Maybe they didn’t launch the raid yet, she told herself. Maybe I didn’t miss all the action.
A gale-force gust knocked Abby off balance, her gear shifted, and she landed hard on her backside. Pain radiated from her tailbone; and, with gnashed teeth, she scanned the mountaintop, hoping Toomey hadn’t witnessed her clumsiness. To the west, she noted a lodgepole pine leaning at a precarious angle. For a moment, it appeared to defy gravity, then the ripping and snapping of roots eclipsed the drone of the rain.
A second later, the tree landed, and a male voice cried out in pain.
Abby blinked, trying to bring a fuzzy shape into focus.
Is somebody pinned beneath the trunk?
Did Toomey abandon his position at the guardhouse?
Or is that an enemy sniper?
Abby crawled toward a half-dead bush large enough to conceal her body and peered into her scope.
The guy’s dressed in civvies, she thought. Definitely not Toomey.
The man attempted to lift the heavy trunk, and when it refused to budge, he began digging with his hands, excavating the mud beneath his trapped leg.
A laptop was standing on end, perched like an open book. Beside it, a scoped rifle peeked from beneath a hunk of muddy tent fabric, and the rules of engagement tumbled through Abby’s mind. The man was not Asian, his rifle was beyond reach, and he had no visible weapons. What if he’s a vigilante journalist out to bash the TEradS? What if he’s an enemy combatant with a concealed handgun?
Unable to raise the ops center in Texas or her team leader, Abby sighed.
His leg will be free soon; I have to make a decision.
She crept forward, approaching the distracted man from behind, all sound lost to the rain. Her eyes monitored every hesitation, every movement of his muddy hands while simultaneously scrutinizing the perimeter for threats.
He’s no sniper, she decided. Probably not even a soldier given his lack of situational awareness.
Still, she was leery of engaging in hand-to-hand combat with a man twice her weight.
When Abby closed within two yards, he stiffened as if sensing her presence. His worried gaze darted over the hillside, then she rammed the butt stock of her rifle into his head, knocking him unconscious.
Hurriedly, she bound his hands in front of him with flex-cuffs. A trickle of blood was seeping from a swollen gash on the back of his head, but was quickly washed away by the rain. He wasn’t a peacekeeper or a jihadist, and she cringed, imagining the headlines if this guy turned out to be a legitimate reporter.
Better than being beaten, raped, or killed, she told herself.
A search of his pockets yielded a handgun and a folding knife; the rifle was an AK-74, a modern descendent of the Russian AK-47—typical weapons for civilians in post-EMP America.
She retrieved the ruggedized laptop, which was built to survive a deluge, dirt, and extreme temperatures.
“What the fuck!”
Abby turned toward her prisoner, who had regained consciousness.
She stepped onto the fallen trunk and marched toward the pinned man, her body weight driving the tree deeper into the mud, negating his effort to free himself. “Who are you?”
“Wolcott Roberts. I’m a British reporter.” He paused, shaking mud from his bound hands, then gingerly patted the swollen lump on his head. “Did you assault me?”
“Yeah, I pushed the tree on top of you,” Abby said sarcastically. “Why were you concealed on this ridge with a laptop and a rifle?”
“I was conducting an investigation ... And you’re too late. The files have already been uploaded to the satellite.”
“What files?” she demanded.
“Files that will expose the truth about the TEradS. Your comrades hurled grenades into that house, killing innocents.”
“No, they didn’t. They used flash bangs to temporarily stun the occupants.”
Roberts tried to make eye contact through the flux of rainwater dripping from his forehead. “That’s what they want you to believe.”
Abby met his remark with a dubious stare.
“Ahhh, you’re not on board with the others,” he said. “That’s why they sent you to shepherd those female protestors, so they could eradicate the Chinese without interference ... Wild guess—you lost communications with them, right?”
Abby dismissed his ludicrous accusation. Roberts was clever and observant, a mental manipulator bent on twisting the truth into a fictitious noose and hanging the TEradS with it.
