by Ty Patterson
The suit was of a special design. It had a large clamp on a wide magnetic strip on his back. On the jumper’s belly was a harness which held a mechanical contraption weighing four pounds.
The jumper was flying at a hundred miles an hour. He wasn’t looking to break any world records. In fact, the slower and steadier he flew, the better the outcome.
His hands were outstretched, helmet over his head, oxygen tank strapped for emergency, not that he would need it because he wasn’t doing a high-altitude jump.
The jumper was wearing a helmet that F-35 fighter pilots wore. It had HMDS, Helmet Mounted Display System, that gave him all the flight information and situational awareness he needed.
It had visual targeting. All he had to do was point his head at a target, and the weapons system would calculate airspeed, flight speed, angles, altitude, lock-in and fire.
He had a weapon.
The contraption at his belly held a FIM-92 Stinger, a portable missile. But this wasn’t an ordinary one. It had avionics that linked it to his helmet. Its cradle extended right along the jumper’s body and projected behind his wings to eject the back blast safely.
‘You should see the building now.’
The jumper turned his head to the left. There it was, the International Commerce Center. It appeared on his visor display as well.
He was visible to watchers from the ground. He didn’t hear the exclamations, the shouts of surprise, or the finger points at him.
He flew easily, drag and drop were in control, no buffeting winds. He counted the floors, steered minutely until he was in the firing zone. He was thirteen hundred feet over the channel. Higher than the building, but that wasn’t a problem. The ninetieth floor was in clear view, two hundred and eight yards to his left. The visor magnified his vision in an observation window. He could see through the glass panels. The few pieces of furniture, the large desk.
And Duan Shuren, seated, back to him.
The jumper pressed the firing button in his right hand. His helmet and the missile computer did complex calculations in a fraction of a second. The cradle turned and guided the missile.
His body jolted as the Stinger blasted out. It could reach a speed of seven hundred and fifty meters a second, but there wasn’t enough distance to attain that speed.
* * *
In his office, something alerted Duan Shuren, like a sixth sense warning an animal of danger. He went to the window and looked out.
He frowned, not believing what he saw. Was that a diver in the sky, up there? What was that? An explosion beneath him?
That was the last thing he saw.
* * *
The missile tore through the armored glass like a knife cutting through butter. The explosion tore through the floor, destroying everything in its wake.
Down on the ground, the crowd of onlookers watched in shock. Many of them screamed and started running, thinking the building would collapse.
It didn’t. The missile’s payload had been carefully designed to contain the explosion.
The jumper wasn’t paying any more attention to the devastation. He pressed another button on his right palm and the mechanical cradle dropped away from him and fell into the water below.
The Cessna was there, when he looked up. Above and ahead of him. A cable hook appearing out of its loading door, swaying, straightening, guided unerringly to the magnetic strip on his wings.
Its jaws opened and closed around the clamp on his back. He folded his wings as the aircraft gained altitude and tugged him up and when he was near the door, hands reached out, grabbed his and pulled him inside.
The jumper panted for a moment and then got to his feet, helped by the two figures inside. He removed his helmet and wiped sweat from his face.
‘That’s not something I want to do again,’ Zeb gasped.
Beth whooped and high-fived him, her grin filling her face. Meghan, relief in her eyes, patted him on the shoulder. Bwana, looked back from the pilot’s seat and gave him a thumbs up.
* * *
The People’s Liberation Army Airforce, China’s air force, sent aircraft to search the South China Sea for the Cessna.
They found it. Or rather, they found its wreckage in international waters. They also found an unmistakable presence.
The USS Theodore Roosevelt, a Nimitz class, nuclear powered aircraft carrier which was sailing to the Philippines.
Messages were exchanged between the Chinese fighters and the carrier. The carrier stated, firmly, that it was aware of the Cessna’s crash. It had sent search parties but hadn’t found any survivors.
No bodies were ever found.
Neither was Duan Shuren’s.
Chapter One Hundred Six
Zeb Carter was in the Catskill Mountains in southern New York, on the day of the G20 Summit.
* * *
He, the twins and Bwana had parachuted out of the Cessna after they had set a course for it to crash in the sea.
A waiting dinghy had taken them swiftly to the Theodore Roosevelt. To safety.
They had returned a day later to New York. ‘It’s over for you,’ Clare had told them. ‘Mission over and accomplished. Go, get some downtime. Leave everything to me.’
She had shut down the twins’ protests. The NSA had taken over the algorithms. The captured programmers were being interrogated; their fate still undecided. Ahmed was with Mossad. Burke was happy and, because of that, Broker was, too. He had gone to DC to be with her. Bwana and Roger had taken the opportunity to go on a vacation, to Hawaii. Meghan had joined them. Beth was spending time with Mark.
Zeb had headed out of the city. Clare’s right. We need the break.
* * *
He hiked for three days, enjoying the solitariness. Occasionally, he came across other campers and joined them for a meal. They kept him abreast of what was happening in the world.
