Then handing off the binoculars to an underling, he said, “As soon as the marines are back aboard, set course for Chesapeake Bay.”
86
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
MAJOR RYAN ANDREWS hovered over the hard drive, removing the tiny screws that held the cover in place. The data had to be obliterated with meticulous care so that the probability of recovery would be zero—an absolute impossibility; and for Ryan, that meant a physical assault. Nothing was more permanent than good old-fashioned destruction.
Why isn’t this thing detaching? he thought.
After ten frustrating minutes, he found additional screws lurking beneath a label. One by one, he pitched them into a trash can, then Ryan pried open the case. He didn’t bother grounding himself with an antistatic wristband or donning gloves as suggested in the online instructions. Damage was his objective.
Yet more screws attached the magnets to the aluminum casing.
“Motherfucker!” he grumbled, shaking his hand.
The exceptionally strong rare-earth magnets had snapped together, pinching his index finger. Once the sting subsided, he unscrewed the actuator arm. The shiny, disk-shaped platter was seated like a traditional vinyl record. Leery of getting bitten again, Ryan wedged a screwdriver beneath the metal to pop it free.
He checked to be sure there were no additional platters then strolled toward his office door, cramming the metallic disk into his pocket. Two armed Military Policemen were stationed outside, at his request; and just as he was about to address them, the door to TEradS Headquarters burst open.
Instinctively, Ryan backpedaled, the recent spate of security breaches foremost in his mind. Then he realized it was Franny. His wife looked pale and uncharacteristically frazzled.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I need to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”
His right hand reached protectively into his pocket. “I’m kind of in the middle of something really important. Can it wait?”
The sight of welling tears gave him pause. His wife was confident, fearless, and stoic. What could possibly have driven her to tears?
It’s not Sybil, he thought, motioning Franny into his office. If something happened at Basic Training, I would’ve heard about it before she did.
“First, just let me say, it wasn’t intentional,” she told him.
“What wasn’t intentional?” he demanded, feeling as if the platter in his pocket was a ticking time bomb.
“Okay, I’m just going to say it,” Franny told him, palms extended like stop signs. “Here it goes. You’re going to be ... a father.”
Ryan’s jaw dropped.
His head tilted forward.
An emotional shock wave flew through him, culminating in a heartfelt smile. “That’s awesome!” he said, gathering her into his arms. “Aren’t you happy?”
“I-I thought you would be mad,” she stammered. “I mean, we were always careful ... except for that first time.”
Ryan grinned, recalling the steamy encounter, then kissed her forehead and pulled back from the embrace.
Her aqua eyes seemed brighter, her smile more vibrant, and she pressed a palm to his cheek. “You are going to be an amazing dad ... Now, I’ll let you get back to work.”
“I love you,” he called after her. “And we’ll celebrate tonight, I promise.”
Getting his mind refocused on the mission proved difficult.
A baby, he thought, imagining a little girl with her momma’s eyes, a boy with her spirit. I can’t wait to teach ‘em to shoot.
The armed MPs escorted Ryan to a mechanic’s bay inside hangar two. They had no idea why their protective presence was necessary; they were simply following orders. President Quenten had mandated that Ryan be provided with every resource he requested—which afforded everyone who worked in this particular hangar a day off.
The MPs joined the security detail guarding the facility, and he marched into the cavernous room. Two F-16s were currently being overhauled, but the third bay was empty. Ryan helped himself to protective goggles and work gloves then clamped the hunk of metal into a table-mounted vise and positioned a steel catch pan beneath it.
Ryan lifted the wand of an oxygen-acetylene torch, which split into two pipes. He twisted the valve on the right until the oxygen flow reached a hundred percent. He opened the left valve slightly, only releasing a modest amount of acetylene, then he grasped a sparker, a set of metal tongs with a circular end that produced sparks.
A trail of black smoke snaked upward, and he adjusted the valves until the exhaust turned clear, leaving behind a dagger of fire that burned at approximately 6,000-degrees Fahrenheit. He guided the torch to the platter, and the metal began to glow. The solid turned molten and dripped like melting ice cream into teardrop-shaped globs.
