Then she heard a miraculous sound, her father’s muffled voice calling to her from across the river bed.
30
Scoville Air Force Base
District Five, Illinois
BRADLEY WEBBER STRODE into the chow hall, yawning as he joined the queue of Airmen awaiting breakfast. Outrage over that European newscast had been swirling through him, fueling his sleeplessness, spiraling ever faster into a vortex of hate. He was furious with Leigh Winer; with the biased media, the peacekeepers, and General Volkov; but mostly with himself.
Bradley was keenly aware that all the TEradS teams accused of war crimes were personally connected to him. Ryan was based in District Six, the location of the POW massacre; Abby, in District Nine, the site of the grenade incident; and his team, in District Five, the scene of the firebombing.
Is Volkov orchestrating all this? Discrediting the TEradS to punish me?
The possibility seemed ridiculous, given that Chinese nationals had founded the “sanctuary zones” and taken the American hostages.
Is General Sun behind it ... ? Unlikely, Bradley decided. The former commander of the United World relief effort was on the run, hiding in spider holes with no communications or supply lines. He was in no position to launch concurrent operations.
Is it all just a coincidence?
Two cells of Chinese combatants in Illinois and California simultaneously taking hostages?
Both recording TEradS raids that were setups designed to inflict civilian casualties?
Both capable of live-streaming the video beyond the “sanctuary zone?”
The presence of a British reporter at the California op—with a satellite uplink?
The presence of Leigh at the Illinois op, and her ensuing deceitful testimony?
No way ... It was well beyond coincidence.
Bradley hefted a cafeteria tray, frowning at the plate of synthetic eggs mixed with rice and beans. A cup of watery coffee rounded out the meal, and memories of “breakfast past” seeped into his mind—pancakes, waffles, home fries, bacon, and sausage—fomenting the anger that was festering beneath his calm demeanor.
He placed his finger on the electronic scanner to claim his rations, then settled into the nearest empty seat. After nodding hello to the group of Airmen, he dug into the bland, unenjoyable breakfast before the hodgepodge could cool and congeal into a starchy plastic lump.
“You mind if I sit here?”
Bradley looked up. An involuntary smile curled his lips and a burst of energy jetted through his nervous system.
For a split second, he’d mistaken the woman for Abby. Dressed in a TEradS sweat suit, she was about the same height with blonde hair, but her face was more rounded, her eyes the color of milk chocolate.
“I’ll take that as an enthusiastic yes,” she said, sitting down across from him, and her flirtatious smile confirmed that she had misinterpreted his response. “I’m Carrie Tucker. I live in the barracks across from yours.”
Bradley mumbled, “Nice to meet you,” and shoveled the last forkful of eggs into his mouth, anxious to extricate himself from the awkward situation.
“You have a first name?”
“Webber will do.” Bradley downed the remainder of his coffee then stood, signaling his departure.
“Before you run off,” Carrie said, a hand clamping onto his cafeteria tray. “TEradS support staff is having an unofficial get-together tonight. Why don’t you drop by?” Head tilted to one side, her eyelashes fluttered, and she tried to establish eye contact.
“Thanks. I’m flattered ... Really,” he stammered, his mind flashing back to his nightmarish encounter with Mia Candelori. “But I’m married ... Happily.”
Her expression wilted into a puzzled frown. “I never would’ve guessed that … given the way you were smiling at me.”
Exasperated, he said, “I mistook you for my wife—momentarily. She’s a TEradS Sniper, about your height and blonde.” He retrieved the braided lock of Abby’s hair from his pocket and waggled it like evidence. “Sorry, that smile was meant for her.”
“Hey, are you Bradley Webber?”
He pivoted toward the voice. It belonged to a man dressed in Air Force camouflage, of average height with ordinary facial features, neither appealing nor repellent, nothing memorable enough for Bradley to recognize him. “Yes, I am,” he said, offering his hand. “And you are?”
The stranger reciprocated. “Mike Miller. I just transferred in.”
