From her oversized hiker’s backpack, Abby wrested black running shoes and a head-mounted harness with Chinese-made night-vision goggles attached; and after donning both, she pulled her tactical gloves back on.
Franny crammed both jumpsuits inside the nylon bag then lifted it onto her shoulder. “I’ll ditch the evidence ... Good luck. See you back at Langden.”
While Franny followed Route 28 to the north, Abby forged an easterly track. She hiked most of the way, jogging whenever the terrain allowed, and used major roads as waypoints to gauge her progress. By 0200 hours, she had crossed Route 286; an hour later, Interstate 495; and by 0400 hours, she had reached Interstate 395—the asphalt serpent that would lead her directly into the viper’s den.
Lightning was wreaking havoc with her night vision, and the winds were picking up, spreading the earthy, moist scent of impending rain.
Abby’s shoulders were aching from the weight of her backpack. She was hauling a disassembled M99 .50 caliber Chinese sniper rifle with ten rounds of ammunition and a ten-power scope; a Type 56 assault rifle with a folding stock and sixty rounds; a red-filtered flashlight, a first aid kit, binoculars, and a length of rope. To facilitate her escape, she had packed a collapsible tote bag with three days’ food and water; and in her cargo pants pocket, she carried a folding tactical knife and a weapon of last resort, a suppressed .22 caliber Norinco handgun.
She bypassed Reagan National Airport, its planes frozen in time on the taxiways and at the gates. Two had crashed leaving blackened mounds of rubble on the runway, and no one had bothered to clean up the wreckage since there was no longer any commercial aviation.
Abby plodded toward the Pentagon, debating whether the approaching storm would be a blessing or a curse. As if in reply, the western sky flared menacingly, illuminating dense churning clouds, and emitted an angry clap of thunder.
Cresting a hill, she noticed lights on the bank of the Potomac River. The scene gave rise to a beleaguered grunt.
After hiking for nearly six hours and closing within two miles of her objective, she faced an unexpected and formidable setback. On the eastern shore of the river, denying access to both Memorial Bridge and the 14th Street Bridge, there were a series of checkpoints swarming with peacekeepers.
148
District Three, Washington, D.C.
BRADLEY WEBBER LAY prone beside a subway train just beyond the Forest Glen Metro Station, 196 feet below street level.
Using blood Ryan had drawn during his briefing, Bradley had staged his abduction and slipped away unnoticed. At an abandoned quarry, located halfway between TEradS Team 3B and the Red Line’s terminus, he had recovered a suppressed Norinco CS/LR4 Chinese sniper rifle and ammunition that had been hidden inside a large garage. Hours later, he had descended into the Glenmont Metro Station, trekked south through the tunnel past Wheaton, and arrived at Forest Glen ahead of schedule.
Gwen’s translations had revealed that a dozen meetings had transpired here, all requested by General Sun and attended by one of the traitors. Cyber Commander Grace Murray had mimicked those communications and sent an e-mail from Sun’s clandestine account to three of the targets, demanding their presence at an urgent predawn meeting. Bradley would engage the fourth target during a separate mission, involving the mile-long .50 caliber shot he had been practicing.
How many rats will take the bait today? he wondered.
As if on cue, the door to the emergency stairwell squeaked open, and a cone of light began sweeping the platform from north to south.
Bradley observed the intruder through his scope. A clean-shaven man with dark hair moved toward the platform, shoes chirping against the tiled floor. The narrow cone dimmed and widened, spreading a circular bluish glow like a lantern, and the man placed it on the floor.
A hunter’s smile tipped the corners of Bradley’s mouth as he identified target one: Aldrich Ames.
Within minutes, faint footsteps were wafting through the musty, stagnant air, amplified by the cement tube.
Bradley squinted into the southern end of the tunnel, noting two shadowy figures; then he glanced at Ames. The CIA director showed no concern over the uninvited guests. Were they part of his security detail? Could there be additional men closing from behind Bradley?
