Power Play- America's Fate

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Nancy and her troops scrambled from the cover of a narrow tree line, which served as a windbreak between fields. They trekked toward the district, wary of trampling the fledgling wheat plants—a staple for survival. To the northwest, the storm had set a half-century-old oak tree ablaze; and the wavering glow of orange flames joined the bluish-white flashes, creating a dreamlike scene.

  The strikes continued unabated, spawning fireballs until the entire region was speckled with bouncing orangey blobs of light. The wind-driven blaze was spreading rapidly from tree to tree, like a trail of igniting gunpowder. Flames raged along the perimeter, devouring brush, spitting sparks, and showering the wheat field with glowing embers.

  “The fire’s gonna wipe out the crops!” shouted Jack, a wiry fifty-year-old, who was her second in command.

  “We need a firebreak!” she shouted back above the rumble of flames. Smoke made her eyes tear; acrid particles were like sandpaper against her nasal passages, wearing them raw. “Brian! Vince!” she called out to her youngest and fastest recruits. “Run back to the district and sound the alarm. We need every shovel, rake, and pair of hands we can get to save our crops!”

  13

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR fucking mind?” Ryan punctuated the question with a fist crashing against his desk. He wasn’t sure which part of him was angrier: Bradley’s commanding officer? Or his best friend?

  “You left base—without leave; showed up at Volkov’s coordinates—without my knowledge; and now you stand here—without a trace of remorse?”

  “I was trying to protect my colleagues,” Bradley said in a tone that flirted with disrespect. “I’m the one Volkov wants. Surrendering to him is no different than falling onto a grenade to save my squad.”

  “A grenade you went looking for!” Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose. He had delayed this conversation to allow himself time to calm down, an effort roundly thwarted by Bradley’s obstinate attitude. “Do you realize I could’ve dropped a Hellfire missile on your ass ... ? Your actions were stupid and reckless!”

  “Then tell me, Major. What would you do if TEradS Soldiers were being slaughtered because of you?”

  “They are!” Ryan shouted. “I issued the order that set this entire thing into motion. I’m responsible for Gallagher. And Defina. And Izzy. And the shitty situation you’re in. Honestly, Bradley, I get what you’re going through, but that doesn’t give you license to defy my orders and conjure your own.” He sighed, aware that he couldn’t impose any real punishment. Bradley was smart enough to deduce that court-martial was an empty threat. None of the details about the black operation could ever be disclosed; and that made contending with his insubordination especially troublesome.

  The Sniper continued standing at attention, his angry eyes centered on a spot somewhere above Ryan’s head. “What are you going to do about Volkov?”

  “Effective immediately, I’m transferring you to District Five in Illinois. Captain Canter, your new CO, has been briefed. And security has been stepped up at all bases.”

  “With all due respect,” Bradley said, face flushed. “You didn’t answer my question—about Volkov.”

  The laptop on Ryan’s desk chimed, indicating that he had received a priority e-mail. “Master Sergeant, you will know ... when you need to know ... Dismissed,” he said with a long glare that forbade further discussion.

  His best friend exited, slamming the door behind him, then Ryan opened the e-mail. It was a message from Grace Murray, directing him to a world news link.

  The front-page headline read: TEradS Team Massacres Chinese POWs Ahead of Surrender Deadline.

  Ryan muttered, “What the fuck?”

  A series of amateurish video clips had been masterfully edited into a murderous rampage. Although no faces were discernible, it clearly depicted someone dressed in a TEradS uniform. The camera zoomed in on a prisoner begging for his life, and as if in response, a spray of bullets tore through the man’s body. Blood coated the wall behind him. Garbled screams erupted.

  The killer advanced through a long corridor flanked by steel jail cells. His rifle swung pendulumlike, alternately shooting prisoners on either side of the hall—in cold blood.

  Son of a bitch! The Russians just initiated a propaganda war ... And terminated any chance of 300,000 Chinese nationals surrendering peacefully.

