95
Off the Coast of District Three
Washington, D.C.
STANDING WITH LEGS spread unusually wide, J. Anthony Walker grasped the cherrywood console with both hands, bracing himself against a violent swell. The bridge shot three stories upward. Walker felt his feet leave the floor; and for several seconds, he was weightless, the ship falling away beneath him, diving into the dark trough of the wave.
Despite his efforts to navigate around the line of thunderstorms, the vessel was pitching and rolling at the mercy of the furious sea. Stressed metal creaked and groaned around him, a constant reminder that this civilian car carrier had not been engineered to withstand these forces. The nearly 500-foot-long boxy superstructure was essentially a floating parking garage with internal movable ramps, hoistable decks, and a specialized ventilation system to disperse exhaust fumes. Known as a RORO ship, constructed for vehicular traffic to roll-on and roll-off, it had been criticized as a high-risk design and earned the derogatory nickname roll-on and roll-over. It was absolutely the last type of vessel Walker wanted to be piloting under these conditions.
The bridge rocketed upward. He lost footing, and when the hull finally smacked against the cementlike ocean, he landed on his backside. Pain shot along his fifty-seven-year-old spine, then swearing and shouting orders at his crew, he struggled to his feet.
The ship was transporting armored personnel carriers, anti-aircraft and antiballistic missile batteries, light tanks, and the soldiers to man them. Walker imagined vehicle tie-downs snapping like worn thread; trucks and equipment tipping then tumbling and shifting with the waves, wrenching more and more equipment free; causing the ship to heel at ever-increasing angles until the vessel ultimately capsized.
Nothing about this mission is going right, he thought.
The surprise air strikes on Ansley Air Force Base, Quantico, and the Pentagon had already been postponed due to inclement weather, further delaying his mission, which was to ground the car carrier on Chesapeake Beach. Then, while the air attack distracted the Americans, Night Sector mechanized units would blitz inland to Route 4 and lead a follow-on ground assault against Ansley.
The seas lurched again, the access door thudded against the steel wall, and his chief meteorologist burst onto the bridge, brandishing a laptop. “Sir, we’ve got a huge problem.”
No kidding, Walker thought, conveying his annoyance with a withering glare.
“The Americans—they hacked into all the weather satellites. They’ve been feeding us a faulty stream of data.”
Walker seized the laptop, jaw dropping at the on-screen image of a 200-mile-wide spiral of churning clouds.
“It’s Hurricane Anna,” the meteorologist continued. “The category three storm we believed to be in the Gulf of Mexico. Max sustained winds 190 kilometers per hour. Pressure 960 millibars ... And the way it’s skirting the coast ... Well, I believe it’s being steered toward us.”
Certain that this commercial vessel could not withstand a storm of that magnitude, Walker considered his options. He couldn’t just turn around because a single broadside wave would be enough to capsize the RORO ship and doom all aboard. Instead, he ordered his crew to maintain a heading forty-five degrees into the wind in a desperate bid to escape the wrath of Mother Nature.
96
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
RYAN ANDREWS WAS monitoring the crash site from the ops center. He knew those birds were drones, deliberately deployed to down that C-130.
Did Volkov think I was aboard that flight? he wondered. Was this revenge for the photo I placed in the draft folder? Or did the psycho believe that the sensitive hard drive was being transported to Ansley?
Sergeant Swickler’s voice crackled over Ryan’s headset. “We’ve sustained three casualties. Hunter-one, a compound fracture to the femur. Hunter-four, a spinal injury with loss of sensation to the lower extremities. And Hunter-seven, a dislocated shoulder.” A pain-filled roar resounded in the background. “Update. Hunter-seven just popped his arm back into his shoulder socket.”
Amidst rippling swirls of smoke, armed men dressed in civilian garb were advancing toward the wreckage. Rounds began punching through the fuselage, and a chorus of expletives sputtered over the radio.
“First responders are taking fire,” the Corporal announced. “They’ve been ordered to stand down, but a quick reaction force is being scrambled.”
