Sun extended his hands, commanding the cameraman to capture the jubilant soldiers. He wanted to encapsulate and preserve this moving moment, certain its propaganda value would earn him accolades.
His jovial mood suddenly withered.
His comrades began twitching. Faces contorted into grotesque expressions. Blindingly bright streaks arced between the metallic benches and standing soldiers. Those who remained seated, trembled uncontrollably.
The stench of burning flesh and hair was rising like an invisible mist, and Sun turned away. To the west, just beyond an electrical substation, he saw a cable looped overtop a high-voltage transmission line. It slithered toward the bleachers, a sparking, smoking serpent of death.
His men were being electrocuted. Thousands of volts were traveling along the path of blood vessels and nerves, generating vicious internal burns. Muscles were contracting with enough force to fracture bone and dislocate joints, releasing doses of myoglobin large enough to doom any survivors to kidney failure.
And there wasn’t a damn thing Sun could do about it.
133
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
SPENT, RYAN ANDREWS trudged through the darkness toward his apartment. The responsibility for training the Snipers felt like an anchor, dragging him deeper, the pressure ever increasing. The fact that Abby and Bradley were leading the field, matching each other shot for shot, made him dread this black operation all the more. Would tomorrow’s 0500 hours meeting with the Major alleviate his misgivings? Or would specific mission details exacerbate them?
Leery of waking Sybil and Izzy, he padded into his apartment without the benefit of light. His right foot landed atop something wobbly. His ankle turned.
“Mother—” He barely stifled the last two syllables.
A flashlight clicked on as Ryan stumbled into the room, struggling to regain his balance.
A bright splotch highlighted a worn-out pair of Reeboks, and then Sybil whispered, “I told you not to leave your sneakers in front of the door.”
“That’s a booby trap,” Izzy said defensively. “When the peacekeepers break in, the noise will wake us up.”
Ryan swatted the light switch, his frustration melting into compassion, and he sank onto the edge of the sofa bed beside Izzy. “You don’t need to do that, Buddy. Miss Franny won’t let anything happen to you.”
Izzy’s freckled nose crinkled. “She couldn’t stop them from killing her daughter. She said so, herself, in Sybil’s journal.”
Guilt crackled through Ryan’s nervous system and set his gut ablaze. He had been so busy with Rodriguez and the Snipers that he still hadn’t found time to read the journal.
“Izzy, you are on a U.S. Air Force Base that’s guarded day and night,” Ryan told him, shooing away thoughts of Bradley’s perimeter penetration. “I promise; you’re safe.”
“I just feel safer when you’re here.”
“Me too.” Sybil climbed from the sofa bed and made her way through the hallway toward the bathroom.
“Well, I’m here now, so get to sleep.”
“You know what?” Izzy asked, words mangled by a yawn. “You should marry Miss Franny and adopt me and Sybil. Then we’d all have a family again.”
An awkward sound escaped Ryan, surprise tinged with amusement. “I don’t know about that, Buddy. The truth is, I tried being a husband a couple times and was pretty bad at it. And what do I know about being a dad?”
“It’s easy. You teach me stuff and holler when I mess up. And besides, saying you can’t do something without even trying—that’s just pussy talk!”
Ryan busted out laughing. “Please tell me you didn’t learn that word from me.”
“No, that’s what my dad called it. My mom got real mad at him, too. Then he tried to convince her he said wussy talk. It was pretty funny.”
Izzy’s smile wilted as if feeling the enormity of his loss, and a swarm of suffocated sobs racked his little body. Ryan draped an arm around the boy. Logic dictated that he send both kids to District Six where Jessie and Kyle could raise them; but for some inexplicable reason, he didn’t want them to leave.
Head shaking, Ryan wondered how his life had come to this: playing house with a Sapper and two kids? Worse yet, when did he start liking it?
Hearing Sybil’s approaching footsteps, Izzy smeared away his tears and regained his composure.
