Ahead of her, she heard riled voices. “Sounds like round twenty-seven between Franny and Captain Andrews.”
“Yeah, he’s got it bad for her—”
“There you are!”
Abby pivoted toward the shrill female voice. Mia Candelori was stomping toward them.
“You are such a liar! First you weren’t married; then you told me your wife was dead!” Mia’s knee unexpectedly jerked upward, nailing Bradley in the groin. “I never should’ve slept with you!”
He folded like an umbrella chair and sank onto the pavement.
Amidst muttered groans of masculine empathy, Abby lunged toward Mia. “You lying little whore!” Fist balled, Abby’s arm reared back, then her knuckles smashed into the Private’s face.
Mia’s head snapped left. Blood gushed from her nose, her knees gave out, and Sergeant Becker caught her arm, easing her onto the ground.
“Bradley won’t hit you back,” Abby shouted. “But I sure as hell will!”
The medics from 6A and 6B scrambled to assess the injuries. Pain contorted Bradley’s face into deep grooves, transforming it into a flesh-colored raisin, and the severity of his suffering made Abby want to punch Mia again. He coughed and gasped for a full minute, and when his teary eyes unclenched, Abby was the one who couldn’t breathe.
The ground began to spin. She felt as if a mighty whirlpool was sucking her downward, extracting trust and faith from her body.
“Oh my God,” she said in a smothered whisper. “It’s true.”
87
Cimarron River, Oklahoma
FOR THREE DAYS, SERGEANT Xu and his men had been wallowing in the spoils of Cimarron River, enslaving its citizens, raping its women, callously betting on red-serum recipients as if they were horses, where the last to die would determine who won a pool of yuan.
Hannah, a sixty-year-old widow, waddled toward the covered pavilion of Trappe Park, toting another platter of mantou. The traditional Chinese bread was a staple, a rice alternative typically made from wheat flour. Hannah and the other servants had improvised, substituting rye flour in its place. The women had stuffed the bread with bits of smoked fish then deep-fried it. Xu’s men were elated. It was more than delicious nourishment; it was an uplifting reminder of the Motherland. Since the word mantou meant barbarian’s head, it was a fitting symbol for their mission.
According to a legend arising from the Three Kingdoms period, Zhuge Liang’s army encountered a swift-moving river that defied all attempts to ford it. A barbarian lord insisted that he would have to sacrifice fifty men and throw their heads into the water to appease the river spirit. Instead, Liang had slaughtered his army’s livestock, crammed the meat into buns shaped like human heads, and tossed them into the water. After the army’s safe passage, he had dubbed the buns barbarians’ heads.
Xu managed to claim only a few mantou before the mountainous platter disappeared. “You make more. Immediate-ry!”
His Chi-phone vibrated and flashed a fugitive alert, informing him that two GPS-tagged criminals had ventured within ten miles of him. Sino-Earth revealed their position, north of Cimarron River, heading toward town. Taking a bite of mantou, Xu clicked one of the dots and a photograph of a young boy filled the tiny screen.
“Israel Bissel. Age: 10 Vandalism of vehicles; murder in Stone Reservoir, Idaho; train derailment. Orders: shoot on sight.”
He popped the remainder of the fishy bread into his mouth, having no compunction about shooting a child. The second dot was an attractive, young female.
“Sybil Ludington. Age: 15 Murder in Stone Reservoir, Idaho; train derailment. Orders: shoot on sight.”
He scrolled back to her picture, a depraved smile tweaking the corners of his mouth. “You will provide great entertainment for my men prior to your death.”
The last dot was Pastor Muhlenberg. The good shepherd was herding his flock of criminals right into Xu’s clutches. There was no need to rush, especially when another platter of mantou would be forthcoming. Xu sneered. Perhaps he would decapitate the children and throw their heads into the Cimarron River as a sacrifice to the river spirit.
88
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
RYAN ANDREWS CRINGED. His best friend had just treaded across an emotional landmine, one sure to devastate his marriage and career.
“Abby, wait! Let me explain.”
