False Flag

by Jack Slater

  “Boris,” he growled, wanting to reel from the shock of his discovery, but not allowing himself the time, “tell me what was in those canisters. Where are they going?”

  Boris’ eyes flickered, not daring to meet Trapp’s own gaze. He bore a heavy weight of shame, but Trapp didn’t have time to humor the man.

  Trapp laced his tone with warning. “Boris…”

  “The virus. I aerosolized it. The canisters are the delivery mechanism. They’re taking them across the border, but I don’t know the target.”

  Aerosolized.

  “Fuck,” Trapp growled.

  He was torn between two competing motives: first, to save Ikeda from that hellhole. But he knew there was more at stake here than just one life, even one he had come to care for so deeply.

  So he chose the second option.

  He pulled the satellite phone from his pocket, powered it on, and held down the call button. It defaulted to the last number dialled. Mitchell didn’t hesitate before answering.

  “Hangman,” he said urgently, pre-empting Trapp’s own revelation, “we’ve got a problem, and you’re smack dab in the fucking middle of it.”

  “You can say that again,” Trapp replied, the strain of his newfound discovery evident in his tone. “Tell me you know where those canisters are, Mike?”

  “Not yet, but—”

  Trapp filled Langley in on his suspicion that everything that had happened over the past week was simply a shell game designed to bring America and China to the brink of war, entangle them in a death lock—and then shove them over the precipice.

  Only to find that Mitchell was way ahead of him. “So Greaves was right,” he groaned. “Shit.”

  “You knew?”

  “It was just a theory. Not anymore.”

  “We have to inform the Chinese, Mike. They can’t let this crap across the border. We’re not responsible for this clusterfuck, but no one’s gonna believe that. They’ll see a billion dying Chinese and point the finger directly at us.”

  “I know it,” Mitchell said softly.

  The phone went quiet for a few seconds.

  “Find me those canisters, Mike. I’m on the ground. I can stop this without the whole world finding out. But I don’t have long.”

  “Got it,” Mitchell replied quickly, not second-guessing his operative. That was what Trapp liked about the man. He knew that there were some operations that simply could not be quarterbacked from Washington. This was one of them.

  “And Mike?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Get a team to my location. Stat. Full protective gear. I found Ikeda, but she’s been exposed, so I can’t extract her without releasing this thing. In about no fucking time at all, the locals are going to wake up and find out I’ve disturbed the whole nest of hornets. I need backup by then. We need to take this position, sweep it for intel, and hold it till we can figure out how to extract her.”

  Trapp listened as Mitchell covered the mouthpiece and barked a command in the background. A second later, the director’s voice crackled down the line.

  “We’re way ahead of you, Hangman. I’ve already got a team holding just off the coast, Lieutenant Quinn’s SEALs supported by a company of Marines from the USS America.”

  “Damn,” Trapp muttered, impressed. “You don’t do things by half.”

  “They were gassed up in case we found the control terminal. And we just did. It’s right on top of you. I’m sending you an image of the building now.”

  “ETA?” Trapp asked urgently, the stress of the situation dissipating only momentarily with the news that help was on its way.

  The lightness of Mitchell’s tone was evidence that—for once in this whole sorry mess—his news was going to be good. “Oh, about twenty minutes.”

  Trapp pumped his fist. “Good job. I’ll hold the fort till then. Oh—and one last thing…”

  “Yeah?”

  “You reckon you can speak to President Nash and get him to hold off on World War III until I get a chance to fix this little snafu?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  47

  President Charles Nash watched the display on the wall of the situation room in a state of numbed exhaustion. He had long ago forgotten what most of the icons indicated. Aircraft carriers, frigates, destroyers and submarines.

  It was like a video game, a young boy’s dream—and his waking nightmare: a game of battleships, except one wrong move would bathe the world in flames.

  Harried fragments of conversation drifted over his head. They were all operating on too much coffee and too little sleep. It was no way to run a bagel shop, let alone a country. But what other option was there?

