35
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
MAJOR RYAN ANDREWS was one page into Grace’s instructions when an annoying chime disrupted his concentration. He glowered at the rotary-dial phone on his desk, wishing the electromagnetic pulse had fried it along with its offspring, then he grunted, “Andrews.”
“Good-evening, Major ...”
Ryan instantly recognized the condescending voice. It was the President’s obnoxious chief of staff.
“... I’m calling to inform you that there will be a videoconference with the President at 2300 hours and your participation is required.”
“In regards to?” Ryan asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say on an unsecured line.”
The little weasel hung up before Ryan could force out a thank-you, and he slammed the handset against the cradle, noting that he had less than fifteen minutes to prepare for what was sure to be a barrage of bad news. Would Quenten cave under international pressure and order a TEradS stand-down? Would he kowtow to the United World Court?
The phantom partition will have to wait, Ryan thought, disconnecting the cable. He contemplated leaving the hard drive inside his locked desk for the night, then decided against it. Base security was a joke, and the drawer lock—like every lock—would only deter nosy, law-abiding citizens, not determined criminals.
He plodded toward the cold-air return, squatted to insert the hard drive into the duct, and began replacing the screws. His mind zoomed ahead to the meeting. Did General Quenten already brief the President about the rescue effort in District Nine?
Too bad Abby’s helmet camera was caked with mud when she rescued that peacekeeper from the landslide, he thought. That footage would’ve bolstered the TEradS’ tarnished image.
Ryan rubbed a hand over the day’s growth of stubble that graced his chin. There wasn’t enough time to shave or straighten up the mess on his desk. Instead, he smoothed his wrinkled shirt, adjusted his tie, and stood at attention. The live feed from the President’s undisclosed location was already visible on the wall-mounted monitor. General Quenten and Carter Sidney were in attendance, and they both rose to their feet as the President entered the room.
“I have spent countless hours on the phone,” the Commander in Chief began, his silvery eyes boring into the camera, a silent rebuke that Ryan knew was meant for him. “Attempting to squelch the international backlash against the TEradS and my administration. Those propaganda videos have undermined the credibility and moral integrity of this nation.”
“Mr. President,” General Quenten interrupted, “it was my understanding that Cyber Command recovered the raw uncut footage from the grenade incident, which unequivocally exonerates the TEradS.”
“They have,” the President said, his mouth turned downward. “But Chinese experts have declared that video a forgery. They insist it was manufactured by the CIA, and that sentiment is resonating across Europe. Protests are popping up in major cities, organized by a group that calls itself Chinese Lives Matter ...”
Ryan felt his gut tighten. He had deluded himself into believing that helmet cameras could protect the TEradS from unjust allegations, and he suddenly understood his Commander in Chief’s previous assertion: the truth is irrelevant. Scientific facts, eyewitness testimony, video evidence—none of it could ever sway the opinion of Chinese Lives Matter. It was a terrifying strain of intellectual dishonesty that valued ideology above facts or truth.
“... Therefore, in order to protect the rights of enemy combatants and shield the TEradS from international war crimes allegations, we must clarify our policy regarding ‘sanctuary zones.’ Define who is to be considered a prisoner of war, establish where they will be held, and make all this information available to the world community.”
General Quenten cleared his throat, garnering everyone’s attention. “Operation Uproot was predicated on the assumption that ‘sanctuary zones’ were populated by former PLA soldiers. The presence of protestors has fundamentally complicated our mission. The chore of separating enemy combatants from civilians will be extremely dangerous and will require significant technological assets. TEradS teams do not have the time or resources to identify these people on the battlefield. For this reason, I recommend that we detain anyone of Asian descent—”
“Internment camps?” Sidney demanded.
“Central processing centers,” the General replied without a hint of apology, “where the identity of each prisoner can be verified. American citizens will be immediately released, provided there is no evidence of treason; while Chinese workers and soldiers will be transferred to existing POW camps.”
“The internment of Japanese, Italian, and German citizens during World War II is a stain on the character of this nation,” Sidney shouted. “It is an affront to the Constitution. Unarmed men dressed in civilian clothing cannot be legally detained. It is not a crime to be Asian!”
“I’ll repeat it again, slowly,” General Quenten said, his calm facial expression belying the animosity glinting in his eyes. “American citizens ... will be ... immediately released!”
“The workers are innocent, victimized by the Chinese Communist Party just as much as Americans,” Sidney argued. “And the country desperately needs their skills as well as their cooperation. Empathy and the proper incentives could result in a hundred thousand productive citizens.”
“And the PLA soldiers?” Quenten asked.
“Absent the support of their homeland, they have been defanged. They’re not a threat.”
“Not a threat?” Ryan blurted. “Just this week, they conducted a sniper attack in Texas and planted an IED in California. Not to mention the propaganda war. I assure you, they are a threat.”
“If you back them into a corner, of course they’ll fight,” Sidney said dismissively. “And the military will end up in yet another quagmire. We need to empathize with our enemies and validate their point of view. We need to protect these soldiers from gun-toting American vigilantes and provide them with jobs, with hope for a better future. That is the only path to a lasting peace.”
