Red Tide: The Chinese Invasion of Seattle (Occupied Seattle Book 1)

by Christopher Kennedy

  The 52 vehicles drove out of the port facility through the main gate. It was less than two miles to get onto I-5 at Exit 136 and then a short, 20-minute drive to McChord Air Base, where they had a runway to capture.

  Sea-Tac Airfield, Seattle, Washington, 1405 Pacific Daylight Time

  “Do you have your system up yet?” asked Patrol Officer Juan Mendez, leaning on the ticket counter.

  “Not yet, no,” replied Stacy Hough, looking at her screen and wishing he would go away. The petite blond Delta ticketing agent could tell that the patrolman cared more about ogling her than he did about whether her system was functional or not, as the policeman always stopped by to chat. She didn’t mind too much when there weren’t any lines, because she thought he was kind of cute, but it got to be annoying when she was busy. Like now.

  The early afternoon had been a hectic one at Seattle-Tacoma Airfield even before the problems started. The 17th busiest passenger airport in the United States, Sea-Tac served 31 million passengers a year and moved more than 346,000 metric tons of air cargo annually, so there really weren’t many ‘dead’ times. Things had gotten crazy when the power failed. Like any critical transportation node, though, Sea-Tac had backup generators, which quickly kicked in and restored power.

  “You’ve got power back, right?” Mendez asked, still looking more at her cleavage than her screen.

  “Yes, I’ve got power,” said Stacy, “but the ticketing system hasn’t come back up since the power came back on.” The airport had an extensive Airport Emergency Plan, and all of the staff members were well-trained and practiced in following its procedures. Normally, the procedures ensured that critical services were expeditiously restored. She was frustrated because this time, they hadn’t.

  “I’ve tried re-booting the system a couple of times since the power came back on,” Stacy said. “We have all tried,” she continued, indicating the other ticket agents, “but it’s almost like the internet service isn’t working anymore; none of our programs can log into the central servers, no matter what troubleshooting procedures we try. We can’t even get onto the internet to do things like a Google search; it’s almost as if the entire internet is down.”

  Mendez laughed. “I doubt it,” he said. “Maybe it’s just that your router is down or got corrupted with the power fluctuation,” he suggested. “I hear that happens sometimes.” He was not a computer expert, but was happy to pretend to be one if it allowed him to stay and talk to her.

  “No, it’s worse than that,” said Stacy. “Not only are our automatic ticketing systems not functioning, all of us lost our cell phone service, too. Right after the power came back on, everyone’s phones went out.”

  “Really?” asked Mendez as he pulled out his personal cell phone. “That’s strange. Do you all have the same cell phone provider?”

  “No,” replied Stacy, “we have three different providers, but none of them work. It’s almost as if we’ve been cut off from the rest of world. It’s really kind of creepy.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Mendez, “I’m here to protect you. I’m not sure what’s causing the outages that you’re all having, but my phone is out, too. I don’t know what could be causing it, maybe sun spots or some other kind of interference, but I’m sure there is a good explanation for what’s going on.” He pulled out his walkie talkie. “I’ll try to call dispatch and find out if they know.”

  “I don’t know,” said Sandy shrugging. “All I know is that I can’t do my job, and the passengers are starting to get annoyed. There’s nothing that I know of in the Emergency Plan for a complete loss of all communications capability.”

  “Let me see what I can find out,” said Mendez. He spoke into his walkie talkie, “Sea-Tac Comms Center, Patrolman 235.”

  There was no reply from the Communications Center, so he tried again. “Sea-Tac Comms Center, Patrolman 235, over.”

  Mendez looked confused. “Hmm, that’s weird,” he said. “I’ve never called them and not gotten a reply before. They must be really busy with the power outage.” He smiled at Stacy. “I’m sure that everything will be worked out shortly.” Even though he tried to sound convincing, Stacy didn’t think that he had even totally convinced himself.

  Before Stacy could reply, there was a sound like an explosion from the direction of the runway, and she felt a rumbling through the floor.

