Directive 51 d-1 Read online

  Directive 51

  ( Daybreak - 1 )

  John Barnes

  View our feature on John Barnes’s Directive 51.

  The first book in a new post-apocalyptic trilogy from “a master of the genre”

  Heather O’Grainne is the Assistant Secretary in the Office of Future Threat Assessment, investigating rumors surrounding something called “Daybreak.” The group is diverse and radical, and its members have only one thing in common-their hatred for the “Big System” and their desire to take it down.

  Now, seemingly random events simultaneously occurring around the world are in fact connected as part of Daybreak’s plan to destroy modern civilization-a plan that will eliminate America’s top government personnel, leaving the nation no choice but to implement its emergency contingency program… Directive 51.

  John Barnes

  DIRECTIVE 51

  A NOVEL OF DAYBREAK

  For Diane Talbot

  PART 1

  ONE DAY

  DAYBREAK

  All the days of the modern world begin at the International Date Line, in the middle of the Pacific. When it is midnight on the Date Line, the midnight that ended yesterday touches the midnight that begins tomorrow, and the whole world is in a single day.

  October 28th was a date that would be known everywhere, forever; bigger than July 4th or 14th or 20th, bigger than December 7th or even 25th. As 12:00 A.M., October 28th, entered at the Date Line, nothing had happened yet, though many thousands of people, millions of machines, and billions of messages and ideas were already moving. When 11:59 P.M., October 28th, exited through the other side of the Date Line, the world had just tipped and begun to fall over into its new shape.

  The Earth turned, rotating lands and seas in and out of shadow. October 28th was already old in northern New Guinea as it was just being born in Washington.

  SENTANI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, NEAR JAYAPURA, PAPUA PROVINCE. INDONESIA. 6:20 P.M. LOCAL TIME. OCTOBER 28.

  Across the bay, darkness rushed into Jayapura. Vice President John Samuelson sighed and tried not to see that as a metaphor. From the window of the unmarked 787, where he had lived for more than a week, Jayapura was a tumble of white and gray below the craggy green mountains still lit by the setting sun. Lights were flickering on; he liked that metaphor better.

  He hadn’t so much as dipped a toe in the bay, set a boot on the hills, or shaken a hand in the town. Not that it would have been better if he had. Jayapura was maybe the size of Akron, Ohio, but as a provincial capital in a Muslim country, it was never going to be known for its night life. He had been there, once, thirty years ago, when he was demonstrating his backpack-to-anywhere skills to Kim, during the wildly romantic couple of years when he worked his way up to proposing to her.

  To be here today, he’d sacrificed twelve days of campaigning in the last month before the election. Might as well just have taken Kim to the Caribbean for swimming and sun.

  No one even knew he was here.

  “Mr. Vice President?” Carol Tattinger, his State Department minder, said, “The communications techs say that if you have a message for the President, we should record and send now; once we’re airborne, we’re under radio silence.”

  The mission had been thrown together so suddenly that a replacement satellite uplink hadn’t been available for this plane; they were stuck with tight-beam microwave to the American consulate across the bay. Typical, Samuelson thought: The budget for peace was just never there.

  Samuelson stood up, his head almost touching the ceiling, and said, “All right, let me wash my face and put on a jacket and tie. I guess we’ll have to do this.”

  Tattinger nodded; as he had so many times in the last few days, Samuelson watched her for any trace of sympathy or understanding, and saw none. With her hair in a tight bun, and her slightly large, beaky nose, she reminded Samuelson of a cartoon witch.

  A few minutes later, he took his seat in front of the camera. “Roger, you and I have been friends a long time and I’m going to be blunt. The mission is a failure. I think that’s ninety percent them, ten percent us. We’ve spent the past eight days in an impasse, and now we’re at the deadline you set. I’d ask for more time but it wouldn’t help.

  “Per your orders, and monitored by your people from State, Defense, and Homeland Security, I have repeated our offer without modifications. They still have not responded.”

