“... A half a world away in California, thirteen more Chinese nationals have lost their lives in a massive mudslide. At first blush, it seems a freak act of nature was responsible for the tragedy, but WLIB has uncovered facts that indicate negligence on the part of the United States military. According to the Geneva Convention, once prisoners of war are taken into custody, their captors are responsible for their safety and well-being, which leads one to ask a series of questions. Why were the prisoners forced to descend an unstable hillside? Why was the emergency response so ineffective, saving just one of fourteen? And why is it that no TEradS personnel were injured in the incident? Only a thorough investigation can shed light on whether this was mere negligence or a depraved indifference to human life ...”
Disgusted, Ryan ended the news feed. “We were there to rescue people,” he muttered. “Of course, there’s no mention of that.” He glanced at the progress bar on the Chinese laptop. Seeing that Grace’s script still had ten minutes before it finished, he decided to check in with Captains Fitzgerald and Canter.
Perched in the doorway between his office and the ops center, he said, “Anything happening that I should know about?”
“Team 5B’s op is about to get underway,” Canter said.
A shadow of sadness seemed to darkened Fitzgerald’s complexion, then he directed a Corporal to replay three segments from Team 9A’s helmet cameras. The first two showed Sergeants Donnelly and Pizzuto felled by grenades hidden amongst dead flood victims. The third clip came from Staff Sergeant Toomey’s camera and showed several corpses rising from the dead with guns blazing.
Ryan stood speechless. He had seen insurgents in Iraq booby-trap corpses and play dead to ambush U.S. troops with grenades, but this was California. And Chinese peacekeepers were not suicidal extremists looking forward to virgins in paradise. The shift in tactics was horrendous for the TEradS. And for the nation.
“Pizzuto and Hunnsinger didn’t make it,” Fitzgerald said, head bowed. “Donnelly’s probably going to lose the leg.”
“Get the word out to all teams. Instruct them to take precautionary measures,” Ryan said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And warn the National Guard.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And while you’re at it, find me somebody who knows how to edit video.”
Thoughts raging, Ryan let the door fall shut and returned to his desk. He intended to produce his own propaganda video, featuring the truth; one that would debunk the notion that the peacekeepers weren’t a threat and expose their unscrupulous and inhumane tactics.
When Grace’s computer script finally finished running, only a solitary folder was visible.
“Ultimate Protocol?” he read aloud.
Ryan found hundreds of documents: blueprints, specifications, engineering reports, software code, timetables, benchmarks—the volume of information was staggering. He skimmed the project overview. Evidently, four meteors had been coated with a latexlike skin that rendered them invisible to radar. A solar-powered computer and several classified plasma propulsion engines had been attached to its surface, enabling a Pilot to guide the meteor through atmospheric re-entry and obliterate any target of his choosing. The ensuing blast would rate 150 times greater than the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima, and those tremendous forces would pulverize any evidence, affording plausible deniability.
Ryan stared blankly, feeling both pride and shame at the destructive power of the weapon.
“We meteored Beijing and Shanghai,” he mumbled. “And killed forty-eight million people.”
Would it ultimately save lives by shortening the war for both sides, the frequently cited justification for using nuclear weapons against Japan during World War II? Or was it just a down payment on the death and suffering to come?
I can’t believe President Quenten had the balls to use a weapon banned by a United World treaty.
He paged through dozens of documents before stumbling on the information Volkov was probably seeking. Two devices had been commissioned, and both had been deployed against China, which meant the United States had no bullets left to wield against Mother Russia.
Ryan exited the file, then right-clicked on the folder, which took up barely ten percent of the one terabyte hard drive.
I’m not so sure I want to know what else is on here.
39
District Six, Texas
GWEN LING LOOKED UP from the nurses’ station and smiled at the pair of TEradS Soldiers. “Can I help you, Gentlemen?”
