Power Play- America's Fate

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  He approached the toilet, a yellowish-brown bowl of sludge that sparked a ripple of queasiness, and he deliberately angled his body to maximize privacy.

  I can’t believe that ogre is watching me take a piss, he thought. I guess they’re being extra cautious since Mrs. Andrews escaped.

  When he returned to the bedroom, a third guard was present, this one armed with a syringe.

  A gruff hand clamped around Peter’s throat and slammed him against the wall.

  “No, don’t!” he shouted, thoughts boomeranging back to the deadly Alameda fever vaccine.

  The needle pierced his triceps, the plunger depressed, and a warm sensation spread down his arm.

  Oh shit! What did they inject me with?

  91

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  MAJOR RYAN ANDREWS strode across the tarmac, his gait somewhere between a jog and a walk. He was headed toward a C-130 being prepped for departure, where Teams 6A and 6B were geared up and waiting to board the flight to District Three. Their reassignment was a temporary transfer to bolster the resident teams, which were being overwhelmed by the heavy concentration of PLA soldiers surrounding the nation’s capital.

  Ryan had been monitoring Bradley’s progress since the start of phase two, and that mission was now in limbo.

  What caused the bird to veer off like that? he wondered. And why didn’t it simply vanish like the truck?

  Teams 6A and 6B snapped off sharp salutes as he approached, and Ryan summoned the ranking team leader with a wag of his fingers.

  “I need you to do me a favor.” His hand plunged into his pocket and reemerged with a twisted, lumpy hunk of metal that vaguely resembled a baby rattle. His mind vaulted to Franny and his impending fatherhood, then he sternly steered it back to business. “I want you to personally deliver this paperweight to Rear Admiral Murray.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He watched his teams board the aircraft, and as he started walking toward TEradS Headquarters, his satellite phone chirped. Recognizing the incoming number, he answered, “Yo, Kyle. What’s up?”

  “The former peacekeepers have been assaulting District Six. Theft, rape, arson, and most recently, a string of home invasions. Gwen Ling, she … uh … was brutally stabbed to death in her bedroom …”

  Ryan bowed his head, at a loss for words. He ached for Franny, who would have to endure losing a longtime friend so soon after burying Izzy; and he grieved for Gwen, a woman who had risked everything for her adopted country. There would be no medals, no honors for her. Gwen’s sacrifices would never be acknowledged or celebrated. She was an unsung hero who had changed history … and was destined to be forgotten by history.

  “And that’s not all,” Kyle said, desperation percolating in his tone. “Peter, the kid who covered Franny’s escape, he didn’t show up for his patrol this morning. I think he’s been kidnapped. Can you send me some help?”

  Ryan gripped the phone tighter, head swiveling, watching the C-130 taxi toward the runway with all his available personnel aboard.

  Responding to the prolonged silence, Kyle said, “Can you at least send someone in an advisory capacity? I don’t give a damn how you finagle the syntax, I need help.”

  “I want to help, but I’m a little short staffed at the moment,” he said, regretting that he’d ordered Abby to D.C. to chase after General Sun. She would have afforded him the ideal wiggle room: Abby just happened to be home visiting and opted to assist her father.

  “Ryan, I hate to do this, but I’m calling in that favor.”

  He emitted an audible grunt, indebtedness and frustration churning in his gut. Kyle—in conjunction with Bradley—had saved Ryan’s life a few weeks after the EMP.

  I owe him, he thought. I would be dead right now, not married to Franny, not expecting a baby.

  “Give me some time to work on it. I’ll call you back.”

  He ended the call, glancing toward the C-130 that was lumbering down the runway. Its nose lifted. The front landing gear skimmed above the concrete while the rear rumbled, wearily straining to lift its heavy backside off the ground. The aircraft zipped past him, climbing sharply, then a dark cloud rose from the ground. It billowed like smoke, and the huge black particles were sucked into the engines.

  For a second, the behemoth seemed to stop in midair, then the inevitable descent began.

  The aircraft belly flopped somewhere south of the base, the impact denoted by a dense black pillar of burning jet fuel.

