She was still furious over the peacekeepers’ deceitful tricks, bold-faced violations of the rules of war; but the bulk of her enmity was directed inward, at herself. She’d recognized that the body placement was suspect.
What if I’d been more forceful? Made a more compelling argument? Would Pizzuto and Hunnsinger be alive? Would Donnelly still have his leg?
Sighing, Abby carried her cafeteria tray to the disposal station. First Sergeant Cozart had just cleared the security checkpoint and was striding toward her.
“Emergency team meeting,” he said flatly, his expression providing no hint as to the reason.
Abby followed him outside, squinting against the sunshine. After days of dreary downpours, her eyes needed to reacclimate to the brightness. The standing water on the base had drained off, leaving behind the heavy smell of mud. A brown layer shrouded the walkways and coated the tree trunks like a fungus. Above her, a row of blackbirds roosted on the electrical wires, rigid and unmoving, miniature soldiers standing at attention.
Cozart yanked open the door to the TEradS briefing room, where the remnants of Teams 9A and 9B were already assembled.
Captain Fitzgerald’s frowning face filled the wall-mounted monitor. “Nice of you to join us, Sergeant Webber.”
Abby sidestepped between the exterior wall and her seated teammates, then sank down into the first available chair. Sunlight streamed through the window behind her as if spotlighting her tardiness. “When was this meeting arranged?” she asked.
“A robocall went out at 0600,” Captain Fitzgerald said, irritation bubbling in his tone.
“Webber never got the message, sir,” Cozart told him. “In the process of tracking her down, I noticed that the overhead phone line to her apartment had been severed.”
“Are you telling me that the Chinese penetrated the base again and located her? Despite the heightened security after the bomb?” Fitzgerald asked.
When no one else dared respond, Cozart said, “Colonel Bernett has yet to implement the new security protocols due to a staffing problem, sir. Edgar has lost several hundred Airmen to suicide.”
The Captain’s forehead furrowed. “I called this meeting to draw your attention to the latest news feed from WLIB.”
A second monitor, beside the one hosting the Captain’s image, flickered to life.
“... The TEradS were caught committing heinous acts, yet again.”
The image of the pretty female anchor gave way to a clip of Abby and Toomey systematically shooting corpses to ensure that they were not playing dead.
“This time, the genocidal killers are desecrating dead flood victims—for sport; and WLIB has identified those ghouls as Master Sergeant Michael Toomey and Sergeant Abigail Webber, both TEradS Snipers ...”
A refrain of frustrated groans circled the table, and Abby felt a wave of indignation rising inside her.
“As you know,” Fitzgerald continued, “WLIB news reports are part of a highly effective propaganda campaign designed to alienate the United States and cut off foreign aid. A well-connected ally of Major Andrews has waded through a tangle of shadow corporations and determined that WLIB is owned and operated by the Central Intelligence Agency—”
“Someone at the CIA is undermining us with fake news?” The name Aldrich Ames screamed through Abby’s mind. Did the former director embed additional traitors at Langley?
Fitzgerald’s eyes focused on her like laser beams, a silent reprimand for the interruption. “And how, exactly—Sergeant Webber—did someone get close enough to shoot that video without you noticing? You were on overwatch, weren’t you?”
The question was a slap to wet skin. “I’m at a loss, sir.”
“I didn’t detect the guy, either,” Toomey said, gallantly throwing himself into the pit of blame along with her.
Abby’s first thought was a drone, but she immediately dismissed it. The footage had been shot at a low angle relative to the ground, not from overhead looking down. Her fists clenched against the seething mixture of guilt and self-condemnation that was churning inside her.
Why didn’t I notice? If the bastard was armed with a rifle instead of a camera, more of my teammates could’ve been killed.
“It remains unclear whether the video was shot by Chinese soldiers or rogue CIA agents,” Fitzgerald said. “In any event, this is sure to magnify the protests around the world and feed the backlash here, at home. Therefore, the rules of engagement have changed. TEradS will NOT engage any protestors—living or deceased—unless directly fired upon.”