China had accused the US of conducting a hostile attack in Hong Kong. An entire floor of the International Commercial Center had been destroyed by a Stinger missile.
Not ours, the State Department replied. There are enough of those in the arms market. Any casualties?
Thankfully none, the Chinese huffed.
Well, what kind of attack are you accusing us of, then? State asked, in more polite language.
What about that Cessna?
What about it?
It was suspiciously close to your carrier.
We don’t tell aircraft where to crash. In fact, we prefer if they don’t. Did you recover any bodies?
No, the Chinese admitted. We sent salvage vessels but all they found was the remains of chutes.
Who was in the aircraft?
Researchers from a weather agency.
Well, why don’t you ask its staff?
The agency doesn’t exist.
Not our problem.
You are behind it.
We aren’t, State replied and kept rebuffing the Chinese.
Someone had uploaded a video of the wingsuit jumper and had captured his firing the missile. That clip had close to a billion views.
‘Man,’ one of the campers said. ‘That dude must have one brass set, whoever he was.’
Zeb drank his coffee and said nothing.
* * *
At four pm, on the evening of the Summit, he tuned to a TV station on his phone as he sat on a cliff. He listened to very few political speeches, but this one he didn’t want to miss.
This G20 meeting was unprecedented. President Morgan had requested that it be moved to Berlin. The British government had agreed and the Germans had been delighted. They had swung into action, making security arrangements for their guests. It was a Herculean task, rerouting the travel plans of the world’s foremost leaders, preparing the city for them…but they were Germans. Efficiency was in their DNA. The city was ready for Air Force One by the time it touched down in Berlin.
This summit was also different because it was the first time the Chinese and Russian Presidents hadn’t attended. Neither
had the King of Saudi Arabia. Each had cited domestic matters and had fueled intense speculation in the media. Many commentators linked their absence to the rumors about those countries’ involvement in the worldwide shootings.
A loud cheer from the radio station. President Morgan was taking to the podium. He began by greeting the world leaders, thanking the British Prime Minister for her understanding and thanking the German Chancellor for accommodating the change of venue. He got a loud cheer when he thanked the city of Berlin.
‘Many have wondered why I requested the Summit be held here.’ Heads nodded in the audience. ‘The past few weeks have been intensely troubling for the world. More than a thousand innocents have died in cities around the world at the hands of shooters. Children have lost their mothers, wives have lost their husbands, parents have lost their children, brothers, sisters, families and friends have been devastated. Because gunmen, who until that point in time had not displayed any signs of mental instability or killing urges, went out and shot into crowds.’
‘Peoples of the world have raged against their governments. They wanted the killings to stop. They wanted to know why these were happening. Their leaders didn’t have answers. I didn’t have an answer when riots broke out in the United States. I was as clueless as anyone else. As were the other heads of government gathered here,’ he gestured at the other leaders. ‘But we haven’t been idle these last few weeks. The intelligence agencies of our countries have been collaborating and have been jointly investigating these killings. I can now confidently say that none of these shootings were random.’
A gasp rippled through the assembled crowd.
‘Yes, you heard me right,’ he raised his hand to still his audience. ‘The killers were acting on their own, but we now have evidence that they were driven to their heinous acts by algorithms. Software programs that influenced their behavior and made them go out and conduct their brutal acts. Programs that were commissioned by a group of people who wanted to subvert democracy,’ he thundered.
‘Those people have been stopped,’ he said quietly in the pin-drop silence. ‘In a few days, our respective governments will be releasing all the evidence we have gathered. What isn’t clear, still, is who was behind those people.’
Zeb nodded. That saves some face for the Russians, Chinese and Saudi leaders. They are responsible, but I bet the President wants to make them pay in different ways. He was sure there would be several calculated leaks that named those leaders.
‘But we will find those people,’ the President continued. ‘And we will hold them accountable. As long as the United States exists, it will not allow its democracy and that of its allies and those of the free nations in the world, to be threatened.’
Applause thundered throughout the audience.
‘Why Berlin?’ he asked when the ovation died out. ‘Because there’s no other fitting city in the world for such times,’ he roared. ‘This is the city that unified two countries. That wall,’ he pointed to the longest remaining stretch of the Berlin Wall in the East Side Gallery, where he was making his speech under a night sky to an assembled audience, ‘was once the symbol of separation. Of division. It now is a symbol of hope. That humankind can rise above itself.’
This time the gathering got to its feet and clapped and when the German Chancellor rose and the other leaders got to their feet, the sound became deafening and took minutes to fade, as the President stood smiling faintly.
‘Why Berlin?’ he repeated. ‘Because it is also the city in which Johann Schwann lived.’
Zeb stared at the small screen in his hand. He had never imagined the president would refer to the elderly man.
‘Johann Schwann. Berliners, Germans, will know who he is. Many in the world won’t. He was elderly, in his eighties. A pensioner. He maintained the garden in a Berlin church. But that’s not all he was. He was an Auschwitz survivor. He lived through the worst that the Nazis inflicted on him. When that shooter opened up in that Berlin train, it was Johann Schwann, who attempted to stop him and died trying.’
