Last Words

I realise how terribly cliched this may sound, but everything seems so clear with hindsight. No matter what they might say about me, about my life, about what I achieved, my conscience is clear. Indeed, I've reached the conclusion that what we did changed the world for the better.

Perhaps they are right when they say I could have prevented what happened. But what is there to prevent? Before the cleansing, this land was an ocean of corruption. Once, God struck down Sodom and Gomorrah for their sins. I have felt his hand upon me throughout all of this. At times my task has weighed heavily upon me, but now I see things with a much greater sense of clarity. All of this was inevitable, and it happened for a reason. God saw the horror, the hypocrisy, the decadence, the injustice – my brother and I were the ones tasked with setting this world right.

Call me mad if you will, but consider how this ‘crisis’ has impacted upon the rest of the world. The nations have come together, united in tackling a problem beyond the ability of any one people or power-bloc to rectify alone. Without such a concerted response, the scope of what has happened would be far greater. In the grand scheme of things, eight hundred million lives is a small price to pay for such a good object-lesson in humanity.

However, I do feel the need for some kind of valediction, to ‘vent’, as they say. So General, I leave you this package to by way of an explanation of what I am about to do. The site is easy to find, on a server beyond the boundaries of the contingency. I’ve encoded it so that you will see it first. Feel free to peruse this letter and the accompanying footage at your leisure; whether you wish to take this to the Commission or keep it for yourself, I won’t object. Like everyone else in this place, I won’t be around to do so.

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The convoy thundered along the dirt track which led to the cult compound, flanked by gunships. Dug in deep in the Mexican desert and (according to intelligence) very well armed, the Children of the New Dawn sect had resisted repeated attempts at disarmament; the last negotiator the Commission sent in had come back in a tattered makeshift body bag, hideously burned, pieces of his bodyguards packed in with him. The small arms were, of course, only a minor issue - as far as the State Department and the Commission were concerned, they could stockpile M21s until hell froze over. The problem was the nukes. Unconfirmed reports had also been received that the sect possessed a biological warfare capacity, which worried the Commission even more.

So they were sending in the Marines, one hundred soldiers armed to the teeth and with orders to shoot first and sort out the paperwork later.

As they mounted a ridge, the compound came into sight. Miles brought a pair of tactical goggles up to his eyes, verified the target, and gave the order.

As his men sealed up their hazard suits and went through weapons checks, Miles called up New York and reported in,

"Alpha Mike Charlie, Miles, two-three-one-seven-zero, target acquired. Request clearance to engage, over."

"Confirmed two-three-one-seven-zero, clear to engage. Tracking on bird bravo-niner reads activity on target. Confirm hostile deployment - three sams deployed on your vector, heavy machine guns deployed to tower installations, proliferation of small arms amongst hostiles, over."

Miles switched his radio back to squad mode.

"Echo one, echo two, this is Big Chief, we got heat on our vector. Break convoy and go cool those boys down, over."

The gunships broke off from the formation, and opened fire. Explosions followed from the compound ramparts. The disembodied voice of Command returned to Miles' ear.

"Two-three-one-seven-zero, Alpha Mike Charlie, surveillance confirms all static defence installations neutralised, over."

"Roger Alpha Mike Charlie, enjoy the fireworks, Miles out."

A pause, more fiddling with the communications equipment. The compound loomed in the windshield.

"Big Chief to all units, break to pre-assigned attack vectors and engage at will, over."

The compound gates went a few moments later, showering the convoy with fragments of metal. Two portions of the outer wall disintegrated next, then the back gates.