She was in her forties with almond-shaped brown eyes, a pleasantly round face, and silky black hair swept into a utilitarian bun. Intelligent and assertive, she excelled at handling medical emergencies and putting patients at ease.
The taller man with penetrating blue eyes said, “Ma’am, we need you to come with us.”
“Did Major Andrews send for me?” Gwen asked. She had previously served as a TEradS translator and was eager to help Ryan hunt down the peacekeepers who had killed Izzy, breaking her best friend’s heart.
“No ma’am. By order of the President, everyone of Asian descent must report to a central processing center to be properly identified.”
“A central processing center? Is that some kind of euphemistic name for an internment camp?”
“No ma’am. United States citizens and Chinese workers will be issued an identification card and immediately released. Only PLA soldiers will be held as prisoners of war. Would you come with us, please?”
“Right now ... ? I can’t. My unscheduled absence will leave my co-workers in a lurch.” Irritation blossomed inside Gwen then faded as quickly as it had formed. There were still a lot of bad actors out there, and she wanted them punished for the Alameda fever genocide, and for making her an unwitting participant.
Blue Eyes offered a sympathetic smile that was both warm and genuine. “I appreciate your dedication, ma’am, but they’ll have to make do without you for the remainder of the day.”
After informing her supervisor that a personal emergency had arisen, Gwen left the medical center sandwiched between Blue Eyes and his mute partner, feeling like a criminal.
A transport truck with a caged cargo bed was parked outside the main entrance, and Gwen abruptly halted.
She gasped and a shiver of panic tore though her body.
The mobile jail cell was packed with Asian men. “Are th-they peacekeepers?” she stammered.
“Probably,” Blue Eyes said. “But don’t worry. Two armed National Guardsmen will be monitoring the prisoners.”
“You—you don’t understand. Colonel Wu issued a shoot-on-sight order. Ask Major Andrews. They’ll kill me.”
Blue Eyes’ friendly expression turned somber. “I promise, you’ll be safe. All the prisoners have been handcuffed ... And speaking of which, please extend your hands in front of you.”
“I’m an American citizen. I’m not the enemy!”
“Ma’am, until your identity has been verified, you are considered an enemy combatant. This is a matter of safety for inductees as well as the Soldiers transporting them ... I know this is unpleasant, but we did defer the restraints as long as possible ... in order to avoid embarrassing you in front of your co-workers.”
“Thank you for that.” Tears slipped over Gwen’s lashes as the flex-cuffs tightened around her wrists, then the two TEradS hoisted her up into the truck.
Sniffling, Gwen settled onto the wooden bench seat, keenly aware of the hostile glances. All of the prisoners were dressed in civilian clothing that was oddly uniform. White T-shirts were tucked into blue jeans at the belt buckle while hanging loose around the sides and back. Was this a new fashion fad? Or some kind of gang symbol?
Speaking in Mandarin, a prisoner with a V-shaped unibrow demanded to know if Gwen spoke the language.
“What?” she asked in English, pretending not to understand. “Are you talking to me?”
He continued to scrutinize her, and Gwen’s pulse began to beat erratically.
Does he reco
gnize me? Will the Guardsmen really be able to stop two dozen men from choking me? Or stomping me to death?
#
Two hours into the journey, the truck arrived at the central processing center. A fence topped with razor wire surrounded a rectangular building that was sheathed with plywood. Prisoners were separated into two pens, each with snaking queue lines reminiscent of an amusement park ride, only these lines led to bus stops with undetermined destinations.
“Listen carefully, comrades,” the Unibrow shouted in Mandarin as if making an announcement to the entire group. “You must cooperate. Give your real name; deny your affiliation with the PLA; and willingly surrender any biometric data requested. Follow this order and fate shall smile upon you!”
At least one group of peacekeepers is retreating from the fight, Gwen thought, feeling a tinge of hope. She exited the truck, thanked the National Guardsman who had helped her down, and started toward the unfinished wooden building.
