by Alex Ryan
Fifteen minutes until the Blackhawks arrived to pull them out. During that time, they would scour the compound for any potential intelligence that survived the missile strike. They would be vulnerable to another attack if the surviving members of the enemy force regrouped, but this time, the SEALs would have the defensible position. Nick looked at the wounded SEAL lying beneath him. Despite the monochrome gray of his night vision, he could see that Simmons’s eyes were bright—not that glazed and absent look he had seen in trauma patients who were slipping away.
“You okay?” he asked Simmons.
“Better if you get the fuck off me,” came the haggard reply.
“I have an urgent medical,” Nick said into his mic for the Senior Chief and the rest of the team. “Urgent CASEVAC with a gunshot wound to the neck.”
Simmons was a tough bastard, but the wound was dangerously close to being fatal. He needed to be stabilized before the Blackhawks arrived. As if reading his mind, seconds later, two SEALs were beside him.
“Whatcha need, Doc?” the SEAL on his right asked.
Now that someone was hurt, he was Doc.
“We need to get him to cover inside the compound.”
It was impossible to imagine that anyone was still alive inside the enemy compound in the wake of destruction unleashed by the appropriately named Hellfire missiles. Nick heard the Apaches circling back for a mop-up pass and felt confident the gunships would drive the remaining Taliban fighters into the hills, forestalling a second assault. A loud, long burp echoed through the ravine as one of the warbirds let loose a stream of cannon fire on the hillside.
Nick looked back at Simmons. “Can you hold pressure here while we carry you?”
“Yeah, man, I got ya,” the SEAL said, with steely warrior eyes. “Help me get my rifle up.”
Nick smiled. That was a SEAL to the core.
He slid Simmons’s M4 into the SEAL’s right hand and then counted to three while the other two lifted their wounded teammate by his legs and shoulders. The lead SEAL slung both legs over his own shoulders at the knees, securing them with his left forearm while he steadied his rifle with his right. The other teammate wrapped Simmons’s arm around his own neck and held the forearm in his free hand, leaving his own rifle in play.
“Dude,” the SEAL told Simmons. “Let go of your rifle, bro, you’re choking the shit out of me.”
Simmons reluctantly took his hand off the grip of his M4 and held onto the wrist of his teammate instead. Nick helped hold pressure on Simmons’s neck and scanned around with his own rifle, but the enemy was in full retreat mode now, being driven back by the Apaches. Moments later, they were over the perimeter wall.
“This way,” the Senior Chief said, moving up alongside the group. “Get him inside until the CASEVAC is here in eight mikes. We’ll land the bird inside the wall.”
As they moved through what remained of the compound, Nick choked on the acrid smell of smoke and burning wood. But it was not just smoke; there was an undercurrent of something else that smelled like . . . burnt meat.
The Senior Chief led them into the charred remnants of the first house, where Nick had watched the flaming shooter fall off the roof. The roof was gone now, as was the back wall. Nick’s boot squished into something soft, and he recoiled in horror at the human carnage underfoot. He pulled his eyes away from the charred remains and focused on his job. They laid Simmons against the wall, and Nick slid his pack off to get to his meds and set an IV with a bag of Hespan—a fluid to expand Simmons’s blood volume until he could get a transfusion at the Cache, the advanced trauma hospital a short flight away.
“How is he?” Senior whispered.
“I’m gonna get an IV going to keep his BP up. I think he has a vascular injury. He lost a lot of blood and needs surgery, but as long as we keep pressure on that wound, he’ll be stable.”
As he fumbled with the IV tubing, Nick’s eyes were drawn again to the carnage around him. Along the back wall, a body was still smoking, brightly colored cloth still visible around the upper torso. Beneath was nothing but half of one leg. But something was off—the body was too small. Nick felt bile in his throat, and his breath caught in his chest.
“Are those children?” he barely whispered, turning to look at Senior.
“Don’t look,” Senior said softly. “Focus on Simmons, Nick.”
