Dragon Over Washington (The Third War Of The Bir Nibaru Gods) (4 page)

“Well, isn’t that interesting. Other networks live on while those near Al Jaghbub die. It can’t be a malfunction and it’s too regular to be a natural phenomenon. Which leaves me what? A headache.” Thorpe looked at the query results carefully. It seemed that it had been happening only for the last several days. The logs were purged automatically after six months, but since that time, there was no similar occurrence.

“What could possibly be able to take out every radio communication? Even one EHF network belonging to a satellite phone was down. EMP? Jamming? Military jamming? In Libya?” Thorpe’s hand groped for the can of Coke that wasn’t there.

Something about the Trailmapper query results window bothered him. Thorpe sat there; finally he moved the mouse slowly, scrolling down the window.

“Well, well, what do you know? The plot thickens.” The query had dredged up three additional regions. One region was near the eastern coast of the United States. Another was in Colorado. The third was in Russia, near the cities of Pechora and Kurya. Thorpe opened the sensor file log for the eastern coast, seeing UHF navy radio networks, a few satellite networks and emergency HF ship radios. At about 20:30 local time all the radio networks shut down. Thorpe thought he recognized the pattern. Fragile HF radio went down first, but the other networks all followed, even the hardy SHF satellite networks, which were supposedly jam proof.

“Is somebody testing a new weapon? Could it be an electromagnetic pulse? A magnetic storm? Sun flare? Aliens landing?” Thorpe ran a sensor file that listed the communication networks in Colorado. He saw the same familiar pattern of networks going down one by one, like toy soldiers.

“Who the fuck would want to jam mountain rescue radio or local radio stations? That’s like, totally weird.” Thorpe stared at his screen.

“Okay, Robert Thorpe. Get a grip. If it’s some kind of emitting system, it must have left its fingerprints all over the place. Especially if it’s powerful enough to jam every radio communication within tens of miles.”

Now Thorpe logged into the Trumpet computer, again using Dimity’s password.

“The Trumpets should have picked something up. This is why they build multimillion- dollar signal intelligence satellites.”

Half an hour later Thorpe was frowning, chewing a plastic pen. No amount of searching through the current Trumpet sensor logs detected anything out of the ordinary in any of the four areas, and these sensitive signal intelligence satellites have huge radio receptor antennas aimed at the earth which are able to spot any kind of radar transmission. They can even spot a directional signal emitted by phased array radar, like the one used by the Patriot surface-to-air missile or by the Aegis cruisers.

“Omni-directional jamming should have made an electromagnetic signature large enough to be caught even from the moon; but there’s nothing there,” Thorpe grimaced.

Thorpe screeched and jumped out of his chair. A hand had grabbed his shoulder.

“Talking to yourself again, are you? I knew it was only a matter of time before you cracked,” Andy said, leaning over Thorpe’s shoulder. Thorpe hurriedly pressed the ‘Show Desktop’ icon and the Trailmapper with the explorer windows still logged on to the Trumpet computer vanished out of sight.

“I could say that you were overdoing it - if anyone found anything you were actually doing,” Andy said. Thorpe turned towards the neatly dressed man with his jacket slung over his shoulder, and a slim briefcase in his hand.

“What the fuck do you want?” he snarled. “Never interrupt a computer genius when he’s working.”

“My, aren’t we touchy? Ran out of whatever it is you’re taking?” Andy asked. Thorpe looked at his trashcan and grudgingly grinned.

“Actually, you’re right. I only drank one Coke today. In a few minutes I may start to suffer from withdrawal symptoms, dribbling and talking nonsense,” Thorpe said. Andy looked distastefully at the cluttered desk covered with toys.

“When are you going to do something about the mess on your desk?” Andy asked. Thorpe looked at his desk in surprise. There were papers everywhere on it, and most of the floor was covered as well with memos and other papers.

“What mess? All the dinosaurs are on the left, the robots and the cars are on the right. Perfectly ordered,” Thorpe said, beaming. Andy sighed.

