Power Play- America's Fate

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Norwyn slammed into the emergency exit, and all five men stumbled outside, maximizing the distance between themselves and the teetering building. Large jagged cracks streaked the road surface; and Bradley stood, mesmerized, watching the ground on either side expand and contract. The ghoulish mouth glowed with a strange light and was vomiting up a sulfurous-smelling brown liquid.

  Gutierrez tapped Bradley’s shoulder and pointed southward. Amidst splintering branches and falling trees, geysers of sand were shooting fifty feet into the air. Farther in the distance, he could see the river.

  “Does the Mississippi look like it’s flowing backward?” he asked, astonishment pulsing in his voice.

  Across the street, Barracks D was shaking furiously, tearing itself apart.

  Chunks of cement tumbled from its façade.

  Liquid gushed upward through ragged fissures as though a buried water main had burst; then the three-story building began to sink.

  “What the hell!” Gutierrez mumbled, blessing himself.

  “It’s liquefaction,” Norwyn told him. “The soil is turning into quicksand.”

  As soon as the tremors subsided, a scream seeped from the mound of cement and wood.

  “People are trapped!” Bradley ran toward the sunken hole, jumped into the flooded gully, and waded toward the rubble. His friends aligned behind him, forming a human conveyor belt to remove serrated pieces of debris. Hands bleeding and raw, he continued to dig, spurred on by the pleading cries of a female Airman.

  The woman’s left leg was pinned beneath a refrigerator-sized hunk of cement; and with Norwyn’s help, he managed to trundle it out of the way. Her shin was badly broken, bone protruding from skin, and her pant leg was saturated with blood.

  Gently, Bradley lifted the Private, only then registering the blonde hair. It was the flirty girl from the chow hall.

  “Carrie, you’re gonna be okay.” He advanced, watching the placement of every footstep, wary of shifting debris and razor-sharp metal. “You never told me where you’re from.”

  She was whimpering weakly, obviously pained by the bobbing motion of her dangling leg. “Flor ... ida,” she whispered.

  “Really? Me too.” He trudged through the inundated gully and made the ten-foot climb up to ground level, dirt slipping beneath his boots. “What part of Florida, Carrie?”

  Her forehead drooped against his cheek.

  Fearful that she was going into shock, Bradley hastened his stride toward two medics toting a stretcher.

  Carrie’s head jerked forward; he heard a hissing, wet splat; then he felt a spray of blood.

  The report of the rifle boomed, and a guilty rage exploded through Bradley.

  Volkov ...! That bullet was meant for me.

  45

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  COMMANDER GRACE MURRAY was huddled inside a temporary office at a secret facility. A battalion of cyber warriors under her charge were mitigating threats that most Americans could not even imagine. She had given the order less than two hours ago, and WLIB—a propaganda arm of the CIA—was now offline for the foreseeable future.

  The dual-pronged tactic of demonization and demoralization raised troubling questions.

  Is Langley retailiating against the TEradS over Ames’ assassination? Or is General Volkov effectively framing the CIA?

  The connection between Volkov and Aldrich Ames was undeniable.

  The phantom partition on Major Andrews’ hard drive has to be the key. I need to get down to Texas, Grace decided, opening the digital appointment calendar on her computer.

  She frowned, realizing that wouldn’t be possible for several days.

  What is Volkov up to?

  Are the Spetsnaz on U.S. soil solely to disrupt the American surrender as claimed?

  Did Bradley Webber inadvertently trigger a personal vendetta when he shot Dmitry Volkov?

  Or was that just a smoke screen to obscure something larger and more nefarious?

  She glanced at a weather alert, taken aback by the headline: category three hurricane, south southeast of Miami. The two most reliable models were predicting divergent tracks, and the discrepancy revolved around a floundering high pressure system over Florida.

  A rapid descent of cooler, drier air would strengthen the pressure, enabling it to act as a bumper and deflect the hurricane toward the Northeast. That track had a twenty percent probability and suggested a landfall between Hilton Head Island and New York City.

