False Flag

by Jack Slater

  The President’s heart stopped beating. His mouth went dry and he reached out for the stone-cold cup of coffee, swinging it down regardless of the taste. “Say again, Ambassador?”

  “The canisters are sitting in a vehicle park, approximately 6 miles inside North Korea, over the border with the city of Dandong. We have a high-altitude drone circling the area now, and the trucks exactly match the images your CIA provided us with.”

  Nash glanced up at the screen. The Chinese jets had now crossed the border, and the blue icons, marking out the American aircraft, blinked ever closer. The image focused his mind. “That’s fantastic news, Ambassador. What are your intentions?”

  “Mr. President, I’m calling to request your help. My country is deploying its own special forces units as we speak, but they were”—he broke off—“positioned for a conflict on a different frontier.”

  President Nash knew what the man was talking about instantly, no matter how hard he had attempted to couch it in diplomatic language. ‘A different frontier’ was code for ‘war with America.’ A war, he hoped, that they might narrowly avoid.

  “Ambassador Lam, your request is granted,” he said. “We have a unit en route, ETA —” He looked up.

  Mitchell mouthed, “Nineteen minutes.”

  “— ETA under twenty minutes. If you can provide us with the exact coordinates of those vehicles, I assure you that my country will do whatever it takes to prevent this threat to your people.”

  There was a long pause before the ambassador replied, punctuated only by the dull roar of the transport plane’s heavy engines. “Thank you, Charles,” Lam said softly. “I appreciate it. We are sending you the coordinates now.”

  Nash sagged with relief, but he knew his job was not yet done. “One last thing, Ambassador. Your Air Force —”

  “Is there to support this operation,” Lam interjected. “They have strict instructions not to harm your people.”

  “Thank you, Ambassador.”

  “No, Mr. President. Thank you.”

  As the call clicked off, Mitchell pumped his fist with satisfaction. “Mr. President—we got ‘em.”

  56

  The Knighthawk’s crew was clearly uncomfortable with the presence of the Chinese fighter jets in the skies around them. Fifteen minutes had passed since Osan Tower first communicated the presence of this new force, and Spartan One-Niner was still flying, so Trapp considered that a fairly good outcome, all things considered.

  In truth, he was shit scared.

  He always was in the hours, minutes and seconds before going into battle. Perhaps other men felt no fear. Perhaps they managed to subsume that part of themselves, bury it deep within their consciousness.

  Perhaps they were simply born different.

  But Jason Trapp was not. His skills were not born of nature, but nurture. He didn’t enjoy his fear, but he welcomed it nonetheless. It meant he was still alive.

  It meant he hadn’t yet screwed up.

  That day would most likely come, Trapp knew. Special operators were a breed apart from ordinary fighters. But no one can put themselves into harm’s way day after day, year after year and expect not to suffer the consequences.

  So Trapp was scared. And that meant his senses were on high alert. The fear kept him sharp.

  And perhaps it would keep him alive for one more day.

  His headset crackled. “ETA four minutes,” the pilot said. “We’ll go in low and fast. Good luck, gentlemen.”

  The operation was shaping up to be a shit show. Modern military doctrine typically pushes leaders to hit a target hard, laying down successive waves of suppressive fire, and relying on the tactic of fire and maneuver.

  That would not be possible today. It was for a simple reason: like the control unit, the canisters could not be punctured. This close to the Chinese border, even an accidental release of the genetically-targeted Marburg virus would be disastrous.

  Each of the men with Trapp knew that the night’s operation had one simple commandment: that they were to only fire their weapon if they could be absolutely certain of not hitting a canister.

  “See you all in hell,” one of the SEALs drawled over the roar of the rotors, a sardonic grin on his face. If Trapp recalled correctly, his callsign was Homer. “You reckon the bad guys won’t shoot back neither?”

  “It’s either, ya dumb fuck,” Santa muttered, shooting his buddy a wink.

  “Guess we’ll find out,” one of his comrades muttered back, compulsively checking and rechecking his weaponry.