  Specifically, he thought, they had said neither yes nor no, but talked endlessly of general principles, mixed with hints about what might be possible.

  He did try to keep the reproach out of his voice. “In my opinion, if someone could hold a more open-ended conversation with them, a deal might be within reach; but per your orders, I was only able to repeat our basic offer, and thus I can do absolutely nothing. Sorry, Roger, but I just don’t have a deal for us. We’ll be taking off in less than an hour, and I’ll see you when we get in. Good night, Mr. President.”

  That was awfully brusque. He decided against re-recording. Unlike most presidents and vice presidents, they were friends, and had been friends long before they took their present jobs. If this message pissed Pendano off, well, Samuelson had always been able to get Rog’s forgiveness. Hell, give me a little more time, and probably I’ll forgive Rog.

  Martin Reeve, the Defense liaison, looked in. “Sir, I thought I’d let you know I’m sending a message concurring with you. I think we just didn’t have enough flex to have a dialog.”

  Samuelson made a face. “Thanks for the support. I don’t suppose Tattinger agreed with you.”

  Reeve lowered his voice. “Everyone at State frets about whether they’re firm enough. I wouldn’t read anything personal into it, any more than I would into your following Pendano’s orders, sir.”

  “I suppose not. Well, anyway, this was a lot of time in the plane I’d rather not have spent.”

  “I’ll be happy to get off the Batplane myself, sir.”

  Samuelson felt childish pleasure in that nickname, which made him feel like one of the guys. The design of the 787, with so many curves, made it look sissy to military eyes, so it had a million nicknames like “the Batplane,” “the Deco-Wrecko,” and “the Melted Boomerang.” Men’s planes should look like darts or spears; grace was for girls.

  Technically this Covert High Level Missions plane was Air Force Two, like any plane carrying the Vice President; the Boeing 787 Dreamliner that was usually Air Force Two was back in Washington, parked in plain sight. “You know,” Samuelson said, “I never heard our cover story for this plane’s being here at Sentani.”

  Reeve had no expression. “There’s a rumor that this plane is carrying the mistress of the Sultan of Brunei, and those men who visit are setting up a deal to make her his heir.”

  “Well, no wonder you couldn’t let me get off the plane. I’d look like shit in a wig and a dress.”

  Reeve grinned. “I’m glad you understand the necessity, sir.”

  “There’s something else I still don’t get.” Another full day before I can just talk to Kim—I wonder… “Once we’re in the air, we have long-range radio even though we don’t have satellite uplink; wouldn’t it still be encrypted?”

  “Sure, but you don’t need to be able to read the messages to use a direction finder to track the plane. And because this mission is covert and they kept the allies out of it, we don’t have escort fighters till they can come out and meet us from Guam. Till then… well, till we have the escorts, shit could happen, sir, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  Samuelson smiled. “I’m acutely aware that shit can happen, Mr. Reeve.”

  Reeve grimaced. “Once we have escorts, chances are it’ll be okay to call home if you need to.”

  “Understood.” Maybe I ca
n talk to Kim in a couple hours. I’d sure feel better.

  Reeve looked over Samuelson’s shoulder. “What’s that about? We’ve already refueled and resupplied.”

  A panel van was pulling up alongside the plane; they could hear the pilot talking to the tower.

  Over the intercom, the pilot said, “Sir, it’s representatives from the opposite organization. They’re requesting permission to come aboard; they say their principals are offering to give you much of what you’ve asked for.”

  Carol Tattinger and DeGrante, the usually silent man from Homeland Security, came in.

  Samuelson said, “All right, instant input?”

  Tattinger folded her arms across her chest and nodded. “When you negotiate with Middle Easterners, oftentimes they won’t reach for what’s on the table until you go to take it off. And doing it in the way that causes maximum hassle and inconvenience is very much in character. So this very well could be legit.”

  Reeve said, “It’s up to you, sir.”

