Head shaking, Bradley glanced at Ryan’s wall of fallen heroes then resumed pacing the office. “This is my fault. I pissed off Volkov, and Gallagher paid the price ... It doesn’t make sense ... Why didn’t the assassin slash my throat?”
In response to the question, Bradley felt a chill radiate outward from his chest, leaving behind a disturbing awareness. “Maybe this is personal,” he said, voice choked with culpability. “Defina was my commanding officer; Gallagher was my roommate during TEradS training.”
“Just a coincidence. After all, you’ve trained or served with most guys in the TEradS.”
Ryan was downplaying the connection, behaving evasively, and Bradley sensed that his friend was withholding information. The tension in his chest heightened; and suddenly, he wished that he’d never proposed to Abby, that she hadn’t enlisted under the surname Webber. Would the vengeful Russian general go after her? The possibility mutated into a toxic, emotional acid.
A strained silence lingered, both men lost in thought until Bradley said, “Okay, what’s the plan?”
Ryan pecked at the computer keyboard on his desk. “I’m still trying to acquire surveillance on those coordinates. We are not marching into another ambush.”
“With all due respect, maybe you should make the trade, sir. Hand me over to Volkov before anyone else ends up captured or dead.”
Ryan stared at him as if assessing his mental stability, undoubtedly recalling previous episodes when he had strayed beyond the bounds of sane behavior.
“Master Sergeant, I do not hand over my Soldiers to the enemy. Period. Dis-missed!”
Reluctantly, Bradley did an about-face, and left the office.
If Ryan won’t put a stop to this madness, he thought, I will.
9
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
FRANNY ANDREWS hugged Sybil one last time then watched her walk through the gate.
“She’ll be fine,” Ryan whispered, wrapping an arm around her. “A few weeks of boot camp and Colonel Gardner will have her clerking in his office—the safest damn place on base.”
Despite his warm smile, Franny noted the grief flickering in his honey-brown eyes. She could feel the stress in his muscular arms.
He’s still blaming himself for Izzy’s death, she decided, an indictment only he could expunge.
They walked silently, arm in arm back to their apartment, which felt cavernous and empty thanks to the children’s absence.
How did I grow so attached in such a short time? she asked herself. An accumulation of motherly love since Sierra died? Or was there such a thing as parental love at first sight?
Stubbornly, Franny forced the depressing thoughts from her mind.
“Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?” she asked, suggestively tugging at his shirttails. “Oh yeah, naked in the shower.”
Ryan clasped her wrists, gently restraining her. “I wish I had time,” he said, words trailing into a frustrated sigh. “I have to get back to the ops center.”
“But you can’t launch any missions against the Chinese; the grace period hasn’t expired. And what happened to our three-day honeymoon?”
“The bullet through the church window pretty much shattered that.”
“But the shooter is dead—”
“And the man who issued the order isn’t.” His voice took on an impatient edge and he was avoiding eye contact. “Listen Franny, the next week is going to be crazy ... so it would be best for you to spend a few days in District Six with Jessie and Kyle. Instead of hanging out here all by yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Didn’t we just get married so that I could stay here? With you? At Langden?”
When he refused to answer, the voices of doubt and insecurity inside her were eager to speak for him.
Our wedding was an impulsive decision. I’m experiencing buyer’s remorse.
This was a mistake. I don’t want to be married.
Now that Izzy’s gone and Sybil’s off to boot camp, there’s nothing left to bind us.
“Ryan, say something.”
“I’m sorry about postponing our honeymoon. And to be honest, I don’t see one materializing in the foreseeable future. I even had to rescind the ten-day leave I promised Abby and Bradley after the black op.”
“I’m okay with you being busy,” she told him. “As long as you’re lying in bed beside me each night.”
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I arranged for Fowler to drive you to District Six. He’ll be here any minute.”
“I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are!”
“You are not my commanding officer! And I don’t take orders!”
Emotion lit in his eyes, one she couldn’t quite decipher. Was that Anger? Or fear?
Wrenching open the door, he said, “I don’t have time for this.”
She followed him outside and watched him march toward TEradS Headquarters, feeling annoyed, disappointed, and lonely. His last statement echoed through her; but in Franny’s mind it replayed as, “I don’t have time for you.”
10
District Six, Texas
JULIAN RAMIREZ had joined the National Guard six months before the electromagnetic pulse; and since then, he had been traveling between Districts Six and Seven. He had grown weary of driving within the convoy, tired of the blockades, the potshots, and the full-blown ambushes. Transporting food, water, and ammunition was a dangerous business, one that had grown even more deadly following Aaron Burr’s assassination. Not only were they contending with an occasional jihadist cell and droves of starving Americans, now Chinese workers were conducting raids. Julian suspected most of them were soldiers who had swapped their uniforms for civilian clothing, yet another reason why he had applied for this new position.
He was now a security guard at a prisoner of war camp formerly known as the Eastbend Correctional Facility. Julian walked the subdued halls of cellblock C, the only one currently in use, while sharpshooters manned the perimeter towers and office personnel processed the dribbling influx of Chinese nationals.
