Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

  “My name’s John, but I don’t have time to explain. We need to help my friends, although it sounds like they’re doing okay for themselves.” He nodded toward the memorial in the back of the burial ground. “You must be LEGION. We know all about it,” he said, cutting her off before she could interrupt him, surprise written on her face at the mention of one of the most closely guarded programs in the US government. “Do you want to grab the submachine gun, or do you prefer the blades? Either way, let’s move.”

  “My name’s Amira—my real first name, that is. Let’s go help your friends. We’ll talk later,” she said matter-of-factly.

  She sheathed her weapons so quickly John almost missed it. She may move more smoothly than anyone I’ve ever seen. Will wonders never cease? She bent down and retrieved a Type 05 submachine gun as John broke into a run.

  The helicopter descended rapidly, its landing gear lightly touching the pavement as the flying beast settled.

  John and Amira were halfway to the memorial when gunfire erupted from the direction of the SUV. Bullets kicked up grass and dirt in front of them, and they dove behind two headstones.

  “Goddamnit!” John muttered. Bullets tore chunks out of the white marble. “I swear I’m going to kill these motherfuckers!”

  “Not if you hide behind that tombstone, you’re not!” Amira said, darting around the marker and moving up to the next row.

  She’s fearless, too.

  There was a brief pause in the gunfire, and John joined Amira. He glanced over the nearest headstone. They were still fifty feet from the SUV, and he saw movement beyond it, figures moving toward the helicopter.

  Bullets pockmarked their cover again, strafing relentlessly back and forth.

  Finally, the gunfire ceased, and John peeked over the headstone. There was no one near the SUV, which meant only one thing. They’re getting away, and they’ve got Logan and Cole.

  “Let’s go!” John said, and jumped over the tombstone, sprinting toward the SUV, using it to partially block his movement. Amira was close beside him.

  They reached the SUV just in time to see three Chinese men load Logan and Cole’s bodies into the open compartment of the helicopter.

  John aimed at the rotors and opened fire with the submachine gun. Bullets peppered the Hind’s blades but had no discernible impact on their power.

  Amira followed suit, but a young Chinese man with a short haircut turned toward them, drew his pistol, and returned fire as the helicopter lifted off the ground.

  Holes appeared in the windshield and passenger window, driving John and Amira behind the SUV’s cover once more.

  John controlled the rage that seethed through his body. He focused on his breathing and shut his eyes. The gunfire ended, and he and Amira stood up as the helicopter banked upward and away, moving west.

  Automatic gunfire erupted from the back of the helicopter. What the hell are they shooting at now?

  His question was answered when a small explosion echoed across the sky several hundred feet above him as bullets tore apart the embassy’s UAV.

  “Motherfuckers,” John said again, gritting his teeth as he wrestled with his emotions. “Excuse my French,” he said to Amira, almost as an afterthought, his quips on autopilot again as the adrenaline in his system subsided.

  “No apology necessary. I’ve killed four of these bastards already,” Amira responded coldly. “I’ll be happy to increase the body count.”

  “A woman after my own heart,” he said, the comment leaping out of his mouth before he could contain it. “Wait a minute. Four? I only counted two back there.”

  “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later, but it looks like the cavalry just arrived.” She nodded toward the entrance to the cemetery.

  Two armored vehicles with US flags and State Department insignia on the doors had pulled up to the fence. Eight men in tactical clothes fanned out across the cemetery, two of them making a direct path toward David Cross, who now sat up.

  “We need to get out of here before the Sudanese show up. They’re not exactly understanding, especially toward Westerners,” Amira said.

  As they jogged toward the security teams, John vowed to recover his friend and his new ally, burning the country to the ground, if that’s what was required. We’ll find you, Logan. Just stay alive long enough to give us a chance.

  “What are you smiling at?” Amira asked.

  John didn’t realize he was, but he answered her directly. “They have no idea who they captured. If they don’t kill Logan, they’re probably going to wish they had before this is all over,” he said, grinning openly now.

  Who was this man? she wondered as she ran alongside him, feeling a growing appreciation for someone who lived life the way she did—all in, all the time.

  A fit, middle-aged man with short gray hair was waving them over to where David Cross was being attended to by one of the security force members.

  “I believe you’re looking for us,” John said to the man as he and Amira reached him. John looked at David, who still seemed woozy. “How’s he doing?”

  David managed to look up and smiled faintly at the sight of John. “Where are your friends?”

  “Captured,” John replied flatly.

  “Sonofabitch,” David muttered. He stared at the beautiful woman holding a submachine gun. Recognition crossed his face. “I’ve seen you at the embassy, haven’t I?”

  “She’s with us. We can explain when we get you out of here. We’re already losing ground and falling behind these guys. We need to go—now.”

  “Mr. Greco,” David said, turning his attention to the man tending to him, “can you please get us out of this cemetery?”

  The man nodded, stood up, and turned to John, sticking out his hand. “I’m Tim Greco, the embassy’s RSO. Let’s get the hell out of here before company arrives.”

  “What about these men?” Amira said, gesturing to the bodies strewn around them. “We need to know who they are, why they attacked, and most importantly, how they knew you were coming. We have to take one of them with us.”

