Ryan shuffled through a pile of news headlines he’d printed out and began making notes.
5/18 – Horseflies, cattle, Texas
5/20 – Horseflies, pigs, China
5/23 – Mad cow disease, Texas
5/24 – PEDv, China
5/24 – Mosquitoes, Texas
5/25 – Fire ants, China
5/27 – Malaria, Texas
5/27 – Drug-resistant TB, China
5/26 – Locusts, Kansas
5/28 – Armyworms, China
5/18 – ARkStorm, California
5/19 – Yangtze flood, China
5/20 – Freak lightning, Idaho
5/22 – Freak lightning, China
5/21 – Dust storm, Texas
5/24 – Sandstorm, China
5/27 – Freak hail storm, Florida
5/28 – Freak hail storm, China
5/23 – Mt. Rainier erupts, US
5/27 – Baitoushan, China
5/25 – New Madrid EQ, US
I predict a major earthquake will hit China this week, Ryan thought. The mosquitoes, locusts, and armyworms can be explained by the high-tech drones, but what about the other natural disasters? Are the Russians somehow manipulating the weather?
He thought back to Operation Popeye, a highly classified weather modification program during the Vietnam War. Clouds had been seeded with silver iodide and lead iodide, successfully extending the monsoon season by thirty to forty-five days and flooding out the Ho Chi Minh Trail, a crucial enemy supply line.
Eager for answers, Ryan directed his attention to the phantom partition. Grace’s program had finally finished running, and a list of folders was now visible. He opened one entitled, “Weather as a Force Multiplier: Owning the Weather in 2025.”
The paper had been written in 1996 and included a carefully constructed disclaimer: although this information has been produced in a Department of Defense school, it does not reflect the policy position of the U.S. military or government. A cagey move, considering that a 1977 United World resolution prohibited the hostile use of environmental modification techniques.
Ryan skimmed the article, mumbling to himself, “Charge the ionosphere to disable or destroy satellites ...? Use clouds of microscopic computer particles to create precisely aimed and timed lightning strikes ...? A pound of these nanoparticles is likely to cost the same as a pound of potatoes ...? The global weather system is like a series of bubbles, and when you press down on one, another pops up?”
He closed the file and sorted through the other folders. One appeared to be Russian, and as soon as he selected it, Grace’s translation program launched.
In addition to disclosing U.S. military secrets, he thought, Aldrich Ames must’ve been divulging everything we knew about Russia’s classified weapons.
Most of the files were replete with technical jargon and detailed specifications beyond his comprehension, but the chapter headings were enough to make Ryan swear that his blood had transformed into ice water.
Steer a storm toward a target using high-pressure systems.
Stall a storm over an area for extended periods.
Intensify wind speed and precipitation.
Generate downdrafts to spawn tornadoes and sandstorms.
Trigger earthquakes and volcanic eruptions using electromagnetic energy and sound waves.
Deploy extremely low frequency (ELF) waves to achieve crowd control.
Ryan reviewed his handwritten list again. Each bizarre weather event transpired in the United States, only to recur in China days later.
Are the Russians secretly hammering us and China? And making it look like we’re retaliating against each other?
He let out a prolonged sigh then muttered, “I’ll be damned. Climate change really is man-made.”
Chapter 13
><>< DAY 469 ><><
Sunday, May 29th
75
Scoville Air Force Base
District Five, Illinois
DESPITE KNOWING THE exact time and coordinates, it had taken Bradley Webber hours to surreptitiously obtain the footage of that truck. He glanced at the digital clock in the lower corner of the computer monitor—0137 hours—and another burst of adrenaline spurted into his nervous system. He had to hurry, to acquire the information and get out before anyone realized that he had accessed the ARGUS video archive without permission.
The Autonomous Real-time Ground Ubiquitous Surveillance system was a 1.8-gigapixel video surveillance platform capable of observing ten square miles at a time and zooming in on items as small as six inches—all at an insanely clear resolution. The high-tech system, named after the mythological Greek giant with a hundred eyes, had been deployed to assess the damage caused by the New Madrid earthquake; and its software could simultaneously track sixty-five distinct targets—indefinitely.
Seventeen minutes elapsed before he ferreted out the correct video segment.
Shit! There I am, clear as day, he thought. The Malcolm omission, the falsified armory record, the unauthorized password use to access this footage—Ryan’s going to have an epic conniption.
He watched the scene replay from a bird’s-eye angle. The driver shot Malcolm, and Bradley winced, second-guessing his decision to hold fire. Would the truck lead to Volkov? Or did he inadvertently let the enemy go free to kill again?
The vehicle drove off, generating a rooster tail of dust.
If his destination isn’t within the range of ARGUS, I’m getting court-martialed, Bradley thought.
The truck bounded along the fire road for several miles, then four men dressed in black, with balaclava-cloaked faces and AK-74s, ambushed the driver.
Spetsnaz? Bradley wondered. Did Volkov dispatch one of his own? As an act of retribution?
