Aftershock

By Philip Bosshardt

Hit with devastating earthquakes, seismic shocks and tremors, major American and European cities are reeling from what first seems to be an extraordinary series of natural disasters. Cities have been reduced to rubble; hundreds of thousands have died. But one person, seismologist Krystal Payne, believes otherwise. Her research and analysis, coupled with extraordinary intelligence from national sources, reveals that the quakes are man-made, created by manned underground vehicles operated by a shadowy criminal organization called Red Sword, closely allied with China.
What follows is a duel with deadly consequences, as America stands up a new force of underground warriors to combat this menace and protect American lives. Drawing from U.S. Army armored units, the new service called Terra Guard uses people like decorated tank commander Jake Swift to try to engage and defeat this new threat. But Red Sword is tough, resourceful and resilient and the early encounters cause as much damage to the good guys as to the adversary.
Faced with defeat and realizing that America still has no effective defense against these threats and dealing with an ultimatum that may have to be accepted, Jake Swift and Krystal Payne use every trick they can think of to develop new tactics to confront the adversary.
In this new and unforgiving world of underground warfare, the geotroopers have to make up tactics as they go along. Success isn’t guaranteed and the consequences of failure are catastrophic. Only ingenious thinking and the craziest ideas seem to work against a determined foe.
Can Terra Guard defend America and her allies? Can the genie of subterranean conflict be put back in the bottle? The answer depends on a hard-bitten Army tank commander and a seismologist out to prove herself in a man’s world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Bosshardt
• Release date: Sep 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005441081

Philip Bosshardt

Philip Bosshardt is a native of Atlanta, Georgia. He works for a large company that makes products everyone uses...just check out the drinks aisle at your grocery store. He’s been happily married for over 20 years. He’s also a Georgia Tech graduate in Industrial Engineering. He loves water sports in any form and swims 3-4 miles a week in anything resembling water. He and his wife have no children. They do, however, have one terribly spoiled Keeshond dog named Kelsey.For details on his series Tales of the Quantum Corps, visit his blog at qcorpstimes.blogspot.com or his website at http://philbosshardt.wix.com/philip-bosshardt.

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Aftershock

Published by Philip Bosshardt at Smashwords

Copyright 2022 Philip Bosshardt

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Chapter 1

New York City

February 10, 2118

0745 hours

Luci Byers took one last gut-wrenching glance out the window of the FEMA helicopter as she examined her cheeks and eyes in her compact mirror, primping for the intro to the WorldNet News Special Report that was due to air in less than a minute.

The devastation across central Manhattan was near total. It was easier, less gruesome, to focus on applying the last wisps of eye shadow and makeup.

A voice erupted in her earbud.

Five seconds, Ms. Byers. That was Ron, her producer, back at the makeshift studios in Syosset.

WorldNet Special Report: "The Big Shake"

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is correspondent Luci Byers, with WorldNet World Service. We’re flying in a FEMA command helicopter, call sign Big Bird One, over midtown Manhattan, where the scale of the destruction from this morning’s quake is just heart-wrenching. I’m flying with—"

--the camera pans low and zooms in on streets and avenues filled with rubble piles, collapsed buildings—some leaning crazily against each other, as if for support, fires raging out of control, smoke everywhere and thousands of dazed survivors milling and moving through the streets—

—with Will McDonough, assistant director for the Federal Emergency Management Agency—FEMA—and its Mid-Atlantic Region. Will, tell us what we’re looking at here—

The camera briefly pans back to show the grave face of McDonough, sandy-haired, pale and shaken, with an annoying fluttering eyeblink that is hard to watch.

McDonough just shakes his head. Luci, what we’re seeing below us here is something that likely hasn’t been seen in this area for millions of years, if ever. It’s just gut-wrenching, sickening really, to see all this.

Will, the scientists have given preliminary estimates of the size of the quake…something above magnitude 8.3, if my notes are correct.

McDonough nods blankly, still numb from dealing with facts and figures that exceed his ability to comprehend. That’s right, Luci. We’re still working with our colleagues at the U.S. Geological Survey on this, but those are the initial estimates. The epicenter, for the big one and most of the aftershocks we’re still feeling, has been placed at a point about forty miles northeast of Scranton, Pennsylvania…in fact, near the Wayne County town of Honesdale. The geos say the focus point is directly below this point at a depth of at least five miles…basically in the northern Poconos.

Will— Luci works with a tablet perched on her knees as Big Bird One wheels around just below Central Park and begins tracking south along the West Side Highway. Flying alongside the FEMA AW-189 twin-turbine chopper are three WorldNet Hawkeye newsdrones. Luci manipulates a trackball—one of three on her tablet—sending Hawkeye Two lower, down to street level, cruising just above the building tops lining upper Broadway. —this quake was so unexpected. Are there faults below us that are unknown, maybe undetected?

McDonough deliberately averts his eyes from the smashed cityscape Hawkeye Two is showing them… an unending panorama of rubble and broken pavement, flames licking up the sides of two buildings leaning against each other, overturned and crushed cars and buses, a dense pall of smoke and everywhere, throngs of vacant-eyed survivors meandering aimlessly down the street.

