“The Chinese were watching and listening through the phone, so it had to seem real. The fear on your faces, in your voices, it couldn’t have been faked.”
The statement barreled through Kyle’s nervous system like an electric shock. “You adjusted your grip on the phone ... You recorded me rushing you then intentionally jerked the camera lens toward the ceiling and shot the phone, didn’t you?”
Nodding, Woodhull’s furrowed brow relaxed a fraction.
“So you put the governor through this,” Gary said, his voice thick with irritation, “to achieve your aspirations of becoming a spy and saboteur?”
“And to save the governor’s life by convincing the Chinese he was dead,” Woodhull snapped indignantly. “Do I need to remind you, Sheriff, that the next person who walks up to that checkpoint might not be pretending to be a traitor?”
138
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
SINCE FINDING RODRIGUEZ’S body, Ryan had been caught in a vortex of problems, each swirling toward him like debris at lethal velocity.
Wary of a 1992 Department of Defense directive that prohibited personnel from carrying firearms on base, he had removed the holster mounted beneath his desk and was surprised to see a scrap of paper float to the floor. Rodriguez had scrawled a cryptic message onto it: Read between the lines.
Before Ryan could contemplate the riddle, he received an urgent call, informing him that production of fuel and ammunition in District Six had ceased. He tried and failed to reach Kyle Murphy then summoned the remnants of Teams 6A and 6B and sent them to investigate.
Next, Ryan met with his Snipers, apprised them of the tragedy, and placed Jon Malloy in charge of training, promising to join them as soon as possible. As they streamed from the briefing room, Sergeant Morton ambled inside and closed the door.
The Military Policeman was short with a weightlifter’s build. His dark, studious eyes were set beneath bushy brows, and his flat-cropped black hair added to the boxy appearance of his face.
“You were first on scene?” Morton asked, opening a small notebook.
“Yes. I had a meeting with Rodriguez at 0500 hours.”
Ryan answered dozens of mundane questions, multiple times, while his mind sorted through the ramifications of losing Rodriguez. He couldn’t just call the White House and demand to speak with the Commander in Chief—a man allegedly on his deathbed who had relinquished his presidential powers—in reference to a secret assassination.
“Did Major Rodriguez and Private Candelori have a personal relationship?” Morton asked.
Ryan’s eyes narrowed, resenting his emphasis on the word personal, especially given Mia’s reputation. “No. The Major was not stationed at Langden. He was here for a few days on TEradS business.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
Are you that stupid? Ryan smothered the thought and calmly said, “TEradS teams hunt and eradicate terrorists. As commander, Rodriguez was a high-value target. I suggest you ID the dead blond guy because I’m betting he’s not really an MP.”
Morton’s dark, probing eyes bored deeper into Ryan. The Sergeant seemed to sense he was withholding information, but what else could he do? Tell Morton that Rodriguez was killed by the director of the CIA? Because of a laptop and syringes filled with a biological weapon?
“Did the .40 caliber M&P belong to the Major?”
“I saw him with it a couple days ago,” Ryan said evasively. “We were off base at the time. He was using rats for target practice.”
Morton’s brow rose with sudden interest. His pen scratched furiously across the notebook. “Did you handle the gun?”
“Yes, sir. I was also reloading the mags,” Ryan said, providing an explanation as to why his fingerprints would be found on the magazine, ammunition, and spent shell casings.
Morton stopped writing. “Captain, are you likely to be promoted as a result of the Major’s premature death?”
139
District Six, Texas
WOODY RETURNED TO THE UW checkpoint, arms raised above his head. He held the Ruger’s barrel in his right hand, the shattered remains of the Chi-phone in his left. “I need to speak to Captain Deng,” he said, trying to project confidence despite a dozen assault rifles aimed at his chest.
Tense minutes elapsed, then Deng emerged from a trailer missing its rig.
I need to get inside that mobile command center, Woody thought.
