Power Play- America's Fate

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  As the deputies took cover inside the sheriff’s station, Peter wrestled a rifle and backpack from a girl half his size. He fired a three-round burst. Two bullets missed wide; the third plowed into the back of a fourteen-year-old boy wielding a fully automatic AK-47.

  Noting that his drug-induced impairment had diminished his shooting range, Peter wormed closer, dragging the long gun and backpack. The pain in his gut felt like a whirling cyclone of razor blades, and he couldn’t ever remember feeling so thirsty. His pulse was rapid; his respiration, slow—a combination that would further undermine his marksmanship.

  He aligned his sights on the lanky kid who had assaulted him, squeezed the trigger, and ... nothing.

  Shit!

  The thirty-round magazine was empty.

  With a shaky hand, he reached into the backpack. His thumb snagged on a wire loop and pulled it free.

  What the hell?

  He removed a tubular hunk of metal from the zippered compartment. Fear jolted through him; his facial muscles twitched involuntarily; then he tossed the pipe bomb into a nearby storm drain. Peter rolled away as fast as his drugged body would allow, and the motion fomented another nauseating dizzy spell.

  An explosion resounded, drawing the teenagers’ attention and inadvertently inspiring them to deploy their pipe bombs.

  Clumsily, Peter fished through an outer compartment of the backpack. His fingers closed around a ribbed metal magazine, then a bullet struck his right leg. He lowered his forehead onto the pavement, gasping in breaths as if air could extinguish the intense pain.

  An onslaught of gunfire was pouring from the sheriff’s station.

  They mistook me for one of the underage attackers, he thought, jamming the rusty magazine into position and yanking the AK-47’s charging handle.

  Lanky rushed the sheriff’s station. His arms swung powerfully at his sides, each hand gripping a pipe bomb, and Peter had no time to debate his options. He raised his rifle, took aim, and fired repeatedly.

  The would-be bomber collapsed lifelessly onto the sidewalk, then twin detonations erupted.

  Jagged, thorny metal fragments spewed outward in a fifty foot radius, and Peter felt a hot slicing ache race along his forearm. The gash looked like a bleeding frown, and as he plucked the twisted, scalpellike piece of steel from his skin, it bit into his fingers, inflicting additional pain.

  The entire teenaged posse was down, felled by shrapnel; and a terrible sense of regret surged through him.

  I shot Lanky too soon, Peter thought. I wasn’t paying attention to his proximity to the others.

  His eyes settled on Lydia, who was lying on her back, T-shirt soaked with blood.

  Please, God, don’t let her die, he thought, desperately searching for any indication of life. If I killed her, I won’t be able to live with myself.

  Law enforcement stormed from the building’s main entrance, first aid kits in tow. The sheriff sank to his knees, administering CPR to a thirteen-year-old girl, while the governor dashed from body to body, seemingly distraught as he checked for pulses.

  Come on, come on, Peter thought. Get to Lydia ... before it’s too late.

  A spark of hope ignited inside him.

  Lydia’s left hand moved.

  She’s alive!

  It took a few seconds for the truth to override his elation.

  Something in Lydia’s hand was glinting in the sunlight.

  The barrel of a handgun was swinging toward the governor, and Peter’s heart slammed to a stop. A toxic blend of anger and grief knotted his muscles. Dozens of thoughts occurred instantaneously.

  She’s going to kill him ... Unless I stop her.

  Dear God, I don’t want to shoot Lydia.

  Please ... Save the governor some other way ... Don’t ask me to do this.

  Then a revolting awareness dawned.

  No matter what I do, someone I care about is going to die.

  105

  Off the Coast of District Three

  Washington, D.C.

  J. ANTHONY WALKER listened as his second in command communicated with the U.S.S. Clay Hunt, confirming their identity as the Ulga with a flawless Polish accent. His stare was bobbing along with the horizon, anticipating that black smoke would be rising from the Arleigh Burke-class Destroyer now that the Eule des Meeres had returned to attack depth.

