Fallen Angel

by Jeff Struecker

  Peng hoped there was no one else to hear.

  MOYER, OUT OF IMPATIENCE born by too much time in the back of a delivery van, took point, jogging at a slower rate than his mind begged. Six men—he left Lev to hide and protect the FedEx vehicle—tramping through a thin forest at full run would be heard at distance. Moyer didn't want to be heard.

  The slower pace gave him another problem. It gave him time to think. Normally a good thing, thinking had become problematic: 98 percent of his thinking was about Gina. Even now as he ducked beneath low branches, her image flashed on his brain like a strobe light. His stomach twisted into a tighter knot; something he didn't think possible. The urge to fall to his knees and weep alternated with the pressing desire to scream at the top of his lungs and shoot anything that moved.

  Although no scholar, Moyer did enjoy a good read. His wife gave him Edmund Morris's Theodore Rex, the story of Theodore Roosevelt and his rise to the presidency. Teddy Roosevelt was a military man's president, tested in battle and not afraid to unleash soldiers into battle.

  One part of the book touched him. He hadn't known Teddy lost his mother and wife on the same day, in the same house. A young New York legislator at the time, the future president raced home by train and buggy in time to hold each as they died.

  The sudden deaths so grieved him he lost himself. He wrote in his journal, "Today the life has gone out of my life." He took his newborn child—Roosevelt's wife died in childbirth—and presented her to his sister. He then took care of the funerals, left home, went hunting in the wilderness, and killed everything that moved. The list of animals he felled numbered in the hundreds. When Moyer read the account, he assumed Teddy overreacted. Now he understood. Killing something sounded good.

  Pushing aside unwanted thoughts, he forced himself into soldier mode; something he seldom had to do while on mission. It lasted thirty seconds. As he trudged up the slope he thought of Stacy. She must be beside herself. How could he not be there for her? What good were a husband's strong arms when they were so many miles away?

  Then there was Rob. More teenager than man. Never tested by hardship; never forced to face danger; never called upon to step up. He missed his son.

  A sound, mechanical but distant, pushed through the noise of his footfalls and heavy breath. He snapped one hand up in a clenched fist. His team stopped midstep. Moyer raised a cupped hand to his ear, signaling he heard something. The sound of birds filled the air, then the noise reached them again. Moyer, a lover of tools, recognized it immediately. Someone was using a power tool on metal. The fact he could recognize it told him they were close to the satellite, and as he expected, the Chinese were already there.

  Moyer moved to the crest of the hill and took cover behind a fallen tree. Shrubs grew around the moldering trunk. Before dropping behind the tree, he extended his left arm to the side, calling for an abreast configuration. His men spread to the side forming a line, each separated by three or more yards, depending on the cover they could find.

  Moyer raised his binoculars and studied the situation. The battered remains of Angel-12 lay partially buried in the soft dirt of the valley. Surrounding the satellite stood five Chinese soldiers in full gear. Two worked on the satellite; three formed a perimeter.

  "I make five armed hostiles," Moyer whispered, the throat mike picking up every word.

  "Roger that, Boss. I make the same." It was Rich's job to confirm the situation. "I count four QBZ-95 automatics and a QBU-88 good-guy killer."

  "Boss?"

  "Go, Colt."

  "The QBU-88 is an anti-personnel, anti-material sniper rifle. Suggest we target him first. I don't want to eat any rounds, but I sure don't want to eat one that treats my body armor like tissue paper."

  "Colt, you're on him but don't fire unless I tell you. That goes for everyone." He sighted the area. "Shaq, you take the guy with the tool; Junior, I want you sighted on his partner. Doc, you take the perimeter man on the east. I got the other one. I repeat, no shooting until I give the go."

  Moyer scanned the forested area to the northeast. That's where they'd approach. He saw nothing. He listened but heard only the action of the power tool on sheet metal. The tool was laboring. Apparently the beast was made of sterner stuff than the Chinese anticipated.

  "Hawkeye?"

  "Go, Boss."

  "Time to do your magic. Break out a nano."

