13 Days to Die

by Matt Miksa

  “Mr. President,” she began. “I have—”

  “Jim, I have reason to believe the Taiwanese government was not behind the outbreak,” Sullivan interrupted. Allyson blinked and pushed the maroon file back into her stack of briefing materials. It seemed Sullivan had some beans to spill too. Best to give Blurty Boy the honors.

  President Barlow furrowed his brow. A row of heads turned to the national security adviser.

  “Why ya holdin’ back, Nate?” Hart asked.

  “Now, I just learned of this a few hours ago,” Sullivan said, his tone defensive.

  “Well, don’t keep us in the dark, Nate. What’ve you got?” Barlow asked.

  “Chang Yingjie, or patient zero,” Sullivan began, “was indeed an intelligence officer with Taiwan’s National Security Bureau. This isn’t news. However, by the time he showed up in Tibet, Chang was no longer working for the NSB.”

  “So, you’re saying he went rogue?” Secretary Hart asked. “A lone-wolf attack?”

  “Not exactly. The recent Taiwanese election changed everything. Officer Chang began his career under the previous administration. Not everyone working for the government agreed with President Tang’s hard-line position on independence. Some bureaucrats were more outspoken than others. So, shortly after his inauguration, Tang cleaned house.”

  “Chang was purged,” Barlow concluded.

  “Precisely. Tang needed to ensure absolute loyalty from his top spy agency. There were already too many operatives playing both sides. Officer Chang didn’t support Taiwanese independence. His grandparents were from Chengdu. Chang was proud of his Chinese heritage. He considered himself an exile, banished from his motherland. His family had fled to the island during the civil war in forty-nine, along with thousands of others. Chang wanted to bring them home. He wanted reunification with the mainland.

  “Men like Chang joined the NSB hoping they could put pressure on the Chinese Communist Party to reform. He didn’t see the PRC as the enemy and he didn’t consider himself a separatist. To Chang, Taiwan’s new leader—President Tang—was an agitator, a radical revolutionary.”

  “So,” Barlow began, “Officer Chang sees his government moving in a dangerous direction, one he believes may lead to all-out war with Beijing. He launches an outbreak on the mainland—an act that almost guarantees military conflict. Seems counterproductive, no?” Barlow sounded skeptical of Sullivan’s theory. “Chang must have known the Chinese would identify his body and retaliate with force.”

  “Yes, I believe he was counting on it,” Sullivan explained. “Chang had been fired from a job he loved. The problem was President Tang—the man who ruined Chang’s professional career and his dream of Taiwan’s reconciliation with the mainland.”

  “He had to do something to stop Tang,” Hart reasoned, weighing the possibility.

  “Time was running out,” Sullivan said. “President Tang’s position on Taiwanese independence has been gaining popularity in the United Nations. The man might actually succeed in breaking away, officially.” Sullivan paused. “Officer Chang couldn’t let that happen.”

  General Goodyear—who had sat quietly, taking in the new intelligence—suddenly broke his silence. “So Chang infected himself with Blood River virus and unleashed a devastating plague on China, hoping Beijing would take revenge and invade Taiwan. It’s reunification by force.”

  “Precisely. If the plan works, Taiwan reunites with the mainland in a matter of days, and President Tang, along with his radical agenda, is out. Probably killed,” Sullivan said.

  “That explains why we linked patient zero to the NSB so easily. Officer Chang wanted everyone to think his rogue operation was sanctioned by the Taiwanese government,” Barlow inferred. “That way, the Chinese invasion would appear justified, and the international community—specifically, the United States—would stay out of it.”

  “A man’s gotta be dang-dumb desperate to pump his veins full of Blood River virus,” Hart said. “He may as well have stuffed dynamite down his tighty-whities.”

  “Chang Yingjie was a terrorist, motivated by his own twisted political agenda,” Sullivan explained. “He’s no different than an Al-Qaeda suicide bomber.”

  “Except Chang was the world’s first terrorist to successfully acquire and deploy a weapon of mass destruction—a biological weapon,” Hart said.

