Reaping The Harvest (Harvest Trilogy, Book 3)

By Michael R. Hicks

Jack Dawson awakens from the terrifying nightmare of the events in BITTER HARVEST to find his world under siege. Millions of people have died while he's lain in a coma in a Norwegian hospital, and the threat of humanity's total annihilation looms closer with every passing day.

As Jack and his companions face the enemy on the ground, brilliant geneticist Naomi Perrault is forced to strike a bargain with the devil as she races against time to develop a super-weapon that could win the war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael R. Hicks
• Release date: Nov 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988932142

Michael R. Hicks

Born in 1963, Michael Hicks grew up in the age of the Apollo program and spent his youth glued to the television watching the original Star Trek series and other science fiction movies, which continues to be a source of entertainment and inspiration. Having spent the majority of his life as a voracious reader, he has been heavily influenced by writers ranging from Robert Heinlein to Jerry Pournelle and Larry Niven, and David Weber to S.M. Stirling. Living in Florida with his beautiful wife, two wonderful stepsons and two mischievous Siberian cats, he is now living his dream of writing full time.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

He swam through a sea of inky darkness, his heart hammering with fear of the nameless horror that pursued him. Faces floated around him like grotesque jellyfish, illuminated from within, the faint glow shining through their translucent skin. They were few at first, but the darkness quickly filled with more. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Friends, civilians, soldiers. Some he had known, many he had not. All were dead.

Light began to peel back the darkness in the depths below, and he dove toward it, hoping to find refuge from the faces of the dead that pressed in against him. Leaving them behind, he swam harder, trying to reach the light that grew stronger, peeling back the darkness.

Flames burst out of the glow, licking his body with burning tongues, scorching his face, his hands. An entire city lay before him, a blazing inferno. The screams of tens of thousands of people reached him before the city was swallowed in a titanic fireball that sent him spinning back into the darkness.

When he regained control, he began to swim again, trying to drive himself forward through the void, trying to find an end to it. Somewhere behind, the horror still pursued him. He could smell it, ammonia and burning hemp, growing stronger with every passing moment. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw it. The thing had many faces, but they did not glow as did the ones before. These were dark, blacker than black, shifting shadows over the face of the void, morphing from one terrible visage to the next.

Behind the faces was something worse, a palpable evil that reached out with dark claws as he frantically kicked away, opening his mouth to scream…

Jack?

The scream died on his lips as his eyes blinked open. The world around him was white, blurry, in total opposition to the dark hell he’d been trying to escape. He heard soft beeps and hisses, machine sounds, from either side of him. He took in a ragged gasp of air, which smelled of alcohol and antiseptic. That, more than anything else, told him he was in a hospital. He remembered the smell all too vividly from the time he had spent in the hospital in Afghanistan after he’d been shot.

Jack, can you hear me?

A face leaned down toward him. He didn’t recognize the woman who spoke, and she had an accent that sounded very familiar.

Yes…yes, I hear you, he said. His tongue felt like a chunk of dry leather in his mouth. Who are you? Where am I?

The woman looked at him carefully for a moment, then shone a pen light in his eyes. Hold still, she said as Jack blinked and tried to turn away. Very good. You had us worried for a little while. Then she looked up at someone else and said, He seems to be all right, but go easy. If you need me, I’ll be right outside.

Thank you.

Jack definitely recognized the voice, then the face that leaned down close to his.

Terje?

Kaptein Terje Halvorsen smiled. So, you remember me? His smile faded. We were beginning to wonder about you, my friend. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to jump from airplanes without a parachute?

That brought on a rushing kaleidoscope of memories. The beeping on the heart rate monitor quickened as he remembered the battle of Ulan-Erg, where Rudenko hurled himself into the mass of battling harvesters and soldiers, a pair of white phosphorus grenades in his hands, in order to save him. The city of Elista, burning in the night. The long journey in the old biplane across the frozen landscape of Russia, only to discover that their pilot, the young woman named Khatuna, was herself a harvester. Mikhailov being gutted by the Khatuna-thing as he bought time for Jack to escape, with no way out other than to jump from the plane without a parachute. The fire and heat, the shock wave as the plane exploded above him as it was hit by an air to air missile. And then the wearying trek across the snow in a hopeless attempt to reach the Norwegian border. The ghosts who emerged from the snow-covered trees, the Norwegian Special Forces team that had been sent to rescue him.

Jack shivered and tried to squirm deeper under the thin hospital blanket as he remembered the bone-chilling cold, and the fading cries of the Khatuna-thing as it called out for help to the unwary.

You’re all right, Jack. Terje took Jack’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. You’re safe, for the moment, at least. Here, drink this. He held out a small plastic cup of water with a bent straw in it.

Sipping on the water, which soothed his parched mouth, Jack had to appreciate Terje’s honesty. You’re safe here, for the moment. Nowhere was truly safe, not for very long. Not anymore.

