“Yes, sir. I recruited an American civilian to alert the TEradS about the mine. You were correct, sir. They were eager to avenge their fallen comrades, and I used that to lure them into a trap.”
Sun stared straight ahead, brow furrowed, deep in thought.
“I held the man’s family at gunpoint while he placed the call,” Wu continued. “Then dispatched them all, leaving no witnesses. Once the TEradS teams breached the mine, my men collapsed both entrances with mortars, effectively entombing the Terror Fox cell, the female Sniper, Teams 6A and 6B, AND the commander of TEradS West.”
“Impressive, Colonel.” A lackluster smile played over Sun’s face. “You have earned a new challenge.”
“Yes, sir,” Wu said, disguising his displeasure. He wanted to be applauded, to bask in victory, and he dreaded the prospect of another potentially career-killing problem.
“You will investigate a train derailment that occurred an hour ago, on the western Colorado border. Civilian engineers report that a coupling failed. Food, fuel, ammunition, and weapons were destroyed along with ten thousand doses of the Alameda fever vaccine.”
Colonel Wu nodded, blaming his ego for this predicament. He had been too anxious to boast about his accomplishment, requesting this meeting. If only he had waited until his next scheduled conference, this would have been someone else’s problem.
“These vaccines were slated for District Six,” the General was saying. “An area that must be pacified before the Chinese Century can come to fruition.”
“I understand the gravity. What is it you require, sir?”
“Get to the crash site. Determine whether this was, in fact, a coupling failure or an act of sabotage. Then cleanse the scene. You must expunge any evidence that could lead the Americans to discover the biological weapon.”
70
District Eight, Colorado
RYAN WATCHED FRANNY extend her arms, urging calm. “Put down the gun, Ty. You don’t want to kill all these people.”
His hollow cheeks pulsed in and out; his dark eyes gleamed with hatred. “She was born in China! She speaks Mandarin!”
Franny’s eyes darted toward Ryan, imploring him to trust her. “Captain Andrews ... Please?”
Ryan knew she was right. Shooting Ty would be suicidal. He lowered his weapon, and the TEradS teams followed his example.
“Gwen was always defending them, no matter what they did,” Ty rambled, his voice trembling in sync with his hand. “Theft. Rape ... Even after what they did to Sierra.”
Franny inched forward, moving as if walking a tightrope without a net. “I understand, Ty. But this isn’t the way to handle it.”
“Are you blind? She set you up!”
Gwen stood silent, tears trickling, hands quaking at her sides, too terrified for Ryan to get a read on her innocence or guilt.
“If we die in this mine, that cell tower doesn’t come down,” Franny told him. “You just need to wait.”
“Wait for what?” Ty spat the words, seemingly unconcerned that Franny had halved the distance between them.
“Until we get above ground; then I’ll shoot her for you!”
Gwen’s knees folded, and she sank onto the ground.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Fine, then shoot her yourself after we’re all topside. These guys understand about China now.” Franny’s hands swept past the TEradS like a salesman hawking a product. “They need to get out of here and kick some ass.”
“She’s right.” Ryan rocked forward to create the illusion of movement. Ty’s attention snapped toward him, and Franny made her move.
She grabbed the barrel.
Her knee rammed into Ty’s injured leg.
He lost balance, and as she twisted the gun from his grasp, an elbow to the back of the head sent him careening onto the ground.
The sickening thwack of his temple striking rock made Ryan cringe.
71
District Six, Texas
“I AM SERGEANT JIANG. These are representatives from the Global Health Organization,” Jiang told the deputy. “Doctors Huang and Fu. And you are?”
The man stared back at him, befuddled, with big round cow eyes. The caliber of the weapon on his hip obviously exceeded his IQ.
“Deputy Turner. What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
Recognizing the name from his list, Jiang proffered a haughty smile. “We must meet with Governor Murphy on an urgent matter.”
“Up those stairs, to the right.”