It’s true, Luci, that we have no known fault lines or zones anywhere in this region. We’re right in the middle of the North American tectonic plate here. It’s been geologically quiet for most of known history. Undoubtedly, there are transform faults and fracture zones, perhaps even some convergent plate motion we haven’t been able to detect, but— McDonough shrugs helplessly, unable even to find words to describe the indescribable. Honestly, we’re counting on our Geological Survey friends to help us out here. FEMA’s mostly focused on locating and caring for survivors and getting essential services up and running as quickly as possible.

Can you give us an estimate of casualties?

McDonough bit his lips, unwilling to commit to specific numbers. We’re working with local authorities on that, Luci. NYPD, FDNY, those people. I don’t want to speculate but I think it’s safe to say that casualties of all types may well run into the millions, just here in the New York City area. Again, a shrug.

That’s right, Luci remarked. We know that many other cities have been hit equally hard…Boston, Philly, Baltimore and DC.

McDonough agreed. The event is truly regional in scope. The entire U.S. eastern seaboard has suffered a cataclysmic event…we were prepared, more or less, for hurricanes, floods, tornadoes, sea-level rise, but nothing like this. Nothing—

McDonough seems at a loss for words. As Hawkeye Two cruises above Broadway, showing marquis signs from the theater district strewn across the buckled pavement of the street like so many ice chips and Times Square a smoking ruin choked with burning debris, Luci decides to provide some voice-over narration. She trackballs the newsdrone to a higher altitude to avoid the gutted roofs of a bus terminal and what was left of the Metropolitan Opera—its scalloped glass towers now another pile of debris.

…the destruction of lower and mid-Manhattan is extensive and grim, as you can see from our newsdrone. Undoubtedly, thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands have died or are trapped in the burning rubble of so many collapsed buildings. Many iconic structures are gone—the Empire State Building is a misshapen heap of debris, covering several city blocks. Also gone is Freedom Tower, on the lower west side, site of the old World Trade Center. Further north, the George Washington Bridge has collapsed its entire span into the Hudson River, blocking traffic in both directions.

Big Bird One reaches the Battery at the southern tip of Manhattan and Luci continues her voiceover, occasionally sneaking a peak at McDonough whose face is ashen and grim. His lips were moving silently, no sound coming out of his mouth, as if he were in continual prayer.

"…Near the Battery, the U.S.S. Intrepid has slipped her moorings and drifted out into the channel, then tsunami waves coming from the ocean capsized the ancient aircraft carrier and she was driven by these waves into the Statue of Liberty, whose torch-bearing arm became detached and fell into the water." Luci spied McDonough raising his hand. His voice was choked, almost inaudible, but he was determined to contribute something to the news report.

Will, you have something—

Yes, just to add that all local airports are closed, Newark, JFK and LaGuardia, and most rail and road traffic is suspended…the roads are impassable anyway. I’m in constant touch with regular units of the U.S. Army and New York National Guard, who are on hand by the thousands to lend humanitarian assistance and control looting. Helicopter and drone rescues are occurring every minute throughout the--.

Luci held up a hand, for her producer Ron had just cut in on her earbud.

"Luci, standby for a switch…we’ve got Celia over at the Holland Tunnel— send Hawkeye One. Luci nodded, Right…thanks. Will, we’re momentarily cutting over to another correspondent at the Holland Tunnel."

McDonough’s face lit up with recognition of another unfolding tragedy. Sure…of course—the tunnel—

Luci said, Right now, we’re shifting over to Celia Henry, WorldNet correspondent at the Holland Tunnel—

The view shifts abruptly to a scene of utter chaos—it’s the middle of the Hudson River…the river is choked with boats, tenders and craft of all kinds…NYPD, FDNY, Port Authority, New Jersey State Police, Coast Guard—

"…is Celia Henry, aboard the Coast Guard patrol boat Commander Luke McMichael…we’re hovering over the suspected collapsed section of the Holland Tunnel, approximately half a mile west of Manhattan’s Pier 34. Reports came into FEMA and the Port Authority just over an hour ago that a five-hundred-yard stretch of the tunnel may have collapsed during the Big Shake. The tunnel’s underwater sections are dug and buried in the riverbed silt, near the bottom of the river. At approximately 4:42 am this morning, sensor indications showed that the underwater sections had either collapsed or come apart at or near a point about half a mile from the tunnel’s midtown Manhattan terminus." Celia Henry let Hawkeye One pan across the gathering flotilla of rescue vessels surging up and down the river near the site.

"Already, from this very ship, the Commander McMichael…they call her Big Mike… Coast Guard divers and remote submersibles are investigating the situation…there are estimates from the Port Authority that several hundred people may be trapped in the collapsed section. Their condition is unknown…Port Authority officials insist that there could well be pockets of air in some of the collapsed sections. Only time…and prayers…will tell—"

As Celia Henry finished her report from the Holland Tunnel, Luci Byers and Will McDonough were reviewing and quietly commenting on newsdrone footage from Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington. All had suffered extensive catastrophic damage.