While Jack was sipping the water, Terje introduced the others in the room, whom Jack had not noticed before, and who now came to his bedside.

This is Walter Cullen, from your embassy.

Cullen was an African-American with close-cropped graying hair who stood half a head taller than Terje, although he was also rail thin. He smiled as he extended a veined hand that looked so brittle Jack was almost afraid to shake it. But the embassy man’s grip was firm. A pleasure, Mr. Dawson. I’m Ambassador Cordwainer’s Chief of Staff, Cullen said in a high reedy voice. The Ambassador would have come in person, but was detained by a last minute call from the Secretary of State. He let go of Jack’s hand. As you can imagine, your little adventure caused quite a stir, but that’s largely been forgotten in the light of events since then."

The other visitor was a woman. In her early fifties, she had sandy blond hair that was just showing the first traces of gray. Her round face was smiling, but her makeup couldn’t disguise the exhaustion Jack saw in her eyes.

This is Inghild Morgensen, Terje said, our Minister of Defense.

Ma’am. Morgensen might have been tired, but she had enough strength to grip Jack’s hand tight enough that he had to suppress a wince.

Mr. Dawson, she said in a silky voice that he would have expected from a much younger woman. Welcome to Norway, for the second time, I believe. She cocked her head slightly as she let go of his hand. Could you perhaps arrange for there not to be a world crisis the next time you visit? It’s becoming a bit of a bother.

They all shared a tense laugh at that. Jack’s first visit to Norwegian territory had been to Spitsbergen a year before, when he and the team from the Earth Defense Society sent to protect the Svalbard Seed Vault had walked right into the middle of a battle between the Russians and the Norwegians, with a group of harvesters throwing fuel on the fire.

I’ll try my best, ma’am. You have my word on that.

"Kaptein, why don’t you update him on what has happened, and we can proceed from there, unless you have something you would like to add first, Mr. Cullen?"

Cullen shook his head and gestured for Terje to begin.

There’s something I need to tell you first, Jack said. Mikhailov and Rudenko are both dead. And the woman who was piloting the plane I was in was a harvester. I know she survived the crash. The Russians might have found her. They have to be warned.

Terje glanced at Morgensen, his expression grim. I am sorry to hear about our Russian friends, Jack. They were good men. But the harvester who was flying your plane is the least of our problems now. Things are truly going to hell, and we need to get you on your feet as fast as we can.

How long have I been out?

Five days. We would have let you rest longer, but there are pressing matters that will not wait. He glanced at Morgensen. So we had the doctor wake you.

Shit. Jack remembered that he hadn’t been in the best of shape when Kaptein Frode Stoltenberg, the leader of the Norwegian Special Forces team, had found him, but five days? Why so long?

You had a serious concussion after the fall from the plane, Terje said. Stoltenberg had to dodge Russian patrols for two full days before he could get you back across the border near Melkefoss, and as soon as you were stabilized we flew you here to Bodø. So in addition to the concussion, you were suffering from hypothermia and exposure. You’re just very lucky you didn’t lose anything to frostbite. But yes, you’ve been out five days since the team found you. And a lot has happened since then, none of it good, I’m afraid.

Jack felt a queasy ball in his stomach. Part of him just wanted to run away, to flee into a deep sleep. But there wasn’t time for that, and he realized that he didn’t really want to fall back into the dark pit filled with squirming monsters that he’d just left behind. Okay, let’s have it.

Harvester outbreaks have been reported in every country in the northern hemisphere, and many in the south, Terje said. Russia, as you can imagine, is in complete chaos, with infestations in every major city west of the Ural Mountains. As best we know, their leadership has retreated to an underground bunker, and they have put their strategic forces on alert.

What in God’s name for?

There has been talk of trying to contain the outbreaks with nuclear weapons, Cullen answered, shaking his head. Crazy bastards. The President has put our forces on alert, because no one is comfortable with the Russians with a finger hovering over the red button. The United Kingdom and France have done the same with their own nuclear forces.

I hate to say it, Jack said slowly, but the Russians may not be as crazy as you think. The harvesters are supposedly very sensitive to ionizing radiation, far more than we are.

Morgensen and Terje looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. Cullen only frowned, not surprised or outraged at all. That scared Jack. Our military planners are thinking the same thing.

What would they be saving by destroying their own cities? Morgensen demanded. They would be killing hundreds of thousands of people!

Perhaps millions, Terje added.

Once the harvesters get a foothold in a heavily populated area where the civilian population has no idea how to deal with them… Jack shook his head. Terje, the handful of harvesters we fought on Spitsbergen were nothing. A pack of harvesters, a hundred or so, if that, annihilated half a Russian airborne battalion, men who were heavily armed, well disciplined and well led, and who had at least some clue what they were up against. Then there are the larval forms. He shuddered at the memory of the gelatinous horrors oozing along the ground in the darkness of Ulan-Erg. Fighting these things on the ground in an urban environment isn’t much short of suicide under the best of circumstances.