“Well, come on,” Andy said.

“What? Who? Where? Where are we going?” Thorpe asked. Andy reached out and knocked on Thorpe’s forehead.

“Hello? Forgot to take your brain to work today? Its seventeen hundred hours. Workday is over,” Andy said. Thorpe looked at the clock on his computer’s desktop in amazement; he had completely lost track of time.

“Well, what do you know. You intelligence guys are so intelligent. Give me two minutes,” Thorpe said and waited for Andy to move away before closing the Trumpet computer connection. He hid the Trailmapper network log files in an encrypted folder under ‘Drivers’ on his hard-drive, then he wrote an electronic note on his smartphone with the names of the Russian towns, and carefully copied the last query he had written on the Trailmapper application. Then, he logged out.

They walked out through the building, gradually moving away from the high clearance rooms. Thorpe saw people with lower classification ID cards - colors other than green.

“You know, dressed like this you won’t ever make it in here. I’m talking as your friend here,” Andy said.

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” Thorpe asked indignantly. He looked at his faded T-shirt. The motto ‘Make pizza, not war!’ could barely be seen. Andy sighed again.

Thorpe started becoming increasingly nervous.

“You think she’ll be there?” Thorpe asked. He was looking at the corridor ahead apprehensively.

“Who?”

“You know. Her.” He moved his hand through his red hair a few times.

“You're still obsessed with her? She’s just a guard,” Andy said.

“Shannon’s a security person. And she has a heavenly body,” Thorpe said.

“Shannon, is it? She’s got the shoulders of a man,” Andy said.

“You’re an idiot. She’s a woman who shows some strength and doesn’t have to use two seats on the bus,” Thorpe said.

“Then go on and invite her to a cup of coffee or something,” Andy said.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll do it. I just have a few things to take care of first. Besides, me and several of my friends have worked out the perfect strategy for asking her out,” Thorpe said, patting his smartphone. Andy looked at him and shook his head.

They reached the entrance of the building and handed over their ID cards. The female guard who examined their ID cards before letting them out had a thin figure, short nails and short black hair tied up in a bun. Thorpe looked at her mutely while she handed him his badge and walked on, but Andy stopped right in front of her.

“Hi. My friend here would -” Andy didn’t complete the sentence as Thorpe dragged him off. She looked after them with a cold, steady look.

“Hey! I don’t need your help asking women out!” Thorpe complained once they were outside.

“You could have fooled me,” Andy said.

“I’m getting there, I’m getting there. She looked at me. I’m telling you, she likes me. I can feel it,” Thorpe said.

“Oh, I just remembered. Wendy asked me to tell you to come over this weekend. She said we’ll have a barbeque or something,” Andy said.

“I think your wife likes me more than you do,” Thorpe grinned.

“She doesn’t know you as well as I do, buddy.”

“Okay. Well, see you tomorrow, dude,” Thorpe said.

“Yeah, sure,” Andy said and went to his car.

Half an hour later, Thorpe pulled into his apartment building's parking lot. Usually he hurried up the stairs, anxious to see which of the downloads he had started before going to work had finished, but this time he stayed in his car, his hands on the wheel, his eyes staring ahead without actually seeing anything.

“I found four communications breakdowns in the electromagnetic spectrum,” he mused. “Four Radio Blanket effects occur across the world: One, in the Libyan Desert, appears at regular intervals. The one in the ocean only rarely opens up. The one in Colorado is the longest and the first to appear, but it seems to have disappeared completely. And there’s the one in Russia. Wait, what were the towns there?”

Thorpe tapped on his smartphone, copied the names of the Russian towns and then opened a web browser and went online, searching for the towns' location. The cities of Pechora and Kurya were on the southern slopes of the Ural Mountains. The area blanketed out near the Urals was huge, hundreds of miles long judging by the distance between those two Russian towns. By now, the only illumination in the parking lot came from the single flickering lamp in the lot, and Thorpe felt the darkness creeping in on him. Thorpe’s hands shook on his smartphone.

“What the hell is going on?”