Deng ordered him to drop the weapon, and he complied.
“Governor Murphy is dead!”
“I have no confirmation. Surveir-rrance disrupted.”
“The sheriff was shooting at me,” Woody said, noticing that two Humvees were approaching the checkpoint from the west. “The Chi-phone was hit. I barely escaped with my life.”
“You go back. Acquire proof,” Deng said, lobbing a new Chi-phone.
Woody made no effort to catch it, and the phone smashed at his feet. “I can’t go back. They’ll shoot me on sight. I told you, Murphy is dead!”
“Then you serve no purpose,” Deng told him. “You die Chinese firing squad.”
The peacekeepers took aim. Woody closed his eyes and began to pray, certain his life was about to end.
I should’ve listened to Kyle and given up this crazy infiltration mission.
Curious as to the delay, his eyelids slowly opened. The UW troops had dispersed, their weapons now trained on the Humvees that had coasted to a stop thirty yards from the checkpoint. The passenger’s door of the lead vehicle swung outward, and a man wearing a TEradS uniform climbed out. “You need to clear the road.”
Deng’s men responded with a torrent of lead.
Capitalizing on the diversion, Woody reclaimed the .45 caliber Ruger and sprinted toward a rusted-out SUV ten yards behind the UW roadblock. He fired on the peacekeepers closest to him, and when he ran out of ammunition, Woody hid behind the steel rim of a tire.
Within minutes, the vicious exchange of gunfire ended. He peeked around the SUV’s front bumper. Two TEradS Soldiers were tending to an injured teammate, who had sustained a gunshot to the leg. The remaining four entered the trailer and quickly cleared it.
Woody jettisoned the handgun and slowly stood, his hands once again reaching for the Texas sky. “Don’t shoot. I’m an American!”
Four rifles were targeting Woody’s thumping heart.
Two firing squads within five minutes, he thought. Only I could be stupid enough to set that record.
140
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
IT WAS AFTER 0900 HOURS by the time Sergeant Morton finished the interview which, in Ryan’s opinion, had evolved into an interrogation.
Swearing under his breath, he pounded at the keyboard of the briefing room computer and logged in to check his e-mail. One message caught his eye, and he opened it with a double click of the mouse.
Thank you for the notification regarding the untimely death of Major Carlos Rodriguez. Please accept my condolences. May he rest in peace, and may you be empowered by providence to carry on through these black days in his absence.
General Jonathan Quenten, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff
Carry on in his absence? Black days? Was the chairman referencing the black operation? One that Ryan had never been fully briefed about?
He let out an exasperated sigh and dug into his pocket for the paper scrap Rodriguez had wedged above the holster.
Read between the lines.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Ryan reread the condolence, this time noting that the words providence and empowered had been italicized. He logged out of his account and tried using providence as a login, empowered as a password. The network deemed it invalid, and after reversing the words, an unfamiliar account opened.
There was no incoming e-mail, no sent e-mail, not even any deleted e-mail.
Am I supposed to wait for a message? Or send one?
Ryan clicked new e-mail. “Damn it,” he grumbled, disappointed at the lack of established contacts in the address book. As he closed the window, the computer prompted him to save the message. He selected no, and a smile overspread his face.
The draft folder, he thought. A message never sent is a message that can’t be intercepted.
Sure enough, a solitary draft file had been saved. His enthusiasm spiked as he opened it then plummeted. It was a single-spaced rambling letter, detailing every moment of some fly-fishing excursion to Montana. Ryan read the entire ten-page letter, unable to discern any hidden instructions.
“Read between the lines,” he muttered, starting again. This time he used the right arrow key to move the cursor, tracking each word like a digital finger moving across the page. When he reached the end of the first line, the cursor did not jump to the next word. It stopped between lines and shrunk down like the dot of a lowercase I.
Perplexed, he held down the arrow key. The tiny cursor seemed to be scrolling through characters. When it reached the right side of the screen, it hopped down to the second line of type and enlarged back to its usual size.