  “Ma’am, my mission is to get you all back to the embassy in one piece,” Tim responded. “We only have minutes before the Sudanese police get here, and God knows what those guys will do. We need to leave now.”

  “She’s right though, Tim,” David said. “Get one of them, and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Sir, it’s your call, but I’m advising against it. The Chinese will probably file a grievance with the US for kidnapping one of their citizens.”

  “No. They won’t,” John said. “These guys are either Chinese special ops or spooks. After what they just pulled and how royally they fucked up, the Chinese government won’t acknowledge their existence. I guarantee these guys are on their own as of right now.”

  “Like I said, I’m advising against this,” Tim said.

  “Understood,” David said.

  “This is the one we want,” John said as he stood over the unconscious form of the young Chinese gunman who’d first let his guard down. “I know he speaks English, and I’m sure he’ll be happy to see me when he wakes up.”

  He bent over, grabbed the young man, and hauled him over his shoulder. “Now can we please get the hell out of here? I’m tired of carrying bodies around.”

  CHAPTER 25

  The American had come through yet again, providing invaluable intelligence that had been one hundred percent accurate and reliable.

  Lau Gang averted his gaze from his unconscious passengers and checked the time. It’d been more than two hours since they’d escaped the battle. They’d be on the ground in minutes to deliver these two spies to their temporary new home. Gang planned then to return to his new base to execute the next phase. They’d abandoned the airfield before conducting the ambush at the cemetery.

  There was no time for an interrogation, sadly—he’d been hoping to make these two suffer for what they’d done to his men. Regardless, he’d removed two of the three Americans
from the playing field, virtually ensuring there was no way to stop what was coming next. All three would have been better, but Gang knew the US would now be scrambling to recover their operatives. And that meant that they wouldn’t be focusing on the ONERING.

  Gang had planned to use it tomorrow, one day before zero hour. But with confirmation that the Americans were closing in, the sooner they could exercise the power they now wielded, the sooner an agreement would be signed between China and Sudan. That was all that mattered.

  His thoughts turned toward the men he’d lost. His superiors in Beijing would not be pleased, even if they had successfully accomplished their mission. The three senior ranking officers involved in the planning of this mission were not known for their tolerance and understanding.

  His satellite phone vibrated, the tone drowned out by the rotors of the helicopter. What now, Namir? He inserted a Bluetooth earpiece and answered the phone.

  “Yes,” he said, and waited.

  “My security personnel recovered all of your men except one. Four are dead. We’re treating the rest.”

  “Who is missing?” Gang asked.

  “Henry Cho,” Namir answered. “A young team member, according to your people. We have to assume the Americans have him. This whole operation could be compromised.”

  How could this be happening? We have to move faster.

  “When are you planning to call your president?” Gang asked, changing topics.

  “I’m going to wait a little bit until after you use the device, and then I’ll brief the president. He’ll have enough information to act at that point. Why?” Namir asked.

  “I’m almost at our destination. As soon as I drop these two off, I’ll be back to the base within seventy-five minutes. We’ll do it then. Waiting until tomorrow will only further jeopardize the mission.”

  “Once you initiate the attack, you have to relocate again, in case your man breaks,” Namir said.

  “He’ll hold out as long as he can,” Gang said, although he knew that eventually, everyone broke. “However, we’ll move as soon as it’s done.”

  “Okay. Good luck. Text me when it’s done,” Namir said, and hung up.

  The helicopter started to bank to the right, and Gang looked out the window. A large, three-story, concrete building rose up to meet them as they descended. Gang noted the concertina wire that lined the perimeter of the roof.

  What else could go wrong today? He couldn’t quiet his racing mind. Stop it, his father’s voice suddenly demanded inside his head. You’re being weak. Stay focused.

  He breathed slowly and deeply as the helicopter landed on a gravel road outside the main entrance of the building.

  “Welcome to your new quarters,” he said quietly to his captives.

  The front doors opened and four armed Sudanese men in dark-blue fatigues and aviator sunglasses under maroon berets—a uniform unique to this location—stepped into the hot sun. They marched down the steps toward the waiting helicopter.

  I really wish I could stay here to watch this, Gang thought sadistically. Maybe when we’ve activated the device, I’ll come back and take care of you myself.

  PART IV

  PROVOCATION

  CHAPTER 26

  Satellite Operations Center 11, Schriever Air Force Base, Colorado Springs

  0700 MST

  Major Scott Winters’s gaze was fixed on three rows of monitors arranged around his workstation. The twelve screens provided him with updated satellite telemetry data from the space vehicle missions he was assigned. His shift had started an hour ago, and he was still combing through the overnight logbook. As the assistant senior watch officer, it was his responsibility to review the log each morning for the senior watch officer, Lieutenant Colonel Tommy Bancroft. He’d learned to be thorough and meticulous in his daily reports, since Lieutenant Colonel Bancroft expected him to know as much as—if not more than—he did.

