Power Play- America's Fate

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “Bet I’d get there faster.”

  “Bet you’d get caught.”

  Lydia climbed onto the seat behind him, and interlocked her hands around his waist, low enough to be a dangerous distraction.

  Without the benefit of a headlight, he squinted into the darkness, meandering through the arroyos, braking and accelerating, enjoying the feel of her body pressed against his. Fifteen minutes later, he brought the ATV to a stop, three blocks from the bombed-out house where Franny Andrews had been held. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  Peter shouldered his rifle strap and draped an arm around Lydia. She leaned into him, their feet falling into step.

  The neighborhood was quiet and dark, the decaying remains of middle-class America.

  “That’s the house.” She pointed to a brick rancher, a former “sanctuary zone” known to be inhabited by Alex Ivans’ protestors.

  “Lydia, this isn’t a good idea. Let me take you home.”

  “Geez, Peter, will you lighten up? Come in and meet my friends.”

  Anxiety surged through him and congealed into guilt, as if his presence here was betraying the governor. “I can’t. I’ve got an 0600 shift.”

  “It’ll just take a minute ... Please? For me?”

  Lydia drew his hand to her face, and while her lips and tongue sensuously caressed his fingertips, his mind grappled to rationalize her request.

  I need to go in because ... because ... to see who’s there ... and to find out what they’re up to ... so I can report back to the governor ... yeah, like an undercover agent.

  As they neared the house, a male voice said, “This is a gun-free safe zone. You’ll have to leave your weapon outside.”

  A barrel-chested man stepped forward from the shadows of the porch, and although he wasn’t especially tall or muscular, he projected an intimidating air of confidence.

  Sensing Peter’s reluctance, Lydia whispered, “Do you want to spend the night fondling me ... ? Or your rifle?”

  A split-second battle between common sense and the promise of sex resulted in him relinquishing his Type 56 rifle.

  Lydia led him through the front door, down a hallway, and into a large bedroom. Through the dim light of a battery-operated lantern, he noted that the windows had been barricaded with plywood and that the room was devoid of furniture. Dazed-looking teenagers sat in clusters on the hardwood floor, sucking on lollipops, mutely watching a couple in the corner engage in intercourse.

  What the hell? Are they all drugged?

  Peter’s eyes swept the room, able to connect names with eight of the eleven faces. Two were children of slain deputies, three were newly orphaned by the TEradS drone strike, and three others had been arrested for vandalism and petty theft in the past week.

  A lanky pale kid with reddish-blond hair shoved Peter. “What the fuck’s he doing here? He’s part of Murphy’s Gestapo.”

  In an instant, the strung out lollipop brigade turned angry and sprung into action. Fists and feet flailed at him from every direction, punches to his face, his back, his kidneys. Peter staggered in a circle, unable to defend against so many attackers, then a kick to the groin dropped him to his knees.

  “Stop!” The voice belonged to an attractive woman with long dark hair, a motherly figure garbed in teenaged clothing. “Lydia, has recruited Peter to our cause. He’s going to eliminate our greatest obstacle.”

  The angry mob melted back into their anesthetized state.

  “Sorry, Man.” The lanky kid was extending a wrapped lollipop as a peace offering. “No hard feelings?”

  “It’s all good,” Peter said, pocketing the candy. Then he cornered Lydia, pressing her back against the wall, pretending to kiss her. “Recruited me?” he hissed. “Greatest obstacle? What are they talking about?”

  “Governor Murphy. You’re gonna convince him to release Alex Ivans from jail.”

  “No, I’m not. He’s a kidnapper and probably a murderer.”

  Lydia’s hands swooped toward his belt buckle, trying to derail logic with a rush of hormones. “Alex didn’t kidnap anybody! He was just trying to talk sense into her.”

  A horrendous thought recurred, one that had been floundering at the periphery of his mind, subdued by his libido. “You’re the one who set up Mrs. Andrews, aren’t you?”

  Her brow clenched; her head tilted in disappointment.

  “Don’t give me that look, Lydia. They abducted her. They were gonna kill her. What you did ... You committed a crime.”

