Autumn Assassins: [#3] A Special Operations Group Thriller

by Stephen Templin

  “Kill all the congressmen and senators,” Max said. “That’d be some kind of magic.”

  Tom frowned at his brother. “Not even Zhao could kill all the congressmen and senators. He might focus on the Senate chamber alone.”

  “Why would he focus on the senators?” Max asked.

  “If Wei had succeeded in killing the chair of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” Tom said, “the president’s nomination for a replacement would have to be confirmed by majority vote from the Senate. Zhao wouldn’t even have to eliminate all the senators—just contaminate the Capitol building so the Senate couldn’t convene. Zhao would slow down the confirmation process.”

  “Same with the US Pacific commander,” Max said. “He also has to be confirmed by the Senate.”

  “Pacific Fleet commander, too,” Tom added.

  June took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Let me see if I’m understanding this correctly. Although the president of the United States, the commander in chief, has a long line of succession, the top of his naval chain of command doesn’t. If China wanted to paralyze the US military prior to launching attacks in the Pacific, it could assassinate the commander of the Seventh Fleet, Pacific Fleet commander, deputy Pacific commander, Pacific commander, vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. If the Senate were slowed down from convening, it would inhibit the confirmation of replacements for the assassinated naval chain of command. China would be freed up to take control over the Pacific.”

  Max and Tom nodded.

  Pepper’s phone rang and she answered it. After ending the call, she announced to everyone in the car, “We just discovered that when the Autumn Wind Five message was texted here to Falls Church, another message was texted from the same anonymous sender.”

  “What was the message?” Max asked.

  “Autumn Wind Country,” she said. “The phone company gave us the account owner’s address in Washington, DC—in Chinatown.”

  “Zhao still hasn’t hit Autumn Wind Five,” Max said, “which we still think is the vice chairman and chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

  Pepper’s jaw tensed. “One of ours died today. And my guys and I want to go to Chinatown. We could use your help.”

  Max looked at Tom and June.

  “My gut says we should go to Chinatown,” Tom said.

  “I’ll go wherever you need me,” June said.

  “All right,” Max said. “Chinatown.”

  34

  Zhao’s room at the Hilton Garden Inn in downtown Washington, DC, was mid-range in quality and price, but its location was invaluable—conveniently located within ten minutes of Operator 949’s apartment in Chinatown and the Senate chamber of the United States Capitol. While Zhao finalized plans for Operator 949’s attack on the Senate, he trusted Wei to oversee killing the vice chairman and chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  Zhao put together his best rendition of an American submarine sandwich. Although he didn’t like the dry taste of bread, it helped to know that he wouldn’t have to eat this—it was just part of the show. He stuck the sub in his Playmate personal cooler next to the aerosol anthrax hidden in the Coke cans. He added a pack of M&Ms for a snack, closed the lid, and took the cooler with him outside to the car, where he put the lunch in the trunk. He would hand the cooler off to Operator 949, who would complete the attack.

  Driving through the city, Zhao passed countless ugly American buildings that were all right angles and plain brick. It wasn’t until he reached the eighteen-meter arch that marked the entrance to Chinatown that he felt at home. The arch was topped with seven Chinese roofs, decorated in Qing and Zhao Dynasty styles with more than a couple hundred dragons and thousands of tiles.

  Operator 949 had reported that the surrounding neighborhood had shrunk from a few thousand Chinese residents to a few hundred. Many of the former Chinatown residents had moved up in society and out to the suburbs of Virginia and Maryland. Zhao found an open parking spot near a rundown shop close to his destination. After parking, he followed the sidewalk around to a red apartment building with “Luck House” written in Chinese characters on the side.

  He strolled into the building and spotted a notice posted on the wall. It notified the residents that they could buy the building from the new owner, or they needed to vacate the premises. Zhao passed a hunched-over Chinese woman dressed in a white tunic and black baggy pants, her hair bound in a bun. A cart full of groceries propped her up as she waited in front of the elevator. Zhao climbed the stairs to Operator 949’s floor, where a husky Chinese guy stood in front of the spy’s door. Zhao approached.