  Usually DeGrante would just nod or say “Concur,” but this time he said, “I don’t like it. When I was a bodyguard, anything that moved suddenly in my peripheral vision was bad. That’s what this feels like. Maybe it’s just what Ms. Tattinger says, negotiating the way they do in their culture. But I want to say ‘Don’t.’”

  “Noted,” Samuelson said, “and thank you for your candor. I’ll count that as a two-to-one vote unless you want to exercise your veto?”

  “Not on just a hunch, sir. But since we couldn’t do a pat-down at the gate, would you let me frisk them at the door?”

  “Yeah. There should be some penalty for this dumb last-second stunt. Frisk them at the door, and be thorough, and not excessively gentle. If you piss them off, I’ll square it up. Just let me change pants, and we’ll get this thing going.”

  “I’ll cue you when we’re ready,” Tattinger said. She and DeGrante went forward to talk to the pilot.

  In his private compartment, Samuelson appreciated the last streaks of deep red sun over the rugged mountains to the west, then shuttered his windows; mustn’t have any maintenance workers catching a glimpse of the Second Most Important Boxer Shorts In The Free World. Red sky at night, supposed to be a good omen.

  He sighed happily as he stripped from his sneakers and jeans and pulled out slacks and wingtips. He felt it—this would work out.

  Just like old times. As a mayor, John Samuelson had walked into a Crips and Bloods summit, armed with nothing but his confidence, and worn them down with round-the-clock talking and listening. As a governor, he’d hung on for five nearly sleepless days for a peaceful end to a prison hostage situation; just this June, he’d brokered a deal between UFCW and hotels to save the DNC.

  Give Samuelson space to improvise, and you got a deal. This time—

  Bang.

  Sharp, flat, loud.

  Two more bangs. Shouting. A cascade of bangs, thumps, screams—

  Not bangs. Shots.

  Samuelson froze, his fresh pants draped over his hand.

  The door broke inward at him.

  Man with a sledgehammer.

  Two men beside him. Not Samuelson’s people. Not the other side’s negotiators. They pointed guns at him. For a stupefied instant, he thought of asking them to let him finish dressing.

  One of them lunged, throwing something over Samuelson’s head. They pinned his arms behind him, punched him, kicked him, and grabbed his genitals and twisted. He puked.

  His screams made no difference. Even with his head in a vomit-soaked coffee sack, sobbing for breath, he still understood the implications when he felt the big jet begin to move.

  ABOUT THE SAME TIME. JAYAPURA, INDONESIA. 6:30 P.M. MONDAY, OCTOBER 28.

  Armand Cooper was reflecting that if people actually make their own luck, he would give himself about a B- for what he was making. That was something to taste with an icy rum and Coke from his personal fridge in his office; as the American consul in Jayapura, he was the highest ranking, as well as the only, State Department official stationed here. And anyway it was out of regular hours—Abang and the other Indonesian clerks were never in here.

  In a smallish city in the backwoods of one of the biggest Muslim countries in the world, you really appreciate your liquor. And your ice.

  He’d had the tight-beam microwave antenna up, synched in, and checked out for an hour; he liked to be ready early for everything. One of those areas where making your own luck gets you an A.

  Pointing the soles of the feet toward anyone was disrespectful, even through a third-floor window, so when he dragged his office chair around to give him a view of the street, he carefully placed the hassock to hide his feet from view. Good thing they can’t see what’s in my glass, the old hands say it wasn’t always this way, but this country has gotten pretty tight about everything.

  Pluses, he thought, and savored the rum on his tongue: one of the youngest consuls in the Foreign Service. Especially hard when the younger ranks are so dominated nowadays by Asian-Americans; an African-American male rising so fast, well, hell that it’s a cliché, I sure did give Moms some bragging material.

  Minuses, boondocky town in a Muslim country, near the equator.

  Pluses, nothing to do except try to keep American tourists and businessmen out of trouble, or rescue them from it, and this far into the back of beyond, most of the people who get here are pretty savvy.

