City Under the Moon (30 page)

The box was dusty with grey ash and bone fragments loosely mixed with tatters of moldy fabric. An ancient sword, crusted and brittle, lay in the center of the remains.

“So they’re
not
vampires,” Mantle reiterated for safety.

“They are not vampires.” Ilecko said.

“Are they
werewolves
?” Tildascow demanded.

It was an excellent question, one that sent Lon’s mind reeling. The occult scholar within him could only dream of a tangible link between quintessential werewolf and vampire lore, but what did he really have? Vlad’s assault on the Ottomans certainly could have inspired Valenkov to take his fight to America, but was there a more concrete connection?

Where did the myths end and reality begin?

Nevertheless… if the Valenkovs, the cursed family of werewolves, were descendants of Vlad Dracula, the preeminent inspiration for vampires…

How could that be a coincidence?

Ilecko had found what he was looking for, a modern coffin near the very back of the vault. He slid its locking bolt and lifted the lid, causing the frayed soldiers to flinch again. Lon closed Vlad Dracula’s sarcophagus and hurried to Ilecko’s side.

The box let loose a whiff of rotting cheese—a very familiar smell in this castle. This was a much fresher corpse. It had been laid in a ceremonial cape coat of black and burgundy, with a bejeweled golden cross in its clasped hands. Its flesh had putrefied into a thin amber wax, leaving a sunken grin on its face. Little writhing insects had taken up inside the empty eye sockets.

“Who is this?” Tildascow asked.

Lon stepped back and found the nameplate engraving. “Zaharius Valenkov,” he read. “Demetrius’ father.”

Ilecko directed Tildascow to take the lid as he reached into his jacket’s pocket. He produced a weathered rawhide pouch, grimy with stains of dirt and blood. From his other pocket, he took the soil he’d scooped from the courtyard, and put it into the pouch.

“What are you doing?” Lon asked. Of course no answer.

Ilecko reached into the coffin and used two fingers to swab the waxy flesh from beneath Valenkov’s collar. The soldiers grimaced.

“Oh, what are you
doing?
” Lon cried.

He wiped the pulp into the bag, intermingling it with the soil.

“Why’d you do that?”

He stepped back. Tildascow closed the coffin.

“What’s that going to do?”

Ilecko’s eyes were heavy with dark contemplation as he pulled the pouch’s catgut drawstring. It was a familiar ceremony for him, and a sickening one at that. He held the bag tight, squeezing the contents together.

“Please tell me?”

After a long, pensive moment, he raised his gaze to Lon.

“Your men will provide more of their rations for my horses.”

“Uh… um, of course. Sure.” Lon looked to Tildascow, who agreed.

“Very well,” Ilecko said. “Let’s go to America.”

PART SIX

One

January 2

Around 3 a.m.

William Charles Weston had bid a lonely goodnight to his wife and kissed the unrecognizable teenagers who were once his baby daughters. And then he had retreated into his office, sat down at his desk, and contemplated killing a million Americans.

In the early days of August, 1945, Harry S. Truman sat here and considered the use of atomic weapons against Japan. On “Black Saturday,” October 27
th
, 1962, John F. Kennedy sat here as the nation crept to the very brink of nuclear war. And on the evening of September 11, 2001, George W. Bush sat here and addressed the terrified people of the United States.

The
Resolute
desk in the Oval Office had been gifted by Queen Victoria in 1880. It was a battery of strength, but whatever wisdom it’d absorbed remained frustratingly silent within its timbers. It was a partner’s desk, but it was no partner.

The grandfather clock chimed three times. Weston put down the shot of whiskey he’d been nursing for… well, he couldn’t remember how long.

A military action file stared back at him.

(TS-WOLFSBANE) Manhattan Epidemic Cleanse (TS-WOLFSBANE)

Again, he opened the file.

Biological agent M7949, anti-personnel biological weapon also known as “BLUSHBED,”
Staphylococcus
unclassified 241, or Sorcerer. Causes rapid infection and lethal flesh-eating disease.

Discovered in 1998 in an underground laboratory seized in the Sar-e Pol province in Afghanistan, likely developed by the Taliban with the help of rogue scientists from Germany and the former Soviet Union.

It will be deployed via CBU-191 cluster missiles, which explode high above the city and release tennis ball-sized sprinklers, AD24 smart bomblets, also called RAPiDS (Robotic Aerosol Pressurized Deployment Systems).

Direct exposure to the weapon will result in almost instantaneous death. Filtration systems will carry the bacteria into buildings, cars, or the subway. Anyone outside of an airtight seal would be infected within 24 hours.

The bacteria will die in the water, so wind distribution will not be an issue. On land, the bacteria will become extinct in two to four weeks. Decay will be monitored by the CDC; cleanup coordinated by USAMRIID. Operatives covered in antibacterial gel will collect the bomblets via GPS guidance.

The victims’ clothes and bones will be collected, brought to ad hoc dispensaries, and disposed of in vats of acid. No efforts will be made to identify individual victims. Everyone on the island will be presumed dead.

And then what? Do they just hang a vacancy sign on Manhattan?

