A few minutes later, a car stopped on the road atop the embankment. She could only see the top of a white sedan, its red hazard lights blinking in the darkness. An elderly Chinese man, with creased face and silver hair, appeared next to the guardrail, hands in his pockets.
Christine followed the two SEALs as they emerged from the storm drain and headed up the embankment. She stepped over the guardrail as Harrison and O’Hara stopped beside the man. There was a quick exchange of words and the three men headed toward the car.
“In back with Chief, “Harrison said as he opened the front passenger door. Christine followed Harrison’s instructions and slid into the rear seat behind the driver. The four doors closed with solid thuds, and the elderly man turned to Christine.
“I am Yuan Gui,” he said. He reached down toward Harrison’s feet and pulled up a small canvas bag, retrieving three bottles of water he passed to Christine and the two SEALs. Christine eyed the bottled water in her hand suspiciously. After everything they’d been through, she wondered whether she could trust Yuan. However, Harrison and O’Hara broke the bottle cap seals and quenched their thirst, and Christine did the same as Yuan reached into the canvas bag again, retrieving a pistol.
“I have no extra magazines for your MP7s. However, I have two SIG P226s, with four magazines each. Will they do?”
Harrison and O’Hara exchanged glances, with O’Hara shaking his head. “We’ll go with our MP7s,” Harrison answered.
“Then how about this for the lady?” Yuan reached into the bag again, pulling out a small semiautomatic pistol with a silencer screwed into the end of the barrel. “A Glock 26.”
“No thanks,” Harrison answered, but Christine leaned forward quickly, taking the small subcompact pistol from Yuan’s hand. “That’ll be just fine,” she said.
Harrison turned toward her. “Put the gun back.”
Christine ignored him as she verified the safety was on, then dropped the magazine into her hand—ten rounds—then pulled back the slide valve, verifying the chamber was empty. She reinserted the magazine, then released the slide, chambering a round, then slid the subcompact pistol into the waistband of her pants. She looked up, and Harrison was staring at her with the same stern eyes he’d had when he tried to talk her out of joining them on their mission. She stared back at him with a dispassionate glare.
“Put the gun back,” he said again. “Having you help will do more harm than good.”
Harrison’s overprotectiveness, combined with his dismissal of her ability to help, aside from gaining entry to the Great Hall, was a source of lingering irritation.
“My ex-husband taught me to shoot,” she said. “At twenty-five feet, I can put a bullet through a man’s head or heart, whichever is more appropriate.” She glared coldly at Harrison.
O’Hara grinned, but she could see anger smoldering in Harrison’s eyes. She wasn’t giving the gun back, but she needed to diffuse the situation. “I promise not to use it unless you tell me first,” she offered.
Harrison and Christine stared each other down, until Harrison finally acceded. “Have it your way,” he said, “but let’s get one thing straight. You will do exactly what I say from here on out or you’ll be staying in the car with Yuan. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Christine said dryly.
There was a momentary silence, broken as Yuan reached into the bag again, retrieving one final item—a black windbreaker, which he handed to O’Hara.
“So, where to?” Yuan asked as O’Hara took the jacket.
“The Great Hall of the People,” Harrison answered.
Yuan raised an eyebrow, studying first Harrison, then O’Hara. Convinced Harrison wasn’t joking, he engaged the clutch and shifted into first gear. The manual transmission grinded momentarily as the sedan pulled away from the guardrail into a U-turn, steadying up on the two-lane road leading back into Beijing.
64
USS RONALD REAGAN
Six hundred miles east of Japan, USS Reagan surged west at ahead full. Standing on the Bridge, Captain CJ Berger peered through the windows at the Flight Deck fifty feet below. The first four Super Hornets were in tension in their catapults, their engine exhausts glowing red in the darkness, waiting for the order to launch. Along both sides of the ship, the four elevators were loaded and rising upward, bringing additional Super Hornets topside from the Hangar Deck below. Not far behind Reagan, the three MEFs aboard their amphibious assault ships trailed, banking on the ability of the Atlantic Fleet submarines in front of them to clear a safe path ashore. Berger would have preferred to wait until the submarines had downloaded new torpedo software, but time was running out.
