EMPowered- America Re-Energized
Page 27
It was a cool morning, the first hints of sunrise still nonexistent, the stars and moon illuminating his path. Peter followed a trail of fifty-foot, electric transmission towers, fragile giants painfully essential to human life. A meandering arroyo ran along the southern side of the power lines and sported enough scrub for concealment. He had to watch every step. Although rattlesnakes were less common since the EMP—because they had become a human food source—their venom was more deadly given the scarcity of vehicles and medical care.
The growl of a combustion engine quashed the gentle hum of electricity. Peter ducked into the gully, eyes fixed on a point of light moving toward him.
Too quiet for a motorcycle, he thought, and too small for a pickup truck.
From fifty yards away, he realized it was an ATV, a four-wheel all-terrain vehicle. Peter expected the roving sentry to cruise past him. Instead, he braked to a stop, a few yards from the arroyo and drew his handgun.
“You no r-reave district!”
Peter pretended not to understand and spoke to the man in Spanish, hoping he was not fluent in the language.
“Surrender weapon or die!”
“My rifle—it isn’t loaded,” he said in Spanish. “I don’t even have any ammunition. I just use the blade to kill snakes.” Peter released the hinged bayonet tucked beneath the barrel, locked it into position, and stabbed the ground, pantomiming his statement.
The soldier aimed his handgun at a bare patch of sand alongside the ATV and waved Peter forward, nonverbally instructing him to relinquish his rifle. There was little urgency in the peacekeeper’s demeanor. He was clearly not anticipating resistance.
Go ahead, underestimate me, Peter thought as he edged closer. You’ll regret it!
He bent over as if placing the rifle on the ground, close enough for his head to graze the vehicle’s fender flair. His heart felt like it was about to burst as he sprung forward.
The bayonet plunged into the shocked soldier’s chest. Peter jerked the butt stock, smacking the handgun, launching it into the darkness. He drove the blade deeper then with a mighty heave, he lifted the impaled peacekeeper from the ATV and hurled his lifeless body into the arroyo.
126
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
FOR TWO DAYS, ABBY Webber had scrounged every snippet of forgiveness, exhausted every ounce of self-control in an effort to avoid this confrontation. Rather than extinguishing her anger, the passing hours had allowed it to smolder into resentment and reignite into outrage.
She patrolled the gray tiled floor of the women’s bathroom. Meanspirited words tumbled through her mind. Sentiments she knew would be better left unspoken. Glimpsing her reflection in the pitted mirror, she mumbled, “Say as little as possible.”
The door swung open.
Mia Candelori strutted into the room, and her greenish-brown eyes widened. “Good-morning, Mrs. Webber ... Or is it Ms. Murphy?”
Abby wanted to slap the smirk off her face. “I don’t have much time, Mia, so I’ll be brief and put this into terms even you can understand. If you ruin Bradley’s life, I will ruin your life—irreparably.”
Mia snorted and folded her arms across her chest. “Are you threatening me?”
“Yes!” Abby strode toward her, and the Private backpedaled until her shoulders met the tiled wall. “And next time, it won’t be my fist smashing into your face.”
“Go ahead. Hit me. I’ll have you arrested—”
“Are you paying attention? I just said it won’t be my fist.”
Mia’s eyebrows rocketed upward. Her lips retracted into an arrogant sneer. “What are you going to do? Shoot me?”
Abby walked to the door, grabbed hold of the handle, and hesitated, projecting her most potent death stare. “I can pop your head like a balloon ... from a hundred feet!”
127
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
BRADLEY WAS EN ROUTE to the briefing room when Captain Andrews steered him into his office.
“About that stunt you pulled with Richards,” Ryan said, hands trussed on hips. “I appreciate that you kept your word and didn’t injure the guy, but do you really think it was wise to punch a hole through base security?”
“I covered Richards’ post until Russo arrived at shift change. Base security wasn’t jeopardized ... At least not by me, sir.”