In DC, the Potomac had flooded the National Mall area, owing to tsunami waves driving floodwaters upriver. Hit by the surging waves, the Washington Monument had toppled and lay in pieces across the green sward of the mall. The Capitol dome was still intact but the front façade of the Senate wing collapsed, as had half the columns fronting the Lincoln Memorial. The White House had lost part of its western structure, which had collapsed and fallen onto the roof of the West Wing. The President was unhurt, but some staff had been killed.

Will McDonough pointed to a sidebar on Luci’s tablet, a feed from other sources. Look at this one…

A vactrain enroute to Chicago, the Heartland Express, had been extensively damaged in western New York state by the collapse of her underground tunnel. Hundreds were aboard, casualties were unknown and rescue efforts—digging and boring down—were underway now.

Producer Ron chirped in Luci’s ear. Luci, that’s enough footage from Manhattan…we’ve got serious time constraints with our advertisers here…get back to the airfield…do a wrap up on the way.

Byers nodded. Got it. Will, my producer says we have to head back. Can you comment on the scale of FEMA’s rescue and recovery effort?

McDonough seemed to have regained some color in his face. His words were grim and sober.

Well, obviously, this is a national catastrophe. Recovery efforts will take years, maybe decades. Casualties are unknown but will probably number in the millions. Truly, I haven’t seen anything like this in my whole career…I don’t think anyone has. The entire eastern U.S.—visible damage has been reported from Atlanta all the way to Halifax, Nova Scotia—has suffered something that probably hasn’t occurred for millions of years, if ever. We’re going to have to get with the U.S. Geological Survey, after all these tremors and aftershocks have settled down, to see if we have some unknown fault lines below us, never before mapped or detected, and how risky are they?

The questioning stops for a moment, as Luci’s tablet erupts with another feed. As the FEMA helicopter crosses the East River heading for the makeshift airfield at Farmingdale, Long Island, they both watch newsdrone footage from the mountains of North Georgia, where two tourist towns—Alpine Helen and Old Vienna—have been buried in mountain landslides. Casualties are in the hundreds.

Once Big Bird One alights at the airfield, and her brood of newsdrones follows suit, Luci turns to McDonough.

Will, I know how tough this has been, for both of us. I want to thank you for spending time with our viewers this morning, helping to explain what we were seeing and putting it in some kind of official context. Again, thanks.

The two briefly hug and McDonough exits the helicopter.

This is Luci Byers, WorldNet Special Correspondent, reminding you to stay tuned for continuing coverage of the Big Shake and all the ramifications of the catastrophic events of today. We’ll be cutting to your local news momentarily.

The camera light on the tablet went off and Luci Byers took a deep breath, watching technicians outside swarm around the Hawkeye newsdrones to swap out battery packs and check the flyers out.

A WorldNet lifter squatted nearby, ready to whisk her off to WorldNet’s makeshift studios in Syosset. Luci stared at the ever-shifting images swirling over the face of the tablet, images of devastation that reminded her of every war movie she had ever seen. She momentarily envied the newsdrones being carefully tended a few dozen yards away.

Nobody’s tending me, she told herself. Nobody’s checking to see how the correspondent’s doing.

Girl, pull it together. She shook herself out of the funk and stepped out onto the tarmac, hoisting her tablet and purse to avoid a gust of wind bearing dust from what had once been a small terminal building, now a pile of brick and glass.

Luci was worried sick about her family, about her Dad, now in his nineties with advancing dementia and her frazzled mom trying her level best to keep it all together. She had no idea if the retirement home in Summit, New Jersey, had even survived the Big Shake. She hadn’t heard from them and she hadn’t been able to contact them…phone lines and towers were down everywhere.,

Arriving at her cubicle an hour later, Luci Byers set to work editing and preparing her final report for uplink to the WorldNet satellite.

One way or another, even if she had to drive or swim or rent a velocopter or steal WorldNet’s lifter, she meant to find out what had happened in Summit, New Jersey.

U.S. Geological Survey Headquarters

Reston, Virginia

February 10, 2118

10:30 hours

Seismologist Krystal Payne was puzzled and more than a little concerned.

This just doesn’t make any sense, she told herself, as she re-ran the loop of the seismic signals generated by the Big Shake in a cluttered corner of the Earthquake Hazards lab. While GERT—the Geophysical and Environmental Response Tracker—set up the run again on her display, she tried to shut out all the noise around her and focus—focus, damn it! Focus!

The lab and her little cubbyhole had been partially damaged in the quake and she was doing her work with workmen and maintenance people repairing stuff all around her, amid dust and broken windows and breached walls and snow-soaked drywall slabs scattered about. She was studying and analyzing the signals GERT brought up, to the sound of hammers, drills, saws and vacuum cleaners, trying to keep her mind on her work.

Finally, she turned to face the foreman. Guys, really? Can you just give it a rest for awhile?

