Andrews is right, he thought. An investigation is likely to uncover my damning secrets.
“Point taken, Major,” Quenten said, grinding the words between porcelain-capped teeth.
The vaultlike door to the office hissed then swung open. Carter Sidney entered the room, and after an exchange of greetings, his newly appointed Vice President settled at the conference table. The former secretary of state was a temperamental pantsuit princess whose facelift procedures were rumored to exceed her age. Despite being inherently “unlikable” and touting core values that changed even more frequently than her hairstyle, the blonde, blue-eyed banshee was politically powerful and connected.
Silently cursing himself for buckling under pressure, Quenten proffered a feigned smile. “Mr. Chairman, would you care to begin?”
Jonathan nodded and rose from his chair. “Domestically, this video has provoked protests outside POW facilities in all ten districts. The carnage has abruptly halted the surrender of Chinese nationals, and protestors are vowing to protect them—from us. Intelligence reports suggest they are being secreted away into areas deemed ‘sanctuary zones’ that range from single residences to entire neighborhoods. Given that these sites lie within striking distance of our districts and that Chinese workers have begun restoring electric and running water, these zones will likely become de facto forward operating bases for the People’s Liberation Army. Which means these protestors, knowingly or not, are aiding and abetting the enemy—”
“And what do you suggest?” Sidney demanded. “We round them up and shoot them for treason? That would play right into the propaganda.”
“I would be happy to make a recommendation, provided you stop interrupting ...”
Quenten grimaced at his brother’s rudeness. Unlike most people, Jonathan fearlessly defied the extralegal political power wielded by Carter Sidney.
“... I believe prompt, aggressive action is required. Overwhelming force will ensure that the duration of the conflict will be brief, and ultimately save lives. In the words of William Tecumseh Sherman, ‘War is cruelty. There is no use trying to reform it. The crueler it is, the sooner it will be over.’ ”
A horrified expression wafted over Sidney’s face. “Sounds like you’re advocating for another POW massacre, Mr. Chairman.”
Jonathan bristled, but refused to dignify the remark with a response. “As for the rules of engagement, Major Andrews and I are requesting the latitude to engage any armed target that poses a threat.”
Without commenting, Quenten directed his eyes toward his Vice President, nonverbally soliciting her opinion.
“The General’s recommendations are too heavy-handed,” Sidney began. “The Chinese nationals on our soil understand that the Communist Party will not be extracting them. We need to leverage the prospect of ‘going home’ to negotiate an official surrender—”
“General Sun already refused the President’s surrender terms,” Major Andrews said.
Sidney glanced at Quenten, her lips twisting into an annoyed pout. “Is the Major’s presence really necessary at this meeting?”
“Absolutely,” Jonathan answered on Andrews’ behalf. “As commander of the TEradS, he’s the one tasked with resolving this issue.”
“Please continue, Carter,” Quenten said, trying to soothe her indignation.
“We don’t have to deal with the insolent General Sun. We can negotiate with each ‘sanctuary zone’ on a case-by-case basis. The Chinese workers pose no threat, and frankly, their skills will be invaluable when it comes to restoring power and essential services to the vast regions beyond the districts. Perhaps we offer them a pathway to citizenship. After all, we have lost a large portion of our population. And the only way to effectively prosecute a war is to win over hearts and minds. We need to demonstrate tolerance toward these ‘sanctuary zones.’ Provide them with the food, water, and medications earmarked for the POW camps—necessities that prisoners of war are entitled to under the Geneva Convention ...”
Despite efforts to maintain a neutral expression, Quenten caught himself smiling. Sidney’s suggestion was a perfect antidote for the global onslaught of anti-American sentiment—a policy that just might appease his most demanding donors.
“... Once we have exhibited sufficient goodwill,” Sidney was saying. “Which would naturally include an extension of blanket amnesty for all breaches of U.S. law and a promise of immunity from war crimes charges—”
“Are you kidding me?” Major Andrews blurted. “They fu-u—funded and orchestrated the electromagnetic pulse. They attacked us with two biological weapons. One of which is only contained, not neutralized.”