  “What the fu…I mean, what the heck was that?” asked Mendez. He tried to use his walkie talkie again. No luck.

  Stacy saw one of the other policemen go jogging by. “What’s going on?” she yelled at him.

  “No idea,” he yelled back, without stopping. “I’m going to the Communications Center to try to find out!”

  “Umm,” Stacy said to Mendez, “shouldn’t you be doing something, too?”

  Before Patrol Officer Mendez could say anything, though, the fire alarm emergency strobe lights began flashing, and the audible warning signals began their nerve-jangling horns. With almost no delay, the Airport Communications Center began broadcasting on the terminal’s public address system, “Attention in the airport, this is the Seattle-Tacoma Emergency Management System. At this time, the airport is closed for an emergency, and all travelers are to exit the terminal building and go to the parking deck across the street. Please walk, DO NOT RUN, to the parking deck across the street. You will be given additional directions and information there. The Port of Seattle Aviation Division has implemented its Emergency Coordination Center at the Parking Deck, Level One. All emergency personnel should assemble there. All personnel and passengers MUST leave the terminal at this time.”

  “That sounds like the bomb threat emergency procedure. The airport’s Managing Director must have implemented the Incident Command System,” said Mendez. “Hey! Everyone needs to leave now!” he yelled.

  Stacy started walking quickly toward the parking deck. With none of her equipment working, there wasn’t any need to shut anything down, and she only needed to hear the word ‘bomb’ once. The message began repeating, and the few members of the Port of Seattle Fire Department and Port of Seattle Police Department that were in sight started directing all of the staff and passengers to evacuate the terminal building. Stacy knew that their efforts were hampered because neither their cell phones nor their walkie-talkies were working.

  She had almost made it to the door when men and women in camouflage uniforms began pouring from the bathrooms. With many military bases in the area, Stacy was familiar with all of the various United States’ military uniforms. These looked different.

  She looked back to see Patrol Officer Mendez starting to draw his pistol as he yelled, “Who are you guys?” Her confusion turned to horror as one of the camouflaged soldiers fired a burst of three shots, and a line of red splotches walked across Mendez’ chest as he was blown backward by the bullets. Stacy stopped walking and sprinted for the exit.

  USS Shoup (DDG-86), Everett Naval Station, WA, 1405 Pacific Daylight Time

  This sucks, thought Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Tim Wallace, who had the misfortune of being the Duty Officer for the USS Shoup, as he stood on the quarterdeck of the ship. Everyone else gets to go to the softball game to drink and have fun, and I’m stuck here. Not only that, I’ll probably get called to drive some of the drunks home, too. Won’t that be a lot of fun?

  Wallace sighed. Another hour and a half until he would be relieved. By then, the game would be over, and everyone would probably have dispersed to the bars. Hopefully, he could change quickly, meet them out at the bar and salvage at least a piece of the afternoon.

  He gazed down the pier and noticed four Chinese sailors walking in the direction of the destroyer, singing in Chinese. They appeared to be quite drunk, supporting each other as they stumbled down the pier. The softball game was the place to be, he thought, watching the Chinese sailors walk up the wrong pier toward his ship. It was apparent that they were drunk, as they continued walking toward the Shoup instead of their own ship. None of them seemed to notice or care as they wal
ked up the wrong gangway. “Hey,” he called as they started up the gangway, “This isn’t your ship; this is the Shoup.” The sailors, pointing at him and laughing as if he had said something funny, continued talking to each other in Chinese as they crossed the rest of the gangway.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked with a touch of exasperation as they reached the top of the gangway to where he and the Petty Officer of the Watch stood.

  “Your security,” one of them said in fluent English, as a large caliber pistol materialized in his fist, inches from LTJG Wallace’s nose.

  As Wallace looked around, he saw that all four of the sailors now had pistols, with two of them pointing at him, and the other two pointing at Petty Officer Mathis. Suddenly, they all seemed very sober, too. The most senior of the sailors, judging by the amount of gold on his insignia, asked Petty Officer Mathis, “Quickly! Who is in charge here?”