Ryan’s gaze shot to the ceiling and made a sweeping arc before returning to Bradley. “Okay, honestly, do we have incompetent sentries on watch?”
Reluctant to bury Russo along with Richards, he inhaled a slow breath. “Let’s just say it wasn’t the challenge I’d expected.”
“I’ll talk to Colonel Gardner about security.” Ryan started for the door, stopped midstep, then said, “I know you’re competitive, Sergeant. But keep in mind, it’s not always best to finish first.”
Bradley followed him from the office, pondering the cryptic comment. He had never known Ryan to speak in riddles. His CO was always direct and every bit as competitive as Bradley. What the hell was that remark supposed to mean?
The assembled group of TEradS personnel compounded the mystery. Eight Snipers and Major Rodriguez?
Bradley traded a glance with Abby, her blue eyes probing for information he didn’t have; then with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he took a seat across from her.
“You will be transported to an undisclosed, urban environment,” Rodriguez said, his voice booming. “Where you will be training for a highly sensitive mission. So sensitive, that you are prohibited from discussing it. Even amongst yourselves.” The Major’s stare migrated around the room as if eye contact were a binding pledge. “Only one of you will be chosen for this mile-plus shot ...”
Bradley felt an icy sensation creep into his stomach.
It’s not always best to finish first.
Ryan’s riddle was a warning.
No matter what, Bradley thought, I have to outshoot Abby.
128
District Six, Texas
HANDS RAISED ABOVE his head, Abraham “Woody” Woodhull approached the UW checkpoint on Route 59. Rifle sights drifted along with his forward progress. Would they open fire?
His heart pumped fiercely. No air seemed to permeate his lungs. “My name is Woody. I’m a resident of District Six, and I want to join the Liberty Keepers.”
A short, stocky soldier exited a mobile command post and swaggered through the ring of troops now surrounding him. “I am Captain Deng,” he said, his pawlike hand resting atop a sidearm.
As a peacekeeper frisked him, sweat trickled along Woody’s neck. They found no weapons, no valuables, no food, no water.
“Where is phone?” Deng demanded.
“One of the governor’s deputies seized it,” Woody told him, indignation boiling in his tone. “Said it was a security risk. The man is a lunatic bent on starving everyone in the district!”
Deng’s dark gimlet eyes were like a human ultrasound, scanning beneath skin and bone, analyzing motives. “You prove patriotism?”
“Yes, sir. I’m ready to become part of something bigger than myself.”
Deng’s expression soured. “Word meaningr-ress. Action prove sincerity.”
“I will do whatever is required, Captain.”
Deng removed an American-made .45 caliber Ruger from its holster; and as the barrel glided toward Woody, fear thudded in his ears. The captain flicked his wrist, and the weapon spun 180 degrees, its grip now extended toward him. Was this a trap? Would they shoot him if he reached for the gun?
Sensing his wariness, Deng said, “You take weapon and phone. Return to district. Unr-rike peacekeeper, you get in no suspicion.”
Woody’s fingers closed around the grip.
Deng released the barrel. “To prove sincerity, you shoot governor.”
He gave a determined nod and stowed the gun inside the waistband of his jeans. The ring of soldiers parted, and after Woody had
taken a dozen steps, he heard Deng shout, “Stop!”
The captain tossed something to him. Silver and metallic, it glinted through the sunlight—a magazine packed with .45 caliber bullets.
“You pass first test,” Deng told him. “If you try shoot peacekeeper, you die. Weapon contain br-rank.”
Squeezing the magazine, Woody said, “Governor Murphy is as good as dead!”
129
Clarksville Academy
Northwest of District Six, Texas
GENERAL SUN HAD commandeered the dean’s office at Clarksville Academy. With its ample dormitories, the former prep school was an ideal base for the forces amassing to assault District Six, an integral part of Operation Boa.
Colonel Meng entered the room, and the smell of failure oozed from the man’s pores. It showed in his indolent gait, the defeated tilt of his head.
“Colonel, you have failed—once again—to eliminate Governor Murphy,” Sun began. “One man with no security detail. A man whose communications we monitor, whose movements we track. How is this possible?”