The foreman wiped sweat from a grimy forehead. Sorry, ma’am. Orders from the Super. We have to get these walls up before dark…the Big Shake, you know.

She shook her head in disgust and opened a video chat line with a colleague—maybe this will help—Clark Fremont at the National Earthquake Information Center in Golden, Colorado.

Clarkie, I don’t like it…it doesn’t make any sense. The signals don’t match normal waveforms.

Fremont’s face filled a small window on her display. Another window scrolled newsfeeds from the devastation around Washington. Cranes and bulldozers were already removing broken sections of the Washington Monument off the Mall.

I know…I’ve been puzzling about that too, Fremont admitted. The data show that the Big Shake was a strike-slip fault movement, a lateral shift. But if your instruments are right, there are spurious signals we can’t account for with normal crustal shifts.

Krystal told GERT to re-run the seismograms from the whole Big Shake incident, start to finish. She and Fremont commented as the shock waves danced across their displays.

It’s a P-wave variant I’ve never seen before, Clarkie. I’ve been in geology for five years…this is so weird.

Fremont agreed. "Remember Kinnard’s paper a year ago--?

Krystal nodded. "I do. Something like Micro-tectonics and Shear Stress in Igneous Rock or something like that."

That’s the one. Maybe that’s what we’re looking at here. There seem to be components in the P-waves that don’t match up with the underlying rock strata and what we know of the fault networks in the eastern U.S.

Krystal tried to shut out the sound of the drilling and sawing behind her. I don’t know about you but I’m seeing a P-wave variant with really unusual spikes of a different frequency, a kind of reinforcing frequency. The predominant wave is a signal indicating a strike-slip fault, like we both surmise. There seems to be some lateral movement across what may be a series of poorly mapped anticline folds just below the Appalachian spine. Then we have some kind of compressional energy release…all normal, right?

Right. You guys at the Lab are okay with projections of where the epicenter and the focus were?

Nobody’s had any heartburn about that. But you see what I see…signals that don’t make any sense…signals that shouldn’t be happening in this type of quake. Shear waves repeatedly reinforcing the compression waves. From what I know about geology after being in the field for five years, that shouldn’t even be possible.

Fremont’s face was a puzzle. Unless there are some really weird fault zones unmapped. Maybe a new kind of transform fault…you know, strike-slip faults at the boundary of some undetected lithospheric plate…not a trench or ridge but some other kind of margin.

Krystal said, Yeah, I thought about that…for about two seconds. But I can’t make the data fit current models. Even GERT can’t. Possibly it’s a new and unclassified type of transform fault. But the big issue is the repeating shear-wave signals ‘overlying’ the classical compression wave energy—

Her words were interrupted Dr. Hans Keller, the Lab supervisor, who had just come in. He bent forward, catching a faint whiff of Krystal’s Tigress perfume and traced GERT’s latest seismic wave patterns on the display with a finger.

—Dr. Keller— Krystal was momentarily startled.

Krystal, Clark… He hmm’ed and clucked for a moment, studying the display. It’s almost as if some kind of new energy was injected into the rock strata, along these fault lines.

Krystal didn’t know what to do with her hands and she silently wished Dr. Keller would remove his onion-breath face from her display. Quietly, she backed her chair off to one side.

What could cause that?

It was Fremont who voiced what they were all thinking. Something man-made, maybe.

Keller straightened up. I thought of that. Have you checked on any fracking or other geo tests going on in the vicinity?

Krystal said, I have. There’s nothing. Until the first seismic shifts of the Big Shake, the whole region’s quiet as a church mouse.

Keller rubbed a stubbly chin, glared with annoyance at the workers hoisting a drywall section into place. The data is what it is, Dr. Payne. We have to accept the validity of what we’re seeing here. Some kind of energy in the form of man-made pulses was directed into the fault lines from somewhere else…these shocks have to have been triggered by man-made activity.

The implications of Keller’s words hung heavily in the dusty air for a few seconds. Then Fremont spoke up.

Who? And how?

And why? added Krystal.

Keller was more and more convinced that the data indicated something man-made. We don’t know yet. Dr. Payne, gather all the data you have, have GERT massage it into something presentable and do a preliminary report. Run it by me first, then post it on the internal server. I’d like to get other opinions from around here. But before we go outside, I want to be sure of what we have. Then— but he stopped in mid-sentence, for his phone had just chirped. Keller answered, his face a confusing jumble of conflicting images. Finally, he said simply, Yes, sir…we’re all here in the Earthquake lab. Have Security bring them up here. Yes, sir…we will…yes, sir, of course, sir— He ended the call.

Krystal was intrigued enough to ask. Normally, Keller’s face was always a grave statue, stony, impassive and serious. Now—

What is it, Dr. Keller?

The Lab supervisor rubbed fingers through thinning white hair. It seems we have visitors. Defense Intelligence Agency, from over in DC. Some men want to talk to us about the Big Shake. Krystal, have you posted anything yet from these sessions with GERT?