  "Roger that, Boss. Got just the thing."

  Moyer looked to his left. The newest team member was pulling gear from his rucksack. Crispin was part of the team for this very reason: He was an expert in nano UAVs. The tiny, remote-control aircraft were growing in use for recon work. Unmanned Aerial Vehicles ranged from full-sized aircraft to small planes like the Wasp III micro air vehicle used by the Air Force Spec Ops. Its wingspan was just a little over two feet. Still, that was too large for this situation and difficult to carry in backpacks.

  The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—DARPA—had been developing these small aircraft for years. MAVs, sometimes called nanos, were so small that at a distance they could be mistaken for birds or insects. Crispin's toys were a little larger, but not by much.

  Moyer pushed back from the log and crawled to Crispin's location. When he reached the young soldier's hidey-hole, he found him busily setting up what looked like a toy.

  "I'm assuming a hovering recon would be best, as opposed to a quick flyover. I've got both." He opened a padded box and removed a white plastic plane with rear wings and a rear propeller. It looked like a great toy, except it was far more expensive. From nose to tail it was just a few inches long. Crispin opened another box and removed a four-inch-long helicopter. "I recommend the Voyager. We don't have much wind and it has good gust control."

  "Will they hear it?"

  "Not likely. I can keep it high enough that they shouldn't see it or hear it."

  "Just the same. I want to keep it out of view of the Chinese."

  Crispin looked at him. "I thought you wanted a bird's-eye view of what they were doing."

  Moyer shook his head. "I already know what they're doing."

  "Ah, you're thinking the Russians."

  "You got it. Now earn your nick, Hawkeye. Send your toy around the tree to that area over there." Moyer pointed northeast. "If I've guessed correctly, our new friends are going to come through there. They need an area with few trees to get that truck in. If they're not there, then you can do a flyby over the Chinese, but make sure it comes from across the valley. If they see little Binky, I want them to think it came from the direction opposite us. Got it?"

  "Got it, Boss." Crispin pulled a device from his bag. It reminded Moyer of a game controller, except it had a screen. "I can have Voyager up in two minutes."

  "Take three minutes if you need it."

  "Gee, thanks, Boss."

  Moyer returned to watching the Chinese. The tall man was switching batteries in the tool.

  "What now, Boss?" Rich's voice came over Moyer's earpiece.

  "We wait, Shaq. We wait for the others."

  "But we can pop these guys now, then set up for the Russians."

  "We wait, Shaq. That's it."

  "If you say so, Boss."

  "I say so."

  Two minutes, thirty seconds later, Moyer heard a buzzing to his left. The micro helicopter rose from a flat bit of ground directly in front of Crispin. Deftly he guided it through the trees to the edge of the clearing, then along the edge of the forest. Moyer soon lost sight of it and switched attention to the display screen Crispin was using to fly the diminutive craft.

  "How's it going?"

  Crispin grinned. "Sa-weet, Boss. Man, I love this stuff."

  "Let's see if you like what comes next." The grim tone in his voice surprised Moyer. Of course, he had a right to be grim. For Crispin, this might be a high-tech camping trip, but in a minute his mettle would be tested.

  The monitor showed, in black-and-white, the valley floor scrolling by. A rabbit sprinted from one bush to another. The fi
rst pass revealed nothing.

  "Can you take it higher? Above the trees?"

  "Sure can, Boss. Just so I don't go too far out there and lose my signal."

  The view in the monitor changed from valley floor to treetops. Moyer watched with the kind of interest reserved for the best action movies. These scenes, however, were not pretend. Something evil moved through the woods and Moyer wanted to know where it was.

  "Target." Crispin kept his voice low.

  Moyer saw it too. "Make another pass, but keep it high. Don't get too close."

  Crispin followed the orders without a word. Moyer counted close to eight men, each armed with AK-47s. Their dress varied. At best they were a ragtag squad, but Moyer had no doubt they knew how to use the weapons in their hands.

  "Listen up. Eight hostiles on foot; military grade automatic weapons and sidearms; approaching tree line a half klick to our right."