  “My guys,” Ryan stammered, feeling sick to his stomach. “Volkov’s blackbirds just took out my teams!”

  92

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  A DRIZZLE OF FAT raindrops began to fall from the menacing cloud cover. Abby Webber could hear them splattering against the dense canopy of leaves and pine needles above her, none of the moisture making it to the ground.

  The PLA soldiers assembled into a column formation, and their commanding officer began to address them in Mandarin. During the course of his ten-minute speech, Abby was only able to translate a few words: chongfeng—to assault; yige huiyi—a meeting; and Sun Jiangjun—General Sun.

  The platoon of enemy combatants moved out, a single-file line of denim and cotton creeping through the woods. Abby trailed behind, tailing them from Fort Chaplin Park past a sad-looking brick apartment complex with shattered windows and sills that dripped moldy black tears.

  Eight soldiers ran across the rain-slicked pavement of East Capitol Street, vaulted over a cement retaining wall that girded a burned-out gas station, and raised their rifles, prepared to eliminate threats and provide suppressing fire. A second squad followed, advancing into a metro station ringed by a four-foot wall and crowned with an arching span of glass.

  Abby watched four more squads complete the journey, then the original group joined their countrymen. Once the soldiers had descended below ground, she ran toward a rusting Mercedes coupe, drawing no fire. Emboldened by the lack of an enemy sentry, she darted toward the span of escalators.

  Are they just taking cover from the approaching storm? she wondered. Or is this where the meeting will take place?

  It seemed likely, given that Bradley had dispatched three traitors meeting inside Forest Glen Metro Station a few weeks earlier. Abby slinked down the stationary escalator stairs, nose crinkling at the heavy odor of mildew, then she heard a suppressed sneeze.

  They’re headed west, she decided, toward the heart of the city. Is that where they’ll meet with General Sun?

  Without night vision, Abby opted to remain above ground. She studied a map of the Blue Line Metro, memorizing details, then began to jog. The drizzle was growing more persistent, decreasing visibility, and wind gusts were shoving her forward like an aircraft propelled by the jet stream.

  I’m glad they didn’t trek east, she thought.

  Abby crossed the Anacostia River via the Whitney Young Memorial Bridge, veered left bypassing a multipurpose sports stadium, then cut through a gated parking lot, not stopping until the Stadium-Armory Metro Station came into view.

  No soldiers were flooding from its depths.

  Damn it!

  She resumed her run. Potomac Avenue Station was deserted and so was Eastern Market Metro.

  Is this a waste of time? And energy?

  Seeing no other viable option, she pressed on to the next stop, running along Pennsylvania Avenue, turning left onto 4th Street, right onto C Street, bypassing three-story row houses with ornate cornice moldings and cement pediments above the doors and windows.

  Legs aching, sweat streaming from her face, lungs on fire, Abby slammed to a stop.

  Then the crack of a gunshot resonated through the urban valley.

  93

  Night Sector Forward Operating Base

  District Nine, California

  COLONEL REYNOLDS approached the open office door, a tablet clutched in his left hand, and stopped short, silently awaiting an invitation from the general.

  His paranoid commandin
g officer employed an elite cyber warrior to routinely purge his name and likeness from the Internet and mainstream media. Even Reynolds wasn’t privy to the general’s real name. To Night Sector operators, he was simply “Hellhound,” and his reputation discouraged further inquiry.

  Reynolds’ eyes shifted to the real-time satellite feed from Langden Air Force Base. The image was grainy and jittery, yet sufficient to discern that Ryan Andrews was standing at the rear of a C-130, surrounded by ten well-armed TEradS Soldiers. The Major appeared to pass something off to one of them, then he turned and walked away.

  He’s not boarding the aircraft? Reynolds thought. Would he really delegate transport of that hard drive to an underling?

  Finally, the general waggled his fingers, permitting him to enter.

  “Sir, there have been a trio of untoward developments. Our brigades north of Washington, D.C., have been accosted by swarms of mosquito drones.”

