Power Play- America's Fate

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Although he had a newly issued satellite phone, courtesy of Ryan Andrews, he had no way of contacting the sheriff to warn him about the impending tsunami of horns and hooves.

  It’s going to be like the running of the bulls in Pamplona, Kyle thought. District residents are about to be blindsided.

  4

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  GENERAL VLADISLAV VOLKOV had scheduled this trip to Washington long before Aaron Burr’s assassination. He had planned to congratulate Dmitry on the completion of a glorious mission, one that would’ve ensured his son a prestigious place within history books. Dmitry had been positioned to execute General Sun and acting President Burr within a six-hour time frame, decapitating the corruption that infested the American and Chinese command structures.

  The general was still reeling from the reversal of fortune. His son had been killed by Bradley Webber. Not a SEAL, not a member of Delta Force, but a grunt in a hastily thrown together branch of the U.S. military known as the TEradS.

  His driver steered the stolen peacekeeper truck into a warehouse just outside the district. Sunshine spilled from skylights, illuminating a steel cargo container, and the men guarding it snapped to attention as he exited the vehicle.

  For more than an hour, the beneficiary of this meeting had been sitting alone inside a small room which served as a Faraday cage. The walls were layered with copper and plywood; no signals could penetrate; no vibrations could be monitored via lasers. Stark-white paint and fluorescent lighting made the space uncomfortably bright, an ambience contrived to keep his counterpart on edge. The man had been stripped of weapons and searched for recording devices, a degrading experience for the former commander of the United World relief effort.

  “General Sun,” Volkov said, entering the chamber. Both men shook hands as the door clunked shut then sat down. Volkov’s probing eyes constantly assessed his opponent’s demeanor and body language. There was a slight slouch to Sun’s posture. Dark patches underscored his brown eyes, indicative of a lack of sleep; and his colorless lips were drawn into a determined pout, a feeble attempt at projecting strength.

  “My sympathies on the loss of Shanghai and Beijing.” Volkov’s comment provoked two micro-expressions: anger followed by shame. “I appreciate your situation, General, which is why I have requested this meeting. The United World Assembly has betrayed you—”

  “Ames’ contract on my life was an unsanctioned, personal grudge.”

  “Is that what they’re telling you?” Volkov chuckled. “General, we both know the Chinese Century is dead. Your nuclear missiles have rained down over your Motherland; your biological weapons have been wrested from your control; your naval fleet lies at the bottom of the Pacific. You no longer possess air superiority over your own airspace; and your nation is descending into civil war. There will be no resupply of weapons or soldiers. There will be no extraction, leaving you and your men in an unenviable position. Surrender like cowards? Or be hunted down like dogs?”

  Sun’s facial expression remained neutral, but his skin tone flushed. The muscles in his throat were strumming like guitar strings. “You are wasting my time.”

  “Then, of course, there’s your most recent failure. What a pity that Burr’s assassin is still alive. But I give you credit for seeing through the American lies. Natasha Badenov is a work of fiction, a composite name derived from another work of fiction: The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, a children’s cartoon about a moose and a squirrel.”

  “You have two minutes to divulge the purpose of this meeting—”

  “You will leave, when I allow you to leave ... If ... I allow you to leave.”

  The flush of color in Sun’s complexion drained away. Beads of sweat formed across his forehead. “What do you want, Volkov?”

  “I was merely defining your situation so that you could better appreciate my generous offer. I will provide sanctuary for you and your comrades in exchange for your cooperation.”

  Sun straightened in his chair, sensing—incorrectly—that he was now in a position of power. “What type of cooperation?”

  “Under your command, you have 100,000 workers—electricians, plumbers, and truck drivers—men whose skills could create ‘sanctuary zones’ within each district. Areas where Chinese workers and soldiers could join with my forces in attacking our common enemy.”

  Sun pitched forward, emphasizing his perceived shift from defense to offense. “I have 300,000 under my command. What can a mere handful of Spetsnaz possibly contribute?”

