Shameful incidents paraded through his memory: assaulting Master Sergeant Hutchinson, the barricaded morgue, the unconscious medical examiner. He averted his gaze, understanding why Ryan would withhold the information, then he asked again, “Who’s the fourth traitor?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Franny told him. “But I do know that if you don’t board that C-130 right now, you’ll force Abby to attempt a dangerous two-man mission. Alone.”
178
District Six, Texas
PEACEKEEPERS DESCENDED on the sheriff’s station, a dozen trucks packed with vengeful men and an arsenal of weapons.
Six deputies were fanned out along the southern rim of the roof. Kyle Murphy was crouched beside Gary, facing east. A splatter of bullets was chiseling away at the thirty-inch stucco wall in front of him and clunking into the air conditioning units behind him.
Kyle moved left, popped up, and shot a peacekeeper who had a rocket-propelled grenade launcher aimed at the roof. Rifle barrels gravitated toward his position.
He dove onto his stomach. Stucco and cement particles stung his eyes, then he heard a string of repetitive noises, a rapid succession of thud-sh-u-u-sh.
Three explosions pulsed. Metal fragments mauled the air conditioning unit, and the vibrations pulsated through Kyle like a menacing heartbeat.
Ears ringing, he turned to the south. Grenades had felled all six deputies; the rooftop was painted with their blood.
Kyle couldn’t hear the second round of RPGs, but he sensed their impact as they rammed through windows. He felt the building tremble as they detonated a floor beneath him. The open access hatch belched black smoke; flames lapped upward.
Incendiary grenades, Kyle thought. Did the gunfire cease? Or was he unable to hear it? He pressed a palm against the thirty-inch wall, feeling for bullet strikes; then he hazarded a look at the peacekeepers below.
Confirmation he was still alive caused a stir. A soldier stepped onto the running board of a truck and raised a bullhorn to his mouth. Kyle strained to discern the muddled words above the screechy hum in his ears.
“Governor, you surrounded. Surrender or burn to death!”
Defiantly, Kyle sent several hunks of lead tunneling through the bullhorn into the face of the messenger.
UW soldiers responded with a barrage.
Gunfire rumbled like an oncoming tornado, and peacekeepers began sinking onto the asphalt.
Hundreds of district residents had spontaneously joined the fight.
UW troops, realizing that they had been surrounded on three sides, began a pell-mell retreat; then Kyle’s victorious smile wilted.
179
District Three, Washington, D.C.
TWO HUNKS OF LEAD pelted the sniper’s face. One dotted his nose; the other punched through his right eye; and he dropped like a falling curtain, soundless except for the clatter of his gun against cement.
The other sniper couldn’t have heard that, Abby thought, vacating her cardboard cubbyhole. Since the relatively small, .22 caliber rounds lacked the force to exit the skull, the blood spatter was minimal, virtually invisible atop the busy pine-green camouflage print; and she hurriedly stripped off the peacekeeper’s uniform.
His height was comparable to Abby’s, and his pants and jacket fit easily over her civilian clothing. Grimacing, Abby plunged a stockinged foot into the warm, stinky sweat of his boot, reminding herself that an exotic foot fungus was preferable to the bite of a .50 caliber bullet.
She wiped the blood-speckled blue helmet against the dead man’s undershirt and pulled on his tactical headset. The fit was snug, and as she tucked her blonde, braided hair beneath it, she felt a pang of uneasiness. Wearing the uniform of an enemy soldier was a legal ruse of war for the purposes of espionage or sabotage; however, once she dispatched the other sniper, her actions would violate the Geneva Convention. The words war crimes buzzed through her mind; images of tribunals and prison cells flickered.
“Still better than a .50 caliber bullet,” she whispered, pulling the binoculars down over her head.
Abby holstered the Norinco handgun inside the front waistband of her jeans and practiced drawing it from beneath the camouflage jacket and pants. Subtlety of movement—rather than speed—would be the key.
