by Sam Masters
Molton looks exasperated. “If it’s so simple, why didn’t we get this before?”
“They’ll have been running cryptographically altered rolling codes and CRA—challenge response authentication.”
No one answers.
Finally, the VP has a stab at it. “We have been chasing our tail. That’s why. It’s all happened so fast we’ve been struggling to set up response teams and not put enough resources into detection.”
Jackson feels affronted. “With respect, sir, that’s not quite true. Since day one we’ve been working hard on the intelligence side and have made a significant breakthrough.”
Chris Parry takes his cue. “We have captured highly encrypted data running from North Korea to Beijing. It’s called the Nian program. Nian is a mythical monster from Chinese folklore.
“Yesterday, pretty much around the time of the incident in the Korean DMZ, the firewalls momentarily came down. It was enough for us to prise open the door and pull a load of stuff out. We have decoded most of it. Normally, you would then be faced with recognizable characters and languages. We were not. We encountered Chinese characters—and to make matters worse, not the most commonly spoken version of Chinese. Linguists have now successfully determined that the inner code, as we call it, is written in Gan, or Jiangxinese, as it is often known. This is a language spoken by only about thirty million Chinese. We have found several experts and they are transcribing the data that we have, but there is a final complexity and perhaps the most awkward one of all. The data relates to advanced genetics and related formula. So we have had to draft in genetic scientists to work with the specialist translators to ensure everything is accurately translated and makes sense.”
Jackson adds a footnote. “Two leading Chinese scientists, Hao Weiwei and his son Jihai, were named as accessing that computer. Hao had administrator privileges to the database. We’ve pulled video showing tests on dogs. Experiments in which the dogs become aggressive and go crazy. Strange thing is, he seems to be using some kind of drugs to pacify them.”
“Or maybe make them worse,” adds Parry. “Until we break down the data we won’t have a clear picture.”
“I think it’s clear enough,” says Molton. “This amounts to proof that the Chinese and North Koreans colluded in the creation and control of weaponized dogs that have been set upon innocent American people. It’s an act of war. And I don’t need the Attorney General to tell me whether I have the right to strike back or not.”
“Right doesn’t come into it,” says Cornwell. “The big problem is might not right. We launch a preemptive strike on China and North Korea, they both have the nuclear firepower to fight back and cause millions of deaths. Head-to-head with just China and we would be seriously outmuscled in a conflict. They have about two and a quarter million regular troops with the same again in reserve. We couldn’t muster three million in total.”
“We wouldn’t stand alone, Pat.” Molton sounds indignant. “The USA has some strong allies who would unhesitatingly stand with us.”
“China too.” Cornwell can’t help but fight his point. “The North Koreans could put maybe nine million troops into the battlefield. Russia could add another two. That’s a combined force against us of around fifteen million troops. And I haven’t even gotten into the financial power of the likes of Russia and China. We are $14 trillion in debt, Clint, and we’re in no position to go to war with those bankrolling us.”
Molton is annoyed by the outburst and the open challenge to his authority. “Well, thank God that Great Britain didn’t do that kind of math when they declared war on Germany in 1939. Damn it, Pat, I’m not going to be bullied, and I suspect the American public feel the same way.” He turns to Jackson and Parry. “I’ll go see Xian at this godforsaken APEC summit, but only to buy some breathing space. If you can’t give me more than just hope, then by the time I come back you best prepare for war. For I sure as hell will go to Congress with that as my preferred option.”
162
Miami
The predawn light is charcoal gray when the military plane from Washington touches down in Miami. Ghost had called Jackson Memorial just before takeoff and he calls again as soon as he arrives.
The same female ward nurse tells him what she told him just over two hours ago. “There’s no change in Miss Speed’s condition, sir.”
No change.
He’d never thought that those two innocuous words could prove so painful.
Ghost drives straight home. Showers. Changes. Makes coffee and starts his computer. He double-clicks an icon he hasn’t used in a long time and waits for it to load.
The trip to Washington taught him a lot. Much more than Jackson, Parry, Harries, and all the other spooks had expected him to learn. The big picture is still far from complete, but now he can see most of it and is kicking himself for taking so long to work out what is happening. China and the U.S. are apparently locked in some kind of secret war, and the President and his pals need it to stay secret, presumably until they win it. Meanwhile, innocent, unsuspecting people are being killed while the politicians posture and pontificate over their power plays.
Ghost takes a swallow of his freshly brewed coffee and hears his stomach growl with hunger. There is plenty of food in his refrigerator, and the thought of Eggs Benedict and perhaps a side of smoked salmon is enticing, but he’s too wound-up and too busy to indulge in any culinary activity.
A look at his watch says it’s still way too early to ring the media. Most of the hacks that he knows are either sobering up from last night’s drinking and socializing or else still at it. Later in the day he’ll call one of them. Maybe the guy from CBS. He’ll hand over Zoe’s pictures, one of the microchips that contains the drug reservoir, details of Li Chen and his wife, and he’ll sit back and watch the whole damned bonfire of deception go up in flames.