  Petty Officer Mathis, stunned at the turn of events, stammered, “Uh…our commanding officer’s name is…” He stopped suddenly as the Chinese sailor pistol-whipped him in the temple, knocking him to the deck.

  “No,” said the sailor, turning to face LTJG Wallace as he smiled, “we are in charge. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes,” said LTJG Wallace, his eyes large with fright.

  “Good! The sooner you understand that, the easier it will go for you.” The Chinese sailor paused and then asked, “Now, who is your senior officer onboard right now, and how many people are currently on the ship?”

  “Uhh…the commanding officer is aboard. I…umm…don’t know how many crew…,” LTJG Wallace stammered, “just a few.” Normally, almost 1/3 of the 380 officers and crew would have been onboard the 509’ Arleigh Burke-class destroyer, but the commanding officer had allowed the majority of them to go to the softball game in the interests of public relations. At the moment, there probably weren’t more than 60 personnel onboard.

  The sailor answered, “Good. Then take us to your bridge and do not try anything heroic or we will shoot you.” Faced with a no-win situation, LTJG Wallace turned to lead them to the bridge.

  USS Ford (FFG-54), Everett Naval Station, WA, 1405 Pacific Daylight Time

  At the same time LTJG Wallace was being forced to the bridge of the USS Shoup, five Chinese sailors in uniform were walking up to the gangway of the USS Ford, an Oliver Hazard Perry-class frigate. The Duty Officer, LT John Musselman, saw them coming, carrying two large, brightly wrapped packages. These packages were obviously heavy, he thought, as it took two sailors each to carry them. The fifth Chinese sailor was obviously their officer, as he was both different in dress and manner. “What do you suppose this is all about?” LT Musselman asked his Petty Officer of the Watch.

  “No idea, sir,” responded Damage Controlman First Class (DC1) Esteban Ramirez. “Is it your birthday? Those look like birthday presents.”

  “Nope, my birthday’s in January,” LT Musselman said as they reached the gangway and started up it.

  Reaching the Quarterdeck at the top of the gangway, the officer saluted and asked, “Permission to come aboard?”

  “Permission granted,” said LT Musselman. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Yes, you can,” he answered. “I am Lieutenant Sun Xiuying, and I have a couple of packages for your commanding officer and executive officer, from my commanding officer, Captain Tang Ping. Would they happen to be aboard?”

  “The Commanding Officer is aboard, but the Executive Officer is ashore at the softball game,” said LT Musselman. “Would you like me to call him?”

  “Yes, please,” responded LT Sun. “I am supposed to deliver this to him so that it doesn’t get lost in transit. The contents are very valuable.”

  LT Musselman stepped away from LT Sun, picked up one of the ship’s phones and dialed a number. When the person on the other end responded, LT Musselman talked to him in a muted voice, too low for LT Sun to hear what he was saying. LT Musselman turned back to LT Sun and said, “He will be here in a minute.”

  Commander Steve MacGuinness entered the Quarterdeck a couple of minutes later to find five Chinese sailors standing at attention behind two large, brightly wrapped boxes. A tall man with flaming red hair, he was naturally loud and outgoing. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Commander MacGuinness. Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, you can,” answered the Chinese officer. “I am Lieutenant Sun Xiuying, and I have a package for both you and your executive officer from my commanding officer, Captain Tang Ping. It is something special that we brought from China for you. He asked us to bring it to you. We are supposed to wait until you open it, so that we make sure it doesn’t fall into someone else’s hands.”

  “All right,” Commander MacGuinness said. He tore off the bright paper and ribbon and saw that there was a sealed box underneath the wrap. He worked off one edge of the tape with a fingernail and pulled off the tape seal. Bending over to open the box, he saw that there were four strange looking rifles in the box, obviously not of U.S. manufacture because the ammunition clip was located behind the trigger assembly. “What is this?” he started to say, but as he looked up, he realized that all five of the Chinese sailors had drawn pistols and were pointing them at the three Americans. He changed his question in mid-sentence to, “What is the meaning of this?”