  Hellhound scowled, and Reynolds knew what he was thinking. Those forces had been heavily armed, at great risk and expense, as part of a pincer movement—a quintessential strategy now thwarted due to incompetence.

  “Who holds operational command over those drones?” his commander demanded.

  “Colonel Lewis.”

  “Find him.”

  “I’ve already sent a corporal to summon him,” Reynolds continued. “The Night Sector special forces responsible for the loss were dispatched during a drone strike in District Six. We believe that Major Andrews’ wife stole a vehicle containing the mosquitoes, and that Rear Admiral Murray was able to reprogram them.”

  Anger glowed in Hellhound’s eyes like liquid fire. “See that propaganda teams frame this as yet another TEradS atrocity, explicitly accusing the Major and Rear Admiral of genocide.” Then through clenched teeth, he said, “And the second unfortunate development?”

  “Our intelligence assets have amended their report on Aldrich Ames. Instead of incriminating the U.S. by leaking classified files on Ultimate Protocol and Weather Warfare to a media asset, the former CIA director downloaded a treasure-trove of Night Sector files.” Reynolds hesitated to steady his voice. “A decrypted communiqué suggests that Ames solicited Dmitry Volkov to assassinate Sun in exchange for our files on Project Night Owl. And those files might be on the hard drive stolen by Bradley Webber.”

  Hellhound belted out a string of profanity so loud, Reynolds could feel the floor trembling.

  Or was that his legs?

  The general’s complexion deepened from crimson to purple, and when he finally spoke, his voice was terrifyingly calm. “And your final piece of news, Colonel?”

  Reynolds extended the tablet, clasping it with two fingers as if feeding a hunk of meat to a ravenous lion, and Hellhound snatched it.

  Ryan Andrews had modified the draft file in his clandestine account. The photo of his kidnapped wife had been replaced by the smiling image of the Major holding the coveted hard drive. Inscribed beneath it was an ineloquent message: Fuck you!

  “Our analysts believe the hard drive is being transported via that C-130, and I have ordered appropriate measures to guarantee its recovery. But they can’t exclude the possibility that Grace Murray has already transported the drive back to Ansley Air Force Base—”

  “Which means the Admiral could be using a quantum supercomputer to decrypt the data!” Hellhound bellowed. “Information sure to expose our agenda! And jeopardize a victory more than a century in the making!”

  Colonel Lewis appeared at the office threshold and snapped to attention, panic glimmering in his brown eyes.

  Hellhound’s right hand reached toward his waist, retrieved a handgun, and fired two rounds. The first tunneled into Lewis’ heart; the second, through his forehead; and the booming report caused heads to turn. Corporals and sergeants working in the operations center exchanged nervous glances then quickly resumed their work—with redoubled diligence.

  The general holstered his weapon, and his attention returned to the satellite feed. The U.S. C-130 was accelerating along the runway; and shortly after its landing gear left the ground, a flock of mechanical blackbirds took flight. Sensors led them directly into the turboprop engine intakes; and unlike their natural feathered brethren, the drones’ metal parts inflicted damage, scraping and gouging and sparking until all four propellers slowed to a lazy spin.

  The aircraft glided downward.

  A wing struck a metal silo and jet fuel erupted into a fiery black cloud. The other wing dug into earth, shearing off. The fuselage bounced and broke apart, the nose slamming into a wooden barn, the tail plowing through a freshly tilled field.

  PLA shock troops, under the command of Night Sector special forces, charged toward the crash site, and the monitor automatically switched to a helmet-camera feed.

  A chest-high line of bullets tore into the wreckage, then half the squad split off, repositioning themselves for the arrival of unsuspecting first responders.

  “If the hard drive was aboard that aircraft,” Reynolds said, “it will be in our possession soon.”

  “In any event,” Hellhound growled, “implement our insurance policy.”

  94

  District Six, Texas

  GOVERNOR KYLE MURPHY bowed his head as the reverend offered a prayer. Nearly all district residents had turned out for the Memorial Day service, a somber tribute to those who had served in the Armed Forces and made the ultimate sacrifice.