  A lone naval ship, Walker thought, head shaking with pity. The endless wars, the EMP, the Chinese invasion—they have stretched the mighty American military to its breaking point.

  In his mind, there could be no better time for a Night Sector offensive. Their empire had expanded over the past fifteen months, virtually unchallenged, swallowing up resources; and soon they would pacify the prized continent of North America.

  “Two Shkval supercavitating torpedoes away,” a crewman reported.

  The bridge of the RORO car carrier soared with a swell, bringing the destroyer back into view, and Walker glimpsed a faint puff of white smoke.

  “American countermeasures deployed,” a crewman stated.

  He smiled, knowing that the U.S.S. Clay Hunt had launched a noisemaking decoy, a countermeasure incapable of fooling the torpedoes, which detected the choppy water of a ship’s wake and honed in on the vessel using an S-shaped pattern until it impacted the target.

  The bridge dove into another trough, obscuring his view, and two muffled explosions echoed through the ship, felt more so than heard.

  “Both Shkvals neutralized by countermeasures,” the crewman reported, his voice tinged with alarm. “Two American torpedoes in the water.”

  The throbbing ache in Walker’s neck intensified. As far as he knew, only U.S. aircraft carriers had been retrofitted with torpedo-killing torpedoes.

  Another, more powerful explosion vibrated through the civilian car carrier, and his gaze jogged to the north. A ghostly spray of seawater shot upward like a breaching great white shark then bloomed into a convulsing cloud of destruction.

  “The Eule des Meeres has taken two direct hits—”

  “Continue on the current heading,” Walker said calmly despite the calamitous development. “We will sail right past them. They have no reason to sink a Polish RORO ship.”

  His XO pressed a hand to his ear then said, “The U.S. Navy intends to board and search the vessel, sir.”

  Walker had few options, none of them pleasant. The Night Sector aircraft carrier tasked with the air strikes on Washington was within range, but the Clay Hunt was sure to intercept the radio signal, identify the RORO as an enemy vessel, and sink it before the first fighter jet cleared the carrier deck.

  Walker couldn’t stall them, fight them, or outrun them.

  He turned to face his XO. “Tell them the Ulga has received their orders and will comply.”

  After the message had been relayed, he directed his crew to maintain the appearance of cooperation while making the approach as difficult and dangerous as possible for the American boarding party. Then he lifted a telephone handset from the steering console, a ship-wide public address system. “We are about to be boarded by the U.S. Navy. All hands are expected to prepare an appropriate welcome, being ever mindful that live hostages will be our sole defense against American torpedoes.”

  106

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  AIGUO CHEN ENTERED the central processing center, unsure what to expect. As a corporal in the People’s Liberation Army, he was obligated to follow the explicit orders of his commanding officer: hide your weapons and shed your uniforms. Surrender peacefully to the TEradS and reveal your true identity, but adamantly deny any affiliation with the Chinese military.

  It seemed illogical, even suicidal; and since being taken into custody, Chen’s doubts were mushrooming. The Americans had massacred POWs locked in jail cells, so why was China’s Central Military Commission so eager to consign him to the enemy? To render him helpless? Chen was willing to die for his Motherland—as a ferocious fighting tiger, not a submissive mouse.

  T
he processing center was a hastily built structure, a large open room with a labyrinth of serpentine ropes that marshaled detainees toward a row of computer stations. Most appeared to be manned by underage enlistees.

  A sign of desperation, he thought. The Americans are sending children to do the work of adults.

  The line inched forward. Snippets of conversations mingled together, Mandarin mixed with English. The detainees were not dressed in PLA uniforms, but Chen had no trouble identifying his comrades. Like him, they wore their T-shirts tucked in at the belt buckle while dangling loose around the sides and back.

  The processing center had three exits, one labeled for civilians, a second for POWs, and a nondescript door behind the processing stations, which was flanked by two Military Policemen equipped with M4s.

  An interrogation room? Chen wondered. A soundproof torture chamber? An execution cell?