He gave a slight bow and herded his colleagues across the lobby to a curved stairway, encased by a wrought-iron handrail. The treads were bullnose terra-cotta tile like the lobby floor, but each riser was a visual clutter of color and texture—teal leaves, yellow stars, bright blue shells, and orange flowers.
An attractive woman was seated behind a secretarial desk. She had amazing blue eyes the color of deep Pacific waters, long hair that glowed like sunshine, and a palpable sadness that made her appear defenseless.
Jiang restated his intentions and followed her to an aged wooden door that matched the beams soaring across the ceiling. He passed through the open doorway and thanked her, vowing that once he had conducted his business, he would defile her.
The governor stood in front of a large window, a rifle dangling from his shoulder, and offered his hand.
Jiang obliged the American custom, and after making introductions, he said, “We are here to brief you regarding the Alameda fever epidemic. It is highly contagious and has a mortality rate of one hundred percent.”
“That’s awful,” the governor said. “How can I protect the citizens of District Six?”
This is going to be easier than I imagined, Jiang thought. “The Global Health Organization has made vaccines available. We are here to distribute the lifesaving serum.”
Jiang laid his briefcase on the desk, popped the metallic latches, and removed two documents. “This is an executive order signed by your President, mandating that all citizens be vaccinated.”
The governor’s brows bumped together. Skepticism twinkled in his unusual green eyes as he inspected the document.
Does he suspect it is a forgery? Jiang wondered nervously. Curse Quenten for refusing to sign that order! He will pay dearly for his disobedience.
“Today, we are prepared to inoculate political leadership and the law enforcement officers on this list.” Jiang presented it to Murphy and closed his briefcase. “The supply for the greater public will arrive in two days.”
“Shouldn’t the first group of vaccinations go to those at highest risk?” Murphy asked. “The young and the elderly?”
“No!” Huang told him with a commanding tone that sounded more like a sergeant than the doctor he was pretending to be.
“Think of it like being on airplane,” Jiang quickly added, deflecting scrutiny away from his comrade. “It is best to secure your own oxygen mask before assisting others.”
“We administer vaccine now,” Fu told him. “Here, in your office—”
“So as not to inconvenience you,” Jiang interrupted. “We understand you are a busy man.”
With a resolute sigh, the governor reached across his body and began rolling up his shirtsleeve.
72
District Eight, Colorado
ABBY HAD BEEN CLIMBING for several minutes. Twice she had scraped her bruised back against the claustrophobic rock passageway, pumping torrents of pain through her body, siphoning strength from her muscles, giving rise to a bout of dizziness.
The air shaft was a thirty-inch square opening that burrowed upward at a sixty-degree angle, a dark, steep, never-ending coffin. Despite Franny’s ladder of spikes, Abby struggled with the confined space.
Think about something else!
Her mind drifted back to Ty’s tragic death. Privately, Abby had thanked Franny and suggested she ruminate on the lives she had saved. Gwen was even more traumatized. Was she unknowingly followed to the mine as she claimed? Or was she really a traitor?<
br />
Unanswered questions and physical exertion were aggravating Abby’s concussion. Teeth gnashed, eyes clenched, she willed away the nausea.
Just keep moving. If the taller, broader guys can endure this, so can I. One more step. One more ...
The passageway bent, the angle diminished, and sunlight assailed her. Abby winced behind closed eyelids and hoisted her right foot upward. Were the spikes farther apart? Or was exhaustion distorting her perception?
Abby called on her trump card, an unfailing source of motivation: thoughts of the men who had tried to badger, browbeat, and bamboozle her into quitting. They would love for her to fail.
Screw them!
Why do I draw more strength from the jerks than the good guys? Like Schmuckatelli, who—figuratively and literally—pushed me uphill during that twenty-three-mile march?
Abby could still hear Shane Locatelli’s good-natured refrain, “Come on, Abi-frail. Keep moving! One more step ...”