Meng’s Adam’s apple bobbed in an effort to force down his embarrassment. Then, in a skittish voice, he said, “District Six is a unique and delicate situation, sir. The civilians are well armed and protecting Murphy. Neutralization in such great numbers would have shuttered factories and refineries, attracting the attention of the U.S. military.”
“Failure is a cancer, Colonel. If permitted to grow and spread, it will weaken its host, bringing pain and death even to the most resilient. You allowed Murphy to develop a thriving capitalist economy with its own currency and an independent food supply; which, in turn, enabled him to arm the citizens of District Six.”
“But, sir—”
“Silence!” Sun felt like human nitroglycerin poised to explode. “Your spate of failures is sabotaging the Chinese Century!”
Shame radiated from Meng’s face. “My performance will improve, sir!”
“There is only one way to deal with cancer, Colonel.” General Sun unlocked a briefcase sitting atop the desk. “Cut it from the body before it can destroy the host.” He removed a Norinco .22 caliber pistol and fired a bullet between Meng’s astonished brown eyes.
130
Northwest of District Six, Texas
DRESSED IN THE DEAD peacekeeper’s uniform, a Type 56 rifle bouncing against his back, Peter Francisco drove the ATV toward Clarksville Academy. The campus sprawled over several acres. Academic buildings and dormitories seemed to float amidst a sea of white pickup trucks.
The Chinese have converted this into a military base, he thought, smiling. Exactly the kind of information I need to persuade Governor Murphy.
The football facility, situated outside the school’s gated entrance, boasted a gleaming set of aluminum grandstands with banks of lights laden with birds’ nests. Bright red fabric festooned the upper rows of bleachers, and the sight caused Peter to stop. The fabric wasn’t sun-faded or torn; someone had installed it recently.
He hitched the uncomfortable blue helmet higher and circled the field to improve his view. A small stage had been erected at the fifty-yard line. A lectern bearing an unfamiliar seal was adorned by six flapping Chinese flags.
The whine of an engine startled Peter, and he whirled in his seat. A Wei-Wei electrical truck was off-road, bounding and fishtailing, spewing a dust plume that hovered like a dirty fog.
The vehicle parked alongside a new substation fifty yards to the west, and two workers exited the cab. Assuming Peter was a peacekeeper, they proffered a disinterested bow and went about their business. One climbed into a bucket attached to a telescoping arm; the second began unraveling a massive spool of wire.
Easy pickings, Peter thought as he shrugged the Chinese-made rifle off his shoulder. He aligned his shot, finger on the trigger, contracting with a slow, even pressure.
Bucket Man slumped over the control panel.
His co-worker reached for his sidearm.
Idiot, Peter thought as he acquired his second target. That handgun’s useless at this range. He fired.
The worker staggered two steps backward. The weapon toppled from his hand; and knees buckling, he shrunk down onto the parched soil, kicking up a ghostly puff of dust.
Peter searched the campus for threats. The fleet of trucks remained immobile, dormitory doors sealed. After concluding that no one had heard the shots, his gaze toggled between the truck and the lectern, sparking a nefarious idea.
131
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
UPON HIS ARRIVAL at TEradS Headquarters, Major Rodriguez said, “As you were, Private.”
“Captain Andrews isn’t in, sir,” Mia Candelori told him. “And I have no idea where he is or when he’ll be back. He was rude; said if I needed to know, he would have told me.”
Repressing a smirk, Rodriguez keyed the six-digit code and opened the door, wondering how much progress Andrews had made with the Snipers.
“Sir? Major Rodriguez? Wait, I need to speak with you.”
He paused in the doorway, his expression urging Mia to be brief.
“Abigail Webber threatened to shoot me, sir. She said, and I quote, ‘I can pop your head like a balloon from a hundred feet.’ ”
“A hundred feet?” Rodriguez repeated, annoyed that she was wasting his time. “Private, a Sniper would never threaten to shoot you from a hundred feet.”