She reclaimed her rifle, sneakers, and “go bag” then made her way into the northwestern stairwell. The sniper’s M99 was propped in the corner, his wraparound sunglasses dangling monkeylike with one arm hooked inside the barrel. Abby slipped them on and pushed the frames high onto the bridge of her nose to conceal her blonde eyebrows.
Unable to resist, she ejected the box magazine from the sniper’s M99 and helped herself to one of the rounds—a supersized hog’s tooth. After disabling the weapon, she returned it to the corner, dropped her “go bag” and shoes, then Abby marched onto the rooftop, holding her rifle at right shoulder arms. She mimicked the peacekeeper’s stride, his stance, the tilt of his head. She lingered at the same waypoints, calm and unruffled while emotions thrashed beneath the surface.
The hazy hue of the sky, the scent of grass, the feel of the sun’s warmth—this would probably be her last chance to enjoy them.
A glimpse of the other sniper stifled the sentiment. He was prone atop the wooden platform, staring toward Capitol Hill, just over a mile away. Throngs of spectators crowded in front of the building’s iconic dome; children, middle-agers, and elderly here to witness history; all hemmed in by a thick wall of blue helmets.
The Chinese have a freaking battalion down there, she thought, absorbing the emotional equivalent of a cruise-missile strike.
Struggling to rein in her thoughts, Abby stopped, faced west, and dutifully raised the binoculars with a robotic salute. She perused the American History Museum’s broken windows, wondering how many historical treasures had been looted. Her gaze drifted farther north, to the Mellon Auditorium, then eastward to monitor the counter-sniper teams. The men were focused on milling Americans, paying her no mind.
With each passing second, her confidence grew. Here she was, boldly walking around on a roof, in broad daylight, right under the noses of seven snipers. Abby had to hold back a smirk.
She reassessed shooting conditions, wind speed and direction, temperature and humidity, then finished the remainder of her patrol without incident. Just prior to the start of the Surrender Ceremony, she approached the mattress-sized, three-foot-tall shooting platform. Abby unfolded the spring-loaded bipod legs of the rifle, right followed by left as the dead man had, then she leaned forward and set the M99 on the plywood. The enemy sniper, inches to her left, remained fixated on the image within his scope.
Heart thundering, Abby hoisted herself onto the platform with a series of mechanical movements: a ramrod hop to extend her arms; knees tight together drawn upward onto the edge of the plywood; then a rigid crawl forward until her shoulders were slightly ahead of the sniper’s.
She lowered herself slowly, as if in the midst of a one-armed pushup, nonchalantly reaching for the Norinco with her right hand.
The suppressed weapon glided under the butt stock of her rifle then slithered upward, poking out from beneath her left armpit. Relying solely on peripheral vision, she aimed for his cheek; then, as if sensing a hostile presence, his face jerked toward her.
180
District Eight, Colorado
COLONEL WU SQUEEZED the phone tighter as the sound of gunfire closed like a net around him. “This insurrection cannot be quelled without an immediate influx of soldiers, sir.”
“Your previous reports indicated that District Eight had been pacified. Explain yourself!” General Sun shouted.
Given Wu’s streak of unfortunate luck—the bombings of Moffat Tunnel and UW Headquarters, the TEradS’ escape from the mine, the rout at Mount Wheatly, the stolen laptop, and the derailed train—he had been reluctant to alert his commanding officer at the insurrection’s onset, three days earlier.
“The situation was contained until this morning,” Wu explained, pac
ing to dispel his frustration. “Terrorists set our barracks afire. Evacuating soldiers were gunned down. Over a hundred dead, sir. And there was a concurrent attack on our armory. Terrorists have seized rifles, ammunition—”
“Colonel! The Surrender Ceremony begins in minutes. I do not have time to contend with another of your failures. You have one hour to get your district under control. Raze every building if you must. Slaughter every man, woman, and child. Crush this insurrection!”
The General did not await a reply, and Wu fired his phone into the wall. As plastic pieces showered the floor, his office door flew open. A middle-aged woman wearing an American-flag bandanna stormed into the room, brandishing a stolen Type 56 rifle.
