A celestial body had struck Shanghai with a force 150 times the nuclear detonation at Hiroshima and registered as a 5.5 earthquake. Every living creature within 2.5 miles had been vaporized; and the powerful, 600-mile-per-hour shock wave had leveled everything within a twelve-mile radius. Hurricane-force winds extended outward twenty-five miles in all directions; and within seconds, 24,000,000 people had died.
Jinshing cursed his fortunes. He lacked the resources to cope with a natural disaster of this magnitude, especially while at war with the United States and Russia.
Just before daybreak, he strolled into the grand theater of the Jingxi Hotel. Rich wooden railings swaddled tiered balconies. A circular light bearing a red star crowned its ceiling, and on the stage, lush red flags with perfect ripples framed the most revered of communist symbols, the hammer and sickle, tools of the working class.
“Mr. General Secretary!”
Jinshing turned to see an aide rushing toward him with a phone. He frowned, unwilling to entertain more unpleasant reports regarding Shanghai.
“The President of the United States wishes to speak with you, sir.”
He snatched the phone from the aide’s hand and shooed him away with a malevolent glare. “Li Jinshing speaking.”
“This is William Patterson Quenten ...”
The voice sounded off, almost electronically generated. As a result of his illness? Jinshing wondered. And how is Quenten even alive? It is impossible to survive Alameda fever.
“... Be advised that I have resumed the powers of the presidency; and in such capacity, I am requesting China’s unconditional surrender.”
A smoldering ember of angst in Jinshing’s stomach burst into flames. “I believe you misspoke, Mr. President. Did you mean to offer America’s unconditional surrender?”
“No, you heard correctly. I am asking for your surrender. I am graciously offering you an opportunity to spare your nation from utter destruction.”
Jinshing’s nose crimped as though he’d smelled an unpleasant odor. “The Chinese Communist Party will not step down from this stage in history, even if that entails fighting a third world war.”
“The CCP is finished, Mr. General Secretary, you just don’t realize it yet.”
Quick anger was an accelerant, feeding the fire inside him. “If we, the CCP are finished, then China will be finished, and the world will be finished!”
“I am truly sorry you feel that way.” The American President hesitated for a beat then said, “Please accept my condolences on Beijing.”
“You mean Shanghai,” he said sharply. “And I spurn your condolences.”
“No, I meant Beijing.” Quenten hung up, and the words carved through Jinshing like the sword of Goujian.
He hurried from the theater and took an elevator up to the penthouse floor. He wrenched open an emergency door, climbed the stairs, and stumbled out onto the rooftop. The early morning sun was spotlighting the thick murky blanket of pollution that cast a gray pallor over the city. His gaze jerked upward; his jaw, downward.
Another glowing streak was scorching the heavens, growing larger, moving directly toward him.
Instantly, Jinshing realized this was not merely a meteor, a random cosmic act of devastation. It was a weapon.
All of the Communist Party is in Beijing for the plenum, he thought. And there is not time to evacuate. The Americans will wipe out the CCP in one fell swoop.
Aware that he would die within minutes, Jinshing dialed the Central Military Commission. “General Soeng, unleash the smallpox bioweapon immediately ... And launch every nuclear-tipped intercontinental ballistic missile in our arsenal.”
190
District Three, Washington, D.C.
A SINISTER DARKNESS enveloped her, thick and tangible, like black liquid pressing against her body. She had no idea where she was, but she could hear them coming, the rap of combat boots, the scrape of loading magazines. She could feel their presence. Surrounding her.
Unseen, disembodied hands pawed at her clothes, her hair, smacking, punching, shaking her. A nefarious voice spoke her name, disclosing his location within the soupy darkness. She hurled her fists. One connected with something solid.
Then hands closed around her wrists.
“Damn it ... ! Webber, wake up!”
Her eyelids snapped open. An unfamiliar man in a suit was standing over her. Blood trailed from his nose and along his chin.
Abby wrenched her wrists free, rolled off the bed, and reached for her knife. It was gone.
“Do you always wake up swinging?” He retreated into an en suite bathroom, pulled a washcloth from a cabinet, and held it to his nose.
Abby swept the room for threats and usable weapons. Posters of teen heartthrobs adorned pale purple walls, and white wicker furniture filled the space, every surface slathered with stuffed animals. She grabbed a two-foot cheerleading trophy with a marble base, and wielding it like a hammer, shouted, “Who are you?”
“Your chauffeur. I had to improvise because the Chinese set up a checkpoint near your extraction site.”
Tension drained from Abby’s body, leaving embarrassment in its wake.
“Sorry for slugging you,” she said, nonchalantly discarding the trophy. “But I’m sure it didn’t hurt nearly as much as that damn Taser. Why the hell did you zap me?”
“Because I didn’t want to get shot,” he said, gingerly probing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “In retrospect, a wise decision on my part.”
“And you had to knock me out because ... ?”
“Because it was expedient. I didn’t have time to debate the change of plans.”
“Well, you should’ve at least identified yourself.”
“I couldn’t allow that teenager to overhear. By the time I got around to it, you were already out.”
His words dredged up a dreadful fact. “That girl—she saw my face.”
