by Brian Tyree
“Repeat Cobra-22, SITREP?” buzzed in Hughes’s earpiece.
Hughes found the door to translation booth 101 and entered, closing it behind him. He popped open his briefcase, removing a military grade Door Jammer, fitting it in place so nobody could enter the translation booth. Trest reserved the booth through back channels to make it appear as though the Taiwan government requested it. Hughes stood in the small, dark room facing a large, plate-glass window, twenty feet above the General Assembly floor.
“Cobra-22 to Falcon. Just arrived at TB,” Hughes reported into his microphone. Quickly removing the collection of black steel components from his briefcase. Assembling them into a Remington five-piece .308 Concealable Sniper Rifle (CSR). He screwed a suppressor to the barrel of the rifle and expanded the bipod legs, setting it on the translator desk. Hughes peered through the scope, lining the reticle up on the empty podium facing the assembly.
Ambassadors were filing into the General Assembly, taking their seats. There was no speaker at the podium to serve as a stand-in for Hughes, so he angled the rifle up and to the side. Imagining a spot where the speaker’s head would be, inches away from the microphone.
Hughes went to the window, crouching below the sill to keep out of sight. He marked a dot on the lower corner of the glass. Eyeballing a path that lay between the tip of his barrel and the podium. He removed a small rubber suction cup and stuck it over the dot, then cut around it with his glass-cutting tactical pen. Holding the suction cup while he cut so the removed piece didn’t fall to the assembly below.
Hughes returned to the CSR and peered through the scope. The hole matched perfectly and would prevent the shattering of the large window. He pulled the bolt-action on his sniper rifle, slid it forward and locked it down. Injecting a .308 caliber round into the chamber. The CSR was ready to fire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
GENERAL ASSEMBLY
Weng strode calm and cool to the Chinese section of the General Assembly. Taking a seat in a padded tan chair beside the Chinese Ambassador. They were both in the row behind Weilen, who took the only seat at the desk allotted to China. Weng set the briefcase beside his feet, ready to open it at a moment’s notice.
Weng scanned the podium area and the shadowy corners beyond. The podium backdrop was dark-green marble, and also served as the front of the three-person booth of the General Secretary, overlooking the assembly. Behind the booth was a narrow golden section of the back wall with a massive seal of the United Nations. On both sides of the narrow gold section were curved, protruding walls made of brown rib-like slats. These arced around like an amphitheater, housing the translator booths overlooking the assembly. Rows of lights perched above the curved walls, shining down on the elevated podium platform. Weng saw nothing out of the ordinary. A radio transmission sounded over his earpiece in Chinese. “In place at the grid.” Weng’s eyes traveled up the brown-ribbed structure to the lighting grid above, but couldn’t detect his counterpart.
Matt crouched down near the grid out of the assembly view, inspecting the lights. He was looking for a spotlight that he could aim and point down on the assembly. Hal told him in the brief that the ghost suits were vulnerable to bright light. If Matt could sweep the light around the Chinese President, he might reveal the assassin before he reached the President.
♦ ♦ ♦
“SITREP Cobra-24?”
Merrick appeared with a briefcase, entering the balcony section at the rear of the auditorium. A handful of delegates dotted the seats above the General Assembly. Merrick sat in the back row—setting the briefcase on the seat beside him—popping the latches. “In position,” he said in a soft voice through a concealed microphone in his lapel.
“Remember, secondary targets,” McCreary said. “Two and three.”
“Roger that.”
“Are they in place?”
A wooden gavel hammered down three times from the chair of the UN General Secretary.
“Negative,” Merrick said. “Coming to order.”
“Please take your seats,” the General Assembly President said. His voice booming over the assembly speakers in a South-African accent. “The one-hundred and twenty-second plenary meeting of the General Assembly is called to order...”
“Ghost Two, SITREP?” McCreary asked.
“In position.”
Two UN guards in decorative uniforms marched to the elevated podium. Taking statuesque positions facing the assembly. Frozen like toy soldiers.
“Secondary targets in place,” Merrick said over his microphone.
“Copy that.”
“Falcon to Cobra-22... Status of primary target?”
