As decided, we immediately set course for China. Only there, on the other side of the planet, could we hope to find the key to understanding what had happened to the world. The Atlas smoothly gained altitude, and soon the American coastline disappeared behind a dense veil of clouds.

  As soon as we were over the Pacific Ocean, the temperature outside began to rise rapidly. From an altitude of six thousand meters, we couldn't see the surface—thick cloud cover hid the water, but the sensors showed a fierce storm and anomalously high water temperatures. The numbers on the screens jumped, displaying values that should never have been there.

  "The ocean hasn't frozen yet, but it's seriously ill," I said to Sarah, pointing at the screen where red zones of temperature anomalies raged. "Look, it's almost plus twenty here. Gulf Stream waters have mixed with something else... or maybe volcanic activity is heating the ocean from below."

  "Insane turbulence," she shuddered, as if from cold, though the cabin was warm. "How much longer do we have to fly?"

  "Not long, we'll be descending soon," I replied, activating the long-range reconnaissance system. "Time to start observations."

  Both generals rose from their seats as if on command. For as long as they could remember, the airspace of the PRC had been a closed, potentially hostile zone for American military personnel, crossing which threatened international scandal or even armed conflict. They apparently couldn't believe we were crossing it so easily and unhindered.

  "Maybe we should first do a reconnaissance flyby at high altitude?" suggested General Francis Hammel, standing and approaching the porthole. Since Sarah had joined our crew, he had noticeably perked up and even tried to appear gallant. At one point, he even had the audacity to ask me about my age, and when it turned out he wasn't much younger, apparently decided that his height, bearing, and military bearing were more deserving of Sarah's attention. This stupid, ridiculous rivalry poisoned the air in the cabin worse than any radiation.

  We began our descent: five thousand, four... The clouds remained above, and before us opened a panorama of depressing desolation. Below, there were no lights, no smoke, no movement. Only an endless, gray wasteland, dotted with dark patches of former cities, spreading like metastases across a dead body.

  "Are you sure this is China?" General Hammel asked skeptically, approaching the console and checking coordinates against the satellite map, which now showed only offline data—the satellites had been silent for many months.

  "No doubt," Zhang replied quietly. He stood with his forehead pressed against the cold porthole glass, and his eyes reflected the boundless gray plain. "I know this coastline well. This is Jiangsu Province. And ahead... Shandong. My homeland."

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  Although by our calculations it was daytime, visibility outside remained abysmal. Leaden smog and fine dust hung in the air like a dense, impenetrable wall, through which only a dim, sickly light barely penetrated.

  "Did you know the location of any of your key command centers?" I asked Zhang, bringing up on the screen a map of the former air defense system, kindly provided to us by intelligence from Raven Rock and already loaded into the Atlas's memory.

  "Here," he jabbed his finger at a point in the mountains northwest of Beijing. His voice trembled. "In the Jiuquan area. Strategic response commands came from there. If anyone survived, it's there."

  "Well then, no point in circling here anymore," said General Cartwright, who had been silent until now. "Set course for that point. It's obvious—they got hit no less than we did."

  I turned the aircraft and, engaging the automatic approach system, descended to one kilometer. Snow was falling over the mountains too. But it was no longer white, but a sort of dirty gray, almost black, like soot mixed with ash. The flakes fell slowly and heavily, wrapping the slopes in an ominous, mourning blanket, beneath which knife-sharp rocks could be discerned.

  "An astonishing and sad sight," General Cartwright switched the camera from the falling flakes to those already on the surface. They covered the ground in an uneven, oily layer, glistening in the dim light.

  At that moment, a weak but steady signal began blinking on the radar. Coordinates appeared on the screen.

  "The signal source is directly below us," General Hammel quickly determined and, almost pushing Cartwright aside from the console, took control of the panoramic camera himself, scanning for any possible signs indicating the bunker entrance. "No identifying marks! Only bare rocks all around. We need to request an exact bearing from them."

  Zhang was already moving toward the communicator when a command suddenly flashed on the screen, transmitted on an open, unencrypted frequency:

  "Descend. Descend. Follow coordinates for landing."

  Upon reaching the destination, I disengaged the autopilot and manually landed the ship on a small area cleared of black snow at the foot of a huge cliff. To our right rose a bare stone wall, sheer and impregnable, and to our left yawned a deep canyon, its bottom lost in darkness. Ahead, between granite boulders, a narrow, carefully cleared path led somewhere into the depths of the rock massif.

  Zhang and I walked along it, leaving the others at the ship for guard duty. The generals exchanged glances but didn't argue—they just checked their weapons and took positions at the ramp.

  After walking about a hundred meters along the cleared path, we began a long descent down neat steps carved directly into the rock. One flight—twenty steps, a turn, then two more flights. And so on, seemingly endlessly. The stone walls were damp, in places covered with frost, but the steps remained even and clean—they were clearly maintained.

  Thus we descended to a small concrete platform hanging directly over the abyss. In the rock face yawned about two dozen massive steel doors, each no less than half a meter thick. Next to each was attached a large panel with control buttons and indicators. All the doors remained impenetrably closed, and only one had green indicators lit on its panel.

  We approached it and cautiously pressed the glowing button. A dull, powerful grinding of mechanisms was heard, and the door slowly, with barely perceptible trembling of metal, slid aside, opening a passage inward.

  Entering inside, we were immediately blinded by bright electric light. After the external twilight and dusk, this was almost painful.

  We found ourselves in a spacious, astonishingly beautiful and clean lobby. In the center, a small fountain played—a real fountain with gurgling water, surrounded by live, well-tended plants. Probably hydroponic—their leaves were unnaturally bright, richly green, as if illuminated by special lamps. Along the walls stood comfortable leather armchairs and sofas, creating the feeling of either a expensive hotel foyer or a relaxation area in an elite spa complex. The air, clearly air-conditioned, was fresh, clean, and warm—after the icy air outside, this seemed almost unreal.

  We walked around the fountain and saw an open door to the adjacent room, filled with rows of monitors, server racks, and control panels. The silence was broken only by the steady hum of equipment cooling systems.

  In front of a huge main screen, in an armchair, sat a man in a green uniform without insignia, with short-cropped black hair.