. There were several black and white overhead shots of a village or small town pockmarked with the circular craters of artillery impacts. Most of the buildings had sustained heavy damage. Vehicles marked in the graphic as tanks and infantry personnel carriers were in the town, along with dozens of little dots that Miller assumed must be soldiers. He had served in the Army many years before, and so had some appreciation for military tactics. He noticed that the troops in the village had formed a defensive perimeter, with their guns pointing out toward the surrounding fields, where more vehicles stood, blackened and smoking.
 

He looked up at the DNI. “These are the Chinese troops?”

“Yes, sir. The information we have so far indicates that the town had been overrun or taken over, it’s not really clear by whom, and the Army was sent in to sort things out. They tried just marching into the town and got their clocks cleaned. Then they leveled it with artillery before going back in. Now it looks like they’re trapped.”

“Trapped? By whom? Has there been an armed uprising in China and we missed it?” The other members of the cabinet looked away. Miller’s sarcasm could be quite acidic.

“Sir, if you look closely at the first image, in the fields.”

Miller did so. “Besides the burning tanks, all I see are a bunch of, what, rocks maybe? What are all those things?”

“That, Mr. President, we don’t know. They could be insurgents with some sort of special camouflage or body armor. But we know they move, and we think they’re the ones that the Chinese are fighting.” He paused. “By the way, the Chinese unit you’re looking at now started out four days ago as a full infantry brigade with an attached armor platoon, around three thousand men. What you see there is all that’s left.”

Miller looked at the text sidebar on the image, then sat back, shocked. “There can’t be more than two or three hundred men here.”

“That’s right, Mr. President. More are certainly hiding in the buildings or aren’t easily distinguished in the rubble, but yes, as best we can tell, that brigade has pretty much been wiped out. And it’s not the only one.”

“So who the hell is responsible? The Chinese aren’t blaming us, surely.” Miller glanced at the Secretary of State, who shook her head.
 

“They haven’t uttered a peep to us about it,” she said. “They’ve deflected all our inquiries on the diplomatic circuit, telling us a lot of nothing.”

“No, sir, whatever it is, it’s an internal matter,” the DNI went on. “But as the PDB indicate, China’s not the only place where something odd is going on. We’ve seen unusual movements of Russian airborne units over the last week, including what appears to be a battalion-level exercise in southern Russia that kicked off last night. The situation in Brazil isn’t clear, but something’s definitely going on down there that involves regular army troops being deployed to the interior. And our military attaché in New Delhi got a whiff of some Indian special forces being sent off somewhere in central India a day or so ago, along with some credible information that the Indian Army’s airborne brigade has been put on alert.”

“Maybe in reaction to what’s going on in China?” Miller’s voice was hopeful. At least that would be a situation he could understand.

The DNI shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t think so. Things are quiet along their mutual border. The ruckus in China is well to the east, away from India.”

“Kyle, you look like you swallowed your kid’s goldfish.” Miller had noticed the change in expression on the face of his new FBI Director as soon as the DNI had mentioned India. “Do you have something to add?”

Harmon licked his lips. “Sir, I had a discussion the other day with Carl Richards, the former…”

“I know who he is.”

Nodding, Harmon went on with obvious reluctance. “Richards believed, postulated, that there might have been a potential incident in India, and had some circumstantial evidence about a similar incident in Russia.”

Miller cocked his head to one side, a look of growing incredulity on his face. “What sort of incident?”

Closing his eyes, Harmon spat out the word. “Harvesters.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Harmon sat like a toad under a brace of spotlights as everyone in the cabinet, along with the President, stared at him.

The Vice President, Andrew Lynch, broke the silence. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
 

“No, sir, I’m not. I wish I was.” Harmon turned back to Miller. “Richards said that Jack Dawson was in India and had found a village that had been infected, as he called it, and he had dug up some other information indicating that something similar had happened in Russia.”

“And you didn’t pursue this?” The DNI said the words, but the thought was clearly echoed in the expressions of the Secretaries of Defense and Homeland Security.