“Seated.”
“In range?”
Hughes peered over the lip of the window pane to see the Chinese president. It would be an awkward shot from that angle. “Negative. Proceed as planned.” He returned to his rifle, eye behind the scope, waiting for his target to arrive at the podium.
The General Assembly President called for a customary pause of one minute for prayer and meditation. Hal looked at the moment as providence, scanning the entire assembly of frozen delegates and officials. He turned the thermal sensor on in his HMD. Seeing heat signatures of everyone in the room in neon yellow, orange and red.
Hal crept to the center of the assembly—a better vantage point to look up at the rows of translation booths. The translators’ heat glowed within the darkened booths, and a handful of booths were empty. The translators were all standing during the moment of silence.
Hal scanned the translator booths on the opposite side of the assembly. The General Assembly President called the room back to order. Hal had to hurry, standing under the lights may expose when he moved back to the shadows. He reached the last row of translator booths and something peculiar caught his eye in a corner booth—the heat signature of a man lying down. In sniper position.
Hal slowly passed from beneath the bright lights, arriving at a wall in shadow. He crouched low and hustled along the wall to the nearest exit. One that he hoped led to the translation booths.
Hal spoke in a whispered tone, not knowing his helmet was made to muffle a normal speaking voice. “I’ve got a sniper. East wall. Translator booths. Lower corner booth.” Once through the exit he darted down the hallway, finding the stairwell. He leaped up the stairs to the first level of translator booths. Hal could hear the voice of the UN General Secretary from speakers piped into the hallways, reporting the status of UN missions around the world.
The General Secretary returned the floor to the General Assembly President... “I now invite his Excellency Li Weilen, President of the People’s Republic of China, to make a statement.” Hal picked up the pace, knowing he only had moments to find and disable the sniper.
The Chinese President rising from his seat was Matt’s cue at the lighting grid. He panned the spotlight, away from the podium to the President Weilen. If an enemy ghost tried a close quarter attack, Weng was close enough to see it and defend the president. Assembly members and the General Secretary stared up at the bank of lights—a clear protocol breach. World leaders never got their own spotlight escort to the stage.
♦ ♦ ♦
A live C-SPAN feed from the UN appeared inside the box. McCreary watched the Chinese President make his way down the sloped aisle of green carpet, bathed in bright light. Weng followed the Chinese President and Ambassador, clutching the briefcase.
“Maintain position, Ghost Two.”
“Roger.”
“Grid ready?” McCreary asked Baldo.
“Yes, sir.” Baldo stared at a monitor of the electrical grid for the UN General Headquarters. Fingers hovering above the keyboard, awaiting further commands.
“Cobra-22 SITREP?”
“Tracking target. Ready to fire on your go.”
“Steady… Hold until my command,” McCreary said, waiting for the exact moment. The President reached the elevated stage platform. Weng and the Ambassador stayed back as the older President slowly trod
toward the podium.
♦ ♦ ♦
Hal reached the translation booth door. It was the nearest one on the lower level. It has to be this one, he thought. Trying the locked handle. Hal threw his shoulder into the door. The Door Jammer held tight. Inside, Hughes glanced back at the door. “Call it. I’ve got company.”
Hal knew he wasn’t getting in the conventional way. He stood back a foot from the door and raised his suppressed MP10 submachine gun, firing a long burst into the door. Wood splintered away, and he kicked the door handle through, creating a gaping hole the size of a baseball. The door was still locked. He pulled his SRK VG-1 tactical fixed-blade knife from the sheath and jammed it into the blasted-out hole, twisting it into the lock mechanism. The sniper pulled his sidearm, firing back at the door. A bullet struck the knife blade and it flew from Hal’s hand. He could see the legs of the sniper on the table. Hal jammed the nozzle of his MP10 in and ripped off a burst. Raking it across the sniper’s body.
“NOW. FIRE!” McCreary shouted over Hughes’s radio, who was himself under fire, riddled with bullets. Hughes pulled the trigger, but his shot was way off the mark. The bullet blew a chunk of green marble out of the backdrop behind Weilen. The assembly went pitch black and screams erupted throughout. Weng sprinted to the President, throwing his body around him like a blanket. Checking him for gunshot wounds as he guided him to the ground, ducking back against the marble backdrop for cover. The President survived, unscathed—for the moment.