  The guard’s ugly mug pressed against his skull like he’d been run over by a truck. “You armed?” he asked in Chinese, chewing gum like a cow chewing its cud. He reached out to search Zhao.

  Zhao batted his hand away. “You don’t touch me.”

  “Hey, asshole.”

  “You don’t touch me.”

  Now the guard ground his gum between his teeth as if he were grinding on a piece of Zhao. “Then you don’t go in.”

  Zhao didn’t know why he was being treated in this manner, but he held Operator 949 responsible. In spite of the rage simmering inside him, Zhao kept a cool exterior as he set the Playmate on the ground and folded his arms. “I clearly remember ordering your boss to inform you about today’s arrival of a very important man carrying a cooler. And that you are to let him in. Yes, let him in. Not search him. I don’t mince words. Let him in. Does ‘let him in’ sound like ‘search him’?”

  The confidence on the guard’s face seemed to fade, and he turned his attention to the door and knocked once then twice, a coded knock. Before he turned his head back, Zhao sucker-punched him. The guard’s body hit the floor with a dull sound, his mouth agape.

  Zhao took a knee, reached into the guard’s open mouth, and picked out his gum. Then he rose to his feet and stuck the gum on the peephole. He mimicked the coded knock, once followed by twice.

  “What?” a voice called from inside.

  Zhao kicked open the door, springing the lock. The door opened a few inches and whacked into something on the other side. A chain lock still held the door in place, and Zhao kicked again. This time the door broke free of the chain, and there was another smack on the other side of the door. Zhao slipped inside to find Operator 949 holding his face with one hand and a pistol in the other hand while stepping back. Zhao punched him so hard that he dropped his pistol, and Zhao continued to punch him until he fell to the floor.

  The door lock was skewed, so Zhao straightened it before he retrieved the cooler from the hallway, closed the door, and locked it. He checked to see if the lock would hold—it did. Outside, the guard stirred.

  “Tell him to stay out,” Zhao said.

  Blood streamed from Operator 949’s nose, covering his mouth. He called out to the guard in Chinese and ordered him to stay in the hall.

  “You’ve gained weight since I last saw you,” Zhao said.

  Operator 949 wiped away the blood gathering on his mouth and looked up.

  Zhao said, “I selected you because you were the most talented and experienced man for this part of the mission. I trained you for this. But when I sent a text message activating you, you didn’t reply.”

  “I heard the news about what happened to the US admirals in Japan and Hawaii, but I thought it strange that the rest of China seemed silent.”

  “Since when did you become a general?” Zhao asked.

  “I thought it strange, that’s all,” Operator 949 said.

  “And that’s why you didn’t answer my text?”

  “I contacted Beijing and asked them if they authorized Autumn Wind.”

  Zhao didn’t know whether to be more displeased that his subordinate had gone over his head or that his plot was discovered, and he had to think for a moment. “And what was Beijing’s answer?”

  Operator 949 raised his voice. “Beijing said that the execution of Operation Autumn
Wind was not authorized and that I should stop you.”

  “Don’t raise your voice at me,” Zhao said quietly, like the calm before the storm. “If anyone here should be raising his voice, it should be me.”

  Operator 949 spoke quietly. “I’m not raising my voice.”

  “While you’ve been sitting here on your ass getting fat in Washington, the American navy has moved into strategic positions in the Pacific, threatening to attack our homeland. Our level of readiness has risen above red alert—this is war, and you and I are the tip of the spear.”

  “I called Beijing myself,” Operator 949 repeated.

  “How the hell do you know it was Beijing who spoke to you and not an American imposter?”

  Operator 949 paused.

  “You don’t know who you talked to,” Zhao said. “If Beijing wanted to recall Autumn Wind, they’d do it through the chain of command—that means through me, not through you. And while the two of us debate this, America will attack first, and if you and I let them, America wins. And China loses.”