“If you accept their lies,” Roberts continued, “you are complicit in their genocidal crimes. Go down there, Sergeant Webber. Behold the carnage for yourself: the bodies of women and children shredded by grenades.”
“Speaking of lies,” she said, removing the battery from the man’s laptop. “Why do you have a ruggedized computer?”
“Because I work in less than ideal weather conditions.”
Abby stowed the laptop and battery inside her backpack along with his knife and handgun, then Cozart’s voice crackled over her tactical headset. “Keep trying to raise HQ.”
“What a coincidence,” she said, scowling at Roberts. “As soon as I disabled your laptop, our comms came back online. ”
His dark eyes bored into her, agleam with contempt. His mouth tightened into a smug smile. “A coincidence, indeed. As soon as your team finished slaughtering innocents, your comms came back online.”
Resisting the urge to argue, Abby cleared the ammunition from Roberts’ AK-74 and wedged the butt stock beneath the trunk, using it as a lever. It carved through the mud, sinking several inches before the heavy tree began to budge.
Roberts retracted his leg, but made no effort to stand. “You might as well let me go. The truth is already out.”
Abby hailed her team via tactical headset and advised them that she was returning with a prisoner in tow. Then she shouldered the strap of the muddy AK-74, placed the bottom of her boot against Roberts’ lower back, and sent him ass-surfing down the hillside. She followed close behind, able to walk on the compressed muddy track.
Upon reaching the street, Roberts said, “I can’t walk. I think my leg’s broken.”
“Then I’ll drag you. Hope you don’t mind a little road rash.” Abby grasped the back collar of his raincoat, and he immediately recanted his diagnosis.
It took twenty minutes for her limping prisoner to plod from the protestors’ barrier to the “sanctuary zone.” Her team was huddled on the front porch across from a dozen handcuffed Chinese prisoners.
Abby peeked through the open doorway, into the foyer, and the energy drained from her body.
Her head rocked slowly side to side, a pendulum teetering between disgust and denial.
“Grenades,” Roberts said. “I told you so.”
Horrified by the sight of butchered women and children, Abby drew a hand to her mouth. “Cozart, what the hell happened?”
Chapter 6
><>< DAY 462 ><><
Sunday, May 22nd
24
Liaoning Province, China
JINJING HOISTED HIS son higher into the apple tree and watched the six-year-old climb slowly through its interior. “Gan, be careful not to damage the fragile blossoms.”
Only small children could get to the tallest flowers without hurting the tree; and once the boy settled into the crook of a V-shaped branch, Jinjing handed up a small pot with a timeworn paintbrush.
It had been a long, cold winter in Liaoning, which accounted for the late arrival of this year’s blossoms, and Jinjing sighed, fearful that this harvest would be even more paltry than the last. Aggressive farming practices, pollution, and harsh pesticides had taken a devastating toll on local honeybee populations; and without nature’s buzzing army of workers, each apple tree had to be pollinated by hand, every flower literally painted with a brush doused in pollen.
Although the task required a ridiculous amount of manpower, apples—unlike other crops—were lucrative enough to warrant such a meticulous u
ndertaking.
Only fifteen percent of China’s 3.7 million square miles was arable land, not nearly enough to support its burgeoning population of 1.3 billion.
The harder we strive to solve that problem, the worse things become, Jinjing thought.
Societal pressures had instigated the conflict with the United States, a war that had annihilated the capital city along with any sense of national pride and unity. Leadership had been wiped out. The military had fractured, and the civil unrest the Communist Party had desperately sought to avoid was now raging.
“Oh no!”
The small pot of pollen slipped from his son’s hand, bounded off a branch, and dislodged two blossoms before landing upside down in the dirt.
“Gan! You must not be so careless!” he shouted.
