Empire Rising

by Rick Campbell

  “All clear,” she announced, then tossed the towel back to Tian as he turned toward her.

  Christine returned to her seat next to Harrison. Even though she’d changed into dry clothing, she was trembling from the cold. She could sense Harrison wanted to wrap his arm around her and pull her close, warming her with the heat of his body. But instead, he sat stiffly as the van bounced along. Minutes turned into hours as the van traveled through the night, and Christine found herself drifting into sleep occasionally, awaking each time to find herself leaning against Harrison’s shoulder. He gave no indication that he noticed, and neither he nor the other four SEALs appeared tired. They sat staring ahead, occasionally murmuring something to each other in the darkness that she couldn’t quite make out over the rumble of the van.

  The outskirts of a large city became visible as dawn crept across the countryside, tall skyscrapers rising in the distance. They were traveling along a six-lane highway, three lanes in each direction, heading north into Beijing. The immense steel and glass oval structure of the Beijing South Railway Station appeared in the distance, and it seemed like it was a lifetime ago that she had boarded the white bullet train out of the city with Peng.

  The van exited the highway onto Kai Yang Lu Street, and four kilometers later, the vehicle stopped in front of the same CIA safe house she’d left two weeks ago. Tian opened the side door from inside the van and stepped onto the sidewalk, then after a quick glance in each direction, waved them out. Chief O’Hara led the way, followed by the other three enlisted SEALs, then Christine and Harrison.

  Fatigue set in as she stepped into the safe house. The underwater transit, followed by the uncomfortable journey in the back of the van had taken its toll, and her body was in desperate need of sleep. The plan, according to Harrison, was to sleep most of the day, then after a final mission review, head out after dark. From that point on, there would be no opportunity for sleep until the mission objective had been accomplished and the team had returned to Michigan, lurking just off the coast. If everything went according to plan.

  61

  BEIJING

  Huan Zhixin strode briskly through the corridors of the Great Hall of the People, making the transit from his office on the perimeter of the South Wing to its center, where President Xiang and the other Politburo members had their offices. The floor transitioned from terrazzo to marble, and he passed between fluted columns on each side of the hallway, marking the beginning of the Politburo’s official spaces.

  Huan’s plan to gain membership to the elite ruling Politburo was proceeding flawlessly. The American Pacific Fleet had been destroyed and although Admiral Tsou was the plan’s mastermind, Huan, as head of the People’s Liberation Army, would receive much credit. When it came time to fill Bai Tao’s vacant seat, no other candidate could defeat him. However, the United States was up to something. It was important Xiang be briefed, so if things did not turn out well, Huan could somehow twist the situation around and make Xiang responsible.

  Huan reached the president’s office, ignoring the two Cadre Department bodyguards stationed outside as he knocked. He heard Xiang’s voice through the door and entered, settling into a chair across from the president’s desk.

  Xiang ignored Huan’s presence, continuing to review a document in a folder on his desk. Xiang’s failure to acknowledge him was deliberate, he thought, treating him like a second-class Party member. Huan began to fume at the blatant disrespect. As he waited, he savored his pending election to the Politburo. Then, with his uncle Shen’s support, it would be only a matter of time before he obtained the necessary votes to supplant Xiang as China’s supreme leader. Xiang would pay for his insolence.

  Finally, Xiang signed the document and looked up. “You have news?”

  Huan got straight to the issue. “The American SEAL Team has reached Beijing.”

  “Where are they now?” Xiang asked.

  “They’re at the CIA safe house.”

  “Why are they here?”

  “We don’t know yet. However, our informant has been directed to determine the objective of their mission. Then we will send in our special forces and eliminate them.”

  “I thought you didn’t know the location of the safe house.”

  “We do now,” Huan answered, then explained. “We thought O’Connor’s escape from the Great Hall was inconsequential, and not worthy of compromising our penetration of the CIA here in Beijing. We were not aware until later that a secure flash drive was missing, and that she might have it. The SEAL Team, however, poses a clear threat, and we have obtained the location of the safe house by paying our informant a very large sum.”