“I know. She told the Chinese that a blonde female came running down the steps.”
Fear began to gallop inside Abby’s chest. “So they know it was me?”
“The peacekeepers caught some blonde woman who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They shot her in the face.”
Abby looked away, feeling responsible for the woman’s death and heartsick for Bradley.
As soon as he hears blonde female assassin—
“It’ll be okay,” the Chauffeur said as if sensing her uneasiness. “Cyber Command hacked all the biometric data on Jane Doe and used it to create a phony profile for Natasha Badenov, a blonde Russian assassin. Then they planted evidence where the Chinese would be sure to find it.”
“Won’t the Russians just deny her existence?” Abby asked.
“They will. And the Chinese will never believe them.”
“So I’m in the clear?” she asked tentatively.
“Almost. We still have to sneak you back into Langden before anyone realizes you were gone.” He lifted a photograph from the wicker desk and presented it to her. “Bet they didn’t cover that in Scout Sniper training ... Welcome to the camouflage challenge of a lifetime.”
191
District Three, Washington, D.C.
A SOUR RAGE WAS BOILING through General Sun. Shanghai and Beijing had been decimated. Forty-five million were dead; and among them, the entire upper echelon of the Communist Party. The shock waves had barely dissipated when the infighting began. Rival politicians were openly slaying their opposition in an unrestrained turf war.
The political disarray quickly contaminated police and military forces, fracturing them with haste and proficiency. A significant minority was already clamoring for democracy, and their ranks were swelling as a result of the CCP’s most recent failure.
Hundreds of intercontinental ballistic missiles had been knocked down before leaving Chinese airspace, foiled by some unknown directed-energy weapon that caused rocket boosters to fail—a demoralizing and unfathomable defeat.
Rather than invest
decades of time and billions of yuan into research and development, the CCP had employed cyber warriors to hack the Pentagon and U.S. defense contractors; then they funded production of the bootlegged weapons.
How had the Americans managed to protect this classified intellectual property?
The general’s hands balled into fists. The People’s Liberation Army had been humiliated; the Motherland, set back at least a century economically.
Adding to his shame, American hackers had penetrated the PLA’s biowarfare program and implanted a modified strain of Russian malware, designed to encrypt critical files and hold them for ransom. Decryption was not a possibility—at least not in the short term—and without arming codes, the high-frequency microwave transmission could not unleash the smallpox virus.
Emboldened by these victories, President Quenten had proffered a ninety-six-hour grace period during which peacekeepers could surrender. Once that time expired, the TEradS would begin hunting and eradicating his countrymen.
Glancing at his phone, General Sun scowled at the ominous text message, aware that he had forged a deal with the devil—one with an endless string of conditions.
If you wish to avoid execution and return to your Motherland, you will eliminate our common enemy ...
192
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
JUST BEFORE 2100 HOURS, Bradley was lying prone beside Ryan, hidden between two armored personnel carriers, peering through binoculars at a small hangar near the end of the runway. Floodlights drenched the area in a frosty, bluish hue; and the humidity-saturated air reflected it, making everything appear fuzzy.
A hundred yards away, Colonel Gardner, the base commander, stood amidst three Humvees, a ground crew, and a host of high-ranking Airmen.
Not the kind of low-key reception required following a black operation, Bradley decided, and the thought spurred a hollow ache of disappointment.
“So what did you tell Jessie?” he asked, trying to distract himself from his darkest fears.
Ryan hesitated, watching a small aircraft sail along the runway. Its wheels chirped upon touchdown, its engines growled to reverse momentum, then he said, “That you and Abby were on a routine training mission.”
“And she bought that?”
“There was some major shit going down in District Six, and Kyle told her Abby was injured to get her to leave. I think she was too relieved to ask questions.”
“She never asked about the female assassin?”
Ryan shrugged. “She hadn’t heard about Burr. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to mention it.”
Engines alternately revved and purred as the Air Force VIP jet taxied toward the hangar. The ground crew scrambled, a forward door bowed open, and a set of steps stretched toward the tarmac. A sixtyish man in a formal dress uniform emerged.
“Who’s the four star?”
“Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Jonathan Quenten.”
Bradley watched him descend the stairs, saluted by Colonel Gardner and his entourage. A young girl deplaned next, maybe thirteen years old with reddish-brown hair woven into braids, the ends tied with ribbons. She wore what looked like a prep school uniform, a dark plaid jumper-style dress over a white long-sleeved blouse with a Peter Pan collar.
Thinking aloud, Bradley muttered, “What are we doing here?”
Ryan lowered the binoculars and cocked his head, smirking. “Take another look, Mr. Scout Sniper.”
A veil of freckles blanketed the girl’s face and her eyes were hidden behind the glare of black-rimmed glasses. As introductions were made she smiled. Bradley noted something familiar in the curve of her mouth, and the biting tension in his muscles relaxed.
“Oh my God ... That’s Abby!”
“She’s masquerading as the chairman’s daughter, Alexandra,” Ryan told him, “who is officially being evacuated from the country.”
“So he’s the guardian ... But what about the real Alexandra?” Bradley asked, concerned about the shelf life of Abby’s cover.