“I surrender!” Wu raised his hands and edged toward his desk. “Under the Geneva Convention, you cannot shoot, Jackal!” He needed to stall, to bamboozle this treacherous woman until he could retrieve the handgun in his drawer.
“The name’s Martha, not Jackal. And I’m not a Soldier.” The woman’s thick lips pursed condescendingly. “And to my way of thinking, you forfeited those protections when you injected Americans with Alameda fever.”
“I have done no such thing.” Wu casually sidestepped to his right, closer to the desk.
“Then there’s the shoot-on-sight order you issued for a couple of kids,” she said, glowering with the ferocity of a mother grizzly.
“To maintain law and order, I apprehend criminals of any age.” Wu chanced another step toward the desk and lowered his hands to shoulder level.
When a leather-faced man edged into the doorway, the woman glanced behind her, and Wu’s hand plunged into the drawer. His fingers curled around the handgun, then two supersonic bullets punctured his chest and propelled him backward. His head slammed against the wall. He slid downward.
The she-devil moved closer and kicked his handgun beyond reach, seemingly pleased with the damage she had wrought.
“That was for Sybil Ludington and Izzy Bissel! How does it feel, Colonel ... ?”
He assumed she was referring to the gunshot wounds, but could not manage the breath to respond.
“... How does it feel to be defeated by a ragtag group of farmers, ranchers, and children?”
181
District Three, Washington, D.C.
CORPORAL XI PENG STOOD amidst hundreds of peacekeepers who were diligently policing the crowd. The Surrender Ceremony was sure to attract troublemakers, foolish rebels unaware that the rules of engagement had changed. The time for restraint had ended. No longer would peacekeepers tolerate American disobedience. Anyone who failed to comply could be executed on the spot, a hard-line example for the masses.
Peng scanned the American women, knowing they would prostitute themselves for the ten-UWEC chocolate bar in his pocket or at the barrel of his gun. Either way, he could have any female he laid eyes upon, and the thought made him feel all-powerful.
He selected a young girl with shoulder-length black hair and a spirited glimmer in her pale eyes; then hearing a din of raucous voices, Peng turned back toward Capitol Hill. Troublemakers were thrusting signs above their heads, chanting, “No surrender!”
When the peacekeepers advanced to quash the disturbance, Peng made his move. He grabbed hold of the girl with the pale eyes and unholstered his handgun, daring witnesses to interfere.
The distant pop of a handgun generated a flurry of screams.
Finally, we are firing on rebellious Americans, Peng thought. He was confident that his countrymen would slay them all; and in the midst of that bedlam, no one would detect his absence. Grinning, he dragged the black-haired girl toward a partially-constructed museum.
182
District Three, Washington, D.C.
PRESIDENT WILLIAM Patterson Quenten paced the confines of his office within the underground bunker, eyes welded to a forty-inch monitor, a live feed from Capitol Hill. Seven microphones stretched across a twenty-foot table, draped with red skirting and festooned with a garland of bright yellow flowers. Behind it, arrayed in a sweeping arc were a dozen Chinese flags.
The implications of failure assailed Quenten. Heat rose from his skin, leaving behind a sheath of perspiration.
“Calm down,” his personal physician advised. “Working yourself into a heart attack won’t help the nation.”
Quenten cut his gray eyes at his longtime friend, but held his tongue. Clive Immendorf didn’t understand the magnitude of his poor choices—choices made long before the Chong Sheng Plan invited a veritable Trojan Horse onto American shores.
He checked his watch and grimaced. The surrender was minutes away, and he had received no word from Cyber Command. “Hundreds of millions of American lives,” Quenten mumbled. “I’ll be responsible for more deaths than Stalin, Hitler, and Mao—combined.”
The physician exhaled a weary sigh. “Mr. President, self-loathing requires one to look backward. Right now, this nation needs its Commander in Chief looking forward.”
The secure phone on the glass-topped desk finally chimed. Quenten froze, contemplating the gravity of the moment, then lunged for the receiver. “Grace, tell me you have good news.”
