Red Tide: The Chinese Invasion of Seattle (Occupied Seattle Book 1)

by Christopher Kennedy

  “That was good initiative,” approved Major Pan. “Besides, if they run into any trouble, the PGZ-95s are able to defend themselves. Their cannon can fire on any ground targets that give them problems; their 25mm cannon will make short work of any police or light armored fighting vehicles. As long as they don’t run into heavy tanks, they should be fine; even if they run into tanks, they might still get lucky.”

  Seattle ARTCC, Seattle, WA, 1510 Pacific Daylight Time

  The phone rang in the ARTCC radar room, and one of the Special Forces women picked it up. Her eyes had long ago adjusted to the dim lighting of the room. At an even five feet tall, she was of average height for a female in the People’s Republic, and looked like a stereotypical Chinese woman. Mrs. Morgan was surprised, therefore, when the soldier answered the phone with a very Midwestern American accent. “Good Afternoon,” she said. “Seattle ARTCC radar room. May I help you?”

  She listened intently for a few moments and then turned to LCDR Lin, covering the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand. “It is for the Air Traffic Manager. Our backup is here, led by Major Yang Wei. They are at the front gate, and the guard is asking if he should allow them in since his sheet only had one group coming to visit today.”

  LCDR Lin turned to Mrs. Morgan and said, “Remember, if everything goes well today, you will be released at 2330 tonight. If it does not, you will be responsible for a great many deaths, starting with all of your personnel in this room. I want you to tell the guard that you forgot to put the second group on the access list. He is to let them in, but, because the first group brought extra people, he is supposed to check in the back of the van to make sure there are only 10 people this time.” The Special Forces operative handed her the phone.

  “Good afternoon, this is Mrs. Morgan,” said the Air Traffic Manager in a cheerful voice. “I’m awfully sorry, but yes, there is supposed to be a second group of Chinese visitors today. Their tour got added after the access list got put together, and I just forgot to let you know until now. I’m sorry,” she repeated, “It’s all my fault.”

  “No worries,” replied the gate guard, “I’ll pass the two vans through.”

  “Thanks,” said Mrs. Morgan. “Oh, one last thing. They brought extra people in the first group, so we’ll have to limit this group. Please take a look in the back of each van and get a good head count. If they have more than ten, please tell them that the others will have to wait outside until the other group leaves.”

  “I will,” said the guard.

  “Thank you very much,” said Mrs. Morgan, putting the phone back on its cradle. “No problems,” she said, looking at LCDR Lin.

  Seattle ARTCC Main Gate, Seattle, WA, 1515 Pacific Daylight Time

  “You’re all set,” said the gate guard to Major Yang Wei, the passenger in the first van who was obviously in charge of this group. Although Major Yang appeared to be a short man who the guard thought couldn’t be much taller than five feet, four inches, he seemed to be very intense and serious. “Mrs. Morgan said to let you in, but I need to open up the back of the vans and get a head count first. She said the first group brought too many people, and that anyone more than ten would have to wait until the first group left.”

  “That is fine,” said Major Yang. “Be my guest.”

  Smiling his thanks, the gate guard went around to the back of the first van and pulled open the door. Looking in, he saw a large number of armed men. He couldn’t get a good count of them; all he could focus on were the barrels of the three large rifles that were pointed at him within inches of his face. Two of the men were dressed exactly like him and squeezed past. “Get in the van!” one of them commanded with a definite Southern (U.S.) accent as they slid past the guard, giving the word ‘van’ two syllables. The guard got into the van, and the new “security guards” took his place at the gate, waving the vans through.

  As the vans drove off to the parking lot, the new gate guards approached the car that had driven up behind the second van. The one with the Southern accent spoke to the driver. “Ah’m terribly sorry, but the Center is closed for a drill, and probably will be for several hours. Y’all will have to leave.”

  The driver looked confused. “But I’m supposed to be going on shift here shortly, how do I get in to do my job?”