What are you saying, that we should just give up? Morgensen’s voice was cold as the snow and ice outside the hospital window.

Of course not. All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t think the Russians are insane for considering nuking the most heavily infested areas. It won’t stop the harvesters from spreading, but it might slow them down and buy us some time.

What about the people in the target areas? Terje asked quietly.

Jack stared at him. It won’t be very long before there isn’t anyone left in the hot zones to save.

He was about to say something more when something bounded up onto the bed. Jack gasped in surprise and momentary fear before he realized that it was a cat. The cat, whose long fur was an unruly mix of black and gray-brown that would be perfect camouflage in a forest, regarded him for a moment with curious yellow feline eyes. Then, bold as could be, it marched up the bed and butted its head against his chest, demanding to be petted.

That’s Lurva, Terje said, his dark expression momentarily broken with a smile as Lurva began to purr with a deep rumble as Jack stroked her fur. She was big, nearly as big as his own cat, Alexander. She’s Stoltenberg’s cat, on loan to you as a get well present and guardian while he’s off on an errand.

Tell him thanks, Jack said. Petting the cat, and knowing that it sensed no harvesters nearby, was an immense relief.

What Jack was saying, Cullen went on, tracks with what’s been happening in Los Angeles. He turned apologetic eyes to Jack. The entire metro area is overrun, Cullen told him, and the rest of southern California is in a panic. The area has been quarantined, although that hasn’t done much good. We’ve caught a lot of harvesters masquerading as humans trying to get through the road blocks, but we don’t have the manpower to cordon off every inch of the infected area. They’re spreading quickly over the borders into northern California, Arizona, Nevada, and south into Mexico, and outbreaks have been reported in every major city across the rest of the country. We think most of those were caused by harvesters who made it onto airliners before the President grounded the entire civilian air fleet. The only things allowed to fly now are military aircraft or chartered jets with military escort. He took a deep breath. Needless to say, things are falling apart fast. The President ordered the stock market closed after it went into free fall on Monday, and the economy’s coming apart at the seams. People aren’t showing up for work, they’re hoarding everything from ammunition to disposable diapers, and consumer prices are shooting through the roof.

Christ. A blade of cold steel twisted in Jack’s gut. What about Naomi? The last he had heard about Naomi Perrault, the woman he loved, had been that the FBI was trying to extract her and her field team from Los Angeles. But five days had passed since then. A lifetime.

She made it out of Los Angeles, Cullen reassured him. Beyond that, I can’t tell you much.

Why the hell not?

With an apologetic glance at the Norwegians, Cullen said, Because everything else has been classified. I was authorized to tell you she’s alive and safe, but that’s all. Before Jack could say more, Cullen held up his hand. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can say until we can get you to the embassy.

Then let’s go. Jack propped himself up, fighting a wave of dizziness and nausea. Annoyed, Lurva hopped off the bed.

Jack, Terje protested, you’re not ready to get back on your feet. Remember, you have a concussion!

I’m not staying in this goddamn bed. I need to talk to Naomi.

That may not be as easy as it should be, Cullen warned.

Why? Jack felt his temper starting to flare as someone inside his head started banging his skull with a hammer. Don’t you have phones?

Yes, but global telecommunications have gone to hell, the embassy man said, his voice full of gloom. Networks are saturated with people making panicked calls, and internet providers can’t handle the bandwidth demands, at least in countries where access to the network backbones haven’t either been cut off by their governments or simply failed. We’ve also received reports of concerted attacks by harvesters on some telecom facilities, but nobody’s been able to sort out the truth of that yet.

But surely the embassy can get through? Jack felt like he was slipping back into the dark nightmare from which he’d awakened. He knew it was all real, but part of him kept hoping it was all just part of the terror in his sleep, that he’d wake up to find Naomi next to him, or Alexander, his big Siberian cat perched on his chest, purring his demand for breakfast.

The question clearly made Cullen uncomfortable. He was no doubt touchy about discussing such a subject in front of the Norwegians, but Morgensen came to his rescue. Communications with our embassies have also suffered, but the dedicated military links through NATO are still functioning. We should be able to provide what you need with reasonable privacy.

My orders… Cullen began to say before Jack cut him off.

I’m not under anyone’s orders. I just want to talk to Naomi and make sure she’s okay. He snorted. And make sure she knows that I’m okay. Has anyone told her that I’m alive?

Cullen shrugged. I don’t know.

To Terje, Jack said, Got any clothes I can borrow?

***

Dressed in a Norwegian Army uniform, Jack stared out the window of the Royal Norwegian Air Force Sea King helicopter as it flew east from Bodø over the shores of the Saltfjorden. The view was breathtaking, the jagged snow-covered mountains framing the waters of the fjord as they reflected the gunmetal gray clouds above. A light snow was falling, enough to make the scene even more enchanting without cutting down much on visibility. Lurva, wearing a collar and leash, sat in his lap, surprisingly docile in the noisy helicopter.