“Welcome to Scoville,” Bradley said. “What can I do for you?”
Mike grinned, another flat unremarkable trait, indistinguishable from thousands of others. “I used to be stationed at Edgar outside District Nine. I know your wife, Abby.”
Bradley perked up. “Oh, okay ... How’s she doing? I haven’t talked to her since she redeployed.”
“She really misses you.”
“That’s great to hear. I miss her too.” He glanced lovingly at the lock of hair and returned it to his pocket; then for Carrie’s benefit, he added, “Abby means the world to me.”
“Hey, I have to ask,” Mike said. “How can you stand having your wife in combat? I think that would drive me freaking insane.”
The threats posed by Sun and Volkov surged to the forefront of his mind; then, reluctant to delve into a soul-baring discussion with a guy he just met, Bradley said, “It’s tough ... But so is Abby. She’s a hell-of-a good Sniper. ”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to piss her off.” Mike’s knowing gaze volleyed between Bradley and Carrie, an unspoken innuendo that was out of line. Then the Airman’s right hand wriggled into his jacket pocket and emerged with an envelope. “Anyway, Abby conned me into delivering this.”
Bradley’s irritation instantly dissipated, and he accepted the envelope. “Thanks, Mike. I owe you one.”
“Nice meeting you ... Hope it’s not a ‘Dear John’ letter.”
He watched the Airman fade into a retreating sea of camouflage, then Carrie stepped into his field of vision.
“I’m sorry for ...” She hesitated as if searching for the words. “For misunderstanding. No hard feelings?”
“Not at all. And I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to send a misleading signal.” He hoisted his breakfast dishes from the table and started toward the tray-return station.
“Hey, if that does turn out to be a ‘Dear John’ letter,” she called after him. “The party starts at 1900.”
Bradley hurried from the chow hall, clutching Abby’s letter as if it were a winning lottery ticket.
What a fantastic surprise, he thought. I have to find a way to respond.
Giving in to impatience, he tore open the envelope and removed a single sheet of folded paper.
Anticipation yielded to shock, then ignited into a scalding firestorm of rage and grief.
31
District Six, Texas
DONNING A SURGICAL mask and heavy gloves, Franny Andrews scooped up a dead bird and dropped it into a five-gallon bucket. She had been helping the deputies spread the word when the dust storm hit, and she’d been forced to take shelter at Roger Simmons’ ranch.
Three of his cows hadn’t made it into the safety of the barn and were seriously injured. One had been blinded; the others had inhaled copious amounts of dust; and the ailing cows were lying down, looking pitiful and lethargic.
Roger had elected to keep the remainder of the herd locked inside the barn until the dead birds had been removed from the pasture. Dozens of crows, starlings, ravens, and even bats had succumbed to the dust. Franny had volunteered to help the overwhelmed rancher, out of compassion and a selfish need to keep her mind focused on something beside Ryan.
Although she’d left Langden days earlier, she had only spoken to him once, a terse conversation that lasted less than a minute, barely long enough for him to confirm that she had weathered the dust storm and to deny her request to come home.
Doesn’t he want to be with me?
A long sigh escaped and Franny felt like
a deflating tire.
At least he still cares enough to check up on me, she told herself.
Then a taunting internal voice whispered, “Or maybe he was hoping to be single again. A merry widower.”
Glowering, she scooped up two dead birds, deposited them into the bucket, and continued inspecting the dunes of dust along the fence.
“That doesn’t look like fun.”
Franny whirled toward the masculine voice. “It most definitely is not.”
“Alex Ivans,” he said, introducing himself. “I’m here to help the community.”
When he extended his hand, Franny handed off the bucket of dead birds. “I know exactly who you are, and organizing protests that divide the district is not helpful.” She walked to the next fence post, and he trailed after her, his shadow visible on the ground.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.
She hoisted a dead bat and spun the shovel toward him. “Franny.”
Wincing at the sight of wriggling maggots, he said, “We’re actually damn lucky we’re only dealing with dead birds. They’re scooping up women and children in District Nine.”