  Unlike the majority of Americans, Major Winters knew the real capabilities of the US government’s satellite network, made up of both classified and unclassified Department of Defense and Intelligence Community satellites. Hollywood and popular culture continuously glorified the overhead constellation network, but no one in the business itself would ever confirm or deny the real capabilities portrayed. He’d recently watched a rerun of Enemy of the State, starring Will Smith and Gene Hackman, an excellent movie for the pure entertainment value. He’d lost count of how many times Will Smith had saved the world over the years.

  He was almost finished with the logbook—a lime-green, hardcover journal, the kind only utilized by the US government—when he noticed a red light flashing on the right middle screen, the one he monitored for alerts from classified spacecraft.

  What the hell? He stared at the screen, momentarily stunned. That’s impossible. He maximized the size of the window, and the alert screen filled the monitor, providing him with the telemetry data from Mission 2324, one of the highly classified CIA satellites.

  He watched in dawning horror as the orbital data changed on the geosynchronous satellite. The spacecraft, a SIGINT satellite currently assigned to the African continent, was being moved, but he had no idea by whom. He stared at the screen, quickly scanning the mission data, dread creeping into his gut. Cold sweat broke out across his forehead as he saw it. It wasn’t the SIGINT system that was important on this mission—it was the sensitive payload the satellite carried.

  Suddenly, a second red alert window popped up on the same screen. He clicked it and read the message. His heart rate accelerated, and he fought to control the full-fledged panic threatening to overtake him. Oh my God.

  The major, known by members of his squadron as a quiet, reserved family man, suddenly stood, turned to Lieutenant Colonel Bancroft at the senior watch officer desk ten feet away and said, “Sir, someone just activated THOR’S HAMMER, and I don’t have a fucking clue who.”

  The senior watch officer, temporarily dumbstruck at the information, just stared back at the major.

  “Sir, what the hell do we do? This has never happened before.”

  As the seconds ticked by, and he waited for his boss to process the information, a third window popped up. He saw it, closed his eyes, and prayed. It had just become the worst day in the watch center—ever.

  ———

  South of the Nuba Mountains, Near the Border of Sudan and South Sudan

  Shao Xiang followed the Nile as it cut a large swath through the green, undulating plains that passed below the helicopter. He averted his gaze to the horizon, the barren, distant mountains a geographic reminder of the paradoxical nature of Sudan. As beneficial as the Nile was to the people near its flowing waters, most of Sudan was arid desert and mountainous terrain, hostile to those foreign to the region.

  Nestled between the Nile River and the Nuba Mountains fifty miles to the north, the Chinese National Petroleum Corporation exploration site was on the verge of becoming a fully operational oil field.

  While the other, older executives of the CNPC had focused their efforts along the Sudan–South Sudan border further west, Xiang, still in his midthirties, had applied the scientific method in his search, utilizing hyperspectral satellite remote sensing.

  Using high-power computers to scan Chinese satellite images, his research team had identified an area abundant with tiny hydrocarbon leaks that had changed the chemical nature of the plants and soil. Those subtle changes had provided a precise location on which to build their exploratory drilling site.

  The site had been functional for the past six months, but it had only taken a week to elevate his status in the eyes of the CNPC board members for one simple reason—his team had discovered the largest underground oil field on the African continent. The numbers were staggering, and when his team had told him the prospective figures, he’d literally needed to sit down. He’d known in that moment that his future—and that of China’s—had changed.

  Larger than Saudi Arabia’s Ghawar Field, which produced five million barrels a
day from its eighty-billion barrel reserve, Xiang’s field was estimated to hold more than one hundred billion barrels of oil, more than enough to meet his country’s exponentially increasing demand.

  Once the initial shock of his success had subsided, he’d already begun to solve the next problem—how to get the oil safely to Port Sudan. The main pipeline ran from the port to Khartoum, where it branched off into two pipelines that ended in South Sudan and the oil fields that overlapped both countries. Unfortunately for Xiang, his discovery was tens of miles from each line, directly in between. The oil field required a new pipeline, which was the subject of his meeting yesterday in Khartoum with the minister of oil.

  Xiang expected approval at any time, and he’d been informed it was imminent, especially since Sudan’s Independence Referendum loomed in the near future. He was certain the south would vote to break away. History dictated the pattern. Too much blood had been spilled for independence not to occur. He viewed it as just another obstacle to overcome, and once he had Khartoum’s lease, he planned to obtain a similar agreement with the south. It was just a matter of time, after he was able to remove the last barrier—the Americans.

  Before Xiang’s arrival, the North American Oil Company had established its own exploration site fifteen miles west of his camp. Somehow, the Americans had learned of his discovery, and they were lobbying Khartoum for shared rights to the oil field, claiming they had been there first. Their meddling had stalled his timetable, and it infuriated him.

  It was outrageous, and the mere thought of sharing his find with the Americans sickened him. He’d briefed Beijing as soon as he’d learned of the ploy, and he’d been assured that all diplomatic efforts—including heavy financial pressure—were being applied. He just had to be patient.

  The helicopter slowed as it reached its destination. Xiang glanced down at his facility, the multiple buildings, four oil rigs, and assorted vehicles that constituted his personal outpost in Sudan’s embattled frontier.