“Carter,” General Quenten said, voice rising. “It is the military’s job to protect Americans FROM invading enemies. Not the other way around.”
“You should be disqualified from this discussion based on conflict of interest, General.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because the military has a vested interest in perpetual war—”
“Enough!” The President stood, signaling that the meeting was over. “You’ll have my decision within the hour.”
Chapter 8
><>< DAY 464 ><><
Tuesday, May 24th
36
Shandong Province, China
HONG KNEW SOMETHING was wrong as soon as he closed within fifty yards of the rusty metal pavilion. The usual pungent odor of the pigs was being overpowered by the sour smell of excrement. He staggered into a jog and yanked the collar of his shirt up over his nose, then released it. The thin layer of cotton was no match for the vile stench.
As he entered building one, his eyes began to burn and tear. He blinked away the blurriness, absently gaping at the scene until the bitterness in the air registered on his taste buds, then his mouth snapped shut. Inside a stall, scores of suckling piglets lay dead in puddles of watery black stool.
Hong’s first thought was PEDv, the porcine epidemic diarrhea virus, a highly contagious disease that reduced absorption into the gut, causing fluid loss and severe dehydration. A few years back, the virus had claimed the lives of seven million piglets.
Common sense would dictate a quarantine to protect the remainder of the herd, but the “best practices” of hog farming demanded the exact opposite. Hong was supposed to deliberately expose all the sows to the virus, rapidly and uniformly, in order to establish herd immunity as quickly as possible.
For two or three weeks, adult swine would suffer from loss of appetite and diarrhea. They would lose vast amounts of weight and Hong would lose th
ree to five weeks of production; but the counterintuitive measure would keep the mortality rate low. The sows would survive and pass on their immunity to the next generation. PEDv rarely killed mature pigs—which made the sight of hundreds of dead adults puzzling and petrifying.
What if it’s something else entirely? Hong asked himself. Something I haven’t been trained to deal with?
He scooped up the rancid feces into a bucket, aware that a mere thimble full would be enough to infect over sixty million swine.
He sprinted from pavilion to pavilion. The dreadful odor was universal and unrelenting; the sight of dead pigs, horrifying and depressing.
The entire herd is already infected, he thought. With ... with whatever this is.
Hong ran to the east, and once he was upwind of the smell, he slumped down onto the ground. How could this have happened? The pigs appeared healthy and content when he shuttered the pavilions last night. This illness had struck much faster and was more virulent than PEDv or any other swine disease he had encountered.
Did the virus mutate into a deadlier form?
He would have to find an answer—or a credible excuse—before he notified his supervisor.
A rush of fear cut through him.
I’ll be blamed for failing to detect the problem sooner. I’ll lose my job, be shamed for compromising part of the Strategic Pork Reserve.
I need a scapegoat. A story that no one would dare question, he decided, swatting at a fly buzzing near his ear.
Then he recalled the strange swarm of bugs that accosted the herd a few days earlier.
I can blame those pests for bringing sickness to the farm, he thought, feeling a burst of hope. And those millions of disease-bearing insects were probably not a quirk of nature. Like the meteors that vaporized Shanghai and Beijing, this was another American secret weapon of mass destruction—a biological attack against the Strategic Pork Reserve and a vicious attempt to starve the People’s Republic of China.
37
North of Edgar Air Force Base
District Nine, California
ABBY WEBBER’S TEAM HAD been ordered back to the site of the mudslide to search the neighborhood for intelligence, computers, and phones, anything that might reveal the operational command structure of the “sanctuary zones.” How were they communicating? And resupplying? What were they planning?
Thankfully, the rain had diminished to a steady drizzle, and the overcast skies had lost their angry charcoal color. The base of the northern hillside was surrounded by a moat of mud, and the steep incline was still slippery. Abby slogged ahead three feet, only to slide down one, a frustrating and energy-depleting endeavor. Halfway up the hundred-foot ridge, the ground became noticeably drier and her footing continued to improve until she reached the crest.
The lake of rainwater had drained from the neighborhood, released when the hillside gave way, uncovering a host of flood victims. Mud-covered bodies were randomly clustered on streets, sidewalks, and puddle-ridden front lawns, most bloated and blackened.
What a horrible way to die, she thought, drowning in that filthy brown water.
Abby settled into an overwatch position beside Toomey, Team 9B’s Sniper; and through her spotting scope, she saw the limbs of children jutting from beneath the dead. Sadness mutated into an irrational sense of doom.
I feel like something awful is about to happen, she thought.
The rest of her team descended into the valley with bandanas and rags tied over their noses to ward off the stench of death. The traction on the downside was no better, except that now they were sliding toward their objective, rather than away from it. Since the barren hillside offered no cover or concealment, Cozart led the team into the street, where it would be easier to maneuver.
“The victims are mostly American mixed with a few Chinese,” her team leader said via tactical headset. “They must’ve kidnapped a lot more people than our intel suggested.”