‘That’s who he was. Concentration camp survivor. Gardener. Hero. Berliner. And that’s why I wanted this summit to be hosted here. Because this city has seen the worst of humankind. But it has also seen the best of it. We must never lose sight of that. Despite the evil we are capable of, we can, should and will rise above it and bring out the good inside us. Just like Johann Schwann did.’
* * *
In Berlin, in a small apartment in Hallesches Tor, Kristina Schwann had returned from school earlier that day. She had prepared her evening meal for herself and was sitting alone in her living room, reading the day’s newspaper when she remembered the summit.
She turned on her TV, paying little attention to the introductory speeches. She looked up when President Morgan came on. She listened, fascinated, as he spoke. She was stunned when the president mentioned her father’s name. She was sobbing by the time he finished his speech.
‘That was you he spoke about, papa,’ she said brokenly, looking at the photograph on the mantelpiece and hoped that Johann Schwann heard her, somehow, somewhere.
* * *
On the Catskill Mountains, Zeb Carter sat, looking at the oranges, reds and golds that the setting sun had painted on the sky.
Johann Schwann, he reflected. People like him was why he, Zeb, did what he did.
‘And honey,’ his wife smiled in his mind, ‘when you are done, we’ll be waiting for you.’
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Bonus Chapter from Traitor
Zeb Carter awoke suddenly.
One moment he was asleep in his room in Tripoli, Libya, the next, he was awake. He lay motionless, trying to work out what had roused him from his slumber.
His hotel was in Ben Ashour, a neighborhood south of downtown. It was a relatively more affluent district in the city, featuring several embassies and shopping opportunities.
Zeb was staying in an upscale hotel to go with his cover, Latif Wakil Misfud, an arms dealer.
He scanned the room without moving his eyes. Dim light seeping through the curtain covering the solitary window. Pale walls, cheap art mounted on them. A desk in a corner, a chair. A small passage that led to the bathroom.
Nope, there wasn’t anyone else in the room.
He got up noiselessly and reached for his Glock near his bedside table. He had always trusted his instincts, his inner radar, and now, it was telling him there was danger. Close by.
He dressed swiftly. The custom-made plate armor over his upper body. Tee over jeans. Trainers on his feet. A jacket to cover the shoulder holster. It wasn’t the attire Misfud would wear in public, but convenience was more important than cover.
His backpack was good to go with his sat phone, spare mags, tablet computer and other equipment. He inspected it swiftly when it happened.
The room door exploded inwards. Two shapes appeared in the smoke and haze surrounding the entrance.
Combat suits. NVGs on their faces? These aren’t friendlies.
Zeb had reacted the instant his room had been breached. It wasn’t the time to freeze or panic. His training and experience took over. He moved on autopilot. Leapt towards the hallway and raced at the bathroom. At its entrance he paused for a fraction and looked back at the intruders.
Combat suits. Helmets. These aren’t friendlies.
One of them shot into his empty bed, the other checked out the room.
They came to kill.
The second man caught the flicker of movement as Zeb ducked out of the passage and shouted a warning, alerting his companion.
There could be more. Got to move. Zeb thought as he smashed the bathroom window, climbed on the toilet seat and half-jumped, half-wriggled through the narrow opening.
He had contingency-planned for such a moment. His room was on the third floor and the bathro
om window opened into a dark alley in which the hotel dumped its trash. Drainage pipes ran down the length of the building. He kicked out at the window sill and thrust forward. Reached out in the dark night, caught hold of one of them and yanked himself forward. Slid down a couple of inches before he gathered himself and climbed up.
Eight seconds from the breach, he was on the outside of the hotel, hugging its pipe, sticking to its wall.
Sheer, dumb luck had favored him. If the second man had fired around the room…he shrugged mentally as he reached with one hand and unholstered his Glock. Adrenaline filled him, sharpened his senses even as his mind raced.
Who are they? Do they know who I really am?
He shoved the questions to the back of his mind and waited.
The familiar grey fog took over him. It dulled the edges of the night. He was dimly aware of shapes in the alley. Trash bags and cans, thirty feet below. A rusting heap of a car that its owner had abandoned years ago. A car’s honk somewhere. A police cruiser’s wail. Sights and sounds registered on him unconsciously but the bathroom window became the center of his universe.
Muted murmuring came to him. He strained his ears but couldn’t make out the language. He was thirty feet from the ground. Several trash bags below him, that he had arranged strategically for just such a moment.
A shadow crossed the window.
Zeb took a breath.
Another shadow.
A head poked out swiftly and withdrew.
More talking from inside.
A barrel extended.
Looks like an HK 416.
He couldn’t be sure, however. Not that it mattered.
The weapon swung to the left and then to the right. The shooter’s looking out from within. Checking if I’m at the sides of the window. Or beneath it.
As if on cue, the man thrust his head out cautiously and looked down, left and then right. He spoke to his companion and leaned out further.
