“So now you’re a Pilot?” Andrews asked in that adorable, ball-busting tone of his.
Franny countered with a salacious wink. “Captain, I’ve got more talents than you could ever imagine.”
Slowly, almost seductively, his eyes roamed over her. Energy crackled between them, an inexplicable jumble of electricity and gravity that defied reason; then without a reply, he set the Chinese laptop onto the table.
“Gwen, can you search the documents for a specific word or name?”
“Holy shit! You trust us to use the laptop?” Franny asked. “Captain Clueless has made a breakthrough!”
He scratched his forehead using only his middle finger then said, “Gwen, I need you to search for the name Aldrich Ames and translate those files first.”
101
District Six, Texas
SHERIFF GARY MONTANEZ unlocked his front door and tossed his keys onto a small table in the foyer. The house was quiet and dark, which meant his wife, Maria, was still working at the hospital.
The aftershocks from yesterday’s UW attack were still reverberating through the district. In addition to the deaths of two deputies and a civilian, the very public attempt on the governor’s life had caused outrage among residents. Kyle Murphy was respected and well liked. People perceived him as a human rampart standing between them and UW subjugation; and there had been an emphatic, persistent clamor demanding that Gary ensure his safety.
Thank God Abby Webber had been there, he thought, trudging up the stairs to the master bedroom. Not only had she directed the fusillade toward the assassin, she had redirected excess emotion into a productive outlet. After quarantining Chi-phones, Abby had spent hours teaching civilians defensive strategies. She had even arranged an emergency signal, exploiting an old weather alert siren designed for hurricanes and tornadoes.
Each resident had been assigned a small area of responsibility, and Abby had impressed upon them the importance of doing their job and remaining in their position.
“This only works when you function as a team,” she had told them. “The mistake of one individual could result in friendly fire injuries or worse.”
Gary flopped onto the bed and groaned aloud, wishing Abby could have stayed longer.
How disciplined will the civilians be? Will that be enough to protect Kyle?
Gary closed his eyes, cursing reality. He just didn’t have the manpower or equipment to institute a Secret Service-like security detail; and he was certain the Chinese would try again. And again. Until they ultimately succeeded in killing Kyle.
The sound of shattering glass wafted around him as if every ground-floor window of his house had simultaneously imploded. His eyelids sprung open, and a series of explosions made the house shudder.
Ears ringing, he leapt from the bed and reached the stairs in four strides, half expecting to see Chinese commandos storming his house. A warm, orange light illuminated the lower landing, dancing and bobbing, then he smelled a whiff of smoke.
Within seconds, dark gray clouds were spilling into the stairwell, rising upward and puddling against the ceiling like an inverted waterfall.
Do I want to die of smoke inhalation? Or get shot by the arsonists who are probably waiting outside?
From the master-bedroom closet, he retrieved a Mossberg twelve-gauge shotgun then opened the bedroom window.
A column of smoke belched from the broken living-room window below. Holding his breath, Gary crawled forward onto the roof of the wraparound porch.
Noxious gasses burned his eyes.
His lungs ached for air, and he gasped in a sooty breath that made him cough.
Flames were lapping all around him. The heat was becoming unbearable.
Gary said a quick prayer, thankful that his wife was still at the hospital, and blessed himself, then he hurdled the flames, hurling himself through the curtain of smoke, unsure what awaited him on the other side.
102
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
CAPTAIN RYAN ANDREWS was about to take the biggest risk of his career, implementing a phony operation involving volunteers from Teams 6A and 6B—and his unpaid private contractor. After flying to Colorado, they would be inserted and extracted miles from their real target.
His mind enumerated potential pitfalls until two angry female voices fractured his thoughts. Ryan pushed back his chair, and as he crossed his office, he heard a thumping sound.
Opening the door, he saw Franny, a hand clamped around Mia’s neck, using the Private’s head for a knocker.
“She was trying to barge into your office, sir,” Mia whined.