  “Sir, maybe you and I should call Beijing together, and we can confirm this.”

  “The chain of command is not open to your interpretation or gut feelings. I receive my orders from the Communist Party of China, and you receive your orders from me. There is no ambiguity.” Zhao lost his cool and shouted, “Activate Autumn Wind Country, damn it!”

  “I can’t follow that order.”

  Spit spewed from Zhao’s lips. “You will follow my order.”

  “We need to confirm with Beijing.”

  “You follow my orders, or you will be replaced.”

  “You can’t replace me.”

  Zhao paused to collect himself. He took a deep breath. Then another. He was composed now. “I can.”

  The spy called to his man outside and ordered him into the room.

  “Are you disobeying a direct order?” Zhao asked.

  “I don’t obey just any man who gives me orders; I only obey the chain of command.” The doorknob turned, and there was a pushing against the door from the other side, but it didn’t open. Operator 949 called for the bodyguard to break down the door.

  “I am not just any man.” Zhao drew his pistol.

  Operator 949 lunged for his weapon on the floor.

  Zhao shot the spy in the head. “Consider yourself relieved of duty.”

  Operator 949’s body hit the floor. His guard broke through the door, and Zhao pivoted and shot into the guard’s chest, slowing his advance by a fraction. Then Zhao shot him between the eyes. The guard’s momentum carried his upper body forward, but his legs weren’t working.

  Zhao stepped aside to let the bodyguard crash. His body landed near Operator 949’s. “Guard him.”

  Zhao had personally read Operator 949’s reports about his preparations to execute his part of Operation Autumn Wind—Country. Zhao searched Operator 949’s closet and found several Capitol police officer uniforms. Zhao changed out of his clothes, dropping them on the floor, and put on one of the uniforms. He cinched the belt tight to compensate for his operator’s weight gain. Also, Operator 949 was several inches taller than Zhao, and the pant legs were too long. After a short search, he found a stapler on the desk. He folded one pant leg under to the appropriate length and stapled it in place. Then he did the other pant leg. Finally, he put on his service belt and checked to see if the pistol was fully loaded, including a round in the chamber ready to fire. It was. Good.

  Now his only concern was the front security inside the Capitol building. If the guard didn’t stop him, Zhao would be free to conduct his mission. If the guard gave him trouble, he’d have to shoot his way through. Either way, his mission would succeed.

  35

  Two of Pepper’s fellow agents rode with her as she drove the lead vehicle to Chinatown. Max drove behind, Tom and June riding with him. Behind them came a car with two more agents. Although Halloween was finished and Thanksgiving hadn’t begun, shops were already advertising for Christmas.

  Max’s phone rumbled. He checked the caller ID before answering. “What’s up, Young?”

  “We decrypted part of an Operation Autumn Wind document. The document describes plans for an operator to carry one hundred grams of aerosolized anthrax in two soda cans modified with timers to release the contents into the target area. We’re still working on decrypting the rest.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Be careful.”

  “Later.” He finished the call and informed Tom and June.

  “Hopefully we stop Zhao before he strikes,” Tom said.

  Max continued to drive behind Pepper as she circled the block of the target area to inspect the surroundings for countersurveillance or snipers.

  Pepper’s voice came over the communications bud in Max’s ear. “This red building we’re coming up on is the Luck House apartment building where our suspect lives.” Pepper passed the building and parked a block away to the north. Max did the same. The agents behind them parked their car in a lot further south.

  Max, Tom, and June stepped out of the vehicle still wearing their disguises, albeit not as fresh as they were earlier in the day: Max the deliveryman, Tom the tennis player, and June the civilian. Tom’s preppie white-boy disguise stood out big-time in this rundown part of Chinatown, but there was no time to change costumes. They split up and approached the building from different directions.

  A lookout could be watching them from the building, and Max’s heart banged inside his chest. He reminded himself of his cover. I am a package deliverer. I am a package deliverer, delivering a package. He continued to repeat it to himself until he became a package deliverer, and his heart rate slowed.