Payne shrugged. Just initial wave analysis. We’ve collated seismographic data from hundreds of sensors up and down the coast. Some geosat measurements, too…you know, the usual crustal deformations, movements, all the radar imagery...that sort of thing.

Keller said nothing for the Lab doors had just swung open.

Two green-uniformed Federal Protective Service guards came in. Two civilians followed, both male, grim and clearly military despite their outfits.

The guards waved themselves outside the Lab doors and shut them as they exited. The taller civilian extended a hand to Dr. Keller.

Major Kyle Chadwick, sir. U.S. Army. This is Lieutenant Jennings. Both of us are DIA, Analysis Directorate.

Keller introduced Payne and Fremont. At the Major’s prompting, Clark Fremont signaled he was signing off. For good measure, all the workmen were also shoo’ed out of the Lab.

Keller was suspicious. What’s this all about, Major?

Chadwick was tall, rock-hard, with a prominent nose and ears, which no one made fun of. He stared right through Keller with an unblinking gaze.

You have all your data on the Big Shake here?

Keller cleared his throat. We do a lot of the analysis here, yes…that is true. We’re still collecting and analyzing data from our instruments. There are still aftershocks that are—

But he was interrupted by Chadwick. The Major withdrew an official-looking form from a jacket pocket and handed it to Keller. As of right now, per 49 CFR 173.5, all your data, disks, reports and papers pertaining to the Big Shake are classified by order of the Secretary of Defense.

Keller scanned the form. This says Top Secret Ultra-Purple SCI…what does that even mean?

Chadwick was in no mood for discussion. SCI means Sensitive Compartmented Information. You and anyone else involved in analyzing data from the Big Shake are required to accompany Lieutenant Jennings and myself to Defense Intelligence Agency headquarters…immediately.

Momentarily flustered, Keller glanced at Krystal Payne, noting how pale her face was. And where is that, sir?

Chadwick was brusque. Joint Base Anacostia Bolling. I have an Army lifter outside. I’ll give you a few moments to gather your materials. All your computers and files have to come too.

We can’t very well bring GERT along with us, Major.

Download what you have to. Lieutenant Jennings will help. But make it quick. We have to be at a briefing in an hour.

The next ten minutes were a flurry of activity, as Keller and Payne gathered up or downloaded everything they could related to the Big Shake. Several wastebaskets were used to carry files and disks and thumb drives. Everything was hand-carried out of the Lab, out of USGS headquarters, past the security shack and gate arms to a waiting olive-green Army lifter squatting like a predatory insect on the snowy front lawn, beneath the flag pole and the USGS logo and sign.

Keller and Payne were helped aboard, followed by Chadwick and Jennings. Krystal was glad the Major had let her retrieve a coat and her purse, for it was brisk and windy outside and light snow was falling. She nearly slipped twice on the icy sidewalks leaving the building.

Moments later, the lifter whirred into the sky, leaving a corkscrew of snow in its wake. The ship made an abrupt 180-degree turn and bent into stiff winds, heading for the District. Minutes later, they crossed the frozen, ice-choked Potomac and buzzed down the Mall, flying over the broken rubble of the Monument and debris from other memorials, passing the scaffolding and protective barriers being quickly erected over the Senate wing of the Capitol.

The lifter descended quickly and circled a small landing pad inside Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling. Ice chunks drifted down the Anacostia River beyond a semi-circle of white stone and glass buildings. The lifter settled to a rattling bumpy stop and Chadwick and his lieutenant conveyed Krystal and Dr. Keller, each with arms full of wastebaskets, toward a six-story building at one end of the circle.

The DIA logo beamed down at them as they scanned in through several security stations and went deeper inside.

Chadwick led them to a secure conference room on the second floor. Several uniformed officers were already seated at the table, video displays and remote mikes lined up in the middle like so many miniature cadets. One wall was given over to a grid of screens and displays.

In the center seat, before the video wall, an Army general rose as Krystal and Dr. Keller were escorted in. Other officers relieved them of their wastebaskets.

Sorry for all the dramatics, Dr. Payne, Dr. Keller. I’m Major General Givens, Directorate of Analysis. All these men and woman are from our Americas and Trans-regional Threat Center. Please, take a seat.

Keller sat down slowly. General, I’m not sure that—

But Givens interrupted him. Please, I’ll answer any questions you may have, but time is short. Let me lay out the facts as clearly as I can…I think this briefing will answer a lot of your questions. Colonel— Givens turned the meeting over to a burly female colonel—her name patch said Wrigley. She was short and wide with fine black hair swept back to a peak and too much lipstick on, thought Krystal Payne.

Jeez, she looks like some kind of clown emoji, Krystal thought but didn’t say.

Colonel Wrigley cleared her throat and began. Her first remarks dealt with the effects of the Big Shake, the first tremors, the publicly known details, the casualties and destruction, what FEMA and other agencies were doing about it, the involvement of the Defense Department and the services.

It was what Wrigley said next that caught Krystal’s attention. She and Keller sat up straight at the same time and their eyes met.