  Minuses, social life consists of the Australian consul (nice old guy who likes to play chess), French consul (middle-aged lesbian couple), and the aging drunk that runs the Amex office downstairs.

  More minuses, ever since they expanded the consular corps so much, consulates aren’t the dignified old Gothic or Victorian fortresses they used to be—I’m in an office over a bank, and security is the bank guard downstairs.

  Come to think of it, the crowd outside—streets in Jayapura were crowded except during prayer—looked kind of odd, like they were waiting for something; maybe a popular preacher or an outdoor concert in the park nearby? All right, bigger minus, as hard as I work at it, I never really feel like I know what’s going on.

  Biggest minus, being in charge this early in the career meant being in charge of something so small he had to be here all by himself after hours. He tasted the sourness and bite of his drink before he laughed at himself.

  Armand, you are going to whine yourself to death someday, his mother had said to him, more than once, and his father had called him Mr. Glass Half Empty. And now not only was he grumbling about being in a tropical paradise with virtually no supervision, he was also on the fast track for promotion, he’d been doing well here, and the simple, easy task he had to do was part of a vital mission at the highest security level; all he had to do was not screw up and there was a great big plum of cred on his resumé.

  He swirled the rum and Coke to make sure the ice was doing its job, and swallowed the rest. Maybe his next post—

  His cell buzzed in his pocket. “Cooper, US Consul.”

  “Cooper, it’s Seagull. Routine op in ten seconds, are you ready?”

  He glanced at the computer screen, which said his antenna was aligned. “Ready… send the test…”

  “Sending.”

  The screen said confirmed clear.

  “Good here.”

  “And good here. Sending one main message.”

  The screen said msg rec’d 48 mgb, relaying.

  “Just the one this time?” Cooper asked.

  “Just the one.”

  Successful realay, wiping msg.

  “Relayed and erased,” he said.

  “That’s it for tonight. Unofficially, thanks for everything and bye.”

  “Bye.”

  So they were leaving. He’d thought they would be, soon; he’d been fielding more and more odd requests from the big white plane that he could just see through binoculars, across the bay at Sentani airport.

  Well, time to bag it and head home. He might give himself a few days off sometime soon, maybe
hop over to Oz or Tahiti for some nightlife and just to feel like nobody was watching his ass all the time. He rinsed his glass thoroughly—wouldn’t do to have it smelling of liquor when the Indonesian help came in—and locked the fridge after making sure he had returned everything to it. He started the sequence that would do a secure memory wipe on the satellite uplink server’s disk, and did some straightening up and putting away while he waited for it to finish.

  The crowd outside was shouting and chanting; his Bahasa wasn’t terribly good and rumbling AC and armored windows made it hard to hear, so he went to the window.

  The first brick bounced off right in front of his face, and he ducked away and crouched as a dozen more thudded against the window. Thought I heard “America” in that chant. And the uplink will be down for another five while it finishes—

  Slams and scraping noises overhead. Ropes passing by the windows, flying up or spiraling down. Then a groaning and creaking overhead, a loud bang as bolts gave, and he saw the satellite uplink antenna plunge past the window to the ground. Make that the uplink is down.

  Cooper crawled to the opposite wall, where the light switch was, but before he quite reached it, the power went out. He made sure his door was locked, sat up behind his heavy desk, and dialed the emergency desks at the Embassy in Jakarta, the Consular Service in Washington, and the local police department, leaving voice mail each time. Probably the person on duty at State was in the bathroom, the one in Jakarta was napping, and as for the local police, they might be out there with the mob or gone fishing for the month.

  He was glad he had a prerecorded native-speaker message on the phone, and gladder still he’d made Abang stop giggling and record it perfectly straight. Minuses, he thought, I’m in a place where a prepared guy like me has LOCAL POLICE FOR VIOLENT MOB in his prerecorded speed phone list. Double minuses, voice mail all around.