“I’m aware, Major,” Sidney said, her tone rife with condemnation and condescension. “But if peace is our objective, we must provide incentives for peace. Not war. Under my plan, the rules of engagement will prohibit the TEradS from firing until fired upon.”
“Frankly, Mr. President,” Jonathan said, “those ROEs will demoralize our troops. And this isn’t some action halfway around the world. Americans will witness the consequences—firsthand. Need I remind you that questions spawn inquiries, and that inquiries can dredge up sensitive details?”
Registering the threat, Quenten’s teeth ground together. Blackmailed by the powers that be, pressured by my own brother ... I have no choice, he decided. I have to play along with Jonathan until I’ve cleaned up my mess.
“Carter, as much as I applaud your empathetic approach,” Quenten began, “presently, it would create a political optics problem. Major Andrews, I caution you to exert minimal force when you shut down those ‘sanctuary zones.’ ”
Chapter 5
><>< DAY 461 ><><
Saturday, May 21st
17
North of Edgar Air Force Base
District Nine, California
SERGEANT ABIGAIL WEBBER stepped out of the Humvee into the torrential downpour. Water streamed from her helmet like a curtain of icicles, and the incessant thump muffled all other sounds. Providing overwatch under these conditions would be a nightmare—poor visibility, inconsistent wind gusts pushing the bullet off course, not to mention the downward pressure of raindrops that would diminish her effective range.
Ordinarily, this op would have been delayed until the weather improved; but after forty-one consecutive days of rain, Captain Fitzgerald green-lighted the mission, trading the luxury of air support for the element of surprise.
Abby was just grateful to escape the depressing confines of her apartment. For the first time since her arrival, she’d managed to dispel an almost smothering sense of sadness, a palpable doom and hopelessness that penetrated even deeper than the perpetual dampness. Sixteen Airmen had committed suicide yesterday, Pilots and Mechanics, Military Police and Air Traffic Control Specialists, males and females—no demographic was immune. Was that the reason John Cozart was constantly scrutinizing her?
Abby chased away the thought as her team moved out on foot. The land was hilly, dotted with scrub barely waist high, not ideal for concealment. Wild brown grasses carpeted the slopes, dead from lack of sunlight; and in the steepest sections, patches of exposed mud marked the areas where the hillside had given way, scarring the landscape.
Sergeant Lahey, their agile point man, stepped over a river of water that was gushing along the edge of the road and abruptly sank knee-deep into the mud. After weeks of relentless precipitation, the soil was like quicksand, impassable for heavy Soldiers loaded down with gear.
Cozart latched onto Lahey’s arm and pulled, grunting and cursing, locked in a stalemate, a tug-of-war between man and nature. Toomey and Stein joined in, lifting and yanking until Lahey’s foot finally pulled free. His boot, however, remained in hostile territory; and Abby watched the liquefied earth pour into the boot, swallowing it. If this had happened during training, she would’ve been laughing; today, it underscored the unforeseen perils of operating in these conditions.
Cozart jogged toward the National Guard checkpoint. The reserve forc
e stood poised to watch the TEradS’ back and assume custody of Chinese nationals—whether alive or deceased—and transport them to the POW facility adjacent to Edgar Air Force Base. “Hey! Any of you guys wear a size ...” Cozart glanced toward Lahey and the Sergeant completed the sentence. “A size twelve boot?”
A frowning Corporal knelt to unlace his shoes then tossed them to Cozart.
“We have to stick to the road,” the team leader announced via tactical headset, and within minutes, they were back underway.
Rain cascaded from Abby’s water-repellent poncho, but she still felt uncomfortably wet. Trapped body heat, combined with a hundred percent humidity, made her battle dress uniform feel damp and heavy as she trudged up the steep hill. With the elevation change, a smattering of scrawny trees studded the brush and eventually yielded to a crown of widely dispersed pines.