Miles could see someone staring down at them from what remained of one the defence towers, blackened and bloodied, watching the balletic movements of the jeeps, trucks and helicopters as each vehicle slotted in to its place in a pre-ordained order, and realised how strangely, menacingly calm this figure seemed as his peers dropped like flies metres beneath his feet.
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Of course, the compound assault was a textbook operation. I know that the Board of Inquiry cleared me and my team of any wrongdoing, and I still think that it was a waste of time and resources to even bother with the investigation. We took the place down by the numbers – our orders were clear and we carried them out to the letter. We took minimal losses from combat; considering the arsenal those cultists had, I think that my men committed themselves admirably. The other two – well, that was all God.

As you know, the loss of Josh and Elizabeth to the contagion had a less than positive effect upon my ability to perform my duties to the best of my ability for a time. However, I would argue that, in the long run, their deaths helped clarify things for me. I am aware that the autonomy inherent in my role helping to clear up this ‘mess’ left me isolated, and I bear no ill will towards Lieutenant Bailey for reporting me. He did his duty. I believe the ops manual says something about it being a standing order to report obvious instability amongst one’s superiors. What I didn’t expect was a promotion.

Of course, I don’t accept that I should have been considered unstable, and I do wish to thank the Panel for giving me this opportunity. Commanding a military operation on such a grand scale certainly did help me take my thoughts away from what I had lost. But I don’t accept either the plaudits that was lavished upon me, or the liberal mixture of praise and condemnation that the media furnished my reputation with. I merely carried out my orders and did what was necessary.

Forced evacuations were necessary, as were summary executions for looters and those attempted to break quarantine. Aid drops were necessary, along with such extensive medical provision. Those early protests were simply ridiculous. I always knew that this continent would become what it became; appeals to civil rights or economic expediency became irrelevant the moment of the outbreak.

I hear that they have developed a synthetic vaccine, that they believe they can reclaim this land. I have my doubts. With everything they have tried over the last ten years, it amazes me that they still bother looking. Better to just to enact the contingency scenario.

Given the state of this continent before the contagion, I have come to believe that the outbreak was for the best. Something would have swept it all away eventually. At least this way the cleansing was quick; a short, sharp shock to help focus hearts and minds.

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Miles was on point as Green Platoon busted open the bunker doors, six-inch thick galvanised steel that had needed a plasma cutter to break through. The first thing that he noticed as the group moved in was the scale of the place; it was like being back in Command twelve levels under New York. Satellite surveillance had picked up earthworks, and Command knew the area sported a cave network, but no-one had figured on anything like this. The vestibule was sixteen feet wide, complete with security booth (empty), and sealed ducting for whatever the hell kind of pipes hung from the roof. A patch on the wall showed where a map-plate had been, now on the floor and mangled up beyond all comprehension. But it was increasingly obvious that the place was BIG.

The platoon stalked across the vestibule in cover formation, his troops covering all the sight lines, all the doors. Storerooms out to the side were quickly checked and cleared. At the end of the hall, a Sergeant broke open a doorway and found a passage leading up, presumably a back way into the courtyard. Miles waved him to take half the platoon and check the upper compound as his Lieutenant had a Private bust open a different door, this time straight in front.

Miles took the rest of the platoon down this way, down a flight of steps, down a dingy passageway lined with more small rooms, seemingly minor workshops, all deserted. He heard gunfire in the distance, waved the squad to hold, waited for the Sergeant to report in.

"Bailey, Miles, confirm status over."

"Sir, we've encountered a mezzanine wing, bunk rooms, well defended. We've got - Kahn, headcount, 27? right - 27 non-coms in custody. No casualties on the team, over."

"Affirmative. Hold for further orders, over."

The passage veered left at the end, with a large door straight ahead – some kind of machine shop, with a mined elevator on the far war, the car a level above, the workshop obviously the lowest level of two. Still nothing but tools and spare parts, but some of it looked suspicious. And the place had a heavy-duty ventilation system, as though the cult had intended it for something that would be giving off some pretty potent fumes.

“Call this in,” he ordered, “make sure that Ricardo doesn’t try using that lift to get anybody back down here. Sampson, make sure that your cam gets all this. We can check the footage later.”