A bleep bleeds from his computer. The software has loaded. He looks at the screen and doesn’t see what he’d expected. Not at all. He takes a final hit of his coffee and grabs his smartphone from where he’d been charging it.
On the way out he takes a jacket from the closet by the door, and from behind a metal panel built into the wall collects two Glock 22 pistols, spare magazines, and several boxes of extra ammunition.
163
Beijing
Army nurse Tan Fei secures the suture thread, gently drifts an antiseptic wipe across the sown-up wound, and then softly pats a padded dressing over the injured man’s rock solid mass of abdominal muscles.
Her dark eyes register more than just job satisfaction as she looks into the soldier’s face. “You will need to take care not to split it open or get the wound dirty. Come back and see me in one week.”
Luo Kai snakes a big hand around her tiny waist. “I need to come back earlier than that.”
Tan fights back a smile. “A week will be sufficient.” She wriggles free of his grip and puts scissors, suture thread, and needles in a steel tray.
He sits up on the medical center’s rough bed and fastens the buttons on his white uniform shirt. “Do you have something for the pain—like a kiss?”
The nurse feels her pulse race. “A big man like you shouldn’t need anything.”
“Well, I do.” He stands and pushes his shirt inside his trousers. “I need a dose of you. Once a day and three times a night.”
“Come back in a week. Let us see if you still have any pain then.” Her eyes touch his as she drifts away from the privacy of the cubicle and joins the mass of other medics.
Kai smiles as he puts on his tie and dark green jacket. He can wait a week for a woman like that. No problem.
He walks out of the treatment center and into the corridors. Ahead, beneath a ceiling-mounted old brown clock, he sees Minister Chunlin waiting for him. His mentor. His shortcut up the ladder of success and away from the snakes of common soldiering.
Chunlin smil
es and pats his shoulder. “Well done today. He will call you later. You will get but a few minutes alone with him. Make every second count.”
“I understand.” Kai feels the minister touch his jacket and then he’s gone.
He knows what has been slipped into his pocket.
Understands, fully, what he has to do with it.
164
Washington DC
Clint Molton knows history is in the making as he and Don Jackson board Air Force One.
He’s acutely aware of the importance of what’s about to happen, how his actions in the next twenty-four hours will shape the future of the world’s two biggest superpowers.
Before the plane even powers up, he holds a lengthy conference call with the Vice President, the Secretary of Defense, and the Joint Chiefs of staff, during which they agreed to reset the country’s defense readiness condition to its highest level since October 22, 1962.
DEFCON 2.
Not since the Cuban missile crisis has the country been one step away from nuclear war. Even back on September 11, 2001, the USA only reached DEFCON 3. Throughout the entire Cold War, U.S. ICBM sites were never at a state of alert higher than DEFCON 4.
Molton thinks of the hundreds of people moving into action at the national Military Command Center inside the Pentagon. The secret meetings that will be held over the next hours in the war rooms, the coded messages going out to the battleships, nuclear submarines, and fighter planes. Over at Raven Rock in Pennsylvania there’ll be similar activity at what White House insiders call the “Underground Pentagon.” The top secret facility, sometimes just known as Site R, houses emergency operations centers for the Army, Navy, and Air Force, and runs almost forty specific communications systems for the defense bodies.
The big Boeing thunders down the runway and lifts effortlessly into the clear Washington sky. A screen in front of Molton tells him he’s nine hours away from landing in Hawaii.
Twelve hours—720 minutes—away from his meeting with Xian.
165
China
Two hours into the twelve-hour flight to Hawaii, sixty-year-old Xian Sheng, President of the People’s Republic of China, breaks from the mass of paperwork spread before him in the office area of the customized Air China 747 and takes the call he’s been waiting for.
Minister Chunlin’s voice is calm and measured. “Zhang has just called for him. The meeting will happen at the end of the day.”
“Keep me informed.”
“Please ring when you land. I hope to have the best of news for you by then.”
166
Miami
Ghost follows a very special GPS system on his phone as he drives out of Miami. He guns the old Dodge so hard he’s sure he’s in for a steep repair bill and a whole pack of speeding tickets by the time he’s done.
He winds down the window in the hope that the morning air will keep him awake and turns on the radio for the latest news. Most stations are full of through-the-night phone-ins and breaking reports about the latest dog attacks. It saddens him to learn that there have been more deaths in New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, and across Florida.
More deaths.
It’s the ubiquitous phrase that all news readers have adopted.
In total, thirty-one towns and cities have now been hit by what the media is calling the Dog Bite Epidemic. Deaths have risen to more than five hundred, and there are over a thousand injuries.
Ghost tunes in 100.3 FM and finds WIOD News radio is running an interview with the Canadian prime minister about the border closure. They follow that with a sound bite from the president of Mexico saying his country will make a decision on border closure in the next twenty-four hours. There’s a report as well on the orders that U.S. businesses have lost at APEC, and interviews with families of soldiers killed in a bomb blast in Afghanistan.