With a sigh, he turned away from the window. He would have liked nothing more than to watch the scenery, but the spartan canvas and metal frame seats faced inward and were designed for utility, not comfortable sight-seeing. Terje sat beside him, while Morgensen and Cullen, who had grudgingly come along to chaperone Jack, sat in the seats on the opposite side of the cavernous helicopter. Six soldiers accompanied them, along with the helicopter’s crew chief.

Terje had told him it would be a short trip, and it was. Less than ten minutes after the white and orange helicopter of 330 Squadron had taken off from the Bodø airport, it was coming in to land at a helipad near the center of a small complex of half a dozen buildings secluded in the forest not far from the fjord. The wheels just touched down when the crew chief slid open the door and the six soldiers nimbly jumped to the ground to take up defensive positions around the aircraft, the muzzles of their rifles sweeping their surroundings for potential threats.

Jack gathered up Lurva, who still seemed absurdly calm, and followed Morgensen and Cullen out the door, with Terje (who also carried a rifle), bringing up the rear.

Morgensen headed through the billowing snow tossed up by the helicopter’s spinning rotor blades toward two military 4x4 vehicles that looked similar to the American Humvee. They were waiting beyond a gauntlet of soldiers, along with a pair of cats in open frame crates. The defense minister presented her hand to each cat, and after shaking the hand of the stern-faced two-star general who led the strange reception detail, she got into the rear seat of the lead vehicle.

Jack repeated the procedure, holding out his free hand to each cat while he held on to Lurva with the other. Lurva growled at them, not welcoming this unexpected feline competition. The general gave the cat what might have passed for a smile before waving Jack through so Terje could have his turn running the gauntlet.

The muzzles of the rifles held by the soldiers never wavered from the chest of each of the newcomers until they were approved by the general.

The general took the front seat of the lead vehicle, while Cullen got in next to Morgensen. Jack and Terje hopped into the rear seat of the second vehicle.

"This is the new Forsvarets operative hovedkvarter, our Joint Forces Headquarters," Terje explained as the driver started off along a snow-covered road that led into the forest. Back at the helipad, the Sea King’s rotors picked up speed, and the helicopter climbed back into the sky and turned west back toward Bodø.

Jack was wondering just where the headquarters was, as all the buildings he’d seen as they’d come in to land were now behind them. They passed through a heavily guarded check point, then a few moments later pulled up in front of a tunnel entrance that was heavily reinforced with concrete and had thick steel blast doors, with another squad of soldiers on guard duty.

Oh, great, Jack thought, suppressing a shudder. Another underground bunker. First there had been the old Titan I silo at Sutter Buttes in California, where the Earth Defense Society had its secret base before it was nuked by then-President Curtis. Then he’d found himself in the Svalbard Seed Vault on Spitsbergen, which they’d had to destroy by fire. Now this.

It was originally a Cold War bunker built in the late 1950s, Terje told him as they got out of the vehicles and went through the check point, where a group of soldiers, attended by another pair of extremely bored-looking cats, issued them security badges.

Then they all piled into an electric vehicle that resembled an oversize golf cart for the ride down the tunnel, whose walls were rough-hewn light gray rock, with conduits and fluorescent lights fixed in the ceiling.

We expanded it a bit, Terje went on, and the Joint Forces staff moved here in 2010 from Oslo. He must have seen the dark expression on Jack’s face, because he added in a lowered voice, I know you probably don’t much like things underground, but this was a godsend. The old headquarters facility in Oslo would have been indefensible against the harvesters.

Has it ever occurred to you that this could be a death trap? Jack had visions of larval harvesters oozing their way through ventilation shafts and conduits to wreak the same sort of havoc as the single larva had at the old Titan base in California a year before.

We have taken steps to prevent that, the major general said, turning around to face him from the front seat, where he and Morgensen were sitting. All the organic materials used in the door and ventilation seals and other penetration points have been removed and replaced. We have cats patrolling the facility in company with soldiers armed with weapons loaded with incendiary ammunition. He managed a smile that made it look like a fissure had opened in the face of a granite cliff. We were hoping you could provide more information based on your experience in Russia.

I’ll try, sir, Jack told him, impressed. But I think you already hit the major points. I just hope you didn’t miss anything, he didn’t add.

The general nodded, then turned around as the cart slowed, then took a sharp turn, the driver following a ninety degree elbow in the tunnel.

Leaning close to Terje, Jack asked, How many harvesters do you think have gotten into Norway?

Enough to cause trouble, Terje said, but not enough to start a panic. Not yet, at least. The government acted quickly by closing the borders and airspace, along with the ports. Ships are free to leave, but none may enter. Every ship our navy has is patrolling the coastal areas. The reserves have been mobilized and formed into quick reaction teams to respond to any harvester sightings. So far, the incident rate seems to be stable, so we like to think we’re killing them quickly. He looked at Lurva and grinned. Cats are also in very short supply after thousands were requisitioned for the military.

