SEVENTY-SEVEN
SAMARKAND
ZOVASTINA WATCHED AS HER GENERALS CONSIDERED THE WAR plan. The men sitting around the conference table were her most trusted subordinates, though she tempered that trust with a realization that one or more of them could be a traitor. After the past twenty-four hours she could not be sure of anything. These men had all been with her from the beginning, rising as she rose, steadily building the Federation’s offensive strength, readying themselves for what was about to come.
“We’ll take Iran first,” she declared.
She knew the calculations. The current population of Pakistan was a hundred and seventy million. Afghanistan, thirty-two million. Iran, sixty-eight million. All three were targets. Originally, she’d planned a simultaneous assault, now she believed a strategic strike better. If infection points were chosen with care, places of maximum density, and the viruses planted with skill, the computer models predicted a population reduction of seventy percent or more would occur within fourteen days. She told the men what they already knew, then added, “We need a total panic. A crisis. The Iranians have to want our assistance. What do you have planned?”
“We’ll start with their military forces and government,” one of the generals said. “Most of the viral agents work in less than forty-eight hours. But we’ll vary which ones we use. They’ll identify a virus fairly quickly, but then they’ll have another to deal with. That should keep them off guard and prevent any productive medical response.”
She’d been concerned on that point, but not anymore. “The scientists tell me the viruses have all been modified, making their detection and prevention even more difficult.”
Eight men surrounded the table, all from her army and air force. Central Asia had long languished between China, the USSR, India, and the Middle East, not part of any of them, but desired by all. The Great Game had played itself out here two centuries ago when Russia and Britain battled each other for dominance, neither caring what the native populations wanted.
Not anymore.
Central Asia now spoke with unity through a democratically elected parliament, ministers, elections, courts, and a rule of law.
One voice.
Hers.
“What of the Europeans and the Americans?” a general asked. “How will they react to our aggression?”
“That’s what it cannot be,” she made clear. “No aggression. We’ll simply occupy and extend aid and relief to the embattled populations. They’ll be far too busy burying the dead to worry about us.”
She’d learned from history. The world’s most successful conquerors-the Greeks, Mongols, Huns, Romans, and Ottomans-all practiced tolerance over the lands they claimed. Hitler could have changed the course of World War II if he’d simply enlisted the aid of millions of Ukrainians, who hated the Soviets, instead of annihilating them. Her forces would enter Iran as savior, not oppressor, knowing that by the time her viruses finished there’d be no opposition left to challenge her. Then she’d annex the land. Repopulate. Move people from the Soviet-ruined regions of her nation into new locales. Blend the races. Do precisely what Alexander the Great had done with his Hellenistic revolution, only in reverse, migrating east to west.
“Can we be sure the Americans will not intervene?” one of the generals asked.
She understood the apprehension. “The Americans will not say or do a thing. Why will they care? After the Iraqi debacle, they won’t interfere, especially if we’re handling the load. They’ll actually be thrilled at the prospect of eliminating Iran.”
“Once we move on Afghanistan, there’ll be American deaths,” one of the men noted. “Their military is still present.”
“When that time comes, let’s try to minimize those,” she said. “We want the end result to be that the Americans withdraw from the country as we take control. I’m assuming that will be a popular decision in the United States. Use a virus there that’s containable. Strategic infections, targeted at specific groups and regions. The majority of the dead must be natives, especially Taliban, make sure U.S. personnel are only a consequence.”
She met the gaze of each of the men at the table. Not one of them said a word about the bruise on her face-leftover from her bout with Cassiopeia Vitt. Was her leak here? How had the Americans learned so much about her intentions?
“Millions are about to die,” one of the men said in a whisper.
“Millions of problems,” she made clear. “Iran is a harbinger of terrorists. A place governed by fools. That’s what the West says over and over. Time to end that problem, and we have the way. The people who survive will be better off. We will, too. We’ll have their oil and their gratitude. What we do with those will determine our success.”
She listened as troop strengths, contingency plans, and strategies were discussed. Squads of men had been trained in deploying the viruses and were ready to move south. She was pleased. Years of anticipation were finally over. She imagined how Alexander the Great must have felt when he crossed from Greece into Asia and began his global conquest. Like him, she, too, envisioned total success. Once she controlled Iran, Pakistan, and Afghanistan, she’d move on to the rest of the Middle East. That dominance, though, would be more subtle, the viral rampages made to appear as simply a spread of the initial infections. If she’d read the West correctly, Europe, China, Russia, and America would withdraw into themselves. Restrict their borders. Minimize travel. Hope the public health disaster was contained in countries that, by and large, none of them cared about. Their inaction would give her time to claim more links in the chain of nations that stood between the Federation and Africa. Played right, she could conquer the entire Middle East in a matter of months and never fire a shot.
“Do we have control of the antiagents?” her chief of staff finally asked.
She’d been waiting for the question. “We will.” The uneasy peace that connected her and Vincenti was about to end.
“Philogen has not provided stockpiles to treat our population,” one of the men noted. “Nor do we have the quantities needed to stop the viral spread in the target nations, once victory is assured.”
“I’m aware of the problem,” she said.
A chopper was waiting.
She stood. “Gentlemen, we’re about to start the greatest conquest since ancient times. The Greeks came and defeated us, ushering in the Hellenistic Age, which eventually molded Western civilization. We will now begin a new dawn in human development. The Asiatic Age.”
SEVENTY-EIGHT
CASSIOPEIA STRAPPED HERSELF ONTO THE STEEL BENCH IN THE rear compartment. The chopper lurched as Viktor began evasive maneuvers to elude their pursuers. She knew Malone was aware that she’d wanted to talk to Ely, but she also saw that now was not the time. She appreciated Malone risking his neck. How would she have escaped from Zovastina without him? Doubtful that she would have, even with Viktor there. Thorvaldsen had told her that Viktor was an ally, but he’d also warned about his limitations. His mission was to remain undetected, but apparently that directive had changed.
“They’re firing,” Viktor said through the headset.
The chopper banked left, knifing through the air. Her harness held her secure against the bulkhead. Her hands gripped the bench. She was fighting a rising nausea since, truth be told, she was prone to motion sickness. Boats she generally avoided and planes, as long as they flew straight, weren’t a problem. This, though, was a problem. Her stomach seemed to roll up into her throat as they constantly changed altitude, like an elevator out of control. Nothing she could do but hold on and hope to heaven Viktor knew what he was doing.