  “Station eight,” a young Private told him, pointing to the left.

  Heart hammering inside his chest, Chen obeyed and settled onto a chair across from a young boy.

  “Last name? And please spell it out, sir.”

  He complied, eyes drifting toward an unpleasant scene. A man was screaming that he was an electrician, not a PLA Sergeant; and Chen watched a Soldier drag the unruly prisoner toward the POW door.

  “Aiguo Chen,” the Private said. “Twenty-two years old. Born in Shanghai. A plumber by trade … Please place your hand on the scanner to verify your fingerprints.”

  Confused, he lowered his bound hand onto the glass. A bluish-green beam of light swept beneath his fingertips.

  He’s going to realize that I am not Aiguo Chen the civilian worker, he thought, staring straight ahead at the nondescript door. What horrors awaited? Beatings? Electric shocks? Drug-induced confessions? Waterboarding?

  “Mr. Chen ...? Do you understand everything I’ve just told you?”

  He nodded, though he hadn’t heard a word of it, and the armed Soldier stepped forward to remove his flex-cuffs.

  “Okay, then ... I’ll need your signature.” The private extended a tablet with an attached stylus.

  What if my handwriting doesn’t match? Chen had never practiced signing his name in English, and his resulting signature looked as if it had been scribbled by a toddler. The Private didn’t seem to notice.

  A printer on the desk began to purr. “This is your new Homeland Security identification card. Please proceed through the door on your left.”

  An armed Soldier followed a step behind him, saying, “A vehicle will transport you back to District Six. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “And if I have no desire to return there?” he demanded.

  “Then the driver will discharge you just beyond Langden’s gate.”

  The door swung open, and Chen grinned, reveling in the fact that the stupid Americans had mistaken him for a worker.

  Those seemingly foolish orders now make sense, he thought. My commanding officer knew that surrender would set me free to fight another day!

  107

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  SANDWICHED BETWEEN hostile forces, Abby Webber took advantage of the only nearby concealment, an overturned trash receptacle missing its top. The commercial-sized can was molded from a durable composite plastic, definitely not bulletproof. Through the dim light, she grimaced at the speech bubble posted on its exterior—If you see something, say something—a throwback to the days when Americans’ greatest fears were pressure cookers inside abandoned bags.

  Abby backed inside, feetfirst, and folded herself like a pretzel. Then, gripping her rifle barrel, she jammed the butt stock deeper into the mushy goop at the bottom. The mixture of sour and bitter odors was potent enough to sting her eyes and burn her throat; and she focused her attention on remaining immobile, to prevent the cylindrical can from rolling. It was positioned near the ground-level exit, angled toward the escalators, barely fifteen feet from the demarcation line between feeble natural light and subterranean darkness.

  Chinese soldiers began marching past her. Their legs created a strobe effect, alternately blotting out the light, and their shoes splashed through a stream of runoff overspreading the hexagon-tiled floor.

  Is General Sun still with them? she wondered. Are they joining forces with the “tunnel rats” from the lower platform?

  Abby had no idea how many gunmen were working their way toward the mezzanine level, and she cursed herself again for not packing night-vision goggles. At the time, it had seemed like a bulky, heavy waste of space and energy, considering that the mission would end—one way or another—by 1700 hours, long before night would settle over the nation’s capital.

  She drew in a slow breath, instantly regretting it. Aside from the rank smell, the odor had produced a tickle deep inside her throat. Abby resisted the urge to cough, eyes tearing in protest.

  Chinese soldiers continued to file into the station, only a few yards from her position.

  Where are they headed this—

  The thought was expunged by a sudden exchange of gunshots.

  Shit! The Chinese are trading fire with the “rats” ... and I’m in the freaking cross fire!

  Around her, bullets whizzed and smacked and pinged, scarring cement walls and burrowing through ticket kiosks. Abby had learned to control her heart rate, respiration, and emotions during the chaos of battle; but this engagement had her unnerved.

  This sucks, she thought, being in the middle of a firefight and unable to shoot back.