  A sluggish subsidence of cooler air, however, would weaken the high pressure system, allowing the hurricane to barrel across South Florida, re-intensify over the Gulf of Mexico, and then pummel the Texas coastline.

  A major hurricane this early? Grace thought. Just what we need, more crazy weather. ARkStorms, dust storms, bizarre electrical storms—it seemed as if the electromagnetic pulse had short-circuited Mother Nature along with the U.S. power grid.

  As she closed the alert, an instant message chimed, one of her subordinates informing her that the backdoor into the Russian military network had produced something of interest. The FSB—successor to the KGB—had located a missing Iranian Kilo-class submarine in the North Atlantic. The vessel was shadowing the Ulga, a civilian car carrier repurposed to transport food, medical equipment, and medium-capacity electrical transformers to the United States—courtesy of our Polish allies.

  Why are the Iranians tailing a humanitarian aid ship? Do they intend to sink it?

  The possibility didn’t ring true.

  Why would they squander their last functional submarine on such a low-value target?

  “Destination,” Grace whispered as her sixty-five-year-old fingers danced over the keyboard. “Chesapeake Bay outside Washington, D.C.”

  Is the submarine using the ship for cover, hiding behind its wake and sonar signature?

  And why aren’t our satellites tracking these developments?

  Chapter 10

  ><>< DAY 466 ><><

  Thursday, May 26th

  46

  District Six, Texas

  SERGEANT XING FENG had grown up in Shanghai, a city that no longer existed; and thoughts of his Motherland filled him with a vengeful heat that percolated through his skin and dampened his T-shirt. He wanted to lash out, to inflict a double dose of destruction on the United States, a wish that was virtually impossible.

  Common sense dictated an asymmetric strategy. “Death by a thousand cuts,” his commanding officer had told the remnants of his platoon. “This is the only way we can defeat our enemy.”

  Since Feng’s release from the central processing center two days ago, he had been scouting District Six for vulnerable targets. Eight times he’d been questioned by security forces and sent on his way with an apology; and the intelligence gleaned during those patrols had inspired this predawn attack.

  He was venturing into District Six on foot, along with eleven of his compatriots, toting five-gallon gasoline containers which seemed to grow heavier with every step. The pickup trucks at the “sanctuary zone” would have made the fuel easier to transport, but many of his peers insisted that engine noise would attract unwanted attention.

  “So what?” Feng had argued. “We all have Homeland Security identification cards. We can walk—or drive—among them without fear of arrest.”

  “Sergeant, you speak the truth,” his commander had replied. “However, the inhabitants of this district are heavily armed and likely to shoot Asian trespassers on sight.”

  It was an assertion he couldn’t dispute. The residents of District Six were a civilian army of terrorists.

  As he waded through the darkness of Lost Oak Boulevard, rumors and legends swirled through his mind: a sniper overrun, a Special Forces team wiped out by a human minefield, a sentry skewered by a teenaged boy with a bayonet, an entire company electrocuted …

  Are those tales true? he wondered. Or gross exaggerations?

  Feng turned onto Liberty Street, diverging from his comrades; and by the time he reached his
target, the district’s grocery store, his wrists were aching. A firm kick fractured the commercial glass door, and subsequent strikes flung a shower of icy-looking particles onto the floor.

  He crept inside, placed one of the five-gallon containers onto the checkout counter, then hefted the other one onto his shoulder. Feng began to douse the shelving with a continuous, zigzagging pattern. After all, the building was not the objective. His mission was to instigate a cascade of calamities: destruction of the food would undermine morale and security, thereby inspiring fear, anger, and lawlessness.

  In order for us to prevail, Feng thought, Americans must turn against one another in anarchy and civil war.

  After emptying the second fuel can, he cast it aside and returned to the doorway. The flick of a lighter ignited the fumes, and the ensuing explosion propelled him backward.

  His spine struck a metal lamppost.