The processing center was poorly lit and reeked of fresh cut lumber and body odor. A broken span of Formica-topped desks stretched across the width of the structure, and double doors at either end led to the fenced pens, one labeled for POWs, the other for civilians. Nondescript offices lined the rear wall, the largest guarded by a pair of burly men.
Each computer station was manned by an underage draftee and secured by an armed Soldier, who ensured that inductees exited through the proper doorway.
By the time Gwen sat down at one of the processing stations, she had the procedure memorized.
“Your name? And please spell it out, ma’am,” the female Private said.
Gwen complied, turned toward the facial recognition camera, then placed her bound hand on the digital fingerprint scanner.
The Private’s lips softened into a weak smile. “Gwen Ling. Forty-two years old. Naturalized U.S. citizen. Registered nurse.” She nodded to the armed Soldier, and he promptly removed the flex-cuffs. “I’ll need your signature, ma’am.”
Gwen skimmed a single-page digital form, a sworn statement attesting to her biography, then signed it using an attached stylus.
A printer on the desk began to whir. “This is your new Homeland Security/voter identification card,” the Private told her. “Please proceed through the door on your left.”
The armed Soldier stepped forward and escorted her into the holding pen labeled civilians. “Ma’am, a vehicle will arrive shortly to return you to District Six. Thank you for your cooperation.”
The prisoners were male and female, most covered with small red welts. Some appeared frightened, others downright annoyed, and she paused across from a middle-aged woman with a stubby ponytail and five welts on her face.
“Are you ill?” Gwen asked.
The woman self-consciously patted the red bumps on her cheek. “No, there was a really nasty swarm of mosquitoes a few minutes ago. Everyone outside got eaten alive.”
“When we get back to the district I can give you some calamine for…” Gwen’s voice faded as the Mandarin-speaking Unibrow entered the pen and joined five other Asian men with their T-shirts tucked in at the belt buckle.
They’re PLA soldiers, Gwen thought, her confounded stare lingering long enough to draw a glare. Why are they being released as civilian workers?
40
South of Scoville Air Force Base
District Five, Illinois
AN HOUR AFTER DARKNESS fell, Bradley Webber was lying prone across the street from the house that had burned to the ground nights earlier.
Most of the peacekeepers residing in the “sanctuary zone” had scattered like cockroaches ahead of their previous raid; and had since moved back, emboldened by the barrage of negative publicity aimed at the TEradS. Their white pickup trucks lined the street, brazenly flaunting their presence; and between the vehicles, mailboxes propped up miniature billboards disparaging the TEradS and proclaiming that Chinese Lives Matter!
Bradley rolled his eyes at the sight, catching a glimpse of three blackbirds circling overhead. They glowed an unnatural green under night vision, like ghostly apparitions haunting the cursed site.
Damn buzzards, he thought, resisting the urge to use them for target practice.
He and Gutierrez were providing overwatch as the team moved from house to house, and each time a flash bang pierced the murmur of insect night song, Bradley held his breath, waiting for some unanticipated calamity to befall the operation. Were his guys walking into another setup?
Ryan’s decision to continue using flash bangs was ballsy. “It is no secret,” he’d told the TEradS teams, “that the enemy is using propaganda to remove tools from our arsenal, to degrade our morale, and to diminish our ability to fight. And I am not having it!”
Shouting voices played over his tactical headset, but there was no gunfire; and within a few minutes, a parade of Chinese men exited the building, palms planted atop their heads.
“A peaceful surrender?” Gutierrez mumbled. “What gives?”
“Beats me.” Bradley’s gaze drifted south watching Sergeant Avery march the six prisoners toward the National Guard checkpoint a mile down the road. Their docile behavior was unsettling, especially following Captain Canter’s warning. Peacekeepers in California had booby-trapped corpses and played dead to ambush the local TEradS team.
Abby’s team, he thought, temper flaring. Bradley’s muscles tensed, and his teeth ground together, a physiological response to a glut of emotion. The danger to his wife seemed to be increasing every day, and he couldn’t protect her.