  Each man had his own ritual in the face of combat. Trapp focused on his own. He mastered his breath, dragging in great soothing gulps of air, taking back control from the fear that threatened to paralyze him.

  Before he knew it, the pilot was back on the intercom. “Sixty seconds.”

  In what seemed like an instant, they were there.

  The helicopter burst over a line of trees and hovered over the target—a military vehicle park that was little more than a dirt parking lot with a gaggle of one-story wooden buildings at the northernmost end. The six trucks, immediately visible by their commercial livery, were parked in rows of two at the opposite end of the lot, and several more military open-topped six-ton trucks sat between the buildings and Trapp’s target.

  The thick black ropes dropped out of the sides of the Knighthawk, and before they even hit the ground, the first SEAL had jumped out after them.

  “Go, go, go!”

  The instruction was superfluous. Trapp barely heard it. He fast-roped to the ground, borrowed gloves saving his palms. His stomach had barely fallen out beneath him before his boots hit the deck and the stock of his M4 was pressed to his shoulder. The night vision goggles over his eyes bathed the world in a ghostly green glow.

  Trapp came up in Delta, but he’d worked with the SEALs many times before. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but in the privacy of his own head he could admit they were at least up there with the best of the best. They moved through the night like jungle predators, practically sprinting toward their targets. A pair of them charged toward the row of military trucks, from where they intended to draw any fire that might emerge from the darkened buildings.

  The CIA operative went straight for the nearest truck. Its canvas sides were tied down, fixed that way with rope.

  The first gunshot split the night. The flash from the barrel of the SEALs’ carbine lit the cab of another of the trucks and a strangled cry rose up from its inhabitant, audible even over the roar of the Knighthawk overhead.

  Another trigger pull, and the cry winked out.

  His headset crackled. “Tango down.”

  Trapp glanced up, and watched as the Knighthawk helicopter settled into position over the small collection of barracks buildings. He doubted that the North Koreans would be equipped with any shoulder launched missiles, but an RPG certainly wasn’t out of the question. The chopper’s crew were taking a hell of a risk.

  Another gunshot cracked into the night, and Trapp focused on his mission. He pulled a knife from the holster on his thigh, closed the distance to the truck in front of him, and slashed the canvas. He took a pace back, returning the M4 to his shoulder, and poked his head inside.

  He saw a man looking back at him.

  Shit.

  “They’re in the back of the trucks,” he said urgently into his throat mic. “I repeat, they’ve got men in the back of the trucks.”

  Trapp dared not use the carbine, not this close to the canister. The steel cylinder wasn’t big, but still it dominated his thoughts. But his opponent had no such compunctions. A pistol flashed up, and barked twice, the lead rounds missing Trapp’s torso by mere inches for the second time in one night.

  “Crap.”

  He threw himself left, dropping his M4 entirely and switching the knife to his dominant right hand. The old line of not bringing a knife to a gunfight ran through his head, but he didn’t have a choice. He rolled back to his feet and settled into a crouching position, body pressed
up against the truck’s rearmost wheel.

  His opponent’s pistol revealed itself, poking through the canvas. Trapp knew that he had one advantage that the other man did not: night vision. Scuttling clouds obscured a half moon overhead, and even this close to China, there was little enough light pollution. Trapp had the upper hand.

  And he intended to use it.

  He exploded upward, slashing at the inch of exposed wrist with the wicked blade of his knife. The steel bit in, sending a spray of arterial blood flying, and the pistol skittered harmlessly to the ground. Trapp winced, wondering if this would be his unlucky day, but the mechanism hit the dirt without loosing off a round.

  Trapp never stopped moving.

  With his free hand, he reached out and grabbed his opponent’s bloodied wrist. The man’s flesh was slick with hot fluid, but Trapp’s gloves provided him the grip he needed. He yanked his arm back, pulling the man out of the truck and onto the ground. As his opponent hit the deck, he let out a bloodcurdling squeal of pain.

