“Then the team would have to tackle the surgery itself. And since they would be connecting nerves, arteries, and veins, that would require a high degree of skill plus a well-equipped surgical suite. And this takes us back to what I mentioned earlier. Perhaps Joel died at the hands of a quack. But there’s a second possibility, too . . . What if a highly organized group of people operated on two dozen patients? And had only one or two failures? That would represent a pretty good success rate. Oh, and by the way,” Kottery added. “If this is a larger operation, then where are the donors coming from?”
That was a very good question and one that Lee continued to consider as she returned to the office. After entering the cop shop, Lee convened a meeting with Yanty and Prospo to share the essence of what Dr. Kottery had told her. Then all three of them went to work on the new lines of inquiry. What if Kottery was correct? What if Joel’s death was the exception rather than the rule? That would mean that the people who ran the transplant business would be looking for donors. Where were they coming from? And what about the HLA typing Kottery had mentioned? Were the criminals using a commercial lab? There were lots of questions but damned few answers. So Lee was busy right up to 5:00 P.M., when she noticed the time and put in a call to Kane. “One hour,” she promised. “I’ll be there at six.”
The whole notion of coordinating her life with someone else was new to Lee. It was confining in some ways—but pleasurable in others. She wasn’t lonely for one thing . . . And making Kane happy made her happy. That was a revelation.
Lee left work and drove home. Traffic was bad, but she knew that drinks would be waiting, along with a pretty sunset. She made it to the condo in a little more than half an hour and was out on the deck shortly thereafter.
Once dinner was over, Lee took care of the dishes while Kane went off to return phone calls from his needier patients. Then it was time for some TV, a bit of snuggling, and bed. It took Lee a while to fall asleep. And when she did, there were dreams of thunder . . . Except that as she awoke to a bright flash of light, she realized that it wasn’t a dream.
As Lee lay there, she heard a series of overlapping booms and wondered if they were part of a thunderstorm. So she rolled out of bed and made her way out onto the front deck, only to discover that something completely different was taking place. The Pacific Ocean was pitch-black except for flashes of light out on the horizon.
Then came the rumble of what sounded like a freight train passing overhead followed by an explosion off to the east. That was followed by another flash of light and a loud bang as one of the high-rise apartment buildings to the south took a direct hit. Part of the building crumbled into the street and flames appeared in the wreckage. Then Lee knew what she was looking at. Naval gunfire! Enemy ships were shelling the city of Los Angeles.
Kane appeared next to her. “Oh my God,” he exclaimed. “The Aztecs . . . It must be the Aztecs. We’re at war.” Sirens began to wail, alarms began to beep, and the shells continued to fall. Suddenly, everything had changed.
TWO
HAVING BEEN ASSURED that the seven-ship task force sailing up the West Coast belonged to Argentina, and would remain well offshore, Pacifica had been content to let the armada pass. Now they were about to pay for their stupidity. Admiral Juan Carlos Barbaro felt the Tenochtitlan lurch to port as both batteries of the battleship’s sixteen-inch guns fired. A flash strobed the blackness as six two-thousand-pound rounds were launched into the sky. Barbaro knew they would travel twenty-three miles before falling on the city of angels. Except there weren’t any angels in the city, just norms, thousands of whom were going to die. And for good reason.
Los Angeles had been founded on September 4, 1781, by Spanish governor Felipe de Neve, and was made part of Mexico in 1821 following the Mexican War of Independence. Then, at the end of the Mexican–American War in 1848, all of present-day California had been purchased via the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, thereby becoming part of the United States of Mierda (shit). Why? Because Mexico had no choice, that’s why. After being defeated, Mexico was forced to enter so-called negotiations. Negotiations conducted while troops from Los Estados Unidos controlled the country’s capital.
The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo established the Rio Grande as the southern boundary for Texas and gave the U.S. ownership of California, plus land that would eventually became New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, and Utah along with parts of Wyoming and Colorado. All for fifteen million old dollars. Just the thought of it filled Barbaro with rage. Pero la venganza es dulce (but revenge is sweet), Barbaro thought to himself. Now is the time to claim that which is ours.
