Blacksnow Zero

by Lee Gimenez

  Lewis beamed. “Very successful.” Then her smile faded. “But after the tragedy here, maybe less so.”

  “The assassination is still hard to believe,” Erica said.

  “As is Taylor’s new position. That bastard and I are less than friends….”

  Erica nodded. In her past meetings with Lewis, the senator had made no secret of her dislike for the man. “Well, maybe you two can patch things up, Senator. Every day is a new day.”

  Lewis gave her a skeptical look. “We’ll see.” She leaned back on the couch, crossed her legs. “You wanted to see me? Something about Senator Carpenter?”

  Erica leaned forward. “During my investigation, I found a connection between the killer and high-grade military equipment. Black-ops stuff newly developed. Only available to U.S. government types.”

  “I see. How good are your sources?”

  “The best. My ex, the spook, found it.”

  Lewis smiled. “How is that dear man?”

  Erica chuckled. “He’s very useful, in the right circumstances.”

  The senator laughed, gave her a wink. “He’s a hunk. I bet he is useful.”

  Erica recalled her last meeting with the senator, when after a long night of drinking, she had succumbed to the woman’s charms. Though pleasant, the new experience was one she wanted to avoid in the future.

  “Yes, Senator. Anyway, after I got this and several other leads, the FBI took me off the case.”

  Lewis’s smile faded. “Why?”

  “My boss wouldn’t say.”

  “Curious.”

  “I thought so. I was mad as hell at the time, still am really. But I’ve calmed down a bit and I’m still working on the case, on my own.”

  Lewis nodded. “Good girl. I’d probably be doing the same in your shoes. So. You wanted to see me so that I can help you in some way?”

  “Yes, Senator. Something odd is happening and I suspect people in the Bureau are covering it up. I went over my boss’s head, talked with the deputy director. He clammed up, told me to get out of his office.”

  The senator gave her a sly grin. “I’m somewhat of a barracuda – I may be able to find out what’s going on. Senator Carpenter was a good friend of mine and I took his death hard.”

  “Yes, ma’am. There’s something else.”

  The woman arched her eyebrows. “What?”

  “I have no facts, just a feeling,” Erica continued. “What if Carpenter’s death and the President’s are linked in some way?”

  Lewis’s voice turned hard. “Do you have any proof?”

  “No, ma’am. I just find it too coincidental – two high-level deaths in such a short period of time.”

  The senator nodded and a thoughtful look came over her face. “I see your point. Keep digging, and let me know the minute you have anything. I’ll be glad to help you anyway I can.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Lewis stood up, came over and sat next to Erica. “You can dispense with the ma’am stuff. We’ve known each other too long for that. Would you like a drink?”

  Erica didn’t reply at first, her mind recalling their last meeting. Against her better judgment, she said. “Just one. Then I have to go.”

  “Of course,” the woman replied, as she rang a small bell that was on the ornate wooden coffee table. “What would you like?”

  “Beer’s fine, ma’am, I mean Megan.”

  The maid came in the room, took the drink order and left. She was back in a minute, placing a heavy tumbler in front of the senator, and a glass and a bottle of Sam Adams in front of her.

  Lewis picked up her glass and took a sip. “So, tell me what’s going on with your personal life. Any new men? Anything serious?”

  Erica glanced at the beer bottle, fought the temptation to pick it up. “New men – yes. But nothing serious. Seems like I always go back to McCord. Strange, huh?”

  The senator put down her drink, placed a hand on Erica’s leg. The FBI agent was wearing long slacks, but the touch still gave her a tingling feeling.

  “No, Erica. It’s not strange at all. I always say people gravitate to what’s most comfortable.”

  “You’re probably right, Megan.”

  “The beer’s getting warm, dear. Why don’t you have some? It’ll relax you, take the edge off.”

  The senator’s hand moved closer to Erica’s inner thigh and a sensual thrill shot through her. Erica stood up abruptly and began to pace the room. Then she stopped and stared at the woman.

  “What happened last time, Senator….”

  Lewis smiled. “Did you like it?”

  “I never had sex with a woman before that.”

  “But did you like it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what’s the problem, dear?”

  Confused, Erica grabbed the beer bottle and gulped the contents. She drained it in seconds, set it back down. “I’m sorry, Senator. I’m just not comfortable with the idea.”

  Lewis smiled. “Give it time. I won’t rush you again. When you’re ready, let me know.”

  Erica folded her arms in front of her. “Can I still count on your help?”

  “Of course. I want to find out the truth as much as you do.”

  Erica uncrossed her arms and extended her hand to shake. Lewis took it with both of hers, held it.

  “We’ll get to the bottom of this, Erica. Trust me, if there’s a cover-up, we’ll find it.”

  Erica stared into the other woman’s eyes, saw the steely determination there. She was glad she had set up this meeting.

  “Thank you, Senator. I’ll show myself out.”

  18 Days to Zero Hour

  Beijing, China

  General Wu Chang was nervous. He was sitting alone in his office, tapping his thick eyeglasses on the desk. An infantry veteran, he was used to battle and war. But this was different. Much different.