“But the CIA said no civilians were present,” Nick said, his voice cracking.
“And they also said there would only be eight to ten bad guys with no reinforcements in the area. I guess they fucked everything up.”
Nick fought nausea at the smell of the smoldering bodies. His hands trembled as he worked to set up the IV. He tried to immerse himself in the task at hand, wiping Simmons’s forearm with an alcohol wipe and readying the sixteen-gauge needle, but the emotion was a tidal wave he couldn’t beat back. He squeezed his eyes shut and blinked repeatedly, clearing the tears so he could slip the needle into Simmons’s vein.
He had joined the teams to make a difference—to help people and protect his country. He knew this was not his fault. It was not even the Senior Chief’s fault for calling in the Apaches. They were under heavy fire, and Senior made the call to save the team. Of course they had to return fire. Of course they needed air support . . .
What kind of enemy surrounds himself with women and children?
Nick clenched his teeth together, because if he didn’t, he knew the rage and anxiety building inside would find a voice.
The distant thump, thump of an approaching Blackhawk brought him back to the moment.
“One minute, Nick,” said Senior. “Is he ready to go?”
Nick connected the IV tubing from the back of the Hespan to the needle in Simmons’s arm and then pulled off a piece of tape.
“Yeah, he’s set,” he said.
“Go with him, Nick. Our exfil is right behind them. We’ll see you at the Cache.”
“Check,” Nick said, hoping the relief was not evident in his voice.
He was proud to be a SEAL. He believed in the mission of fighting terrorism. He believed in his teammates, men whom he had come to love like brothers. But a switch had flipped in his mind. The job was not the same now. He was not the same now, and no matter how much he wanted to flip that switch back, he knew he couldn’t.
Not ever.
Chapter 15
Chinese Centers for Disease Control and Prevention
1752 hours local
Dazhong folded her arms across her chest. She was angry and frustrated. She had expected more from Director Wong. And less. To hear him talk, the CDC director supported Major Li’s fantastical claim about a toxic chemical release as the root cause for sixty-seven civilian deaths in Kizilsu. Wong’s body language, however, told a different story. He was anxious and taking great care to toe the party line in front of her. This aggravated her. They were scientists, not bureaucrats, and they both knew it.
She pressed, and of course her emotions got the better of her. Her true feelings about Major Li’s bogus report came spilling out like a vomitus purge. She regretted this misstep as the words were still burbling from her lips, but it was too late. Backpedaling was not an option, so she didn’t even try. Now a dense silence hung in the air between them like a foul odor. She waited, putting the burden of rebuttal on him.
At last, he spoke.
“I want you to hear me, Dr. Chen,” he said, closing the gap between them and putting a hand on her shoulder. “It is important that you understand what I’m about to tell you and you take it to heart.”
She nodded coolly but could not bring herself to make eye contact with him.
“This is the last time you will speak of this matter, to anyone. I want you to promise me you will not contact Major Li, you will not discuss these feelings and misgivings with any of your colleagues, and most importantly, you will not submit any unsolicited written statements or contradictory findings to the commission ex post facto. Do I make myself clear?”
“
Yes, Director Wong.”
“Good. Now go home, Dazhong. Enjoy the rest of your evening, and when you come into work tomorrow, be ready to put all this business behind you and get started on your next project.”
She looked up and met his gaze. Instead of finding irritation or accusation in his eyes, she saw the stately calm of an elder. The interaction reminded her of how her father had often managed her as an emotional, irrational teenager of fourteen. Yet in this case, she was not irrational, nor was she a teenager. She was emotional, however, and Director Wong had listened to her protest with patience and without reprisal. For this, she was grateful.
“I understand,” she said at last. “Thank you, Director Wong.”
She left his office and walked directly to her own. She shut the door and immediately began to pace. Director Wong is right, she told herself. Just let it go and move on. Simple enough advice. Unfortunately, she couldn’t let it go. Major Li was hiding something, and she needed to find out what.