  “Do not underestimate the value of an ally with communications, intelligence capabilities, and supply lines.” Volkov hesitated, deliberately concealing his exuberance over the prospect of co-opting the stateside People’s Liberation Army. “Instruct your workers and soldiers to take orders directly from me.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Without my help, your fight will be brief. You will run out of food, fuel, and ammunition within days. And you—personally—top the TEradS most wanted list. If you do not wish to die on American soil, General, you will accept my conditions.”

  5

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  THE SKULKING FIGURE saw the two Military Policemen long before they spotted him.

  He strode confidently toward them, hands swinging at his sides with the disciplined gait of a soldier.

  The MPs fixed him with a curious stare then resumed their conversation. Both men threw frequent glances beyond the base perimeter, presumably more concerned with incoming sniper fire than his presence.

  The night song of insects was blaring like an alarm. Cool air grazed the film of sweat coating his face, and his skin seemed to tingle with anticipation. Closing within ten feet, his pulse quickened.

  He felt the MPs’ eyes settle on his name and rank insignia, then they saluted their superior officer.

  The taller one said, “Good-evening, Captain.”

  He offered a curt salute of recognition and continued past them, careful not to make any memorable gestures.

  Although the outer door of the barracks was locked, it posed no challenge to a man with his skill set. With a pick and tension tool, he manipulated the tumblers into the desired position and slinked inside unnoticed.

  A shadowy stairwell led to a second-floor hallway, institutional-green walls with a gray tiled floor. He crept toward room 215 and gained entry in less than a minute.

  Scraping, raspy sounds grew louder as the door glided open.

  Illuminated by a dim shaft of light seeping in from the hall, he saw a man lying on his stomach, a pillow over his head to drown out his roommate’s snoring.

  The human chainsaw was on the opposite side of the room, sprawled on his back, mouth open, eyes shifting rapidly beneath closed lids.

  The intruder eased the door shut. His glance volleyed between the slumbering men; then eager to get started, he stowed his lock-picking tools and prepared to leave his calling card.

  TIDBIT # 1

  Suicide was deliberately woven into this story to draw attention to a tragic truth: as many as twenty-two American Veterans are choosing to end their lives every day.

  Chapter 3

  ><>< DAY 459 ><><

  Thursday, May 19th

  6

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  HEAVY EYED, RYAN Andrews stumbled out of bed and made his way to the shower. There was no point in letting it run. The water would not be getting any warmer. He stepped inside, wincing at the temperature and the traumatic day ahead.

  Today was Sybil’s sixteenth birthday, which meant she would be reporting to Basic Training that afternoon. At Ryan’s request, the base commander had arranged for Sybil to be drafted into the Air Force, whose Basic Training facilities just happened to be here—at Langden; but any comfort afforded by that proximity had been negated by Izzy’s death.

  A cruel turn of fate was assaulting his new wife, forcing her to bury a son and say good-bye to a daughter—all within seventy-two hours. The thoug
ht intensified the powerlessness boiling inside Ryan.

  What good am I? he asked himself. I can’t protect anyone ... from anything.

  He turned his face into the chilly spray; then feeling a hand on his backside, he flinched. Ryan spun around, blinking at Franny. “You scared the hell out of me!”

  “I’ll make it up to you,” she said, pressing her naked body against the length of his.

  Ryan’s mouth closed over hers. He pushed her backward against the shower wall, thoughts of making love pulsating through his veins.

  “Major Andrews?”

  Sybil’s frenzied voice wafted through the bathroom door.

  Trying to mask his irritation, he shouted, “Yeah?”

  “Sergeant Fowler is here. He says there’s an emergency at the barracks.”

  Ryan gazed into Franny’s turquoise eyes, offering a silent apology.

  “It’s okay,” she said, kissing his cheek. “I’ll be here when you get back ... Waiting.”