The soldiers tossed the dead blond into the truck bed and piled into the vehicle. They drove east for two miles before turning onto a paved roadway.
As Bradley zoomed out, the aftermath of the earthquake became staggering—crumbled buildings, toppled forests, scarred roadways—virtually nothing remained untouched. The truck was traversing foot-wide cracks, which had spewed forth a liquid that didn’t merely stain the road; it was literally dissolving the asphalt. The driver navigated around buckled ramps that rose two feet high, bypassed sinkholes where the ground had subsided, and rolled past fallen trees that someone had bulldozed onto the shoulder.
Bradley zoomed out further, trying to get a sense of where the Spetsnaz team was going. He noticed an old industrial complex, a half dozen dilapidated factories abandoned long before the electromagnetic pulse. Four of the buildings were pinched and puckered, girdled by drifts of broken bricks that had been shed from the upper stories. Yet somehow, two of the structures appeared unscathed.
Why? They were all built at the same time, from the same materials.
Bradley leaned toward the monitor, blinking, unable to process what he’d just witnessed. He replayed the video at half speed, then at quarter speed, then advanced it frame by frame.
Thumb and index finger squeezing his lips, he watched the truck disappear ... one sliver at a time—the front bumper, followed by the hood, the cab, the bed, and the tailgate. It looked as if the vehicle had driven into an invisible tunnel or some kind of science-fictional stargate.
76
District Six, Texas
GWEN LING HAD SPENT two hours tossing and turning, her tenacious mind still contemplating the malaria-like disease that was afflicting District Six. The doctors couldn’t reach a consensus. Some believed it was typhus; others argued it was malaria; while a few admitted they had no idea.
She grimaced at the windup clock on her nightstand, knowing that she needed to get some rest. As a nurse, she was aware of the detrimental effects of sleep deprivation: impaired concentration and judgment; increased forgetfulness; and a greater likelihood of accidents.
Hearing the unmistakable, high-pitched whine of the back door, she bolted upright in bed.
Cabinet doors were banging; met
al cans were clanking against each other.
It’s a break-in, Gwen thought, easing her body from the squeaky mattress.
A rash of vandalism had escalated into robberies and even arson during the past week, further fraying the nerves of district residents.
The bedroom door suddenly flew open, and two Asian gunmen burst into the room, both dressed in jeans and sweat-soaked T-shirts tucked in at the belt buckle. Heart galloping, Gwen screamed and lunged for the ground-floor window.
The younger man latched onto her arm, and she kicked at him, her bare feet unable to impart any meaningful damage.
“Gwen Ling, you are guilty of treason!” the older man declared in Mandarin.
“No. You’re mistaken. I’m not—”
“Silence, traitor!” He slammed the window shut, symbolically terminating the discussion and expunging any hope of escape. “Colonel Wu’s orders will be carried out!”
The older man turned toward her, and the tip of a knife glimmered softly.
Driven by panic, Gwen thrust her knee into the younger man’s groin; and just as she wrestled her arm free, the dagger carved into her back.
Pain raced along her spine, hot and throbbing.
Her strength evaporated, and she collapsed onto the floor, coughing up a foamy red liquid.
He must’ve punctured my lung, she thought.
The man rolled her onto her back. He raised the bloody weapon above his head and stabbed her stomach. The blade rose and fell repeatedly until she lost count; each puncture increasing in ferocity.
A feeling of coldness began creeping inward from her hands and feet, an indication that her body was diverting blood flow to vital organs.
The muscles around her bladder and bowels relaxed.
Gurgling sounds were emanating from her throat. Saliva was pooling; and she willed herself to swallow, to clear her airway, but the muscles were no longer responding.
Her breaths grew shallow with gaps of thirty seconds to a minute in between.
Cheyne-Stokes breathing, she thought. I don’t have long ...
Gwen’s mind regressed to a time when she was five years old, standing beside her father, holding his hand as the life drained from his eyes. Only now, he wasn’t ill. He smiled at her and squeezed her fingers. “I’ve missed you, Little One. It’s okay to let go now.”
A brilliant light enveloped her.
The pain and fear melted away, supplanted by a blissful sense of peace.
77
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
RYAN ANDREWS SAT UPRIGHT in bed.
Who the fuck is calling at this hour? he thought, reaching for his phone.
“Andrews.”
“Good-morning, Major. General Zhensheng Sun calling ... to offer an olive branch.”
Ryan climbed from the bed and tiptoed into the living room to avoid waking Franny.
“Are you there, Major?”
“Yeah. And you don’t need my help. You can go to the nearest military base and surrender anytime.”
Sun harrumphed, seemingly insulted over the prospect of being treated like a common foot soldier.
“I do not wish to surrender. I am proposing an accord beneficial to us both. Are you willing to hear my proposal?”
“Get to the point, General.”
“My demands are simple: immunity and an immediate return to my Motherland.”