  “It is simple,” said LT Sun, “We are taking over your ship.”

  Red Square, The University of Washington, Seattle, WA, 1407 Pacific Daylight Time

  Sara walked with Erika through Red Square on the warm, late summer afternoon. Unlike many best friends that go to college together and quickly part ways, they were still not only roommates, but also the best of friends. They had even worked out their schedules so that they could both attend the B-Term Summer Session together. As both of them were Art majors, they continued to live together in McMahon Hall

  “Do you have time for lunch?” asked Erika. “I didn’t bring anything to snack on while I studied, and I’m starving!”

  “I’m not hungry,” said Sara, “but I have time to have a drink while you have lunch. I’ve still got a couple of days until my first exam, and I need a break from studying for a bit. I’ve been at Suzzallo Library since about 8:00 a.m. this morning. Let’s go up to Finn MacCool’s, and you can have lunch while I get a drink.”

  “Sounds good,” said Erika. “They probably won’t even be carding yet.” Even though both of them were only 20, Sara knew that they both looked mature for their age and had great fake ID’s; neither had ever had a problem getting in there before.

  As they walked across the square, Sara saw that the plaza was mostly deserted, as would be expected for a Sunday afternoon during summer school. There was not a cloud in the sky, so she was surprised to see a shadow go by her. Looking up, Sara was shocked to see a double line of parachutes coming down in a line running from Red Square down Pierce Lane through the Liberal Arts Quadrangle. “That’s something you don’t see every day,” she said to Erika as they stopped and looked up at the parachutists.

  “No, never,” agreed Erika as the parachutes got closer. “With all of the multi-story buildings in the area, I can’t believe that people would intentionally try to parachute onto campus.”

  “No kidding,” said Sara. “It looks like several of them are trying to come down here in Red Square, too. Why don’t we get out of the way? I’d rather not have one of them come crashing into me, especially since it looks like they’re wearing a lot of gear.”

  “Yeah,” said Erika as they walked past a few other people that were gawking up at the parachutists. “Going to the hospital will not get me fed any time soon.”

  “That’s weird,” said Sara, looking back. “Not only do the parachutists have an awful lot of gear, they also look like they’re in uniform. You haven’t heard of any sort of exercise going on, have you? It’s too late for the Fourth of July and too early for Labor Day.”

  Erika looked back, too. “Not only are they in uniform, they’ve got guns!” She sounded scared
, Sara thought. Come to think of it, Sara was starting to feel a little nervous, too.

  “Hey, Sara,” Erika asked, “do you remember that movie we saw where Russia invaded the U.S.? Didn’t they parachute in just like this? What do you suppose is going on? Do you think we’re being invaded?”

  “I think the movie was Red Dawn or something like that,” Sara replied, always the calmer of the two, “and I don’t know. Maybe it’s the Army or National Guard doing some kind of practice thing, and they just missed where they were trying to go. Still...maybe we should be going.”

  They broke into a trot and started to go around the corner of the Odegaard Library. Looking back, Sara stopped as she saw the first man, now obviously a soldier, land in the square. Jettisoning his parachute, he unshouldered his strange looking rifle and fired several shots into the air. “Everyone get down!” he yelled with a strange accent.

  The sounds of the rifle being fired broke the confused reverie of the students watching the soldiers and, with danger imminent in their minds, Sara watched as the students hurried to get on their stomachs. All except for one student, that was. She didn’t know the large black man who refused, but she listened in surprise as he said, “You can’t tell me what to do. It’s a free country!”

  “Yes, I can,” said the soldier, flipping the safety of the rifle back to the off position. “My country now,” he continued as he leveled the rifle and fired a three round burst into the man, who was thrown backward as the high-velocity rounds hit him in the chest.