Another rap came at the door, so the first wasn’t his imagination. He closed the file and stretched his eyes. “Come in.”

Teddy Harrison peeked in and assessed. “I can’t believe you’re still up.”

Weston nodded and waved his old friend inside.

“Are we drinking?” Teddy asked.

“We should be.”

“Well, then call the Secret Service, because I’m armed.” He revealed a bottle of whiskey as he took a seat on the partner’s side of the desk. Good ole Teddy, a master of unspoken reassurance. “Thomas H. Handy Rye,” he boasted. “Won the World Whiskies Awards for Best American Whiskey in 2009.”

“Well shit.” Weston leaned past the American flag on his right and tossed his old drink into a planter.

Teddy poured for both of them. “You want the bad news or the bad news?”

“Let’s just hear it.”

“If we execute Operation Wolfsbane, we’ll lose more Americans in one day than we’ve lost in any war. Ever.” Teddy threw back his drink and reloaded. “And if we don’t do it by moonrise tomorrow night, odds are the wolves will escape. If they do, the CDC’s prognosti—prognosis—prognostica—is it –cate or? Ah fuck it.” He took another shot and muttered, “It’s across the country in less than a week. Worldwide within a month.”

“We have to find him. Today.”

Teddy nodded and drew a deep breath. “We have ten hours between the moon’s set and rise. Ten hours, to find one man in New York, a man who doesn’t want to be found. Amid all that chaos…” Teddy shook his head.

“So that’s it? No alternative?”

“Sometimes there
is
no alternative.”

“No. I won’t accept that.”

“This is the hand we were dealt. It wasn’t an oversight, Will. There was no mistake on your watch. I’m sure Fox News will uncover that letter from Valenkov and take us to task for not creating a ‘Department of Werewolf Defense,’ but this is not your fault.“ He paused for a laugh, but he didn’t get one. “History will see that,” he said, sputtering. “Just maybe not in our lifetimes.”

“Never. They’ll never understand killing our own.”

Teddy knew he was right. “We’ll put Valenkov’s face out there, we’ll hit them over the head with what you were up against. The CDC prognosi… tigotations… will go public. Your voice will be heard.”

“I’ll be charged with a million counts of murder.”

“The lawyers are already on it.” Teddy said, and then he raised his voice to stave off Weston’s interruption. “We’ll make an executive declaration to classify werewolves as a catastrophic threat to the security of the country.”

“They’re still American citizens.”

“Nope. Not if we can help it. We’ll go to Directive 51.”

Directive 51 was the National Security and Homeland Security Presidential Directive signed by George W. Bush in 2007. On the surface, it established provisions for the “continuity” of the federal government in times of catastrophic emergency. But there were controversial details of 51 that provided for broad and unilateral executive decisions in regard to military strategy during situations of domestic terrorism.

“We’re good on that,” Teddy continued. “Liberals will have an epic shit when we’re forced to reveal some of the classified details of 51, but we’ll give it the spin.”

Directive 51 was a perfect symbol of the ideology Weston had been trying to put in the country’s rear-view mirror. He hated everything about it. Resorting to it as a defense seemed beyond hypocritical; it’d be a flat-out surrender.

“We’ll face a tougher road from the international community,” Teddy continued. “They’ll throw the BWC at us, as if every goddamn one of them aren’t breaking it themselves.” He was referring to the 1975 Biological Weapons Convention, an outdated set of rules from a different global landscape. Today it only serves to handcuff legitimate governments, because the enemy—human or monster or whatever between—no longer plays by the rules.

“They’ll have to get in line to throw me in jail,” Weston muttered.

“You’re not alone on this, Will. You’ll have the support of everyone in the administration.”

“
Publicly
I’ll have their support. What about privately?”

“Pussies. They’re all pussies. It’s too big, that’s why they’re not sitting at this desk. They can preach all they want if they offer a better alternative. This isn’t the best option we came up with, it’s the
only
option we came up with.”

“Have we tried hard enough?”

“We can’t second-guess the team when we’re under the gun. Alan is our man.”

General Alan Truesdale was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and chief military advisor. His was the most challenging cabinet position to fill as Weston’s administration faced the difficult task of revitalizing America’s international standing after a decade of international recklessness. The man was born with a gun in his hand, but his judgment was sound. Weston felt confident that he’d done his soul-searching before presenting Operation Wolfsbane.

“Rebekkah’s not convinced,” Teddy added. “She said, ‘If that’s the only answer, we have to ask a different question.’”

“And what might that question be?”

“If the clock weren’t ticking, I’d sit on the toilet and think of one.”

Weston took a deep breath. “Maybe I should go to New York.”

“And what? Die with the rest of them?”

“Take the blame. Show my solidarity. Let them paint me as a hero, as a villain, as a madman, whatever they need. The country will move on; the government will continue—”

“No, no, you’re a bigger man than that. Martyrdom is a last indignant gasp in a losing fight. You deserve better, and they deserve better. They’re going to need you. And look, you’re not in this alone. You can push us away, but we won’t go. Everybody will sign the declaration.”