Ryan gave a derisive chuckle, amused by the general’s chutzpah. “Why the hell would I agree to that? You’re a mass murderer, a modern-day Heinrich Himmler.”
“Spare me your melodrama, Major. I have information that you are desperately seeking. I know the whereabouts of General Volkov.”
Caught off guard by the statement, Ryan allowed the silence to stretch on for nearly a minute before grumbling, “I don’t buy it.”
Sun expelled an audible sigh. “Volkov and I forged an agreement. Chinese workers would route electric and water to his forward operating bases. In exchange, he guaranteed my return to China and protection for Chinese nationals through a network of ‘sanctuary zones.’ Volkov has violated the spirit of this agreement, co-opting my army, deploying them as expendable fodder in order to bait the TEradS into ill-advised operations.”
“So, you got into bed with a psycho and you’re in over your head.”
“I am offering to provide you with the precise coordinates of every Russian forward operating base within the continental United States.”
“I already have that information,” Ryan insisted, but Sun knew he was lying.
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Major. If the U.S. military was aware of those bases, they would no longer exist.”
“Listen, General. If you want immunity, you’ll have to do better. So far, all I’m hearing are overhyped promises.”
“What will it take to convince you?”
“Volkov’s coordinates AND I want your shoot-on-sight order against Abigail Webber rescinded immediately.”
“I will go a step further, Major. I will rescind the kill orders against you and Bradley Webber as well.”
Sun had a kill order on Bradley? Why bother when Volkov was targeting him?
“Not good enough, Sun.”
“Perhaps you would care to know where those orders originated?”
Growing impatient, Ryan shifted the phone to his other ear. “Terms of your deal with General Psycho, I presume.”
“No, Major. This pyscho happens to be in your chain of command ... At the very top.”
Ryan’s thoughts raced. Quenten had threatened Bradley with a fact-finding inquiry; he threatened to consign Abby, Bradley, and Toomey to a United World war crimes tribunal; but murder?
Would the President order us rendered harmless? Like Ames, Arnold, Burr, and Hanssen?
No, this is just an attempt to divide and conquer, Ryan decided. Propaganda designed to degrade trust in the Commander in Chief.
“Not buying your bullshit, Sun. If you want a deal, I need verification that those Russian bases are not figments of your imagination.”
“And what assurance do I have that you won’t double-cross me?”
“The way I see it, you have to trust somebody,” Ryan said, his tone deliberately taunting. “You can take your chances with me ... or with Volkov.”
78
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
SINCE HER ARRIVAL AT Langden Air Force Base, Abby Webber had been sitting inside this tiny office. A camouflage-printed backpack rested in her lap, and her right heel bounced, keeping pace with her flitting thoughts.
Throughout the flight and during her two-hour stint in purgatory—also known as the waiting area outside the Captain’s office—Abby had edited and re-edited her remarks. Mentally, she’d practiced her tone and inflection, but no matter how she couched it, her allegation seemed crazy.
“Sergeant Webber, the Captain will see you now.”
She thanked the clerk then slogged toward the doorway, heart jackhammering as if approaching a guillotine.
“At ease, Sergeant.” Preoccupied with the paperwork on his desk, Fitzgerald did not look up. “Go ahead. State your business.”
“During our last briefing, you asked me a question that I couldn’t answer, sir. I have that answer now.”
His head bobbed upward, nose wrinkling, and his dark his eyes swung lazily toward the ceiling as if trying to recall the conversation. “Sergeant, you’ll have to refresh my memory.”
“You asked why I failed to detect the cameraman the day of the zombie ambush, sir.” Her hand dove into the backpack and emerged with the blackbird.
Fitzgerald’s impatient gaze toggled between her and the animal.
“It’s a mechanical drone, sir. An avian spy masquerading as part of the natural environment. The eyes are actually fiber-optic cameras. This is how that damning footage was covertly shot.”
Without a hint of surprise in his expression, Fitzgerald waggled his fingers. Abby stepped forward, presenting the bird for his inspection.
The Captain rapped his knuckles against the metallic body then said, “I suppose an apology is in order, Sergeant. You were not negligent in your duties.”
Abby squelched a smile of vindication and continued, “These birds were all over Edgar. During the day, they hung out on the electrical wires, most likely recharging ...”
Fitzgerald turned it upside down, examining the conductive clamps on the feet.
“... And at night, they perched on our windowsills, which explains how the assassins located me.” Abby hesitated, trying to rally the courage to deliver the sketchier parts of her testimony.
“Thank you, Sergeant. Dismissed.”
“Uh ... There’s more, sir ... This is going to sound insane, but overwhelming emotions always came over me whenever the birds were nearby—sadness and sometimes anger.” Abby gave a detailed account of both incidents—cut yourself and rest in pieces—and Fitzgerald remained silent, his expression skeptical.
Does he think I’m crazy? Hearing voices? Did I just earn myself a psych evaluation?
“Sergeant, let’s take a walk.”
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