“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Austin grunted. He was impressed with Power’s unshakable poise. “You’re on the next flight to Moscow. The arrangements have already been made. See my secretary outside before you leave. She will arrange everything you need.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And stay in regular contact,” the President glanced at his wristwatch then issued his final instruction. “I don’t want to be the last to know what’s happening and where this contagion is spreading to. It’s your job to make sure I know more than the next guy, and that I know first.”
Power nodded. The President thrust out his hand, then offered a small smile of encouragement. “Do good work. We’re all counting on you.”
DALIAN HARBOR
LIAODONG PENINSULA
CHINA
“How far away are they?” Colonel Zhang Bingjun leaned in through the helicopter’s cockpit door and glared impatiently at the pilot.
The machine’s rotors were still turning, the engine still whining down. The pilot unfastened his helmet and snatched it off. He handed the Colonel a folded map and pointed.
“So close?” Zhang’s face registered genuine alarm.
“Twenty kilometers,” the pilot confirmed.
“How many?”
The helicopter pilot didn’t know how to answer. There were so many undead moving in a herd-like column towards the Chinese position that their numbers had been impossible to estimate. “They cover the ground in every direction and reach all the way to the horizon,” he said.
The Colonel became bleak. He glanced over his shoulder. His camouflaged command vehicle was parked on an abandoned stretch of road. Two of his aides were talking on radios, frantically coordinating the disposition of the troops. Zhang signaled his driver with an urgent punch of his fist.
“I need to get to the perimeter fence immediately,” he insisted. “We’ve run out of time. The enemy is almost upon us.”
BLACK HAWK 2
OVER NASU
JAPAN
The Delta operators crowded aboard the Black Hawk were all armed to the teeth and kitted out in flameproof Nomex assaulter Multicam uniforms and wearing Kevlar helmets fitted with comms headsets and NVG’s. On the back of each helmet was a strobe light to make the men visible to the helicopters for extraction.
Over their uniforms the plate carriers they wore for ballistic protection were empty, but the molle pouches were packed with spare ammunition, medikits and frag grenades. On the men’s battle belts were holstered 9mm SIG M17 pistols and spare magazines for their M4’s.
Assault team operations typically followed one of two formats; either the helicopter landed the men immediately over the target and right into the jaws of a firefight, or the chopper dropped the team somewhere removed from the target site and they moved into position with stealth.
The mission to rescue Emperor Akihito would be an operation of shock and awe.
The men were all silent and contemplative, each team member dealing with the imminent danger in their own private ways. Through the helicopter’s ICS cords that connected the headsets, the pilot was playing AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell’.
It seemed appropriate.
The assault team commander sat nursing the Peeping Tom on his lap, watching the drone’s live feed from the Imperial Villa. He was connected to the control station on board Ronald Reagan by radio. He heard a brief burst of static followed by Tony van den Berg’s voice through his headset.
“We’ve come up with an idea.”
“I’m all ears,” the operator said.
“We want to move the drone two miles to the north and put it through a couple more low-flying dives,” van den Berg explained. “We’re hoping the noise will lure some of the infected away from the target house. If you approach from the south, you might get a few minutes of respite at the LZ. What do you think?”
“I like it.”
“There’s a downside. You’ll be landing blind. You’re going to lose the feed over the villa.”
The leader of the assault team weighed up the options and then made his decision. “Go for it.”
WHITE HOUSE
SITUATION ROOM
“Is everyone assembled?” President Austin asked his Secretary of State, who stood waiting for him outside the Situation Room door.
“Yes, sir. Several of the Cabinet are also in attendance,” Virginia Clayton said.
“Good,” the President put on a brave face. He felt tired, heavy with fatigue.
Everyone stood attentively when the President entered the room. He waved them back to their seats.
The Situation Room was crowded, buzzing with the noise of a dozen murmured conversations shared between tight, strained voices. The atmosphere in the room was tense, the worried faces around the conference table lit by the eerie glow of a large-screen monitor on one wall. The display projected the coastline of China, the Yellow Sea and the South China Sea. Naval bases were highlighted with glowing red marks. Everyone fell suddenly silent.
Gathered around the room were the Joint Chiefs, several members of cabinet, and representatives from America’s national intelligence network.
“Alright,” President Austin made a quick scan of the faces all turned towards him. “What’s happening in the world that I need to know about?”
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Lawrence Knight, got to his feet. He was dressed in full uniform. He looked deeply concerned.
“Sir, we have a troubling situation developing in Asia. The Chinese are surging their South Sea Fleet and their East Sea Fleet.”
“How many ships?”
“Sir,” General Knight seemed troubled. “All of them.”
“All of them?” Suddenly the President sat forward in his seat. “Christ…”
The General went to the map and took a final glance at his notes. Everyone turned in their chairs to follow him.
“The first ships to leave port were from the three bases directly across the straight from Taiwan, here, here, and here,” the General indicated Quanzhou, Xiamen and Shantou. “Less than an hour later, warships all along the east coast of China surged into the Yellow Sea. That constitutes the entire East Sea Fleet.”