  The guard looked grim. “Ah’m sorry, but we were told to not let anyone else in. There is a big group from Washington here to check readiness. They said that the people that were already on duty would have to do a double shift to check their performance in the event of an actual emergency.” He smiled. “Ah’m happy to tell you, though, that they told me to tell everyone that you will still get paid for the day. Enjoy your day off!”

  The man looked thoughtful as he began to consider how he might spend his day off. Surprising his girlfriend with a bottle of her favorite Shiraz would probably win him big brownie points, he thought. “OK,” he said, smiling. “Thanks for the information!” He drove off.

  “Now wasn’t that the easy?” the security guard asked his partner in Chinese. “Just tell them they get money, and Americans lose all sense of duty.”

  “Shameful,” said his partner in reply. “Simply shameful.”

  I-90, 15 Miles East of Seattle, WA, 1520 Pacific Daylight Time

  Ryan O’Leary was confused. He had known John Thomas for a long time and was faced with two competing impossibilities. On one hand, John was drunk in the middle of the day and hanging out with a woman when he should have been at work. As long as Ryan had known him, John had never been someone to turn down either a drink or a woman (in fact, as a forward air controller, one of his favorite quotes was “call ‘em in!”), but he had just spoken to John last week and knew that he was working the day shift. With his unflappable personality (and many hours in combat being shot at), he was a priceless asset to the FAA’s organization at “Seattle Center,” and was someone who had already been chosen to train other controllers. John had recently told him that new recruit training was always done during the day, so he had been switched to the day shift from Wednesday to Sunday (the weekends were quieter, allowing better training). So…if John were drunk and with a woman, he was either skipping work (unlikely) or had been fired (more unlikely). This story just couldn’t be true.

  The other possibility, though, was even more unlikely. The thought that the Chinese had taken over Seattle Center was nothing short of ludicrous. How did they get there? What did they hope to accomplish? It made no sense. A terrorist takeover might have been possible, maybe even likely, in order to try to drive airplanes together or something like that, but John hadn’t said terrorists were there, he had said the Chinese were there.

  Faced with two impossibilities and getting no answer to John’s phone (it must have been turned off as it went straight to voice mail), Ryan had decided to drive into town to see for himself what was going on. If nothing else, it was a nice break from the firewood he had been chopping, and he could pick up some sorely needed supplies for the cabin.

  As he passed the exit for Bendigo Boulevard on I-90, he was startled to see three self-propelled anti-aircraft vehicles heading in the opposite direction. They didn’t look like anything that he had ever seen, except in intelligence briefings that started out with “Here’s what the bad guys have…” He looked again and saw the red and yellow star on the side of one. “What the hell?” he thought. “Those aren’t ours.”

  Realizing that John’s story had to be true, no matter how far-fetched, he replayed the phone call in his mind. The coughs that he heard at the end of the call must have been silenced pistol shots from a different type of silencer than the ones he had used. And if that was true, he concluded, then his friend was dead. With no further need to go into town and a growing desire to get some payback, he decided to see where the anti-aircraft guns were headed. If they were in North Bend, they were far too close to home for his liking. Taking the next exit, he turned around to go back in the other direction. A tracked vehicle weighing 22.5 tons, the PGZ-95 onl
y had a top speed of about 30 miles per hour, so it didn’t take long for him to catch up with them. Curious about where they were headed, he slowed down to follow them, staying far enough behind them that they wouldn’t see him. As they reached Mile 34, the vehicles turned off the highway. They didn’t use an exit, they just went left and crossed the westbound lanes without much care for the oncoming traffic; Ryan watched as a BMW and a Ford crashed into each other as they swerved to avoid the massive anti-air guns. That’s one more I owe them, thought Ryan.