The Directorate wants to know everything you know about these unusual seismic and underground signals—

Krystal forced her mouth not to pop open in disbelief. How the hell could they know this—Her eyes questioned Keller, but the Lab supervisor subtly shook his head. Not now, not here.

Instead, Krystal decided to ask a simple question. All this stuff is just geological data— she indicated the wastebaskets sitting on top of the conference table. There are no secrets here…anybody should be able to—

But Wrigley cut her off abruptly. Dr. Payne, Dr. Keller, please. The Colonel questioned General Givens with a look. The General nodded assent. What I’m about to tell you is highly classified…Ultra-Purple SCI and higher. It stays in this room, okay?

Both Krystal and Keller nodded quickly.

Of course, Colonel.

Wrigley went on. Our friends at CIA— she indicated two men in dark suits at the end of the table, have informed us that they have intel from foreign sources that your suspicions may be correct.

Dr. Keller was puzzled. Our suspicions--?

Wrigley said, We know you think some of the underground signals you detected are suspect. She saw both Krystal and Keller raise hands, about to object. Instead, she held up a hand. Don’t ask. We have our sources. As I said, our Agency colleagues believe you may be right…that the Big Shake was a man-made, human-generated event. And there are suspicions a and indications that the Chinese may be behind it all.

Wrigley let that sink in. Both Dr. Keller and Krystal blinked in disbelief.

The Chinese? Surely, this must be speculation—

Now General Givens interrupted. This is why we need your help, your corroboration. Dr. Keller, Dr. Payne, I want you both to set up a sort of mini-briefing right here in this room. I want you to go over in detail why you find the seismic signals you detected from the Big Shake so unexpected. I’m trying to put two and two together and see if it comes up with anything like four. The SecDef and the President are both expecting your—and our—analysis and recommendations by 1630 hours this afternoon. Givens’ eyes bored in on both of them. Your expertise here is critical to upcoming decisions, national security decisions. Can I count on you two?

Krystal’s eyes met Keller’s. What could they do? The Big Shake was a catastrophe of the first order. If there was anything they could do, any way they could help, how often did a geologist get involved with national security anyway….

Keller spoke first. Of course, General. Anything you need…uh, Dr. Payne and I will need some assistance, computers, access to our files, that sort of thing….

Givens’ face relaxed ever so slightly. He turned to Major Chadwick. Major, see to it. Anything they need…we don’t have much time here.

Chadwick shot out of his seat and immediately began clearing space on the table top. Others started arranging plugs and wireless hubs.

Directorate conference room 2E-77 was a blur of activity for the next hour.

Krystal nodded off on the drive home that night—it was late, after 7 p.m.—and let her autocar do the driving and wrestling with traffic creeping out of DC. She found her Dad cocooned under a blanket in his wheelchair, having nodded off watching some kind of game show on TV.

Dad— she kissed the thinning hair on top of his head. —Dad, it’s me. I’m home…finally.

John Payne, retired geochemistry professor at Johns Hopkins, stirred and mumbled. You’re…late, Krys…hard day?

You wouldn’t believe it. You eaten yet? I could warm up some of that spaghetti from last night.

Just crackers.

She saw the floor strewn with crumbs and wrappers. Howie the housebot was down until she could get a service man out to the house, so she stooped down and scooped up all the crumbs she could get to.

Let me start the spaghetti. Plus, we’ve got tiramisu in the fridge…you like that.

Her Dad had been suffering from worsening dementia the last two years.

Krystal bustled about the kitchen, setting the table, watching the spaghetti, wheeling her Dad over to his spot and wiping down his face with a cool wet rag.

There, she pronounced. She carefully placed a fork in his hand. Eat. And leave the dishes. I’m going out to the barn to feed and groom Adonis and Bentley…the other two men in my life.

That brought a welcome smile to his face. Krystal headed outside.

She had loved horses from early on. Although she had been raised (if that was the word) in an academic family and surroundings, Krystal had always loved the outdoors and especially horses, though as a child, she had been thrown off their backs often enough. At ten years old, she’d suffered a broken shoulder from a bad fall and it hadn’t really healed properly…you could still hear the bones click if she rolled her clavicle the right way. Even today, she still had pains from that one, though she didn’t blame Whistler for being startled at that runaway dog.

Inside the barn, her two Arabians neighed and tossed their heads in their stalls when she swung open the door and turned on the light. They were gorgeous guys, she had to admit.

Adonis was a bit high-strung but the tawny gold stallion was affectionate and energetic and probably her favorite ride when she and her current boyfriend Davies Scott went down to Southland Farms twice a month on Saturdays and went riding along the upper Potomac.

Bentley was pure white, a classic if ever there was one. Cool, calculating, cunning, playful in his way…she had to deal with Bentley with tact and skill, for he was smart and usually three steps ahead of her.