“Of course not!” Harmon’s temper broke. “May I kindly remind everyone here,” he glanced at President Miller, “that the whole topic of harvesters was shelved after the Curtis administration. SEAL came up with nothing after an entire year, and there wasn’t any physical evidence to prove their existence. All of it was anecdotal or based on information that could easily have been faked. None of us believed it then, and I still don’t. There’s a rational explanation for what’s going on. We don’t have to haul the boogeyman out of the closet.”

“You’ve made your point, Kyle.” Miller glanced around the room. “Here’s what I want.” He picked up the PDB and waved it at the DNI. “First, I want to know what the devil is going on with this. And I don’t want any eyewash because someone’s afraid to use terminology that, up until now, wasn’t considered politically correct.” He shot an apologetic look at Harmon. “I want everything back on the table, no matter how unpalatable it might be, including the H-word. Harvesters. Whoever wrote — or edited — this PDB said that
unspecified entities
were behind what’s going on. I want that
unspecified
replaced with something specific, and I want it pronto.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” The DNI looked and sounded relieved. “I’ll have an update to you right away. I’d also recommend bringing in the CDC on this.”

“Fine. Make it happen.” Miller turned to Harmon. “Second. You’re going to have to eat some crow and make peace with Richards. I’d eat it for you since I made the bed that we’re all going to have to lay in, but that’s not the way things work. Pump him for whatever information he has on this, then get it sent to the DNI, Defense, Homeland Security, and whomever else you think needs to know. If what Richards has is credible, figure out how to share it with the countries that are being hit with this outbreak without making us look like complete lunatics.”

Miller paused, then looked at the Secretary for Homeland Security. “That brings me to the third thing: have there been any indications of this sort of thing going on here?”

“No, sir. We haven’t come across any indications of anything like what’s in that report. Not yet, at least.”

“Good. Because I do
not
want to have whatever is going on in these places,” Miller tapped on the PDB, “to happen here on our soil. I don’t care who or what is behind it, we’re not going to let it happen. The country was hit bad enough by the Sutter Buttes disaster, and by God I’m not going to let something like this take place on my watch.” He looked every member of his cabinet in the eye. “I want this nailed down, and fast.”

“What about Dawson?” Harmon asked.

“What about him?”

“From what I gathered from Richards, it sounded to me like he’s in a position to gather a lot of information, but he’s running loose as a free agent. I’m not so sure that’s in our best interest.”

Miller shrugged. “Then try to get him back on the payroll, and get some other eyes on the ground in these places. In the meantime, he’s an asset. Use him. And if necessary, use him up.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

After Jack and the others had piled into the waiting Mi-17 transport helicopters, they took a short ride to the nearby Shpakovskoye Airport, which was a joint military-civilian facility. While Mikhailov had explained that there was normally only a small contingent of Air Force training units there, Jack saw that a line of An-12 four-engine turboprop transports was waiting on the tarmac, propellers spinning and ready for takeoff as soon as their human cargo was loaded.
 

“I thought we were going to make a helicopter insertion.” Jack had to shout to be heard above the roar of both the helicopters and the engines of the big transports as he followed close behind Mikhailov in the line of men who ran to board the lead aircraft.
 

“We are airborne troops, Jack. We jump out of perfectly good airplanes, remember?”

“Ah, shit,” Jack cursed.
 

“Do you want to stay behind?”

“Hell, no.” He took a closer look at the men around him, who seemed to have more gear strapped to their bodies than he, Mikhailov, or Rudenko. “But we don’t have any parachutes!”

“They are on the planes.”

Jack was aghast. Preparing for an airborne jump wasn’t something you just threw together at the last moment. Everything was checked, rechecked, and checked again before anyone ever set foot on the plane. “Oh, great.”

As they ran up the rear cargo ramp, thankfully getting out of the frigid pouring rain, a senior NCO led them forward to a group of seats, each of which held a parachute. They struggled to get the rigs on over their soaked uniforms.
 