Ryan’s heart rate tripled. He highlighted the invisible line and changed the type size to twelve. The first two lines of the document now appeared to be double-spaced; and although the cursor retained its usual shape, it was still hopping over unseen characters. Ryan highlighted the line again, changed the color to red, and words materialized.
A message within a message, he thought approvingly. Read between the lines!
Someone—presumably General Quenten—had changed the point size to one and the color to white, rendering the information invisible. Ryan reformatted the entire hidden message and devoured every detail of the black operation. He frowned at the scheduled launch time, just over twelve hours from now; then his displeasure congealed into shock as he read the name over and over.
141
District Six, Texas
GARY BURST INTO KYLE’S office, and speaking in a frantic tempo, he said, “Governor, TEradS teams are here. They had to shoot their way through a roadblock, and one of them is injured.”
Kyle leapt to his feet and shouldered the strap of his M4. “Get the workers back to the factories and refineries—ASAP.”
He raced from the medical center basement up to the main floor. Was Abby here with the TEradS? Or Bradley? Were either of them hurt?
Six men in TEradS uniforms were clustered in the emergency waiting area. None of their faces seemed familiar.
“Who’s in charge?” Kyle asked.
A short, stocky man with buzz-cut brown hair introduced himself as Sergeant Fowler. Helmet tucked beneath his left arm, harnessed rifle bobbing against his chest, he strode toward Kyle, right hand extended. “You must be Governor Murphy.”
Nodding, Kyle shook his hand. “Who’s injured and how seriously?”
“Sergeant Becker took a round to the leg. Bullet passed through. He should be okay.” Fowler pointed to a civilian handcuffed to a chair and said, “Can you identify that man?”
“Woodhull,” Kyle told him. “He was hell-bent on spying on the peacekeepers and sabotaging their efforts. I tried to talk him out of it.”
Fowler ordered his men to remove Woodhull’s restraints then said, “Do you know why the refineries and factories aren’t producing fuel and ammo?”
Kyle rubbed a hand over his mouth, grateful the tactic had worked, yet ashamed at having used it. “The peacekeepers cut power, water, and sanitation to the district. They’re jamming our communications. Blockades have halted incoming deliveries and prevented residents from leaving. A labor strike was our desperate distress call.”
Fowler’s mouth pinched in disapproval. His free hand rested atop the butt stock of his dangling rifle. “How long until production resumes?”
“Sheriff Montanez is already rallying the workforce. They’ll be back in business within a few hours.”
Fowler hesitated, his blue eyes intently watching Woody as he walked toward them. “Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Woodhull.”
“Hell, don’t apologize. The Chinese were about to shoot me. You saved my life.”
The two men shook hands, then Fowler removed his satellite phone.
Knowing the signal would be blocked, Kyle continued, “We’re making do with generators, but our diesel is dwindling.” His gaze scanned the TEradS, assessing each man’s degree of empathy. “The sheriff wanted to assault the peacekeepers guarding the substation and restore electricity, but with untrained civilians, casualties would have been excessive. And permanent damage to the transformer was pretty much guaranteed.”
Fowler grimaced at his useless phone and said, “Reestablishing communications is priority one. The district’s cellular tower is jamming our comms—”
“Kyle!” Jessie was dashing toward him. “There’s going to be another presidential address.” She handed him a Chi-phone, powered courtesy of the hospital’s generator.
All six TEradS Soldiers huddled around Kyle, Jessie, and Woody. Thirty-three seconds later, Aaron Burr, acting President, filled the screen.
“My fellow Americans, as President Quenten lingers at the boundary between life and death, so does our nation.
“The Alameda fever vaccines—administered nationwide—are not the godsend we believed them to be. In reality, the red serum was a biological agent that infected patients with the very disease it purported to prevent. All who received it expired within days of inoculation.
