by Mike Maden
Bio-bots were proving to be one of the most promising developments. Animals were nature’s perfect machines, engineered by evolution to run, crawl, fly, and swim for survival. They also had the advantage of nature-engineered intelligence, still far superior to China’s feeble attempts at AI. During World War II, the Americans hired the behaviorist B. F. Skinner to train homing pigeons as autonomous guidance systems for bombs, and the Soviets deployed trained bomb-carrying dogs as autonomous antitank weapons against the Germans.
But as exciting as some of her bio-bot breakthroughs were, none was as startling or decisive as the drone technologies the Americans already deployed. This led her inexorably to the logical solution: steal everything the Americans made.
She accomplished this task through the vast network of international student and faculty exchanges—functions that NPU was famous for arranging—as well as planting vast quantities of Chinese-manufactured computer chips and processors with “back door” apps that were commonly installed in American systems. Hacking, of course, was another primary source—and the primary reason why so many Chinese weapons systems, manned or unmanned, bore such an uncanny resemblance to their American counterparts. Capturing or stealing platforms in the field, however, allowed Weng and her teams to reverse-engineer actual working systems, and no one was better at acquiring them than Guo Jun, her best operative. Thanks to him, she now possessed her first working model of a Silent Falcon.
But she had a problem.
She glanced out of her top-story window. It offered a 180-degree view of the sprawling campus, most of it ancient. But her glass-and-steel tower was in the new section. Construction cranes were raising four more towers nearby, all funded with PLA money. But her eyes focused on the famous statue down below. Even this high up, the white limestone torso of the warrior statue was gargantuan. It was one of the most famous sculptures on campus. Famous, but in the wrong location. So she had it moved to where she could see it daily. The giant warrior’s bowed head nearly touched the grass, his muscular back and shoulders exposed to the sky. In front of his head, two massive stone hands thrust up out of the grass holding a great stone sword parallel to the earth in obeisance to an unseen master. It was the image of the victorious, all-powerful warrior humbled before its master.
Guo was such a warrior. Perhaps the greatest in China’s military. Guo and his handpicked operators, posing as an elite police unit, had won the international Warrior Competition in Jordan two years before, besting more than thirty other SOF teams from around the world. Guo had won the individual sniper competition as well.
But for all of his skills, Guo lacked humility.
It was the reason she would eventually have to execute him.
She picked up her secured phone and dialed.
PLA Safe House
Johannesburg, South Africa
Guo and his team returned to their secured residence in South Africa’s largest city, melting back into the largest population of ethnic Chinese on the continent. His secure satellite phone rang. Only Dr. Weng had his number. He clenched his jaw, answered.
“You violated your orders,” Weng said.
“My orders allow me to kill when it is necessary to protect the identities of my team members.”
“How were your identities compromised?”
“The two guılaos possessed advanced surveillance and intelligence capabilities. It was highly unlikely but still possible that we had been under their surveillance with the Silent Falcon. When they arrived at the scene in the surveillance vehicle, I assumed we had been compromised.”
“Ridiculous. We hacked the World Wildlife Association cloud server. The Silent Falcon in their possession was meant only for animal research purposes. That’s how we knew to send you there to retrieve it in the first place.”
“Things aren’t always as they appear. Perhaps they were undercover.”
“Spies? Impossible. But even if it were so, it would have been better to capture them and bring them here,” Weng said. Still, there was some nagging doubt. The Belgian’s identity was confirmed with the documents recovered by Guo. Just another feckless Westerner “chasing her bliss.” But the American was a member of Pearce Systems with known ties to the American government. The woman’s death was truly of no consequence. But killing the American robbed Weng of valuable insight. “Why didn’t you capture them instead of killing them?”
“I had intended to. But the African gangsters I employed overreacted. Short of killing the Africans on the spot, there was no way to stop the carnage.”
“But you did kill the Africans?”
“Of course, but later. They were drug addicts and criminals. They were a liability, so they were eliminated.”
“Why did you employ such unreliable elements?”
Guo hesitated before answering. When Weng recruited him into her organization, she’d promised him the chance to win glory for himself in battle. His greatest desire was to prove to himself he was the world’s best warrior. His loyalty to China was an accident of fate. Had he been born an Israeli, he would have gladly joined the Sayeret Matkal; born an American, he would have joined the SEAL teams. All that mattered to him was to be the best. That was hard to do as an errand boy.
“My extra assignment for the general was to secure rhino horn for him while I was on this mission. I have no such expertise, so it was necessary to employ locals who could fulfill the task.”
“And why are you so resentful? Were you not adequately compensated for both missions?” Weng asked. “Paid fully in gold?”
“It was an inappropriate use of resources, in my opinion. I am a soldier. Not a delivery service.”
“Are you referring to the Silent Falcon or the rhino horn?”
“Both.”
Weng was silent.
Guo stood a head taller than the older woman, but he feared her greatly. She could easily order the other members of his team to kill him, and they would obey her without question. Or at least try to. But Guo feared anonymity even more than death. Death was eventual for everyone, and it was final. Only a man’s fame could live on forever, and few ever achieved it.