  Huan waited for additional questions, and Xiang asked the most important one. “When will the SEAL Team be eliminated?”

  “Today,” Huan answered, “after we determine the objective of their mission. Or nightfall, whichever comes first.”

  62

  BEIJING

  A light rain was falling from dark overcast skies, pattering softly against a grimy, four-pane window in a small second-story bedroom, furnished with a twin bed next to a rickety wooden end table. Christine’s eyes fluttered open in the semidarkness as she stretched under the soft brown blanket. It was either dusk or dawn, based on the gray light filtering through the window. She poked her left hand out from beneath the covers, and brought her watch close to her face. After scrutinizing her watch in the dim light for a moment, she concluded it was 7 P.M.

  She had slept most of the day. After arriving at the safe house, Tian had cooked breakfast for Christine and the SEALs, peppering them with questions about their mission. The SEALs were tight-lipped—they hadn’t even told Tian their names—and Harrison had cut her off with a sharp, disapproving glance when she had begun to answer one of Tian’s questions. Christine caught the hint—as did Tian, who apologized for prying. After cleaning up after breakfast, Tian took Christine and the SEALs’ measurements for clothing that would allow them to travel from Guang Chang Boulevard to the Great Hall of the People without attracting attention.

  Christine pushed the blanket aside, swinging her feet onto the cold wooden floor as she sat up on the side of the bed. Glancing at the end table, she eyed a travel kit Tian had dropped off. She grabbed it as she stood, then headed down the hall to the bathroom. After freshening up and returning the travel kit to her nightstand, she descended the stairs to the main floor.

  Harrison and the other four SEALs were already downstairs. The Lieutenant and Chief O’Hara were standing in the living room while the other three SEALs—Garretson, Martin, and Andrews—huddled around a laptop computer on the small dining room table, the dark brown curtains by the dining room window drawn closed. The scarred wooden table their laptop rested upon was illuminated by a yellow, incandescent lamp hanging from the ceiling.

  All five SEALs were dressed in civilian clothes—black trousers with the legs covering the top of their combat boots, each man wearing a different dark-colored polo shirt. Harrison and O’Hara were trying on black, loose-fitting windbreakers. Both SEALs had their MP7s attached to slings draped around their necks and under one shoulder. After zipping up their jackets, each man turned to examine the other.

  “They’ll do,” O’Hara said as he unzipped and shrugged his jacket off, tossing it onto three other jackets lying across the back of the couch. Leaning next to the couch were three black backpacks Tian had also apparently procured, lying next to the SEAL duffel bags—now empty. Harrison left his jacket on and she could see a slight bulge in his right pocket, most likely the sealed pouch containing the flash drive loaded with the virus.

  Lieutenant Harrison looked up as Christine reached the bottom of the stairs. “Good evening, Miss O’Connor. It’s about time you woke up. I was about to knock on your door.”

  O’Hara turned toward her as did the other three SEALs, who looked up from the computer, and Christine suddenly realized she was wearing a thin white T-shirt with no bra. It was chilly in the room and the men noticed her bo
dy’s reaction, their eyes moving from her face to her breasts, the outline of her nipples clearly visible through her T-shirt.

  Christine crossed her arms across her chest as the front door opened. Tian appeared in the doorway, carrying a shopping bag in each hand. He kicked the door closed with his left heel as he entered the foyer and moved into the dining room, depositing the bags onto the table as Garretson closed the laptop lid.

  Tian pulled the contents from the first bag, stacking them neatly on the table. “I’ve purchased suitable clothes for you, Miss O’Connor, along with an assortment of makeup products. I wasn’t sure if you wanted any and I didn’t want to wake you, so I took the liberty of picking up a few things.”

  Christine joined Tian at the table, noting a black pair of slacks, long-sleeve dark blue satin shirt, and a short black coat. Tian upended the second bag, dumping a shoe box and an assortment of makeup products onto the table. Christine opened the box and examined a pair of flat-soled shoes with a critical eye before deciding they’d be suitable for running if the situation demanded it. She slipped one on, verifying it fit.