Ryan nodded to Franny, inviting her inside. “That’ll be all, Private.”
“But, sir, I—”
Ryan shut the door, truncating her sentence.
“What a bitch,” Franny said. “No wonder Abby decked her.”
“I take it you found something?” Ryan reached for the sheet of paper in her hand, and she jerked it away.
“Twenty-four files contained the name Aldrich Ames. And one document referred to three additional highly placed assets within the U.S. government. Unfortunately, it didn’t disclose their names.”
“Great, three more traitors.”
“And check this out,” she continued. “A bunch of government officials were listed, along with each individual’s cause of death and location.”
“So?” Ryan asked impatiently.
“This particular document was created a month prior to the EMP. So either the Chinese have a magic crystal ball or they deliberately dispatched these guys to vault their operatives into positions of power.”
The implications rattled through Ryan like a seismic quake, undulating and unnerving. How can the U.S. successfully prosecute a war against China if the enemy controls our government agencies and our intelligence apparatus?
Franny relinquished the written translation then perused his wall of fallen Soldiers. “This one doesn’t belong.” She removed Abby’s picture and upon seeing the fist-sized hole in the wallboard, she peeked behind the other photographs. “Clueless, distrustful, and prone to temper tantrums?”
“Pushy, arrogant, and prone to being a pain in the balls!”
The corners of her mouth constricted into an approving grin. “The first few guys, the older ones, they were friends, weren’t they?”
She was delving into restricted areas, topics and emotions better left buried. “Let’s call it a night,” Ryan said, changing the subject, then responding to a frantic knock, he pulled open the door.
Gwen stumbled into the room, tripping over her own feet. “I found the assassin’s target, and it’s not Governor Murphy.” She thrust a document into Ryan’s face.
“Oh fuck!”
103
District Six, Texas
AS TWILIGHT YIELDED to darkness, Sergeant Zhu surveilled the scene. From across the street, he could feel the heat radiating. Crackles, clacks, and pops permeated the rumble of flames consuming the house. He consulted his Chi-pad to confirm that Sheriff Gary Montanez’s cellphone had not moved; the man was as good as dead.
Adjacent neighbors manned garden hoses and began wetting down nearby rooftops along with patches of weeds and dead bushes, the tinderlike remains of landscaping. Residents drifted toward the spectacle, eyes wide, mouths agape.
Then a shrill wail trampled the noise of the fire and pulsated through Zhu’s body.
A fire alarm? he thought. Will that aid or hamper our cause?
The inferno was a diversion to keep law enforcement and the masses preoccupied, away from Kyle Murphy. Dragging his index finger across a Chi-pad screen, he zoomed in on the governor’s residence. Although Colonel Meng was jamming the governor’s cellphone, the siren would surely draw him to the scene.
I can’t allow that to happen, Zhu thought, keenly aware of how civilians had overwhelmed a sniper.
The onlookers began behaving strangely.
Dumbfounded, Zhu watched
them scatter, scurrying like spooked vermin. Something wasn’t right. Gawking at destruction was human nature. Why did they run off?
He ordered his team to fan out in one-block intervals. Zhu followed behind the walking dragnet, monitoring the governor’s movements. So far, no well-armed Americans had amassed around his residence. If, however, resistance materialized, he was prepared to disperse the mob with grenades. Zhu had no reservations about maiming or killing civilians who dared to stand between him and his objective. They were as expendable as rats.
He scrutinized the crowd’s bizarre behavior via his Chi-pad’s Sino-Earth app. The swarm of red rings had diverged. They all appeared to have gone home. But why?
The alarm fell silent.
Two short bursts of gunfire thudded, one to the north, another to the south. Zhu demanded a situation report, and only two of his men acknowledged him.
A gnawing sense of doom began to percolate inside him. Using the blaze as a diversion had backfired. Instead of taking the well-armed population out of the equation, he had seemingly rallied them into a heightened state of readiness.