Day 6 after Earth Barrier Breach.

The White River National Forest, Colorado, United States. Saturday, 16:58.

The riders moved up the hill, reining in their horses at its peak. The horses reared and whinnied loudly, but were efficiently restrained by sure hands. The setting sun sparkled on metal weapons and black-mirrored sunglasses. The riders hooted loudly, almost drowning out the sounds of their mounts. A pack of sleek dogs milled about underfoot, baying, salivating and panting; taking turns howling and nipping at the horses.

The riders looked around, scanning the breathtaking view. The hills of the White River National Forest got steeper as they approached the Flattops Mountains. The gentle grassy meadows of Yampa Valley gradually gave way to wild aspen and pine forests. The blue sky was nearly clear, a single white cloud formation casting a long shadow over the mountains ahead. One of the riders urged the dogs onwards with a wild yell and a wave of his hand. The pack surged forward again, the riders close behind. A moment later nothing but a trampled hilltop remained to bear witness to the passage of those that were on the hunt.

The riders headed north into the heart of the mountains, following the pack of howling dogs into a sparsely wooded area. The riders stopped again and looked around, scanning the forest around them, searching the ground carefully. The dogs barely kept their excitement in check, gathering around a young, yellow-haired rancher who dismounted and greeted them warmly, laughing in delight as they licked his hands. The horses appreciated being walked around, cooling off from the brisk pace they had kept up almost continually since the morning. The riders gathered around, their horses snorting impatiently as their walk was suddenly cut short.

“You still think it was an animal?”

“It sure as hell was no man.”

“I found no trace, nothing. I’m telling you. No man took my cows. There’s no doubt in my mind about it. Wolves. Maybe a bear.”

“And they also broke the fence? A good, solid, steel fence, and they went and broke it? I sure don’t wanna see the wolf that did that. Maybe we should wait for the police.”

“Shut up, all of you.” Frank, the last speaker, was a large, hard man with a wrinkled sun- browned face. He sat tall in his saddle, back straight and feet resting lightly in the stirrups. A small, high-powered radio was attached to his wide leather belt.

“Whatever it was, we’re goanna get it. We settle our debts ourselves. The police can mop up after we’re through,” Frank barked, taking out his radio and showing it to the other riders. A faint voice was emanating from it.

“No policeman is telling us how and when we settle things! Let’s go.” Frank clipped the radio back into his belt. He opened the breech of his double-barreled shotgun, checked the load, closed it up, and thumbed the safety latch. The others checked their own weapons: two riders were sporting shotguns, the other three packing large-caliber revolvers. A rancher holding a pump-action shotgun pulled the sliding assembly backwards, producing a sharp metallic ringing.

Frank pocketed his sunglasses and pushed his wide-brimmed hat up. He looked at the other ranchers. Bristling with weapons, they sat proudly in their saddles with the assurance of men who had been riding from infancy. They were tough and capable, Routt County’s best. He smiled grimly.

“Bob, let’s go.”

Bob shook off an enthusiastic dog and gave a whoop. The dogs left him and raced right into the forest. The riders followed, handling their horses with care, dodging the trees.

Frank pulled his reins easily and surely, applying a steady pressure. The horse circled around and the rider looked back at where he had come from, seeing red and blue flickering lights making their way from the valley below. Frank frowned, the creases on his face deepening. He let the reins out a little, and clicked his tongue, making his horse trot.

Frank grinned savagely. He felt the wind on his face and his heart beat powerfully. His horse was running strongly, a tight mass of muscle moving under the rancher’s legs, hooves pounding the earth. Trees rushed past him and small animals and birds scurried away. He lifted up his shotgun and hooted with exhilaration.

***

Fifteen minutes after the riders left, three pickup trucks entered the forest, their engines roaring in protest on the sharp incline. A police truck led the others. Two Routt County police officers sat in the front; a man in heavy, rimmed spectacles sat behind, desperately holding on to the door handles, trying to hold his lunch down, as the police truck bounced up and down. The sergeant leading the police expedition violently threw down the pickup’s radio microphone. His shouts and curses could be clearly heard above the engine’s noise.