“How many ships are we talking about?” President Austin asked quietly.
“The East Sea Fleet has its headquarters at a naval base in Ningbo, about three hundred and forty miles north of Taipei, Taiwan. That’s normally the task of the East Sea Fleet – to project China’s power against Taiwan, but it’s also the closest fleet the Chinese have to our own bases on Okinawa… before we lost them to the infection. Latest intelligence suggests the fleet consists of a dozen destroyers, almost twenty frigates, ten corvettes and up to twenty diesel powered attack subs.”
“That’s a substantial force…”
“On its own, yes, sir. But two hours ago, their South Sea Fleet also began assembling in the South China Sea. The ports at Yulin, Guangzhou and Shantou are all emptying. It’s an unprecedented event, Mr. President. The Chinese have never, in modern times, had so many warships at sea at the same moment – not even during their most extensive training exercises.”
“Is the South Sea Fleet similar in make-up to the East Sea Fleet?”
“Sir, the South Sea Fleet is even more substantial,” General Knight said. “It is headquartered near Zhanjiang, a deep water port and city north of Hainan. Zhanjiang is also the headquarters for China’s two brigades of elite Marines. It includes the Chinese aircraft carrier, Liaoning, another dozen destroyers, another eighteen frigates, another dozen corvettes, sixteen more diesel-electric boats, and at least two nuclear powered attack submarines. China also includes its four nuclear-powered ballistic missile submarines as part of the South Sea Fleet. They are based at China’s new underground facility at Yulin. Those four boats carry the JL-2 nuclear armed intercontinental ballistic missile.”
“What kind of threat does the carrier represent?”
“The Liaoning is the Chinese Na
vy’s first aircraft carrier,” the General explained. “She started life as a Soviet Kuznetsov class aircraft cruiser. The Chinese acquired the hull from Ukraine after the Soviet Union broke apart and rebuilt her as a carrier. She’s a medium-sized carrier – about sixty thousand tons – and was first commissioned back in 2012. The ship became combat ready in 2016. We think she is capable of launching up to thirty-six Chinese J-15 Flying Shark fighters, as well as ASW helicopters and a few airborne early warning helicopters. That’s not a lot compared to Nimitz or Ronald Reagan – but it’s still a substantial threat.”
“Jesus,” someone at the table whispered, their voice hushed but breathless. No one turned to identify the speaker.
The anonymous oath expressed a sentiment that was shared around the room.
“Do we know what they’re up to?” POTUS asked.
“No sir.”
National Security Advisor, Walter Ford, spoke into the hushed silence. “Mr. President, China has the world’s second largest navy in terms of pure tonnage. However, the Chinese Navy now has more combat ships than any other navy in the world, including the United States. Over the past few years the number of ships China has built is unprecedented. We still have the technological edge, but in terms of sheer numbers, what the Chinese are doing… is scary.”
On that final ominous note of foreboding, the President searched the faces at the table. “Anything from our intelligence apparatus?”
“Not at this time, sir,” CIA spoke on behalf of the combined intelligence community. “We don’t have HUMINT sources on the ground in China and the ELINT material is still developing.”
‘Still developing’ the President thought bleakly, was political speak for, ‘we don’t have any idea’.
“Very well,” Patrick Austin considered the looming threat of the PLA Navy, studying the map on the wall as though it might reveal a hidden clue to China’s intentions. “What are we doing about it? Where are our ships?”
“Here, sir,” General Knight picked up a light pen pointer and drew a circle around an island chain further south. “The Seventh Fleet is currently off Riau Island.”
“Does our Fleet know what the Chinese are doing?”
“Yes, sir. They’ve been alerted.”
DALIAN HARBOR
LIAODONG PENINSULA
CHINA
“When will this one’s refrigeration containers be fitted?” Politburo member Tong Ge demanded, directing the question at the entourage of sycophants surrounding him. They were all shipyard executives in business shirts and ties, their faces morose and unsmiling.
Tong Ge propped his hands on his hips and flung his head back to look from dockside up the sheer wall of the ship’s steel hull. It was a goliath of the ocean, its high superstructure seeming to reach into the belly of the clouds that blanketed Dalian Harbor.
“Several refrigeration containers have already been fitted below the hatch covers, Minister,” one of the executives bowed respectfully. “And there will be several more fitted before the ship is fully refurbished to meet your requirements.”
Tong Ge grunted. The little knot of men picked a path away from the chaos of the shipyard’s dock to make way for a fleet of bomb carts carrying more empty containers ready for loading aboard the vessel. The bomb carts were specialized trucks consisting of a cab and a long flat chassis, specifically designed to withstand the rigors of moving the massive shipping containers to and from dockside ships. One by one, the vehicles pulled up in a designated area beneath a vast container gantry crane. Stevedores wearing hard hats raced in to attach container fittings and then the crane hoisted the heavy container into the sky and out over the high deck of the ship.
Tong Ge watched the process with a critical eye and could find no fault.
The entire harbor front was a hive of industry, with another twelve deep-water container berths working around the clock to fit out the waiting ships. Thousands of men and women in hard hats bustled like industrious ants, filthy and exhausted, to meet the impossible demands of deadlines.