  Trapp dived on to him, stabbing the knife down hard into the base of the man’s throat, and driving the blade upward. The handle lodged in his chin, bouncing off bone. Blood spurted upward, soaking Trapp. He yanked the knife free, not needing to check whether the man was dead. That much was evident.

  He wiped the blade against the fabric of his leg and returned to his crouching position, scanning the environment for targets.

  But the world was quiet.

  “First truck, clear,” his headset crackled, slightly quiet, since the speaker had dislodged from his ear in the scuffle.

  “Second, ditto,” came another calm voice.

  Trapp unclipped his pistol from its holster and returned to the fray, clearing the last two trucks alongside a barrel-chested gunnery sergeant. The men inside the cabs had been taken out instantly, but only two of the freight compartments had contained enemy combatants: the one Trapp had taken down, and one other.

  Both were equally dead.

  “Santa,” the gunnery sergeant growled into his radio, “how them buildings looking?”

  “All clear, gunny,” Santa replied, his voice accented with a melodious Hispanic twang. “I’ve got movement, but no one dumb enough to risk putting their head up.”

  “Roger,” gunny replied. “Don’t hesitate to light them up if you be needing to, now.”

  “You got it, boss,” came the reply.

  Trapp circled the trucks one last time, double-checking that no North Koreans had slipped through the net. As he did, his headset buzzed once again. “Ground team, this is Spartan One-Niner. We’re picking up incoming. Choppers, looks like six of them.”

  Trapp keyed his mic. “Friendly?”

  “Unclear.”

  “Great,” he grumbled to himself. “Won’t this day ever end?”

  The helicopters came in fast and low, just as the Knighthawk had done on its own assault, their rotors beating an unfamiliar sound. They weren’t American, that much was plain.

  “Okay, ladies,” Trapp said into his radio. “Tighten up on the trucks. We cannot allow these canisters to fall into enemy hands, understood?”

  The question didn’t really need asking. The looks of grim acceptance on the faces of the men around him said everything he needed to know. Whoever this new enemy was, they would meet the same deadly resistance as all those who had come before them.

  Six helicopters broke into view and circled the lot.

  Floodlights clicked on beneath the two choppers leading the formation, instantly blinding Trapp through the scope of his night vision goggles. He knocked them aside, fingers massaging the butt of his pistol.

  A voice sounded over the radio in his ear. “We, uh, got a plan here?”

  Trapp was almost ready to give the order to open fire when one of the helicopters did something unusual. It began to land. It didn’t set down fast, as Trapp would have expected if this was an assault, ready to disgorge men onto the ground. It moved gracefully through the air, and when it landed it simply stayed there for a few seconds, as though waiting for a reaction.

  “Hold fire,” Trapp growled. “They might be friendly.”

  A man jumped out of the side of the helicopter. He was wearing dark green camouflage fatigues in an unfamiliar pattern, but did not appear to be armed.

  “I’ve got a shot,” another voice informed him. “Holding fire.”

  The man strode toward the small collection of trucks, a broad grin on his face. Trapp’s forehead wrinkled. What the hell was going on?

  “I think they’re Chinese,” one of the SEALs said, gazing up at the circling helicopters, with a hand shielding his eyes from the floodlights. “They’re friendly.”

  The SEALs allowed the new arrival to approach, although their barrels never dipped, even as he closed on them. Trapp walked forward, careful not to block his men’s fields of fire. He squinted at the guy, who had three silver stars on his shoulders, which Trapp thought he remembered meant he was a captain. “Can I help you?”

  “We watch,” the Chinese officer said in thickly accented English, a broad smile creasing his face. He gestured to the dark skies overhead. “From drone.”

  “You did, huh?” Trapp said, exhaustion beginning to settle in—along with a sense of appreciation for what they had accomplished. All he wanted right now was a beer. And a hot bath. And to get the hell out of this country with Ikeda in his arms, and never come back.