  Air rushed from his lungs, and he crumpled onto the sidewalk, unable to move.

  Thunderous flames were radiating intense heat, and Feng closed his eyes, taking solace in his completed mission. A vast food cache was being devoured. Likewise, his comrades were torching chicken coops, barns, and stores of hay; and even if the Americans detected the treachery, they wouldn’t be able to fight it effectively—too many fires, in too many locations, with insufficient manpower, equipment, and water pressure. Feng almost felt sorry for them.

  47

  District Six, Texas

  FRANNY ANDREWS plodded into the two-story office complex that housed the sheriff’s station. Work on the lower floor was nearly complete, and construction crews were framing a wall to seal off the mazelike configuration of iron jail cells.

  She ascended the stairs and approached a secretarial desk manned by the governor’s wife.

  After an exchange of pleasantries, Franny said, “Is Kyle around?”

  Jessie offered a weary smile. “He’s in his office. At the end of the hallway.”

  The discord within the district is really wearing on her, Franny thought, feeling a surge of empathy. She knew what it was like, watching her husband endure Alex Ivans’ malicious verbal attacks. “Don’t worry, Jess. This too shall pass,” she said then started toward the hallway.

  Cubicle dividers had been reconfigured into a row of six large offices, all currently vacant, and the governor’s door was open. Kyle Murphy was shuffling through scraps of paper of various shapes and sizes.

  Damage estimates from the dust storm and fires? Franny wondered. Or complaints?

  “Morning, Governor.”

  Dark circles hung beneath his bloodshot green eyes, and his complexion was paler than usual. “Hey, Franny, what can I do for you?”

  Her gaze dropped to the satellite phone on his desk. “I was hoping to call Ryan.”

  Kyle jogged the papers into a neat pile and rose from his chair. “Of course. But to get a signal, you’ll have to go out to the balcony.”

  She thanked him, walked onto the four-by-eight patio overlooking Liberty Street, and dialed Ryan’s direct line.

  He answered on the third ring, and the sound of his voice made her realize how much she missed him. “Hey, Ry. It’s me.”

  “Franny ... oh ... hi.”

  “Am I calling at a bad time?”

  “No ... I-I’m just surprised. How are you? Is everything okay in District Six?”

  “Actually, it’s a clusterfuck,” she told him. “Break-ins, rapes, fires; and after the dust storm, cattle started getting sick. The symptoms were consistent with mad cow disease, so Kyle ordered all the infected animals to be euthanized.”

  “Oh shit!”

  “It gets worse,” she continued. “Half the ranchers complied; the other half rebelled. A day later all the symptoms mysteriously ceased and the postmortems on the slaughtered cows proved it was NOT mad cow disease. The resident expert has no fucking idea what it was, or whether the meat’s contaminated. So now the public is fighting over whether to consume the beef or destroy it.”

  An extended silence filled the line.

  “Ryan, you still there?”

  “Yeah ... it’s just a lot to take in.”

  “So, how are things at Langden?” she asked tentatively. “Are you buried in fallout from WLIB?”

  “You heard?” he asked, surprise and disappointment wrestling in his tone.

  “Yeah, some idiot with a Chi-phone was bad-mouthing the TEradS and going door to door with the videos.”

  “Asian?”

  “No. A white guy named Alex Ivans—”

  “Stay away from him!”

  He barked the order with an urgency that caught her off guard. “Ryan, what’s going on?”

  Seconds ticked past, tightening like a noose around her throat. They’d never had difficulty communicating. From the moment they’d met, there’d been fireworks, a verbal sparring that bordered on foreplay. What happened to all that crazy passion? Fighting back tears—again, she said, “Do you regret getting married?”

  “What ...? No. Of course not.”

  “Then tell me what’s going on with you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why is this phone call awkward and forced? Why don’t you want me around?” Despite Franny’s best effort, her voice broke on the final syllable.

  “I want you here ... more than anything ... but ...”