They’ve boxed me out, she thought. My only hope is to find someone on the inside whom I can trust. But who?
If word circulated that she was snooping around, she risked terrible consequences—getting fired from the CDC, prosecution, jail time, or worse. The only person besides Director Wong she trusted enough to even broach the subject with was Commander Zhang of the Snow Leopards. But talking to Zhang was a risk, too. As a senior officer in Beijing’s elite counterterrorism unit, he was tightly integrated into the political-military complex. Her entire opinion of Zhang was based on only a few days of interaction. While she found him to be bright, pragmatic, and reasonable, she could only speculate on the nature of his patriotism. Would he view her unsanctioned investigation of a military conspiracy as an act of heroism or an act of treason? Unfortunately, the only way to know for sure was to ask for his help, and in doing so, she would show her colors and seal her fate.
No, I cannot go running to Zhang, no matter how tempting the idea is, she decided.
She walked over to the plate-glass window and stared out across the neatly kept entrance to the CDC. In the center courtyard, she watched three flags billowing in the wind. In the middle, the Chinese national flag waved crimson. To its left hung the flag of the Chinese CDC, a majestic blue background inscribed with a white logo. And to the right flew an iconic star-spangled banner—the flag of the United States of America. This was the only place in China she had ever seen the American flag prominently on display. Here it was a symbol of solidarity with the American CDC in Atlanta, the organization upon which the Chinese CDC had been modeled. Every day, every CDC employee saw the Chinese and American flags waving side by side. It was by design—an omnipresent reminder: disease does not pick sides. Disease has no geopolitical agenda. It is ignorant of wealth, and power, and national borders. It transcends politics, race, and religion. Without scientific cooperation, without intellectual solidarity, the odds of surviving the next great epidemic could dwindle to single digits. Cooperation with America was essential . . .
The American Navy SEAL’s face suddenly popped into her mind. Nick Foley was the one who had put the bold conspiratorial ideas into her head in the first place. During the interrogation in Kizilsu, Foley had asked the question that had set her down this path: Who has the most to gain from this attack? Who has the most to gain from covering it up?
That was the next logical question, was it not? What would Nick Foley say? Maybe I should ask him.
She shook her head.
Ridiculous.
But she found herself going to her computer anyway to print the list she and Commander Zhang had compiled of all the quarantined patients in Kizilsu. She had input the patients’ serological and physical exam results, and Zhang had entered their personal data from background checks. Together, they had been able to generate an excellent profile of each detainee’s social, fiscal, and physical status. She had been looking for vectors, Zhang for terrorists, and in the middle of it all, they had found Nick Foley. The only question now was, where in China was he?
Please, please, please have his mobile number.
She scrolled down the list until she found Foley’s entry. Holding her breath, she scanned the column labeled “mobile phone.” She exhaled with relief and entered Foley’s number into her phone under the new contact “NF.” Then she exited the program and shut down her computer. Before leaving for home, she gave one last look out the window at the American flag.
The entire drive back to her apartment, she tried to convince herself that contacting Nick Foley was the stupidest idea she’d ever had. It didn’t work. Foley was the perfect sounding board. He was American, not Chinese, so the risk of him condemning her as traitor was virtually nil. He was a former Navy SEAL, which meant that he was familiar with this world of military cover-ups and how soldiers think—two things she most definitely was not. And best of all, he was completely divorced from those in power who could judge her. Nick Foley had nothing to lose or to gain by talking to her, which meant he was not a threat and his counsel would be objective.
She smiled at the idea, feeling empowered, even a little dangerous.
She entered the code to unlock her door and stepped inside to find her apartment empty. A note from Qing sat on the dining table, informing her that an urgent business matter had cropped up demanding his immediate attention in Shanghai. He offered no explanation and no mention of when he would be returning. Typical Qing. For some reason, he refused to communicate anything about his whereabouts or schedule with her via SMS. When it came to his travel plans, he insisted on leaving her notes.