But it wouldn’t be easy. The beast that hid behind the name Pacifica was very well armed. And Barbaro knew that the first onslaught of shore-based aircraft was about to hit back. And there would be lots of them.
Unfortunately, Barbaro didn’t have an aircraft carrier to support his ships. That meant the task force would be forced to rely on surface-to-air missiles and antiaircraft guns to defend itself. The night lit up in a dazzling display of firepower as a Vulcan 20mm Gatling began to fire. Then one of Barbaro’s lesser ships took a direct hit from an enemy missile, and a momentary sun lit the night. The Battle of Santa Catalina had begun. Would Barbaro die before the real sun could rise? Quite possibly. But it would be worth it.
• • •
Lee looked up as a jet roared overhead. It was flying low and was gone a second later. Then a flash of light strobed the surface of the ocean, and she heard a distant boom as something exploded. A ship? Yes, that seemed likely as streams of red tracers probed the night sky. “Come on,” Lee said as she touched Kane’s arm. “Grab whatever is most important to you and let’s get out of here. There’s a good chance this building will take a hit.”
“I hope not,” Kane said, as they went inside. “That would be bad for real-estate prices.”
Lee smiled in spite of herself as she went into the bedroom where she dressed for work. Her normal “look” consisted of a tee, jeans, and combat boots. She wore a .9mm Glock in a shoulder holster under her left arm—and a .357 backup on the back of her belt. She was about to close the dresser drawer when she saw the old .45 semiauto.
Kane was packing a bag on the other side of the room as she turned in his direction. “Here . . . Take this. And here’s a spare mag. They belonged to my father. Every whack job in the city will be out on the streets, and you might need some protection. Where will you go?”
“I’ll be at St. John’s,” Kane replied. “I’m on staff there, and they’re going to need all the help they can get. Shrinks included. As for the .45, I’ll take it. And thank you.”
Lee smiled. “You’re welcome.”
“There’s one more thing,” Kane said as he shoved the weapon into his waistband. “Something I’ve been meaning to say for some time now.”
The lights went off for a second and came back on. Lee saw the look in his eyes and felt a sudden stab of fear. She pressed a finger against his lips. “No, darling . . . Don’t say it.”
All of the people who had loved Lee were dead—so she was a bit superstitious where the “L” word was concerned. “That’s nonsense,” Kane replied. “I love you and refuse to die until I’m a hundred years old.”
Lee entered the circle of his arms. “You promise?”
“I promise.” They kissed, but not for long, as a shell landed somewhere nearby and caused the windows to rattle. As the embrace came to an end, Lee went back to packing. A second outfit, toiletries, and all the ammo she had went into an overnight bag.
Lee’s cell phone chirped madly, and she knew why. Every officer the LAPD had would be called in to help cope with the crisis. Never mind the safety of their loved ones. They would have to fend for themselves. That went with being a cop.
Rather than drag things out Lee said, “Take care, hon . . . And one more thing . . .”
Kane looked at her. “What?”
&n
bsp; “I love you, too.” And with that, she left.
Once in the parking garage, Lee threw the bag into the backseat. Then, rather than take the time to check for trackers, she slid behind the wheel and started the engine. The next step was to switch the grill lights on and activate the siren before pulling out onto the street.
There were lots of cars, most of which were northbound. So many that some drivers were swerving out into the southbound lanes, causing head-on collisions. As Lee drove south, she saw that there were pedestrians, too. Some had nothing more than the clothes on their backs, while others wore packs or were pushing grocery carts loaded with belongings. Meanwhile, flashes of light lit up the horizon, and Lee could hear the dull thud of overlapping explosions as the dispatcher dealt with calls. “No, 3-Victor-4 . . . I can’t dispatch backup to your location. I suggest you disengage and pull back. We have reports that enemy troops have invaded the Compton area. They are mutants, repeat mutants, so all units are advised to don class-one protective gear.