Fresh air washed over her sweaty face, then hands hefted her from the shaft. Abby shielded her eyes with both hands.
“These should help,” Bradley said, offering a pair of sunglasses.
They did, albeit marginally, and she thanked him.
In an effort to minimize girth, the TEradS had stripped off their gear and hauled it up with ropes, and Abby made her way to the pile. She pulled on her battle vest and strapped on her helmet, trying to ignore the pain caroming through her skull.
“You look like hell,” Bradley whispered. “Are you up for this?”
“Oorah!” she said, reminding him that she was a Marine ready to accomplish the mission.
His handsome face clouded with uneasiness. “Abby, sucking it up is admirable, but if it affects your ability to shoot—”
“Don’t baby me!”
He responded with a warm smile. “You’re still adorable when you’re pissed off.”
“And you’re still ridiculously overprotective.”
“Hey, I’m entitled after attending your funeral.”
Abby felt another surge of dizziness. “My what?”
“Your folks buried you yesterday,” Bradley said, emotion glazing his hazel eyes. “A woman was stoned to death. Your headset and satphone were at the scene. And as for babying you? No one else here has a concussion.”
Abby watched him walk away. Her insatiable need to prove herself—as strong and tough as the men—had just ruined her reunion with Bradley.
I blasted him for caring, she thought. And if he didn’t give a damn, my feelings would’ve been hurt. He can’t win.
As Franny emerged from the mine, phase seven of her argument with Captain Andrews commenced, this time over his decision to bring Gwen along as a translator while relegating Franny to the sidelines.
Will they end up sleeping together? Or shooting each other? Abby wondered. Then she decided it would likely be both.
Flabbergasted, Andrews said, “You’re a civilian—”
“With more military experience than most of your guys—”
“Franny, I’ll hog-tie you to a fucking tree if I have to. You are not part of this assault!”
73
District Eight, Colorado
CAPTAIN RYAN ANDREWS and the TEradS teams met with minimal resistance. They dispatched six perimeter guards simultaneously then converged on the small cinder-block building beside the cellular tower. A flash bang and three rapid bursts of gunfire terminated both interior guards and the computer operator, the entire assault lasting less than two minutes.
While Abby and Bradley surveilled the one-lane, dusty trail of switchbacks that zigzagged up Mount Wheatly, Jaffee and two other TEradS specialists began rigging the tower with Franny’s explosives.
Ryan had to admit, the intelligence she’d gathered had been balls-on accurate. Security had been designed to withstand a mob of civilians or a band of disorganized terrorists. Clearly, the Chinese had never entertained the possibility of a TEradS raid. It would’ve seemed ludicrous, a branch of the U.S. military razing a key component of the newly rebuilt infrastructure; and Ryan knew that if he didn’t find conclusive proof in this windowless tomb of a building, Rodriguez would voraciously chew his ass and probably spit it out of the TEradS.
You crippled cellphone and Internet service ... ? And killed how many UW peacekeepers?
However, his choices had been limited. Hoofing it back to Barclay Air Force Base over the mountains with the UW in pursuit—potentially bearing the remains of four TEradS warriors—wasn’t a desirable option; and without communications, he couldn’t arrange for extraction.
He had contemplated a partial assault, based on the assumption that the phones of slain perimeter guards would function, but deemed it too risky. If the time and location of extraction were intercepted, missiles would greet the helicopters—like Team 10A in Idaho.
“Donnelly, get the translator,” Ryan barked, troubled by the minimalist office—a desk, one laptop, and four LCD screens. A whiteboard mounted to the rear wall was muddled with Mandarin writing, but there were no filing cabinets, no papers, and even the maps were digital projections.
Ryan kicked the chair that cradled the dead computer operator and rolled him away from the laptop. He wouldn’t need any tech specialists to crack the password. It was still logged in.