“Away at some pricey boarding school when the pulse hit. She didn’t make it, but no one knows that. The general’s a very private single parent who kept his grief well hidden. This charade must be gut-wrenching for him.”
The ground crew transferred three suitcases to a Humvee. After pleasantries concluded, father and daughter drove toward the gate.
Ryan climbed to his feet and started toward TEradS Headquarters.
Bradley scurried to catch up, feeling like he was moving within a dream. “So what happens now?”
“She’ll be back in an hour or so. East gate. Enjoy your reunion, but try to get some sleep. I want you both in my office at 0700. And following the debrief, you’re both on leave.”
Overwhelmed, Bradley struggled to summon words. “With the TEradS understaffed and peacekeepers everywhere—you’re giving us leave?”
“In my estimation, you and Abby have shouldered more than your share of the burden. And you’ll both be returning to promotions.”
“Ryan, I ...” Bradley’s voice broke. Elation, appreciation, and shame were rearing into a rogue wave of emotion.
Ryan rested a hand on his shoulder. “Understood, Master Sergeant.”
Bradley managed a heartfelt salute, then he speed walked toward the east gate. With each breath, excitement ballooned inside him until he felt like he was hovering above the ground. He couldn’t ever remember feeling this ecstatic.
Just before 2300 hours, Abby passed through the security gate, wearing sneakers and a PT uniform. Her hair, once again blonde, hung in a ponytail that wagged with every stride.
From ten yards away, their eyes met, and a beautiful smile flowered over her freckle-less face, the smile of someone who had faced death and acquired a new, palpable appreciation for life.
Without slowing, she leapt into his arms, and Bradley staggered backward to maintain his balance. Her legs looped around his waist. Her mouth swooped down over his in a velvety warm kiss, an exclamation point on the happy ending that—just a few hours ago—had seemed impossible.
Gramps was right, Bradley thought, holding her tight, grateful for the rise and fall of every breath she took. The good Lord always provides.
Epilogue
><>< DAY 457 ><><
Tuesday, May 17th
193
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
MAJOR RYAN ANDREWS stood beside his best friend inside Memorial Chapel, both decked out in their formal dress uniforms. Ryan’s world had changed drastically since the last time he and Bradley had been here. He had found Abby alive, fallen in love with Franny, bonded with Sybil and Izzy, discovered the stealth Chinese invasion, uncovered a biological attack, mourned Rodriguez’s death, saved the President of the United States, conducted black ops assassinations, and jumped a level in rank.
If someone had told me that a month ago, he thought, I never would’ve believed a word of it.
Ryan smiled at the blushing maid of honor as she glided past, taking her place to the left of the chaplain.
The piano bellowed louder. All in attendance stood and turned with expectant smiles, awaiting the grand entrance of the bride. She was a stunning sight, draped in a curve-hugging, 1980s-style wedding gown salvaged from a nearby neighborhood. Escorted arm in arm by Izzy, Franny seemed to float down the aisle.
My very own trash-talking, badass angel, Ryan thought. Twice before, he had assumed the role of bridegroom, but this time felt different. It felt right.
Franny handed off her bouquet of white Chinese tallow blooms to Sybil; then Izzy placed her hand in Ryan’s, symbolically giving her away.
Sunlight spilled through the circular, leaded-glass window above the entryway like a heavenly spotlight that made Franny’s merlot-colored hair more vivid, the twinkle in her eyes almost magical.
“... By the power vested in me by God and the state of Texas, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”
W
ary of his adopted youngsters and Kyle’s young family, Ryan pressed his lips to Franny’s in a sweet, gentlemanly kiss.
“I present to you for the first time ... Major and Mrs. Ryan Andrews.”
TEradS Teams 6A and 6B were on their feet, cheering and whistling, along with the Murphy family.
Bradley gave Ryan a hearty slap on the back, leaned closer and whispered, “So much for born single, gonna die single.”
The leaded-glass window plinked; dainty glass particles swirled through the sunlight; and by the time the crack of the gunshot was heard, it was too late.
Book Three
Power Play: America’s Fate
Tidbit # 11: Mary McCauley
Mary McCauley was a courageous woman best known for her contributions at the Battle of Monmouth. In addition to preparing meals and caring for the sick and injured, she shuttled water to Soldiers in the midst of battle—one of many women referred to as “Molly Pitcher.”
Mary’s role in the story is intended to call attention—and appreciation—to all the ordinary Americans who worked “behind the scenes,” risking their lives for the freedom we take for granted. All other sentiments expressed or actions taken by this character are purely fictional.
Tidbit # 12: Benedict Arnold
As commander of West Point, General Benedict Arnold plotted to surrender the key American fort to the British. His plan, motivated most likely by a bruised ego, failed when American forces captured Major John Andre, who happened to be in possession of a document detailing Arnold’s treasonous intentions.
Although Ben Arnold was the director of Homeland Security rather than a General, he still attempted to betray his country. Instead of plotting to turn over a military base, he schemed to turn over the entire nation. The assassination attempt via tainted cigarettes was strictly the writer’s imagination. All other sentiments expressed or actions taken by this character are purely fictional.
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