  He paused and Rich used the opportunity to ask a question. "Target priority?"

  "Hold your fire. Do not engage unless they engage us."

  "Understood, Boss. We take out the survivors."

  "Negative, Shaq. We do nothing."

  "What about the satellite, Boss?" That was Pete.

  "I want the Russians to have it."

  "Excuse me, Boss."

  "You heard me, Shaq. We do nothing. We let the Russians take the Angel."

  There was a long pause, then Rich said, "Boss, a word."

  "You know where I am."

  CHAPTER 32

  J. J. FOLLOWED ORDERS. He always followed orders, including those he didn't understand. He was told to site down on a particular Chinese Spec Ops member but to hold fire. Fine with him. But he was uncertain what to do with the idea of watching a Russian military splinter group sneak up on a Chinese covert unit. In one sense, they had done the same thing. Okay, fine. But release the satellite to the Russians without squeezing off so much as a shot just seemed wrong on a dozen points. Hadn't they been tasked with retrieving the radioactive fuel, then blowing the thing up?

  He tried to ignore it, but the thought crawled around in his brain. Had Boss lost it? The stress of his daughter's abduction may have unhinged him. Had J. J. received word while on mission that someone harmed Tess, he had no idea how he would respond. He was pretty sure he'd lose his mind.

  The missions he conducted under Moyer's leadership were rough, painful, and deadly, but no fault could ever be laid on the leadership.

  J. J. prayed for his team leader.

  TESS PRAYED FOR J. J.

  She had just spent fifteen minutes with Colonel Mac in the Concrete Palace conference room. At first, she was admitted into the Special Operations Command Center situation room, where Mac sat with Sergeant Alan Kinkaid. Mac greeted her, but Tess barely heard it. On a large, wall-mounted monitor was an overhead view of men in a field. She counted five, one short of J. J.'s team.

  As if a mind reader, Mac looked at her then at the monitor. "That's not them. The team is fine."

  "Who is that?"

  "Chinese Spec Ops. They got to the satellite before we did."

  "Oh no. Where is . . . ?"

  "I tell you what, Tess, let's step into the conference room for a few minutes. This won't be long and you'll have fewer distractions."

  "Yeah. That's probably wise."

  Mac opened the door for her and as she crossed the threshold she heard Mac say, "Sergeant, I want to know if the situation changes."

  "Yes, sir. Understood."

  Mac led Tess into the conference room where they sat at the far end of the long table. The Concrete Palace had many rooms, but she had only seen the briefing room and Colonel Mac's office. J. J. told her there was a basement where they kept equipment. She didn't ask what he meant by "equipment" and he didn't volunteer an explanation.

  "No time for pleasantries, Tess. Jerry Zinsser was here. He's investigating Gina Moyer's abduction."

  "How's that progressing?"

  "Slow. They're doing everything they can. CID and the FBI are covering the case as well as the local cops. They believe they're dealing with professionals and that's the problem. The abductors know at least something about the team's mission and about Eric Moyer. The question is, how? Zinsser thinks we have a mole. How do we find them?"

  "Why ask me, Colonel? CID has trained investigators for these things."

  "Yes, they do and they're on the case, but I need someone who thinks outside the box. Besides, it may not be an Army problem. It could be someone on the civilian side, someone in one of the intel groups, a politician in the know. I'm a soldier, Tess, not an investigator. You and Zinsser are mavericks in your thinking."

  "Still, Mac, I'm not an investigator."

  "Sure you are. You're a scholarly investigator. I don't need you to lift fingerprints. I need you to answer one question: Who benefits if we bring the team back? The Chinese? The Russians? The splinter group? A politician? I'm open for ideas. That's what I want: ideas."

  "Where do I get information?"

  "I'll brief you with what I know. After that, Zinsser will be your contact, but the way he's working, you'll have trouble catching up to him." Mac stood. Tess followed his example. "If anyone gives you grief, let me know. The president has our backs. Not many people give him grief."