  “Does that mean you’re gonna handcuff me this time?” Giggling, she plunged a lollipop into her mouth, licking it suggestively.

  Peter grasped onto her wrist. “Let’s go. We’re leaving.”

  “We can’t. The guards won’t let anybody leave until after.”

  “After what?”

  82

  Scoville Air Force Base

  District Five, Illinois

  BRADLEY WEBBER HOISTED his rifle onto his shoulder, lifted a green plastic case the size of a carry-on, and left the TEradS briefing room. After loading his gear into the backseat of a Humvee, he drove toward a buckling hangar. Fallen trees and rubble had been cleared from the main road that encircled the Air Force Base, but the asphalt still bore the scars of the earthquake: jagged cracks, peaks and craters, and mounds of foul-smelling sand.

  He parked inside the abandoned hangar, and the structure shrieked with every gust of wind, its foreboding pitch urging haste. Bradley removed a peculiar garment from the case, grimacing at its weight. The fabric was woven from synthetic metal fibers, a revolutionary, highly classified piece of technology masquerading as a pair of olive-green footed pajamas.

  He stripped off his battle dress uniform and shoes then quickly worked his feet into the built-in boots, aware that body heat would activate fibers in the fabric, causing them to contract like shrink-wrap until the one-piece suit became an extra layer of skin.

  General Quenten had expedited its delivery to Scoville after the President declared Volkov a threat to national security, and the responsibility of dispatching the Russian general weighed heavily on Bradley. This had mushroomed beyond his personal feud with the crazy general, beyond protecting Abby. His success or failure would mark a turning point in the war and the nation’s history.

  By the time he got the suit up to his waist, his calves were damp with sweat. The wonder fabric—engineered to defeat infrared scans and deaden electromagnetic energy—was trapping his body heat, sure to be a hellish curse on an eighty-degree day.

  He pulled his camouflage pants overtop and fastened his belt. The billion-dollar long johns were already squeezing his legs.

  Like being swallowed by a boa constrictor that’s on fire, Bradley thought.

  He threaded his hands through the sleeves, tugged the zipper upward, and raised the hood onto his head; then he slipped his jacket over the military-grade onesie.

  A rigid wire created a circular frame around his face, and he attached a screen that resembled a fencing mask. The gloves were noticeably thinner, and the material immediately shrunk to fit the contours of his fingers.

  Already sweating, Bradley strode out of the hangar toward an adjacent barracks. Since it was barely 0400 hours, he wasn’t concerned about anyone noticing his advance. After circumnavigating the building, he spotted his objective, a blackbird perched on a first-floor windowsill. According to “Amazing Grace” Murray, the drones could detect the electromagnetic energy generated by the human body and exploit it for both targeting and evasion. If a person happened within a meter, the bird was programmed to fly off as if frightened, hence the sauna suit.

  That information had been gleaned thanks to Abby’s impulsive temper. Ryan said that she’d pegged one of the drones with a book, knocking it into a bush where it became entangled, providing the Rear Admiral with a specimen to dissect. Bradley grinned, imagining Abby’s pissed-off little pout, the one that had snagged his heart. Then a voice inside him barked, “Focus on the mission! No distractions!” />
  He approached the drone with stealthy footsteps, just in case the damn thing could sense sound vibrations. With both hands, he choked the bird, groping for the tiny button on its neck. The wings flapped, the head swiveled, and he tightened his grip until the drone powered off.

  Before reentering the hangar, Bradley peeled off the hood and gloves, and squeegeed the perspiration from his face.

  Once the sun rises, it’ll get worse, he thought.

  Aided by a flashlight, he located the serial number stamped into the electrical clamp at the base of the blackbird’s foot. Bradley keyed the alphanumeric sequence into a satellite phone and double-checked it several times before sending a concurrent text to Ryan Andrews and Grace Murray.

  Minutes passed, increasingly oppressive; and as Bradley’s body temperature soared, his patience plummeted.

  I can’t rush this, he told himself. There’s too much at stake.

  Hearing a muted buzz, he glanced at the phone and read Ryan’s reply: briefing room phase two.