Ghost turns it off.
Today is going to be a bad day. In a few hours they’ll be expecting him at his desk. Looking for him. Readying themselves to control and silence him. Make him compliant.
It isn’t going to happen.
He isn’t going to be there.
Ghost heads west, out of the city. More than thirty miles down Highway 41 at speeds close to 140. Only as he clears the main turn to the Monument Lake campground does he take his foot off the gas and start looking for the road that will take him into Big Cypress, almost three-quarter-million square acres of open parkland.
A glance at the GPS says he’s almost at his destination. He slows down as he hits a track and snatches the smartphone from its dashboard mount. Sometime back, out of good practice, he’d diligently entered all the contact details of Agent Gwen Harries. Now he dials her cell.
Four rings play out. He knows she’s looking at her caller display and wondering why on earth he’s contacting her at seven in the morning.
Finally, she picks up. “Harries.”
“You know where he is, don’t you, Gwen?”
Her shock shows in a long silence before she answers. “I’ll call you back. Now’s not a good time.”
“No need,” says Ghost. “I’ll be with you shortly.”
167
Washington DC
After a sleepless night worrying about the events of the coming morning, Sheryl Molton is almost relieved that the time has come to face her fears.
The two children, Jack and Jane, are similarly anxious and both have been crying. Though everyone understands what has to be done, no one wants to do it.
Sheryl’s driver pulls the armor-plated SUV over to the curb and two protection officers slide out and scan the streets.
Four other armed men slip from government vehicles in front and behind the First Lady’s car and complete a 360-degree security ring before giving a signal that it’s safe for her to get out.
Sheryl’s dressed down for the day. Black pumps and slacks, a white hoodie, and her hair up in a chignon. If not for the G-men, she’d look almost like any other mom in her forties going to the shops or making the school run. Only she isn’t. She’s the First Lady, setting an example to the nation by taking the family’s pet dog to a secure depository where it will stay behind bars until all the horror of the dog attacks and uncertainty is over.
So many cameras flash as she pops the trunk and gets Emperor down that it’s like being caught in a sudden electrical storm.
The red Tibetan mastiff jerks his head from right to left and tugs hard against the silver choker lead. The lights, loud noises, and strange surroundings all seem to make him nervous.
A TV cameraman sees the chance of a great low-angle shot and hangs his lens over a roped-off line. He swings it an inch off the floor and toward the million-dollar dog, his eye focused on the monitor frame as it fills with the animal’s majestic head and vibrant coat.
Emperor sees the camera late, coming at him like a strange, predatory animal.
He pounces.
The newsman drops the equipment and the dog lunges for his arm.
Sheryl Molton tugs on the lead but the pup is too powerful.
Teeth find wrist bone.
A security man steps forward and tries to get between the dog and the cameraman.
Emperor bites at the new limb that’s thrust into his face.
The crowd is screaming now. Other photographers are breaking the press line to get better angles. Police struggle to push them back.
Emperor jumps and barks. A big noise from a big dog.
He snaps and growls.
“Shoot it!” someone shouts to a cop. “Shoot it before it hurts someone!”
A G-Man takes the lead out of Sheryl’s hands and pulls hard.
The dog goes to ground. Head to floor so it doesn’t get strangled.
Sheryl falls to her knees next to it. “Emperor. Hey boy, it’s all right.” She puts a hand to his head.<
br />
The dog sees her out of the corner of his black eyes and starts to snap.
Then holds back.
She strokes him and he yields.
“It’s okay boy. It’s all okay.” Sheryl covers him with her body and rubs at his face and ears until she feels him relax.
She puts her hand back and retrieves the lead. Getting to her feet, she turns to the security men. “Thank you. We’re fine now.”
Her heart is bursting through her ribs as she crosses the road to her shelter. Somehow she holds it together.
168
Pacific Ocean
Air Force One skims over the world’s biggest ocean, the vast and empty stretch that amounts for almost half of the planet’s seawater and a third of its total surface.
The worried face of the President of the United States is pressed to a window and stares out at the geographic enormity beneath him.
Clint Molton wants to daydream on the adventures of Spanish, Dutch, and English explorers. Of Charles Darwin’s epic voyage here in HMS Beagle and of the U.S. struggles to take Guam and the Philippines from Spain. He wants to contemplate Japan’s domination of the region in the early 1940s and the immense battles of the Second World War that saw them comprehensively defeated by the U.S. Pacific Fleet.
He wants to think of anything other than the news he’s just been given.
Philadelphia, the fifth most populated city in the country, is in chaos. It has been overrun by packs of murderous dogs that in the last hour have claimed sixty lives and injured a hundred more.
Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love. So called because its name came from the Greek words adelphos—brother and philos—loving.
Now it is the City of Fear.