Or recruited more protestors, Abby thought, noting that none of the bodies appeared to be bound.
She surveilled the houses, checking window by window for telltale signs of a sniper’s hide, certain that someone was out there; and the fact that she detected nothing suspicious doubled her anxiety. She wasn’t hunting an amateur. This enemy was well concealed and highly trained.
Cozart led the advance toward the first residence, pausing occasionally to observe the bodies. “No obvious bullet or knife wounds,” he said. “They all appear to have drowned.”
Why weren’t they swept away by the current when the mountainside gave way? Abby wondered.
The hair at her nape prickled.
She had experienced this nagging feeling before. During her first TEradS mission, Abby had opted to ignore it, a decision that resulted in the loss of her entire team inside a booby-trapped farmhouse.
Should I say something? Will they think I’m crazy? Will I be able to live with myself if I don’t speak up?
Activating her tactical headset, Abby said, “Something’s not right. The bodies look staged and this feels like an ambush.”
“Women’s intuition?” Donnelly asked, inciting chuckles.
Toomey said, “Webber, effective Snipers don’t get spooked easily. Toughen up.”
Then Donnelly added, “You need me to come up there and hold your hand?”
“That’s enough!” Cozart raised a fist above his head, signaling for his team to halt. “You guys hearing that?”
“Sounds like a kid crying,” Donnelly said, moving slowly along the driveway of a Tudor-style house as if tracking the noise.
Abby felt like she was plunging down that mudslide again. The fear, the uncertainty, the knot in her stomach—all the emotions rushed back.
“If you’re alive, say something,” Donnelly shouted. “We’re here to help.”
Moving toward a waterlogged robellini palm, Pizzuto said, “I heard two garbled voices over that way.”
A layer of sweat formed over Abby’s face, and she swapped out the spotting scope for her rifle. An attack was coming; she was sure of it.
Or was she losing it?
Cut yourself!
The memory of that voice barged into her mind, undermining and ruthless, causing her to doubt her own perceptions.
Donnelly knelt beside the body of a child, a young boy lying facedown, his torso covered by the legs of an adult male. As the Sergeant rolled the dead man away from the child, a small explosion reverberated through the bowl-shaped valley.
Cozart screamed, “Grenade!”
His warning was punctuated by a second blast.
Pizzuto was down. Metal fragments protruded from his arms, his chest, his face.
Donnelly’s left leg was a shredded mass of bloody tissue. Gasping into his tactical headset, he said, “Bodies are booby-trapped ... cries for help were fucking Chi-phones.”
Cozart and Hunnsinger hustled to the aid of the injured.
Then, like a scene from a zombie movie, the dead began to rise.
Muddy Chinese bodies sat upright.
The barrels of handguns zeroed on Abby’s unsuspecting teammates.
Son of a bitch! They were playing dead!
Abby’s sights skipped from target to target. She and Toomey rapidly dispatched all five zombies, but not before Hunnsinger was struck in the neck. While Cozart tried to stem the bleeding, she and Toomey put a preemptive bullet into the skull of each corpse to ensure that they were actually dead.
I wasn’t spooked and I’m not crazy, she decided. What I felt was real. And I’m not going to ignore it or deny it ever again.
She watched a TEradS medic fasten a tourniquet around Donnelly’s thigh.
“Webber,” her injured teammate said, the word squirting through teeth clenched against the pain. “Guess I should’ve trusted that intuition, huh?”
“Affirmative,” Abby told him. “You need me to come down there and hold your hand?”
38
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
MAJOR RY
AN ANDREWS’ head twitched as if jarred from sleep. He’d done it again, let his mind drift back to last night’s infuriating videoconference. Why did the world blindly accept the maliciously edited video of the grenade incident? And instantly discredit the raw footage recovered from the Brit’s laptop? How was he supposed to protect his teams from false allegations? Those questions had robbed him of sleep and now they were sabotaging his concentration.
He squinted at the last page of Grace’s instructions, eyes darting between the paper and the computer screen. After navigating through a maze of directories, Ryan finally found the script the Rear Admiral had written, and he downloaded it onto a jump drive.
To prevent malware from infecting the military network, the hard drive containing the phantom partition was connected to a Chinese laptop that had no Internet access; and Ryan’s pulse quickened as he inserted the jump drive. Would this work? Would he find anything useful? Or did he just waste three precious hours of his time?
Only one way to find out, he thought, executing the script. A progress bar popped up, informing him that the program would take twenty minutes to complete. Irritated over the prolonged wait, he swiveled his chair toward the TEradS-issued computer on his desk and checked the international news feed.
“... The world community is scrambling to mobilize aid for the provinces bordering China’s Gobi Desert. The area is being pummeled by a vicious sandstorm with winds in excess of seventy miles per hour. Downed trees and power lines are expected to slow recovery efforts, and the decimation of local crops and livestock could spell starvation for the struggling people of China ...”
What about the struggling people of Texas? Ryan thought. We just endured a dust storm too. Where’s the outpouring of international support for us?
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