  “— the Nimitz strike group will be on station in six hours —”

  Nash wondered why the hell he had ever wanted to become President in the first place. He’d only been in the job for six months, and already the gray hairs were multiplying on his head like weeds. He had survived—literally—the Bloody Monday crisis by the skin of his teeth. And now it was happening again. Except this time, the target wasn’t just him, or even the entire US government, but the American way of life itself.

  He idly wondered whether he would run again. And then a chilling thought struck him. If he handled this crisis wrong, would there even be a presidency left to run for? Or would America simply be a charred wasteland? He might emerge from the White House bunker only to be president of the cockroaches.

  “Sir, I’ve got Adm. Nielsen on the line,” a uniformed aide said, snapping Nash back to the present. “It’s audio only, sir. Shall I put him on?”

  It took the President a second to place the man’s name.

  Nielsen. Head of the Pacific Command. They’d met at a drinks reception several months earlier. Big guy, barrel chest. Booming laugh.

  Nash nodded, though he felt like a giant hand had reached out and was even now squeezing his stomach in its grasp until it was no larger than an acorn. What he had come to realize was that when an admiral came calling, they were never bearing good news.

  “Mr. President?”

  “I’m right here, Bill,” Nash said, remembering the man’s first name and projecting an air of confidence that he certainly did not feel. “How are things going over there?”

  “It’s ninety above and sunny here on Pearl Harbor, Mr. President. But that’s not why I’m ringing.”

  “I thought not. What’s the fire?”

  “Sir, a drone operated from the USS Nimitz sighted a Chinese carrier strike group approximately two hours ago. We have since confirmed the fleet’s vector, and it confirmed that it is on a direct intercept course with the Nimitz.”

  “Where’s the carrier group now, Admiral?” Nash asked, his voice audibly strained. He looked up at the wall mounted display, a map of the Chinese coast and the broader region, and watched as a new set of icons blinked into existence—red, against US navy blue.

  A Chinese fleet.

  “About five hundred nautical miles off the coast of China, Mr. President. On your orders, we pulled them back out of range of China’s shore missile batteries.”

  “What are their intentions, Bill—do you know?”

  Nielsen paused before replying, and in the background, over the speaker, Nash could hear frantic activity. “That’s unclear, sir. But my staff is concerned that they are setting a trap.”

  “Explain, Admiral,” Nash said, a chill creeping down the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

  “We’ve detected signs that Chinese submarines are operating in the waters to the south of the Nimitz’ current position. If they sail north, they put themselves at risk of shore bombardment. If they hold position, then the Chinese fleet will be within striking range inside of twelve hours.”

  “Give it to me straight, Admiral Nielsen. What is your recommendation?”

  Nielsen allowed a silence to brew for several seconds before replying. “Speaking plainly, sir, we’re out of good ones. You know as well a
s I do that if the Nimitz is attacked, that is as good as a declaration of war. And right now, the Chinese have the upper hand. We are surging additional units into the region, but it’s going to take time.”

  Nash bit the inside of his lip, holding on to the wave of pain the action generated. It helped him to clarify his thinking, pushing aside the unimportant, extraneous information and allowing him to focus on what mattered. He knew one thing with absolute, striking clarity. The American people had not elected him to, like Neville Chamberlain on the brink of the second world war, stumble into a global conflagration by accident.

  He knew his countrymen well—as well as any leader could. Fresh-faced country boys and hard-nosed urban folk alike, they would both line up in droves at the recruiting stations the second war broke out. He could picture it now. Excitement coupled with anxiety on a million lips. Tears in mothers’ eyes, and suppressed pride on fathers’ faces.

  As one, they would march to their deaths in a war that simply could not be won; an endless stalemate thousands of miles from home. Nash knew that it was his duty to do whatever he could to stop that from happening. If he failed, at least he would meet his maker knowing that he had given his all.