“Killing that American was a mistake,” Weng finally said.
“I’ve killed Americans before.”
“In Afghanistan, as a sniper, secretly assigned with other Hunting Leopards. Not like this.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“I know your desire to prove yourself in combat, particularly against Americans. You will soon have that chance again, but only under my authority.”
Guo allowed himself the least possible smile. “Where?”
“Mali. I have a target for you to eliminate. A desert warrior. Quite dangerous. Your contact there will provide the details. You will proceed there directly. I am sending some equipment there for your use.”
“Will Americans be there as well?”
“Perhaps. Until then, remain focused on the task at hand. Drones are the future of warfare and China must have them, but our nation still needs soldiers like you to acquire them. Don’t disappointment me again.”
“I won’t.”
10
Avenida Martires de Inhaminga
Maputo, Mozambique
5 May
The elephant stared at him.
“Hold?”
The baritone voice slapped Pearce’s fogged mind back to reality. His bleary eyes switched from the dusty elephant head looming over the polished mahogany bar to the man in front of him. Thousand-dollar suit. Million-watt smile. Forty-five caliber, short-barreled chrome pistol in a shoulder holster. Not that the Australian needed it. He outweighed Pearce by fifty pounds, all muscle, straining against the fine Italian silk suit.
Peace glanced at his cards again. Hard to focus after three days of drinking. After loading Johnny’s coffin on a commercial flight home, he headed for a familiar dive in
the old port district, a crumbling relic in the part of town where tourists and police both feared to tread.
Hammered as he now was, he still couldn’t dull the image of Johnny’s slaughtered corpse in his mind.
Or the guilt.
“C’mon, Pearce. Quit playing the stunned mullet.”
Pearce tossed three cards on the felt. “Hit me.”
Pearce scanned the room as the Australian dealt. The two Iraqi bodyguards were slumped in their chairs, suits crumpled and stained, bored out of their minds. The ancient barkeep was stocking liquor. No other patrons.
“Well?” The Australian nodded at the three dealt cards on the felt.
Pearce picked them up. Glanced at the pile of cash on the table, along with a large leather pouch and his own holstered pistol. He was all in now.
Yup. Everything.
Pearce squinted at the blurry numbers on the cards.
“Don’t like what you see?” The giant Aussie smiled.
“Hey, boss.” A familiar voice.
A soft hand fell on Pearce’s shoulder. He turned around.
“What are you doing here?” Pearce asked.
Judy Hopper smiled softly, lowered her voice as if she were speaking to a dim-witted child. “You haven’t picked up your phone for days.”
Pearce set his cards on the table and patted himself down, face screwed with confusion. “Guess I lost it.” He glanced back up at her. “How’d you find me, anyway?”
“Ian.”
Like every other Pearce employee, Troy had a proprietary tracker installed in his body. Judy was already in Africa a few borders away, which meant she was closest to him on the ground. That wasn’t saying much. Traveling in Africa was always difficult. Ian explained the situation, sent her the coordinates. She came as fast as she could.
The bodyguards eyed Judy, but not for weapons. She wore her mouse-brown hair in a ponytail and no makeup on her plain, tired face, but she was easy on the eyes, especially at this hour.
“Not your first card game, is it?” Judy asked. “Or your first stop.”
“I thought you quit,” Pearce said. “You said you quit.”
“Miss, we’re in the middle of a hand. If you don’t mind—” The Australian’s deep voice was kinder than she’d expected.
“Just a moment, I promise,” she said with a polite, earnest smile. She stepped closer to Pearce. One of the bodyguards sat up, the chair scraping on the old stained floor.
“I didn’t quit. I took a leave of absence. That’s different.”
“How?”
“You’re still paying me.”
Pearce shrugged. “But you still quit on me.”
“I didn’t quit on you. I just needed time away. Spent it with some friends in Kenya.”
“A vacation. Sounds nice.”
“Miss?” The Australian’s tone sharpened.
“It was a refugee camp. No canoes or S’mores, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ll tell you about it some other time.”
“Looks like you quit them, too.”
Judy wanted to cry. Or scream. She’d never seen Pearce this wasted before. “Yeah, to find you, you . . . drunkard.”
BAM! The Australian’s hand slapped the table. “Are we going to finish this game or not?”
“WE’LL FINISH THE FUCKING GAME!” Pearce roared.
“Whoa. What’s this?” Judy picked up the leather pouch on the cash pile. Unbuttoned it. Rifled through the neatly folded documents. She found the title to the Pearce Systems Aviocar, still parked at the airport. “You’re betting my plane?”
“Your plane?” Pearce asked.
“Why am I arguing with a lush? What time is it?” Judy asked.
Pearce checked his wrist. Nothing.
The Australian pulled back his suit sleeve. Shoved the military-style watch in Pearce’s face. Pearce’s watch. The one Annie gave him years ago.
“Two . . . eighteen?” Pearce finally said, squinting.