Head shaking, she slowly backed away as if Bradley were a rabid animal.
“I want her arrested!” Mia shouted. “She assaulted me—”
“Listen carefully, Private,” Ryan said, disgust thick in his tone. “You instigated the assault. Abby acted in defense of her husband. And you will be the only one charged. So if you’re smart, you’ll drop it!” Then he turned toward Abby. “My office. Now!”
She trudged toward TEradS Headquarters, wrenching her hog’s tooth up over her head. “Donnelly! Fitzgerald! Escort Private Candelori and Sergeant Webber to the medical center. Becker! Richards! Baby-sit Ms. Marion and Ms. Ling until further notice.”
Before the chorus of yes, sirs faded, Ryan was en route to his office, damage control foremost in his thoughts. He unlocked the door and motioned Abby inside, noting that anger had displaced the raw hurt in her expression. “Take a seat.”
“I’d prefer to stand, sir.”
“I didn’t ask for your preference, Lance Corporal.”
Ryan waited for her to comply then set the bag containing the Chinese laptop onto his desk and booted up his Army-issued computer. “Bradley’s escapade with Mia—it’s my fault.”
“With all due respect, sir, this is none of your business.”
“Anything that degrades your ability to function is my business.”
“I am not discussing my personal life with you, sir.”
“Fine. Then fucking listen because I won’t let you make a decision of this magnitude without all the facts.”
She remained silent, animosity radiating from her ruddy cheeks.
“Bradley was in the ops center when the quick reaction force attempted to rescue you. This is what he saw.” Ryan swiveled the monitor, displaying the video of the woman who had been stoned to death.
Abby’s nose crinkled. She stirred uneasily in her chair. “Can I go now, sir?”
“No, damn it!” Ryan toggled his neck side to side, trying to alleviate the tension. “Bradley was emotionally compromised. He couldn’t get those images out of his head ... If I hadn’t allowed him in the ops center, if I hadn’t allowed him to see that, the incident with Mia never would’ve happened.” Ryan flung open a desk drawer and removed a set of keys for a Humvee. “You’re on medical leave. Go see your folks—I haven’t been able to reach them since we found you. And take Bradley with you. Get this worked out.”
“I won’t go with Bradley, sir.”
“And if I make it an order?” Ryan asked.
“Then I’ll explain my actions at court-martial, sir,” she said, calling his bluff.
“You do realize that adultery and fraternization charges could end Bradley’s career, right?”
“Maybe you should’ve mentioned that to him, sir.”
Aggravated with Abby, angry with himself, Ryan said, “Be back here at 1600 hours, ready to leave for District Six. Dismissed.”
Abby hurled open the door, and seeing Bradley in the reception area, she said, “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Let me explain—”
“Too late, Mia beat you to it.”
“Was I supposed to dump that on you last night?” he asked, each syllable warped with frustration.
“Save it, Bradley. I know this wasn’t a one-off thing.”
“Based on what? Mia’s lies?”
“I didn’t believe her,” Abby said through gnashed teeth. “Not until I saw the guilt in your eyes!”
“Will you please just let me explain—”
“You know what? It doesn’t even matter.” She reached into her pocket, and when a wh
ite-knuckled fist emerged, Ryan half expected her to coldcock Bradley. Abby’s fingers slowly unfurled. A gold wedding band sat atop her palm.
Bradley gnawed his upper lip. His head shook. Hands perched against his hips, he said, “I don’t want it back. It’s not over.”
Slowly, Abby rotated her palm, the ring dropped at Bradley’s feet, then she walked away.
89
Cimarron River, Oklahoma
TRUE TO HIS WORD, Pastor Muhlenberg smuggled Sybil and Izzy into the town of Cimarron River, a two-lane road with head-in parking on the southbound side and four cross streets. A row of aging brick businesses fronted Main Street—a gas station, a bank, a drugstore, and an old mom-and-pop combination grocery and hardware store.
From the safety of the white clapboard church, Sybil peered through a stained-glass window at the park across the street. The sight of jubilant peacekeepers and the sound of their whooping howls sent a shiver through her.