  “And we never saw it coming,” Sullivan added. His coal-black eyes focused on Director Cameron. The statement was a blatant indictment of her organization. VECTOR’s explicit mission was to prevent the proliferation of biological weapons around the world. As its leader, Allyson would take the fall for failing to thwart Chang. There would be congressional hearings, media condemnation, public outcry. They would bury her. Sullivan would love that.

  The entire theory was bull, Allyson thought. A disgruntled low-level intelligence officer had somehow marshaled the resources to single-handedly deploy a monstrous bioweapon? And without anyone noticing? Ridiculous. Chang must’ve had help. Sullivan knew more than he was sharing. Or he was lying.

  “All right, Nate,” Allyson spoke up. “You have a stunning imagination. Truthfully, you do. A real knack for vivid imagery. Have you considered taking up oil painting?”

  “Make your point,” Sullivan croaked.

  “May I? Oh, how thoughtful of you, Nathan. Let’s see, am I supposed to have a talking stick or something?” Allyson fumbled around in her lap. “Ah! That’s right, no stick down there. Am I still allowed to speak?”

  “Cam, please.” Barlow sighed. Secretary Hart snickered to herself.

  Allyson nodded, satisfied. “For any country, firing a spy is slippery business. You don’t just hand them a pink slip and send them on their way. The NSB would’ve kept Chang on a short leash. We’re supposed to believe he masterminded this magnificently complicated plot and the NSB, the MSS, and the 2PLA all missed it?”

  “Not to mention U.S. intelligence. The Five Eyes. We didn’t hear a peep about this guy from our allies,” Secretary Hart added.

  “Chang would’ve needed advanced lab equipment, a BS level three facility—oh, and probably a doctorate in virology,” Allyson explained. “This isn’t like figuring out how to build a pipe bomb in Grandma’s kitchen from a YouTube video. We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars, top-flight scientists, and access to restricted biological material. VECTOR has coverage all over East Asia. There’s been zero chatter about a disgruntled former NSB officer involved in anything like what you’re describing.” Allyson paused. “How did you come by this intelligence, Nate?”

  Allyson knew where to punch. Discredit the source, discredit the intel.

  “Director Cameron, you know better than anyone that I can’t divulge my sources or methods,” Sullivan retorted.

  “Sources!” Allyson raised her voice in frustration. “You’re the national security adviser. Your sources are the seventeen U.S. intelligence agencies—the thousands of people working their asses off to feed you that stack of briefs. You’re supposed to be a consumer of intel, not a collector.”

  Allyson fumed. Never had a United States national security adviser recruited his own sources. The very idea was an insult to the professionals who’d dedicated their careers to the craft of intelligence. Sullivan wasn’t even a trained spy. He was a dilettante with a Jason Bourne fetish.

  Sullivan bristled. “And what about your collectors, Director? Last I heard, your guy in China fell off the grid just hours before the outbreak.”

  “What about his replacement?” President Barlow asked, looking at Director Cameron. “The officer we sent in under media cover, Olen Grave. What reporting do we have from him?”

  Allyson felt exposed. It had been almost two weeks since the outbreak began, and she’d offered very little in the way of meaningful intelligence. She’d have to give them something.

  “Unfortunately, Officer Grave hasn’t reported in yet,” Allyson admitted.

  Sullivan scowled. “Two missing operatives? So much for your Eas
t Asian coverage. With all due respect, Director, it sounds like you’re in no position to debate. At least I’m bringing something to the table. My source is credible and operationally vetted. This intelligence is fresh and highly reliable.”

  “Okay, Nate,” Barlow interjected, palms raised as if to declare a truce. “For now, it’s the best we’ve got on the Taiwanese side. What about the PRC?” The president turned his attention to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “General Goodyear, tell me about their military readiness. Is General Huang preparing to invade Taiwan?”

  Goodyear’s voice resonated like a deep growl. He spoke incisively with the frankness of a four-star. “It’s difficult to discern any meaningful escalation in China’s military posture along the Strait of Taiwan because they’ve been piling up missiles for two decades. Taipei is one of the most threatened cities on earth. That said, Bruce has something you should see.”

