Authors: J. T. Brannan
6
General – now Paramount Leader of the People’s Republic of China – Wu De stood at the banks of computer monitors and electronic surveillance equipment, his huge smile almost hidden beneath his drooping mustache.
It’s working,
he thought happily.
It’s really working.
His glorious nation – the cradle of civilization, the bringer of culture to the barbarous outside world – had finally re-taken the Diaoyu Islands, land that should never have been taken away in the first place. A wrong had been corrected, and he was pleased with the results of his first actions.
It wasn’t that re-taking the islands was a major military triumph; they were poorly protected, and resistance was near nonexistent. But his country had never before had the
will
to take back what was rightfully hers. China – or at least the cowards and soft-bellied worms of the Communist Party – had for too many years been content to be bullied by other nations, holding their hands out for scraps to be tossed their way, never free to assert their rightful dominance over their own domains.
But that was about to change; in fact, it already
was
changing, under his own leadership. He watched the drone surveillance footage of the East China Sea on the monitors in front of him, deep in the bowels of the communist party’s ‘war room’ hidden beneath the traditional architecture of the government buildings of the Zhongnonhai, and was gratified by what he saw.
Chinese
ships patrolling the waters of the Diaoyu Islands, just as it should be. He already had companies – many of which he had a controlling stake in – ready and waiting to exploit the waters for their untapped oil reserves.
On another monitor, he could see the stricken US aircraft carrier, the USS
Gerald R. Ford
, listing helplessly in the water. Unable to move; unable to escape. Over four thousand US servicemen and women, held hostage.
At the start, he feared he had been wrong about President Abrams, and about Americans in general. He had thought them to be soft, unwilling to risk the lives of their fellow citizens for any reason. But when this thing had begun, he’d worried that perhaps he had misjudged the situation – what if Abrams retaliated instantly? What if she launched missile strikes? What if she was willing to sacrifice the Ford, and sent in the rest of the navy and air force in an immediate counter-attack? He hadn’t been sure he could have responded effectively so soon; his control over the mechanics of government had still not been entirely in place, and America might just have had a chance.
But in the end, Abrams had
not
acted, and the United States had lost its chance.
Now all they could do was stand by and watch in mute witness as China reasserted herself fully onto the world stage, to take her rightful position as the supreme nation of earth.
The US Navy had pulled back out of the East China Sea, just as Wu had ordered; the loss of face suffered by America would be enormous. Would it be enough to encourage Abrams to strike back?
Wu realized it would be a possibility; but Abrams hadn’t acted before, and she would probably fail to do so now. She probably just hoped that nature would take its course, and Wu’s new government would fall of its own accord. But Wu was going to make sure that this didn’t happen, and was confident that he had enough resources, enough support across the country’s vast provinces, that he would stay in power indefinitely.
Wu wondered if Abrams or her many advisors had any inkling that the re-taking of the Diaoyu Islands was only the start. His grin spread ever wider as he realized that they probably had no idea – no idea whatsoever – what his ultimate plans were.
And he was looking forward
very
much to the next phase.
‘But why the hell aren’t they
doing
anything?’ asked Jean Archambault, Petty Officer 3
rd
Class. ‘Are they just going to leave us here forever?’
Captain Sam Meadows had called the meeting, and almost the entire crew of the USS
Gerald R. Ford
was now gathered together on the mess deck, crammed in shoulder to shoulder, every man and woman wanting answers.
Meadows was just as angry as the rest of the crew, but knew that he had to handle the situation wisely – it would do no good whatsoever if there was a mutiny on board the ship. And although the US Navy prided itself on its discipline, and had never experienced such a mutiny aboard one of its vessels, Meadows knew that there was always a first time for everything, and he would be damned if he was going to let it happen on a ship under
his
command.
And so when the first signs of discontent had emerged, reported to him by his junior officers – and caused in large part by the loss of fresh water – he had decided to stamp it out immediately by calling a meeting and getting everybody’s heads screwed on right.