Krystal dragged a heavy bag of oats over and filled their troughs, then scattered some hay and grass around their hooves for good measure. While they munched, she brushed Adonis lovingly and ruffled that cute thatch of black fur just above Bentley’s eyes. Both horses murmured and whinnied affectionately and nuzzled her between bites of dinner. Bentley kept on nuzzling her and shoved his huge head against her arms, sniffing and snorting for the sugar cubes he knew were in her grasp.

Bentley, you’re too smart. She let both of them slurp up the cubes and held out a few more, as a dessert.

If only all men could be like you guys, she muttered. Oats, hay, sugar cubes and some vigorous brushing, that’s all— but her words were interrupted by a chirp from her wristpad. Incoming call, she realized. Not sure who it could be at this time of night, she tapped Accept and the wristpad shot out a full-size 3-d projection of the caller, the glowing image hovering over the straw floor of the barn.

It was Davies Scott. She’d been dating the young intern from the Stable Isotopes Lab for six months now.

Davies…what a surprise, she lied. What’s up?

From the vague outlines in the image, Scott seemed to be at home. I was going to ask you the same question. What did those Army guys want this morning?

What Army guys?

Scott clucked and shook his head skeptically. Come on, Krys, don’t con me. We all saw it. The whole lab’s been atwitter with rumors all day long…you and Keller up for espionage, maybe?

No sense in trying to deny it. D, it was nothing. Really. Totally routine. (now that was a stretch she was sure no one would believe).

Yeah, right. Nothing about today is routine. Seriously, what gives? Why does the Army come sniffing around USGS and whisk you and Keller off in such a big hurry?

Honestly, it was nothing. I can’t really talk about it anyway. You know how it is.

Not really. Hey, maybe a late Italian dinner would loosen your lips. How about Torino’s?

Krystal was dead tired, and she needed to tend to the horses and her Dad, but something in the way Davies put it kindled a craving. Torino’s was passable Italian, a bit heavy on the sauces but they had a Chicken Parmesan to die for. Okay, you’re on. What time?

Scott checked something. Say about eight. I’ll spring.

On an intern’s salary…I doubt that. See you at eight.

The 3-d image collapsed in a spray of light. Krystal sighed, quickly matched by similar sighs from Adonis and Bentley. She resumed brushing and thinking out loud, muttering sweet nothings to the two of them.

Krystal Payne wasn’t one to compare lovers or boyfriends but sometimes she just couldn’t help herself. Her previous hunk, Mike Kornienko, was long gone, back to California and the Vertigo Games shop where he’d gone after leaving the California Geology Survey. Mike was intense, with his wacko theories about subvitaphiles, early life forms that he insisted had creeped out of the Earth’s still-hot crust and mantle and populated the Earth. Life began underground, Krystal, he liked to say, and seeped up and spread out across the surface. Well, it made for good computer games but absolutely no reputable geologist or biologist believed a word of it.

No, Mike was a lion…powerful, impulsive, headstrong and self-centered.

And if Mike was a lion, what did that make Davies Scott, the Edinburgh-born lab intern she’d been seeing for the last few months? A Thomson’s gazelle, maybe? The guy was quick, alert, furtive and easily distracted. After two years with a lion, she needed someone like Davies. Krystal found the Scotsman comfortable as an old flannel bathrobe…soft, warm and not too clingy.

Even if the other girls in the lab thought of him as a skeleton with a beard.

Well, it was true…the guy was lean to the point of being gawky. But still…maybe I just watch too much Nat Geo…I’ve got to stop comparing all my friends to animals.

At least, Davies loved Adonis and Bentley almost as much as she did.

Back in the house, her Dad was nodding off over a half-eaten plate of spaghetti.

Dad! Honestly--! She cleaned him up, ascertained that he had no interest in leftover tiramisu and rolled him into the bedroom, where she somehow managed to wrestle him out of the chair and into the bed. She snugged up the covers and kissed him on the forehead. His head lolled and a smile formed on his lips…she always loved to see that smile.

Krys, you do take care of me, just like your mom.

Her mom had died of cancer just two years before.

I try, Dad. I try. I’m going out with Davies for dinner. Leave the dishes and I’ll do ‘em when I get back.

Her Dad was just mumbling gibberish now. Dishes…Howie can do dishes…get Howie…oh, I like that David…he seems nice….

Howie’s taking the night off, Dad. Remember, he tripped over your feet with a laundry basket night before last. Service man’s coming tomorrow…I hope. And it’s Davies….

But he was already snoring loudly, a rattling whistle issuing from his lips as they fluttered.

"Oh, Dad, honestly…." She kissed him again for good measure and then went about getting herself cleaned up for her impromptu date at Torino’s.

Getting into her autocar, she briefly wondered if the thing was charged up enough to make it Torino’s and back. But, really, there was no point in worrying about that. It had been that kind of day and if worse came to worse, Davies would drive her home.

Krystal tapped the screen and the motors whirred to life. The autocar could drive itself, as long as the start and end points were programmed in. She checked the screen to make sure and satisfied herself that Benjamin—that was the name she had given to her autocar—was programmed and enabled properly.

All safeties engaged. Check. End point and way points loaded. Check. No warning flags or red lights. Check.