As anticipated, Japanese resistance had deteriorated, leaving only one beachhead in JSDF hands, and Reagan and the MEFs could wait no longer. Unfortunately, satellites and tactical data links were still down and Chinese command and control and their missile batteries were still fully operational, able to engage the carrier and its air wing as they approached Japan. In a few minutes, Berger would commence flight operations, launching Reagan’s air wing just outside range of China’s DF-21 missiles. However, the aircraft had insufficient fuel to complete a round-trip to their current location; Reagan would have to close to within range of the DF-21 missiles to retrieve the aircraft after their missions were complete. With its small escort of only six surface combatants—all heavily damaged—the Reagan Task Force was ill equipped to defend against even a modest attack of DF-21 missiles. Chinese command and control and their missile batteries had better be disabled within the next two hours, or Reagan would end up on the bottom of the Pacific, just like its five sister carriers.
In front of Reagan, the Submarine Force had established a protective cone of submarines, proceeding in front of the carrier strike group and wrapping back along the sides of the trailing amphibs. However, they were currently nothing more than a sophisticated underwater alarm system. Although they could communicate with Reagan via line-of-sight comms and report enemy submarines, there was nothing more they could do. Their torpedoes were still infected with malware and would dud as soon as they received the first Chinese sonar pulse.
Reagan’s Air Wing Commander, Captain Emil Jones, stopped beside Berger, his eyes following CJ’s to the Flight Deck below. The two men stared through the Bridge windows in silence for a moment, until their thoughts were interrupted by the Air Boss’s voice over the 23-MC. “Request Green Deck.”
Berger pulled the mic from its holster as he pressed the green button. “Tower, Bridge. You have Green Deck.”
Orders were relayed to the Flight Deck, and seconds later, the first Super Hornet, locked into CAT One, screamed toward the carrier’s bow, the aircraft’s white-hot engine exhaust fading in the darkness as it rose into the sky. The succeeding three aircraft were hurtled from the carrier’s deck as the catapults shot forward, and additional Super Hornets moved toward the catapults, continuing the steady flow of aircraft launched into the darkness.
65
BEIJING
Night was still clinging to the city as a white sedan pulled to a stop along the side of Guang Chang Boulevard in the center of Beijing. Three doors opened and two men and a woman stepped from the car onto the sidewalk, the woman intertwining her arms through those of the two men, one on each side of her as they began strolling north. There were no other pedestrians within view as the sedan pulled away, and a moment later, the three individuals disappeared into the ringlet of cypress and pines surrounding the Great Hall of the People.
Christine paused for a moment to get her bearings, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. Her pulse was racing and she commanded herself to relax. But her heart kept pounding in her ears as O’Hara dropped the backpack from his shoulders, retrieving Christine’s Glock, which she had handed over so it could be concealed in the backpack as they strolled along Guang Chang Boulevard.
O’Hara handed Christine the pistol, which she slipped back into the waistband of her pants, then focused on the reason she had
accompanied the SEAL team—to discreetly gain access to the Great Hall. That meant finding the alcove she had entered when she escaped from the Great Hall two weeks ago. To Christine’s left, the gray marble columns of the Great Hall’s central entrance were illuminated by bright white landscape lighting. That meant the alcove was a few hundred feet to her right. Christine turned and led the two SEALs north.
Christine halted at the edge of the trees. The alcove was directly ahead, across twenty feet of paved road. The camera mounted above the door was operational this time, its red LED illuminated. Gaining access to the Great Hall would be easy if Christine’s palm print remained in the system. Gaining access undetected was another matter. Fortunately, six feet above the camera, a decorative balcony with black wrought iron railing extended over the exit, protecting the camera and the plasma display from the weather.
