13 Days to Die

by Matt Miksa

  “What am I looking at, Bruce?” Barlow asked.

  “It’s the southeastern corner of the base, the section hidden from our satellite’s view. The NSA confirmed the geolocation through the photographs’ metadata. These were taken about an hour ago.”

  The images showed a large open area blanketed with bright-green Astroturf. A taut triangular tarp hung overhead.

  “It’s just a goddamn soccer field,” Barlow said. “Where are the missile silos?”

  “There don’t appear to be any missile silos at the Ngari site, Mr. President,” Kinsey reported.

  “Then why the tarps?” Barlow asked, his voice modulating to a higher pitch.

  Kinsey exhaled with an exasperated huff. “Shade, sir.”

  “Shade!”

  “The intel about the launch site was false. There are no ICBMs in Ngari,” Kinsey explained.

  Silence.

  The green orbs flashed on the map, pinging softly as they floated over the Oregon coast. Sullivan, Cameron, and the entire National Security Council had been wrong. Or worse, deceived. General Huang had no intention of invading Taiwan. He had no plans to bomb the island. He didn’t need to. The general already had everything he wanted—supreme control of the government and the military. And of China’s future.

  “General Goodyear.” President Barlow turned to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Abort CERBERUS. Now!”

  “Yes, sir,” Goodyear replied, and the Situation Room erupted in a mad scramble. The United States had come within twenty minutes of making a disastrous mistake. Barlow’s team had screwed him. First, Nathan Sullivan had insisted that patient zero was a rogue former NSB officer. Then, Allyson Cameron’s man in China had reported that the outbreak was orchestrated by the PLA—an inside job. Cam had produced those engineering plans for missile silos in Ngari. She’d believed the Chinese were hiding nuclear weapons, but she’d been wrong. They were never there.

  How had it happened? What in God’s name was going on?

  CHAPTER

  70

  Shanghai, People’s Republic of China

  “YOU’RE A SOCIOPATH,” Olen said to General Huang. His thigh burned from the injection.

  “That’s another matter altogether. But tell me, American, if the PLA had developed the virus, wouldn’t I have wanted a way to control it?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s clear. You’ve been playing catch-up for days. If you really want to know the truth about the disease, I urge you to seek answers closer to home, but quite frankly, there’s no time left for that.”

  Olen’s muscles seized up. He pictured microscopic BRV45 particles attaching themselves to his healthy cells, tearing them apart. The onslaught had begun.

  “You think you’re immune. You think you’re some kind of god. How many more must suffer, General?”

  “Hopefully none.” Huang rolled up his left sleeve, and a latex-gloved soldier carefully pushed a needle into the general’s tricep.

  “The shot …” Olen’s heartbeat pulsed in his ears. “It’s a vaccine. So I’ll live?”

  “If that’s what you prefer to call it,” Huang hissed.

  * * *

  A violent boom rocked the fuselage, like a train jumping the rails. The aircraft’s nose tilted downward and the plane banked sharply. General Huang whipped his head toward the window, perhaps looking for lightning. Olen knew a thunderbolt hadn’t caused the sound. It was a throat-scraping, guttural eruption from inside the belly of the jet. From a bomb.

  More like an improvised incendiary device, hastily assembled by Olen himself, using a flare from the emergency kit in the luggage compartment. He was pleased to know that even in a drug-induced stupor, he could still blow shit up. Olen had rigged the device with a long fuse, giving him ample time to climb out of the cargo hold. He’d only wanted to make a little smoke—just enough to trigger the aircraft’s sensors and force the pilots to descend to ten thousand feet, low enough for him to bail out safely. Judging by the tangle of yellow oxygen masks dangling overhead, his homemade explosive must have torn a hole in the fuselage. Whoops.

  A few of the soldiers were flung across the cabin. Olen remained stationary, his wrists still tied to the chair bolted to the floor. The spiraling jet pulled several g-forces, making him lightheaded. The plane was going down, and Olen with it.