The TEradS’ target was an exclusive residential community comprised of one model home, completed just prior to the electromagnetic pulse. Palo Ridge was an ideal location for a “sanctuary zone,” a tactical high ground with a single access road and a view that extended for miles.
At least the miserable weather is working to our advantage, Abby thought. The Chinese will never see us coming through this cloudburst.
“The gated entrance is just around the bend,” Cozart said, eyes settling on Abby. “Webber, drop all nonessential gear and try to get some elevation to cover our approach.”
She ditched her backpack and secured her rifle against her back; then, wary of getting mired in the mud, she crawled forward on forearms and shins, adopting the sliding motion of a cross-country skier. The heavy dank smell of earth was overpowering, and as the terrain steepened, the snippets of grass beneath her began to give way. Abby eased onto her stomach, arms and legs spread to distribute her weight over a wider area, then she continued her advance, part skull dragging, part swimming up the muddy hillside.
Slowly, she maneuvered into a viable position. The front half of her body was caked with mud, but her rifle had avoided the mess, and Abby peeled off her filthy tactical gloves before touching her gun. A hood around her scope preserved the miniscule level of visibility, and she zeroed in on the barrier.
At the gated entrance, still a quarter mile from their target, two peacekeeper pickup trucks stretched across the road, tailgates aligned back to back, like bookends holding a stone guardhouse in place. Spans of plywood rested against the vehicles, warped shields that doubled as a spray-painted manifesto.
This sanctuary zone is protected by the Constitution.
No warrantless search and seizure!
TEradS lied. POWs died.
Abby surveyed the guardhouse while calculations bustled through her mind, ballistic adjustments for elevation, windage, temperature, and the impact of the rain. Then she activated her tactical headset and relayed a detailed description of the barrier. “We’ve got two unmanned pickups blocking the road, and four Caucasian women inside the stone structure. No visible weapons, but they’ve all got Chi-phones.”
“To trigger IEDs?” Lahey asked.
“Doubtful,” Captain Fitzgerald said. “There are no functional towers in the area.” He was monitoring this op from headquarters back at Langden, and the team fell silent, awaiting his orders. This situation was a murky gray area within the rules of engagement. Although the women did not appear to pose a threat, they could have concealed weapons, or they could tip off the enemy holed up inside the “sanctuary zone,” spoiling the element of surprise and endangering the TEradS.
Fitzgerald’s voice was barely audible above the drum of the rain. “Detain them until the operation concludes. And be sure to do it with as little force as possible.”
Rifles drawn, the TEradS advanced swiftly, barking orders at the women. One by one, they emerged, wielding Chi-phones as if they were kryptonite that could cripple the Soldiers.
The woman wearing a hot-pink raincoat shouted, “The whole world is watching!”
They’re using the phones as video cameras, Abby decided.
Despite an excessive amount of shrieking, the Chi-phones were seized and all four were taken into custody.
Abby’s scope pivoted toward their target, a stone, single-family home with a bank of French doors overlooking a massive patio.
“There’s light emanating from the first floor,” she told her team. “I can make out shadows moving across the wall of glass, but the downpour is blurring the image to the point of uselessness.”
Disappointed with the meager intel, Cozart ordered her to return.
Abby rolled onto her backside and let the rain sweep the mud from the butt stock of her rifle; then she descended the hill on her derriere as if the slimy slope were a giant sliding board.
By the time she’d reached the road, her chest and thighs had been rinsed clean and her backside was plastered with mud.
Above the protestors’ incessant refrain, a grinning Lahey said, “Geez, Webber. I didn’t expect you to shit yourself until after the firefight started.”
Abby met his gaze, concluding the barb was good-natured rather than malicious, and flipped him off. “At least I still have both my boots.”