Consciously trying to suppress his anger, he watched the team storm into another residence. A chorus of voices declared the building clear; and the remaining three houses produced the same result, no additional enemy combatants.
Why four pickup trucks for only six peacekeepers? Bradley wondered. The question injected a dose of anxiety into his gut, intensifying his volatile emotions.
After a thorough search of all the buildings, his team leader said, “Only two weapons recovered, both 9mm handguns with fifty rounds of ammo. No grenades, incendiary or otherwise. No computers, phones, or useful intel. Nothing but clothes, bottled water, and MREs from an Amnesty Alliance aid shipment ... Let’s wrap it up and get the hell out of here.”
Bradley watched his teammates retreat, pleased that they’d captured six enemy combatants without firing a shot; disappointed that they’d acquired no actionable intelligence. The lack of electronic equipment and weapons was perplexing.
Are the Chinese out of supplies? Or did they squirrel away their arsenal for a future ambush?
Sergeant Strebel’s head cocked to the side. “I see an abandoned rifle. A Type 56 beneath a pickup truck.” He maneuvered toward the vehicle, placed a hand on the bumper, and as he bent over to retrieve the weapon, metal shards erupted from the grill.
Reacting to the explosion, the rest of the TEradS instinctively took cover behind the nearest object. Two more detonations ripped through the neighborhood; two more of his buddies were down.
Bradley shouted, “IEDs are in the trucks!” and scanned the perimeter.
Is there a triggerman out there? Or are the IEDs motion activated?
“You see anything?” Bradley demanded.
Peering through a spotting scope equipped with infrared imaging, Gutierrez said, “There’s nothing out there besides birds.”
Two medics were scrambling toward the injured Soldiers, giving the vehicles a wide berth; then a nearby mailbox spouted into a fountain of lethal metal.
“Stay off the street,” the team leader shouted. “Away from vehicles and mailboxes!”
Both Snipers remained in position to cover the evacuation of Alvarez and Sheehan, who had been seriously injured.
“This is bullshit,” Gutierrez sputtered. “We need to start droning these ‘sanctuary zones.’ ”
Bradley agreed, but he knew it would never happen, not given the presence of civilian protestors during their previous mission. “I’d settle for keeping eyes on ‘em,”
he said. “So they can’t rig up these minefields without our knowledge.”
When Norwyn and Fineri returned, he and Gutierrez abdicated their hide to help extract the dead from the battlefield.
Grunting, Bradley lifted Fenimore onto his shoulder, a Staff Sergeant who was twenty-seven and had a wife and daughter back in District Two. With each labored step toward the National Guard checkpoint, Bradley’s emotions were simmering, a toxic stew of guilt and anger. His team had been decimated while he looked on, unable to protect them or even take down the bastards responsible.
If I had voiced my suspicions about the pickup trucks, my guys could be alive, he thought, subconsciously shifting the blame off the peacekeepers and onto himself.
Wrath, self-loathing, and grief were boiling inside him, turning Bradley into a human pressure cooker, and he glared at the Chinese prisoners jailed inside the open-topped transport truck.
Six gloating faces greeted him, their arrogant smiles broadcasting a solitary message: We just killed your buddies and you can’t do a damn thing about it!
Chapter 9
><>< DAY 465 ><><
Wednesday, May 25th
41
Edgar Air Force Base
District Nine, California
ABBY WEBBER HAD just finished breakfast when the fight broke out. Two Airmen were shoving each other, bumping into tables, knocking plates and utensils onto the floor. A brief hush fell over the chow hall, followed by the cheers of Soldiers starving for any form of entertainment.
A shot to the jaw, a strike to the nose, then blood went flying. The bleeding man lunged forward, grasping his opponent by the throat, and absorbed several kidney punches before the MPs separated them.
The rain finally let up, Abby thought, and now everyone seems to have vaulted the spectrum from sadness to anger—including me.
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