Three Minutes to Midnight

by A. J Tata

  Economic competition was a prelude to asymmetric warfare. The Employment-Based Immigration: Fifth Preference program had legitimately allowed billions of dollars of foreign direct investment from China into the United States. Ting had used some of that money to pay off money-hungry Jim Gunther. The money had clouded Jim’s judgment to the point that Ting wondered if he understood what was truly happening. Likewise with Brand Throckmorton, the sexual deviant. His desires were easy enough to placate with the workmanlike efforts of their bevy of sex workers.

  The challenge was always going to be the elder Gunther, whom Ting respected. The man was a crafty and a worthy adversary. There was no pretense, and his nefarious nature permeated everything he did. Ting always knew where he stood with Gunther, as did everyone. Ting and Chun had needed Gunther’s operation in order to drill. They had needed the female American soldier in order to use the classified drilling materials and techniques. Ting had maneuvered Gunther to secure price-fixed contracts with the Russians. And Ting had shown Petrov how to exploit the natural gas boon. Petrov had ships sailing to begin the transport of liquefied natural gas from Morehead City, North Carolina, to Saint Petersburg, Russia. They had a daisy-chain express of ships steaming toward North Carolina.

  There would be no gas for them, though, Ting knew. Petrov and Gunther would be sorely disappointed. He had only to keep the soldier from talking, because he could see it in her eyes that she had figured it out.

  The orders were clear, though, and Ting was a good soldier, also. The Sino-American conflict would begin to take shape the same way that surrogates on remote battlefields fought the Cold War. The meltdown of the nuclear reactor would kill hundreds of thousands of Americans and would wipe out the economic center of the Southeast. It would poison agriculture; would cut critical overland interstate arteries, such as I-85 and I-40; and would destroy the water supply for millions of people.

  Those events would trigger the next phase of the operation, which Ting knew was more severe and more crippling than his portion. He was the lead, the true vanguard. He took pride in the fact that his prominence in the Triad organization had led to his selection by the prime minister for this classified mission. Years of unclassified trade missions and EB-5 exchanges had worn down the Americans’ sensitivities to China’s true intentions: dominance and recognition.

  Staring at a video feed to his iPad, he watched the drill bit approach the concrete subfloor of the nuclear facility. The head was spinning at a thousand revolutions per minute. Depleted uranium and titanium were melting the earth in front of it like warm butter. This was for his eyes only. Chun had programmed the routes and had written the code to fool the soldier into thinking she was drilling in one direction, when in fact she was drilling in exactly the opposite direction.

  Now that she knew, Ting could see that holding her daughter as ransom—Gunther’s idea—was brilliant and, it had turned out, essential to the mission. He could see her motivation in her determination to get the drill path just right, to avoid another attack on a remote nuclear facility while, ironically, perpetuating one on this facility.

  Jim had ultimately proven useful by capturing the renegade who had been disrupting their plan, which was to drill the first cut, open a vein of gas, and distract Gunther and Throckmorton, by having actual fracked natural gas flowing, while Cassidy drilled through the nuclear cooling pools.

  Staying on schedule would be critical. As soon as the drill punched through the cement floor and the water from the cooling pools began draining out through the newly bored cavity, Ting and Chun would be rolling to a private Triad jet parked at Raleigh-Durham International Airport. Meanwhile, the nearly two million residents of the Triangle would be unknowingly breathing in high levels of radiation. As soon as the jet left U.S. airspace to the east, the Chinese prime minister would call in his country’s one trillion dollars in U.S. debt instruments, such as bonds. The prepared press release would cite the instability in the energy markets and the domestic terror threat from U.S. service personnel returning from combat.

  “She’s about to break through the final layer,” Chun said.

  “I will get the truck ready, Mountain Master,” Ting said.

  Chun nodded, a man of few words. They had rehearsed this plan and had survived even the unanticipated threat of the crazy man driving through the checkpoint gate. The drill was moments from breaking through the concrete, a feat that would spark nuclear Armageddon for the southeastern United States.