He entered the office, let the door fall shut, and locked it behind him. His Secret Service abduction had illustrated his vulnerability and added credence to Aldrich Ames’ threat.
While the computer booted up, his mind zipped through mission details, analyzing, cataloging pitfalls, and spawning contingency plans. Now that Gwen Ling had uncovered the identities of the other three traitors, operational planning had devolved into a four-dimensional, lethal game of chess.
He logged into a secret e-mail account. His previous message had been replaced with a single-spaced humdrum note, regarding the weather in Washington, D.C.
He decoded the message, pleasantly surprised by the level of support he was receiving from the White House. Director Stevens from the Secret Service had identified the most vulnerable times and locations to strike each target. Rear Admiral Murray over at Cyber Command was neutralizing satellite reconnaissance and planting a trail of bogus e-mail and disinformation.
So many moving parts, Rodriguez thought as he logged out. It’s gonna take an act of divine intervention to pull this off.
A high-pitched screech rattled him, followed by a burst of muffled pops.
“Please, d-don’t shoot,” Mia pleaded.
Anxiety jolted through Rodriguez. He ripped the corner from the desk calendar and jotted a note for Andrews.
“I swear, I-I can’t unlock the door.”
Rodriguez crammed the note between the handgun holster and the underside of the desk, then he removed the .40 caliber M&P.
“Ow, you’re hur-hurting me.”
A burst of suppressed rounds demolished the hinges. The door fell open and two gunmen disguised as MPs barged into the room. One was using Mia as a human shield.
Rodriguez fired, striking the other assailant in the chest, and the man lurched backward.
Damn body armor, he thought. His second shot burrowed into the man’s skull, then a bullet bit into Rodriguez’s left biceps. A burning, vicious pain made his fingers feel as if they had exploded.
“Drop the gun or she dies.” The gunman was of Asian descent with no inkling of an accent.
He’s American, Rodriguez decided, and he wants me alive. Otherwise, I’d already be dead.
“Pl-e-e-ease, Major, put down the gun.” The terror in Mia’s voice was heartbreaking, but capitulation would only end her life sooner. Rodriguez held firm.
A bullet carved into her stomach. She shrieked, hugging her abdomen, and the gunman grappled to keep her upright.
Rodriguez took advantage and fired again, narrowly missing the gunm
an’s head.
A retaliatory shot shattered his right wrist.
The M&P flew from his hand and thumped against the floor.
Rodriguez dove, groping for it with his left hand. He peeked around the desk and swore aloud.
The man had holstered his sidearm in favor of a Taser. Rodriguez’s future flashed like the trailer for a horror movie: paralysis, restraint, torture—and every man had his limits. Eventually, he would cave to the pain and betray his TEradS teams and his nation.
Everything slowed down, his respiration, his thoughts, his movements, even the scorching pain.
The Taser skated toward him.
Rodriguez gripped the M&P left-handed, likening his situation to a Wild West duel, praying that he would be faster on the trigger.
132
Clarksville Academy
Northwest of District Six, Texas
GENERAL SUN STEPPED onto the podium amidst applause delivered with the cadence and uniformity of a military march. The football bleachers of Clarksville Academy were packed with soldiers, reinforcements prepared to terminate the insurrection in District Six and pave the way for Operation Boa.
Shoulder to shoulder they stood, like camouflage-clad sardines, drenched with sweat in the late afternoon heat.
“Comrades, be seated.” Sun looked into the camera, broadcasting his live message to in-country troops and relaying it via satellite to the masses back home. “This day is historic for the People’s Republic of China. Today, a full month ahead of schedule, we are removing the mask.”
He made no mention of the failures that had compelled the premature acceleration. “We are shedding our role as peacekeepers and openly declaring war on the United States. We are seizing the property and resources that rightly belong to our Motherland.”
Cheers commingled with the thunder of stomping feet. A chorus of My Motherland erupted, a patriotic song from the 1956 film The Battle on Shangganling Mountain, which characterized invading U.S. Troops as jackals.