  “I love you. You know that?” He flung open the shower door and said, “Sybil, tell him I’ll meet him there in five minutes.”

  He dressed quickly, contemplating the typical disturbances—fistfights, inebriation, AWOL Soldiers—then he made his way through the hallway.

  Sybil was sitting at the edge of the sofa bed in the living room.

  “How are you, Birthday Girl?” He flopped down beside her to pull on his shoes.

  “Been better,” she said with a prolonged sigh. “Major Andrews ... I’m sorry for what I said the other day ... about your promise and all ... I know you did everything you could to protect Izzy and me.”

  Ryan felt the acid in his stomach rumble, an unholy alliance of angst, regret, and hunger. “I’m sorry it wasn’t enough.” Anxious to change the subject, he added, “You know, you never told me what you want for your birthday.”

  She glanced toward the empty space beside her, where Izzy used to sleep, and the sadness in her eyes made his stomach blaze hotter. “Will you sign that permission form when I report for Basic today?”

  He exhaled in an audible hiss. Post-EMP, sixteen- and seventeen-year-old draftees were assigned clerical duties, and were not combat eligible without the legal consent of a parent or guardian.

  “Why don’t we talk about that after you’ve graduated from boot camp,” he said, knowing there was no way he would ever sign it, not after witnessing the hell Kyle had endured with Abby on the front line.

  “But I really want to fight the peacekeepers.”

  Ryan draped an arm around her in a fatherly hug and said, “Kiddo, you’ve been fighting them all along. Tell Franny I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  He hurried out the door, mentally shifting from the emotions and responsibilities of a husband and father to his duties as a TEradS commander.

  It was a cloudless day. Flowers were in bloom, birds were trilling, yet Ryan scarcely noticed. His attention was riveted on the barracks, still devoid of emergency vehicles, a sign that engendered relief and resentment.

  If this could’ve waited fifteen minutes, the Fowler will regret it.

  “What’s the emergency?” he asked the Sergeant, who was perched at the main entrance. The man looked deathly pale.

  “Follow me, sir.”

  Ryan entered the building and trekked into the stairwell, taking the steps three at a time. He was surprised to find the second-floor hallway empty. No medical personnel, no MPs, not even any TEradS members who resided on the floor.

  Fowler pushed open the door to room 215 and slumped down onto the edge of his bed. Hands tented over his mouth, elbows resting on his thighs, he stared blankly across the room. Ryan stepped inside, head swiveling to trace the Sergeant’s line of sight.

  His mouth dropped open.

  Motherfucker!

  Staff Sergeant Gallagher lay on his back, throat slashed from ear to ear. Blood-saturated clothing and bedding gave the room a sickly, metallic odor.

  “I—I didn’t hear a thing,” Fowler stammered. “I had ear plugs in ... because he snores ... And I woke up to this ... He was already gone, so I decided to get you before calling the MPs, sir.”

  Stunned and shaken, Ryan bowed his head. He had known Gallagher for eight months. The Staff Sergeant was a good man, an amazing field medic, and an outstanding Soldier—dead at twenty-four, his only mistake falling asleep on a “secured” Air Force Base.

  Ryan edged closer, squinting at something white visible inside the slain Soldier’s open mouth.

  Reverently, he removed the item.

  A folded piece of paper?

  A message from the murderer?

  Captain’s bars affixed Dominick Defina’s name tag to the paper, and Ryan grimaced. His eyes clenched, shutting out the gruesome reality while the name Volkov shrieked through his head.

  Did Defina disclose security procedures?

  Did his ID enable the killer to waltz into Langden above suspicion?

  Beneath the name tag, Ryan found a handwritten set of coordinates and a note.

  Major Andrews and the object of trade. 1300 hours.

  7

  Yunnan Province, China

  YUNXU stood on the balcony of a nineteenth-floor apartment. He was in his twenties, the son of a construction worker who had built this grand city. Architectural wonders spanned the horizon, a world-class university, a 5,000-acre mall with parking garages, tracts of town houses, and a forest of skyscrapers packed with plush apartments, like the one Yunxu now occupied—one his father could never afford.