  Ting stood and took one final look at the woman, whom he had finally grown to respect. She had done her duty for her child. Too bad she would not live to enjoy any benefit from that effort, he thought.

  As he stepped into the Underground, he heard the echo of a distant scream, like a banshee’s wail, barreling through the tunnels.

  CHAPTER 32

  MAHEGAN CROUCHED IN A CREVICE FORMED BY THE NATURAL contours of the tunnel, which could have been an old mine shaft and appeared to empty into a creek or a stream near an interstate or a high-speed controlled-access road. Now that he had escaped the cell in which Jim must have dumped him, he imagined a labyrinth behind him in the musty tunnel system. Passageways and crevices probably gave way to parts of the fracking operation.

  He clearly recognized Theresa, the athletic brunette with a slight accent. She used a key to open the gate and then pushed each of the women through the opening. She, or someone, had tied the hands of Grace, Brandy, and Elaine. Theresa Kostrzewa, perhaps Polish, maybe Russian, definitely East European. Probably Petrov’s partner or lover or both. He remembered her agility when she was escaping over the hotel fence. Lithe and agile, she was like a leopard, springing from his cupped hands up and over the eight-foot-high boards. He also remembered her two cell phones. Most likely, she had provided directions to the strike team that had killed Ted Throckmorton.

  Now, clearly a turncoat, she held a weapon to the backs of the three women. She also carried his duffel bag; its heft caused her to list to the left. Mahegan steadied his breathing, waiting and watching. He prayed that none of the women would see him, or if they did, that they would ignore his presence. Moving as they were from the night, with its ambient light, to the pitch blackness of the tunnel, they stumbled past him, coming within feet of his still body. The women could probably feel the heat from his core, which he was working hard to control. Turning his energy inward, away from the captives, he observed everything: the black ninja spandex suits, the dark running shoes, the mouths gagged with tape, the wide-eyed fear, and the focused determination of Theresa Kostrzewa.

  Like a conquering general, she wore an arrogant smirk. She had her left hand cocked over her left shoulder, the fabric handles of the duffel bag looped through her fingers, while she simultaneously held a flashlight in the same hand. In her right hand was the pistol.

  Mahegan guessed that she had been waiting days to pull the trigger, figuratively and perhaps literally, on this operation. Bringing in the watchers had to mean one of two things: either the ladies had figured something out or the operation was coming to a close. Based on what Mahegan had seen in Ted the Shred’s notes, he believed it was the latter. It was also clear that Theresa knew she was one person in charge of three hostages. Mahegan knew from experience that things could go badly wrong in this scenario, even with bound and gagged hostages. He watched as Theresa stopped.

  “Hold on, ladies,” she said. Her voice echoed down the long tunnel.

  Mahegan gauged the distance from the gate to the cell where he had been held to be about one hundred meters. He ran several calculations through his mind on how best to attack her. He watched her rhythm. She quickly turned and locked the gate and was back on task within two seconds.

  “Okay. Keep moving, ladies. We don’t have much time.”

  Not much time. So he had been right. The operation was culminating. The confirmation was unsettling. He had too many adversaries to quell in too short a time. Retrieving Maeve Cassidy had taken a backseat to preventing the disaster he believ
ed she was being forced to cause.

  Should he follow Theresa into the lair or kill her? Should he set the watchers free or keep them contained? Should he follow Theresa through the tunnel to its logical conclusion, where the Chinese and Russians were most likely controlling the operation?

  At the moment of decision, he had no choice to make. Theresa was scanning with the flashlight in sweeping arcs, as if she were painting broad strokes on a canvas, left, then right, then left again. He watched her rhythm, got into the sync, and saw that the next left arc was going to land almost precisely on him. The light cast by her flashlight moved from its zenith on the right and began to cut toward him across the backs of the legs of the three women in front of Theresa.

  “Stand up, Grace,” Theresa hissed. The flashlight beam stopped a foot from Mahegan’s hide position. He was pressed into the crevice in the limestone wall, looking like a piece of high-relief artwork. Grace had stumbled, and Theresa had reacted by focusing the light on Grace as she clumsily attempted to stand again. Mahegan knew this was an act. Grace was an excellent athlete. She was providing him this opportunity.