That’ll take a few minutes, Ryan thought, time they don’t have. Jaw pulsing, he said, “Hunter teams, fight your way out.”
“Copy. Wilco!” Swickler said, using the military terms for I heard your transmission and will comply with your order.
Aided by the ops center, which was relaying the positions of enemy combatants, the TEradS quickly routed an enemy that outnumbered them three to one.
By the time first responders arrived on scene, Ryan’s teams had already evacuated their injured brothers and a dead Airman from the tail of the fuselage.
He watched medics immobilize Hunter-four’s neck and move him onto a backboard.
I never should’ve taunted Volkov, Ryan thought, blaming himself for the crash. The man’s insane and kills indiscriminately.
A phone chimed and—anticipating that it was Kyle—Ryan cringed. He wanted to help his friend, to repay that old debt, but now he had even fewer soldiers to allocate. He just didn’t have the manpower to accomplish all the tasks on his to-do list.
Should I divert Swickler to District Six? And put the uninjured on the next flight to D.C.?
“Major Andrews,” the Corporal said, extending a tethered handset. “General Quenten on the line, sir.”
Ryan glanced at Captain Fitzgerald. “Get the remnants of 6A and 6B into the briefing room, and find out when the next flight to D.C. goes wheels up.” He ripped off his headset then grasped the phone, pressed it to his ear, and said, “Good-afternoon, General. What can I do for you?”
Dispensing with pleasantries, a flustered-sounding Quenten said, “Major, we have a colossal problem.”
97
District Three, Washington, D.C.
ABBY WEBBER DOVE behind a knee-high cluster of bushes. PLA soldiers had just shot an unarmed civilian, an elderly man with a wispy white beard who had been wandering the adjacent parking lot, searching cars for anything of value.
He posed no threat, Abby thought. So why shoot him?
Cautiously, she advanced toward the victim, pressed a finger to his neck, then whispered, “I’m sorry ... Rest in peace.”
The murderers had trekked along First Street and turned left, toward the U.S. Capitol Building, a curious destination given that no lawmakers were present. Abby resumed her pursuit.
The skies had darkened dramatically within a few minutes, casting the city into a perpetual twilight and obscuring its landmarks behind a blur of rain.
Aside from the deteriorating weather conditions, it was no longer viable to continue the hunt above ground. From Benning Road through Federal Center, the Blue, Orange, and Silver Metro Lines all led to the same stations. However, at L’Enfant Plaza, the Yellow and Green Lines would intersect, diverging to the north and south, which meant Abby would be unable to track the rats within the maze of underground tunnels.
Twenty minutes elapsed, then murky gray puffs began belching from either end of the Capitol Building. Through the magnification of her scope, she noticed the gauzy smoke was emanating from the House Chamber to the south and the Senate Chamber to the north.
“They’re burning the Capitol,” she mumbled, voice choked with sadness over the destruction of an American landmark and a powerful national symbol.
The arsonists emerged, faces aglow, taking malicious pride in their handiwork; and Abby resisted the urge to exact vengeance. Short-term satisfaction was not worth provoking a firefight that would result in her being outgunned.
General Sun IS the mission, she reminded herself.
The former peacekeepers returned to Capitol South Station and descended un
derground, equipped with flashlights rather than night vision. Abby maintained a safe distance behind them and crept down the stairs, now a cascading river of runoff. Despite the howling wind, she weasel-walked into the darkness, each soggy footstep deliberately placed to avoid a telltale squeak against the tiled floor.
Ahead, dancing points of light were meandering between a thicket of bodies, flickering like lightning bugs. As her eyes adjusted to the gloomy environment, she saw the last few peacekeepers jump from the platform and file into the subway tube, continuing their westward march.
Abby’s mind raced through potential targets. Nearly all were vacant buildings and monuments, not in keeping with previous Chinese attacks aimed at Veterans, law enforcement, and registered gun owners.