“No pressure. I’m not going to take them down with me.”

“Then they’ll shake themselves out.”

Weston thought for a moment, imagining which members of his cabinet would turn on him. “Won’t matter much in the end.”

“Not at all, really.”

They were quiet for a moment. The room was so still that the ticking of the grandfather clock became maddening. Weston’s arms and legs felt weightless, and then he imagined he could see himself from some third perspective in the room.

When Teddy finally broke the silence, his voice was both quiet and startling. “At some point there will have to be a broad pardon for all of us. Allison’s signature will be on the order, so it’ll have to go down the chain.”

Allison Leslie, the vice president. One of a hundred careers he was about to poison. With her signature on the executive order to carry out Operation Wolfsbane, she wouldn’t be able to pardon him for murder.

“We’ll need to be smart about who gets the baton when the time comes. We’re looking at Rosenbaum.” Teddy said.

Weston’s eyes erupted.

“He’s a good man,” Teddy argued, “and an old friend. He’ll keep it clean.”

“He’s the Secretary of Agriculture!”

“Okay—“

“The Secretary of Agriculture is going to become president?”

“Who the hell knows what’s going to happen? This is going to punch a gaping hole in the political landscape. Partisanship won’t stand aside for long. We need the top name that’s not on the order to be a reliable ally, and Ira Rosenbaum is a reliable ally.”

As usual, Teddy was right. They were going to need help at the top. Not just him, but the men and women standing by him. “We should sit down with him.”

“I spoke with him today. I was vague with details, but the writing is on the wall. He’s onboard,” Teddy said, pouring himself another shot. “Tomorrow morning, Alan will brief a bipartisan congressional committee on the broad strokes, and then you and Rebekkah will hear them out on the record. Again, the writing is on the wall. I don’t think it’ll get contentious.”

“Not even from Hynds?” Bob Hynds was the Speaker of the House, a notoriously contnentious Republican. It was his job to stand in Weston’s way, and the rest of Washington’s burden to take a side.

“I already backchanneled with him. Gave him extra time to prepare his
pièce de
condemnation. But he understands our position. He’s going to sign.”

Weston took some comfort in that. Hynds’ reasonableness was one of the best-kept secrets in politics. But it wasn’t Hynds that he really dreaded facing.

“Brewer is on the committee?”

Teddy nodded solemnly.

James Brewer was the president pro tempore of the Senate, third in the line of presidential succession and the most senior senator in the Democratic party. He’d overcome a controversial youth in the Ku Klux Klan to serve in the senate for fifty-one years. He was remarkably sharp at 93, and he understood the game better than anyone. And he was born and raised in Manhattan.

“Does he have family in the city?” Weston asked.

“He has a son and a grandson. Lawyers. And they have families.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“He already called over and offered his support. I’m telling you they’re behind you. We’ll all be in pain. We’ll all grieve. But I’ll never apologize for doing my duty to this country. And I don’t think you should.”

Teddy held his drink aloft, coaxing Weston to meet his toast. The whiskey seared their tired throats.

“Tell me we’re doing everything we can to find Valenkov.”

“We have all of our best trackers on it. The DHS called in the Shadow Wolves, Native American smuggler trackers. Black ops are in, spooks, FBI. Tildascow is on her way back from Transylvania with some kind of werewolf hunter.”

“Good. Good.”

“Even if we find him, there’s no guarantee this bloodline thing will—”

“I know. I just don’t want to give up.”

“Nobody’s giving up.”

Teddy took another shot and threw a coughing fit that almost cost him his last kidney. And then he looked at Weston, who knew he’d run out of reasons to stall what he’d come to say.

“You have to know…” Teddy muttered, “Any troops we send in tomorrow, they won’t be coming out. There won’t be time for exit checks. Once they hit the ground, they’re gone.”

“So if we’re in, we’re all in.”

“If we’re in, we’re all in.”

The president ran his hands across the surface of the
Resolute
desk.

“Let’s go all in.”

Two

Joint Base Andrews

Prince George’s County, Maryland

7:04 a.m. EST

Yannic Ilecko had never imagined the texture of America. Foreign lands were irrelevant to a man who had never traveled more than fifty miles from his place of birth. And yet, the country was exactly what he might have expected. They had taken their hard concrete and covered all of the softness of the earth, and then everything else along with it.

Ilecko sat on a cot, gazing across the rows of identical cots in the long, soulless military hangar. Flags adorned the walls, so brash and proud and oozing with the self-ordained superiority of the
Statele Unite ale Americii.

The chubby American boy—“Lon,” they called him—was curled up on a nearby cot, snoring obnoxiously. The plane ride had been taxing, and the boy’s weak body was not prepared for such rigors. Ilecko had had no precedent to imagine how his own body would respond to such torture, but an hour later he felt only the fatigue of a hard day’s work.

The boy awoke with a start, exclaiming something about a “yo-da.” His mannerisms were distinctly American (his first morning’s labor was to take a disapproving sniff of his underarm), but he seemed always to be struggling with fear.
“She is not sleeping?”
he asked, mangling
limba română.