Tears glistened on the child’s cheeks, and Jinjing bowed his head. He didn’t mean to be harsh, but he was engaged in a race against time. He had to get the entire orchard dusted before the delicate petals could wither and disappear into the wind, along with his income.
“I am sorry, Papa.”
A shadow blanketed the land, and Jinjing’s attention shifted from his son to the menacing cloud formation to the east. It resembled the mushroom cloud seen over Hiroshima after the detonation of the atomic bomb, only much darker in appearance. Did the Americans cause this foreboding oddity too?
Throughout his village, rumors were circulating, tales of cyber, biological, and psychological attacks; of space weapons, weather warfare, and zombie warriors. These days, the slightest turn of bad luck was immediately attributed to the evil Americans.
He gave the strange cloud another long look. That storm will bring ill fortune, he thought.
Not only could it rob him of precious man-hours, its heavy rains could wash away the newly painted pollen, and strong winds could rip the tender blooms from the trees.
A brilliant flash of light blinded him.
A thunderous crack quaked the ground, and he was thrown backward.
Jinjing’s head slammed into a tree.
His eyes clenched against the fierce pain, and when he reopened them, his young son was hovering over him, patting his face, trying to rouse him. His muscles ached. His torso felt like millions of bees were trapped inside him, vibrating and stinging.
As his vision cleared, he saw splintered streaks of lightning discharging from the ominous cloud, then his pain was replaced by intense fear. The orchard was ablaze, and swirling winds were whipping the flames into hellish tornadoes. After nurturing these trees and painstakingly pollinating each blossom, he and his family were destined to reap a worthless harvest of ash.
25
Edgar Air Force Base
District Nine, California
ABBY WEBBER HAD BEEN tossing and turning for hours. The op replayed through her mind, a nonstop loop of confusion and regret.
Wolcott Roberts actually was a renowned investigative reporter, but he wasn’t the man pinned beneath that tree. The imposter had been identified as York Roberts, a British psychologist and wannabe journalist who was obviously in league with the Chinese.
The former peacekeepers had been sequestered in an upstairs bedroom, safely beyond range of shrapnel and video surveillance. Abby’s team had retrieved two cameras from the foyer; two more from the exterior entryways. All four had been positioned to capture the breach and were equipped to live-stream the footage to Roberts’ laptop, which then relayed it via satellite uplink.
The truth is already out.
Recalling the Brit’s words, resentment spread through Abby, leaving a hollow, melancholy feeling in its wake.
She knew that Air Force techies were working to recover the raw, unedited footage, but the truth wouldn’t matter. Even before the pulse, lies were posted in four-inch type on the front page, and retractions were buried in fine print on page twenty-eight.
Today will be no different, she thought. Sensational clips of the bloody women and children would lead every European newscast and replay a dozen times per hour; eventually, the truth might air ... once.
Abby tried to clear her mind, to will away the pervasive sadness that overwhelmed her each night. It was more than missing Bradley and her parents, more than the weather, more than the disastrous operation. Since arriving in California, she felt as if she’d lost control over her thoughts and feelings. She had been waging an emotional battle, fighting a war within her own mind, trying to stave off the ever-encroaching gloom.
Am I struggling because I’m female? Am I genetically programmed to be more emotional than my male counterparts? Those questions were depressing. Abby had accepted her status as an underdog, the weakest link when it came to strength, the slowest at lugging heavy gear. She ranked above average in problem solving, determination, and mental toughness—areas where she was now slipping.
When it comes to shooting, I’m still at the top, she told herself. Making the shot is all that matters.
Abby stared at the rain-streaked window. Backlit by the glimmer of a streetlight, she saw a large blackbird perched on the sill, taking shelter from the perpetual rain. Its dark eyes reflected the green glow of her alarm clock, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that the bird was watching her.
Right hand groping her nightstand, she gripped a half-full water bottle and hurled it at the window. It smacked against the pane, missing her target by a foot. The blackbird didn’t even flinch, and she found herself struggling to hold back tears.