  During his brief hesitation, Franny’s internal voice finished his sentence: but I need some time apart; but I don’t have time or energy for a relationship; but getting married was a mistake.

  “... but there’s been a complication,” he finally said. “Stemming from that, uh ... project you and I collaborated on a couple weeks ago ... I might be a target.”

  “You sent me away to protect me?” she asked, wondering why that innocuous possibility had never occurred to her.

  “I know I should have told you. I just didn’t want to scare you.”

  “If you’re in danger, I want to be there. Four eyes and ears are better than two.”

  She could hear muffled voices conversing in the background.

  “Ryan, did you hear me?”

  “Tell him I’ll be right there ... Franny, I love you. I’m sorry about canceling our honeymoon. And I promise we’ll be together soon. But can I call you later tonight, babe? I really have to go.”

  He ended the call and she stood there, squeezing the phone. “Yeah. I really have to go too ... Even if I have to walk back to Langden.”

  48

  Edgar Air Force Base

  District Nine, California

  RESPONDING TO THE incessant knocking, Abby Webber jogged down her apartment’s stairwell and yanked open her front door.

  Cozart stood, hands on hips, scowling at her. “Damn it, Webber. Ask who it is before you answer your door.”

  “I doubt the Chinese sniper will bother to knock.”

  Pushing past her, he took the steps three at a time.

  Sure, come on in, Abby thought before slamming the door.

  Cozart had drawn the vertical blinds, turning her living room into a shag-carpeted dungeon, and he was in the process of moving her defunct refrigerator in front of the kitchen window.

  “Yo? Who crowned you interior decorator?” she snapped, jerking the cord to reopen the blinds.

  “That’s not bulletproof glass—like the briefing room—and the sniper’s still out there,” he shot back, his glare reminding her that he was the team leader. “Don’t make it easy for him.”

  Abby snatched her spotting scope off the Formica countertop and assumed her position behind the peninsula. “I can’t find the bastard if I’m hiding in the dark like a scared rabbit. And if he’s got cutting-edge terahertz vision, closing the blinds is pointless.”

  “T-ray vision? Unlikely,” Cozart grumbled.

  “Yeah, that’s what we thought about artificial intelligence explosive devices too ... Why are you here, anyway?”

  “To check up on you,” he said, right hand rubbing his neck. “You’ve had
a rough couple of days.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Okay, I’m pissed off.” Captain Fitzgerald’s question was still ricocheting inside her mind, battering her conscience and her confidence.

  “Are you pissed at Fitz for calling you out?”

  “No ... At myself for letting someone get close enough to shoot that video.”

  Cozart gave a condescending snort and rolled his eyes. “None of us spotted the guy—”

  “Yeah, well, that’s kind of my job.”

  Abby had replayed it through her mind countless times. The video had been shot from a hillside dotted with scrub and an occasional scrawny pine tree. There was no suitable concealment.

  “You didn’t spot anyone because it was probably a stationary camera,” he told her.

  Abby didn’t reply. Her scope was focused on a group of protestors at the eastern gate. Their faint garbled chant filtered into the apartment: The TEradS lied; civilians died! And their pumping signs demanded that Abby and Toomey be remanded into UW custody for desecrating the dead.

  Resentment filled Abby’s mouth with a bitter taste; her mind with bitter thoughts. “They don’t have a clue!” she griped. “Yet they rush to judgment, assuming they know it all.”

  Cozart shook his head. “I don’t get you, Webber. You’re more upset about the protestors than the guy who tried to put a bullet in your head.”

  “I understand the sniper’s behavior. He’s following orders; I know what to expect ... These idiots are just random and reckless.”

  Protestors were pushing against the gates, hurling rocks and trash.

  MPs ducked and deflected the projectiles for nearly a minute, then they suddenly scattered.

  An obsolete Ford rammed the gate, propelled by a seventeen idiot-power engine.

  Alarms began to blare.

  The vehicle retracted and rolled forward again; this time with more force.