  The flag above the sheriff’s station would be flying at half-staff until noon; and afterward, there would be a second ceremony in remembrance of the civilians murdered by enemy soldiers.

  As the benediction concluded, Kyle glanced behind him at the new sheriff’s station. The retrofitted office complex hadn’t been designed to secure prisoners, but he wasn’t worried about Alex Ivans escaping. He was concerned about vigilante justice and civil disobedience. There were handfuls of God-fearing hard-liners demanding a public execution and cliques of peaceniks threatening to riot if he wasn’t released immediately. Neither group seemed interested in facts, truth, or the law.

  I’m in no-man’s-land, Kyle thought, destined to enrage both sides.

  Fortunately, the vast majority of residents were rational people, who blamed Ivans and his operatives for the deaths of those two mothers, rather than the TEradS drone strike. However, they had made it clear to Kyle that they expected him to lock up Ivans’ buddies. The problem was, he had no legal grounds to arrest them, at least not yet.

  His thoughts drifted to Peter. Was it the peacenik protestors who abducted him? Or a roaming band of peacekeepers? He made a mental note not to trust any group with the word peace in its name, then his gaze dropped to his satellite phone. He still hadn’t heard back from Ryan. Was a TEradS team en route? Did they have the “sanctuary zone” under surveillance?

  Hearing the purr of a combustion engine, Kyle’s head jerked to the east in time to see a pickup truck bulldoze through the crowd. Horrified shrieks and pained wails resonated against the sheriff’s station.

  Tires bowled over anyone not agile enough to get out of the way.

  Five people had been crushed; another had been thrown from the hood. Kyle squinted at the maniacal driver, the fourteen-year-old son of a former deputy.

  “What the hell’s wrong with that kid?”

  The vehicle bucked and bounded to a stop.

  Good Samaritans raced to the aid of the injured.

  Then a group of teens sprung from their concealed position within the truck bed, weapons raised.

  The crowd reacted, drawing their own rifles, shotguns, and handguns; and Kyle swiped the bullhorn from the reverend’s hand. “Damn it! Everybody lower the guns!” He motioned for Sheriff Turner and his deputies to stand down. “Everyone who is uninjured, clear out of here! Now!”

  The armed teens lifted an unconscious boy, and Kyle’s heart shriveled at the sight of two rifle barrels pressed against Peter’s head.

  “We want Alex Ivans!” the young driver shouted. “Or else Pete
r Francisco dies!”

  In that instant, Kyle swore he’d aged a decade. Exhaustion set in, his knees ached, and it was hard to breathe.

  “You’ve got one minute, Governor!”

  Responding to Kyle’s nod, the sheriff and his men hurried inside.

  Most of the civilians had retreated, evacuating the injured, but a few hard-liners had taken up positions inside the mechanics bay of a defunct filling station across the street, a fact that did not go unnoticed.

  “Clear out those sharpshooters, Governor,” the driver said, arm pointing to the array of long guns. “Or Peter dies!”

  Kyle’s worst nightmare had come to fruition. He was mired in a dual standoff, unable to simultaneously appease both sides. Sighing, he keyed the bullhorn. “Upshaw, if you and your buddies don’t back off, you’re going to get this boy killed!”

  “The kid wouldn’t be in this fix if you had the guts to arrest these troublemakers!” Upshaw shouted.

  “Those are children you’ve got your sights on! American children!”

  “They’re criminals! Curfew breakers, vandals, and thieves. Aiding and abetting the enemy!”

  Turner and the deputies emerged from the sheriff’s station, configured around the prisoner like a human shield, and slowly approached the vehicle. The driver’s door popped open, and Ivans climbed inside, a broad sneer blossoming over his face.

  The deputies attempted to rescue Peter from the bed, but Ivans slammed the truck into reverse and accelerated.

  Gunfire erupted from the filling station, and bullets punched through the front fender and windshield.

  After a block, the vehicle skidded to a stop, the teens leapt from the bed, and Ivans sped off, the screech of tires blending with a chilling battle cry.

  Then the riled teens opened fire.