  The aircraft rolled and the chair tugged at its bolts. Olen leaned into the turn with his full body weight, straining the chair’s unreinforced aluminum joints. The armrests broke off with a pop, freeing his hands. The overhead lights flickered, then died out completely. Smoke seeped into the cabin. Coughing, Olen felt around in the dark for the general’s desk. Huang was gone.

  One of the teen soldiers appeared from within the thickening haze, leaping like a spooked gazelle, nearly colliding with Olen. The man wore a black backpack with straps that crisscrossed his torso—a parachute. He darted for the emergency exit and yanked on the door’s metal lever.

  “No!” Olen yelled, as the boy released the lock. The hatch disappeared, sucked into the atmosphere, along with the soldier. Loose papers fluttered toward the door like a flock of sparrows. Olen’s body ripped away from the desk and followed the little white birds out of the plane into wide-open sky.

  Olen’s lungs tightened as he plummeted. The air was thin but breathable, meaning the plane had already descended thousands of feet. The rushing wind forced his eyes shut, but even through thin slits he could see the soldier boy spinning just below him, still wearing the parachute.

  Olen stiffened his body so that it sliced through the air like an arrow. His freefall accelerated, and he closed in on the black backpack, now just an arm’s reach away. Within seconds, Olen crashed into Soldier Boy. The young man freaked and flailed, sending them both into a tumble. Olen wrapped his arms and legs around the soldier, bringing them face-to-face. Mouth agape in terror, Soldier Boy fought against Olen’s grip, making it difficult to maintain a solid hold on his gangly frame. Olen slammed his forehead into the boy’s face, and the soldier’s head fell back, limp, blood spiraling from his nose.

  A moment later, the chute deployed with a rough yank. A billowing canopy fanned out above them, slowing their fall to a graceful glide. Just above the horizon, Olen watched the general’s 747 dip behind a rocky hilltop, black contrails swirling in its wake.

  DAY 16

  CHAPTER

  71

  Beijing, People’s Republic of China

  IT TOOK OFFICER Olen Grave three days to get out of China. Most major airports had reopened, and he was lucky enough to grab a seat on a flight to Bangkok. Regrettably, Olen still had to connect through Beijing. The People’s Republic refused to let him go.

  A weathered rucksack slung over his shoulder, Olen crossed the jet bridge into the terminal. He recognized the man waiting just past the doorway, and for a moment Olen considered turning around and reboarding the plane.

  Maverick—Beijing International Airport’s handsy ambassador—stood stiff legged and scowl faced, the mirrored aviators still perched above his puffy cheeks. “Mr. Stone,” he said, squeezing the words out with an irritating whine. “How nice of you to visit us again so soon.”

  Two large men stood behind the Chinese host—a comically dramatic attempt at intimidation.

  “Are we going back to the champagne room, or should I just strip right here?” Olen fumbled with his belt.

  Maverick’s eyes flared. “Right this way, Mr. Stone.”

  The beefy bodyguards escorted Olen down the same white hallway he’d walked through a week prior. They arrived at the small interrogation room, but this time it wasn’t empty.

  “Our colleagues in public affairs at the Associated Press already wrote your obituary. Really moving stuff,” said Director Cameron, seated at the table. “I brought a handsome cedar box to retrieve you. Guess we’ll save it for next time.” She took a long drag on a cigarette—some cheap Chinese brand by the smell of it—and blew a stream of smoke out the corn
er of her mouth.

  “This is a nonsmoking facility,” Maverick scolded. “Where did you get that, madam?”

  Allyson nodded to a scrawny security guard standing at attention in the corner. “Ask my new friend,” she replied, flicking away loose ash.

  * * *

  Olen followed Allyson up a metal staircase into a private Learjet. Once inside, she turned to Olen. “Try to keep your cool, Officer Grave. It’s been a long two weeks.”

  “My cool?” Olen asked. Then he spotted the man in the rear of the aircraft, sipping a ginger ale, with ice.

  Motherfucking Marc Chen.

  Olen bounded down the center aisle, bloodshot eyes bulging, and ripped Marc from his seat, splashing Canada Dry on the man’s leather jacket.

  “Hey! I just bought this, asshole,” Marc complained. Olen slammed his colleague against the lavatory door, which bowed from the force.