“Yes, 2-Mary-8, I have that. You are Code 6 . . . Be careful out there.
“No, 2-Ida-7, do not return to your station . . . The Los Diablos gang overran it fifteen minutes ago. There were a lot of casualties.”
And so it went. Lee gritted her teeth as she weaved in and out of traffic, swerved onto sidewalks when that was necessary, and had to push a stalled vehicle off to one side in order to clear an intersection. The driver was out of his car yelling at Lee as she drove away.
Then the streetlights went out, traffic signals stopped working, and the already chaotic situation became even worse. All bets were off as drivers began to use their vehicles as battering rams or fired weapons at each other. Most of them seemed to be intent on accessing one of the freeways, which, based on what Lee had heard over the radio, were so congested that traffic had come to a stop.
After switching streets numerous times, Lee found herself on West 1st as she approached the point where she would pass under the 110. That was where she had to stop for a police barricade manned by four heavily armed patrol officers. A sure sign that a state of emergency was in effect. The county had plans in place to deal with every possible catastrophe, including plagues, earthquakes, and war. And all of them had one thing in common. The area between 101 to the north, South Alameda St. to the east, West 6th Street to the south, and 110 to the west was to be sealed off and to remain that way until further notice.
Among the buildings inside that zone were city hall, LAPD headquarters, the Metropolitan Detention Center, and the Department of Water and Power. All of which would be critical during the days ahead. Lee killed the siren and had to wait as the patrol officers refused entry to a family searching for a place of refuge.
As they were forced to turn around Lee was allowed to pull forward. The street cops were dressed in riot gear, which meant Lee couldn’t see the officer’s face as he came up to the driver’s side window. “ID please,” the policeman said politely.
Lee understood. Just because she was driving a police car didn’t mean that she was a cop. She held her ID case up for the patrol officer to see. He nodded. “Where are you headed?”
“Headquarters.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” he said. “Don’t bother. It took a direct hit. The survivors are moving over to the Street Services Garage.”
“How many casualties were there?”
The man shrugged. “A lot . . . But it would have been worse during the day.”
Lee thanked the officer, passed under the freeway, and entered an area of relative calm. There were no traffic jams or columns of terrified refugees in the secured zone. In fact, the streets were nearly empty.
Lee was only vaguely aware of the Street Services Garage and took two wrong turns before she found it. Her headlights panned across a stretch of chain-link fence as she turned into the driveway. That was where a police sergeant and three civilians stood waiting.
The cop motioned for her to stop and demanded to see some ID. He appeared to be fortysomething and looked tired. After eyeing her badge, he waved to a civilian. “Hey, Joe . . . Fill this vehicle with gas and park it with the creepers.”
Then he turned back to Lee. “Leave the keys in the ignition. If you have personal items in the car take them with you. We’re creating a car pool, and chances are that you’ll get a different vehicle the next time out. How’s it going outside of the zone?”
“It’s hell out there,” Lee replied as she got out.
There wasn’t much light but she could see the concern in his eyes. “This will be hard on Francine and the kids,” he said. “I sent them north. I hope they make it.”
Lee swallowed the lump in her throat as she pulled the suitcase out of the car. “Thanks for being here, Sergeant,” she said. “We’ll get this sorted out.”
He nodded. “I knew your father,” the sergeant said. “He’d be proud of you.” And with that, he was gone.
Lee was unexpectedly moved and had to hold back the tears as she towed the bag toward the dimly lit building. She could hear the rumble of a generator coming from somewhere nearby—and knew that the rest of LA’s critical services would be running on backup power, too.
As Lee opened the front door and went inside, she found herself in something that resembled a madhouse. The lights flickered occasionally. The dispatcher she’d heard earlier had been patched into the intercom system, everyone seemed to be in a hurry, and there was no rhyme or reason to the way things were laid out.