On the auditorium balcony, Merrick calmly rose in the darkness. He removed an NVG headband and strapped it on. Delegates around him clamored over seats in pitch black. Feeling their way toward the main aisle leading back to the exit.
Merrick stalked down the balcony aisle, toward the banister. Stopping at the railing and looking down at the calamity of the General Assembly. He spotted his targets—the ceremonial UN guards posted at both sides of the General Secretary box. Turns out they’re not just decorative as they had taken cover against the booth, weapons drawn, protecting the UN leaders. Merrick raised his suppressed XT104, a Taiwanese 9mm submachine gun, and expertly cut loose a burst at the first guard. Dropping him. The second guard turned toward his muzzle blast, and Merrick dropped him before he could raise his sidearm to the balcony. “Secondary targets eliminated,” he reported over his headset.
“Stay on the balcony,” the reply sounded. “Provide suppression fire for entering guards.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Hal fired at the base of the door, dislodging the Door Jammer and barreled through, into the translator booth. He checked the pulse of the downed sniper. There was none. Hal switched his view to night vision and scanned the assembly room. The last stragglers were feeling their way along walls to the exits. Hal spotted Weng, the President and Ambassador crouched up against the marble backdrop. All okay. The guards on either side weren’t so lucky. A blur caught Hal’s eye as the Secretary General and President scampered out from behind the booth on hands and knees. He assumed the third member of the booth didn’t make it.
Hal searched the assembly, spotting a man on the balcony with a submachine gun and NVG headband, aiming down on the east exits—waiting for any SWAT or SF rescue attempt. The shooter was too far away for an accurate shot from Hal’s MP10. Hal glanced down at the dead sniper and was struck with an idea. He swung the CSR sniper rifle around on the translator table, lining up on the balcony gunman. PLING! Headshot. Merrick fell sideways over the railing. Plummeting to the empty chairs below. Dead.
Weng and the Ambassador huddled over the President. Weng knew they were sitting ducks for the enemy ghost and anyone else with night vision. “Come on!” He said in Chinese to the President and Ambassador. “Follow me! Crawl!”
The three of them scurried to the edge of the elevated platform. It was about a three-foot drop. Blind from the dark, Weng dropped down first with the briefcase and then helped the President and Ambassador down. Once on the main assembly level, he sandwiched the President between he and the Ambassador, clinging their backs to the low platform riser. Now, they had cover from the back, and the assembly seats provided some cover from the front. Weng clicked the latches on the briefcase and popped the lid. Handing a Norinco CF-98 9mm sidearm to the Ambassador. Weng removed a Type 06 9x19mm submachine gun, snapping the lever and readying it to fire. “Turn that way,” he told the Ambassador. “Shoot anything that moves.” Weng then yelled at Matt over the microphone, “Get some lights!”
A reply came from Charlie over the radio at the bunkhouse, “They cut the lights?”
“They probably hacked the grid,” Weng said. “Move YG-30 onto their ground control station. See if you can cut the power to their can in the desert.”
“Yes, sir.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Inside the bunkhouse, Charlie realized the YG-30 wasn’t a good option. Its orbit was 500 miles above New York, too low to see anything in New Mexico. Charlie typed in a request for imagery from another satellite—the top of the class of Chinese spy satellites—the Gaofen 4. Its orbit was 22,000 miles. Currently stationed above Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado Springs, CO—home of the North American Aerospace Command (NORAD). MSS HQ granted Charlie permission to redirect the camera and sensors. He guided it to the new longitude and latitude of the box. Immediately picking up the stealth drone circling the metal crate. The contrast of the jet black MQ-10S over the light brown dessert terrain made it look like a black dragonfly circling a dried-up mud hole.
Charlie radioed Weng. “Negative on ground control station assault. The stealth drone is guarding it.”