Ryan spent ten minutes reassuring them; then he lifted Sybil’s journal from the coffee table, turned off the light, and made his way through the darkened hallway. Inside the bathroom, he gently closed the door and flicked the light switch. Backside leaning against the vanity, he skimmed the journal, which culminated with Franny’s entry.
“Six Wei-Wei electrical trucks sped past. My friend, Gwen, shouted at the drivers in Mandarin, but they didn’t slow down—not even when the front bumper struck Sierra, my beautiful eight-year-old daughter. There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t protect her. The impact launched her forward, skipping and scraping against the asphalt, then truck after truck crushed the life from my angel.
“Under the Chong Sheng Plan, those drivers were exempt from prosecution; so I took the law into my own hands and dispatched them. By then, it had become evident that the peacekeepers were actually an invading army. Acting in defense of my nation, I bombed Moffat Tunnel and UW Headquarters in District Eight. Major Frances Marion, Retired Army Sapper, aka the Terror Fox.”
Tidbit # 8: Peter Francisco
At the age of fifteen, Peter Francisco joined the Tenth Virginia militia. One day, a British soldier on horseback ordered Peter to “surrender or die!” He insisted his gun wasn’t loaded and relinquished the weapon musket end first. In a split second, he swung the gun, impaled the soldier with the bayonet, and dragged him off the horse. He commandeered the animal and evaded British troops by pretending to be a loyalist. He also fought in the Battle of Brandywine Creek and survived the winter of 1777 in Valley Forge. George Washington was quoted as saying, “Without him we would have lost two crucial battles, perhaps the War, and with it our freedom. He was truly a One Man Army.”
Source: American Patriots by Rick Santorum.
Peter’s skewering of the peacekeeper on the ATV is intended to draw attention to the actions of a heroic young man, and remind us all that it is the individual who makes the difference. All other sentiments expressed and actions taken by this character are purely fictional.
Chapter 13
—— DAY 453 ——
Friday, May 13th
134
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
RYAN ANDREWS GROANED when the alarm sounded at 0400 hours. After comforting Sybil and Izzy, and reading about Sierra, he had spent an hour with Franny, listening more than talking. Then they had quietly made love, giggling like two teenagers wary of getting caught.
Grinning sleepily at the memory, he slogged into the shower. The cold water awakened his body along with the intense pressure of responsibility. What glitches would today’s training unearth? Where would this operation take place? When? And why was Rodriguez adamant about using only one Sniper? Minimizing the number of TEradS Soldiers at risk seemed logical, but it would also diminish the chance of success.
He dressed, kissed Franny’s forehead as she slumbered, and tiptoed through the hallway. He gently opened the front door, allowing the exterior lights to brighten the room, and checked on both kids.
I should hate this, having all these people in my tiny apartment, he thought. Could I actually be a family man?
Sighing, he kicked Izzy’s booby-trap sneakers back in front of the door, locked it, and then hurried to TEradS Headquarters.
Although he was early for his 0500 hours meeting with Rodriguez, the light in his office was already glowing. Upon entering the building, he knew something was wrong. The air felt thick as tar and sour.
Ryan’s pulse quickened. The reception area had been ransacked. Hi
s office door lay flat like a bridge over a river of dark paint, then he saw Mia Candelori. Blood stretched from her body to a blond-haired Military Policeman who had been shot in the head.
What the fuck? Ryan squatted beside Mia, checked for a pulse, and solemnly closed her eyelids; then he inventoried the office. Filing cabinets had been pried open, documents scattered, desk drawers capsized. Were they searching for the syringes and the laptop?
Ryan’s head jerked toward the cold-air return beneath his wall of fallen heroes. The metal grill was still held in place by four screws. If they had found the laptop hidden inside the metal duct, they never would have replaced the grill.
His attention reverted to the dead blond man, and a thought hit his gut like a mortar round.
Aldrich Ames threatened Rodriguez.