  He struck with fury, taking one lunging step away from the jagged tunnel wall as he chopped down with his left arm across Theresa’s right hand, causing the pistol to fall to the tunnel floor. Mahegan’s right hand was over her mouth, but not before she shrieked, “Help!”

  He grabbed her neck with his open left palm, pulled downward, and snatched her heel—a wrestler’s ankle pick—to pull her legs out from underneath her. He quickly flipped her on her stomach. The duffel bag thudded onto the dirt next to her head. She put up a fight, her legs flailing and kicking at his back, but with little effect. Grace had come around to his front and was leaning in his face, offering the tape on her mouth to him. Pressing one knee into Theresa’s back and keeping a hand over her mouth, Mahegan ripped the tape from Grace’s face and worked it across Theresa’s mouth. She continued to push against Mahegan’s heft as he quickly undid the knots around Grace’s hands and used the rope to bind Theresa’s wrists instead. By the time he was finished securing that knot, Grace had her legs untied and was sitting on Theresa’s legs, facing away from Mahegan. They were back-to-back.

  “Okay, done,” Grace said.

  Mahegan stood as Theresa flopped on the tunnel floor like a fresh-caught tuna on a boat deck. Quickly, Mahegan and Grace had Elaine and Brandy untied, and they used some of the excess ropes to further tighten the binds on Theresa.

  “Thanks,” Mahegan said.

  “Saw you. Nowhere to hide,” Grace said.

  They were standing in the tunnel, in near pitch blackness. He said, “You sensed me. We have that.”

  Elaine whispered, “You two can get a room after we figure out what the hell is going on.”

  “I know what’s going on,” Mahegan said. “Follow me.”

  He had a plan for using the watchers to help him. Digging into the duffel bag, he distributed weapons and phones, a few of which still had battery life once their SIM cards were replaced. He pocketed the key to the gate from a coiled, springy key chain on Theresa’s belt. He carried Theresa deeper into the tunnel.

  “Lift that. It’s heavy,” he said, pointing at the access panel.

  Grace and Elaine managed to remove the steel panel covering the opening to the cell he had been held in. He slid Theresa through the opening feet first, then dropped her, listened for a thud, and didn’t care if she broke her neck. He replaced the metal panel, took a length of rope, and tied it across some anchor bolts on either side of the opening. Why Jim had not done this, he had no idea, but he was glad the man had been careless. He turned to the women, they all knelt on the dirt, and he quickly sketched out the plan and what was at stake.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is a nuclear attack?” Elaine said.

  “Yes. And if my calculations are correct, we don’t have much time.”

  Like a football team, they broke their small huddle. Mahegan gave Elaine a quick hug, and two of the women went one way, while Mahegan waited with Grace as they prepared to stride into the belly of the beast.

  CHAPTER 33

  MAEVE’S HAND WAS SHAKING AS SHE PUSHED THE JOYSTICK FORWARD, inching the drill bit through what she suspected was the last thin layer of concrete. She had sweat through her Army combat uniform, which now clung to her skin like a wet suit. She was feeling the drill the way a dentist did when gouging out a cavity.

  The Chinese men in the observation room were pacing back and forth, talking to one another. She was unable to hear them, not that it would have mattered. She didn’t speak Mandarin.

  Where had Jim gone? she wondered. Her heart was breaking for Piper. She wanted to kill Jim.

  Not only had he forced himself on her in Afghanistan, but she also carried his child. When she had drawn the henna tattoo, she had found herself subconsciously scraping her womb. He had commanded her in Afghanistan, in every sense of the word, and now his dominion over her continued with the threat of telling her husband. She hadn’t figured out what she intended to do about the baby, but her desire to kill Jim remained.

  He had shot her and then indentured her, condemned her to servitude in this hellish pit, where people would die at her hand, because of her actions.

  She wondered where her husband, Pete, was right now. How he was doing. What he was thinking. She closed her eyes briefly, feeling entirely alone, without spirit and without support.