  Goodyear nodded to Bruce Kinsey, the man who oversaw America’s seventeen intelligence agencies as director of national intelligence. Like President Barlow, Kinsey had also had a turn at the helm of the CIA.

  “For the last eight months,” Kinsey began, “our eyes in the sky have been watching the People’s Liberation Army build a massive air base in Ngari Prefecture, northwestern Tibet.” Kinsey slid a glossy satellite photo across the conference table. “The site is about fifty miles east of the Kashmir border.”

  Barlow adjusted his reading glasses to get a better look at the photograph. Cranes, cement mixers, steel pipes, and hundreds of trucks dotted a rocky landscape. “No surprise there. That’s hotly contested territory,” he said. “We know Beijing is concerned about flare-ups along its border. It stands to reason that they would establish an air base there.”

  “That image was taken about ten weeks ago,” Kinsey explained. He then produced a second photograph and flicked it, facedown, toward the head of the table. “This is the same site.”

  Barlow slapped his palm down to catch the photo before it sailed off the edge. He thumbed a corner and flipped it over. “When was this taken, Bruce?”

  Kinsey paused a beat. “Three hours ago, Mr. President.”

  A geometric pattern consisting of three immense triangles covered an entire section of the southeastern corner of the construction site. From the bird’s-eye view, the smooth shapes stood out among the craggy terrain.

  Tarps.

  “The PLA is building something under those vinyl sheets that they don’t want our satellites and spy planes to see,” Kinsey explained.

  “Do we have any idea what it is?” Barlow asked.

  “Well, I’m betting it isn’t Disneyland Ngari,” Secretary Hart cut in.

  “Prepare an intel-collection plan,” Barlow ordered. “We need to know what General Huang is concealing at that air base.”

  Damn, Allyson thought. There was no avoiding it now. She had to share what she knew—the intel from the SwissPax parcel. She cleared her throat. “I may be able to help with that.”

  All chairs swiveled in Allyson’s direction. Secretary Hart threw up her hands. “Well! Isn’t our garden party just bursting with little blond bombshells?”

  Allyson fished out the maroon file and handed it to Barlow. Hart and Kinsey huddled over the president to get a closer look. The document inside was an engineering blueprint. The plans matched the satellite image of the PLA’s Ngari construction site, minus the tarps. They revealed what the Chinese had planned to build in the southeastern corner of the air base.

  “Where did you get this?” Sullivan demanded.

  Allyson glared at him. “Oh, Nate, you know I can’t divulge my sources and methods.”

  Barlow smoothed the paper with his palm. Even without translation of the Chinese annotations, the cylindrical structures were unmistakable.

  Underground missile silos.

  At a secret air base in Ngari Prefecture, General Huang was hiding a launch site for intercontinental ballistic missiles. The kind that could sink an island like Taiwan. Barlow turned to Allyson, his fingertips pressed into his temples. “You still think Huang intends to turn the other cheek?”

  CHAPTER

  42

  Washington, DC, USA

  THE NATIONAL SECURITY Council disbanded, and its high-ranking members dispersed to their respective bureaucratic fiefdoms. Most of them climbed into bulletproof Cadillacs, ushered by grim bodyguards with coiled wires sprouting from their ears.

  Director Allyson Cameron wound her way through the labyrinthine ground floor of the White House to the staff parking garage. It took longer than usual to find her car. The garage was packed, and she was still buzzed from the combative meeting.

  In Washington, when things went to hell, everyone pointed fingers. It was an “intelligence failure,” the press would report. After a major global disaster, people in her line of work spent more time dodging political blowback than working together to overcome the crisis. They covered their asses and slaughtered scapegoats. Nathan Sullivan had his sights set on VECTOR. He would make sure Allyson took the fall for Chang’s bioattack.

  Director Cameron had taken no satisfaction in obtaining the engineering plans for the Ngari missile silos. Her source had taken an immense risk to acquire that document, and good intel was good intel, but the implications turned her stomach. If Huang planned to use nukes against Taiwan, he’d launch them from Ngari. That’s what Allyson’s source had wanted to communicate by sending the document via SwissPax. Barlow might have no choice but to destroy the air base—a preemptive strike to neutralize weapons of mass destruction. America had gone down that path before in Iraq, and it had led to a decade of war.