  The President clicked his fingers, attracting his chief of staff’s attention. She leaned toward him and he spoke in hushed tones, for her benefit alone. “Emma—get Ambassador Lam in my office as soon as possible.”

  Martinez nodded silently and disappeared out of the situation room, clutching an encrypted cell phone to her ear.

  “Admiral Nielsen, your orders are to pull the Nimitz back as quickly as possible without exposing the carrier or her escorts to needless harm. Buy me as much time as you can to make one last push on the diplomatic front.”

  “Understood, Mr. President.” Then came a pause. “I have to warn you, sir, that if those Chinese subs are lying in wait, we may not get a warning before we lose a ship, or worse.”

  Nash frowned, his forehead creasing and eyes closing as a wave of exhaustion washed over him. He pictured the Nimitz sinking beneath the waves of the South China Sea, thousands of sailors trapped inside her steel hull as it plummeted toward the bottom of the ocean. And then he stiffened his resolve. “Your concern is noted, Admiral. It’s the only way. Please advise me the second the situation changes.”

  “Yes sir.” The line clicked dead.

  As Nash leaned back, aware of a dozen pairs of eyes focused on his own, Martinez re-entered the room. She leaned close to him.

  “Sir, the Chinese won’t put me through to the ambassador. They’re loading up at Dulles Airport. Their ride out of the country is scheduled to leave inside the hour.”

  Nash grimaced. He hadn’t truly expected this one to come easy—so little did—but just once, he wished it would. He made his decision. It wasn’t a good look for the American President to go begging at the airport like a jilted lover, but he would do it in the name of preventing a nuclear holocaust.

  “If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed…” he muttered quietly. “I guess we better get going. Inform the tower at Dulles that they are not to clear the ambassador’s plane for departure until I arrive. Understood?”

  Martinez nodded, quickly hiding the doubts that shone in her eyes. But not before Nash noticed them. He did not mind. He didn’t see how a Hail Mary play could work either. But it was all he had.

  “I’m on it, sir. When do you want to leave?”

  Nash rose to his feet, followed quickly by the rest of the room. “Yesterday.”

  48

  Deputy Director Mike Mitchell drove as though he had the metaphorical flames of hell chasing him, and knowing that if he failed, their very real counterparts would soon follow.

  He entered the fenced compound that surrounded Washington DC’s Dulles Airport chasing the blue and red lights of a hastily commandeered cop car that ordinarily sat outside Langley’s main guard post. Mitchell drummed his fingers anxiously against the steering wheel gripped in the white knuckled fingers of his opposite hand.

  In a matter of minutes, he saw one of two People’s Liberation Army Air Force Y-20 transport aircraft appear on the runway ahead of him, surrounded by frantic activity, the colossal dark gray planes decorated with a red and gold starred insignia.

  Closing from the opposite side, he saw President Nash’s convoy, a mix of unmarked black Suburbans, heavily armored limousines and police cars complete with flashing lights. He breathed a sigh of relief. He’d made it to the President before his impromptu meeting with the Chinese ambassador.

  To get this close, he’d been forced to contact the head of the President’s Secret Service detail himself and assure the man that the information in his possession was vital not just for national security, but the preservation of the very planet itself.

  Mitchell followed his escort vehicle in completing a wide semicircle around the two Chinese transport planes, followed the whole way by watchful diplomatic security personnel. The CIA official didn’t notice any visible weaponry, but he knew that it wouldn’t be far away. He pulled to a stop, watching as President Nash walked toward the Chinese ambassador, hand outstretched.

  Mitchell grabbed his case, flew out of his car and rushed toward the two men. The President’s detail knew he was coming, but still frisked him, just to be sure.

  The CIA executive breathed a sigh of relief as the firm but efficient agent cleared him. He’d made it, and in the nick of time.

  “Mr. President,” Mitchell said, shooting his boss a meaningful look. “Might I have a word?”