A UW soldier was stabbing a live oak with a folding knife. Another was shinnying up the flagpole like an overgrown inchworm, while the majority engaged in a clumsy game of soccer. They kicked fiercely, their bungling efforts connecting more often with each other’s shins rather than the ball, which spawned unsportsmanlike exchanges.
“Are they drunk?” Izzy asked.
Sybil shrugged and glanced to Pastor Muhlenberg for guidance. His attention was fixated on a peacekeeper pacing the corrugated metal roof of the pavilion.
The soccer game halted. The peacekeepers bolted, tripping and staggering toward a woman carrying a large platter of bread. They knocked it from her hands, buns fell like candy from a piñata, and she ran from the scene as the voracious men dove onto the ground, wrestling each other over the food.
A single punch incited a melee of uppercuts and kicks.
Grass and dirt flew.
Scowls deepened.
Voices amplified like an approaching freight train.
“It’s a tornado of camouflage,” the pastor mumbled, his tone caught between amusement and pity.
Knives were pulled; handguns, drawn.
A truck full of soldiers sped down the street, and as the pickup reached the park, it began taking withering fire.
“Why are they shooting their own guys?” Izzy asked.
Awe crept over Muhlenberg’s expression. “Son, you are witnessing the hand of almighty God.”
Izzy’s head angled toward him, his face scrunched with confusion. “God kills people?”
“No, Son, but he gives them free will,” Muhlenberg said. “A few days ago I made a trade, some rifles for sacks of rye. Turns out the rye was infected with a fungus called ergot. Now, I did the Christian thing; I warned them. The soldiers stole it anyways. And I took a beatin’ for my honesty.” He paused to pat the bruise on his head. “The ergot is making them hallucinate and act crazy. You see, God has taken what was meant for our harm and turned it for our good!”
90
District Six, Texas
KYLE MURPHY STARED at the Chi-pad video of Sergeant Jiang, taken hours earlier by the medical team. The quarantined prisoner’s fever had surged to 103 degrees, his clothing and bedsheets were soaked with sweat, and a morbid yellow cast discolored his eyes and skin.
“How can he be this sick after one day?” Jessie asked. “Don’t these things usually have an incubation period?”
“I’m guessing the virus was engineered that way.”
Hearing a vehicle, he stood and said, “Nikki, take Billy up to your room and hide until I find you.”
She let out a muted shriek. “Monsters! Run!” She snagged her little brother’s hand, dragging him toward the stairs.
Kyle had likened the “drill” to a game of hide-and-seek, but the six-year-old wasn’t fooled. Nikki had seen and heard too much.
He waited until the bedroom door clicked shut, then raised his M4.
Jessie padded into the tiled foyer, twisted the dead bolt, and opened the front door.
“What the hell, Kyle?” A grinning Ryan Andrews crossed the threshold. “This your idea of hospitality?”
Kyle lowered his weapon and extended his hand. “Good to see you. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you and Rodriguez for days.”
“Yeah, the Chinese are blocking your calls.”
“They give you any trouble at the checkpoint?”
“No,” Ryan said with a duplicitous smile. “We went off road to bypass the checkpoint.”
“We?”
“Affirmative.” Ryan stepped to his right.
Kyle blinked disbelievingly.
The rifle slipped from his grasp. The butt stock clunked against the floor. “Abby?”
Jessie let out a joyful scream, then they converged on their daughter in a bouncing, rocking hug of euphoria.
“Take it easy,” Ryan said. “She’s got a couple bruised ribs.”
Kyle loosened his embrace, his right hand tracing over Abby’s perfect cheekbone. He tried to speak, and gurgling sounds emanated from his throat, a hybrid of laughter and tears. “Bradley was right.” His gaze gravitated back to the open doorway. “Where is he?”
Abby looked to Ryan, who responded with a noncommittal shrug.
“Back at Langden,” she said softly.
