by Bobby Akart
“It appears so,” he replied. “We need to check out the guest garage and the other two buildings. Then we’ll check in with the rest of the teams to see where we can assist.”
Once again, the men checked their gear and worked their way to the guest house, which was also empty and immaculately kept. The pool house adjacent to the garage was next.
Drew was unable to pick the lock, which required them to break through the set of patio doors, which opened inward. “On my go,” said Drew. They each trained their silenced weapons on the hinges of the double doors.
“Go!” Both men fired repeatedly, shredding the wood around the hinges, causing the doors to barely hang in place. With a swift kick, King put his boot into the area just below the door handle, causing the patio doors to crash into the room. Drew entered first, swinging his rifle from side to side, prepared to take out any threats, but none presented themselves.
The large room contained a bar, some furniture, and a passageway to the rear leading to a bathroom and a storage room. King took the storage room first, slowly turning the handle on the door while Drew provided cover. It was empty.
The bathroom was next. The door was ajar, so King slowly pushed it open. Drew entered slowly and then flipped his Mag-Tac flashlight on.
“Whoa, they’re getting ripe already,” he moaned as he pulled his shemagh over his nose and mouth. The shemagh scarf had been given to him during a tour of duty in Iraq by a Kurdish man whose life Drew had saved. The man had said the scarf had been worn by his father during his battles against Saddam Hussein’s Republican Guard.
Drew flipped on the light and found four dead men lined up in the walk-in shower of the pool house. He approached them cautiously to make sure they weren’t connected to any type of explosive device.
“We’re still clear on the perimeter,” announced King after doing a quick check of the pool area and compound’s grounds.
Drew started with the dead man on the right. The lifeless eyes, the dime-sized bullet hole between them, and the trickle of blood down his face were all expected. One bullet, clean kill, just the way he’d done it so many times before.
The next two uniformed soldiers from Taiwan looked the same, including the red holes in the center of their eyebrows. The three men were bound, gagged, and expertly executed. The fourth man, however, was different.
He’d been shot through the back of the head. Half his face was an irregularly shaped crater of mangled flesh, bone, and blood. The exit wound revealed the man had been shot by a caliber more powerful than the suppressed .22 that was probably used on the other three. This shot came from a 9mm or larger.
“King, whadya think? .45 cal?”
“No doubt,” replied King as he pulled the man’s hair and twisted the remains of his skull to get a better view. “They wanted this one good and dead. A .45 round is gonna pancake and tumble around the man’s head for maximum damage.”
“You gotta wonder why,” started Drew. “Best I can tell, he’s Asian like the rest of the detail. Also, he’s in a suit, not military fatigues like these other guys.”
“All executed, but why the difference?” asked King, also puzzled by the executions.
Drew was troubled by this as well. He and King had easily breached the perimeter security. There were no cameras, motion sensors, security personnel, or traps. Whoever was responsible for kidnapping the ambassador had carefully orchestrated the entire operation, but surely had to know these bodies would be discovered.
“Where do you want to start?” asked King.
“Here’s what I think,” replied Drew. “Crater face here is the odd man out. Based on the video footage, the ambo was picked up by his four uniformed security personnel. We had eyes on the vehicle until the moment it pulled into the garage behind us. Six cars later pulled away, which meant there were six drivers already here waiting for their part of the mission. Of the four guards, only three are here.”
“The three uniformed guys,” added King. “Who’s the fourth—crater face, as you call him?”
Drew focused on the man he’d dubbed crater face. He carefully checked his suit pockets for any form of clue, knowing he’d find nothing.
“My guess is he’s part of this, but the killer didn’t want his identity readily discovered. Let’s upload photos of their faces and fingerprints to Control.”
“I’m on it,” said King.
Drew turned the man’s body so he could determine if there were any facial features left to help identify him. “I’m gonna clear the garage and then get Tai in here. I wanna know if this guy is Taiwanese or Chinese.”
“What are you saying—they all look alike?” said King, a black man who was not afraid to joke about his race, as he feigned moral outrage.
Drew knew his buddy well. “Can you tell them apart?”
“Nope, they all look alike to me,” King replied with a laugh as he began to snap the photos.
“That’s what I thought. I’ll check the garage and then let in Tai. Tell Control to focus on crater face. I want to know everything there is to know about him—especially his family. Does he live in Taipei? Is he related to the Chinese government, or some kind of sympathizer? Anything they can find.”
“What about the other three? Do you think they were compromised somehow by the Chinese?”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. I think they were following orders. The other uniformed escort may hold the answers. He might be a superior officer.”
“Drew, how in the hell are we gonna find him?”
“At this point, if the other teams come up empty and the six vans were just a diversion, I’m not sure.” Drew began to suspect their chances for success were remote, but they had to start somewhere. He continued. “I think the answers lie with this guy,” he said as he knelt down next to the dead man in the suit. Then he pointed to the other three. “Or the guy who started out with these three and is now gone.”
Drew took pictures of the three dead security personnel. There was still one missing from the detail and he possibly held the answers to all of this. Drew prepared a text message with the images of the three dead men and sent them to the CIA station chief at the AIT facility. Maybe the CIA could shed some more light on the detail they’d entrusted to protect Ambassador McBride.