All the better, she smirked, because his absence meant that tonight she was free.
She retrieved her mobile phone from her purse and sent a text to her girlfriend Jamie Lin.
DC: Guess what?
The reply came almost instantly.
JL: Q is out of town?!
DC: Yes
JL: Delicious. Get dressed and meet me at Babyface.
DC: I’d prefer Vics tonight
JL: Ok. what time?
DC: 930?
JL: see you then
Dazhong felt electric. She wanted to dance and drink and be fearless with her fearless best friend, Jamie Lin. Smiling, she returned her mobile phone to her purse and headed to the kitchen, where she fixed herself a small dinner of leftover noodles and duck. After that, she walked into the bedroom to shed her work clothes and dress for the night’s adventure.
The instant she stepped into the bedroom, she noticed a white cardboard box tied with a silver string propped up against her pillow. She rolled her eyes, predicting the gift inside. With nimble fingers, she unfastened the bow and opened the box. Inside, she found expensive silk lingerie. With a sigh, she left it where it lay, untouched, and turned her attention to the puzzle box on her nightstand. She picked up the puzzle box and rotated it to the face painted with twisting tongues of elemental fire. Her fingers danced the intricate waltz in a blur—a series of manipulations now effortless from twenty years of repetition and practice. Shift, slide, push, pull, and the secret box lay open. Inside were three objects, each of which she kept hidden from Qing and each for a different reason: endearment, empowerment, and deception.
With a delicate touch, she retrieved the first item—a silver pendant necklace given to her by her father on her eighth birthday. She held it up for inspection. An intricately carved silver rat dangled in midair, suspended from a thin and finely fashioned chain.
“Hello, little friend,” she said, kissing the miniature on the nose. “Have you missed me?”
The little totem bobbed to and fro in the air, as if to answer her.
“Good, because I’ve missed you, too.”
She lowered it back into the puzzle box but stopped before releasing the chain. After a moment of hesitation, she changed her mind. The last time she’d worn the charm was on her birthday—a tradition she kept to celebrate her father’s gift to honor her birth during the year of the rat. As a young girl, she had resented
being associated with such a vile creature, until her father explained that the rat—along with the dragon and the monkey—occupied the powerful first trine of the zodiac. Of all the zodiac totems, the rat was understood to be the most ambitious, clever, and industrious.
“You should embrace the power of the zodiac, Dazhong,” he had told her. “Leverage your strengths and know your weaknesses. If you are not careful, ambition can sour into greed, intelligence can mutate into ruthlessness, and industriousness can become exploitation. Whenever you feel weak, wear this charm around your neck. When you are feeling powerful, that is the time to take it off.”
She’d been feeling weak lately; she fixed the pendant around her neck.
Despite having no monetary worth, her father’s gift was more precious to her than all the gold, diamond, and pearl necklaces Qing had given her over the years. If he were ever to catch her wearing the silver rat charm instead of one of his expensive pendants, she knew he would rip it from her neck. And so, she never let him see it, wearing it only when he was traveling or when she was alone.
Next she retrieved the second item from the puzzle box—a stainless-steel key that opened a shallow footlocker that she kept under the bed. The footlocker agitated Qing to no end, and during the early years of their marriage, he had badgered her incessantly about opening it so he could inspect its contents. Despite his persistent requests for access and threats to break it open, she refused to give him access, claiming it contained nothing more than keepsakes and childhood treasures—emotionally personal items she would only share when and if she felt inclined to do so.
She had never felt inclined with Qing. She didn’t think she ever would.
There were indeed a few childhood mementos inside, but of late, she had taken to storing select wardrobe additions, all of which had been purchased on shopping sprees with Jamie Lin. Undoubtedly, the collection of high heels, miniskirts, and revealing clubbing tops she had accumulated over the past year would send Qing into a furious tirade. As long as he never carried out his threat to break open the trunk, her scandalous secret would be safe.