A smattering of gunshots peppered the growl of the flames, and a panicked transmission played over his headset.
“I am taking fire from every house! They’re lurking at every window. I’ve been hit in the leg and—”
A sudden quiet preceded the crack of a rifle round, and Zhu swore under his breath. The Americans were not reacting as expected. They had spread out, trapping him and his men in a human minefield.
Zhu crouched behind a large bush devoid of leaves and studied his Chi-pad, determined to defeat the deadly checkerboard of red rings. The Americans believed themselves exceptional, but the Chinese were the master race, smarter, stronger, braver; superior in every way. Zhu would prevail. Not only would he escape this minefield, he would complete his mission and kill Kyle Murphy.
Engrossed with his Chi-pad, he never bothered to look up, never saw the middle-aged woman leaning out an upstairs window with a shotgun aimed at his head.
104
Southeast of Kerrick, Texas
THOSE JOURNAL ENTRIES echoed noisily through Martha Bratton’s mind, warding off any chance of sleep. She didn’t want to believe the horrific accounts, but unlike Mary, she couldn’t dismiss them. The stories included too many vivid details about topics that children should be blissfully unaware of.
What if it’s true? she asked herself, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that had settled into the pit of her stomach.
A curious light streamed through the window, engulfing the room. She bolted from the bed, nearly losing her footing.
Vehicle headlights were glowing like sinister eyes.
Martha ran through the hallway and pounded on Mary’s door. “Strangers are approaching the farm. Wake the kids and get to the storm cellar.”
Aided only by the subdued light of a homemade beeswax candle, Sybil, Izzy, and Mary descended through a trapdoor inside the pantry, into a ten-by-ten, steel tornado shelter. Martha secured the hatch, disguised it with a basket of sweet potatoes, and walked to the front door.
A light-colored pickup rolled to a stop. Two blue-helmeted soldiers exited the cab, four more jumped down from the bed; then flashlights attached to rifle barrels began sweeping over the house.
Three men marched up the porch steps. “I am Sergeant Yang. We restore erect-ricity and communication.”
Martha faked a smile as Izzy’s words replayed: The peacekeepers restored electric and phones and stuff. Then they turned into bullies and started killing people.
Yang’s fingers tapped an electronic tablet. A flash went off, startling Martha and causing spots to swirl before her eyes.
“You Martha Bratton?”
She nodded, too stunned to speak.
Gruff hands clasped her arm, pinning her against the doorjamb. Martha watched the syringe penetrate her skin, unable to determine whether it was red or blue.
Yang extended his tablet toward her. “You see terrorist?”
Peering at the mug shots of Sybil and Izzy, Martha knew it was true. All of it. “But—but they’re just children.”
“Terrorist punish regar-ress age!”
“Well, if I had known they were terrorists, I never would’ve let them stay the night.”
“Inside?” he asked, gesturing toward the house.
“No, I don’t let strangers in my home. They’re sleeping in the storehouse. That arch-shaped metal building across the way.”
“Ah, metar-r. Interfere GPS,” Yang mumbled as he sternly grabbed hold of Martha’s wrist. The beeswax candle dripped hot wax onto his hand, causing him to yelp and release her.
Serves you right, she thought, treading down the porch steps before he could reestablish his grip or extinguish the candle. Yang trailed two paces behind. The other soldiers followed in the truck, its headlights casting long, daggerlike shadows across the gravel.
With each step, fear tightened around Martha’s heart, wringing out hope, injecting doubt.
I must be crazy, taking on six armed soldiers.
Disastrous outcomes registered in her mind—rape, torture, Alameda fever, a firing squad. Still, she kept moving toward the small, man-sized steel door.
The pickup braked to a stop. Yang and his men charged into the building, rifles drawn, faces furrowed with a barbaric determination that sent a shiver of dread through Martha.
She tiptoed into the building behind them and gently removed the lid from a drum of fertilizer. The ammonium nitrate had been delivered a week before the power loss, a half dozen fifty-gallon drums, enough for the spring crop that had never been planted.