Abby’s head rocked back against the window. Did the spooks strap motion-activated game and trail cameras to foliage? The camouflage-printed variety that hunters used prior to the pulse?
She felt a knock against the back of her head.
She heard a dull thud laced with a crinkling noise.
Then a hand grabbed onto her collar and dragged her down onto the floor, upending her chair.
Cozart was crouched beside her, and Abby followed his line of sight upward. A circular web of stress cracks fanned outward, and at its epicenter, a twisted hunk of lead was embedded inside the window pane—exactly where her head had been.
“What the hell’s going on?” Fitzgerald demanded, seemingly confused by the vacant conference table. All the TEradS Soldiers were on the floor, unarmed and unable to do anything other than take cover.
“A sniper just took a shot at Sergeant Webber, sir.”
42
North of Beijing, China
XIAN WAS THIRTEEN years old, one of the lucky survivors pulled from the rubble on the outskirts of Beijing, a title he was beginning to question. As an orphan, he now lived in a refugee camp run by a local warlord. His days were spent digging holes for latrines, hard grimy labor that consumed far more calories than he was being fed. In just over a week, he had lost five pounds; most adults, twice that.
Each night, mealtime brought chaos. The strong and aggressive managed to eat, while those who were weak or timid went hungry. Xian had learned that lesson early on; it was every man for himself; no one was going to take care of him.
As soon as the truck arrived with the day’s rations, Xian ran toward the gate. Faster and more agile than the others, he managed to seize an armload of foil packets. The warlord’s henchmen didn’t stop him. They remained in the cab of the truck, rifles poised to shoot anyone who posed a threat. They were focused on their own safety, unconcerned about the fair distribution of food or starving citizens.
Xian used his small frame to worm his way through the mob. Hands dive-bombed from all angles, snatching at his score of rations. Fingernails clawed his skin; fists gripped his shirt, trying to halt his forward progress, but he pressed on.
I must hurry, he told himself, all too aware that a mediocre effort would ensure that he emerged empty-handed, an unpleasant experience he had no desire to relive.
Finally, he broke through the tangle of bodies and burst into a full-out sprint. Groups of “runners” always staked out the fringes, lying in wait, allowing others to expend precious energy getting to and from the truck; then they chased down the weary souls and stole the spoils.
Xian swerved left then right, like a slalom skier avoiding gates. Most of the “runners” let him pass unchallenged, opting for slower, easier prey; and after a quarter mile, even his most stubborn pursuers gave up.
Heaving for breath, Xian settled beneath a “tree of heaven,” a deciduous species revered for its alleged ability to cure anything from mental illness to hair loss.
Why did our ancestors name it the “tree of heaven,” Xian wondered, when it reeks of rotting cashews?
That foul odor, however, would mask the smell of his food; and the bushy crop of saplings at the tree’s base would shield him from view while he ate. And tonight, he had procured a good haul: three packages of dried fish and four rice cakes.
An hour later, he returned to the sleeping tent, a threadbare piece of canvas that provided minimal protection against the elements.
The air trapped inside was a musty combination of body odor, dirt, and smoke from the wood fires that warded off predators. Inhabitants greeted each other warmly, all traces of the contentious food battle extinguished by the threat of ostracism. The last man exiled from the tent had been torn apart by Mongolian wolves, a lasting warning to anyone who caused dissension at bedtime.
Exhausted from the day’s grueling work and the fight for food, Xian dozed off, dreaming of his life before the meteor had pulverized his family.
Shortly before dawn, he awakened to a pinching sensation on his ankle. Before he could swat the source of his discomfort, more fiery pricks assailed his legs. All around him, people began shrieking. Someone lit a lantern and through the dim light, Xian noticed that the floor was rippling with reddish-black bugs. The soil appeared to dip and sway and glisten like the surface of a moonlit lake.