Is this a tactical shift, elevating symbolic targets above human casualties? Or a spiteful act of desperation?
The column passed through L’Enfant Plaza, remaining inside the Blue Line tube, the same one Abby had used to reach the Climate Change Museum weeks earlier.
At least I knew where to find my target during that mission, she thought.
What if I can’t find General Sun?
Then a quiet voice whispered, “What if you find him and miss the shot?”
The dream rushed back, the bullet sailing wide, the frustration; and Abby drew in a breath, tasting the mustiness of the tunnel.
As the peacekeepers snaked past Smithsonian Station and Federal Triangle, she grappled with fear and doubt. Her heartbeat sounded like a clock, ticking down the minutes until Sun’s extraction.
I’ll get him, she told herself. No matter what it takes.
The pace slowed upon entering Metro Center Station, an arcing cavern of concrete dimly lit by a few lanterns. Peacekeepers were climbing onto the platform, and faint murmurs grew into enthusiastic chatter.
Abby edged to the mouth of the tube.
If they reverse direction, I’m in serious trouble, she thought.
First, she would become caught in the beams of their flashlights, then in the spray of their rifles.
A man wearing blue jeans and a black raincoat appeared at the top of the escalator, and an involuntary smile curled Abby’s lips.
It was General Sun; and as he began addressing his troops with a Hilteresque fervor, her smile wilted.
Even if the Chinese troops divided up, covering every tube direction, she would be outnumbered twelve to one. The tunnel would provide no concealment or cover, and even errant shots would ricochet toward her due to the curved walls. Shooting him now would be a virtual death sentence.
What should I do? she asked herself.
Take the shot and complete the mission now ...? At the expense of my own life?
Or keep tracking him ...? And risk losing him?
98
North of Scoville Air Force Base
District Five, Illinois
BRADLEY WEBBER squinted at the blackbird as it tumbled end over end like a football. Wingnut was desperately trying to pull the drone out of the spin, but its flapping wings served only to distort the trajectory into a wobbling, less predictable arc.
Although it crashed into a scraggly pine tree a hundred yards from their position and vanished from view, the camera was still transmitting a picture, a fuzzy web of brown veins against a backdrop of yellowish-green pine needles.
“You see it?” CJ asked as though everything were progressing according to plan.
Bradley raised his rifle and peered through the scope, searching.
“Yeah, it’s wedged in that half-dead pine about fifteen feet off the ground.”
The bird’s wings fluttered in a vain attempt to extricate itself.
“I can put it out of its misery,” Bradley said, grinning at the thought of reducing it to a shower of electronic components.
“No! You need to retrieve it.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who flew it into a tree ... Twice!”
Wingnut harrumphed, pushed himself to a standing position, and made his way toward the captive blackbird. He tried jumping, a comical sight, then he attempted to shinny up the tree trunk like a camouflage worm, which resulted in him falling onto his ass.
Chuckling, Bradley wished he’d activated his scope camera.
Finally, Wingnut opted for brains over brawn and snapped off a branch from a nearby tree. With two thrusts, the bird popped loose. It toppled downward, bouncing off branches like a Plinko chip before smacking into CJ’s face. Bradley couldn’t contain his laughter.
The Pilot trudged toward him, right hand clutching the drone, his left rubbing the red welt on his forehead with an extended middle finger.
Unable to smother his grin, Bradley said, “Why did it spin out of control?”
“I’d swear it flew into something.”
“Like an imaginary tree?” The remark earned Bradley another one-finger salute, and he exhaled audibly, wishing he could vent the intense heat trapped inside his green bodysuit.
“Did you notice the blurred image at the point of impact?” Wingnut asked.
The video segment captured by the blackbird replayed, a dizzying interchange of sky and land.
“The drone’s tumbling too fast to see anything,” Bradley muttered. As amusing as CJ’s antics were, he was tired of waiting, tired of feeling like an overcooked Thanksgiving turkey. “Listen, it’ll be quicker for me to take a walk down there.”