  The video concluded with a full screenshot of the gunman, revealing a gloved hand, the lower receiver of his American-made M4, and the area of his chest that bore the name and rank insignia of Master Sergeant Bradley Webber.

  14

  Shandong Province, China

  HONG HAD SPENT almost a decade of his life on this hog farm. The work was difficult and dirty, the pay insufficient to support himself, let alone a wife or child; but he had long ago dismissed a traditional family as an unrealistic goal. China’s one-child policy, enacted back in 1980 before Hong was born, had produced an imbalance in the ratio of men and women. Because female babies were deemed less desirable, those fetuses were often aborted in hopes of conceiving a son, which led to thirty million males with little prospect of ever taking a Chinese wife.

  Instead, Hong chose to invest all his energy into his career. The ten thousand hogs under his care were his children, nurtured and adored. If this were an ordinary farm, he would have felt dissatisfaction over his station in life; but this facility was special, vital to the security of the Motherland.

  His pigs were among the millions that comprised China’s Strategic Pork Reserve. If the price of the critical commodity rose too rapidly, the Communist Party released hogs into the marketplace to drive down the cost; and if it fell too sharply, they purchased hundreds of thousands of hogs to prop up the price. Created in 2007, the SPR produced benefits beyond price stability. The stockpile, which included live animals as well as frozen stores of meat, provided security for a country dependent on imported pork—nearly 400,000 tons per year—to feed its population of 1.3 billion.

  The facility consisted of rusty metal pavilions, each housing dozens of overcrowded pens. Hogs were packed Tetrislike to maximize the use of space. The watering and feeding systems were antiquated, which made his job more stressful, and he would be held accountable for any scrawny or deceased specimens.

  Hong dumped the last of the feed pellets into the trough, tossed the empty bucket into a plastic drum, and climbed onto an all-terrain vehicle. He exited building seven towing a flatbed trailer made from garbage he’d scavenged from the banks of the Yellow River. Not an ideal setup, but more efficient than lugging feed from the storehouse to the pavilions.

  It was a clear day in the northern provinces of China with temperatures in the sixties, and he abruptly slowed the ATV to a stop. Hong stood, straddling the seat, to better his view to the east.

  What is that fuzzy dark shape?

  A smoky blob slowly materialized through the haze of pollution, a filter that cast the natural world around him in gray tones with soft, indistinct edges. The amorphous shadow bent to the north, soaring higher, then arced back toward the southwest. Horrified, Hong watched the swarm spread outward and dive. Like an airborne, breaking wave, it barreled into the pavilions.

  Snorts and panicked squeals pierced the air. The hogs were stomping and shaking, battering one another, riled by the insects. Hong raced from building to building, manually throwing open the gates, allowing the pigs to escape into the outdoor corrals.

  He had never seen anything like this. In Shandong, many insects were regarded as a food source, which helped keep populations in check. He swatted at the pests with a half-rotten swath of plywood, unable to identify the type of bug. Was it something that deposited larvae and remained dormant for years, awaiting the appropriate conditions?

  For a half hour, the maniacal creatures tormented his herd; then as quickly as they’d descended, the swarm flew off to the west, reconstituting into one massive dark cloud.

  Hong glanced back at the corralled hogs, grateful t
hat the perturbed animals had not breached the fences—an outcome that could have cost him his job.

  15

  District Six, Texas

  DAMAGE ESTIMATES WERE still thrashing through Kyle Murphy’s mind as he rushed to the site of the disturbance. The stampede of longhorn had caused significant property damage—broken fences, trampled gardens, and mounds of steaming fertilizer that made the district unpleasantly fragrant—and thankfully, only four civilians had sustained minor injuries. Capturing and returning the spooked animals to the appropriate corrals had been a tedious, time-consuming task, and a few were still missing.

  Approaching Third Avenue, Kyle paused to assess the scene. Five men and a woman, tethered by chains wound around their necks, were blocking the factory entrance. They had padlocked themselves to the gates, denying workers access to AF-2, a facility that was producing ammunition for the U.S. military.