If it’s a girl, her middle name should be Sierra, Ryan thought, and Izzy if it’s a boy.
87
District Three, Washington, D.C.
ABBY WEBBER TOUCHED down in a grassy area near the junction of Interstates 295 and 495. Gusting winds had pushed her off course, five miles southwest of her target and a scant twenty-five yards from splashing down into the foul-smelling cesspool known as the Potomac River.
Hurriedly, she removed a laptop from her backpack and activated the mosquitoes, praying that they were still within range.
If not, I just dumped a biohazard over Northern Virginia, she thought, stowing the computer. And doomed Major Andrews to prison.
She followed Oxen Creek north to Branch Avenue, skirted a cemetery, then skulked through a residential area, her thoughts shifting to her primary mission: General Sun.
Through an intercepted communiqué, Cyber Command had learned that a team, presumed to be Spetsnaz and rebranded as Night Sector, had been tasked with extracting General Sun from Washington, D.C. Major Andrews suspected that Volkov was using Sun as bait and his orders to Abby had been explicit: find and dispatch that bastard prior to the scheduled rendezvous.
Andrews had refused to disclose the extraction point. “If you haven’t neutralized him by 1700 hours,” he’d told her, “your orders are to let him go. I won’t have you engaging an entire team of Spetsnaz.”
Despite the time limit, she was thrilled to be hunting General Sun, the man who had attempted to kill her and her father multiple times, the man responsible for Izzy’s death. This was intensely personal, and she intended to complete her mission.
Drones had been surveilling a “sanctuary zone” established within a wooded park. The 7.9-mile Fort Circle Trail was a swath of green meandering through the urban sprawl, connecting Forts Mahan, Chaplin, and DuPont; part of an encircling ring of forts used during the Civil War to protect the Capital from rebel attack. And now, the Chinese were occupying those sites.
Abby trekked along the hilltops overlooking the Anacostia River. The trail wound through a forest of oak, beech maple, and pine, but there were no barking squirrels or scurrying rabbits. She gazed at the canopy of branches, noting the lack of birdsong.
Did starving people hunt the local wildlife into extinction?
Nearing the boundary of Fort Chaplin Park, Abby halted and took cover behind a log draped with thorny vines. Chinese nationals were scrambling to deconstruct their “sanctuary,” which consisted of camouflage tarps strung between trees, enough to shield them from the elements, but not the prying lenses of FLIR-equipped drones and satellites.
PLA soldiers in civilian clothing, Abby decided. Why are they mobilizing? Do they know about the impending sunset raid?
Quickly, she scanned their faces then expelled a prolonged sigh. None of the men appeared to be older than forty.
Where the hell is General Sun?
88
Scoville Air Force Base
District Five, Illinois
BRADLEY WEBBER RETURNED the gloves and face mask to the green case, then he drove back to the TEradS briefing room. He halted midstride in the doorway, the plastic case in one hand, his avia
n prisoner in the other.
Huddled behind a laptop sat an impish kid with short blond hair, baby-blue eyes, and a dimpled chin.
“Who are you?” Bradley demanded.
The Marine rose, standing over six feet tall, and extended a beefy hand. “Your drone Pilot. Captain Love. You can call me CJ.”
“Captain?” Bradley repeated. He jettisoned the green case to indulge the handshake. “You look like you’re twelve.”
A smirk curled Wingnut’s thin lips, making him appear even younger. “Funny, coming from a man wearing green booties ... And by the way, I’m thirty-seven, Master Sergeant.”
Bradley handed over the blackbird, and CJ plugged a cable into a port beneath its tail feathers.
“Admiral Murray is uploading a signal to the satellite indicating that this blackbird has entered hibernation mode,” Wingnut told him. “If electronically aroused, a video loop of a vacant barracks will be transmitted.”
“And if the Russians try to manually recall or reposition it?” Bradley asked.