  Apparently, that was enough mayhem for the anti-aircraft vehicle drivers, as they pulled into the Travel Centers of America parking lot and took up stations in opposite corners of the parking lot. Happy to have a Jeep, Ryan followed the anti-aircraft guns across the median of the highway and pulled into Ken’s Gas and Grocery, across the street from the Travel Centers of America. As he pulled up to the gas pump, he noticed that the search radars on the backs of the PGZ-95s were turning; it appeared that they had reached their destination. One of the Chinese soldiers had gotten out and was directing traffic to clear an open area near each of the defensive systems. When one of the truck drivers didn’t come out to move his truck, the closest PGZ-95 fired its guns at the truck, shredding it, before driving up next to it and pushing it over.

  Ryan watched this, and his anger grew; he vowed revenge. Having filled up his Jeep, he also filled up the gas can that he had to fuel his generator at the cabin. Going into the store, he searched the shelves looking for glass containers, but did not find many, as the majority of products were in plastic containers. Finally, he decided on three medium glass jars of mayonnaise, as well as a Styrofoam cooler, and went back out to the Jeep. Seeing that the Chinese vehicles were still at the Travel Centers of America, Ryan drove around behind the store and began to assemble some ‘presents’ for them.

  University of Washington, Seattle, WA, 1530 Pacific Daylight Time

  Sara Sommers and Erika Murphy made it back to their second floor room safely. Although they had seen some soldiers at a distance, none had come close enough to worry about. They had gone around the campus, rather than through it, heading north from Red Square on 15th Ave. NE and then turning east on NE 45th St. When they got to the high rise dorms, they sneaked into McMahon dorm through the pine trees behind it.

  They both knew it was dangerous to come back, but they didn’t have most of their things and didn’t have many other options. They had spent most of the morning studying; the only things they had in their bags were books…which were of pretty limited use against armed men. If they could make it into their room, they could get their hiking packs and some dried rations. With food and a little camping gear, they could probably make it out of town and hike their way back home.

  They had just finished packing their gear when they heard a commotion out in the hallway. “Everyone out of their rooms!” yelled a male voice.

  “They’re here!” cried Erika.

  “Quick, out the window!” said Sara.

  They crossed to the window and threw their backpacks out. As they threw the second pack, there was a loud slam out in the hallway as the door next to theirs was kicked open. “Go, Erika!” urged Sara.

  “No,” said Erika, “you go first. I hurt my leg and will need you to help me down.”

  “OK,” said Sara. “Hurry!” She pulled a chair up to the window and swung her leg over the sill. She put her other leg out the window and then turned over onto her stomach to slide out the window. She slid down to where she was only holding onto the window sill and then dropped the remaining ten feet to the ground.

  Erika followed her into the window. As her first leg came out, there was a slam as someone kicked in the door to their room. Erika redoubled her efforts, getting her other leg out and then letting herself start sliding out the window. Just as she was almost out, though, an arm appeared around her midsection, and she was dragged back, screaming as she was pulled in.

  Grabbing the two packs, Sara started running for the woods. “Stop!” she heard a man yell from behind her. A shot rang out, and she heard a bullet go past her and slap into a tree. Before she could think to stop, though, she was among the trees, dodging them as she ran; each one that she passed providing more and more cover from the men behind her. She slowed down as she reached 45th Street again, not wanting to run out into the street.

  As she stopped to think, she realized that she owed her friend more than to run away; she wanted to see what the soldiers were up to. Looping back around to the south, she stayed in the cover of the trees while she worked her way back to the high rise dorms. Coming down the Burke-Gilman Trail past the North Physics Lab, she could see a procession heading down Mason Rd., with soldiers shepherding what appeared to be students. Her guess was confirmed as she caught a glimpse of Erika in the group, hobbling along on her hurt leg.

  She followed them to the south, staying hidden in the trees. Reaching the point where Wahkiakum Rd. ran alongside the intramural tennis courts, she realized that she couldn’t go any further without being seen. Looking down the street, she could see where the students were being taken: the Intramural Activities Building (IAB) next to Edmundson Arena, where the university’s basketball team played.