While it was true that Admiral Charles Decker was the man in overall command of the
Ford
carrier group, Meadows was in the driver’s seat of the lead ship, and the men and women who worked here were
his
men and women. Meadows had therefore taken point on this meeting, wanting the crew to see a familiar face before them, willing to answer their questions. Or at least try to, anyway.
The only trouble was, he didn’t really have any answers. The questions he was being asked were the same ones he, Decker, and the rest of the senior officers had discussed, and the same ones Decker had asked of the Chief of Naval Operations, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the president of the United States herself. And the answers had been less than satisfactory.
But still, he would try.
‘It’s not a question of being abandoned,’ Meadows said evenly. ‘It
is
true that the rest of our carrier group has had to retreat out of the East China Sea, but we are being constantly monitored by satellite and we have air support ready to come to our assistance if we should need it.’
‘But we’re not allowed to be moved?’ another voice called out, one that Meadows couldn’t identify. ‘We’re not allowed to be rescued?’
‘Are we hostages?’ said another voice, and this one Meadows
did
recognize – it was Leanne Harker, a seasoned and reliable Chief Petty Officer.
There was loud debate at this last question, and Meadows moved quickly to cut it off, stepping forward on his dais at the front of the huge hall and raising his hands. ‘Okay,’ he said loudly, sternly, ‘okay. Enough. You’ve asked a question, now let me answer. You might be expecting me to bullshit you, but I can’t do that to you. I’m gonna give it to you straight. The answer is
yes.
’ He saw Admiral Decker, watching the proceedings off to one side, squirm in his chair as he said this. ‘To all intents and purposes, we
are
being held hostage.’
There were more murmurs and arguments, but Meadows again quickly cut them off. ‘Let me finish,’ he said sharply in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘Let me explain exactly what the situation is. We are stuck in the middle of the East China Sea. Our propellers are damaged beyond hope of repair, our entire rear end is destroyed, and we have no immediate in-theater back-up. Many of our aircraft survived the hit, but without the ability to move the carrier, those planes aren’t going anywhere – we just can’t launch them. And even if we could, remember that we are within range of Chinese missiles, any of which could destroy us totally. And I know that we are all ready to risk our lives for our country, but at the moment, we just don’t have enough intelligence to warrant any action on our part – we have no idea what good it would do, if any at all. And although it is painful to all of us, the unfortunate fact is that the White House also doesn’t have enough useable intelligence to act. And so we are going to have to wait – like all good military forces – until we are given our orders. Is that understood?’
There were grumblings of agreement throughout the mess hall, and Meadows knew that although nobody was happy, everyone would keep toeing the line – for now, at least.
Just before the meeting was about to break up, another voice sparked up. ‘Is it true that China have just taken the Senkaku Islands?’ asked Casey O’Neil, another Chief Petty Officer.
Meadows frowned; it was not just the question itself, but the fact that it had been asked by a man of O’Neil’s rank. While not a commissioned officer, O’Neil was an important man on the ship, personally responsible for a large number of sailors. He should be trying to keep a lid on things, not stirring the situation up more.
Meadows wondered where he had heard about the invasion; the news had only come through secure channels from the White House an hour before the meeting. But, he knew, an hour aboard an aircraft carrier was more than enough time for word to leak out. What was more surprising, he decided, was that more people didn’t already know.
He would have to answer the question honestly, he realized; the crew would see right through him if he tried to flannel things like a politician.
Damn that Casey O’Neil
, he thought, before realizing that perhaps the CPO had actually done him a favor; it wouldn’t be long before the rumor would be all over the ship anyway, so it was probably better if it was dealt with right now.
‘Although that is privileged information Chief O’Neil,’ Meadows said with an icy stare, ‘I can confirm that yes, this is true.’ There were gasps from the crew members. ‘It seems that part of the Chinese plan may have been to take us out of action so that we were unable to help defend the Senkakus.’
‘Are we going to help get them back?’ a voice called out, one of many asking the same thing, shouts and hollers from all around quickly swamping the huge room.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Meadows said calmly, maintaining his control, ‘those questions are being dealt with as we speak. And when
I
know, I’ll let
you
know.’ Meadows knew he couldn’t leave it at this; the men and women under his command were trained professionals, people who needed a job, a
mission
; they were not used to just sitting around aimlessly. They needed a task, and Meadows decided to give them one.