The civilians have been told that cats can recognize harvesters?

Yes. Terje’s smile faded. We have passed on as much information as we could about how to combat the harvesters without heavy weapons. They can use lighter fluid or even combustible aerosol sprays with lighters as makeshift flamethrowers. That was a tip your FBI sent to us. We have also tried to make incendiary ammunition available as widely as possible to owners of firearms, but it is in short supply after the military’s needs. And of course, cats for warning, because very few people will have access to thermal imagers. Unfortunately, some have tried to gather up as many cats as they can to sell them at outrageous prices. I know how ridiculous it may sound, but His Majesty is expected to declare all cats as state property through the duration of the emergency. Selling them will be a very serious offense.

It doesn’t sound ridiculous at all, Jack said as he stroked Lurva’s fur. She stared at her surroundings with wide-eyed interest, and he could hear her purring over the whine of the golf cart. He thought of how Alexander would probably react, meowing and fidgeting the entire time. Stupid cat, he thought wistfully. These animals are going to become more precious than gold before long.

The golf cart rolled to a stop before another set of guarded blast doors. The guards checked their identification, but there were no cats on duty here. Jack thought that odd until he spied one curled up against the steel bulkhead that held the blast door, sound asleep.

He nudged Terje, then pointed to the snoozing cat. Your hard-earned tax dollars at work, I see.

We let some roam loose through the corridors. It’s obviously a terrible hardship. Terje shook his head as they followed Morgensen and the general into the heart of the facility, a sour-faced Cullen falling in behind them.

CHAPTER TWO

The general led them through a set of corridors that opened into a spacious two-story high operations center. The front wall was dominated by an enormous multi-panel display that ran nearly the width of the room and from roughly six feet above the floor up to the ceiling. Mounted right below it were four much smaller displays, each the size of a good-sized living room television. There were four rows of half a dozen workstations each that faced the wall display, with more flanking it at an angle. And above the rear of the room was a glassed-in gallery that overlooked the entire center. Men and women in combat fatigues manned every workstation. Many were quietly but intensely watching their consoles and typing, while others were talking on phones or headsets. All of them periodically looked up at the main display.

Nice, Jack said. He had seen a number of military operations centers, and this one was as well-appointed as any of them. Very nice.

Terje held him back, while Morgensen, Cullen, and the two-star general went to the front to join a small group of men and women that Jack recognized as high-level brass. One of them, an older but well-muscled man with silver-gray hair, had four stars on the front of his uniform. He had deep worry lines carved in his face, and while he greeted the defense minister warmly and shook Cullen’s hand, Jack could tell from his expression that whatever he had to say wasn’t good news. Morgensen and Cullen spoke for a moment, then the two star general who had accompanied them into the tunnel gestured to a young female soldier at a nearby console. She immediately went to him, nodded a few times at whatever he said, glanced once at Jack, and with a final nod quickly returned to her workstation.

Terje leaned closer to Jack, gesturing toward the set of consoles where the female soldier was sitting. That is the communications team. I suspect she is now working on trying to get through to Naomi. Jack made to move closer to the set of consoles, but Terje put a hand on his arm. It will take some time, Jack. Remember, we have to patch through NATO communications to your Department of Defense, then Homeland Security and the FBI to track her down.

Carl Richards will know where she is. Jack was trying to be hard to be patient, but knew he wasn’t doing a very good job. On top of the stress and anticipation he was feeling, his head was pounding like a bastard.

Yes, we know Mr. Richards was put in charge of your Homeland Security division responsible for the harvester threat. That is who she is trying to find.

Nodding, Jack turned away to face the wall display again. They’re doing the best they can, he consoled himself as he began to study the current situation on the monitors. He couldn’t read the Norwegian text that was showing on the smaller screens, but there was a fundamental universality to the military map symbols on the main display that he could read it well enough. Two-thirds of the display showed a map of the Scandinavian peninsula, together with the Baltic countries and western Russia from the White Sea south to Moscow. Blue icons representing Royal Norwegian Air Force F-16s were making fuel-conserving race track ovals through the sky over the borders with Russia and Finland to the north, over Oslo in the south, and near the larger cities, no doubt covering the major airport facilities. Other aircraft tracks, tagged with P-3 and denoting P-3 Orion maritime surveillance aircraft, patrolled the long coastline facing the Norwegian sea as well as the Skagerrak, the channel that separated the Scandinavian peninsula from Denmark to the south. Icons shaped like ships and tagged with names patrolled the entrance to every major port, while some plied the waters up and down the coast, no doubt in coordination with the P-3s.