“Ryan, you heartless bastard! Couldn’t you arrange a few hours of leave?” Kyle asked. “He should be here for this reunion.”
The former Ranger opened his mouth as if to speak, exchanged a glance with Abby, then said, “Couldn’t swing it. We lost two Snipers rescuing your daughter.”
“How long can she stay?” Jessie asked, arms tethered possessively around Abby’s waist.
“I’ll pick her up Monday. 1500 hours.”
“You’re not staying?” Kyle asked, disappointed.
“No, I’ve got to get back—”
“Well, you can’t leave until you see this.” Kyle briefed him regarding the workers from the Global Health Organization and the bogus vaccines. “I injected one of them yesterday and look.”
The video of the ailing man played, then Kyle accessed his vital signs. “We’re literally watching him die. The peacekeepers referred to it as Alameda fever. Ever heard of it?”
“Only since yesterday.” Ryan inhaled and blew out the air slowly. “I’m gonna need indisputable proof. You have any more doses?”
“Thirty-five syringes,” Kyle said. “But each one has a GPS transmitter. I’ve been keeping them inside an old safe to deaden the signal. How the hell are you going to get them back to Langden undetected?”
Chapter 8
—— DAY 448 ——
Sunday, May 8th
91
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
BLEARY EYED, RYAN Andrews stared at the never-ending, hypnotic ribbon of white dashes zooming past the Humvee’s headlights. Every few minutes, his gaze looped from the speedometer, to his watch, to the passenger’s seat harboring Kyle’s microwave oven.
They had transferred the syringes from safe to oven in seconds and used the Chi-pad to verify the GPS signals had been suppressed. Nearly two hours had elapsed since Ryan bypassed the checkpoint, and he was still grappling with the issue of storage.
His apartment had a defunct microwave oven that could shield the syringes, but it offered minimal security. Conversely, his office was secure, but if he didn’t shield the syringes, the enemy could instantly locate them. Although Ryan knew the peacekeepers would not be foolish enough to attack a U.S. Air Force Base outright, he remained leery of traitors.
The Chinese had ignored the assault on the cellular tower, most likely to avoid the awkward questions it would generate; and Ryan had yet to notify his commanding officer about the laptop. He knew it would immediately slip through Rodriguez’s hands, into the custody of bureaucratic politicians, more concerned with their careers than national security.
Would the President whitewash the use of biological weapons to justify his decision to accept the Chong Sheng Pla
n? Would Quenten ever admit that he allowed the mainland to be covertly invaded? And if not, how could the U.S. ever declare war on China?
Ryan rubbed his throbbing temples. If Franny and Gwen don’t find something definitive, I could end up in federal prison, he thought.
Seconds later, he amended his worst-case scenario, concluding that prison would never happen.
If I can’t expose the Chong Sheng Plan as a clandestine invasion, the Chinese will take over the country and execute me along with all other active military.
Just before 0100 hours, he passed through Langden’s eastern gate, parked outside his one-bedroom apartment, and grimaced at the sight of Bradley camped beside his door.
“You look like hell,” Ryan told him, lifting the microwave oven from the passenger’s seat.
Bradley shot to his feet. “Is Abby okay? What did she say?”
“Not much.” Ryan handed off the microwave and fished for his key. “She refused to discuss it with me. That is one headstrong woman.” He pushed open the door and directed Bradley to set the microwave on the kitchen counter. “But when her parents asked where you were, she didn’t mention your indiscretion. At least not while I was there ... Now get the hell out of here and get some sleep.”
Bradley nodded and strode toward the door. “Thanks for trying.”
How could I not? Ryan thought. He quickly stowed the syringes inside his own defunct microwave, returned Kyle’s oven to the Humvee, then walked to TEradS Headquarters.
Inside a small office adjacent to the operations center, Gwen and Franny were still working on translating the first group of files he had printed. Sergeants Becker and Richards, openly irritated with their extended babysitting duty, fiddled to attention.
“You’re dismissed, gentlemen. Thank you.” Ryan watched them exit the room then turned toward Franny. “Anything useful?”
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