“Then our bird-jacking scheme will be discovered.”
The potential payoff isn’t worth the risk, he thought. A bird going rogue will tip off the crazy general ... and there goes the element of surprise.
Once the jerry-rigged software patch had been installed, Rear Admiral Murray delivered unwelcome news. “Our functional satellites won’t be in range for five hours, which means that in order to pilot the drone, Captain Love will have to infiltrate to within a mile of the target.”
Bradley groaned, not bothering to mask his irritation over being saddled with a hotshot drone Pilot who probably hadn’t fired a rifle since Basic Training.
He’s just going to make a lot of noise and slow me down.
He placed a brown plastic case containing additional classified gear atop the green one, tucked both under his arm, and led CJ out to the Humvee.
Exiting the base, Bradley waved to the gate guards and accelerated toward a county route that intersected the dirt fire road where Malcolm had been shot.
“You really think you’ll be able to fly that thing?” Bradley asked, nodding toward the bird.
“You really think you’ll be able to shoot that thing?” CJ replied, pointing at his rifle.
“My gun is standard equipment. The drone isn’t.”
Wingnut tacitly conceded the point, then said, “General Quenten trusts me to pilot his UC-35A—the military equivalent of a Cessna Citation. You should trust me, too.”
“You fly the General into Langden recently?”
“Yup. He evacuated his daughter from D.C. Thought she’d be safer living with relatives. Geeky little thing.”
Bradley bit back a smile, recalling the prep school uniform, freckles, and braids.
The guy exfilled Abby from D.C. Maybe I SHOULD trust him.
He turned left onto the dirt road and slowed, traversing ruts and fallen branches. The Humvee bounded and rocked; and Bradley swore he could feel a reservoir of sweat sloshing between his skin and the sauna suit.
Fifteen sweltering minutes elapsed before he reached a paved road that paralleled the muddy bank of the Mississippi River. He backed the vehicle between a stand of pine trees and camouflaged it while CJ pecked at a laptop keyboard and intermittently waggled a joystick.
The bird twitched to life. Its wings flapped. The body jerked as if in the midst of a seizure before finally taking flight. The drone soared at a steep angle then nose-dived; and after nearly crashing into the ground, it zipped forward and slammed face-first into a tree trunk.
Laughter squirted from Bradley. “Hey, Wingnut! Look out for that tree!”
CJ tendered a one-finger salute. “There’s a reason runways aren’t forested,” he said, inspecting the blackbird for damage.
“Funny, how blue jays don’t seem to need a runway.”
Bradley stripped off his battle dress uniform, shedding the extra layer of clothing in a vain effort to cool his overheated body. That prompted a mocking chuckle from CJ.
“Aw ... The Sniper’s wearing his footie pajamas on a big-boy mission!”
“Better hope you can run faster than 2,700 feet per second.”
Wingnut’s eyes widened, surprise mixed with respect; then Bradley headed north, toting both plastic cases. Behind him, CJ’s pants swished against bushes and his feet drummed.
They settled into position, a half mile from the site where the truck had mysteriously vanished. This time, Wingnut successfully launched the blackbird, and Bradley crouched beside him watching the surveillance footage. The earthquake-ravaged industrial complex still appeared devoid of activity.
“You need to get lower, CJ. We already have satellite images from that angle.”
The bird descended in a lazy spiral, wings outstretched, gliding leisurely while Bradley was roasting in his own juices. “Can you speed this up?” he snapped. “My magic suit turns into a pumpkin at midnight.”
The drone dove and banked to the west, preparing to swoop between the two undamaged buildings, then it unexpectedly shot upward, cartwheeling as if it had bounced off a trampoline.
89
District Three, Washington, D.C.
ZURVAN FARAHMAND WAS TOSSED upward along with the crates containing his team’s precious cargo. His buttocks landed hard against the side of the rigid-hulled inflatable boat; and a second later, one of the crates smashed against his shin. Pain shot up his leg like a fierce electric current, and he tightened his grip on the rope handle that swagged along the inflatable craft. The boat operator would not slow down. Time was of the essence.