There was a smaller map, taking up one corner of the wall display, that showed the Svalbard Archipelago, whose largest island was Spitsbergen. A pair of F-16s orbited the island, and there was also a symbol that Jack assumed must be for some sort of commandos, who no doubt were there to protect the vital SvalSat communications facility located there.

Things were much simpler when it came to the ground forces. Brigade Nord was the only combat brigade in the Norwegian Army, and it was clear where the Joint Forces Staff felt the greatest threat lay. The brigade’s light armored battalion, both mechanized battalions with tanks and infantry combat vehicles, and the sole artillery battalion were deployed in the north not far from the Russian border. There were other units scattered around the map, mostly in the major population center, but the big guns were all to the north.

Other icons representing aircraft and ships of other countries were scattered around the edges of the map, the vast majority of them in Russia. To the casual observer, none seemed to pose a direct threat to Norway or her neighbors, Sweden and Finland, but no one in the room had any illusions about how quickly that might change, especially given the unique aspects of the current world situation.

Worried about the Russians, are we? Jack asked.

Terje nodded. Yes. This must look much like our deployments did during the Cold War, although now for different reasons. We are not worried that the Russian government will order an attack against us. But if things fall apart as quickly as they appear, we cannot afford thousands of refugees streaming across the border. And there is also the possibility that harvesters could commandeer military equipment. So we’ve put most of our combat strength there to help the Border Guard if needed.

Yeah. Jack recalled the disaster at Ulan-Erg, when harvesters masquerading as airborne troops completed the massacre there and cost Pavel Rudenko his life. He had no doubt that they could figure out how to crew armored vehicles and aircraft. You won’t get any argument from me. But what about the border with Finland and Sweden?

That is our greatest concern, of course. The Swedish government has activated their reserves and Home Guard, but their military is very small. We believe they will have a difficult enough time protecting their major population centers. We have helicopters with thermal imagers searching along the border, and we are creating a volunteer force of hunters and alpinists, but… He shrugged. There is just too much territory to cover.

All of it rich in organic nutrients for the larval forms, Jack thought to himself. Make sure they look for any signs of deforestation, Jack said. Patches or swatches of missing trees — not just dead, but missing, as in vanished without a trace — trees might be a giveaway that there are larval forms in the area.

So it is true, then? Terje asked. The larval forms can consume anything based on organic compounds?

It’s true, believe me. In some ways, I think the larvae are more deadly than the adult forms. They’re silent and can squeeze through the tiniest openings. Cold weather doesn’t seem to bother them, and the only way to kill them is with fire or incendiary ammunition. Shooting them doesn’t do a damn thing.

Terje looked up as Morgensen called him, gesturing for the two of them to join the grim-faced group at the front of the ops center. With a hopeless glance at the young soldier on the communications team who was now staring at her console, Jack went to join the others.

Jack, Morgensen said, turning to the officer with the four stars on the rank tab on the front of his combat uniform, this is our Chief of Defense, General Jonas Nesvold.

Mr. Dawson.

Nesvold’s big hand enfolded Jack’s as they shook, and while the older man didn’t make any attempt to play the hand-crushing games some men seemed to enjoy, his hand was solid as granite.

An honor, sir, although I wish it were under better circumstances.

So do we all, Mr. Dawson, Nesvold said. Wasting no time in getting to the point, he asked, What is your assessment of what is happening in Russia?

Sir, what I know is from nearly a week ago, and…

Nesvold waved away Jack’s concerns. I understand that. Indulge me.

It’s a disaster, sir. They had a lab in their grain belt that must have somehow obtained samples of the grain infected with the harvester genes, virus, whatever you want to call it. The things got loose, and… He had to stop for a moment. His pulse was hammering in his head and he felt short of breath, and his vision began to turn gray. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

You need rest, Terje said.

No. Jack shook his head, wincing at the throbbing headache that came on even stronger than before. There’s no time for rest. Looking back at Nesvold, Jack went on, General, there’s no silver lining to what’s happening. The larval forms and the adult harvesters in their natural form are bad enough. But the real danger is harvesters posing as impostors. I saw with my own eyes one of the damn things masquerading as a Russian officer, a major, right in one of their garrisons. Sure, the Russians might decide to nuke some of the infested areas. That would be bad enough. But if one or more of them infiltrates one of their Strategic Rocket Forces units or, God forbid, their senior command staff…

But surely the Russians have taken steps as we have to improve their security? Morgensen protested.

I don’t know, Jack said. I hope they did, but I can’t tell you more than that. He shrugged helplessly.

Nesvold looked like he’d swallowed a rotten fish. Well, we are doing what we can do. We can only hope that it is enough.

Before Jack could reply, he caught sight of the young soldier at the communications console, gesturing for him to come over.

Ma’am, general, if you’d excuse me for a moment? He didn’t wait for a reply before he quickly stepped over to the soldier, who handed him a headset with a boom mic. With an indignant meow, Lurva trotted along behind him, her leash still in Jack’s hand.