The air was thick with diesel fumes and the smell of oil. The sounds of cranes, rumbling engines and sirens were a non-stop clamor. It was China at her industrious best, Tong Ge reflected in a moment of humbling pride.
From where he now stood, he had a better view of the massive ship moored at the berth. He could see men crawling over the high stack of above-deck containers, fitting lashing bars and turnbuckles to secure each new tier, while more workmen with black facemasks and welding equipment began attaching steel frames and steps to connect the completed accommodation levels. The frames were like the fire escapes seen fastened to the sides of old American apartment buildings, consisting of open steel gratings with railings and ladders.
“How much longer before she is finished?” Tong Ge glanced at his wristwatch. He had lost track of time. He was startled to realize that it was late in the afternoon. With a giddy lurch he realized he had not slept for almost two days and had barely eaten. He closed his eyes and felt the world spin beneath his feet. He swayed on his heels until the vertigo passed, then opened his eyes, red-raw and bleary with fatigue. The skin of his face felt stretched tight, and his head thumped with a slow throbbing pain.
“Twelve more hours, Minister,” a voice in the entourage answered him, sounding apologetic.
Beyond the open arms of the harbor, the skyline was black with anchored Chinese merchant ships of every size and configuration. Tong Ge had spent an hour aboard a helicopter earlier in the day, flying over the port and then out to sea to get a sense of the vast scope of the project. The ships waiting at anchor had stretched for miles beyond the curve of the horizon, lost in the haze of polluted brown air.
“And the tugboats?” Tong Ge rounded on the man who had answered.
“They are working three shifts, Minister,” the executive’s face collapsed in panic. “As is the entire workforce.”
Again Tong Ge grunted. He was impossibly tired and his temper was becoming frayed. He could find no fault with the earnest efforts of the men who supervised his instructions. The workforce was massive, spread across the entire port, moving from berth to berth like a massed migration at the change of shifts. Floodlights were beginning to burn across Dalian Harbor in preparation for the approaching night shift. Horns and sirens wailed over the snarl of truck engines and the sharp barked orders of dockside supervisors in colored safety vests. Overhead, a flock of Army helicopters appeared as a reminder to Tong Ge that their time was limited and that each minute was being paid for by China’s brave soldiers that defended the high barbed wire fence just a few kilometers north of where they stood.
“Faster,” he thought grimly. “We must work faster.”
The Politburo member climbed aboard a dockside people transporter that looked similar to a forklift, without the fork attachment. There were four seats. The three most senior shipping executives joined Tong Ge, and the cart raced through the tangled chaos of vehicles, heavy equipment and scaffolding to a berth further north of the container terminals where commercial ships were being modified to accommodate container tiers on their decks.
So vast was the sprawling port that the drive took ten full minutes, with Tong Ge nodding into moments of fitful sleep as the cart jerked and swerved a ragged course. The Minister woke with a start when the vehicle stopped and blinked heavy eyes.
An oil tanker was moored at the nearest berth, her holds empty of cargo so her oxidized-red keel showed high above the waterline. High towers of scaffolding had been erected against the steel hull and thousands of men, like a swarm of ants, were crawling over the deck. Welding flares bloomed against the low cloud and approaching dusk as men in grimy overalls and safety helmets cut away extraneous pieces of decking to make way for pre-fabricated steel frames that would support the weight of container tiers.
Tong Ge stepped out of the cart and went towards the dock. The concrete pier was stained black and brown with spilled oil. Thick snakes of rope criss-crossed the dock. From a small
nearby shed the Minister could hear a man’s strident shouts as he urged his supervisors to greater endeavor. Tong Ge was not a shipping expert; to him the ocean and her giant steel monsters were things of romance and wonder. It seemed callous to see such a fine ship being bastardized in this manner.
He set the sentiment aside. There was no place for emotion when China’s very survival was at stake.
He drew a deep breath, closed his eyes to shut out the image, and looked again, this time from a clinical, practical point of view. He was reminded of the western children’s fairytale about a giant man named Gulliver who had been bound and tied on a beach by thousands of little people. Tong Ge saw that story reflected in this moment; the giant being overwhelmed by swarming workmen armed with welders.
“The pre-fabricated tracking to stack the containers?” Tong Ge turned and swept his eyes around the chaos of the dock. “Where are the components?”
“I will check!” one of the executives went scampering towards the shed. He emerged just a minute later.
“The pieces are still being assembled about a mile away, Minister,” the executive relayed the information with a respectful bow. “The supervisor here is a very good man, very experienced. He is using one of the abandoned factories a mile west of here to create the heavy steel pieces that the ship will need. When the deck has been cleared and all is ready, the pieces will be transported here on trucks and then lifted into place by the cranes.”
Tong Ge narrowed his eyes, and grudgingly accepted that such a plan made sense. He nodded his head curtly.
“When will this ship be ready?”
“Another thirty-six hours,” Minister. “Once the deck has been modified she will be towed to one of the container berths for loading and final fit-out.”
Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse Page 25