Franny poked at the drift of sand to be sure there were no more carcasses then moved on without comment.
“Haven’t you heard the news?” Alex reached into his back pocket and retrieved a Chi-phone.
Franny watched the first two minutes of footage, then snatched the phone from his hand, smashed it against the end of her shovel, and tossed it into the bucket atop the dead birds.
“Why the hell did you do that?” he shouted, incensed by her behavior.
“Wake up, Alex. That’s enemy propaganda, also known as bullshit.”
“You’re the one who needs to wake up,” he said, snickering. “The TEradS aren’t heroes. They’re genocidal murderers.”
Resisting the urge to smack him upside the head with the shovel, Franny said, “You don’t know anything about the TEradS—”
“And you do?”
“As a matter of fact, I happen to be married to the commander of the TEradS.”
“Really?” For a moment, he looked taken aback, then a broad smile sprawled over his face. “Living a hundred miles apart. Sounds like marital bliss.”
Franny fixed him with a death stare, grappling to conceal the fact that he had struck an extremely sensitive nerve. She sucked in a slow breath, rigidly biting back tears.
What the hell is wrong with me? I cried twice in forty years; once when the peacekeepers killed Sierra, and again when Izzy died; and suddenly, I’m a blubbering idiot.
“Maybe that’s why Ryan sent you away,” that condemning internal voice chimed in. “He can’t stand the drama.”
Knowing the emotional dam was about to burst, she opted to play the role of angry bitch rather than bawling basket case. Franny seized the bucket from his grasp and shouted, “Go back to wherever you came from, Alex. Nobody in this district is buying your brand of trouble.”
Still shaken, she scanned the remainder of the fence line for carcasses. Seeing none, she trudged toward the mound of dead flesh and feathers.
“The lower pasture’s all clear, Roger,” she said, dumping the bucket.
He was a sixtyish, bearded man with a beak of a nose and bushy gray eyebrows that looked like they had sprung from his black cowboy hat.
“Upper pasture’s all done too. Much obliged, Franny. Your help was a godsend.” He doused the dead birds with gasoline, struck a match, and set them ablaze, cremating their remains to avoid the insects and disease that decaying corpses would bring. “So, what’s that no-goodnik up to?” Roger asked, chin jutting toward Alex Ivans.
“Same as the other day. The peacekeepers are innocent victims; the TEradS are evil murderers.”
“Good riddance to that one,” Roger said, spitting onto the ground. “I’m gonna head to the barn and open ‘er up. I think them cows have had it with being penned in that confined space.”
Franny watched billowing smoke rise from the pyre against a cloudless blue sky. Prevailing winds were carrying it toward the district, an unwelcome complication for those already struggling with respiratory problems.
When Roger threw open the doors, a half dozen agitated bovines charged into the sunlight, snorting like bulls, heads convulsing with jerky movements. The rest of the herd remained inside the barn, and Roger stood, mouth agape; then hung his head, seemingly defeated.
Franny ran toward him, huffing and exhausted after only a few yards.
When did I get so out of shape?
The cows that were mobile moved with awkward, uncoordinated gaits. Their powerful muscles were twitching. Legs wobbled beneath their weight and eventually crumpled.
Those already on the ground were moaning, clumsily trying to stand—and failing as if the floor of the barn were a sheet of ice.
Absently, she raised a gloved hand to her mouth, then recoiled at the odor of death. “Roger, what’s wrong with them?”
32
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
RYAN ANDREWS HUSTLED from the conference room, eager to get back to his office. The day was nearly half over and he had yet to accomplish anything significant.
I am so sick of meetings, he thought. They spend hours laying additional responsibilities on the TEradS, devising unrealistic timetables, and denying requests for increased funding, equipment, and personnel.
Fate seemed to be conspiring against Ryan, saddling him with some sort of cosmic attention deficit disorder. Every time he honed in on a problem and began to make headway, life derailed his progress with interruptions that sent him careening off in another direction.