Chapter 65
6:00 a.m.
The National Mall
Washington, DC
On Thanksgiving, Sarge woke up before his alarm sounded, and the first thing he did after kissing his wife was look outside to see if running was an option. The clear morning sky and lack of snow on the ground lifted his spirits. The weather had cleared and the protestors had returned home, most likely convinced it was their screaming through the fence with signs held high that made the difference.
For the beginning of the run with his constant companion, Captain Dave Morrell, Sarge was quiet as he reflected on the last two months of his presidency. Coming into this Thanksgiving week, he knew the vote would loom large over the White House, but the explosive situation in Taiwan was completely unforeseen.
It showed him that despite having the best intelligence apparatus in the world, the United States still did not possess a crystal ball. Hot spots could emerge at any given moment, and the president needed to be prepared to act, making the tough decisions that would be judged under the prism of twenty-twenty hindsight.
Sarge had made a commitment to himself when he’d begun this endeavor, long before the Constitutional Convention of eight years ago in St. Louis. He’d never shy away from a fight or a challenge. As president, he was never accused of cowering in the Executive Residence or behind a White House spokesman. While he might not have sought out the spotlight by campaign-style appearances, he certainly wasn’t shy about addressing the White House press corps when appropriate, or the nation from the Oval Office as necessary.
Today would be a difficult day. Over the evening hours, news broke that Ambassador McBride was missing. Sarge knew this was inevitable, but it didn’t appear to i
mpact the way Drew and his team approached their mission. The breaking news would turn an otherwise uneventful Thanksgiving celebration to a full-blown media firestorm. The traditional NFL games shown on the networks would be interrupted by scenes of chaos in the streets of Taipei.
Sarge’s first stop upon returning from his run would be the Situation Room. For now, he wanted to talk with his old friend to change the subject.
“Dave, what time will Shelby and baby BAM be arriving at the White House this morning?” BAM was the nickname Sarge had bestowed upon the Morrell’s daughter after she was born based upon the initials in her full name. Morrell and his wife had met during Sarge’s campaign the first go-around. She began to assist in the campaign and the two got married while Sarge made a stump speech in Las Vegas. When a shooter attempted to assassinate Sarge during his re-election campaign, it was Morrell who caught a glimpse of the shooter’s rifle peeking through a window. Morrell quickly shoved him to the ground, but Sarge took a bullet in the back of his right shoulder. He was in serious condition for several days but recovered except for some loss of mobility, which prevented him from throwing out the first pitch at any Washington Nationals game.
When the sniper took his second shot, Morrell was hit. The powerful round barely missed his protective vest and lodged in Morrell’s upper arm—the one wrapped around Sarge’s neck. Morrell’s instincts and quick reflexes saved Sarge’s life.
“I told them to come around eleven,” replied Morrell. “Brie’s excited about playing with Rose. I’ve warned her not to touch anything though.”
Sarge laughed as they made the loop near the Lincoln Memorial. “Julia has instructed the staff to clear the Blue Room of any antiques or breakables. We can let them run around wild Indians and the two of us will sneak outside for a cigar.”
“Count me in.”
Sarge had not broached the subject of his friend’s future. He thought it might be a good time to do so.
“Dave, we’ll be done here in eight weeks. I don’t want to be presumptuous, but do you have anything planned for after we get the hell out of Washington?”
“I have thought about it. Shelby has family in upstate New York, and my people alternate between Florida and Canada. I guess I should settle somewhere in between, you know, like Boston. I hear they have pretty good golf courses.”
Sarge laughed and grabbed his buddy around the neck. The two were more than president and Secret Service protection, they’d become like brothers. Morrell had fought to protect the Loyal Nine at Prescott Peninsula and had taken a bullet for the president. He’d earned his way into Sarge’s inner circle.
“Then, my friend, you and I will see what the world has in store for us after political life. Some of my old friends will be at dinner today and we’ll be having a come-to-Jesus meeting at some point. I’ll need you to stay close by. This bunch may want to string me up when I’m done with them.”
“You got it, Sarge. We’ll ride or die, brother. Just like always.”
“Yeah, ride or die.”
Chapter 66
7:00 a.m.
The Situation Room
The White House
Washington, DC
Sarge entered the Situation Room, which was already in full swing. Donald was poring over some satellite images with Brad, who was pointing out the differences between the current activity on the Chinese side of the Taiwan Strait and the relative calm the day before.
“It’s a striking difference,” remarked Donald.
“It can lead to only one conclusion—they’re amassing their troops for an amphibious assault,” said Brad.
Sarge was finally noticed by those in the room, and the group snapped to attention.
“Please, carry on,” said Sarge. “It felt good to be a fly on the wall for an albeit brief moment. Brad, this appears to be a significant buildup.”
“It is, Mr. President,” said Brad. “Let me bring these up on the monitor and produce a side-by-side image so you can get the full picture.”
Brad instructed his aide to mirror the satellite imagery onto the wall monitor. The picture, which was blurred, depicted several amphibious vehicles loading onto barges while others seemed to be getting into position on the beaches.