‘Please remember, we are all still a part of the United States Navy, and although our ship is down, she is not out. There is a lot of work to be done aboard this ship, and the desalination plant is only part of it. Our back end is shot to hell, sure. But we don’t employ the best engineers in the business for nothing, and now that we’ve got everything sealed off nice and tight and we’re sure we’re not going to be sinking, it’s time to get proactive. We’ll be setting up working groups to tackle getting the Ford mobile again, and we’ll need all hands on deck.’ Meadows could sense the excitement building throughout the mess deck. Yes, he knew, the military mind just loved a mission. ‘But remember, we’re being monitored by Chinese surveillance, and we’ve been warned to not effect repairs. But
screw them
, right?’ There were cheers from around the mess hall, and Meadows grinned. ‘Yeah.
Screw ‘em
. We’re gonna get this ship fixed up without them knowing a damn thing about it and then when those Washington politicos get their fingers out of their asses and send us our orders, we’re gonna be ready to go. Am I right?’
The crowd erupted into chorus of cheers and
hoo-ahs!
, and as Meadows looked around, he saw that even Admiral Decker was smiling.
7
Clark Mason was having a good day. First there had been a morning roll in the sack with his most recent mistress, in the private suite at the Jefferson Hotel they’d checked into the night before. Then there’d been the leisurely breakfast at the Four Seasons before his conference with the Washington press corps.
He had fielded questions about the Chinese situation with his usual aplomb and panache, giving just enough to placate them while not revealing anything of real importance – a skill Abrams recognized, and which was why he’d been picked to give the conference in the first place.
Indeed, it was his skill as a politician which had earned him the Vice Presidency after his predecessor Glen Swain had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and taken early retirement to deal with it. Abrams needed someone with political acumen and a broad support base for the second ticket of her nomination, and Mason – who had done good work as Secretary of State through her first term – was the only person who had fit the bill.
He knew it helped that he was good looking too, a blessing for the cameras. His vast personal wealth didn’t hurt either.
And so while Abrams was hustling and bustling around the West Wing trying to get a grip of the situation, Mason was seducing young beauty contest winners, eating gourmet food, and charming an army of journalists.
Life just didn’t get any better.
He felt no guilt whatsoever for the mistress – wasn’t that what powerful men did? He felt entitled to his proclivities, and cared not at all whether his wife of thirty-one years knew about it; and if so, whether she was upset by it. At the end of the day, it was really none of her business. His relationships with beautiful young women kept
him
young, kept his mind fresh, his body eager.
His wife should be grateful if anything.
Mason was a man who had always had it all; wealth, adulation – he had played varsity basketball to much acclaim before going into politics – and now fame and power. He had come from a prosperous, rich family background and had never wanted for anything in his entire life.
Except one thing, and one thing alone – the presidency itself.
He had been worried last year, when he had still been serving Abrams as Sec State, that everything he had been working towards might all come crashing down. He had leant his subtle support to Jeb Richards, the Secretary of Homeland Security, during the terrorist crisis; and when it had turned out that Richards was a traitor, in bed with the man who’d plotted America’s annihilation by bioweapon, he had been terrified that he would be tarred with the same brush.
But luckily, his political instincts had caused him to cut his ties with Richards even before his role in the affair was known, and he had thus avoided the stigma of association – his elevation to Vice Presidential nominee was proof enough of that.
However, Mason sometimes wondered whether Abrams’ seemingly generous gesture towards him was entirely what it seemed; for as Vice President, the truth was that he actually had rather less work to do than he’d had as Sec State. There was no truth to the oft-heard accusation of the office being mere window dressing – as Vice President, he
did
have a lot of work to do – but it was also true that the work was a little more public relations-based than what he had become used to.
Still, it was work he enjoyed, and put him one step closer to his dream – Clark Mason, President of the United States of America.
He was in the White House now, on his way to a meeting with Abrams and wondering idly what it would be like to live here as Commander in Chief, when he almost bumped into the man leaving the Oval Office.