  Two agents remained outside the building to catch anyone who might try to rabbit on them. Max, Tom, June, Pepper, and two more agents converged inside the ground-floor lobby. Violence is about to happen. Max removed his weapon and let the package drop to the deck—now he had no need for it. Tom opened his tennis bag and produced his shorty assault rifle while June produced her pistol from under her blouse. Pepper removed her shotgun from its guitar case and placed the empty container on the floor. The other two agents readied their weapons, too.

  Max’s heart began knocking again. He felt like he was moving too slowly—maybe his senses and experiences were telling him that something was wrong, forcing his body to shift into a lower gear. Then he realized that it was his adrenaline speeding up his thought processes, making everything around him decelerate.

  They ascended to the second floor. Pepper looked at the room numbers, then she pointed to a door. It was cracked open, and the door frame near the locks was splintered as if someone had forced the door open. Max and the others stacked up beside the door, forming a line next to the wall, with Max at the front, closest to the entrance. Behind him stood Tom, one of the other agents, and June, who stood at the caboose—rear security. On the opposite side of the door stood Pepper and the second agent. Once again, Pepper would pop open the door. She reached for the doorknob.

  Max felt like a racehorse at the gate, raring to break free and race into the room. He sensed the anticipation of the others beside him. They were racehorses, too—with guns. With each tick of the clock he waited for the bell, his eagerness throbbing more urgently. Pepper flung the door open, and he rushed through. He planted his right foot and pushed off so hard that it slid before he stepped to the left. His upper body whipped around, and he covered his wall. The others hustled into the room, too. Max’s whole being seemed to gallop, and he had to rein some of his eagerness in so he wouldn’t move faster than his ability to effectively scan for threats. It was a small apartment, and Max had a decent-size assault team.

  Just through the door two dead bodies lay on the floor but neither was Zhao. Because the apartment wasn’t big, they searched it quickly. No one else was to be found. Max and the others returned to the two bodies. “Who’re the stiffs?” he asked.

  “Don’t know, but we’ll find out,” Tom said. “Blo
od is still fresh.”

  “Damn,” Max said. He looked out the window, but he didn’t notice anyone suspicious outside. He helped the others search the place for intel. In the bedroom, there were street clothes on the floor. Hanging in the closet, next to an empty clothes hangar, Max found US Capitol police uniforms. “We should go to the Capitol,” he called out. “Now.”

  36

  Max and the others loaded into their vehicles and sped out of Chinatown, heading for the Capitol. Pepper called for backup. After ten minutes, they came to a halt near First Street Northwest and Constitution Avenue Northwest, where a traffic accident jammed up several lanes. In the intersection up ahead were pieces of glass and metal, a crumpled truck on its side, a van with its front bashed in, and a patrol car with flashing lights. Cars in the front, back, and sides boxed Max and his team in. Only three hundred meters away to their right stood the Capitol.

  This sucks, Max thought. “We can spit on the Capitol from here,” Max said. But he caught himself thinking negatively and consciously willed himself to change his negative thought into a positive one. He opened his door. “Screw the vehicle, let’s hoof it.” He abandoned their car in the street.

  Tom and June joined him. The trio hurried past Pepper’s car. Now she and the agents in her vehicle were bailing out, too. Max didn’t know what happened to the agents in the rear car, and he didn’t have time to worry about them.

  “Up ahead, beside the accident, it’s Zhao,” June whispered in her mic. “Wearing a Capitol policeman’s uniform.”

  Max turned his head in that direction. A police officer carrying a Playmate lunch cooler walked off the street and onto the Capitol’s lawn, heading toward the building. June was right; it was Zhao.

  Max became nervous that he might fail, but he transformed his anxious energy to empower himself, and he picked up his pace. If Zhao stayed on his present course and crossed the lawn, he’d expose himself without cover, where Max and his crew could gun him down before he reached the building. A pedestrian gasped, and when Max glanced at her defensive crouch, he realized how threatening his crew looked with rifles out in the vicinity of the Capitol.