Brad continued. “Sir, these are elements of the PLA Marine Corps. For amphibious assaults, they use a variety of vehicles, including this ZBD2000.”
“It looks like a small tank,” said Sarge.
“It’s that and more. This amphibious fighting vehicle, or AFB, is propelled by two water jets with a hydraulic bow that allows it to skim across the water. The operator activates the bow and transom flaps to form a planing surface with the bottom of the hull. This reduces drag and provides it a top speed of twenty-eight miles per hour.”
“Incredible. Do we have something like this?”
“No, sir. Our version, the expeditionary fighting vehicle, developed by General Dynamics for use by the Corps, was cancelled by the prior administration due to budget cutbacks.”
“How do we, and Taiwan, counter something like this?”
“Air strikes, sir. But that leads me to the next satellite image.” Brad nodded to his aide, who brought up more NSA photos of airfields on the Chinese mainland.
He continued. “These are the newest fighter jets in the PLAAF—the Xian JH-7B, which NATO has dubbed Flounder.”
“Why’s that?” asked Donald.
“I have no idea because this beast is anything but a flounder. The Chinese have upgraded this jet with the latest in advanced avionics, a more powerful engine than anything we’ve deployed, and an advanced weapons package, which includes the YJ-12 supersonic antiship cruise missile.”
“Undoubtedly designed with the aid and benefit of cyber intrusions into our defense department or military contractor servers,” added Sarge.
“Yes, sir. The JH-7Bs would serve a dual purpose. First, they’d protect this armada of what appears to be eighty AFBs ready for deployment. Second, they’d easily back off Taiwan’s standing fleet of F-16s.”
“What about the air defense measures we assisted Taiwan with years ago?” asked Sarge.
“A2/AD, sir?” asked Brad.
“Yeah, that. Didn’t we push back against Beijing when they began flying their fighter jets along Taiwan’s west coast as a show of force?”
“We did. A2/AD, short for anti-access area denial, was part of the overall strategy we adopted for Air-Sea Battles. The Air Force and the Navy have carefully coordinated defensive plans to deal with China’s air superiority in the theater.”
Sarge began to wander around the room, using pacing to allow him to think. “These cruise missiles, the YJ-12s. Aren’t they a threat to our carrier strike groups?”
“Yes, sir. But if they’re gonna engage the Petersen or the Ronald Reagan, they’d better get ready for a fight. Our pilots are the best in the business aboard those carriers.”
Sarge sat at the head of the table and removed his Harvard sweatshirt. “This really raises a much larger issue that needs to be answered. Can America still defend Taiwan?”
Brad took a moment to gather his thoughts and then responded, “We have some history in the region, which supports the contention that we can. In the mid-nineties, in defense of Taiwan’s right to elect a pro-independence candidate, we sailed two aircraft carriers into position as a warning to China—hands off!”
Sarge interrupted. “I remember that. The elections went off without a hitch, but they were furious across the Taiwan Straits. They didn’t appreciate our show of muscle for something like an election.”
“You’re right, Mr. President. They learned from that moment and marshaled a significant amount of money and resources into military upgrades to counter our action. They developed a whole new suite of weapons designed to kill any encroaching American fleet using asymmetric warfare.”
“Like what?” asked Donald.
“The carrier killer, for one. Their new DF-21D antiship ballistic missile can be launched from
over a thousand miles away, drop slowly from space, and blast one of our carriers even if it’s taking a defensive, zigzagging course.”
“Great,” mumbled Donald sarcastically.
“The PLA has also added a hypersonic glide vehicle. It can achieve speeds of Mach 10 and higher. Its maneuverability makes it nearly impossible to track. The DF-ZF can be used for nuclear weapons delivery but also to perform precision-strike conventional missions with these new next-gen antiship ballistic missiles.”
“Brad, can they penetrate the layered air defenses of our carrier strike groups?”
“Most likely, yes, Mr. President.”
Suddenly, Sarge became extremely uncomfortable with his earlier decision. “You mean I’ve sent these carrier strike groups into the region and they’re sitting ducks?”
“Mr. President, this new development certainly makes our decision to position the Petersen and Ronald Reagan in the region to appear risky, but there is a solution.”
“Let’s hear it, because by my recollection, these carrier strike groups will converge on Taiwan in about six hours or so.”
“That’s correct, sir,” said Brad. He took a deep breath and whispered to his aide. She pulled up a screen of the Pacific Ocean with eleven flashing red triangle symbols.
“What are those?” asked Sarge.
“Mr. President, these are the present locations of our Virginia-class submarines in the region. As you know, these nuclear-powered fast-attack subs can be a tremendous asset in a situation like this.”
“How do they help us defend Taiwan and our carrier fleets?” asked Sarge.
“If you’ll allow me to point out the strategic deployment of these subs, then I’ll show you how they can assist,” started Brad. He approached a map that had been displayed on the largest monitor at the end of the room. “This map depicts the deployment of our eleven Virginia-class submarines at the moment.”
Brad continued. “The areas marked in red represent the first island chain—the major archipelagos bordering the Chinese mainland from the Malay Peninsula to Japan. We have submarines spread throughout the areas marked in red.”