We have a secure connection, sir.

Thank you, Jack said, giving her a quick smile of gratitude.

Excuse me, but this has to be a private conversation, Jack! Cullen whined from behind him. Lowering his voice, he added, You can’t talk about this in the middle of a room of uncleared people!

Listen, Jack turned on him, I don’t want to talk to her about anything that’s classified. I just want to know that she’s okay and tell her than I’m alive. If you don’t like it, Mr. Cullen, you can kindly go fuck yourself!

Jack? He heard a familiar voice as he slipped on the headset. Jack, hon, please tell me that was you that you telling someone to go fuck himself!

Yeah, Renee, it’s me, he said, relieved to hear her voice. Renee Vintner was one of his closest friends, a computer whiz who’d been with the Earth Defense Society, then went to work under Carl Richards at the FBI after the EDS had been disbanded.

Oh, God, Jack. He could hear her snuffling and sobbing. We thought you were dead, you stupid shit! Naomi’s going to kill you, you know.

Jack laughed. I know I’m in for it. Listen, is she there?

Yeah, she’s on her way. I had to call her up from the lab. You know I can’t tell you where, right?

Glancing over his shoulder at Cullen, who stood fuming behind him, Jack said, Yeah, I got the full lecture on that score.

Where the hell are you?

I’m at the Norwegian Joint Forces Command headquarters, in an underground bunker near Bodø. Listen, is she okay?

Yes, I’m fine, thanks for asking, Renee quipped. So is Carl, for that matter, although he’d be losing more hair if he had any left. There was a pause. And no, Naomi hasn’t been all right, you big oaf. She died inside when the President told her you were dead after the plane you were in got shot down. God, I want to beat your ass for being such an idiot, but I’ll have to wait my turn. And how the devil did you make it out of that one with your hide in one piece?

I’ll tell you later. Jack felt like a mountain had been lifted from his shoulders, and he found himself holding back tears of relief. She’s alive, he thought. She’s going to want my scalp, but she’s alive. Just get Naomi on the phone.

***

In the center of dozens of acres of flat, barren ground squatted the hastily erected fortress that housed what was now known as the SEAL-2 facility. Originally intended as a special research lab for Morgan Pharmaceuticals, it had been given over by its billionaire owner, Howard Morgan, to the government to aid in the fight against the harvesters. The original building, which stood two stories above ground, would have been barely recognizable to those who originally built it. The sleek white exterior, designed to be both attractive and highly energy efficient with numerous windows in the upper floor, had been encased in reinforced concrete two feet thick that was still setting in the hastily erected molds. The above ground floor space had been tripled with the addition of a huge annex, and contractors were still working feverishly around the clock to make the new lab areas habitable. The roof, which had been heavily reinforced with corrugated steel, had sprouted a forest of communications antennas.

On one side of the the lab complex, two new buildings, both two stories tall, were quickly being erected to provide living quarters for the small army of scientists and security personnel who had been brought in, and who were now living in heated shelters arrayed in neat rows on the opposite side of the lab buildings. On the other, set a safe distance away, was a helipad and a maintenance hanger that could house a single helicopter.

A hundred yards behind the lab was a power house that sheltered three massive diesel backup generators, fed by a set of fuel bladders that contained a hundred thousand gallons of fuel, plus additional bladders with jet fuel for the helicopters. The facility was still on grid power, but no one expected that to last for much longer.

Beside the power house was a vehicle park and a large two bay garage that could fit any of the military vehicles now assigned to protect the base, including a host of armed Hummers and a platoon each of M1A2 Abrams tanks and eight-wheeled Light Armored Vehicles, or LAVs, all of which were equipped with thermal imagers that would allow them to distinguish harvesters from humans.

Those vehicles were currently deployed in overwatch positions around the base perimeter beyond the protective barriers that were being put up by an Army engineer battalion. The original double fence topped with barbed wire had been left in place, but the chief engineer had quickly realized how inadequate the original defensive plans had been after the horrendous nature of the threat had crystallized after the rapid destruction of the Los Angeles metro area.

To protect against the threat of larval harvesters getting to the complex, the ground and walkways everywhere inside the original double fence, which had been expanded to include the new buildings, was covered with a close-knit lattice of replaceable sensors encased in tough weatherproof plastic, which was itself a treat for the carbon-hungry harvester larvae. As the larva consumed the plastic, the exposed sensor would measure the unique electrical impedance of the creature’s gelatinous flesh, which in testing had almost totally eliminated false alarms. When a sensor was tripped, an alarm in the security center would be triggered, providing exact locational data for the quick reaction teams that would destroy the creature with nothing more sophisticated than a squeeze bottle of lighter fluid and a long-tipped butane igniter.

The fences of the original perimeter were now the last line of active defense leading up to the buildings, which were heavily fortified and sealed against larvae. The outer fence could be electrified with voltage that could incapacitate or kill any adult harvesters that weren’t killed by the remotely detonated Claymore directional mines that had been emplaced at close intervals around the fence line.