  His role as the primary contact with the American president had been altered, maybe forever. The assassination of Wilson had seen to that. And now the new president, Taylor, wasn’t returning his calls. Furious at first, Chang eventually calmed down. Taylor was a different man and would have to be handled differently. But in the end, the new U.S. President would have to crawl back to him, hat in hand. The Americans were desperate and urgently needed Chinese financial support.

  A small smile crossed his lips as he visualized this, but a moment later he frowned. There was the other problem. A possibly bigger problem.

  Chang’s spies in the American State Department had told him there was evidence the assassination had been perpetrated by the Chinese government. This alarmed the general, the Premier, and the high-ranking members of the Politburo. The idea was unthinkable. It was also false. The last thing China wanted was to stir up anger in the United States.

  But what worried Chang most was the disappearance of a military attaché at the Chinese consulate in Los Angeles, the same city where the assassination took place.

  He picked up the phone, spoke with Lin. “Find Colonel Deng,” he said. “I want to see him immediately.”

  ***

  Colonel Deng stood in front of him, his body ramrod straight. The man was short and wiry, and his military uniform was freshly pressed.

  “At ease, Colonel,” Chang said.

  Deng’s body visibly relaxed.

  The general leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about the military attaché. What have you found out?”

  “Yes, General. His name is Lieutenant Jing Zhao. He has been assigned to our Los Angeles consulate for a year. In addition to being a military attaché, he works for the MSS, our spy agency. He has an exemplary military record with several commendations, so it is unlikely he defected.”

  “I see. Our people have been searching for him?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve been looking for him since he disappeared. We’ve checked with the American police, the hospitals, and the morgue. He’s vanished.”

  “What about his personal belongings? His bank accounts?�
��

  “His clothes and personal effects are all still in his apartment, General. His vehicle is missing. As far as his bank accounts and credit cards, there have been no withdrawals or activity for days.”

  Chang mulled this over a minute, took off his glasses and wearily rubbed his eyes. Then he placed the eyeglasses on the desk, leaned forward in his chair. “Keep looking, Colonel. This has the highest priority. If you find anything, contact me immediately.”

  “Yes, General.”

  “Dismissed.”

  The man saluted, turned and left the office.

  A sinking feeling settled in Chang’s stomach. Zhao’s disappearance was an ominous sign.

  ***

  Los Angeles, California

  Steve McCord looked across the grassy plaza, which was now ringed with crime-scene tape and police barricades. The area was swarming with police, FBI, Secret Service, and forensic lab techs. To his left, the podium still stood, although the flags had been taken away.

  Although not assigned to the assassination case since the CIA had no in-country jurisdiction, Steve had nevertheless talked his boss into letting him come out here. Steve was an astute problem solver and if he were to help with the case, it would make the Agency look good.

  Striding over to the podium, he looked up at the surrounding office towers. From the case reports and from the frenzied activity at its entrance, he knew the shots had been fired from the building directly across from him. The high-rise looked no different than the others. It had the same bland, steel-and-glass boxy shape that filled this city.

  The shots had been fired from an empty office on the twentieth floor of the building. A hole had been cut in the window. The corpse of the assassin had been found soon after the shooting, but details about the man were being kept secret. Pending further investigation, only the Secret Service and a few higher-ups in the FBI knew his identity.

  Steve glanced around the buildings again, scanning the roofs. Something bothered him, but he couldn’t pin it down.

  He headed toward the entrance of the building, hoping to learn more. You could tell a lot by seeing the scene from the killer’s vantage point.

  17 Days to Zero Hour

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  President Matt Taylor stared out the three, tall windows, and then turned back to the large, oval office. He stood behind and admired the historic wooden desk named the Resolute. The desk had been built from the timbers of the HMS Resolute, a British naval ship. Queen Victoria had given the desk as a gift to President Rutherford Hayes in 1880. It had been used by many presidents, including Kennedy, Reagan, Bush, Obama, Trump, Cooper, and his own predecessor, Wilson.

  Taylor caressed the ornate wood of the desk, savoring the moment. Now it was all his. He glanced up at the rest of the room, at the beautiful, historic furnishings. It was all his.

  He’d waited a long time for this. Had sat in this room talking with Wilson, while visualizing this very moment. A smile crossed his lips.

  Taylor glanced down at his ample mid-section, and buttoned the jacket of his custom-made suit. Shaking his head slowly, he swore to himself he would lose weight. He only had one year left of his predecessor’s term, so an election was just around the corner. The last fat president was Taft, and that was a long time ago. Americans loved to eat, he mused, but they disliked the idea of an obese president.

  Taylor’s reverie was broken by a knock at the door.

  His assistant Alice stuck her head in. “Excuse me, Mr. President. They’re ready for you in the Situation Room.”

  ***

  Taylor walked into the large conference room and immediately everyone stood up. He went to the head of the table and sat down. “Please,” he said, “have a seat.”

  The men and women of the Cabinet, and the military chiefs, all sat down.