He jumped to his feet, shaking and swatting to ward off the little vampires. The pests stung like bees; their bites burned like hot pokers. His hands flailed over his legs, trying to brush the creatures off his skin. Instead, they locked onto his fingers and forearms, clinging stubbornly as if tiny hooks had burrowed into his flesh.
Someone screamed, “Fire ants!” Then Xian was swept up by a stampede of bodies evacuating the tent.
43
District Six, Texas
ALEX IVANS entered the front door of a pale-pink, three-bedroom rancher. The interior had been renovated prior to the EMP, its non-load-bearing walls removed, giving rise to a vast great room that housed the kitchen, dining room, and family room.
“They’re ready for you, Alarick—”
“Alina!” he snapped. “I told you to call me Alex!”
Her ample lips puckered into a kisslike pout, and her beguiling brown eyes met his, arousing his libido with unspoken sexual promises.
Each of the five propagandists under his command specialized in exploiting human weaknesses. They used envy, greed, fear, pride, anger, and lust to divide communities, to rake and tear and furrow the fabric of society so that new ideologies could take root. And Alina was a masterful manipulator, seductive and unrelenting, an agent capable of usurping his command if he failed to remain vigilant.
“Any progress with Sheriff Turner?” he asked, continuing through the kitchen and out the back door to the detached garage.
“Not yet, but I’ll gain control ... I always do.”
Her ominous words sparked a flash of trepidation, then he opened the swing-style man door. Alex strolled into the two-car garage and sighed, disappointed by the turnout. Only three girls and two boys had shown up.
Five seeds are better than none, he told himself.
Ranging from twelve to fifteen, they fell within his ideal target group; young enough to lack life experience; old enough to think they knew it all; and impressionable enough to be molded to his will. The teens had been lured to this “peace party” with promises of treats virtually unattainable since the EMP: brownies and ice cream. The young Americans consumed the sugary chocolate, unaware that the baked treat contained a cocktail of drugs engineered to generate an ecstasylike high, create dependency, and make them more receptive to suggestion, ergo more controllable.
“Are you enjoying the party?” Alex asked with a rallying cry that demanded an enthusiastic response.
“Hell yeah!” shouted a pretty young girl with black hair.
Alex deployed a seductive smile. “What’s your name?”
“Lydia Dorset.”
“Thank you for coming today.” He broke eye contact then, as if suddenly aware of the other teens’ presence, he said, “Thank you all for coming. You are intelligent, socially aware, and courageous—the future of this nation. And as Americans, it is your duty to speak out against the inhumane treatment of POWs and the atrocities happening in your own backyard. You must stand up for those who cannot defend themselves and protect the peacekeepers seeking refuge in the ‘sanctuary zone’ just beyond the district limits.”
He paused, pleased that all five teens had devoured their brownies.
“Where’d you get the ice cream?” Lydia asked.
Masking his contempt for the stupid question, he said, “We made it with ice, salt, and an old-fashioned, hand-crank ice cream maker.”
“Are you gonna make more?” she asked hopefully.
How long before those damn drugs kick in? Alex wondered. “The ice cream? No. That was a onetime, introductory treat; but brownies will be available daily to those protesting at the ‘sanctuary zone.’ Now, let’s get back to waging peace ... You all may not realize this, but less than a hundred miles from here, POWs are being gunned down in their prison cells. In Illinois, women and children have been firebombed; and in California, innocents—like yourselves—have been shredded by grenades. How long before the TEradS teams break down your door in the middle of the night? And bury you in the mass grave of collateral damage?”
The teens reactions ranged from disinterest to mild annoyance, and Alex knew he needed to try another strategy. “How many of you lost someone because of Governor Murphy’s vendetta against the Chinese? Anybody lose a friend? A brother? A father?”
Lydia perked up, pain and bitterness igniting in her eyes. “My father was a deputy, and Governor Murphy got him killed during some stupid firefight at the sheriff’s station.”