  “Is your PLA uniform at the cleaners, Lieutenant?” Olen’s throat pulsed.

  “It took us nearly three years to get that uniform,” Allyson cut in.

  “What?” Olen cocked his head but didn’t loosen his grip.

  “Deep cover’s a bitch, Olen. You should cut the man some slack.” Allyson settled into a window seat a few rows up, pulled down the shade, and closed her eyes. “We’ll formally debrief you at Fort Detrick. In the meantime, you boys will be spending about thirteen hours together in this aluminum tube. So, make the most of it.”

  Marc shoved Olen back, breaking his hold.

  “What did she mean by ‘three years’?” Olen asked.

  “Piece it together, Grave. She meant I pulled off the highest-level infiltration of the Chinese military in history.”

  “You’ve been working for General Huang for three years?” Olen said. “You and Cam planned it from the beginning? Holy shit, Chen. That’s why she picked you for VECTOR.”

  “What can I say? She needed the best.” Marc laid out across an entire row and draped an open magazine over his face.

  Olen stood dumb struck. “Dude, you fuckin’ shot me.”

  “Yet you’re still breathing. It’s a Christmas miracle,” Marc mumbled.

  “You must’ve known the PLA would string me up by my nutsack.”

  “As satisfying as that would’ve been—for everyone involved—I was more interested in getting you onto Huang’s plane. Didn’t you wonder why your knife was still in your pocket? I knew you would take that dickhead down. If there’s one thing you’re actually good at, it’s crashing things.” Marc lifted a corner of the magazine. “Thanks, bud.”

  Olen stomped up the aisle, hands on his head, muttering under his breath. “Thanks, bud? Un-freaking-believable.”

  CHAPTER

  72

  Beijing, People’s Republic of China

  OLEN SLEPT FOR the first ninety minutes of the flight to Washington, but even in the cozy leather chair, his subconscious churned. His dreams mixed with memories of his mission in Iraq with Allyson. They’d spent weeks together, squeezed between a pair of steel-jawed marines, crisscrossing the Arabian Desert in search of Saddam’s weapons of death. A snatch of uncorroborated intel from a grocer in Fallujah had led their convoy into a field of roadside IEDs. If they’d kept going, it might have earned them both stars on Langley’s Memorial Wall. But Allyson had sniffed out the problems with the reporting, the subtle inconsistencies in the grocer’s story, and she’d turned the team around. The woman had the instincts of a panther. Olen had learned a crucial lesson in Anbar: Allyson was always right.

  * * *

  Allyson was dead wrong. Her gut had told her to dismiss the Ngari blueprints. She’d had no way to verify the intelligence, and the stakes had been extraordinarily high. Why had she gone against her better judgment and shared the blueprints with President Barlow?

  Ego. Sullivan had humiliated her in the Situation Room, and the Ngari plans had made her a hero.

  But they were fake. The Chinese had fed them to Marc Chen to misdirect and deceive the United States. General Huang must have known that Chen was working for the enemy. Huang had used Allyson’s own infiltration against her.

  There was another possibility. Allyson thought of the MI6 photo, of Chen’s unexplained trip to Singapore, of his rendezvous with the mystery woman in the turquoise dress. Where did Chen’s true loyalty lie? Allyson would do everything in her power to find out. If she discovered Chen had intentionally deceived her—if he had known the Ngari blueprints were fake but passed them along anyway—Allyson would skin him alive.

  * * *

  The jet angled north and then leveled out. Olen turned to Allyson, seated next to him. The soft glow of her laptop screen illuminated a subtle scar across her cheek.

  “How bad is it stateside?” Olen asked his boss.

  Allyson shut her computer and rubbed her eyes. “Micro outbreaks popped up in New York and San Francisco—both in hospitals—but we were ready. Containment was swift,” Allyson answered.

  “It’s not spreading?” Olen asked.

  “The Chinese government released the PLA’s vaccine to the WHO and the CDC. We’ve already inoculated a few hundred thousand, but deploying the vaccine to millions more won’t be simple. The majority of the population won’t be fully protected for months.”

  “So, more will die?”