“No. Wait ...! Just one more minute.” CJ restarted the clip, slowing the action.
Bradley watched each frame advance; and at the moment of impact, a circular ripple appeared. The buildings seemed to undulate like a disturbed liquid, as if the bird had broken the surface of a pond, only the resulting waves resembled static discharges.
“What the hell is that? Some kind of science-fictional force field?” Bradley demanded.
“No. It seems more like an electronic screen,” CJ said. “Do you remember how we camouflaged military production sites like Lockheed during World War II?”
“Yeah, we strung camo netting over the facility.”
“Right. And artists painted the skyward side to look like the countryside to confound anyone analyzing surveillance photos.” CJ’s voice was bubbling with excitement. “I bet this is a high-tech version of the same thing, capable of projecting images, retarding heat signatures, and containing electromagnetic energy.”
Bradley stared at the industrial complex, jaw grinding. Did the Russians develop an advanced technology similar to his energy-deadening suit that could function on a massive scale?
Then an even more troubling question screamed through his head.
99
District Six, Texas
“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” Kyle Murphy and his deputies scrambled for cover behind a thirty-inch stucco wall.
He couldn’t believe what was happening. That lying bastard, Alex Ivans, was running away from the fight, using misguided American teens to cover his escape.
The civilians had cleared out, transporting the injured to the medical center, except for the hard-liners holed up at the filling station. Kyle watched the rebels pile into Upshaw’s classic ’57 Chevy and take off in pursuit of the pickup truck.
I’m losing control of this district, he thought. Upshaw was right. I was too lenient on the vandalism and curfew violations; and that compassion has emboldened these kids and incited vigilantes to anoint themselves judge, jury, and executioner.
A glimpse of his huddling deputies forced Ivans’ rights from his mind. Kyle’s primary concern had to be the safety of the naїve teenagers and his law enforcement team.
Sheriff Turner shouted, “Drop your weapons!”
The advance persisted, and although most shots zipped wildly, pinging off buildings, shredding trees, and chiseling away at the stucco wall, one round connected with a deputy, striking him in the shoulder.
“Governor!” Turner barked. “I know you don’t want to return fire on a bunch of kids, but we can’t let this rampage go unchecked.”
They’re yo
ung, easily manipulated, Kyle thought, dreading the idea of shooting American children. “Retreat,” he told the sheriff. “And stall. Give them a safe place to expend their anger—and time to deplete their ammo.”
Turner gave the order and his men fell back to the sheriff’s station, helping the injured deputy to safety, then they took up defensive positions inside the building.
Lead thunked against the stone façade and bored through windows. Shards of glass and chunks of Texas limestone rained down; and the bombardment raged on, each minute under fire feeling like an hour.
“Governor, they all have backpacks,” Turner shouted. “And they’re reloading.”
Kyle grimaced. He knew some of those kids; he’d worked with some of their parents. “If we fire on them, we’re playing right into Ivans’ strategy. That’s what he wants.”
“What he wants,” Turner snapped, “is you dead. And if we don’t act soon, he’s likely to get it.”
Kyle swallowed hard, unable to dislodge a rising swell of anxiety, then he said, “Suppressing fire—only!”
Gunfire thundered from the sheriff’s station; still, the teenagers’ slow march continued unabated. They didn’t even bother to take cover.
The sheriff groaned, emitting a harsh sound teeming with frustration and disgust. “It’s not working. They know our suppressing fire is just an empty threat. Governor, they’re almost on us. If they breach that door—”
“Shoot to injure them,” Kyle bellowed. “Nine millimeters, no rifle rounds.”
Mists of blood blossomed; bullets tore into arms and legs; yet the slow charge endured. The teens were undeterred, seemingly oblivious to the pain that was surely coursing through their bodies.
Turner said, “Ivans must’ve got them hopped up on something—Zolam, meth, cocaine. Terrorists fought that way in the Middle East and it took multiple rifle rounds to stop them.”
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