  Since Kyle didn’t recognize their faces, he assumed they were part of the influx of newcomers that began three days ago. Word had spread about the district’s self-sufficient food production, independent currency, and adamant adherence to the Constitution, drawing migrants from surrounding areas.

  The protestors clutched backpacks and portable billboards fashioned from shovels and patches of drywall.

  Prosecute TEradS war crimes.

  POWs have rights.

  T-raitors

  E-xecuting,

  R-aping,

  A-nd

  D-estroying

  S-ociety.

  Workers reporting for their shifts had lost patience with the “Chain Gang,” and both sides were shouting, pushing, and shoving. Sheriff Turner and his deputies struggled to clear a buffer zone between the angry groups, and Kyle walked directly behind them. “Who’s in charge of this protest?” he asked.

  “I am,” a short man replied. His dirty-blond hair was streaked with gray and pulled into a ponytail. A stubby beard encircled thin, nearly nonexistent lips, and his gray eyes gleamed with passion and tenacity.

  Kyle introduced himself and extended his hand.

  The man stared at it. Micro-expressions of contempt creased the folds of skin around his eyes; then reluctantly, he placed his backpack at his feet and indulged the gesture.

  “I’m Alex Ivans.”

  Harvey Rigby’s voice rang out above the grumble of agitated workers. “Why are you lending legitimacy to a bunch of troublemakers, Governor?”

  “The First Amendment guarantees the right to free assembly,” Kyle shouted. “If I don’t respect his constitutional rights, how can you trust me to respect yours?”

  Ivans’ hand plunged into his backpack.

  The deputies reached for their sidearms, then relaxed when the protestor’s hand reemerged with a Chi-phone.

  “Chill!” Ivans told them. “We’re armed with the most dangerous weapon known to the U.S. military—the truth!”

  He and his cohorts began distributing Chi-phones, tossing them into the crowd of workers.

  “Using a satellite phone,” Ivans continued, “we downloaded a European newscast. Atrocities are being committed at a POW camp just outside Langden Air Force Base. Residents of District Six, open your eyes to the horrors taking place in your own backyard!”

  “What are you talking about?” Kyle asked, noting the man’s cocky smirk.

  “Of course, you haven’t heard. Because the TEradS blew up your district’s cellular tower. They deliberately cut you off from the world, so you wouldn’t discover their genocidal mission. Watch the video! See for yourselves!”

  Kyle peered at the Chi-phone in Sheriff Turner’s hand. The small LCD screen displayed a man in a TEradS uniform who was executing POWs.

  Kyle gasped.

  The killer’s name tag identified him as Master Sergeant Webber.

  Voices were murmuring behind Kyle, a mixture of disbelief and resentment. “That was not a TEradS Soldier. Whoever edited that clip intentionally showed the uniform, but not the face. Why ... ? Because then the video would be exposed for the fraud that it is.”

  Another overconfident smile tweaked Ivans’ mouth. “Naturally, Governor Murphy is going to defend the TEradS. His daughter is a member of the ethnic-cleansing squad. And his son-in-law is the man in that video, executing unarmed men without due process.”

  Kyle tried to snuff out the quick anger rising inside him. “This is all just a well-choreographed lie. Enemy propaganda photoshopped in China to keep their soldiers from surrendering.”

  “Are you part of the cover-up, Governor?”

  Kyle ignored the absurd question. “The only way the enemy can defeat us is to divide us, to turn us against each other and our military.”

  “Your beloved governor is a mere puppet,” Ivans told the workers. “Appointed by none other than Major Rodriguez, former commander of the TEradS. Murphy’s job is to make sure that you don’t see the truth ... that with each bullet you manufacture, you are supporting genocide. There is no neutrality here. Doing nothing in the face of evil ... is ... evil.”

  “You’re full-a shit!” Harvey Rigby bellowed, elbowing his way through the crowd. “I know you just arrived a few days ago, so let me tell you the way it is. The TEradS teams have saved this district from savage terrorists and peacekeeper tyranny!”