Mason did not recognize him, but saw that he was well-dressed, sharp, smart. His face looked a little strange though, almost as if he’d been wearing make-up.
‘Oh, excuse me,’ said the man apologetically, stepping to one side with a smile. ‘I was just leaving.’
‘That’s quite alright,’ Mason said with a patrician smile of his own to the younger man, ‘I must have been daydreaming, not paying attention to where I was going. A sign of my age, I’m afraid.’
‘It was my fault, really,’ the other man said, extending a hand. ‘I’m Alan Sandbourne,’ he said by way of introduction.
Mason took the man’s hand and shook it warmly, although his mind was already turning circles. Although he knew the name, he had never met him before; and yet there was something undeniably familiar about Alan Sandbourne’s voice, something which raised the hackles on the back of Mason’s neck.
‘Doctor Sandbourne,’ Mason said amiably, ‘of course. Of the Paradigm Group. I’ve read your work, it’s very good.’
‘Thank you,’ came the reply, seemingly pleased with the flattery. Or was he? There was something about the doctor that seemed not quite right, something off-key, something undeniably familiar, and not in a good way.
The president’s secretary arrived at the door to the Oval Office, ushering Mason inside. With a shrug, he turned. ‘Well Doctor Sandbourne,’ he said, ‘it was a pleasure meeting you, but duty calls.’
‘Of course,’ the doctor said with a smile, and then the door was closed, and Mason was alone with the president.
Doctor Sandbourne, however, was still the only thing on his mind.
Why was his voice so damn familiar?
It was, Mason decided, something that he would have to find out.
Cole relaxed into his studded leather wing-back chair, tucked into a corner of the mahogany-paneled study which looked out over the affluent neighborhood of Woodland-Normanstone Terrace.
He was almost close enough to see the Vice President’s residence at Number One Observatory Circle, just on the other side of the park, and the thought of the VP gave Cole pause. It had been the first time he’d met Clark Mason today, and yet Cole had sensed some sense of familiarity in the eyes of the man.
Cole knew that Mason had been in the National Security Council meetings when he’d been providing verbal radio communications to them during the bioweapon crisis; had he recognized Cole’s voice? Would that be possible?
And if so, would it be a problem?
Cole sighed and sank back even further into his chair, his body weary from lack of proper rest after his ordeal with Aryan Ultra, and surveyed the room in which he sat, the home in which he now lived, letting his mind wander.
The leafy suburban terrace in which Cole’s Georgian townhouse apartment was situated was as far removed from the beach house he’d occupied with his family in Cayman Brac as that palatial home had been from the trailer parks of Hamtramck where he’d been born; but it suited his current needs, and his current position.
He sipped at a glass of thirty-year old Macallan, all too aware that he was engaged in all the trappings of his former mentor, Charles Hansard. The whisky, the colonial-era luxury, heading his own intelligence unit right here in Washington – it was all Hansard.
And yet it was Cole too, he had to admit; over the years, his tastes had changed, and wasn’t that only natural? But sometimes the similarities grated on him; Hansard had been the man who betrayed him, ordered his death and the deaths of his wife and children. But Hansard had had taste too, and Cole supposed that years of exposure to the man and his ways had subconsciously rubbed off on him.
He could only hope that the influence only extended as far as drinks preference and interior décor; for despite his brilliance, Hansard had been sick and twisted in the worst of ways.
But he was being needlessly doleful; he’d chosen the area because it suited the background of Doctor Alan Sandbourne. It was close to Georgetown University, his alter-ego’s alma mater and the location of a long teaching stint, it was within easy commute of the White House, and the headquarters of the Paradigm Group – and Force One – was only a little further north in Forest Hills.
He’d been there for most of the day after his meeting with Abrams, collating and sifting through intelligence reports and media analysis, searching for the best way to approach the combined missions Force One would have to carry out.