The mysterious pair strolled toward the platform, looking like casually dressed businessmen except for their suppressed, American-made M4s. The taller man was bald with a thick neck and the muscular body of a linebacker; and he effortlessly boosted his dark-haired, bearded friend onto the platform.
Definitely not targets two and three, Bradley thought.
“It’s good to see you, Dmitry.” Ames removed a small package wrapped in brown paper from the breast pocket of his suit coat and extended it.
The bearded man accepted the item and, with a heavy Russian accent he said, “Spasibo.”
Ames flashed a cold, calculating grin. “I’m underwhelmed by your show of force.”
“ ‘Tis handled. My men seal off Red Line.”
Bradley swore under his breath. Sealed off? By how many? And who are these guys? Russian Mafia? Agents from the FSB?
Dmitry gestured toward the north end of the tunnel, then the behemoth of a man obediently readied his rifle and marched toward Bradley.
149
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
RYAN ANDREWS PATROLLED the hallway of Med Center South, a war of emotion raging inside him: duty versus guilt. After making several gut-wrenching decisions, he now felt powerless, unable to control the outcomes for which he bore total responsibility.
Gwen was in surgery, having bravely offered herself as a guinea pig. Would surgeons succeed in removing the microscopic capsule? Or inadvertently rupture it and release smallpox into her body?
Her fate—whether triumphant or tragic—underscored the decision that loomed over him like an impending avalanche. Ryan was accustomed to taking risks with his own life and the lives of his Soldiers; endangering Sybil and Izzy, however, felt entirely different. They hadn’t volunteered for this fight. They were just kids with their entire lives ahead of them. Would surgery save them? Or kill them?
That would be brutal for Franny, he thought, and the carousel of anxiety inside him rotated topics.
God, I hope she’s okay.
Ryan knew that even the best-planned missions were plagued with unforeseen pitfalls. The tiniest, most mundane detail could tip the balance between success and failure, between life and death.
If only I’d had more time—
He stopped himself, knowing the what-if game was a fruitless waste of energy. Frances Marion was smart and strong, adept at defeating terrorists and peacekeepers alike; but she was more than a Soldier. Franny had upended his world, driving him crazy, challenging him, making him laugh. She had plowed right through his wall of cynicism and captured his heart, filling a void he never knew existed.
He bowed his head, empathizing with the trauma Bradley had endured over the stoning and dreading the hell to come if the black operation went sideways.
Ryan had hated lying to his best friend. He rationalized the decision, assuring himself that he was just executing his duties, that disclosure of Abby’s involvement would have compromised Bradley’s focus and jeopardized the mission. Using the same reasoning, he had lied to her, too, promising to send Bradley to District Five in Illinois.
Ryan massaged his temples against the thud of his pulse and checked the time. Not quite 0500 hours central time.
Gwen’s been in surgery for forty-five minutes, he thought, and the carousel of anxiety lurched forward again, coming full circle.
150
District Three, Washington, D.C.
TWO DOZEN PEACEKEEPERS blocked Memorial Bridge; three dozen more were distributed over both spans of the 14th Street Bridge. Abby’s mission briefing had made no mention of these checkpoints.
Did they spring up as a result of the surrender announcement?
Light
ning rent the sky in a blinding white streak and exploded into a deafening boom that quaked the ground.
Venting a frustrated sigh, Abby considered her alternatives.
Swimming across lugging seventy pounds of gear was not viable, especially given the odor emanating from the river, a vile mixture of rotting garbage and excrement. Did District Three turn the Potomac into a trash disposal and toilet?
Regrettably, the subway was not a possibility. Captain Andrews had advised her that just prior to the electromagnetic pulse, a group of suicide bombers had invaded Rosslyn Metro Station, intending to destroy the Potomac tunnel and flood the system. Instead, a premature detonation had collapsed portions of the Blue, Orange, and Silver Metro Lines, filling the cement tube with earth rather than water; nevertheless barricading the route beneath the Potomac.