  Cheering workers began hurling the Chi-phones at the protestors. They pushed forward, and the deputies labored to hold them back.

  “Look, Alex,” Kyle said, raising his voice above the raucous exchange of vitriol. “I respect your right to protest, but you can’t block the plant entrance. Move off to the side or the sheriff will arrest you.”

  “Sorry, Man. I can’t unlock the chains. I lost the key.”

  “Not a problem,” Kyle told him.

  Sheriff Turner stepped forward toting a pair of bolt cutters and severed the protestors’ connection to the left side of the gate.

  Then Ivans and his cronies began chanting, “War crimes ... are not fine ... ! Chinese ... lives ... matter!”

  16

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  PRESIDENT WILLIAM PATTERSON Quenten was a fit man of average height, more charismatic than handsome, with a crop of thick brown hair and a rounded jaw. His silvery eyes were glaring at Ryan Andrews via videoconference. “Your explanation is entirely unacceptable!”

  “Mister President, I don’t know what else to say,” the Major stated without a hint of emotion, his expression unreadable.

  “I need proof, Major ... to present to the world community,” Quenten railed. “Do you have any idea how many irate phone calls I’ve received? The Europeans are threatening to cut off humanitarian and military aid—which we desperately need. The Chinese have issued a formal letter of protest with the United World Assembly, demanding the formation of a war crimes tribunal. War crimes, Major, on my watch! And as commander of the TEradS, you will be prosecuted right alongside Bradley Webber!”

  Seemingly unruffled, Andrews said, “Master Sergeant Webber did not conduct that execution, sir. It was a setup, most likely orchestrated by PLA soldiers seeking retribution against surrendering comrades as well as the defamation of the Terrorist Eradication Squad.”

  “Major, I need proof! Not your suppositions.”

  Quenten’s brother, Jonathan, acting chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, leaned forward. Sadness and regret had carved deep crevices into his doughy skin, siphoned the life from his hazel eyes, and accelerated the graying, thinning, and receding of his short brown hair. His clasped hands rested on the conference table, thumbs bobbing as if sending an urgent text message. “The Major has provided witness testimony regarding the whereabouts of his teams during that assault—”

  “The assertions of seven military personnel are not going to sway world opinion,” Quenten insisted. “To the contrary, it will lend credibility to the notion of a cover-up.”

  “Is this about world opinion? Or the truth?” The question hung for several seconds, then Jonathan drew in an audible breath. “Mr. President, th
e accused men were on a military base, so it stands to reason that the witnesses are also military personnel.”

  “The truth, Gentlemen, is that your witnesses failed to establish Master Sergeant Webber’s whereabouts at the time of the murders.”

  In an irritating, monotone voice, Andrews responded, “Mr. President, I have provided time-stamped drone footage that verifies his position—”

  “A mere thermal image,” Quenten barked, “of a man whose identity could not be determined via facial recognition.”

  Andrews let out an awkward sounding cough, a suppressed expression of displeasure, then Jonathan said, “The shooter in the news video couldn’t be identified via facial recognition either.”

  Quenten scowled at his brother. “There is other evidence. Armory records indicate that Webber retrieved his rifle two hours prior to the massacre; and shortly thereafter, Captain Fitzgerald described him as ‘missing.’ I have no option but to place Webber on stand-down pending the results of a fact-finding inquiry.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Andrews’ voice boomed from the monitor, “an investigation is likely to dredge up ... sensitive details regarding the Master Sergeant’s recent operations. Details best left undisturbed.”

  A scorching burst of anger surged upward through Quenten’s core and radiated from his face in the form of heat. Scarcely a week ago, acting on unofficial orders, Webber had clandestinely—and illegally—rendered harmless three traitorous members of his cabinet. The Soldier had risked his life to sanitize a political cesspool of Quenten’s creation, but he felt animosity rather than gratitude.