  She paused to watch and heard a thumping noise. The noise got louder and louder, until she realized that it was a group of helicopters that were approaching. She could see them from where she was hiding as they flew up over the intramural complex. While four smaller helicopters remained airborne, flying back and forth around the area, two other, larger helicopters flew in and landed on Intramural Activities Sports Field #3. While she watched, she saw a group of 30 men come out of the IAB; six of them were pushing flatbed carts. The men approached the helicopters and began pulling six large boxes out of them, with the help of several men that had been inside with them. The boxes each appeared to be about six feet long and must have weighed many hundreds of pounds, based on how many men it took to move each of them.

  Even though heavy, the men quickly got them onto the carts and were soon pushing them back into the building. Realizing that the longer she stayed there only increased the likelihood that she would be discovered, she started working her way back to the north. If she could work her way back around to the water and the Conibear Shellhouse, she ought to be able to “borrow” one of the sailboats there. Then, if she could make it over to where I-90 crossed from Mercer Island onto the mainland, she was ‘only’ a 19-mile hike from home.

  Travel Centers of America, North Bend, WA, 1535 Pacific Daylight Time

  Ryan carried two bags of groceries as he walked down 468th Ave., turning into the parking lot for the Travel Centers of America. The three anti-aircraft vehicles had spaced themselves out in the opposite corners of the parking lot. As he watched, two strange looking black vans pulled into the north side of the parking lot, and soldiers wearing Chinese uniforms began getting out of them. Two squads of soldiers, too, he thought; that will just make this a whole lot more fun.

  Entering the parking lot from the east, the anti-aircraft vehicle in the southwest corner was in front of him, pointed away from him with its back end toward the Travel Centers of America building. The soldiers were still congregating around the vans and two guns on the other side of the parking lot; their view of the other vehicle blocked by the Travel Center building. This was his best opportunity, he thought.

  Moving toward the anti-aircraft gun, he got his first good look at it. The hull was mounted on a tracked armored chassis, with an armored turret on the rear portion of it. It was big enough for a crew of three people: a driver, a gunner and the vehicle commander. He could see a couple of raised hatches where they would enter and exit the vehicle. The vehicle was armed with four 25mm guns, with two mounted on each side of the turret. He could see that the guns were mounted in such a manner that they could be used against ground targets as well as aviation units. The vehicle was also armed with what looked like four short-range surface-to-air missiles, as well as four smoke grenade laun
chers, both of them mounted with two on either side of the turret. It looked to him like a pretty badass air-defense system; he knew it would be a significant loss if he could take it out.

  As he crossed the parking lot, he stopped and pretended he was tying his shoe as a soldier carrying two handheld surface-to-air missiles came around the Travel Center building. He set them down next to the GBZ-95 and then laughed at something that a man exiting the vehicle said to him. They shared a couple of words in Chinese, and then both of the men began walking back toward where the other vehicles were. That should only leave two people in the vehicle, at most, Ryan thought, as he reached the side of it. Ducking down behind it, he pulled the items out of the shopping bags-three glass jars full of napalm. He had emptied the jars of their mayonnaise and then filled them with gasoline, stirring in small pieces of Styrofoam until the mixture gelled into the right consistency. A couple of punctures in the lid with his knife gave access to the “fuse,” a fuel soaked piece of his T-shirt that he had cut up. Lighting them with his lighter, he jumped onto the deck and threw one through each of the hatches into the main body of the GBZ-95 and then slammed the hatches shut. Not hearing any movement, he quickly approached the turret and threw the third one into it, slamming the hatch.

  Slamming the hatch might not have been the best choice, as the metal-on-metal ‘clang’ drew the attention of the Chinese soldier that was coming back around the Travel Center building. Yelling something at Ryan in Chinese, he continued to run toward the vehicle as Ryan sprinted to the east, grabbing one of the surface-to-air missiles from the ground as he jumped off the deck of the anti-aircraft gun. The soldier didn’t pursue Ryan, going instead to the vehicle to see what Ryan had been doing. As the soldier reached the GBZ-95, he was blown backward as the ammunition in the turret exploded from the heat of the napalm, bending the turret askew on the chassis with the force of the blast.