  83

  Ten Thousand Feet Above

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  HEART GALLOPING, ABBY Webber’s gaze was fixated on the open rear door of the C-130, which was cruising at 250 knots. Winds were buffeting the aircraft, but it wasn’t the rough ride or the impending jump that was troubling her.

  No one aboard the flight was aware of her covert missions or the potential legal ramifications. The supplementary order had been issued by Grace Murray, a Rear Admiral who was not in the TEradS chain of command, which meant that if this secondary mission went sideways, Major Andrews could not claim to have been “following orders.”

  If I screw this up, Abby thought, he’ll be relieved of duty and court-martialed along with the Rear Admiral.

  In addition to shlepping her rifle, three days’ rations, a laptop, and her parachute, she would be jumping with 250,000 potentially deadly mosquito drones.

  The two metal, coffinlike crates would continue on to Ansley Air Force Base, each three-quarters full, matching the official report filed by Major Andrews. Grace had reprogrammed the stolen drones to attack a chain of “sanctuary zones” surrounding Washington, D.C., home to the largest population of PLA soldiers.

  In recent weeks, TEradS Teams 3A and 3B had found themselves grossly outnumbered. Their attempts to clear out a given “sanctuary zone” merely prompted the enemy to scatter and pop up elsewhere in what amounted to a maddening game of Whack-A-Mole.

  Hopefully, that frustration cycle would end later today when Major Andrews launched an offensive specifically designed to drive the enemy north and west, where the mosquitoes would be lying in wait.

  If it worked, the Russians would be blamed, and the ballsy tactical move would only exist in the memories of three people. If it failed, two of the three would sacrifice their careers ... and their freedom.

  After receiving a two-minute warning, Abby approached the open door, attention fused to the drop light. The crew wished her well, and she nodded an acknowledgement, both hands gripping the tethered duffle bags that contained the drones.

  The green light began to glow, and she stepped off the ramp into the twilight. Abby wrenched open the first bag and thousands of inanimate bugs seemed to tumble upward, an illusion created because the winged pests generated more drag and were actually falling at a slower rate.

  She unleashed the second bag then deployed her parachute. The deceleration was jarring, the harness dug into her flesh, and she groaned, realizing that the prevailing onshore winds were much stronger than anticipated.

  What if the mosquitoes drift out of range?

  84

  Hubei Province, China

  BOQIN WAS ASLEEP WHEN it began.

  He lived in a twenty-by-twenty, wood-frame shack, two rooms that he shared with seven adults and three children. His late grandfather had built the home with crude tools and enormous effort, long before the Three Gorges Dam had swallowed up 13 cities, 140 towns, and 1350 villages.

  It started with a low-pitched hum that grew into a vicious rumble, then Boqin felt the vibrations. He had weathered many earthquakes during his thirty-two years, several thousand attributed to the mass of the artificial lake trapped behind the dam. By the time he opened his weary eyes, the walls were pulsing and flexing. The crack of snapping wood roused him from the lumpy mattress.

  Around him, the building was swaying and rolling with the powerful ground waves. Boqin dropped onto his knees and propped both hands against the floor, trying to steady himself against what felt like an angry sea. He crawled into the tiny gathering area that served as kitchen and sitting room. His family had already evacuated.

  The house pitched. Handmade cupboards flapped open, vomiting forth cooking pots, dishes, and utensils, turning them into weapons that battered Boqin. The ground lurched again, cabinet doors slammed shut, and he struggled toward the open doorway.

  Once outside, he could see swells of energy coursing through the ground like ripples on a pond. Trees were bowing and bobbing, their branches breaking, leaves raining down. The entire mountain shuddered, emitting a hideous slurping roar.

  To the north, Three Gorges Dam looked like a 2.3 kilometer slithering serpent of cement. It rocked laterally and bucked until a massive crack opened. Muddy floodwaters raged, thirty-nine cubic kilometers of sheer destruction gushing toward unsuspecting villagers downstream.