***

The riders entered a forest clearing and gathered together again. This time the dogs didn’t stop their baying even after being yelled at repeatedly. Their excitement was infecting the horses and a black stallion tried to bite another horse, causing it to rear.

“No tracks. A poacher or hunter or horse thief - we should’ve seen some tracks. No car tracks, either. But the dogs are running true.”

“We’re here, ain’t we? Anyone with any mangy, flea-bitten horse can also come here.”

“And d’ya think a man would butcher cattle and then ride on, cow meat in his saddlebags?”

“It’s not only cows. Benson’s place was trashed too, or so I heard. Burnt right down to the ground.”

“We should have taken care of that fucker ourselves a long time ago,” Frank said.

“He’s got a right to farm like anyone else,” a rider said and then hurriedly backed off his horse as Frank rode aggressively towards him.

“We are mountain men. We raise cattle like God meant us to. There’s no place on the mountains for ecological bullshit. Besides, who do you think called the police?” Frank spat.

The other rider said nothing.

One of the dogs, a black German shepherd, was trying to jump up like a puppy to reach Bob on his horse when it noticed something. The dog suddenly bolted into the woods. The rest of the pack started to follow but reluctantly heeded Bob’s restraining voice. The barking dog could be heard clearly, running in the forest.

“He’s got something! After him!” boomed Frank. The pack was let loose, the riders moving as fast as they could, the dogs salivating as they raced on, ears flat, tongues rolling.

The dogs gradually stopped baying. The riders saw the dogs running silently ahead through the trees, eerily determined and united by a grim resolve, their fangs exposed,. Only the German shepherd that had run ahead could still be heard, its barking filling the forest. The barks suddenly became growls, and then one long despairing howl echoed until its abrupt end. The pack increased its speed and the riders vainly tried to keep up, hunched in their saddles, avoiding low-hanging branches.

***

Several miles back, in the slowly advancing police truck, the sergeant threw the radio’s microphone onto the dashboard. The black plastic instrument hung from its elastic cord, swinging dejectedly to and fro.

“Frank’s going to rot in the Moffat county jail if I have anything to say about it,” the sergeant growled. The driver, a young police officer, nodded while trying to negotiate the difficult terrain, working the gears and gas pedal furiously. The man sitting behind them touched the sergeant’s back timidly.

“If it’s all right with you guys, I think I’ll get down here. I don’t think I’ll be much good to you.” The man smiled weakly, hopefully.

“Look here buster, you called us and you’re coming with us all the way,” the police sergeant snapped. The man flinched.

“You don’t need me to catch the ones who -”

“It was a wild animal, mister. And we’re going to get it.”

“Animals don’t do things like that,” the man said. “Only people kill and destroy.”

The sergeant glanced at him incredulously.

“Goddamn it!” the sergeant growled. The police truck gyrated wildly and the bespectacled man had to hold onto his seat with all his strength. Nevertheless, he was thrown up and hit his head against the roof. The car turned and the man hit his head again.

“Ouch!” The man rubbed his balding head with a shaking hand.

“Shut the fuck up!” the sergeant barked, popping his head out of the window, trying to hear something.

“Those are gun shots!” the sergeant said. The bespectacled man in the back seat fought to buckle on his safety belt, grasping for the clasp in the wildly moving truck.

***

The riders heard the dogs snarling, a sharp low-pitched rumble that filled the forest. The riders moved as fast as they could in the fading daylight, Bob in the lead, riding what was now a very skittish horse. They rode on, though the dogs’ barking stopped. Bob finally stopped his horse, horror etched on his face, cold sweat suddenly dripping into his jacket. After a moment the other ranchers caught up and pulled the reins of their horses, stopping next to Bob’s mare.