A no-man’s land extended two hundred yards beyond the double fence and ended in a ten foot high steel wall with a heavily guarded gate large enough to pass the tanks and tractor trailers that came and went at all hours of the day, and guard towers at intervals around the complex. But this wall wasn’t designed to stop the harvesters: it was to keep unauthorized people out. The architects of the facility’s defensive works knew that the day might come, perhaps all too soon, when they might be mobbed by desperate civilians. It was an unpleasant aspect of the work that had to be done, but the times were becoming more desperate with every passing hour. Beyond the wall was the first line of defense, a moat six feet across and six inches deep that could be filled with diesel fuel from a separate set of fuel bladders to create a barrier of fire around the complex. The harvesters were extremely vulnerable to open flame, and it was hoped none would dare try to cross. The only real limitation on the moat’s defensive power was the amount of fuel the complex had to feed it.

However, should the creatures somehow get past the moat, the no-man’s land was intended to be the main killing ground. A dozen M252 81mm mortars were arrayed around the roof of the lab complex in covered enclosures that could be quickly opened if the crews had to fire. If the mote and outer wall were breached, the mortars would shower them with white phosphorus rounds, which would ignite the creatures’ flammable malleable flesh. Should the need arise, the mortars could strike targets farther from the complex, up to six kilometers away.

Over a dozen other complexes similar to this one were being built in other parts of the United States and Canada as fast as modern engineering methods allowed. The secrecy and urgency of the effort matched that of the Manhattan Project that developed the atomic bomb and ended the Second World War. But the price for failure in this new arms race, which in the long run would be won in the laboratory, not the battlefield, would not be subjugation, but outright extinction.

While the new lab complexes had a common purpose and would all be manned by the most brilliant geneticists, biologists, and other scientists that humankind had to offer, only one facility — this one — was graced by the sole individual in whom so many had placed their hopes of finding a genetic weapon that might win the war: Naomi Perrault.

Naomi was a genius who had been the unwitting instrument the original harvesters had needed to complete the development of a new type of genetically engineered corn that was supposed to have cured many of humanity’s common ills. Instead, the genes it carried transformed any organism that consumed it into a larval harvester form.

After she discovered the true nature of the work she was doing for New Horizons, a huge agribusiness that focused on genetically engineered crops, she had joined the Earth Defense Society to help undo what she had done and prevent the harvesters from achieving their goal of wiping Earth clean of human life.

While the EDS had managed to kill all the old harvesters and destroy most of the infected seed, some had been stolen. The single bag of seed they had missed had led to the global disaster they now faced, and she felt a crushing burden of guilt for deaths worldwide that were estimated to be in the millions.

On top of the guilt lay a sense of overwhelming loss. Jack Dawson, the man she had once saved from death at the hands of a harvester and who had later helped save her and the others of the Earth Defense Society, the man she had come to love, was dead, killed when a Russian fighter shot down the plane he was in as he tried to reach Norway. When the President of the United States himself told her the news, a part of her, the best part she sometimes thought with sterile, clinical detachment, had died.

It was only five days ago, but it seemed like an agonizing, empty lifetime had passed since he died. She had filled the void left in her soul with a cold, bitter determination to find a final solution for the harvester problem. Somewhere in the eight hundred billion base pairs of the harvester DNA was a weakness, something they could exploit and use as a weapon against them. It was all she had now. The pursuit of death had become the purpose of her life.

She only ate when one of the others, usually Renee or Harmony Bates, one of the scientists on her team, forced her to. She sometimes slept for brief periods of time, slumping over her desk when caffeine could no longer keep her awake and exhaustion overwhelmed her. Her face was pale and drawn, with puffy dark rings under her brown and blue eyes, and she had already lost so much weight that she had to borrow clothes from one of the other women on the team because her own no longer fit.

Those things didn’t matter to her anymore. The only things that did was her work and the two cats, Alexander and Koshka, who were never far from her side. The attention she denied her own body, she lavished upon them. Alexander was a big Siberian with black and white tuxedo markings, and had belonged to Jack. The big cat was usually to be found laying across her desk, snoozing. But other times he would prowl the lab, periodically sending up a mournful meow, as if looking for his lost human. Every time he did that, Naomi wanted to burst into tears. But she forced those feelings back into a tight box, wishing each time that she could lock them away forever. Her own cat, Koshka, was a Turkish Angora with a lush white coat marred by a scar down her flank where a harvester had nearly killed her. While she sometimes vied for the spot on her desk normally coveted by Alexander, more often than not she was curled upon the floor, her head resting on one of Naomi’s feet.

She sat back for a moment, rubbing her eyes, which nowadays always felt like they were full of sand. They had made tremendous progress in the last several days in mapping the harvester genome, which was the first step in understanding how to defeat