They moved on, out left, down a dark corridor. No lights here – something had dispensed with the power. Maybe it was a result of combat damage, but the files said the cult had a backup generator somewhere underground. And no pipes either, they had seemed to disappear into the workshop, though Miles had noticed them carry on through the back wall.

The corridor forked after about twenty-five metres.

“Split up. Two fire teams. Nikoliev, take four left, you guys,” (and quick wave of the hand), “ are with me. Remember, two priorities; one, sweep and clear out all hostiles; two, locate and disable all NBC munitions and facilities. Move out.”

Miles hit the first hurdle at the same time as his Lieutenant. One of the guys in Miles’ team tried to round the first corner, and had to spring back to avoid a hail of machinegun fire. Gunshots from the other end of the corridor; Miles turned just in time to see one of the guys from the other fire team get cut down.

“Trackers,” he explained, his voice steady as he took a couple of self-guiding grenades from a Corporal, primed them, then threw both hard around the corner. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Nikoliev had the same idea, though the lieutenant seemed to be going for overkill with four of the things.

“Fire in the hole!” Panicked shouting followed from around the corner, then screams, then a series of explosions as the Trackers locked on and hunted down the cultists. Finally, silence.

“Move up”. A Private went first, then beckoned Miles and the rest of the team down. The place was a slaughterhouse, bits of shredded cultists everywhere, maybe a dozen guys, plus two busted-up chainguns. This tunnel was not as well-kept as the one above, and, with the lights out, seemed pretty claustrophobic and dank. There were doors on each side – more empty workshops, which they cleared quickly before they moved on. It struck Miles that everywhere had evidently been stripped out; if what they were looking for was down here it could be concentrated somewhere, probably somewhere well-defended.

The corridor hung a left again ahead; Miles ordered a moment’s pause to get his bearings, figured out that the stretch around the corner probably intersected with Nikoliev’s route. Dim light emanated from around this corner – not enough to read by, just enough to see.

Gunfire, and explosion, shouts of pain.

“Sir,” this was Sampson, “Lieutenant Nikoliev just went down. He’s alive, but it’s pretty bad. Sergeant Mackenzie on the horn.”

Miles re-tuned. “Go, Sarge.”

“Sir, our route splits, right or up. We’ve got a position with chainguns and RPGs to the right.”

“Affirmative, I think we’re at the other end of the corridor you’re taking fire from. Make smoke and move in five seconds after I move. We’ll go in from this end in thirty seconds, mark.”

“Affirmative, sir.”

Miles waved his team to prepare, flashed up hand signals indicating to follow his lead with heavy fire. Suppressing fire kept emanating from somewhere off around the corner, maybe twenty metres, plus a couple more explosions; no screams or comms traffic, hopefully Mackenzie was keeping his people low.

Miles primed two smoke grenades, counted, threw them hard around the corner. “Go,” he exclaimed, peeling off around the corner.

The next few seconds were a blur. The cultists had prepared well, but an attack on the flank they weren’t expecting seemed to catch them off-guard – not for long, but long enough. The smoke was having the intended effect, too. Miles sprinted down the passage, gun high, IR penetrating right through the gas, dropped one guy, two, three, four; more went down as his troops followed him in. Then Mackenzie appeared a few feet away, followed by two more troopers, a certain savagery in his bearing that indicated pretty clearly that Nikoliev wasn’t walking out of this place. One cultist went for the big guns, yanking the corpse of a dead comrade out of the way; the left side of his head exploded in a shower of gore. One more backed up, attempted to get inside the room behind the position; Miles was pretty sure it was Sampson who took that one down.

“Follow me,” he yelled, jumping the wall of sandbags and barging straight through the door. Some cultist in a lab coat tried to level a pissant little nine millimetre that was probably older than he was, got dropped by fire from Miles and at least two other guys.