  The Chinese army captain reached out with his hand, in a gesture that was familiar the world over. “Thank you,” he said. “You protect my country.”

  Trapp shook the man’s hand. It seemed like the right thing to do. “Any time.”

  57

  President Nash sat behind the Resolute desk, toying with the Mont Blanc fountain pen that was his tenth wedding anniversary gift from his wife. The high-stakes drama of the past week had driven the thought of what was facing him from his mind, but as the military situation pulled back from the brink, the weight on his mind returned.

  It was a very different kind of weight—a problem of the heart, not a matter of state. And yet it was no less difficult for that. He’d spent twenty years of his life with one woman, and now that life was over. In truth, their marriage had been over for a couple of years, even if they were only formalizing it now. But that didn’t make it any easier to come to terms with the fact that he was now alone. And for at least three and a half long years, assuming he only served one term—which was far from certain—he was destined to remain that way.

  After all, while the office of the presidency was one hell of a powerful aphrodisiac—perhaps the best icebreaker any man could ask for—it would also attract precisely the wrong kind of woman.

  Then again, three and a half years was a long time… But he could cross that bridge when it came to it.

  Nash tore open the envelope and pulled out a small stack of papers. They were marked where he was supposed to initial and sign. He didn’t bother reading them—they’d already been reviewed by his lawyers. He uncorked the pen, and the nib hovered over the desk for a few seconds before he scrawled his name freely wherever it was indicated. Strangely, a wave of relief washed over him as he did so.

  When it was done, he buzzed Emma Martinez in. He needed to get rid of the papers before he had second thoughts.

  “Mr. President?”

  Nash sealed the papers in a fresh brown envelope and pushed it across his desk. “Emma—get this couriered over to my wife, will ya?”

  Martinez picked up the envelope, holding it as though it contained a bomb. She knew exactly what was inside—her boss’s divorce papers, and the obvious implication was that they were now signed.

  “Yes, sir.” She grimaced. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

  Nash raised his eyebrow. In truth, he felt more relaxed now than he had in months. The knowledge of what he had to do had hovered over him all that time like a dark cloud, and now it was gone.

  “Let’s not go there, Emma.” He grinned.
>
  “No, Mr. President,” Martinez said, shaking her head with obvious relief. “And sir—you’ve got Mike Mitchell on line one.”

  “Thank you, Emma,” Nash said.

  He waited for his chief of staff to leave the room before glancing at the black handset on his desk. A red light blinked over the button that indicated line one. He punched it and picked up the phone. “Mike,” he said in a tone of genuine satisfaction. “How you doing?”

  “Very well, Mr. President. And yourself?”

  “Slept like a baby,” Nash chuckled. “I spoke to Premier Wang this morning, and he expressed his gratitude for our role in cleaning up this mess. I wanted to pass those congratulations on to you. You did good, Mike. And so did Jason.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Nash paused, and his tone grew colder as he thought of the man who had caused him so much stress—and far more importantly, cost the lives of innocent Americans. “Tell me Mike, how is our friend?”

  Mitchell cleared his throat. “Mr. President, I think this is one of those situations —”

  “Mike,” Nash chided. “If you’re about to try and keep me insulated from the political fallout, then I’ll advise you to hold your tongue. I want to know what you’re doing with him, and I want to know now.”

  “Yes sir. As we speak, Kim is on an Agency jet heading for a black site in the Philippines. We have interrogators standing by to squeeze him until his pips squeak.”

  Nash squeezed his fist tight, grinding the base into his desk. Later that day, he was due at Andrews Air Force Base to receive the bodies—what little had been recovered—of the naval helicopter crew that had died when the Chinese jets buzzed the USS Nimitz. He would console widows and parents, see the grief on the faces of children who did not yet know what they had lost. They might well blame him, and that would be fine. It came with the job. But he wanted to be able to look them in the eye and tell them that the man responsible for their pain had paid with his life.

  The President made his decision, and spoke with cold determination. “He died in the assault on Camp 61, Mike. Is that clear?”