Chesapeake Bay was unusually rough, agitated by lashing winds and a severe storm surge. Zurvan glanced toward the southeast. Dense clouds were churning, a seething vat of gray illuminated by splintered fingers of lightning. Thunder moaned, and in the distance, great diagonal sheets of rain were sweeping ghostlike above the turbulent waves. His superiors kept insisting this was merely a cell of vigorous thunderstorms, which would blow through and be gone within a half hour.
Just long enough to add misery to our mission, Zurvan thought.
Currently, the rain was a drizzle of large droplets; of no consequence—unless you happened to be speeding along the bay in an open-topped boat. Each impact stung, thousands of tiny blows that blended into an unrelenting assault; and the thud of helmet strikes sent unpleasant vibrations burrowing into his skull.
Zurvan resisted the urge to shield his eyes. He didn’t dare let go of the rope handle, lest he be launched into the angry waves. Instead, he bowed his head, watching marble-sized chunks of ice dance on the crates.
Hail, he thought. No wonder it stings.
The RHIB lurched to the left, tipping him backward into the spray of displaced water, then rocked back as they entered the mouth of the Potomac River. The smell emanating from the water was repulsive.
Trash? Sewage? Rotting corpses? How did the Americans create waters this disgusting?
Rather than a frothy white, the boat’s wake appeared muddy brown, the color of liquid stool.
Not a good day for underwater demolition teams, he thought.
The two trailing boats in his flotilla, numbers eleven and twelve, stopped at the Interstate 495 bridge crossing that connected Maryland and Virginia. He didn’t envy them being the first into the river; then again, they’d be the first out, allowing the impending storm to rinse away the reek of excrement.
Half the teams halted at the I-395 bridge complex, which had formerly accommodated automobiles, subway cars, and freight trains. Teams three and four throttled back beneath the Arlington Memorial Bridge; team two, beneath the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial; then finally, Zurvan arrived at his destination: the Francis Scott Key. If memory served, the bridge had been named in honor of the man who had composed the United States National Anthem.
Zurvan began to croon, “And the explosions red glare ... bridges bursting in air ... gave proof through the night, they were caught unaware ...”
90
D
istrict Six, Texas
ALTHOUGH PETER FRANCISCO had pretended to be strung out like his peers, he’d gained no information regarding the after to which Lydia had alluded.
They don’t know the details, he concluded. Otherwise, I would’ve duped somebody into revealing them.
But if nobody knows the big secret, why can’t we leave?
Or is it just me ... that can’t leave?
Are they using me as a hostage like Mrs. Andrews?
Are they trying to trade me for Alex Ivans?
Damn them!
And damn me for being stupid enough to fall for it—correction: stupid enough to fall for her.
Anger mounting, Peter glared at Lydia, asleep on the floor beside him. Was everything that transpired between them just manipulation? A means to an end? Did she really believe that it was okay to kidnap people who disagreed with the protestors’ ideology?
No, he decided. Lydia was just an innocent, trusting girl, a victim of propaganda. He was certain that once he got her away from the drugs and mind games, she would see the truth and be horrified by it.
Rising to his feet, Peter tiptoed across the bedroom, navigating around slumbering teens who were sprawled over the hardwood floor.
“Uh ... I need to use the bathroom,” he told the two armed guards posted outside the door.
His request met with a scrutiny that bordered on paranoia. The men began conversing in Russian, then the one with a mole on his cheek latched onto Peter’s elbow and thrust him into the hallway.
After a few steps, he could smell the pungent odor of the bathroom. Following the arrest of Alex Ivans, the governor had cut off the improvised water and electric lines that had been serving the “sanctuary zone” in an unsuccessful attempt to disperse the protestors.
Peter took a deep breath, stepped inside, and started to shut the door. Mole Man forced it open with his rifle barrel. Then dark eyes boring into Peter, he said, “One minute.”
Power Play- America's Fate Page 25