“Copy that,” Weng said in Chinese over the laptop speakers. “Figure something out. Without lights, we’re all dead men.” Jenny eased forward in her seat with concern, feeling powerless.
Charlie pulled up the YG-30 feed over the UN. Hal’s flashing tracker appeared on the eastern side of the General Assembly. Without a 3D map correlation, they could only assume he was still inside the translator booth.
♦ ♦ ♦
Hal knew the enemy saw his muzzle blast from the sniper rifle. Including at least one ghost he was sure to be lurking in the dark, or on his way up to Hal now. Hal shot out the translator booth window with his MP10 and leaped out. Swinging around the edge and gripping the wall with his Geckskin gloves and boots. He scaled down in a flash, released the wall and landed on the assembly carpet below.
Still in stealth mode, Hal sprinted up the aisle toward the man he just shot. Bullets ripped through the chair cushions behind him as he ran, confirming that someone with NVGs was watching. But how could they see me? Hal slowed, realizing his shoes were making sound on the carpet as he ran. He arrived at the fallen gunman and ripped off the bloody NVG headband. The goggles appeared intact. He crouched down and made his way back to toward the podium. “Weng, I’m coming toward you,” he said over the radio. “Don’t shoot. I’m on your left.”
Matt was still up in the rafters, crawling around, feeling for a circuit box. He found a narrow catwalk stairwell and took it to the corridor, opening it up to a lit backstage room. He spotted a circuit breaker on the wall and tried it. Nothing. He switched on emergency lights, but couldn’t tell if it did any good.
The exit lights in the hallway blinked on—along with narrow shafts of light from built-in bulbs, shining down to illuminate the doorways. The assembly was still a pool of darkness, but at least Weng could find an exit for the President. Something fell next to him, startling him. “Wear these.” Hal said. He couldn’t see Hal, but reached down to the bloody headband NVGs. He put them on and adjusted the goggles. He once again had vision in the assembly hall.
Matt wound through the backstage corridor that connected to the eastern translator booth hallway. He sprinted down it, and the stairs to the General Assembly. Matt threw the door open, spilling light into the assembly. His figure formed a perfect silhouette target in the doorway—like paper targets at gun ranges. Matt realized his rookie mistake, but it was too late. Tfft-tfft-tfft! A burst of
suppressed submachine gun rounds ripped into Matt’s chest, each bullet hitting within a tight shot-grouping over his heart. Matt fell over dead. His limp body blocked the door from closing, allowing a shaft of light into the assembly hall.
“Huan?!” Weng said, surprised. Uttering the real name of his Guoanbu brother.
The shot grouping told Hal the gunman was very close, and the distinct sound of the suppressed fire was identical to Hal’s own MP10. It was from another ghost nearby.
Hal fired a burst from his MP10 in the direction he thought the shots came from. He hit only air, but heard a trample of footfalls dashing for cover behind the elevated Secretary General’s box. Hal fired at the corner of the box, ripping it to shreds. Believing he had the enemy ghost pinned down.
“Go!” Hal said to Weng. “I’ll cover you! Get the President out!”
Weng helped the frail President up. The Chinese Ambassador aided in escorting the President out the door, stepping over Matt’s body. Another burst fired from the distance and the Ambassador went down.
“GO!” Hal yelled to Weng, as he sprayed a horizontal line from the exit toward the Secretary General’s booth. Shooting continuous automatic fire across a row of seats on the eastern wing of the assembly. Shattering the plate glass windows of booths behind them. Creating a wide swath of spray. Hoping at least one bullet would catch the ghost if he was trailing Weng.
Weng tugged the Chinese President into the hallway and both disappeared. Hal heard bullets RIP by his face, missing by inches. He crouched down and heard a pattering of footsteps on the carpet, sprinting toward him. Hal leaped out of the way and hit the ground rolling.
♦ ♦ ♦
“What’s going on?” Trest asked, watching the helmet cam from Ghost Two in the box. “What’s he doing?” The camera panned around the empty assembly in night vision.
“He’s looking for Sheridan,” McCreary said.
“How’s the hack coming on his self destruct?” McCreary asked Baldo.
“Still working on it. It’s encrypted, sir.”