He’d also spent time contacting his agents around the country, men selected for Force One missions by Cole himself. They were still – on paper at least – working for their units of origin. Delta Force, Marine Force Recon, Army Special Forces, SEAL Team Six, the CIA’s Special Activities Division, Air Force Special Tactics Teams, Army Rangers; Cole had selected only the best of the best. They stayed with their units and trained with them to keep sharp, but Cole made sure that – despite their operational and training commitments – he still had a core team available at any time, ready for action. They would be covertly seconded to Force One, often while on official leave, perform their missions, then return to their units with nobody being any the wiser. Some of the older, more seasoned members of those teams might have hazarded a guess as to where their colleagues were going, and what they were doing, but such professionals would remain forever silent – they knew the importance of such covert operations, and would never do anything to jeopardize them.
Cole was pleased that Jake Navarone was already on his way; he’d come to rely on the man over the past few months. He was resourceful, capable, and motivated – a winning combination.
Four other operators were en route to DC as well, to make up the six-man team that Cole had decided was going to infiltrate the Chinese mainland – Cole himself being the sixth.
But after their initial infiltration, the team would split up – Navarone would lead the other five on a rescue mission to the Forbidden City, while Cole would work alone, getting close enough to Wu so that he could kill the man without detection.
It was a skill he had learnt in the mountain prison of Pakistan, taught to him by an Indian freedom fighter – or a ‘cross-border terrorist’ according to the Pakistani authorities – named Panickar Thilak. The art of Marma Adi was a secret part of the ancient practice of Kalaripayattu, the world’s most ancient martial art, and consisted of striking various points of the human body in specific sequences that would have a range of different effects depending also on the time of day they were hit. A touch here, a press there, another gentle squeeze – disguised as a bump, a handshake, an embrace – could disrupt the internal organs to such a degree that death would result.
The highest part of the art was to target the points in such a way that death was delayed – sometimes by as much as several days – which ensured that the assassin could be long gone from the area, with nobody any the wiser; when the victim finally died, it would be put down to a heart attack, an embolism, a brain aneurysm. Perfectly natural, and perfectly normal.
It was this skill which had made Cole infamous as ‘the Asset’ – a man who could kill without leaving a trace; and it was a skill that his corrupt government controller, Charles Hansard, had ruthlessly exploited.
It was also a skill that had paid well – Hansard had paid over a million dollars per hit, allowing Cole and his family to enjoy a life of luxury in the Cayman Islands. When he had found out the truth about Hansard – and could no longer be sure of the justification for the jobs he had carried out for the man – he had liquidated his assets immediately, given the money away to a string of different charities. He was no longer able to countenance using the money for himself – it was tainted.
But he was once again earning a comfortable living – the Paradigm Group was a private business, and he was paid accordingly – and once more found himself in luxurious surroundings, the neighborhood of Woodland-Normanstone Terrace perhaps DC’s finest.
But it was no longer the same, he had to admit as he tasted the Macallan once again; nothing would ever be the same again.
He knew he had to stop himself before he was hit by the nightmarish images of his wife and children dying before his eyes, but the very thought reawakened different images – the Japanese girl, beaten, gun raised towards him, on the floor, blood foaming at her mouth.
Michiko
.
The name came to his mind, unbidden.
That’s what Haynes had called her, wasn’t it?
Michiko.
Strange that he hadn’t remembered it before. A Japanese name, sixteen to twenty years old . . . he felt his mind start to drift off, the cut glass heavy now in his hand.
A part of him knew that the girl might well be his daughter; knew even who the mother might be. It was why he’d been glad of a new mission, happy to have something to take his mind off it. For memories of the woman who might be the girl’s – Michiko’s – mother were shrouded in pain, terrible to remember.
But before he left for China, he had to know.
He put down the Macallan and reached for the telephone, dialing the number for the Tucson Police Department and asking for the lead investigator on the incident at the ‘Haynes’ ranch’.
He could have used his top security clearance to demand answers, but didn’t want to alarm anyone. Instead, he chose the route to information most police officers were familiar with – enquiries from the press.
Cole was used to posing as a journalist – it was a common cover for operatives, and one he’d used countless times over the years. Slipping into the persona was second nature.
He had to sweet-talk his way past several people until he found someone willing to talk, but that was only to be expected. It was still easy enough; if it wasn’t, newspapers would never get written.