liberated from numerous banks. Once situated safely here in Chile, they took new identities and stayed low, far from public scrutiny, and they invested wisely in oil and steel, then communications and finally advanced computer software.
Now worth millions, the children of Genesis had decided to finish the war for independence started by their parents. They hired mercenaries to teach them how to fight, and they studied the art of war in colleges, and psychology at universities, across the world. Unfortunately, America had grown fat over the decades, and once more was waging political warfare, trading blood for oil, a conflict that was certain to escalate horribly out of control when some terrorist group finally managed to build a hydrogen bomb and started a nuclear world war that nobody could win. Many years sooner than planned, Genesis was facing the end of the human race and had been forced to rush their plans into completion. But now, at last, they were ready to force peace upon the world no matter what. Victory or death.
Tapping an access code into a small keypad, Rexton waited a few seconds as the heavy door slid aside. Then he tapped a second code into the pad, and the door closed, then opened once more, this time with the antipersonnel mines buried inside the jamb deactivated.
Stopping at an alcove, Rexton luxuriated in the waves of heat pouring from a wall vent while he hung up the heavy parka and ski mask, the tattered remains of the glove going into a waste receptacle. Pounds lighter, the man proceeded deeper into the bunker, vainly adjusting his cuffs and collar.
Seeking the approval of the staff and the pilots, Rexton always came to the command center dressed in sneakers, blue jeans and a red flannel shirt. The clothing of a humble working man. It helped him to stay focused on the goals of the group, to free the people.
Smiling at a security camera high in the corner of the ceiling, Rexton nodded in passing to an armed guard sitting in a small alcove.
“Welcome back, brother,” the guard said, smiling, then it vanished. “Were those noises just more ice coming off a glacier or…” He left the sentence hanging.
“Just a penguin,” Rexton replied stoically.
Sagging slightly, the guard sighed. Penguin, that was the code word for civilian. “Then may God guide their spirit into the next world,” he whispered, touching his heart, lips and forehead, in an ancient blessing.
Gripping the man by the shoulder, Rexton squeezed hard, as if the death of some nobody had actually bothered him. After he was satisfied by the amount of guilt demonstrated, Rexton moved onward, eager to get back to work. When would these people ever learn that death was the only act that changed the world?
Impatiently lengthening his stride down the hallway, Rexton placed a palm to a glowing plate set into the wall alongside an armored door. He felt a faint tingling as an electrical current surged through his hand to verify whether he was alive, or merely a disembodied limb stolen by enemy forces to gain entrance. Their chief scientist, Professor Dimitri Oughton, was an electronics wizard who had both Genesis bases prepared for any possible contingency.
A technical genius, “Dizzy” Oughton could have easily run the entire operation himself from Lightning Base, which was why Rexton maintained strict control of the supercomputers down here in Thunder Base. The microsecond delay between the two bases was considered an acceptable danger. The other members of Genesis might think the organization was a democracy, as it had been in the days of their parents, but that was a polite fallacy. Rexton ruthlessly maintained an iron control over absolutely everything. If it became necessary to invoke the final option, there would be a rebellion, and he was ready to kill the rest of the staff to achieve victory. A thousand would die to save six billion. What did the military call that again? Oh yes, a soldier’s burden.
With a soft pneumatic sigh, the heavy door slid aside and Rexton entered the busy control room.
“Morning, brothers,” he called, heading for the master console.
Everybody looked up at the arrival, several of the women smiling widely. He did the same in return. Rexton knew that he was good-looking, although some thought he was almost too handsome. Clearly, his face was the result of delicate plastic surgery performed by experts. His father had dearly wanted Rexton to fly the planes that would awaken America, but after his second crash, that had proved to be impossible. The teenager simply had not possessed the lightning-fast reflexes of a combat pilot. Instead, he studied tactics, and eventually assumed the job of leading Genesis.
Situated in the exact middle of the heavy dome, the control room was wide and spacious, the ceiling arching overhead. Truncating the room was a wall of double-thick Lexan plastic, behind which the massive IBM Blue Gene supercomputer hummed softly, the rows of blade-class servers chilled by liquid nitrogen to temperatures far more deadly to human life than the icy glacier outside.
Across the room was a curved row of consoles facing a huge plasma-screen monitor. At the moment, it was divided into four sections, with a scroll across the bottom giving constant reports on their stolen satellites. The staff was dressed in heavy jumpsuits as protection from the chill coming off the Lexan wall separating them from the supercomputer.
“What is the current situation?” Rexton asked, easing into a chair. The leather was old and cracked, but it settled around him like an old friend.
In the center of the main screen was a vector graphic of the world, tiny blue triangles showing the locations of the three B-52 bombers, along with a dozen green squares, computer-generated shadows. Professor Oughton was firmly convinced that no hacker in the world could figure out which were the real planes, and which the fake, in time to do anything. So far, he had been proved correct.
“Good and bad,” Oughton replied from a section on the monitor. “ Greenwich ’s captain reports they received some damage from flak during the strike on NATO. But they managed to escape into the civilian traffic over the Channel.”
“Any pursuit?” Rexton asked, tapping a few buttons on the console to briefly review the monitor readout on the progress of the B-52 bombers.
“None worth mentioning,” Oughton replied. “NATO put a dozen planes on the hunt, but each is heading in the wrong direction. They have no idea where the Greenwich went.”
“Excellent,” Rexton said, a hand brushing across his perfect cheek. The physical scars were gone, but the memories of the fiery crash remained inside his mind. The former pilot had never flown again since his last crash, and did not even like to review the paint jobs on the B-52 bombers that made them resemble a Boeing 707. Even if it meant his own life, Rexton would never again set foot inside a plane. End of discussion.
“Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the rest of the fleet,” Alyssa Dean announced tersely, swiveling away from her console. Weighing less than a hundred pounds, the tiny blonde had a slim, almost boyish figure, but she possessed the face of an angel even without any cosmetics. A steaming cup of coffee sat dangerously near the keyboard of her console, and a long-barrel Uzi .22 conversion hung across the back of her chair, a space clip attached to the leather strap.
“Report,” Rexton said in a whipcrack tone.
“Captain Tomashevsky in the Berkeley is en route to Eastern Europe. He stopped at our Tunisia base for refueling, and took on a full load of ordnance, so no problems there,” Dean stated brusquely. “Unfortunately, Captain Whitehorn in the Detroit has reported finding a fuel leak. They’re down to quarter tanks, and will never reach our refueling depot in the Caicos Islands in time.”
“Dizzy, can you send them a tanker?” Rexton asked, looking at the picture of Oughton.
“Not