The room was the nightmare. Moving through the complex, Miles had started to worry that Intelligence had pulled an Iraq. No more. There were weapons on every surface; nukes, chemicals, biologicals, at least twenty in all. Some of the cupboards on the walls hung open, so many parts and vials that they obviously wouldn’t shut. And a spotlight shone down on what the last guy had been doing, showing a timer ticking down, just two minutes on the clock. No time to evacuate.

Well, this is why they recruited me, Miles thought, stepping forward and unfastening his tool pouch. He went down on his knees, close to the nuke on the floor, made ready, exclaiming “Brodie, casing, fast.”

As soon as the casing was off, he started cutting wires. Every guy in the squad was around him, bathing him in as much light as they could manage between them. It was only in the movies where you go on colour; here, Miles had seconds to trace each wire back to its source point, make a judgement, cut, pray. Nine wires, just under ninety seconds. He counted down, half expecting each cut to be the one that killed them all.

Bleep.

Miles slumped back on his haunches as the timer stopped at twenty one point six seconds.

“Brodie, help me dismantle this bastard.”

A couple of minutes later, the secondary trigger lay on the floor beside him, removed from its housing, and he was pretty sure that there wasn’t a third. A Corporal a few feet away let out a sigh of relief as he saw Miles pull out a spherical lump of plutonium and place it in a yellow case.

“Mackenzie, Sampson, Brodie, Endi, secure these weapons. I want each one documented and secured for on-site dismantling. Call Ricardo down if you need more supplies.”

He re-tuned again. “Miles to all squads, status, over.”

Miles waited. “Blue, sector cleared, no casualties, over.”

“Red, sector cleared, no casualties, over.”

“Echo one, zero activity over.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. Two down out of the company wasn’t bad. Only two letters to write. “Miles, Green platoon has control of the bunker, Nikoliev and Sime are down. Walsh, you’re on repatriation detail. Blue squad, assemble in the compound quad. Gunny, Mackenzie has a magazine, unload the containment and transit gear. No-one get complacent, over.”

Various acknowledgements. Miles waved a Private to follow him, started out of the door, went right past the one-legged corpse of Nikoliev, tried and failed to avoid thinking about how the rest of him looked inside of that mangled, bloodied hazard suit.

Halfway up the steps to the surface, Miles found a mezzanine; one plain door, right, humming. He motioned over to his companion and kicked it open, cleared the room, noted a large petrol generator, a few barrels of gasoline, another door on the far side (this one reinforced), no stray cultists.

Miles moved up slowly, checked the door, found it unlocked. Behind it there were more steps, with another door at the top, this one pretty old and battered. He signalled the Private onto rearguard, climbed the stairs slowly, kicked open the door.

The place looked like an old tool-shed. Large, scattered with old gardening implements and power tools, a lathe on a bench jutting from the wall off to his right. Sawdust was everywhere. Light made an effort to stream in through grubby windows that should obviously have looked out onto the courtyard, thin also shafts coming in through gaps in the wooden roof. The only other way out was a door that was bolted from the inside and braced with an old wooden cupboard.

In the shadows stood the figure from the watchtower, still, his hands folded below his stomach. Light pierced the ceiling, illuminating his face as Miles drew nearer.

Miles stopped dead, faced the leader of the cult, a man of similar build and height, though a little older than he. His hands shook, the rifle quivering.

"Go ahead, James. Shoot me. You know you want to."

Miles' throat was suddenly dry. A thousand words flooded through his mind as he stared at his brother over the barrel of a gun. All he could say was, "why, Steven?"

"Take a look around you, James, at this diseased world. A world gone mad. What we work towards here is not the destruction of the world, but its rebirth. And you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs."

Miles stalked around a fallen table, gun raised, seeking a clearer view. Steven stood over a small crate filled with unmarked glass cylinders, an almost psychedelic mix of different bottled colours. He held a small ball of grey-green metal.