Judging based on the beams of light bouncing against the curved walls, Martha surmised that all six soldiers were far enough away. Hands shaking, she inserted the beeswax candle into the ammonium nitrate.
Like an explosive birthday cake, she thought, jamming the candle deeper, until the burning wick was almost touching the white crystalline fertilizer.
Martha sprinted through the open door.
Her legs protested each stride. Her chest ached.
Then the farm lit up around her, bright as day.
A blast of air propelled her forward like a leaf blowing in the wind; and she landed in a jarring belly flop, the impact assailing every bone, every muscle in her body.
Sound waves shook the ground; then she felt the tremendous heat.
105
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
FRANNY MARION STROLLED alongside Captain Andrews. Gwen was a yard ahead of them, eager to get back to the barracks after twelve hours of translating.
“Did you emphasize that this requires delicate handling? Given that three of the four traitors are still unknown?”
Frustration glinted in Ryan’s honey-brown eyes. “I already told you, I briefed Rodriguez. He’ll relay it up the chain of command. This decision is well above my pay grade.”
Displeased with his answer, Franny slumped against the wall waiting for Gwen to unlock the door.
“So how is this going to work now that Abby’s back from District Six? There are three of us and only two beds in the room. And don’t tell me hot racking,” she said, referring to the military practice of assigning people on different shifts to share the same bunk.
His lips twisted into a mischievous grin. “Gwen’s staying with Abby. You’re moving to new digs. So gather your stuff.”
Franny walked into the room, surprised by Abby’s absence.
Hopefully, she’s working things out with Bradley.
From the desk, Franny lifted a toothbrush with her right hand, a tube of toothpaste with her left, and said, “All packed!” The underlying truth in her sarcasm was depressing. Her worldly possessions now consisted of the clothes on her back and two toiletries—courtesy of the prison at Barclay. Of course, she still had three caches of weapons and explosives along with a modest stash of food, but that was miles away in Colorado.
&nbs
p; After saying good-night to Gwen, Ryan led Franny to a sprawling apartment complex. He unlocked the door to unit sixty-three and casually swatted the light switch as he stepped inside.
It had a stark atmosphere, devoid of color, personal pictures, and knickknacks. A brown plaid couch faced a dysfunctional television; and behind it, a half wall separated the living room from an efficiency kitchen with ivory laminate cabinets trimmed with oak.
“The faucet works. Appliances don’t,” Ryan told her.
“Why’s Gwen staying with Abby when there’s plenty of room here?”
“Somebody already lives here—”
“Tell me it’s not Mia.”
“It’s not Mia,” he said, grin intensifying. “The couch is actually a foldaway bed so you can sleep out here or in the bedroom—wherever you’re more comfortable.”
He strode past the kitchen into a narrow hallway.
Hustling to catch up with him, Franny said, “Are you sure the current resident won’t mind?”
“Positive.” He reached around a corner and slapped another light switch. “Here’s the bathroom. Water’s room temperature at best.”
Franny tossed her toiletries onto the vanity then followed him into the bedroom. It had light blue wall-to-wall carpeting, a full-sized bed with a navy blue comforter, and a wide window inset with 1980s-style vertical blinds. “This is nice. I’ll take the bedroom.”
“Suit yourself.”
Perplexed, she watched Ryan loosen his tie and untuck the shirttails of his charcoal-gray service uniform—the TEradS equivalent of office attire. “Uh ... What are you doing?”
He stared at her as if she were slow-witted. “Getting undressed.” He detached his name tag and rank insignia then began working the buttons.
“No shit. I meant why, Dumb Ass?”
He flung the shirt onto the bed and wrenched his T-shirt up over his head. “I don’t sleep in my uniform, Genius.”
Momentarily distracted by his well-defined abs and muscular chest, it took a second to sink in. “This is your apartment?”
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