  Anger tightened the set of his jaw, his fists clamped onto to the wet railing, and wind-driven rain splattered against his face, mingling with his tears. He wished the storm could wash away the memories of all he had lost. At age nine, the only home he had ever known was stripped from him. His family, along with eighteen thousand others, had been compelled to vacate, taking with them only what they could carry. They had been bulldozed off their property like a layer of trash, forced to build makeshift shelters from refuse carried along the river. Fragments from pallets, tires, fallen trees—nothing was too old or filthy to be repurposed.

  The Chinese Communist Party had swept away Yunxu’s entire world to make room for this majestic city, still vacant a decade after its completion. Buildings had begun decaying from neglect. Weeds and plants were encroaching, reclaiming the land; and once news of the meteors reached Yunnan Province, Yunxu had followed suit. Remaining government officials were too busy battling each other to notice that he had commandeered this apartment.

  Initially, he had chosen a suite on the third floor, but as the heavy rains persisted, the muddy-brown Yangtze River had overrun its banks, inundating the area as if intent on drowning the “ghost city.”

  The rain intensified, enshrouding the surrounding mountains in a fuzzy gray haze. The sound of the downpour buzzed and gurgled as huge droplets hammered cement and slapped sprawling floodwaters.

  When will this rain stop? he thought.

  Before Yunxu abandoned his shantytown, he had heard rumors that the nearly month-long storm was being bolstered and steered by the United States, another secret weapon like the meteors that vaporized two of China’s great cities.

  Why are the cowardly Americans attacking the poor people of Yunnan? he asked himself. Surely, this is a war crime.

  His gaze dropped straight down. The river level had risen to the fourth floor, and the current accelerated as it channeled between buildings. He heard a strange sequence of noises. Crunching and splashing and tearing peppered with a few random dull thunks.

  He squinted through the rain, watching a town house float past. A corner smacked into a skyscraper identical to his own, ripping a chunk from the structure and littering the water with two-by-fours, insulation, and miscellaneous debris. The building’s stubby, insufficient concrete footings drifted along the current, pointed upward, exposing their damning secret. They had been packed with Styrofoam and plastic trash, a cost-saving measure designed to minimize the volume of cement, a
nd maximize profits—all at the expense of structural integrity.

  Yunxu’s father had told of such shoddy workmanship, of apartment buildings keeling over, of bridges crumbling like parched earth. “A symptom of capitalism,” he’d said. “A selfish temptation you must resist.”

  A second dwelling glided along the rushing water and slammed headlong into his building, sending a tremor upward through the structure. Within minutes, the river was speckled with bobbing and spinning town houses. Like a barrage of floating mines, they assaulted the apartment complex.

  Surging waters scoured the soil at their foundations; collisions gnawed away at their resilience.

  I have to get out of here.

  The clamor of Yunxu’s heartbeat eclipsed the roar of the rain.

  If the current doesn’t drown me, the debris will batter me to dea—

  His thought fractured; he sucked in a sharp breath.

  The building across from him was leaning to the left. In slow motion, it tipped, creating an eerie sucking sound. The smell of mud filled the air; and as the skyscraper canted beyond forty-five degrees, it smashed into an adjacent structure. Dumbfounded, Yunxu watched as building after building tumbled, like a set of giant dominos. Then he felt his own apartment begin the ominous lurch to the left.

  8

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  BRADLEY WEBBER STILL couldn’t believe it. A Russian had penetrated the base, infiltrated the barracks, and slit the throat of a TEradS Soldier while he slept.

  Meeting Ryan’s steely gaze, he said, “Was Gallagher just a random target?”

  “Unclear. MPs are handling the investigation. I told them I had no knowledge regarding the ‘object of trade,’ and implied the information died along with Major Rodriguez.”