Three more bridge crossings lay to the north, Arlington Memorial, Theodore Roosevelt Memorial, and the Francis Scott Key. All would add miles and precious time to her journey. Worse still, they were equally likely to contain peacekeeper checkpoints.
Only two options seemed feasible. Fenwick Bridge, formerly used by the Yellow Line Metro, was situated barely sixty yards south of the Chinese checkpoint; or Long Bridge, a dual-track CSX railway crossing, a full 130 yards from the enemy.
Although the prospect of traversing a metal structure during a lightning storm was unappealing, Abby opted for Long Bridge.
A half mile in length, the century-old bridge was comprised of multiple low-level spans and a two-span truss swing bridge that—judging by its crop of vines and weeds—hadn’t swiveled open in decades. The area within the rails had tightly spaced wooden planks, a solid surface like a boardwalk. At ten-foot intervals, steel girders supported the decking and stretched beyond the tracks on either side, joining with the guardrails to create large rectangular holes, gaping openings to the putrid-smelling river below.
The storm was lashing her with malevolent gusts that seemed bent on shoving her off the bridge. Rain and marble-sized hail poured down. Hunks of ice pelted her, stinging and biting; and Abby shielded her head, wishing she had been allowed to keep her helmet.
Mindful of each slippery step, she passed through the ancient-looking trusses of the swing bridge; and just as she reached the midpoint, Abby felt a curious vibration—evident even during lulls in the thunder.
Her eyes darted toward the eastern shore. She squinted into the curtain of ice and rain; and a deep, mournful wail sliced through the stench of the river. Abby’s heart sank.
It was the warning blare of an oncoming train.
151
District Three, Washington, D.C.
BRADLEY SKULKED DEEPER into the cement tube. One hapless sweep of the flashlight would expose his presence and trigger a monsoon of lead. Throwing periodic glances over his shoulder, he monitored the Russian. The present-day Goliath moved with a stealthy grace, remarkable for a man of his size. His prancing flashlight, however, made him easy to track as he diligently searched each passenger compartment.
Bradley stepped behind the last train car and squatted beside the hitch. His mind raced through potential actions.
Concealment was out. There was nowhere to hide.
Retreating farther into the tunnel would risk exposure and more importantly, would not eliminate the three-hundred-pound obstacle lurking between him and his mission.
Goliath was now two cars back. He had to be dealt with—quietly. And that would be a challenge given the man’s height and girth.
Soundlessly, Bradley ejected a live round from his rifle and leaned the CS/LR4 against the subway car. His right hand plunged into his pocket and reemerged with a quarter-inch thick rubber band that had bound Abby’s lock of hair.
The Russian was inspecting the final car, close enough for Bradley to smell him, a pungent clash of cigarettes and body odor.
Extending the thumb and pinky of his left hand, Bradley looped the rubber band like a slingshot. He positioned the primer against the rubber, drew it back, and chucked the bullet into the dark tunnel. Ten yards ahead, it thumped off the cement wall then clattered against a steel rail with a tinny, plinking sound.
The Russian reacted. His flashlight cut the darkness. Then with the rifle lodged against his shoulder, he sidled beyond the last train car, attention riveted on the potential threat.
Bradley rose and unsheathed his knife. Gripping it like a chisel, he crept toward the human mountain. Energy swamped his nervous system, a dose of adrenaline that could impede accuracy or, if harnessed properly, augment his strength.
Bradley’s arm reared back as if to throw a pitch.
His eyes locked onto his target, the vulnerable indentation at the base of the bald man’s skull.
The blade hurtled forward and at the worst possible moment, Goliath turned. Bradley stutter-stepped and adjusted his aim, desperately trying to prevent this mission—and his life—from ending badly.
152
District Six, Texas
KYLE MURPHY LIFTED THE phone from the kitchen table, dialed Ryan Andrews again, and cursed aloud. Signals were still jammed. The TEradS team had yet to disable the cellular tower.