  Dumbfounded, Boqin watched the world’s largest hydroelectric power station—a project that had displaced 1.3 million Chinese citizens; an historic engineering, social, and economic success—crumble and drift along the roiling Yangtze River as if it were a mere sandcastle washed away by ocean waves.

  “Curse the Americans,” Boqin’s father muttered. Tears welled, making his eyes appear glassy in the fading twilight of evening. “Have they not inflicted enough ruin on our people?”

  Boqin nodded, though he doubted the United States deserved all the blame. China’s leaders had elected to build the dam atop two major fault lines, the Jiuwanxi and the Zigui-Badong. They had flooded archaeological sites and homes; submerged factories, mines, and waste dumps, allowing pollutants to dissolve into the water. Ultimately, they had erected a colossal vulnerability, a tantalizing target for Taiwanese extremists and hostile nation-states; and now, millions of people living in the shadow of Three Gorges Dam were about to pay with their lives.

  85

  Off the Coast of District Three

  Washington, D.C.

  LURED IN BY GREED AND a blistering hatred of his United States homeland, J. Anthony Walker had joined Night Sector a decade ago and ascended to the rank of captain. The rogue military force was a diverse collection of gangbangers, mercenaries, and disgruntled ex-special forces from around the globe, funded by shadowy, powerful people whose wealth measured into the trillions.

  Walker stood at the helm of his ship, binoculars focused on a wall of angry clouds to the south. His meteorological team insisted it was a thin line of squalls, weak thunderstorms tracking toward the D.C. area, incapable of disrupting the mission.

  Lips pursed, he pivoted the binoculars eastward.

  The Ulga was now visible on the horizon. The ship was a car carrier repurposed to transport food, medical equipment, medium-capacity electrical transformers, and materiel for the war effort; a virtual twin to the Night Sector vessel Walker was now commanding. Every effort had been made to duplicate the Ulga’s length, draft, displacement, and tonnage.

  Unlike many European nations, Poland had yet to diminish its support for the American military, a decision they would soon regret.

  The Eule des Meeres, a Kilo-class submarine purchased from Russia, had escorted Walker’s ship from its base. The vessels shared a symbiotic bond: while the submarine protected the ship with missiles and torpedoes, the ship protected the submarine by disguising its presence.

  “Confirm electronic warfare measures,” Walker barked, ordering a nonkinetic attack on the Ulga that would be difficult to trace.

  Hi
s second in command replied, “All radio communications, cellphones, radars, and GPS signals have been jammed.”

  Walker nodded. No distress call could be sent in the comms-degraded environment. “Signal the Eule des Meeres to commence.”

  As the submarine rose to attack depth, bubbles made the turbulent sea appear to boil. Then a stolen VA-11 Shkval Supercavitating Torpedo sliced beneath the choppy waves, leaving a telltale streak of white in its wake. The Shkval’s specially shaped nose cone created a gas bubble around the torpedo, deflecting the water away from its surface. By minimizing the torpedo’s physical contact with the sea, the drag was reduced; the speed, maximized.

  An ideal weapon for this circumstance, Walker thought.

  Because the Chinese and Iranians had previously purchased several of these Soviet-era torpedoes, Night Sector would enjoy a safety net of plausible deniability.

  Walker watched the hull of the Ulga leap from the explosion. Seawater shot skyward, mixing with a dark column of smoke. A secondary strike effectively tore the vessel in half; and within minutes, the wreckage sank beneath the surface.

  Two teams of Night Sector marines in rigid-hulled inflatable boats sped toward the debris. Members of the civilian crew were in the water, flailing desperately, begging for help as the RHIBs approached.

  “Seven survivors off the bow,” a marine reported.

  “Eleven off the stern.”

  To Walker’s knowledge, thirty-two souls had been aboard the Ulga. Were the other fourteen killed in the explosion? Trapped below decks in the sinking coffin?

  “Eliminate all evidence.”

  His second in command relayed the order, and the marines circled the survivors with automatic weapons blazing.

  The noise of the attack and scent of blood will attract sharks, Walker thought, and the “garbage cans of the sea” will cleanse the scene. There will be no witnesses, no conclusive evidence.