“Good and bad, Mr. President. The problem has been contained; elimination, however, will require much more time.”
“Keep at it, Commander. And Godspeed.”
Quenten replaced the old-fashioned handset, his momentary relief mutating back into uncertainty. He ran a hand through his hair, sank onto his leather chair, and scowled at the monitor. Seven men walked behind the long table, six Chinese generals, chests laden with ribbons and medals; and between them, a smiling Aaron Burr wore a red tie, a white shirt, and a dark blue suit.
General Sun stepped up to the microphone amid a chorus of jeers.
“This is a joyous day. Wealthy oppressors are surrendering to the working-class masses. American greed is surrendering to fairness and equality ...”
Signs and banners popped up, most bearing historical quotes.
“Give me liberty or give me death.”
“Surrender, HELL! I have not yet begun to fight!”
“Live free or die! Death is not the worst of evils!”
Sun attempted to continue and was immediately drowned out by the refrain, “No surrender!”
Blue-helmeted peacekeepers pushed through the crowd, snatching signs and firing upon those who were instigating the protest. Then in the midst of the chaos, came a booming crack.
Screams cut the air like daggers, inciting a stampede of panic that radiated in all directions.
The live broadcast remained locked on the melee between protestors and peacekeepers.
Quenten leapt from his chair. “Damn it! Was that us or them? A hit or a miss?”
183
District Three, Washington, D.C.
A .22 CALIBER ROUND struck the counter sniper just below the right eye; then recognizing the spontaneous protest below as an opportunity to be exploited, Abby stowed the pistol and aligned the .50 caliber rifle on her primary target.
Calculations and adjustments cascaded through her mind—wind speed, temperature, humidity, distance, and elevation—and between heartbeats, she expended a round. Through the ten-power scope, she watched a red cloud enlarge and dissipate like the flash of a camera.
Aaron Burr appeared to vanish as the large caliber bullet nearly sliced him in half.
Will that be my fate? she thought.
Spurning instinct and reason, and defying intense fear, she sprung to her feet, stood upright atop the platform, and directed the binoculars to the northwest as if in search of the shooter. Mandarin orders screeched over the tactical headset, and Abby pantomimed a communications failure, shaking the push-to-talk button and tapping the earflap of her helmet.
She pointed frantically, jumped down from the plywood platform, and stole a glimpse at the tumult below. Terrified civilians were bounding into one another like bumper cars while the dull pops of gunfire escalated.
Abby hefted the rifle and bolted to the north
side of the building. She propped the bipod legs atop the planter wall and peered through the scope, pretending to track a target.
Her heart was a bucking stallion within her rib cage, and she gasped in air, her body rebelling for the insane things she was commanding it to do.
She fired a shot into the western end of the Mellon Auditorium, prodded the barrel farther west, then lifted the rifle and ran along the wall. Ten yards from the stairwell she stopped, again bracing the heavy weapon on the wall.
The counter-sniper team atop the Gallery of Art was charging across the roof toward Mellon Auditorium. A wave of blue helmets was gushing across the National Mall to the northwest. Droves of civilians, now in agreement on direction, were fleeing to the south, providing human cover along Abby’s intended escape route.
Hope ignited inside her. Maybe I can make it out of here.
She sprinted into the stairwell and discarded the rifle, unbuttoning the jacket with one hand, jettisoning the helmet, tactical headset, and sunglasses with the other. She shucked off the boots and pants, then jammed her feet back into her soggy sneakers.
Abby slung her “go bag” over her shoulder, descended into the fourth floor, and raced past the dead man in his underwear. Drawing the pistol from her waistband, she fleetingly considered whether anyone else had been crazy enough to dispatch two snipers with a handheld .22.
She descended the southwest stairs three at a time.
Third floor.
Second floor.
She skidded to a stop in the middle of the last flight, landing hard on her backside. She leveled the Norinco at a splotch of baby blue. Beneath the helmet, the peacekeeper’s eyes were closed, and a creepy strain of happiness was undulating over his features.
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