"Such a cruel irony, James. All these years the underdog, and now here I stand, able to hold your life in my hands. Perhaps I will spare you. But I can't forgive what you have done here today. You've broken the trust we had - ask no questions, tell no lies, remember?"

"Steven, listen to me. You need help. Put the grenade down, and we can sort this out  and both go back to Portland. Come on. I don't want to have to drop you."

"Someday it will all make sense, I promise."

Steven dropped the grenade.

"Oops, no pin."

Miles turned, dived, sought shelter behind the old dusty lathe bench, hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud. The blast resonated around the room for a moment, then the silence returned.

After a few moments in limbo, Miles hauled himself from the floor, turned around to check his brother, found himself flinching back around again at the sight that greeted him. About to start counting his blessings that Steven had died quickly and no-one else had been hurt, something impinged onto his thoughts which made him pause.

Something on the suit was bleeping at him - one of the automatic environmental warning systems. Something wasn't right. Miles dared to turn again, this time let his eyes fix on the remains of the crate a metre or so in front of Steven's corpse.

Bits of broken glass littered the crate, and the floor around it. Pastel fluids oozed around the splinters, mixing in a pool that was forming in the tiny crater created by the grenade blast.

Miles turned, started towards the door behind him, picking up to light jog. Round a corner, down steps, through the generator room, right, up a short stretch of blackened and bullet-riddled stairway, bursting out into the sunlight, he saw two of his men resting on the rim of the fountain, busy with a patching kit. Then their suits joined the electronic chorus, along with the dozens of others around the compound in an ever-louder canon of foreboding.

One of the guys on the fountain tipped out the patching kit, started working frantically, movements blurring, in some strange parody of Saint Vitus Dance. His companion simply froze, staring first at the hole in the shoulder of his suit, then at the readout on his wristback display.

Miles looked down at his own display panel, willing it not to show what he already knew it would do. As the purple trefoil flashed up at him, there was a loud pop a few metres from where he stood, and blood splattered onto the display.  

Miles shuffled through the crowd that was already growing up around the corpse of inevitability, past a medic taking blood samples from the remaining victim, heading towards the jeep. He patched in to the satellite link, dialled New York.

" Alpha Mike Charlie, this is Big Chief, two-three-one-seven-zero. We have a situation…"
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These last few years I have lived like a king. No, as a king.

I look out of my window, down upon the deserted streets beyond the sealed plexiglass and the ground floor decontamination facility, and realise how lucky I am to have had this opportunity. The opulence which surrounds me - the eighteenth century desk I rest my terminal on as I write, the leather chair upon which I sit, the rugs and the curtains, the silk sheets on my bed that once adorned the delicate figure of some debutante after the pleasures of Prom Night - is something a mere soldier rarely experiences.   

This, my dominion, silent and beautiful, still as the night. I have strode down the centre of empty roads men one fought to cross, my knights at my heels, harness on my back, surveying all that I owned. The empty shops, the deserted tenements - and the shelters and the hospitals, crowded with my sons and daughters, those who I created at the dawn of time. Verily, my breath was upon them, and they did fall.

I have held sway over life and death all these years, passed amongst my children, sacrificed many to some great purpose of which only the cosmos itself knows. I gave life to others, watched the surgeons' ministrations, saw them depart for greener pastures, herded away to graze on kinder land.

All this I achieved through one moment's subconscious inspiration. All these years that I spent asking myself whether I could have prevented this, the question which should have plagued me more is why I didn't conceive to release the virus earlier. One shot. The brilliance of it.

We should have killed them all years ago, roasted the cities, broken the machines, let the new world be born from the fire and the pestilence.

This, my last testament, a product of my own whim and avarice, will, I hope stand long after those unworthy of my leadership drag my body from this place to lie with my children in the quicklime swamps. Let them detest me, let them mock me, let them think I have lost my mind. For the first time, my mind is clear. My achievement - the death of a continent - is my great memorial.

Salut, General.