  “Yes, they will. Most people who have come into contact with Blood River virus won’t survive. It’s a miracle you weren’t infected, Olen.”

  “So, it was luck,” he said.

  “No,” Allyson responded. “It’s never luck. You were spared so you could fight the people who created this thing.” Her voice was strong, assured. “You sent Blood River virus back to hell.”

  “Along with General Huang,” Olen added.

  “Amen.” Allyson popped a piece of Nicorette into her mouth, leaned back, and closed her eyes.

  CHAPTER

  73

  Annapolis, Maryland, USA

  THE SEVERN UNDULATED restlessly, its moss-green water sloshing against the sea wall, then retreating, leaving a foamy film on the concrete. A half dozen sailboats bobbed along its surface, unfazed by the river’s agita. The day’s light had begun to dim, so Marc Chen knew the sailors would return to the harbor soon. A pair of Naval Academy midshipmen had already finished securing their boat to the dock and were folding their blue-and-gold spinnaker. They headed in the direction of campus, clapping each other on the back, laughing. The young military men had no idea that their country had come within minutes of nuclear conflict with a rival superpower. And that the United States would have fired the first shot.

  Marc imagined the fifty-million-dollar warheads splashing into the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean. The president’s command to abort the strike had disarmed the missiles and safely redirected them into the open waters. International waters. Down they sank, where they would stay until retrieved by a U.S. Navy deepwater submarine. Thanks to Allyson Cameron’s well-timed intelligence, the United States had stepped back from the brink of an unimaginable war.

  A war Marc Chen had worked so hard to induce. He’d risked everything to penetrate the Chinese military and achieve the position of General Huang’s aide-de-camp. Access and placement that good were nearly impossible.

  Marc’s three-year op was VECTOR’s crown jewel. Director Cameron had believed she’d opened a window into China’s secretive ruling body—the elusive Politburo Standing Committee. Her fledgling organization would collect the most sensitive intelligence on China’s political and military leadership, and Barlow would shower her with presidential accolades.

  In reality, the woman was clueless. Marc had fed Cameron worthless chicken feed for the last year, including the erroneous engineering plans for PLA missile silos at the Ngari air base. The document wasn’t exactly a forgery. Huang’s initial plans for Ngari actually had included ICBM launch facilities, but they had been scrapped months ago. Too provocative, the general ultimately reasoned. The man planned to overthrow the government; he wasn’t inter
ested in drawing the ire of the United States. So, Marc had simply altered the date on an old blueprint and fired it off to Cameron via SwissPax. To be perfectly frank, he hadn’t expected the director to buy it. But hell, the woman didn’t have the best judgment. After all, she’d trusted him.

  Marc knew that Cameron had dismissed the Chinese threat from the beginning, so coming from her, the discovery of hidden PLA nukes carried more credibility. Plus, Barlow had a raging boner for Cameron. The president would believe Mount Rushmore was packed with pirate gold if Director Cameron told him so. Sure, the Ngari missile site was farfetched, but it was also impossible to verify with the lack of coverage in the region. The president required clear evidence of an imminent Chinese attack on Taiwan to authorize a preemptive strike. Secret nukes pointed right up Taipei’s nostrils were about as imminent as it got.

  Marc had played Director Cameron, but that didn’t make her an idiot. She’d be furious about the false Ngari intelligence. She’d demand to know how it happened, and she’d strap Marc to a waterboard if that was what it took to learn the truth. And Cameron wouldn’t be the only problem. There would be congressional investigations, grand juries, scapegoats. The thought made Marc’s veins surge with currents of heat. He refused to take the fall. He hadn’t masterminded the outbreak, or the Chinese coup, or the nuclear crisis. That responsibility rested with someone far more powerful.

  The twilight turned the river glassy black, like liquefied onyx. A flash of blood red caught Marc’s eye when a billowing mainsail puffed up with air after executing an expert tack. The lone mariner trimmed the sail and the boat picked up speed, propelled by a stiff wind back to shore. Marc locked eyes with the approaching sailor, who glowered but didn’t steer away. Good, Marc thought, reaching for the loaded Browning holstered at his side.