They were in a small grassy meadow flanked by tall trees on every side. They looked around, aghast. It was clear that no dog had left this place alive. Huge pools of blood still steamed on the grass and one of the trees had a large gash in its trunk, the smashed bark covered with blood. The riders tried to control their horses; the coppery smell of the blood made the mounts nervous. One of the riders moved to Bob’s side. Bob scanned the ground using a powerful flashlight. The rider put his hand over Bob’s shoulder, but the hand was violently shaken away. Bob’s spotlight illuminated several black tufts of hair.

“That sure as hell ain’t no man. Maybe a pack of cougars,” Frank said, fighting to remain calm. Frank aimed his shotgun around, but there was no clue as to the perpetrator of this slaughter. Bob suddenly kicked his horse and took off, the other riders following him. It took them a moment, but they eventually saw the thin trail of blood that Bob was following.

The riders moved through the forest, following Bob’s beam of light. The single source of illumination was fighting a losing battle against the darkening forest. Bob ignored lashes from low hanging branches, kicking his mare when it shied from bushes. The forest floor was becoming rocky as the trail of blood led them up to the Beaver Flattops Mountains. The riders were silent, scanning the path ahead carefully and throwing nervous glances at the forest around them. Bob never took his blue eyes off the trail of blood, urging his mount on. A movement caught his attention. There was something fifty yards ahead, but then it disappeared into the trees with an undulating motion before he could make out what it was.

Frank stopped his horse. A print showed on the soft earth: elongated - about a foot long – tipped by large, sharp claws. A lone bird on a distant tree protested loudly, the sound unnaturally loud in the shadow-filled forest. Frank jumped and then nudged his horse, hurrying after the other ranchers, holding the wooden stock of his shotgun tightly.

Trees swayed some distance away, as if something heavy was brushing against them.

Holding both leather reins in his left hand, Bob raised his heavy handgun. He drew back the revolver’s hammer and cocked it. The rest of the riders took their cue from him, aiming their firearms. Bob was the first to fire.

The riders fired. Gun flashes illuminated the night and sounds resonated through the forest. A fountain of dirt, twigs and leaves erupted off the ground as the fusillade of bullets hammered the forest. The fiery storm of flying debris was intense, bushes were shredded, and a sapling fell down, its trunk cut by the hot lead slamming into it. Branches, leaves and dirt flew all around, bullets and shotgun pellets pummeling the trees. Bob’s brown mare danced around nervously, biting the bit, its eyes rolling, its mouth foaming.

Bob started reloading his gun, allowing the spent cartridges to fall away from the cylinder before refilling the cylinder, eyes staring ahead.

“We got it? We got it? Did we get it?” asked a rider. Bob found it increasingly difficult to control his mare. The horse neighed and shook its head violently. Its ears were pulled tight and it tried to rear. Bob, however, kept the horse tightly under control, moving it closer and closer to the smoking trees. There was a patch of darkness under the still swaying trees.

“You see something? Did we get it?”

Something shot out of the clump of trees - a long black shadow leaping out of the darkness. It flashed forward towards Bob, who managed to fire off one badly aimed shot before he was snatched off his leather saddle and carried, screaming, into the forest. The flash of the shot briefly illuminated a gaping, toothed maw. Frank had no time to react. Bob’s mare screamed, reared up and bolted, galloping madly through the dark forest.

The other horses moved frantically as panic spread, an ancient scent driving them mad with fear. Barely controlling their horses, the ranchers fired at the trees, shooting with everything they had; 12-gauge shotguns and heavy handguns lit up the forest with irregular flashes. A rancher firing an old Smith and Wesson revolver yelled as he and his mount were hurled down to the ground. The rancher kept screaming while he was lifted up and carried into the trees, disappearing in an instant.

The riders turned around and looked into the forest, eyes darting everywhere. Every shadow looked ominous and every pool of darkness seemed alive with slithering motions. The rustling leaves moved everywhere and the dark forest seemed to be closing in on them. They heard a sound, a piercing hiss that seemed to come from every direction. Frank held his shotgun tightly. The sound was like nothing he had ever heard - it was like a snake hiss magnified tenfold, evoking in him ancient, deeply rooted fears.