She tapped GO on the screen and sat back to make faces at herself in the mirror as Benjamin steered them expertly out of the driveway, negotiating early-evening strollers, pedestrians and cars hunting for parking, then merged smoothly with building northbound traffic on Leesburg Pike.

The ride up to the exit would only take about ten minutes at most. Krystal spent a few minutes examining her face critically in the mirror, wondering where those wrinkles and crow’s feet had come from. She frowned, scrunched her face up different ways to see if it made any difference, then sat back to plot out something for tomorrow’s breakfast that she could somehow scrabble together on her wristpad.

Benjamin’s drive control system was sixth-generation AI, developed, tested, tuned and re-tested hundreds of times to be able to study its environment and make decisions millions of times a second, based on sensor inputs from its radar and lidar ‘eyes’, its pre-loaded terrain and route maps, any traffic or roadway conditions or alarms that might be relevant and real-time sampling of literally hundreds of environmental parameters surrounding the speeding vehicle, from air temperature to tire pressure on the asphalt to traffic density profiles adjusted for time of day, weather and sun angle and dozens of other variables.

Benjamin was truly a most capable system and Krystal implicitly trusted the drive system to get her from her house on Great Falls Lane to Torino’s safely and in a timely manner.

What Krystal didn’t know was that Benjamin wasn’t and never had been a truly cyber-secured system, at least not to a dedicated and well-paid hacker with the skills and persistence of Revenger.

A small program, an executable file with the cryptic, seemingly nonsense name of ScodosRexPlusTwo had been downloaded into Benjamin’s control system only the day before, while the autocar had been plugged into its terminal inside the garage at USGS headquarters in Reston. The autocar batteries had been topped up to full charge. Updates to Benjamin had been downloaded. Files had been rewritten, refreshed and the operating system for Benjamin had never flagged the entry of the small executable file called Scodos.

The file found its way into the master program directory and placed itself, disguised as an innocuous update file, in such a way that when Benjamin was fired up the next day, this evening, it would execute its malevolent instructions as surely as any other file.

The result of executing ScodosRexPlusTwo was quite simple and straightforward. Inputs from one radar sensor and one lidar sensor, located on the autocar’s roof and front grille would be blocked and written-over in a continuous loop, millions of times per second. The end result was that Benjamin would be blind in two critical eyes at the same time. Worse, perhaps more malevolently, Benjamin’s self-check circuitry wouldn’t detect and flag the discrepancy for it continued to receive inputs that seemed to make sense, even though the inputs didn’t come from the real world. Over a hundred years before, the same tactic had been used successfully by a malware program called Stuxnet.

And Revenger knew all about Stuxnet.

The malfunctioning sensors provided critical inputs to Benjamin’s lane-keeping system. Without real inputs from the road and from nearby traffic, Benjamin unintentionally allowed the autocar to drift slowly but steadily into the opposing lane of oncoming traffic.

Still engrossed in her menu plans for the next day, Krystal never saw the autotruck bearing down on them at a combined closing speed of a hundred and forty miles an hour, even with all its proximity horns going off.

The crash was heard for several miles around.

The impact was a matter of basic physics, easy enough to re-construct from the shredded metal, broken glass, rivulets of oil and skid marks left behind.

What was not possible to re-construct was the bodies of the passengers.

The autotruck operator had died instantly, his body mangled and bloodied into a nearly unrecognizable mass of tissue and clothing scraps.

A single female had been in the other autocar, properly strapped into her car seat.

The young woman, though critically injured, somehow managed to survive.

Hours later, Revenger polled the news sats and located the story of a horrendous autocar crash on northbound Leesburg Pike, northeast of Reston, Virginia. Studying the details carefully, cross-checking with other sources—drone vids, hospital and medical examiner admitting records, police reports, funeral home calls, he concluded that his job had been essentially accomplished.

He looked forward to receiving the remainder of his fee from the customer.

Chapter 2

Dalian Shipbuilding Industry Co.

Dalian, China

February 11, 2118

1200 hours

It was snowing lightly in the DSIC shipyard when Vice Minister of Defense Admiral Guo Wuhan came to visit. The Luyang limousine conveyed the Admiral to a wharf beside a small channel, well away from the main ways and docks. This remote dock area was covered by a hastily erected sheet-aluminum ‘house,’ and was both well-guarded and highly classified.

Guo stepped out of the limo and was immediately greeted by Captain Hu Chinle, formerly a PLA Navy officer and now head of Red Sword.

Excellency, welcome to Dalian, Hu said. He saluted smartly. Guo was important to Hu; the Admiral had carefully managed his rise through the Navy’s ranks and maneuvered the genius behind the Sea Cow operation into heading up a clandestine special operations force known to only a few as Hong jian…Red Sword, a unit that would function outside the Government of the People’s Republic. Red Sword gave the Party and the Government plausible deniability when the unit engaged in dangerous assigned missions.

Guo waved off the formalities. I want to see the ship, Hu. Show me the ship first. Talk later.

Guo was a man of few words.

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