Prisoners were well fed and treated with respect, which contributed to their docile demeanor. Many passed the hours reading, some had constructed decks of playing cards from scraps of paper, and two had even devised a chess game.
“Enjoy the peace while it lasts,” his commanding officer had told him. “These guys are cooperative because they chose to surrender. Once the TEradS teams start rounding up the ornery ones, this place will become dangerous overnight.”
Julian suspected the man was correct, but the inmates would still be unarmed and locked within cells, not roving the facility at will.
Fifty minutes before shift change, his radio squawked. He’d been summoned to the Captain’s office.
Not another double shift, Julian thought, harkening back to the last time he had received such an invitation.
As he approached the administrative wing, he noticed a gathering of TEradS Soldiers. His brow crinkled, aware that the grace period for surrender hadn’t elapsed. What are they doing here?
“This is Corporal Ramirez,” his Captain told the Soldiers, then he turned back toward Julian. “This TEradS team is here to interview one of our POWs regarding the whereabouts of General Sun. Please bring prisoner twenty-seven to the interrogation room.”
“Yes, sir.” Julian led the way back to cellblock C, unlocked a security door, and stepped aside, allowing the entourage to enter ahead of him. The TEradS proffered polite nods. They were five of the most intimidating men Julian had ever seen, and he smirked, grateful that they were all on the same team.
While the Captain escorted the visitors through the corridor, Julian stopped at the appropriate cell and followed procedure, shackling the prisoner before opening the door.
“What is this?” the inmate asked. “I no break r-raw.”
“The TEradS—they just want to ask you some questions,” Julian reassured him.
The thin, frail-looking man shu
ffled ahead of him, chains clanging against the cement floor. The eyes of other prisoners stalked him, their expressions asking, is this the day the Americans begin torturing us?
The interrogation room was at the end of the cellblock, a cement cube with a thick steel door and a window fitted with bulletproof glass. The Captain had already opened the heavy door, and the prisoner peered inside as if expecting a torture chamber. A relieved smile rippled over his lips, then he shambled inside and took a seat behind a metal table.
Julian reached for the door handle, and a forearm closed around his neck, dragging him backward.
The TEradS team leader already had the Captain in a sleeper hold; another restrained the prisoner; and the remaining two relieved Julian of his keys.
“What the ... he-hell!” he gasped, watching the pair of thieves race into the corridor.
“Relax, Corporal,” a deep voice whispered. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
“Th-th-then ... let me ... breathe.” His words were barely audible, his strength waning from lack of oxygen. He saw the Captain’s legs buckle, and a TEradS Soldier eased his unconscious body onto the floor.
Julian made eye contact with the prisoner, nonverbally conveying an apology.
The Chinaman said, “I just e-r-rectrician. No fight,” and the words seemed to shiver from him.
Why aren’t they choking him? Julian wondered, fighting against the deepening light-headedness. Is this some kind of illegal rendition?
The thieves returned with rifles and handguns from the cellblock armory.
Julian saw the barrel of a handgun swing toward the inmate.
He screamed, “Don’t!” but no sound emanated from his mouth.
A bullet tore through the prisoner’s chest.
Julian’s legs folded, his captor released him, and he gulped in a breath—immediately expelled when his tailbone collided with the floor. Pain pulsed along his spine. Certain he was about to die, he grimaced at the irony.
After surviving all those harrowing ambushes on the road, it’s the cushy assignment that gets me killed.
All five TEradS Soldiers retreated from the interrogation room and slammed the door, locking him inside with the dead prisoner and his unconscious Captain.
Julian struggled to his feet then limped toward the small window. “What the hell?”
His ears registered the gunfire, but he still blinked in disbelief.
The TEradS team was moving cell to cell, shooting unarmed prisoners.
11
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
RYAN ANDREWS SUCKED in a deep breath before entering the TEradS ops center. The emotional exchange with Franny had drained him; and old fears were rearing up, whispering in his mind again.
I told you so. Women flip like a light switch as soon as you marry them.
They become clingy obstacles to everything you want to do.
They suck the life out of you.
He dismissed the thoughts, reminding himself that Franny was not Dina; and that he hadn’t been completely honest with her. He didn’t tell her about Gallagher’s murder, news that would surely scare the hell out of her. He was determined that if Volkov came after him—highly probable given his personal and professional connection to Bradley—Franny would not be the one to find him in a pool of blood. She had suffered enough witnessing the deaths of Sierra and Izzy.
“Corporal Scott, is that drone on station?” he asked.
“No, sir. Still seven minutes out.”
Striding past Captain Fitzgerald, he said, “Get Team 6B geared up and ready to move. And somebody find Master Sergeant Webber. I’ll be in my office until the drone’s in position.”
He keyed the six-digit code and shoved open the door, then lunged toward the ringing landline phone on his desk. “Andrews.”
“Good-afternoon, Major,” Grace Murray said, her cadence upbeat as always. She headed Cyber Command and was one of the few people privy to the black operation that triggered General Volkov’s wrath. “I just received your message. Unfortunately, it’ll be at least a week before I get to Langden. Can I help via phone?”