  Sitting at the controls and having figured out the endgame, Maeve wanted nothing to do with this terrorist plot. In Afghanistan what Jim had talked about was diverting some gas and paying her a good, honest wage, not stealing gas for a billion dollars. And certainly not destroying nuclear facilities. In the underground bunker along the Pakistan border, the idea had been tantalizing, almost surreal. She understood now that the Chinese men, who were now pacing back and forth, had played them all.

  Under the threat of Jim’s blackmail about her pregnancy, she had agreed to play the victim for the cameras, for the Chinese, and especially for Jim’s father. Fatherly approval had been the driving force behind all of this for Jim.

  How foolish she had been.

  The drill bit was inches from the line on the map, which she knew was the bottom of the cooling pools for the spent fuel rods. She said a short prayer, asking for forgiveness of her sins against her husband and her child, not to mention what she was about to unleash on mankind. Under the watchful eyes of the Chinese men, there was nothing she could do to stop the momentum. She was frozen with fear. In her mind, from 3.7 miles away, she could hear the high-pitched whine of the drill as it screamed its way through the earth and the concrete.

  The joystick stopped. The monitor indicated a glowing red-hot drill bit, worn to the point of uselessness. The link between the drill bit and the joystick was automated, controlled by computers and electronic circuitry. She had replaced over ten drill bits, counting the previous cut she had made. Like a race car driver nearing the finish line but low on fuel, Maeve had to stop and replace the bit. There was no other option.

  She signaled to the Chinese men, who came racing into the room. The computer automatically calculated when the drill bit was shorn and could not proceed. A flashing red light indicated that she should stop, but she didn’t dare. The Chinese men understood and shut down the circuitry that would supposedly explode the LNG ship. Ting shouted into his cell phone, apparently to have the crew replace the drill bit. Like a pit crew, they would have it done in less than an hour. Pushing away from the joystick, Maeve stood. Her back hurt. Her vision was blurred. She watched the images on one of the monitors in disbelief. Helicopters hovered over the LNG Labrador. Rangers rappelled down ropes, lifting their weapons to eye level, at the ready as they swarmed the ship.

  Maeve looked up at the ceiling, almost wishing that Army Rangers were descending upon her location right now, though she doubted that was the case. They were hidden underground in the middle of the state, far away from Wilmington.

  “I
need a nurse,” she said to Ting, who stood before her, tall and reeking of garlic.

  “No stop. Chun fix in ten minutes. Override the controls.”

  “Ten minutes. That’s all I need. Nurse.”

  Chun looked her up and down, evaluating her medical condition with a quick scan. “Ten minutes.” He nodded. After stepping out of the control room, he told the guard to escort her to the infirmary. “Ten minutes.”

  I can get you to Piper.

  In the infirmary she found Sabrina the nurse, dressed down in designer blue jeans and a tight T-shirt with the word Golden written in sparkling glitter across the front. Her raven hair was swept back across her forehead. Sabrina’s large eyes flicked from the guard to Maeve. She put down a magazine and stood.

  “What?” the nurse asked harshly.

  “I’m not well. I need special medicine. That you can get me to?”

  The guard appeared bored and returned to her post.

  The nurse waited until the guard had walked beyond the doorway, and whispered, “Five minutes.”

  She escorted Maeve to the back of the infirmary, beyond the suffering wounded. Maeve counted seven men in the beds, one with a sheet over his face, and shook her head, thinking, There really has been a battle here. Through three doors they walked, each one a layer beyond the next, like in a set of Russian nesting dolls.

  In a small room she recognized the young Asian woman she had seen on-screen from the control room. The woman was holding her daughter, Piper, who looked directly at her.

  And didn’t recognize her.

  Who would never remember her.

  “Oh my God,” Maeve whispered. “What have I done?”

  “You are wasting time. Go hold your baby,” the nurse ordered as the Asian woman set Piper down.

  Maeve stepped forward and knelt before Piper, who was holding a small Barbie doll, playing with its attire. Her face was screwed up in a question mark, as if the outfit didn’t match. She was wearing the same blue corduroy pants and print sweatshirt she had had on four days ago, when Maeve briefly stopped by their home.