“The blue serum contained an advanced nanotechnology, a GPS transmitter coupled with a microscopic capsule, which can be ruptured at any time via high-frequency microwave transmission. The capsule would then unleash smallpox into its host ...”
142
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
SINCE THE AMBUSH AT the coal mine, the TEradS had been monitoring peacekeeper broadcasts, and Ryan Andrews double clicked the Internet alert.
Listening to Aaron Burr’s speech, his fingers dug into his palms.
Smallpox?
Before the speech concluded, he stormed from the briefing room. A bitter taste filled his mouth. His internal organs felt like they were being kneaded into taffy.
Inside the adjacent office, Gwen Ling was translating from a set of backup files he had copied onto a TEradS laptop. “Where are Franny and the kids?” The question thundered from him like an order.
“At the mess hall. It’s lunchtime.” Gwen’s almond-shaped brown eyes beamed with compassion rather than indignation. “Are you okay, Captain Andrews?”
An unprecedented fear was compressing his lungs, and he wrestled in a breath. “Were you immunized for Alameda fever?”
Seemingly puzzled by the question, she said, “Blue serum. Why?”
Squeezing the bridge of his nose, he summarized Burr’s speech then said, “Was Franny vaccinated?”
Gwen stared vacantly.
“Gwen!”
“What? No. I don’t think so.” Shimmering tears clung to her eyelashes. “Franny’s a Veteran and a registered gun owner. She would’ve gotten the red serum.”
Relief spurted through Ryan, intense as a firecracker and equally short-lived. Sybil’s journal—the peacekeepers had vaccinated her right before shooting her father; and Mrs. Bissel had died of Alameda fever, which meant Izzy had probably been inoculated as well.
“Captain, I need to be quarantined immediately.” Gwen stood and gathered the legal pad, pen, and the laptop. “But I’ll keep working in isolation. I’ll search the files for smallpox. Maybe there’s a way to neutralize it.”
Ryan accompanied her to the medical center and wrenched open the door. Shame was evident on Gwen’s face, a haunting guilt for her involuntary participation in genocide.
“This isn’t your fault,” he told her. “You had no idea. And being of Chinese ancestry doesn’t make you responsible.”
Eyes cast downward, her mouth tightened in an effort to hold back e
motion.
“Gwen, could you do me a favor?” Ryan asked. “Sybil and Izzy are gonna be scared out of their minds.”
“Of course, I’ll look after the children.”
As Ryan left the medical center, his thoughts and emotions revved dangerously. Rodriguez’s murder, the investigation, the black operation, smallpox—his body felt like a redlining engine about to spin itself apart.
He passed through the mess hall’s security checkpoint, nose crinkling at the odor of burning meatloaf. He surveyed the room of camouflage-clad Soldiers and meandered through rippling conversations and laughter. They were still blissfully unaware of the smallpox time bombs planted inside their loved ones.
Ryan acknowledged Sybil and Izzy with a feigned smile and said, “Franny, we need to talk. Privately.”
Her turquoise eyes met his, and without a word, she followed him from the mess hall into an emergency stairwell. The heavy metal door clunked shut, and Franny slouched against the cement wall, knuckles rapping.
“Rodriguez asked me not to mention my involvement in the black op. He wanted to finalize all the details first.”
Seeing Franny’s name within that invisible message had stunned Ryan, but he pushed aside his misgivings and briefed her about Burr’s speech.
Franny’s expression progressed from shock to fear. “I won’t let them kill Sybil and Izzy. Not like Sierra. Not again.”
Ryan held her tight against him. “That’s not going to happen,” he said, projecting more confidence than he felt. “But they have to be quarantined—”
“My God, haven’t those children been through enough?”
He rested his cheek atop her head, thinking of his promise to Sybil and Izzy—I will not let the peacekeepers hurt you—a promise he might not be able to keep. “Gwen will be right there to comfort them until the surgeons figure out how to remove the capsules.”
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