After viewing yesterday’s slanderous news report, he had compiled a list of objectives and prioritized them: protect Bradley and his teams from General Volkov; find General Sun before he could assassinate Abby. Capture enemy combatants; clear the “sanctuary zones”; run damage control for the TEradS reputation. Deal with the aftermath of the dust storm; improve base security; explore the phantom partition on the hard drive; and soothe the tension with his wife.
Opting to tackle the easiest and least time-consuming problem first, in hopes that the sense of accomplishment would energize him, he had called Franny. Ryan had intended to tell her the truth about why he’d sent her away—in general, nonspecific terms—and to reassure her that he loved her and hated being away from her.
As soon as Kyle put Franny on the satellite phone, Ryan’s clerk began banging on his door, informing him that the President was demanding to speak with him.
I should’ve let the bastard wait, he thought.
Quenten had spent twenty minutes screaming at him, threatening to put the entire Terrorist Eradication Squad on stand-down. Ryan had managed to dodge that torpedo and persuade the President not to turn over Teams Five, Six, and Nine to the United World Court. A major victory—at least for the time being.
He dialed his satellite phone, head shaking as Quenten’s parting words resounded: Ultimately, the truth is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is what the public believes to be true.
That explains how the country got into this mess, he thought.
The phone rang once, then a voice responded, “Governor Murphy.”
“Hey, Kyle. It’s Ryan. Is Franny around?”
“No. I haven’t seen her ... Is everything all right?”
Probably not, Ryan thought. Yesterday’s truncated phone call had only succeeded in hurting his wife’s feelings and deepening the disconnect between them. “Yeah, it’s all good. If you see her, tell her I called.”
Entering TEradS Headquarters, he traded good-byes with Kyle, then gazed at his new clerk. “No calls, no visitors for the next two hours.”
“Yes, sir. Uh, and ...” The seventeen-year-old paused to read a handwritten note. “Master Sergeant Webber called three times.”
Bradley will have to wait.
Ryan let his office door fall shut behind him, and he grimaced at the pile of paperwork accumulating on his d
esk. Grace’s instructions were poised at the summit, three pages of line-by-line keystrokes that resembled gibberish. Could the “phantom partition” provide clues as to Volkov’s agenda?
Given that the psychotic general was directly responsible for at least half the objective’s on Ryan’s to do list, he decided to retrieve the hard drive from its hiding place.
Kneeling beside his wall of heroes, he began unscrewing the metal vent that covered the cold-air return; and he’d only managed to remove two screws before his desktop phone rang.
Didn’t I just say no calls? he thought, stomping toward his desk.
“Major Andrews?”
The young clerk sounded nervous, even more tentative than usual. “I ... uh ... know you don’t wanna be disturbed, but ... uh ... Captain Fitzgerald is here. And he ... he says it’s urgent.”
Exhaling in a slow hiss, Ryan pocketed the screws, replaced the handset, then opened his door.
Fitzgerald’s expression was drawn into a tangled knot of emotion, rage intertwined with outrage and tinged with helplessness.
“There was another attempt on Abigail Webber, sir.”
Ryan’s mood sank; his temper soared. “Who? When? How?”
“Unclear. 0600—”
“And I’m just hearing about this now?” he sputtered.
“I was told that you were unreachable, sir.”
Ryan folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the edge of his desk. A nod prompted the Captain to continue.
“An assassin penetrated Edgar Air Force Base and planted plastic explosives in the toilet tank of Webber’s apartment. Enough to level the entire building. If not for a faulty trigger mechanism, it would’ve wiped out Team 9A.”
“Anything useful on surveillance?”
“No, sir. It’s been raining at Edgar for weeks. Tons of hats and raincoats. Heads tilted down. And umbrellas.” Fitzgerald’s shoulders stiffened as if bracing for an attack. “9A was pretty rattled. Webber was distraught over endangering her teammates, and none of them wanted to be on stand-down ...”
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