  “Can it wait, Mike?” Nash replied, flashing Mitchell a withering look of irritation.

  “No, sir. It can’t.”

  Nash sighed, scratched the side of his cheek, and then turned to the Chinese ambassador. “Ambassador Lam,” he said. “My apologies. Let me deal with this first, and then we can talk.”

  Lam, a short man with graying hair whom Mitchell had never met, nodded tightly. “As you wish, Mr. President. However, I cannot delay my departure too long. My orders from Beijing are clear, you understand.”

  Nash bowed his head. “I do.”

  Then he flicked two fingers toward Mitchell. “Mike, over here.”

  Mitchell followed the president dutifully, wondering how exactly he was supposed to pitch the intelligence he had just acquired. Before he had a chance to arrive at a conclusion, Nash stopped dead, about twenty feet from Lam, and spun on his heel.

  “Deputy Director,” Nash growled acidly. “This had better be good. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but this country is two skips and a jump away from nuclear war—and this might be my last opportunity to stop that from happening.”

  Mitchell briefly reflected that it was never good to be referred to by one’s title, as opposed to their name. It indicated Nash’s mood, which was far from genial.

  “I do, sir,” he replied soothingly. “And that’s why I’m here. I have an asset at the location at which we have identified the control unit for the Chinese anti-satellite system.”

  Nash’s attention snapped quickly on to his subordinate, irritation at least momentarily forgotten. He glanced around quickly, checking that his Secret Service detail was far enough away for the two men not to be overheard. “Hangman?”

  Mitchell nodded tightly. “Yes sir. And that’s not all.”

  Nash grinned, a wave of relief rolling across his face like clouds scuttling across a windy sky. He clapped one hand on Mitchell’s shoulder. “Good man.” Then his visage darkened. “You said there was more? Good news or bad?”

  Mitchell winced. “Bad. Very bad.”

  “Fill me in.”

  The deputy director did as instructed. He informed the President that at that very moment, a quick reaction force composed of Navy SEALs and US Marines was somewhere low over North Korea, about to assault a military installation above the 39th parallel for the first time since the end of the Korean War.

  And, even as Nash was processing that momentous revelation—one which under any other circu
mstances would have required a congressional investigation at the very least, Mitchell filled the President in on the far more chilling news of the discovery of weaponized, genetically-targeted Marburg.

  When he was done, Nash stood silently for more than a minute, his eyes closed, head tipped slightly back.

  “Mike, come with me.”

  “What’s the plan, Mr. President?” Mitchell replied, just about keeping pace with the much taller man.

  He glanced nervously at the Chinese ambassador, who was standing with his hands in his pockets, studiously inspecting the asphalt runway. He had a feeling that Nash was about to share some highly confidential information with a man who was not just a foreign national, but a diplomatic representative of America’s foremost competitor. And, more to the point, a country with which America might well soon be at war.

  China.

  As they reached Ambassador Lam’s earshot, Nash smiled confidently. “Mike, the plan is that you are going to tell the ambassador what you just told me.”

  Mitchell cleared his throat anxiously and forgot his manners entirely. “Say again?”

  Nash fixed him with a stern glare. “Everything, Mike. Don’t hold back.”

  He took a second to compose himself, and then bowed deferentially to the Chinese ambassador, a man of about his height, who was now glancing quizzically between his two American counterparts. “Mr. Ambassador, I am —”

  “Deputy Director Michael Mitchell, of the Central Intelligence Agency’s famed Special Activities Division. I know who you are.”

  Mitchell was a little taken aback by Lam’s demonstration. He recognized it for what it was: a warning that the ambassador was a man who did not like to be messed with. He took the message on board. It reminded him of why he hated politics.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, acting unruffled. “Mr. Ambassador, I will be blunt, because we don’t have much time.”

  Lam gestured at him to continue.

  “Sir, the Agency has reason to believe that a genetically targeted biological weapon is at this moment in or near your borders.”