O’Hara dropped the backpack from his shoulders again, retrieving a black rappelling harness. After shedding his windbreaker and MP7, Harrison donned the harness, from which dangled a metal carabiner attached to a gear loop on the waist strap. Reaching into the backpack again, he pulled out a coil of thin nylon rope, a Mini Maglite with red lens, and a Gerber multi-tool. Harrison draped the rope over his shoulder and slid the Gerber and flashlight into loops sewn into his waist strap, securing each in place with a Velcro tab.
Reaching into the backpack one final time, Harrison retrieved the final device he needed, a metal shunt, which he attached to the carabiner on the front of his waist strap.
“All set,” Harrison said, looking at Christine. “Wait here until I signal for you.”
Christine’s stomach knotted. Guards traversed the perimeter of the building, and she had no idea how long it’d be before the next pass. Once Harrison climbed the balcony and began disabling the camera, he couldn’t duck back into the foliage if guards approached.
Without another word, Harrison and O’Hara dashed across the paved road, stopping against one of the ten-foot-tall walls forming the C-shaped alcove. O’Hara interlocked his fingers, forming a foothold for Harrison, which he used to scale the alcove wall. From there he was able to pull himself onto the balcony and over the railing as O’Hara sprinted across the paved road again, joining Christine along the tree line.
“You look left,” he whispered, “and I’ll watch right.”
Christine acknowledged and peered left as directed. As she stared into the shadowy distance, she listened carefully to her surroundings. The chirping crickets she’d heard during her escape were still vocal, and there was the occasional car passing by on Guang Chang Boulevard. Thankfully, there was no indication—sight or sound—of approaching guards.
Harrison tied the end of his nylon rope to the wrought iron railing and gave it a firm tug to verify the railing was sturdy enough to handle his weight. Convinced it was, he slipped the nylon rope into the shunt attached to his harness, then tossed the free end of the rope over the railing. He climbed over the railing and stood facing outward, with his heels between the bars, then tilted forward as he fed the rope through the shunt with his right hand. A moment later his body was horizontal, dangling just beneath the balcony. A small kick sent Harrison slowly spinning, turning 180 degrees until he faced the building. He lowered himself slowly until he was just above the camera. After locking the shunt in place, Harrison retrieved the Maglite and the Gerber multi-tool, and began disassembling the camera.
Christine glanced back at Harrison periodically. It seemed like he was taking forever, but there was finally a double flash of the red Maglite in their direction, and Harrison dropped down into the alcove a second later.
“Let’s go,” O’Hara said after a final glance in both directions, grabbing the backpack beside him. Christine followed O’Hara across the concrete path, joining Harrison inside the alcove. Above them, two cut wires dangled from the top of the camera, and the red LED light was dark.
Harrison shed his rappelling harness, which he handed to O’Hara in exchange for his MP7. O’Hara returned the harness to his backpack, which he slung over his shoulder. Harrison turned to Christine. “Your turn.”
Christine stepped in front of the plasma screen beside the door, flexing her hand involuntarily. She reached toward the screen, hesitating with her hand an inch away from the monitor, unable to shake the uneasy feeling something was about to go wrong.
“Only one way to find out,” Harrison said.
Christine placed her palm firmly against the cold glass. The screen activated immediately, a vertical red line scanning her palm from left to right. The red line reached the edge of the screen and the monitor went dark. She waited for the door to unlock, her hand still pressed against the glass, but nothing happened. Seconds ticked away and there was still no reaction from either the plasma monitor or door.
There was a sinking feeling in Christine’s gut and she was about to pull her hand away from the display when the door unlocked with a metallic click. She breathed a sigh of relief as O’Hara pulled the door open and Harrison peered around the doorframe. After looking in both directions, he waved them in, and Christine followed Harrison and O’Hara into the Great Hall of the People.
66
BEIJING
The door into the Great Hall of the People opened to a corridor that ran several hundred feet in both directions. The two SEALs took station on either side of the door, each monitoring a different direction while Christine stopped in front of the plasma display on the inside. She paused for a moment, closing her eyes to recall the characters Yang had tapped to pull up the building schematics. After convincing herself she knew the correct ones, she opened her eyes, then pressed the top right tab. A new screen appeared and she touched the middle right tab, her effort producing yet a third screen. A final tap returned the desired result; the schematics of the Great Hall of the People appeared on the display, each room labeled in Chinese.