  Christine returned the shoe to its box, and after reviewing the products on the table, decided she’d skip the makeup.

  “Thanks, Tian.” Christine placed the clothes and makeup back into their bags and Tian disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a platter bearing a bottle of baijiu—a clear liquor sometimes referred to as Chinese vodka—and seven shot glasses, which he placed on the dining room table.

  The three SEALs at the table perked up, and one of the girls, Tracey Martin, broke into a wide grin. “Now we’re talking.”

  Harrison checked his watch. “We’ll be leaving soon. No drinks.”

  “Oh, come on, Lieutenant,” Martin pleaded. “One drink won’t hurt anything. We’ve got a few hours to work it off.”

  Chief O’Hara interjected. “Shut your trap, Martin. You know better. No drinks.”

  The smile disappeared from Martin’s face as the other girl, Petty Officer Kelly Andrews, smacked Martin across the back of the head. “What answer did you expect?”

  Martin rubbed his head. “It can’t hurt to ask.” His eyes shifted from Andrews to the bottle of baijiu, then back to the computer. “Let’s get back to business, then.” He looked up at Lieutenant Harrison. “We’re ready to run through it one more time, sir.” He glanced at Tian, still standing next to the table.

  Tian frowned, then returned to the kitchen as Garretson opened the top of the laptop, pulling up a satellite image of the Great Hall of the People. Harrison and O’Hara joined the three SEALs around the table as Christine scooped up her new clothes in one arm, the shoe box in the other.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Christine returned downstairs wearing her new clothes. They fit perfectly. Harrison and the other four SEALs were still gathered around the laptop, their eyes focused on the screen. Harrison looked up as Christine descended the stairs, but said nothing.

  Tian exited the kitchen, appraising his selection of clothing. “You look fantastic, Miss O’Connor. I take it everything is suitable?”

  “Yes, Tian. Thank you.”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Tian added, “I have a few errands to run. I’ll be back in an hour.” Tian grabbed his jacket from the foyer coatrack, exiting the town house without another word.

  As the front door closed, Harrison left the other four SEALs and headed toward Christine. O’Hara picked up the platter of baijiu and shot glasses from the table, entering the kitchen as Harrison guided Christine over to the living room where he dropped into a brown, dingy sofa. Christine settled in beside him.

  “So,” Harrison began. “How do you feel?”

  “Good,” Christine answered. “Although I’m still tired.” She could tell Harrison wanted to talk about something important. He was just breaking the ice.

  “That’s typical,” Harrison replied. “Long transits in cold water sap the strength from you. Even more so for someone not used to it. You’ll bounce back soon enough, though.” There was an awkward silence as Christine waited for Harrison to work toward what he really wanted to discuss. Finally, he continued. “This is a dangerous mission, Chris. I have no idea what we’re going to run into once we enter the Great Hall, and I don’t want to put you in harm’s way. So I’m leaving you outside. Once you unlock the door to the Great Hall, I want you to return to the car and wait with Tian.”

  Christine shook her head. “That’s not a good idea, Jake. There’s no telling how many security doors you’ll need to pass through once you get inside.”

  Harrison shrugged. “We’ll manage.”

  Christine knew she had a point, so she pressed it. “We’ve already discussed this. I’m coming with you. The whole way, not just to the front door.”

  Harrison’s eyes searched hers for a moment, then he nodded reluctantly. “Okay, Chris. You always were headstrong, and I see that hasn’t changed. But I had to try.” He stood, offering Christine his hand, pulling her to her feet.

  As Christine stood, the dining room curtains billowed inward, small holes appearing in the fabric as high-pitched zings pierced the quiet town house. Christine froze, watching bullets puncture the bodies of the three SEALs gathered around the dining room table. She watched in stunned silence as the middle of the three SEALs slumped onto the table, his head coming to rest on the laptop, and the other two SEALs fell backward in their chairs onto the floor. She had no idea how long she stood there, but it must have been only a second before she felt Harrison’s body slamming into her, knocking her onto the wooden floor.