“The others had time to prepare properly at the base,” Mikhailov explained as Rudenko helped him into the parachute harness. “We did not, obviously.” Seeing the pained expression on Jack’s face, he said, “You are jump qualified, are you not?”

“Yes, I am.” Jack had gone to the Army Airborne School — Jump School, as it was more popularly known — at Fort Benning, Georgia, while he’d been an Army ROTC cadet. “I was gung-ho about jumping until my first time out of the plane. I absolutely hated it, and have every jump since.”

“You are smart man, Jack.” Rudenko slapped him on the back after finishing his check of Mikhailov’s chute. “Much smarter than certain Russian Army captains I have known.”

“But why are we jumping in? Why not just take a nice comfy helo ride to the target?”

Mikhailov shook his head. “Not enough lift capacity. The
polkovnik
wants the whole battalion on the ground as quickly as possible. We would have to make several lifts with the helicopters we have on hand. That would not allow us to concentrate our troops as quickly. We should be able to get everyone down in two drops with the planes.” He smiled. “Look at it this way: at least you do not have to stand in the rain and wait like the other half of the battalion.”

“It’s a good thing. I forgot my umbrella.”

Done with pulling on the parachute and having Rudenko check him over, Jack, shivering from the cold rain that had penetrated to his skin, sat clumsily on the seat beside Mikhailov. Most of the other men on the plane had taken their seats as well, and the loadmaster and officers were making sure everyone was accounted for. Looking out the yawning rear cargo door, Jack could see the An-12 in line behind them, and the navigation lights of that aircraft and those behind it, winking in the darkness. Over the steady drone of the engines he could hear another sound that he recognized as the rain beating down against the fuselage and wings. The plane stank of oil and jet fuel, of exhaust and the ozone smell of the storm outside.
 

The men around him were quiet, their faces calm but alert. Most of them had never seen combat, he surmised, but from their expressions and demeanor, an outsider would have thought this was nothing more for them than the routine exercise that the public was currently being led to believe it was.

Kuybishev and two other men strode up the ramp at the rear of the plane just as it began to rise with a high-pitched whine from the hydraulics. He moved past Jack to the cockpit, and a moment later the roar of the plane’s turboprop engines rose in pitch and they began to move.
 

The plane turned onto the active runway and the pilot pushed the throttles all the way forward. Kuybishev came back and took his seat across from Mikhailov as the plane accelerated. He looked closely at Jack in the dim light of the cargo bay. “You do not like to jump? Mikhailov assured me you have done this before.”

Jack offered him a grin that was more an exercise in gritting his teeth and pulling his lips back. “Is it that obvious, sir? I’ve done this plenty of times, and have never stopped hating it.”

Kuybishev leaned over and slapped Jack’s knee. “You are smart man.” He and the others laughed.
 

Rather than being offended, Jack was relieved. Involving him in jokes, even at his expense, made him feel like he was part of the team. Kuybishev could have easily shut him out and ignored him.

They were quiet for a moment as the plane began to vibrate, shimmying slightly from side to side as the pilot fought the crosswind while the An-12 transitioned from earth to sky. The nose suddenly rose, and they felt the momentary pull of gravity in the pits of their stomachs as the plane left the ground. With a series of whines and thumps, the landing gear came up. Then the plane banked sharply to the left until it was headed east, toward Ulan-Erg. Their target.

“Concept of operation is simple,” Kuybishev told them, speaking in heavily accented English for Jack’s benefit as he unfolded a tactical map wrapped in a nylon case with a clear plastic face. One of the officers with him, probably the executive officer, Jack thought, held a flashlight to better illuminate the map. “There is road that runs east-west, three kilometers south of Ulan-Erg. We will drop most troops on this first lift just to the south of this road,
da?
” Everyone nodded. “We will sweep north through village, driving any enemies against river north of village. We will also drop one platoon north of river to secure road bridge, here.” He pointed to where a paved road crossed the river to enter the town from the northeast. “Anyone,” Kuybishev glanced up at Jack, “
anything
we flush from town is most likely to go this way. We will drop troops of second lift to either reinforce us, platoon holding bridge, or both, as needed.”