The screen displayed an aerial view of District Eight, a Google Earth knockoff stippled with tiny dots. Thousands of them. He used the mouse to zoom in tighter. Streets and neighborhoods appeared and the dots grew larger; a few solid green, the majority green ringed with red. Some were stationary, positioned within buildings, while others floated slowly.
Ryan clicked on a dot and a window popped up, disclosing the photograph of an American-looking, middle-aged woman. Her name, Leslie Givani, was written in English, succeeded by a bunch of Mandarin symbols and a string of numbers that looked like GPS coordinates. A red phone icon was situated in the top right corner. He clicked on it and voices emanated from the tiny laptop speaker, a husband and wife arguing vehemently over rice. A new window revealed both their photographs. Symbols automatically typed across the screen, presumably translating their marital discord into Mandarin.
The Chinese are tracking cellphones and eavesdropping, Ryan thought. Interesting, but not enough to justify the raid.
When Sergeant Donnelly returned with Gwen Ling, Ryan minimized the Google Earth wannabe and clicked the computer’s start icon, which looked suspiciously similar to a Microsoft logo.
“Which of these says, control panel?” he asked.
With Gwen’s help, he changed the password, and after exploring all the drives, he was pretty sure he had found the server. He selected hundreds of folders and began copying files to the laptop’s hard drive.
“It will take twelve minutes and fifty seconds to complete,” Gwen told him.
“Thank you ... Becker, go remind Jaffe not to blow that tower until I give the order. I don’t want this download interrupted.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ryan turned toward Donnelly. “Have Ms. Ling translate that whiteboard and make sure to photograph it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ryan brought the GPS program back to full screen. This time, he singled out a solid green dot. A window opened, bearing the same information, but the cellphone icon was gray instead of red and a separate set of coordinates were posted beneath it.
Does that mean this guy doesn’t have his cellphone with him? Then how the hell are they tracking him? And are they tracking us?
A chill tore through Ryan as he scrolled toward Mount Wheatly.
A solitary green dot appeared. He selected it then muttered, “Son of a bitch!”
74
District Eight, Colorado
COLONEL WU WAS EN ROUTE to the derailment along with a convoy that included two-thirds of his forces. He closed his eyes and pondered the chore ahead. He had personally advocated for the use of this particular biological weapon, unprecedented in its ruthlessness, not because he rel
ished death, but because he valued life.
Limited to a tract of land no longer able to sustain its population, China had been destined to experience a Yellow Catastrophe, a protracted death via societal collapse. A massive die off was inevitable, and Wu’s superiors had concluded that any leniency toward Americans would be an act of cruelty against the Chinese. The People’s Liberation Army had rationalized and sanitized its use of biological weapons as an act of self-defense. The death of 200,000,000 Americans was just the fertilizer required to nurture the fledgling Chinese Century.
The ruthless always prevail over the benevolent, Wu reminded himself.
His satellite phone rang, and he grudgingly accepted Wang’s call.
“Minutes ago, the District Eight cellular tower was knocked off-line—”
“Power failures are common,” Wu told him. “I’m certain it will be up momentarily.”
“With all due respect, I doubt that, Colonel. Just prior to the failure, I picked up the GPS signal for Gwen Ling at the site.”
“But she was inside the mine with ...” Wu’s voice faded along with his future prospects.
“The TEradS teams have escaped,” Wang stated flatly. “Most likely through a ventilation shaft. They assaulted the tower, which means they have likely called for backup, sir.”
The news was unfathomable, ill timed, and devastating beyond imagination. Despair felt like icicles billowing through his veins, transforming his heart into a pincushion.
“Get every available soldier to Mount Wheatly. Rifles, mortars, RPGs, anti-aircraft missiles—every asset you have. The TEradS must be dead before air support can arrive.”
75
District Eight, Colorado
AS SOON AS THE CELLULAR tower detonated, Bradley activated his tactical headset, and each member of the TEradS checked in. Fitzgerald reported that he had neutralized two mortar teams and that Phillips, Danner, and Parks had been killed during the barrage that collapsed both mine entrances.
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