  Shards of glass from the dining room window and chunks of plaster ricocheted throughout the town house as Harrison protected her with his body. Turning her head to the side as bullets streamed into the town house, she spotted Chief O’Hara burst from the kitchen in a crouch, sliding next to the dining room table. One glance at the SEAL slumped over the table told O’Hara what he needed to know—blood trickled from a bullet hole in the center of Garretson’s forehead onto the laptop, flowing over the sides of the computer and collecting in a red pool spreading slowly across the table’s surface.

  O’Hara extracted the laptop from under Garretson’s head, then flung it across the floor toward Harrison and Christine. The other two SEALs were still alive, crawling toward the living room, leaving slick red trails behind them. Harrison rolled off Christine, joining O’Hara as each man grabbed an injured SEAL by the collar of his shirt, dragging them into the living room as bullets continued pelting the town house through the dining room window.

  “Get the computer!” Harrison shouted to Christine as he grabbed one of the black backpacks and O’Hara grabbed a second. “Stay low to the ground!”

  Christine crawled over to the computer, which had come to rest only a few feet away, as Harrison shouted again. “The back of the town house!”

  Crawling on her hands and knees, Christine followed Harrison and O’Hara, pushing the computer down a narrow hallway as plaster fragments from the town house walls rained down on her. They reached the back of the town house, where a narrow door led to the alley from which Christine had entered the safe house with Peng two weeks ago. Harrison and O’Hara propped the two injured SEALs against the washer and dryer in the laundry room, then Harrison stood and drew his MP7 from the sling inside his jacket and approached the back door. He twisted the knob slowly, opening the door an inch. As he peered through the slit into the back alley, wood splinters began ricocheting past Harrison’s head as the doorframe was peppered with bullets.

  Harrison slammed the door shut, then retreated to the laundry room. “Four men to the left.” He squatted to help O’Hara tend to the two wounded SEALs as Christine leaned against the far wall. Harrison checked Andrews’s pulse, but Christine could tell he was already dead. Leaning against the dryer, Andrews had a gaping hole in the side of his neck and the blood had stopped flowing; his eyes were frozen open and glazed. Martin was wounded in the chest and was having difficult
y breathing. O’Hara ripped open Martin’s shirt to examine the wounds. Christine could see red air bubbles forming as blood flowed from two bullet wounds, one on each side of his chest. Harrison and O’Hara exchanged grim looks.

  “I know,” Martin said. “Both lungs punctured.” He grimaced as he spoke, then held his hand out. “Backpack.”

  Harrison opened one of the backpacks for Martin. “What do you have in mind?”

  “The alley,” Martin answered. “It’s only a few feet wide. Blow a hole in the wall on the other side, and you can enter the adjacent building while the alley is clouded with debris.” Martin rummaged through the backpack as Christine digested his plan—blow a hole into the building across the alley, then dash across as four men filled the alley with lead.

  Piece of cake. But Christine couldn’t think of a better idea.

  “We’re not leaving you behind,” Harrison replied.

  “Yes you are. I’ll be dead in a few minutes, and you know it.” Martin paused as he was wracked by a coughing spasm, spraying the floor with red specks. “If there’s any chance of escape, you’ll have to travel light and fast. That means without me.”

  Harrison and O’Hara exchanged glances again, and O’Hara nodded slowly. Harrison turned back to Martin as the injured SEAL pulled four thin blocks of C4 explosive from the backpack, each block wrapped in an olive-drab Mylar film. Martin peeled off the protective paper covering the adhesive on the back of three of the blocks, pressing all four blocks together as he explained.

  “Assuming the wall across the alley is one foot thick, you’ll need five pounds of untamped C4 placed against the base of the wall to blow a hole large enough for you to pass through.”

  Martin reached into the backpack again, retrieving a spool of detonating cord and a Gerber tool—a military version of the Swiss Army Knife—and cut off a four-foot length of det cord. He tied one end of the cord into a triple knot, then cut off the Mylar wrapper from one of the blocks of C4. Martin carefully sliced a wedge from the white, claylike plastic explosive, placed the knot of det cord into the divot, then molded the wedge of C4 over the knot so the det cord was firmly embedded in the five-pound block of explosive.