“I have an enemy hard drive in my possession,” he told her, withholding the details of its acquisition. “It appears to be blank, but the terabyte drive is ninety-eight percent full.”
“Sounds like a phantom partition,” she said. “I’ll e-mail a procedure. If that doesn’t work, I’ll deal with it next week during my scheduled visit to Langden.”
“Any chance you could make it sooner?” he asked. “There have been some ... repercussions from the last project we collaborated on.”
A knowing silence filled the line, then he heard the faint clack of fingers dancing across a keyboard. “I’ve got my hands full at the moment,” Grace told him, “but I’ll do my best.”
Ryan thanked her and ended the call, mentally sifting through his options. Would dispatching Volkov protect Bradley and prevent disclosures regarding the black operation? Would aggressive action end the crisis? Or propel hostilities to a new level?
His head swiveled toward the ops center, and the persistent knocking gave way to Corporal Scott’s deep voice. “Major, the drone is on station.”
He strode toward the door and yanked it open. “I want thermal scans out to a twenty-mile radius.” He massaged his temples feeling like two mountain goats were butting heads within his skull. Time was of the essence for Defina, but the lives of his men were also at stake. If this turned out to be an ambush, the tragedy would extend beyond the loss of one man. An entire team could be wiped out.
Are recent events skewing my judgment? he asked himself. Making me gun-shy ... ? Or is caution the greater part of valor?
Inside the ops center, Ryan’s gaze oscillated between video feeds. On the left monitor, he saw a large expanse of Texas ranchland dissected by a stretch of old power lines. The corresponding thermal image on the right revealed a solitary heat signature, nestled within wild brush just below the crest of a hill. The man was well concealed, only visible because of the body heat he emitted.
“Zoom in on the target.”
As the drone circled, Ryan glimpsed a rifle barrel.
A setup, he decided. Bradley and I would’ve been taken out. Or worse ... taken captive.
“Sir?” Corporal Scott asked tentatively. “The drone Pilot is prepared to dispatch the target on your orders.”
“I need a closer look,” he snapped. “To be sure it’s not some damn hunter trying to feed his family.”
“Wouldn’t hunters be wearing orange, sir?” Scott asked.
“Not post-EMP,” Ryan told him. “These days, wearing orange is tantamount to wearing a bull’s-eye.”
He watched the video feed, his mind jetting, searching for a way to justify a drone strike without exposing TEradS involvement in extralegal assassinations. Although Ryan considered himself to be a contortionist with regulations, his current rules of engagement just couldn’t bend that far.
“We can’t engage him from the air,” Ryan said. “6B will have to swoop in and take him alive.”
Capturing a prisoner was exactly the kind of break he needed. An interrogation could lead to actionable intelligence and Captain Defina.
The drone Pilot redirected the camera toward a fifty-foot steel electrical tower, and Ryan was about to object when a wooden crate came into focus. Hoisted and tied off, dangling twenty feet above the ground, it rocked gently in the breeze.
What the hell’s that? he wondered. An attempt to store food beyond reach of predators? An idiotic attempt at safeguarding valuables? A booby trap?
The drone Pilot zoomed in on the mysterious crate.
Its top had been removed, and Ryan’s hands clenched into fists.
Captain Defina was lying on his back, eyes open, throat slashed.
A white envelope protruded from his mouth.
Volkov must’ve killed him a while ago, Ryan concluded, based on the fact that Defina’s body had failed to register on thermal scans.
Chapter 4
><>< DAY 460 ><><
Friday, May 20th
12
District Ten, Idaho
NANCY HART STARED into the early morning sky. The first hints of sunlight were an hour away, but she could still discern the bizarre wall of clouds that was charging across the landscape.
Southern Idaho had been blessed with moderate temperatures, and the wheat crops had already progressed into stem extension with the first nodes on the stalk clearly visible. The grassy green shoots appeared to shimmer, reflecting moonlight and contrasting against the rich, light-absorbing soil.
Three dozen civilian warriors were encamped along with Nancy, the most trusted members of her “Mini Militia.”
A few weeks earlier, she had led a rebellion at a labor camp, freeing most of them from peacekeeper custody. Then she’d launched a guerilla assault that forced the invaders to flee, ceding control of District Ten to Nancy and her compatriots—a victory that proved to be short-lived.
The peacekeepers had regrouped beyond the borders of civilization and instituted a campaign of sabotage that included arson, theft, and random shootings; behavior that brought Nancy and her platoon here, staging for a predawn raid.
A crackle of lightning rent the sky in a flickering, jagged line that stretched from cloud to earth. A boom of thunder struck simultaneously. The ground trembled; the air buzzed against her skin; and she watched, spellbound as bolt after bolt pelted the area.
The spectacle conjured thoughts of Zeus in the midst of a temper tantrum, hurling a shotgun blast of electrically charged daggers. The smell of ozone hung thick. Clouds writhed overhead. The winds lashed at plants and humans alike, yet no rain was falling.
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