Alex had to suppress his grin. “Do you know the truth about that firefight? How it started? Why your father died?”
“To protect Murphy from the peacekeepers?” she asked feebly, as if yearning for a better explanation.
“The governor was hoarding supplies that belonged to everyone in District Six—food, medicine, and Chi-pads that would have disseminated information and exposed the truth about the military coup. Your Armed Forces are dismantling the Constitution and replacing it with a military dictatorship. Governor Murphy is a co-conspirator. That’s why he allowed the TEradS to destroy your cellular tower. In order for them to gain control, we—the people—must be isolated, and the truth must be quarantined. Murphy is the genuine terrorist; and Lydia, I’m sorry to say that your father died protecting him.”
“My father was a good man!” she shot back, fire blazing behind those hazel eyes. “He was not a terrorist!”
“Of course, he was a good man,” Alex cooed soothingly. “But history is replete with good men led astray by charismatic, evil leaders. Murphy lied to everyone, painted the peacekeepers as the boogeyman, and turned the district against the very people who were trying to save them.”
“Okay, so Murphy’s an asshole,” a teenaged boy shouted. “It’s not like we can do anything about it.”
“Yes, you can. You can protect the ‘sanctuary zone’ and protest against this war. Defy the powers that be; let them know you’re tired of being hungry and afraid; and that you won’t lay down your life for their cause. End the war and you strip away the military’s power. You can stop the murder of children, the slaughter of peacekeepers, and the detainment of Asians in concentration camps. It is up to your generation to stop the madness because you understand what’s happening in ways that your parents can’t. You must rise up! And lead the next American revolution!”
44
Scoville Air Force Base
District Five, Illinois
BRADLEY WEBBER WAS playing poker with his teammates in the second-floor “day room” of Barracks C, a failed attempt to distract himself from yesterday’s disastrous op. Explosive Ordnance Disposal Technicians had deployed robots to disarm three additional bombs, one inside a pickup truck, two others concealed inside mailboxes. All the devices featured a new, highly sophisticated trigger mechanism that detected the electromagnetic energy emitted by the human body. It was an amazing feat, undoubtedly inspired by Mother Nature and patterned after sharks, which were able to sense and target the weak bioelectric fields generated by their prey.
The generic term improvised explosive device seemed woefully inappropriate, prompting Ryan Andrews to coin the acronym, AIED—an artific
ial intelligence explosive device that could analyze electromagnetic energy and distinguish between the approach of a human being, a small animal, and a robot.
Things keep getting worse instead of better, Bradley thought, frowning at his poker hand. If the PLA is truly cutoff, how are they acquiring this technology? He dropped his cards onto the table and said, “I’m out.”
A deep rumble sounded, a cross between an elongated crash of thunder and the growl of a freight train. Through a window on the far wall, Bradley glimpsed scores of birds simultaneously taking flight, starlings, robins, and blue jays; only the blackbirds remained statuelike atop the distant electrical wires.
Gutierrez shouted, “Incoming!” and Bradley hit the floor along with his buddies, anticipating an artillery explosion that never came.
Barracks C trembled.
Chairs and vertical blinds rocked sideways, gaining momentum.
Then the entire building began pitching and swaying, creaking and moaning in response to the violent undulating motion of the ground.
Norwyn shouted, “Earthquake!”
Bradley staggered toward the stairwell, following his team leader through a hail of crumbling ceiling tiles. Wooden studs were snapping, the steps beneath him were bucking like a bull, and he clung to the handrail, trying to maintain his footing.
The New Madrid fault must’ve ruptured, Bradley thought.
The rift in the Mississippi Valley was little known despite its size, twenty times longer than the infamous San Andreas; and despite its catastrophic power, which generated the most intense earthquake ever recorded in the Lower 48 states. From December of 1811 through March of 1812, thousands of quakes had battered the Midwest, the largest of which was alleged to have awoken President James Madison in Washington, D.C., and rung church bells in Boston.
Power Play- America's Fate Page 14