This is ridiculous, she thought, eyes clamping shut. I’m just tired. I need to get some sleep.
A half hour later, she drifted into a restless dream. Abby was back in Washington, on the roof of the Climate Change Museum, peering through a scope. The .50 caliber Chinese sniper rifle was zeroed on Aaron Burr, and she squeezed the trigger. The bullet sailed wide.
Oh no, I missed the shot!
Burr dove out of sight behind a table.
A siren was wailing.
Peacekeepers were closing on her position.
Gasping, Abby bolted upright and slowly concluded it was just a dream; but an alarm really was blaring.
The sun had yet to rise on what promised to be another dreary day. Flashing blue lights were tinting the rain, making it appear colder, like a bleak onslaught of tears.
Heart pounding, she stumbled toward the window. The pesky blackbird seemed unfazed by the commotion until she closed within a few feet, then it abruptly flapped its wings and vanished into the downpour.
Abby gawked at the emergency vehicle parked in front of her building then hurried down the staircase. The door to the apartment beneath hers was open.
“We were supposed to go running at 0500,” First Sergeant Cozart was telling two MPs, his voice eerily flat. “When he didn’t answer the door, I peeked in the window.”
Abby edged into the apartment, her bare feet chilled by the wet beige carpet.
A metallic odor joined with the dampness, making the air feel heavy, difficult to breathe.
Then a shudder tore through her.
I’m still dreaming, she told herself. This isn’t real.
26
District Six, Texas
THE DUST STORM HAD pummeled District Six for hours, and the damage was staggering.
How could dirt and wind cause so much destruction? Kyle wondered.
He was walking the streets with Sheriff Turner, assessing losses and prioritizing the allocation of the district’s resources.
Dust was piled in deep drifts against buildings, and it coated roadways like a blanket of brown snow that would never melt. Residents were sweeping and shoveling; beating rugs strung over clotheslines with brooms; washing dishes and glassware, clothing and towels, windowsills and walls. The sheriff had been correct. The fine dust particles had penetrated every square inch of every house, leaving behind a gritty film that was most definitely a pain in the ass.
The long-term repercussions would be more dire. Three citizens had been diagnosed with silicosis, an irreversible lung disease
that resulted from inhalation of crystalline silica dust. Scores of chickens and hundreds of small birds had asphyxiated, and the forty-mile-per-hour winds had sandblasted fledgling crops, stripping them of leaves and pitting their stalks, while scouring away a layer of nutrient-rich topsoil.
“Winter food stores are going to be insufficient,” Kyle muttered.
“And that shortfall will be aggravated by the droves of immigrants flocking to the district.” Turner exhaled audibly then directed Kyle’s attention toward a crowd assembled outside the new sheriff’s station. “Looks like your buddy is causing trouble again.”
Two embattled groups were trading barbs, one side clutching brooms, the other brandishing protest signs.
“... If the TEradS hadn’t destroyed our cellular tower,” Alex Ivans was shouting through a pale-blue surgical mask. “We would have had advanced warning about the storm. Farm animals didn’t have to die. People didn’t have to inhale dust that will ultimately cause lung cancer. Governor Murphy is responsible for this debacle; and he and his cronies are still lying to you, telling you that the air quality is safe.”
“It’s freakin’ dirt,” Sheriff Turner bellowed. “Not radioactive fallout!”
“You can’t trust your government officials. They assured first responders at Ground Zero that the air was safe to breathe. And we all know how many of them got sick and died.”
Sheriff Turner threw both hands upward in disgust. “Dust storms happened before the pulse. They’ll happen again, and there’s not much we can do about it besides hunker down, clean it up, and get back to normal.”
“Are you going to be that cavalier this winter, Sheriff, when people are starving to death? Cattle, pigs, and chickens are going to get sick from that dust too. And our food supply will die with them. Wake up people! The spring crops were decimated. Early projections are that only one-third of the plants will survive.”
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