It appeared that the Street Services personnel had been displaced by the police department. Entire departments were being run from cubicles, each of which was identified by a hand-printed sign. As Lee towed her suitcase down the center aisle, she saw sheets of paper labeled, CENTRAL TRAFFIC DIVISION, COMMUNICATIONS, MOTOR TRANSPORT, JAILS, and yes, PERSONNEL. To do what? she wondered. Handle vacation requests? Then it came to her: Someone had to keep track of all the cops who had been wounded or killed.
Lee paused at a desk labeled, AIR SUPPORT. A woman wearing a blue flight suit was typing on a laptop. “Excuse me,” Lee said. “I’m looking for Operations. Specifically the Central Area’s Detective Division.”
The pilot looked up. She had short red hair and a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. “It’s farther back . . . Just past the ladies’ room.”
Lee smiled. “The perfect location . . . Thanks.”
A civilian was pushing a cart loaded with coffee and pastries down the aisle, and Lee marveled at someone’s resourcefulness as she followed the wagon past a tiny first-aid station. Then, as the cart took a left, Lee spotted Jenkins directly ahead. Much to her surprise, he was dressed in a suit and looked fresh as a daisy. His face lit up as he saw her. “Lee! You’re okay! That’s wonderful. And you’re just in time. Follow me. The meeting is about to start.”
Lee was about to ask, “What meeting?” but was looking at his back by then. So all she could do was follow Jenkins to the end of the aisle and into a room labeled, EMPLOYEES ONLY.
It was easy to tell that the space was an employee lounge. Lockers lined one side of the room, an old refrigerator purred in a corner, and a huge corkboard dominated the wall on the right. It was home to a montage of safety posters and HR bulletins.
The fourth wall was made of glass and looked out onto a dimly lit parking garage filled with the trucks and other pieces of equipment that the Street Services people used to do their jobs. But more notable from Lee’s perspective was the presence of Chief Corso who, much to her amazement, was wearing a pistol on his hip. We’re in some deep shit if he’s packing a gun, Lee thought to herself. I wonder how often he goes to the range.
Corso nodded to her, and as Lee looked around, she saw that Mick Ferris was among the ten or so people in the room. Ferris was normally in charge of the SWAT team, and the two of them had worked together before. He had a young-old face, a military-style buzz cut, and
a lean body. He smiled. “Hi, Lee . . . And welcome to the team. We’re going to need people who can handle a weapon.”
Lee was about to ask for more information when Jenkins cleared his throat. “All right . . . Let’s get to it. Chief Corso? Over to you.”
Even with some stubble on his face Corso was still movie-star handsome and projected an aura of confidence as his eyes swept the room. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s what we know about the overall situation. The Aztecs invited everyone to a circle jerk down in El Paso, and, while that was going on, they sent a battleship and six other ships north to kick our asses.”
“Where the hell did the ’tecs get a battleship?” a patrol officer wanted to know. “I thought they went out of style eighty years ago.”
“So did everyone else,” Corso said darkly. “Although I’m told that our government knew that such a vessel was under construction in Argentina’s Tandanor Shipyard. And it’s worth noting that Pacifica has an excellent relationship with Argentina. Or used to have one . . . Because what our Intel people didn’t realize was that the Argentineans were building the ship for use by the Aztecs rather than themselves! So when the battleship and its escorts sailed north, they weren’t perceived as a threat. Not until the shells began to fall on LA.
“Meanwhile the ’tecs leapfrogged the army down on the border by landing three thousand troops north of Camp Pendleton. It’s a risky plan since it will be difficult if not impossible for the ’tecs to resupply the expeditionary force from the sea.”
“So why do it?” Jenkins wanted to know. “Surely, they knew what would happen.”
“It’s a feint,” Corso said grimly. “The real action is east of here in the Republic of Texas. That’s where things will be decided. This attack was intended to put us on the defensive, to suck support away from the Republic, and to scare the crap out of the civilian population.
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