After examining the schematics, Christine concluded she was looking at the main floor. Beside her, Harrison reached into his back pants pocket, pulling out a small green notebook. Flipping to the first page, he held it open next to the display. At the top of the page were two Chinese characters.
“We’re looking for this room, on the third floor of the South wing.”
Christine studied the characters, then returned her attention to the display, tapping the up arrow once to display the second floor. After surveying the schematics briefly to determine the best route upward, she tapped the display again and the third floor appeared. She shifted the schematics to the South wing with a swipe of her fingers. A moment later, she spotted the two Chinese characters atop a room in the center of the wing. The communication center was in the Politburo section, inside a ring of security checkpoints.
Figures.
“The communications center is here,” Christine pointed to the room as Harrison peered over her shoulder. “We’re in the northeast section of the Great Hall on the main level. We’ve got two problems. The first is that the central section of the Great Hall contains several large auditoriums we’ll need to avoid and there are only a few corridors that cut across that wing. Best bet is the third floor, since there are a few extra corridors that pass over some of the smaller halls. The second problem,” Christine pointed to several red symbols, “are the security checkpoints at the entrances to the South Wing, guarding the Politburo section of the building.” Christine paused, waiting for Harrison’s response.
“What about the sub-floors?” he asked. “Can we get to the South Wing below ground, then go up?”
Christine pulled up the first subfloor, then the second. After a quick examination, she shook her head. “The subfloors exist only in the North and South Wings, not in the Central section. Looks like the third floor is the best bet.”
“I agree,” Harrison replied. “What’s the best stairwell to take?”
Christine selected the main floor again, noting a staircase in the farthest northeast corner of the building. “How about this one?”
Harrison
nodded. “Looks good.” He turned to O’Hara, who was alternately watching both ends of the corridor. “That way, Chief.” Harrison pointed past O’Hara, down the long corridor.
O’Hara turned without a word and headed down the hallway at a slow jog. Christine followed, with Harrison a few yards behind. As O’Hara approached the first intersection, he stopped and shrugged his backpack from his shoulder, extracting a device with a small display and a thin, flexible snakelike cord. O’Hara pressed a button on the top of the display, turning it on, then with his back against the wall, fed the tip of the snakelike cord around the corner.
A camera on the end of the cord fed an image to the display in O’Hara’s hand. The adjacent corridor was empty. It was still early, only 6 A.M. Without another word, O’Hara retrieved the backpack and crossed the hallway. After stopping at two additional intersections, examining each one in the same manner, O’Hara turned right, and after a few hundred feet, reached a staircase. O’Hara was about to begin the ascent when he froze. Christine heard footsteps echoing from the stairwell opening.
Harrison grabbed Christine’s arm, pulling her away from the staircase as O’Hara slowly backed up as well. By the sound of the approaching footsteps, the individual would reach their level any second. O’Hara halted his retreat and raised his MP7 to the firing position.
A second later a man wearing a charcoal suit and red tie emerged from the stairwell, stepping onto the main floor of the Great Hall. O’Hara fired immediately and the man crumpled to the floor, blood flowing from a hole in the center of his forehead. The MP7, with the attached suppressor, barely made a whisper. Harrison checked the hallway for unlocked doors, locating one a few feet behind them. Finding the room vacant, Harrison helped O’Hara drag the dead man into the empty office, wiping up the trail of blood with the man’s jacket.
After closing the office door, O’Hara returned to the lead, proceeding cautiously up the stairwell. Christine and the two SEALs soon emerged onto the third floor. It was thankfully unoccupied. From the length of the corridor, Christine could tell it extended across the central section of the Great Hall. O’Hara returned to a jog, with Christine and Harrison following him down the empty hallway.
Empire Rising Page 33