  There was nothing she could do; she felt trapped and powerless, at the mercy of fate.

  Crumpled and lifeless heaps began thudding against the floor, an indication that the “rats” were skilled marksmen. Is there a SEAL team operating in D.C.? Army Rangers? Recon Marines?

  The Chinese must have drawn a similar conclusion because they were hastily retreating up the waterfall of stairs that led to street level.

  A stampede of footsteps thundered from the lower platform, ascended the defunct escalators, and crossed the mezzanine. She saw two men dressed in black tactical gear and balaclavas streak into the light, then she heard a loud, chilling clank.

  A heavy metallic object bounded off the steps.

  Abby’s eyes widened.

  I’m gonna die, she thought, watching the grenade roll across the floor.

  108

  North of Scoville Air Force Base

  District Five, Illinois

  THE RAMIFICATIONS OF Ryan’s order raced through Bradley Webber’s mind. He didn’t know the interior layout of the buildings, the number of enemy combatants, the types of weapons and security, or where to locate the psychotic general. But he did know that his country—and Abby—wouldn’t be safe until the man was dead ... and that was enough.

  He pushed himself to a standing position, and the layer of perspiration trapped between his body and the sauna suit began to migrate, dragged down by gravity, inducing an itchy sensation.

  “You want me to do another flyby?” the drone Pilot asked. “See if we can pick up more details?”

  “No. Wait here until I breach the tent,” Bradley told him. “Then return to the vehicle. If I’m not there within two hours, head back to Scoville without me.”

  He pulled on a pair of goggles connected to a recording device and wedged the cellphone-sized gadget between his T-shirt and skintight pajamas, hoping his overheated, sweat-soaked body wouldn’t cause it to malfunction. Bradley yanked the hood over his head and threaded a fiber-optic filament—the thickness of a human hair—through the fencing mask. Then he opened the brown plastic case, removed another garment resembling a hazmat suit, and began to work his feet into the satiny cloth, turning it inside out as instructed.

  “Any activity near the blackbird?” he asked, concerned over losing the element of surprise.

  “Negative, which is why—holy shit ...!”

  Bradley stared down at his legs, simultaneously disturbed and thrilled.

  “... Half of you just ... just van
ished.”

  “It’s a multibillion-dollar invisibility cloak. Somehow, it’s bending the light around my body.”

  He stepped on a fallen pinecone and, able to see through his foot, watched the brittle petals break off. A crunching sound wafted upward.

  Unseen, but clearly heard, he thought. I’ll have to be careful about noise ... and enemy soldiers accidentally bumping into me.

  Grinning like a simpleton, CJ said, “Think about the applications for this technology. Surgeons wearing gloves, seeing through their hands while operating. No more hostage standoffs. It’ll redefine the concept of undercover investigations ... and be a shitload of fun at Halloween.”

  “Yeah, the future looks rosy,” Bradley said, a sarcastic bite in his tone. “I can’t wait until criminals and assassins get a hold of it. Invisible weapons and drones? Talk about a Secret Service nightmare. And imagine when terrorists gift wrap a bomb in this wonder fabric.”

  He slid his arms into the cloak then made repeated attempts at threading the fiber-optic filament into a cyclops port, an opening infinitesimally smaller than the eye of a sewing needle. Because his face would be shrouded by the hood, his vision would be relegated to a camera image projected onto the virtual-reality goggles.

  He donned the green gloves, completing the circuit, erasing his heat signature and electromagnetic energy. Bradley stowed a 9mm Beretta and extra magazines inside the cargo pockets of the cloak then sealed the garment using a hidden zipper.

  Feeling like a poached egg, Bradley waited for the camera to focus then took several steps, arms outstretched, fearful of smacking into a tree.

  That’s all I need, he thought, after heckling Wingnut over crashing the blackbird.

  With each step, however, his confidence grew. He had expected the filament extension on the camera lens to be like peeking through a straw and was pleased to discover that his field of vision was comparable to standard night-vision gear. “All right, I’m going in.”