  "No, sir, I guess not." She debated whether to say the next sentence that came to her mind. "There's a price, sir."

  "Oh, brother. There's always a price."

  "How's the team doing?"

  Mac clenched his fists and placed them knuckles down on the table. "Okay, come on." Mac marched from the conference room and into the situation room. Tess had to walk briskly just to keep up. He stopped at the door and passed his smartcard badge over the security lock situated near the right jamb. Tess heard a click as the automatic lock surrendered its position and Mac walked in, holding the door for Tess.

  "Any change, Sergeant?"

  "Yes, sir. Just a moment ago Junior just sent a flash message that the Russian splinter group is approaching. We've located their vehicles a short distance away. Best guess is the Russians will engage the Chinese once they reach the open area. They have the advantage of surprise and better cover. Chinese don't have a chance."

  Mac shook his head. "I can't figure out why the team didn't take out the Chinese, grab the fuel, and blow the thing to kingdom come. They had enough time. They could have done the deed and been back in the cover and headed to their vehicle, but Moyer hesitated."

  "Why did he hesitate?" Tess marveled at the image. She was seeing live action on the ground in eastern Russia. She glanced at her watch. It was early evening now. That meant midmorning tomorrow there.

  "That's my point. I don't know. That's the first part of their mission. Now they have to engage the Russians which number . . ." He looked to Kinkaid.

  "Junior's message said eight men armed with automatic weapons."

  Kinkaid spoke as if discussing an ongoing baseball game. His words turned her stomach. Then an idea hit her. "What's the second part of the mission?"

  "You already know that, Tess."

  "I do know that, but I'll bet you a pizza that's your answer."

  "I don't follow."

  "It's simple, Mac. Their mission is to destroy the satellite and do what?"

  "Rescue whatever Air Force Spec Ops men remain alive."

  "Where are those captives?"

  "We don't know exactly."

  Tess studied the image on the screen. She couldn't see the team and assumed they were undercover nearby. "How then can the team rescue the men—?"

  "Sons a—"

  "Watch it. There's a lady present. Me."

  Mac looked at her. "See, I told you you think outside the box." He rubbed his chin. "Sergeant, let's get POTUS on the line."

  AMBASSADOR HUI XU POURED another glass of warmed shaojiu. His third and he had yet to have dinner. Normally a wine man, he took to distilled spirits when anxious and he was anxious. Earlier, the self-righteous president of the United St
ates insulted him repeatedly, then made demands; demands he didn't intend to honor.

  He had called his government, not because Huffington told him to, but because any meeting with a head of state had to be reported. He did his duty and reported the conversation and threat. His superior listened patiently, then hung up without a word. Hui knocked back the drink.

  Had his career, maybe even his life, just ended?

  JERRY ZINSSER'S MIND RACED despite his weariness. During Ranger training he learned to get by on little to no sleep. In some ways, he felt sharper; in others he felt dull and insipid.

  He and Brianne were doing their part in tracking down home-improvement stores. The hidden digital manufacturing watermark on the video enabled them—rather, enabled the FBI video gurus—to track the maker and the model. Brianne had her team make calls, so they had a list of stores that carried that brand of security camera. The problem was, they had no idea how far the abductors took Gina. Were they even in the same state? The FBI and the far-more-limited CID offices in three states were doing the same thing as he and Brianne: going from store to store, rousting whatever manager was there, and asking questions about purchases.

  This was the fifth Home Warehouse they visited. They were in a community forty miles north of Columbia. Zinsser found a parking spot near the front door.

  "Lucky driver," Brianne said. "If I were driving, we wouldn't find a spot within two blocks. I'm unlucky that way."

  "If that's the only bad luck you have, then you may be the luckiest person on the planet."

  "I have a confession to make."

  "Let me guess. You're a Russian spy."

  "Nah, couldn't master the language. No, my confession is this: While I was gone, I did a little research on you."

  "Uh-oh. Do I owe back taxes or something?"

  She studied him for a minute. "Are you always this glib?"

  "Yep. It's a coping mechanism."

  "I learned you're a hero. Won an award."