Sergeant Becker, the Soldier hospitalized with a gunshot wound, predicted that his teammates would assault the Chinese facility just before dawn.
Another hour and forty-five minutes, Kyle thought. He was anxious to talk to Ryan. Was the U.S. military really going to stand down and turn over the country to the Chinese?
“Did you get any rest?” Jessie asked.
He watched his wife plod into the kitchen and settle onto the chair beside him, then he replied with a shake of his head. How could he possibly sleep when he felt like his guts were being fed through a meat grinder?
“We need to get Abby and head south,” Jessie said, her voice cracking. “We can sneak across the border into Mexico.”
“Abby would never desert.”
“Kyle, they’ll kill her. You heard what Sergeant Becker said. The Chinese will execute everyone who’s a threat, starting with the TEradS.”
A rapping sound suspended the discussion. Kyle rocketed from his chair and snatched his rifle from the counter. “You know what to do,” he said, moving toward the family room, heart pumping faster with each barefoot stride.
Positioned behind the couch, he raised the rifle and nodded.
Jessie stood beside the front door, grasped the knob, and yanked it open, wielding a flashlight with the intent of temporarily blinding the unexpected visitor.
Gary closed his eyes and groaned.
“Do you realize it’s 5:00 a.m.?” Kyle asked, lowering his weapon.
“Governor, we’ve got a serious problem.” Still blinking away the effects of the flashlight, the sheriff crossed the threshold into the foyer. “The peacekeepers just cut power to the refineries and factories.”
153
District Three, Washington, D.C.
ALDRICH AMES WAS furious with General Sun. The reckless fool had killed his protégé in a fit of temper, squandering a precious resource. Then he followed up that inane decision with a condescending e-mail, a summons to this impromptu meeting.
Aldrich grimaced. Eluding his security detail twice in twenty-four hours could arouse unwelcome suspicions, but at least the problem of General Sun would soon be rectified.
Aware that the Russians were working fervently to derail the unconditional surrender, he had recruited Dmitry to neutralize Sun and leave behind evidence implicating the Terrorist Eradication Squad. Not only would Aldrich rid himself of Sun’s threats, he would fabricate a political justification for the immediate dissolution of the TEradS, a silver lining that might just bolster his standing with his “handlers.”
The hinges of the stairwell door squealed, and a woman sauntered toward him, wearing a business skirt, jacket, and heels.
Astonishment gave way to a tangle of terrifying questions.
Why the hell is the FBI director here?
Is an assault team closing in to arrest me?
How did she learn of this meeting? Did Sun double-cross me?
“Well, well, well ... look who it is.” An icy, contemptuous smirk played over Roberta Hanssen’s thin lips. The bluish light tinted her flushed cheeks and sharpened angular features, evoking the aura of a purple jack-o’-lantern.
“I could say the same,” Aldrich responded.
“Don’t bother with the innocent act, Ames. I know what you’re up to.”
Beneath the film of sweat that glazed his forehead, a new plan was taking shape. Roberta would become a secondary assassination target, an atrocity certain to shock the American public and further impugn the credibility of the TEradS. They would become mercenaries, traitors who acted in defiance of the surrender; who subjected the entire population to an outbreak of smallpox.
“Roberta, I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“Then why are you here, Ames? At 6:00 a.m.? Inside a Metro station that hasn’t been operational for fifteen months?”
Aldrich rubbed the back of his neck, a prearranged signal for Dmitry to initiate the attack.
Seconds ticked past, then a wave of panic rioted inside him.
Why aren’t the Russians opening fire?
154
District Three, Washington, D.C.
ABBY DID NOT HAVE TIME to discern which set of tracks the train was barreling along or whether the blast of displaced air would hurl her off the platform into the noxious river. Instinctively, she reached for the rope fastened to her backpack and jerked it free of its Velcro strap.
Merely dodging the diesel-powered locomotive would not suffice. An engineer’s report of a pedestrian on Long Bridge would alert the peacekeepers that someone was skirting the checkpoint.
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