Seemingly perturbed over being ignored, the female captives boosted their chant into an earsplitting screech. “War crimes ... are not fine ... ! Chinese ... lives ... matter!”
The TEradS had cuffed the prisoners’ hands behind their backs and bound them in pairs so that if they attempted to escape, one of them would have to run backward without tripping over the other’s feet.
I wish we had gags to shut them up, Abby thought.
“Toomey,” Cozart said, speaking to Team 9B’s Sniper. “Set up overwatch at the guardhouse. Webber, escort the ladies down to the National Guard checkpoint. The rest of you are with me.”
Abby’s jaw locked, imprisoning her protests over being tasked with babysitting duty.
Is it because I’m the new guy? Or because I’m a woman?
18
North of Edgar Air Force Base
District Nine, California
YORK ROBERTS WRANG OUT the saturated towel and blotted his water-streaked monitor.
Rain continued to drip from the high-tech mesh draped over him and his ruggedized laptop, and he grumbled, “Millions of pounds spent on camouflage fabric and it’s not even waterproof.”
York readjusted the antenna just outside his high-tech tent then studied the camera feeds that divided his computer screen into quadrants. Two displayed the grand foyer inside the house, now declared a “sanctuary zone.” Six American hostages, women and children, were huddled on the floor between a pair of curved staircases fringed with intricate wrought iron railings. From the second-floor balcony, a former peacekeeper kept watch, weapon in one hand, a short-range walkie-talkie in the other.
Annoyed that the Chinamen seemed incapable of following even the simplest instructions, York squeezed the press-to-talk button on his walkie-talkie and said, “Minsheng, where is your comrade?”
“Restroom,” came the crackling reply. “Be right back.”
He sighed, uncomfortable with depending on peacekeepers, but his handler was making all the tactical decisions. The bastard valued the input of paramilitary operators above York’s expertise: implementing psychological campaigns that manipulated an enemy’s state of mind, thereby weakening and degrading the foe without firing a shot.
A third camera was mounted on the front porch, and he used the keyboard to direct the lens away from the door. He focused on the distant guardhouse, barely discernible through the heavy rain then switched to an infrared image. The protestors were gone, replaced by a TEradS Sniper. Four additional Soldiers were advancing toward the front of the dwelling. Via the fourth camera stationed on the back patio, he detected another squad closing on the rear of the house.
Maximizing an instant-messaging window, York thought, I’d better alert Hellhound. His commander was a psychopath who both fascinated and terrified him. Hellhound didn’t merely kill those wh
o crossed him; he tortured his enemies using a devastating combination of physical and psychological weapons. According to rumor, the obsessive sadist actually mapped out and analyzed the social networks of his prey in order to victimize family, friends, and associates. It was not enough for him to merely kill his enemy; he yearned to break them, to turn strong, proud men into sniveling puddles, begging for their lives to end.
This job is a slow-motion death sentence, York decided. Because sooner or later an op will go awry ... hopefully, not today.
His instant message read, “TEradS raiding ‘sanctuary zone.’ Proceeding w/ plan A.”
York repositioned all four cameras and gripped the walkie-talkie, aware that timing would be critical.
He watched the TEradS Soldiers move into position, preparing to breach the front and back doors simultaneously, then speaking into the walkie-talkie, he said, “Minsheng, get ready!”
19
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
AS COMMANDER OF THE TEradS, Ryan Andrews was supposed to be stationed at Ansley Air Force Base in Washington, a sticking point that had initially prompted him to turn down the position. General Jonathan Quenten had ultimately acquiesced to his demand and authorized the consolidation of TEradS East and West into one operations center, headquartered here, in Texas.
Following the videoconference with the President, Ryan had another crop of reasons to appreciate being stationed at Langden, more than a thousand miles from the epicenter of politics.
I can’t believe I made it through that meeting without getting myself court-martialed, he thought.
Memories of the Commander in Chief’s lack of loyalty set off another flurry of resentment inside him.
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