Ryan stepped carefully around the sticky, dark pool and opened the adjoining door to the ops center. Both on-duty Corporals sat slumped at their computer stations, each with bullet wounds to the head and chest. Anger surged through Ryan. How did the bastards get on base? Was it lax security? Or yet another crop of traitors?
Pivoting back toward his office, he noted another zigzagging trail of blood that traced the seams of the commercial floor tiles. It emanated from behind his desk, and his eyes zeroed on a protruding hand, still gripping Ryan’s illicit .40 caliber M&P.
135
District Six, Texas
KYLE MURPHY MOVED HIS office to a windowless room in the basement of the medical center. The former fallout shelter was a dank, dusty space lit by a single lightbulb, powered by the hospital’s generator. Each month, refineries had supplied the district with a fixed ration of fuel, and Kyle had been squirreling away a portion of it into his own strategic petroleum reserve, an investment now paying dividends.
He allocated three-quarters of the electric generated to medical services, law enforcement, and waste management. To prevent the spread of disease, a centralized water pumping station provided cold showers and flushing toilets. The remaining quarter was available for civilians to recharge batteries and lanterns.
Thus far, the population had accepted the rationing stoically, a honeymoon that would end when the diesel ran out. Would Ryan or Rodriguez arrive in time?
Kyle had limited the factory and refinery strike to forty-eight hours, hoping the disruption would be long enough to attract attention, yet brief enough to avoid undermining the military.
The door to his dungeonlike office creaked open and Jessie stepped inside. “A Mister Woodhull is here. He says it’s extremely urgent.”
Kyle considered the unfamiliar name then said, “Show him in.”
Woodhull marched through the doorway, six feet tall and muscular with a round face, ruddy cheeks, and a scruffy brown mustache that matched his shoulder-length hair.
Kyle stood, and the man glared at his outstretched hand as if it were radioactive.
“Don’t say a fucking word!” Woodhull clutched a Chi-phone in his left hand, a pistol in his right, and he used the barrel to usher Jessie deeper into the room.
Kyle gasped. His office felt like a free-falling elevator. “Whatever this is about ... Leave my wife out of it—”
“Shut up! My wife doesn’t have electric because of you, you selfish prick!” The liquid crystal display of Woodhull’s cellphone was directed at Kyle, recording the encounter. “You see that?” he shouted, forcing him to behold his own terrified expression. “That is the face of a coward!”
Kyle winced at the thought of Abby viewing this video. “Okay, I’ll surrender. Just don’t hurt my wife—”
“Get down on your knees! Both of you!”
As Kyle knelt, his mind regressed fifteen months, to the intruder who had held Jessie at gunpoint. That same sense of powerlessness was descending over him.
Not this time, he told himself. His eyes slanted toward his M4, which was propped against the cinder-block wall.
“If you look at that rifle again, I’ll shoot her first. And you can watch her die.”
Jessie was on her knees, lips moving as if in prayer; and the sight triggered a murderous hatred within Kyle. He wanted to choke the life from Woodhull with his bare hands. “What do you want?”
The man adjusted his grip on the phone and leveled the gun at Jessie.
Kyle lunged toward him.
Two gunshots boomed.
He heard his wife scream. His shoulder slammed into the shooter, then two more deafening blasts reverberated through the room.
136
Clarksville Academy
Northwest of District Six, Texas
GENERAL SUN’S BOOTS stomped punishingly against the tiled hallway of the Clarksville Academy maintenance building.
A lone-wolf American terrorist had electrocuted hundreds of his soldiers and shelved Operation Boa, a mission tasked with squeezing the petroleum lifeblood from the stateside U.S. military.
“How could that jackal vanish so quickly?” Sun muttered as he navigated through the building’s basement. A corporal snapped to attention then opened a heavy fire door. Inside the makeshift interrogation room, seated at a table speckled with flecks of dried blood, he saw Aldrich Ames and his protégé, David Yee. Both men stood to greet him.
“Comrade Ames, where is my prisoner?”
The CIA director gestured for Yee to field the question, and the young operative nervously cleared his throat.