Judy pointed the pouch at Pearce. “You can’t bet the Aviocar.”
“Sure I can.”
“Of course he can. He did.” The Australian pointed a thick finger at the pouch. “Put it back. Please.”
“We’re gonna need that plane,” Judy said to Pearce.
“I don’t need it anymore. And you quit, remember?”
“Well, I’m here now. We’ve got to go.” Judy tucked the pouch under her arm and grabbed Pearce’s shirt collar.
The Australian whipped out his chromed .45 pistol and held it to Pearce’s temple. Both bodyguards were on their feet now, pistols drawn.
“Pick up your damn cards and play your hand.” He waved the gun barrel at Judy. “And put those papers back.”
Judy sighed, frustrated. Tossed the pouch back on the table.
The Australian pointed his pistol at Pearce’s chest. “Mr. Pearce, last warning.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“Boss—”
“Shhh!” Pearce held a finger to his lips to quiet her. “The man just wants to play a hand of cards. No harm in that.” He glanced at the Australian. “Right? Everybody calmed down now?”
Pearce tossed off a glass of vodka in a single throw and slammed it back on the table. “Now, where were we?”
“Cards!” the Australian blurted.
“Boss, it’s important. Really important.”
“Then you should’ve called sooner,” Pearce said.
“I did. Like, a hundred times,” Judy said. “So did she.”
“PLAY, God damn you!”
“She?” Pearce asked.
“Yeah. An old friend has been trying to reach you.” Judy punched a speed-dial button on her smartphone.
“I don’t have any old friends.” Troy laid his cards down in a crooked fan.
The Australian leaned forward to look at them. He howled with laughter. Fanned his own cards on the table.
“Sorry, Mr. Pearce, but three of a kind beats none of a kind.” He reached for the pile.
Judy handed Pearce her phone. “It’s for you.”
He frowned. Took the phone. “Pearce.”
“Troy, it’s me. Margaret Myers.”
The Australian stacked the bills on the table, smiling and counting. Pearce listened intently.
“Right away.” He tossed the phone back to Judy. Stood. The bodyguards rose, too. Pulled their guns.
Pearce pointed at the pile of winnings. “Gonna need that plane after all, friendo.”
11
Founders’ Plaza
DFW Airport, Grapevine, Texas
5 May
The American and Texas flags snapped in the crisp noon breeze.
The small plaza was a favorite hangout for locals and tourists who came to watch airplanes from all over the world make their north–south landing approach. It was a gift to the public by DFW Airport, the scene of last year’s murderous mortar attack by Iranian and Mexican cartel terrorists.
A small crowd had gathered for today’s announcement. A news van from a local ABC affiliate was there to broadcast the live event. The camera operator checked her sound levels against the aircraft noise while the on-air reporter checked her makeup.
“How’s my hair look?” the young reporter asked, worried about the wind.
“We’re live in three, two, one.”
David Lane (D–24th District, Texas) approached the music stand serving as his podium. Forty-four years old, boyishly handsome, and tall, Lane had the confident, well-earned swagger of a former Air Force MC-130 Talon pilot who flew SOF operators in and out of hot spots all over the world. Lane’s chief of staff, his wife and three kids, and his parents stood beside him. He carried no notes.
“My name is David Lane and I have proudly served the 24th district for three terms, working on both
the Homeland Security and Veterans’ Affairs committees, sitting on a variety of subcommittees, including Border and Maritime Security, Intelligence, and Counterterrorism. It has been an honor and a privilege serving my constituents and the nation on these committees.
“As I promised when I ran six years ago, I would limit my service in Congress to just three terms. I will therefore not be seeking reelection to a fourth term next year. In this current era of mistrust of government, it is especially important for elected officials to keep their word. I also want to set an example for my three young children, who are watching me like hawks.”
Lane turned and smiled at his twin first-grade daughters and pre-K son, who was squirming in his mother’s grip.
“At the urging of friends, family, and constituents, I am also here to announce my candidacy for the Democratic presidential nomination in 2016.
“I’m making this announcement today despite the reality that I have very little chance of winning. Money dominates every aspect of government today, including election cycles. The fact that it will be hard for me to win is the reason why I need to run. Our system of government is broken. I intend to fix it.
“Today we live in an entitlement society, where everybody wants all of the privileges but none of the responsibilities of citizenship. Too many Americans who want to work or start a business are thwarted by federal policies from both parties that favor Wall Street at the expense of Main Street. Worst of all, to remain in office decade after decade, our career politicians keep giving away benefits we can’t afford to supporters who haven’t earned them by borrowing money we don’t have from children who haven’t been born yet. That’s a recipe for disaster. It’s also just plain wrong.
“Most people in my district probably don’t even know my name. Even fewer in the state know who I am, and I’m hardly a blip on the national radar. If you want to know who I am and what I stand for, I guess the best way to describe me is as a Kennedy Democrat, just like my father, a combat-wounded Vietnam veteran, and my mother, a retired schoolteacher.