  Allyson found her silver Ford Focus wedged between a concrete pillar and a yellow Jeep Wrangler. She fished her keys from her jacket pocket. She planned to head back to McLean and make a few calls from the privacy of her home. Her Fort Detrick office wasn’t clean. Sullivan had tentacles everywhere—especially in the Army.

  The keys slipped from Allyson’s hands. She stutter-stepped in an attempt to catch them but accidently kicked the jumble of metal farther under her car. “Shit,” she hissed to no one.

  The stress was getting to her. She hadn’t slept in two days. Allyson crouched, trying her best not to snag her pants on the rough concrete. She peered under the vehicle, but it was too dark. She turned on her phone’s flashlight, and that’s when she saw it.

  A small electronic device was affixed to the Ford’s undercarriage, just behind the rear tire on the driver’s side. It was nearly identical to the one she’d planted on the Mercedes of a Saudi middleman in Riyadh three summers ago. A GPS tracker.

  She sighed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  CHAPTER

  43

  McLean, Virginia, USA

  DIRECTOR CAMERON SPENT the evening glued to her cell phone. First, she called the commander of USAMRIID’s biosafety level four laboratory.

  “The cursed virus just mutates too rapidly,” he explained, his voice thick with defeat. “We’re still trying to produce a viable culture, but it’s all trial and error. Mostly error, at this point.”

  Allyson tried to raise the commander’s spirits but found herself feeling similarly dejected. Her next two calls, to the CDC and the World Health Organization, went about the same way. Director Cameron, do we have any idea where this bug came from? If we just had a little more to go on … What have we learned from the field?

  The field. Everyone wanted answers from the field, as if at any moment a feverish baboon was going to wander into a Lhasa police station and turn himself in. Tibet constituted nearly one-sixth of China’s land mass. It was the size of Texas, California, and New York State combined. Four hundred seventy-five thousand square miles of windswept meadows, sprawling pine forests, winding mountains, frozen glaciers, and arid desert. That meant a lot of habitats for an infected host species to hide. Assuming, of course, that the damn thing hadn’t been cooked up in a Taiwanese military lab. Which no one believed—not even General Huang, pro
bably.

  The director’s phone clattered against the granite counter top. Nine o’clock. Time to jet. She’d set an alarm so she wouldn’t leave too late. In the midst of endless phone calls, Allyson had planned a small countersurveillance operation. Someone had planted that GPS tracker on her car, and she intended to find out who.

  Allyson had left the device untouched to avoid tipping off her shadow. She pulled out of her condo parking garage and turned right on Westpark Road, heading toward International Drive. The place was deserted. Most of the neighborhood’s defense contractors had already punched out and fled to suburbia. Late at night, the only people out on the street were construction workers. Allyson rolled to a stop at a red light.

  Even in the dead of night, the traffic lights took forever to change. Allyson’s eyes flicked to her rearview mirror. She wouldn’t spot surveillance that way—another pair of headlights following that closely would be too conspicuous—but she checked anyway. Old habits and whatnot.

  The stoplight flipped to green, and Allyson drove straight through the intersection, crossing Leesburg Pike, even though it meant going out of her way. She wanted to give her pursuer a long leash. He’d likely parked at the multilevel parking garage at the Tysons Galleria mall—close, but hidden from view—waiting for his mark to leave home. That’s what Allyson would’ve done. Her shadow wouldn’t start his engine until the Focus was at least a block away.

  Allyson planned to head up to Chain Bridge Road and then double back. With any luck, she’d hook her tail and drag him along for a little ride.

  * * *

  Senior intelligence analyst Gabriel Snyder almost missed the blinking red light on the screen mounted to his windshield. He must’ve dozed off. He reached for his coffee, resting askew in the cup holder, but it was empty. The long hours were killer. He wasn’t a young man anymore. The higher-ups had doubled surveillance coverage on Director Cameron. Such high-intensity observation typically involved two teams in alternating shifts, but this case required more discretion, so Snyder had been working solo.