  He surveyed the room quickly, scanning the familiar faces. This was his first meeting as president in this famous room, and he wanted to savor the moment. Almost all of the participants here were holdovers from Wilson’s team. He had made only one change. To his right sat General Corvan, who replaced the previous White House Chief of Staff.

  “Let me begin,” Taylor said, “by thanking everyone one here for their tireless work over the last few days. I know most of you have been working 24/7, ensuring a smooth transition during this time of national crisis.” He paused, put on his most sincere expression. “I also want to express my humility for the great responsibility that has been transferred to me. I only wish to serve this great country with the same high level of integrity that President Wilson did. My prayers and condolences are with the president’s grieving family.”

  Taylor paused and breathed a sigh of relief. It was difficult praising his predecessor, but necessary.

  He spread his hands flat on the conference table. “I want to promise each and every one of you that I will do everything in my power to find out the truth about the assassination.” His voice rising, he added. “I will not rest until his death is avenged.”

  Turning to Corvan, he said, “General, can you bring us up to speed on the investigation?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. I’ve been talking with the Attorney General, and he has the latest information.”

  Taylor turned to the tall, black man to his right. “Okay, Mr. Harwood, fill us in.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harwood replied. “First off, what I’m going to say is classified information and highly confidential. It should not leave this room, until you, Mr. President, deem it to be appropriate.” Taylor nodded and Harwood continued. “The FBI and the Secret Service have taken the lead on the investigation and they have made tremendous progress, considering how recently the assassination took place.”

  “Go on, Harwood,” Taylor said impatiently. “Let’s save the kudos for later.”

  “Of course, Mr. President. The assassin was a Chinese man named Zhao, a Chinese military officer to be exact –”

  There was a chorus of astonished expressions from the group, and Taylor held up a hand. “Please, let the man talk.”

  “The FBI’s best current hypothesis,” Harwood continued, “is that the assassin was a Chinese government operative. The type of sniper rifle he used is only available to top-military. Unfortunately, the killer committed suicide after the shooting. He swallowed a cyanide capsule, probably to avoid capture and questioning. By the way, we traced the cyanide to a plant in Shanghai, China.”

  His tone skeptical, Taylor asked, “How reliable are your sources?”

  “Very sure, Mr. President. The deputy director of the FBI is personally in charge of the investigation. He has assured me that Bureau labs have confirmed this information.”

  Taylor nodded. His voice was grave as he said, “But what would the Chinese gain by killing Wilson?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Maybe they wanted to destabilize our country. We know they’re itching to be the predominant power in the world. In any case, I’ve got all our people in the Justice Department working on that exact question.”

  “Good work, Harwood. You are to be commended for your quick analysis. Keep me fully briefed as more details come in.”

  Harwood smiled, said, “Yes, sir.”

  The president turned back to the group and leaned forward in his chair. “Until this investigation is complete, I want to keep this meeting confidential. This information is too explosive to release without all the facts.”

  Everyone in the room nodded their assent.

  He put his hands flat on the table. “That will be all, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll reconvene soon. General Corvan, please stay, will you?”

  The meeting room emptied out except for the two men.

  A smug smile crossed Taylor’s face. “That went well, don’t you think?”

  “Excellent, Mr. President. What do you want me to do next?”

  Taylor stared at the general. “That’s obvious. Leak the Chinese connection to the press.”

&
nbsp; 16 Days to Zero Hour

  Aboard the USS Nevada

  U.S. Navy Trident nuclear submarine

  100 miles west of San Diego

  The Pacific Ocean

  Commander Roger Lamont was in his quarters working on his laptop when he heard a rap at his hatch door. “Come in,” he said as he looked up.

  Lieutenant Michael Johnson came in the small room, closed the hatch behind him.

  “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir,” Johnson said, “we’re getting close to the Demarcation Line. I thought you should know.”

  Lamont knew he was referring to the Presidential Directive Wilson had issued, which limited the U.S. Navy to coastal waters. He gritted his teeth and he could feel his blood pressure rising. “Yes, Lieutenant. I’m aware of that.” He motioned to his computer. “I just received an encrypted message from the Pentagon. We’ve been given new orders. Our sub is exempt from the Directive. We’re sailing west.”

  Johnson looked confused. “But what about the agreement with the Chinese?”

  “Screw the Chinese. We have a new president now. As I understand it, he’s ‘modifying’ the agreement.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take us down to a depth of 10,000 feet, then we go west at a heading of 273 degrees, full speed.”

  “What’s our destination, Commander?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  ***

  Zurich, Switzerland

  Director Henry Mueller sipped coffee in his office as he read the bold headline across the front page of the newspaper. American President may have been assassinated by the Chinese, it read.

  Finishing the article, he sat back in his chair and gazed out the window at the lake below. A queasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. The picturesque scenery outside didn’t calm him, as it usually did.

  Picking up his phone, he said, “Get me Senator Lewis – she’s back in Washington.” Replacing the receiver, he waited for his assistant to locate the woman.

  Twenty minutes later his phone rang and he picked it up.

  “Henry,” Lewis said, “I’m glad you called.” Her usual cheery voice sounded strained.