“I was unable to procure the laptop and syringes. The items were not in the office as we believed.”
Sun’s temper soared. “Those were secondary objectives to which I did not inquire!”
A shadow of humiliation colored Yee’s face. His dark eyes glittered with regret. “Rodriguez was not supposed to be armed while on base. My colleague—a man who was unaware of our agenda and believed the Major to be a traitor—was killed and the situation imploded. I was forced to leave his body behind rather than risk capture and interrogation.”
“The dead CIA agent at Langden is of no consequence,” Sun told him, knowing that Ames was preoccupied with fabricating a credible explanation. “The timetable for the Chinese Century has been accelerated, and that requires the immediate elimination of the TEradS. The Major’s knowledge is essential to achieving that objective.” Sun’s scowl of condemnation shifted from Yee to Ames. “You will launch another mission. Rodriguez will be in my custody. Today!”
Ames’ fingers drummed against his biceps. “General, it is no longer possible to extract information from Major Rodriguez.”
Infuriated, Sun upended the table. It somersaulted into the wall with a clamor and landed on its side like a dead animal. “I will not hear of impossible!” With his left hand, he grasped the young operative by the neck.
“I-I had the Taser aimed at Rodriguez,” Yee stammered. “I never expected him to put a bullet into his own head.”
“Perhaps, you will find this equally unexpected.” Sun drew his Norinco .22 caliber handgun, rammed the barrel into Yee’s left ear, and pulled the trigger.
Ames’ complexion paled, then licking his lips, he said, “There are two men likely to succeed Rodriguez: the commanders of TEradS East and West, Captains Dominick Defina and Ryan Andrews, respectively. I have established dossiers and contingency plans for both. The delay will cost us a week. At most.”
The general strolled closer until the warm barrel of his gun poked the underside of Ames’ chin. “You have twenty-four hours to rectify your mistake.”
137
District Six, Texas
KYLE’S EARS WERE RINGING, his hands trembling, his mind speculating about the absence of pain. Did the idiot miss from point-blank range? Or was Kyle’s desire for vengeance trumping physical sensations?
He straddled his attacker, unleashing a barrage of punches. He seized the handgun and jammed the barrel into the man’s forehead. Adrenaline and hatred pulsated through his veins.
Woodhull was begging for his life as the tip of Kyle’s finger found the trigger.
Jessie shouted, “D
on’t shoot him! He didn’t hurt me!”
A peculiar thought formed, then Kyle retracted the gun and stood.
Gary and two deputies charged into the room, rolled the shooter face-first onto the cement floor, and cuffed his hands.
“Three of the shots were blanks,” Woodhull blurted. “The fourth destroyed the Chi-phone.”
“Shut up!” Gary’s boot lodged atop the prisoner’s shoulder, forcing his head down.
Kyle set the handgun on the desk and gathered his wife into his arms, stroking her long blonde hair, thankful she wasn’t injured.
“Governor, please,” Woodhull begged. “Let me explain.”
Gary brought more weight to bear on his shoulder. “I said shut up! Or I’ll parade you outside, and we’ll see how far you get explaining it to the people—”
“No vigilante justice,” Kyle said, keenly aware—and ashamed—of how close he had come to shooting Woodhull. “Let him talk, Gary. We need to know who else is involved.”
The deputies hoisted Woodhull by his elbows and shoved him onto the leather couch transplanted from Kyle’s former office. “I wasn’t trying to kill you, Governor. I swear.”
Kyle suspected that was true. Not even a blindfolded man could have missed four times at that range.
“I surrendered to the Chinese,” Woodhull continued. “I planned to infiltrate the Liberty Keepers, spy on them, and sabotage them—just like the traitors who attacked our military. But they sent me back right away ... with that Chi-phone, that handgun, and orders to kill you. They said a district resident would be able to get close without arousing suspicion. And they were right.”
Gary began rubbing his temples. “So you pulled this stunt to make a point?”
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