Blowback, p.34
Blowback, page 34
“No, never did like the CIA,” he says. “A pussy organization if I ever saw one. But you know she’ll be driving up there in an armored vehicle. Sorry, I don’t have a rocket launcher in my possession.”
“That’s all right,” Pope says. “I’ll be at the gate, making sure she gets out of her vehicle.”
The assassin laughs. “It’ll be a hell of a shot, but I can make it.”
“Then do it.”
“Consider it done.”
CHAPTER 125
FROM A VAULT hidden in one of the bedroom’s closets, Liam Grey comes out with a pair of binoculars. Goes to the near living room window and focuses in on the armed men emptying out of the three Range Rovers.
Benjamin says, “What have we got?”
“We got twelve apparent hostiles,” Liam says, watching them spread out. “Well armed. Trained. But no IDs on the vehicles or the men.”
Benjamin says, “Contract force.”
“Yeah.”
Lin says, “Who do you think?”
Liam lowers the binoculars. “Not to be rude, Lin, but I’m pretty sure their paycheck comes from your side of the world.”
Benjamin says, “What are you thinking?”
“Time to arm up,” he says.
To Lin he says, “And you? As one sad former president once said, are you with us or against us?”
Lin says, “With Benjamin.”
“Close enough,” Liam says.
Back to the vault, and in a number of minutes, the three of them are wearing ballistic vests and each is armed with an M4 automatic rifle, with six magazines apiece.
Liam goes back to the window.
“They’re still there, stretched out in a skirmish line,” he says. “Not moving. Lin, check out the kitchen, there’s a window looking to the rear. Want to make sure we don’t have another group coming up that way.”
“All right,” Lin says. She goes to the small kitchen, peers out the small rear window over the sink. “All clear back here.”
Liam waits.
Benjamin walks up to him. “Well?”
“Still waiting. Is there such a thing as a South African standoff?”
“If there is, we’re about to find out.”
A black Mercedes-Benz sedan comes up the dirt road, parks behind the line of Range Rovers. The four doors open and three well-dressed men look out, and then a fourth man steps out. There’s a brief conversation and the fourth man starts walking alone up the dirt road.
All four men are Chinese.
“Lin?” Liam asks. “Borrow you for a moment?”
Lin comes into the living room and Liam hands over the set of binoculars.
“Check out that man coming our way,” Liam says. “Know him?”
She puts the binoculars up to her eyes, and then quickly lowers them.
“That’s Han Yuanchao,” she says. “The intelligence rezident at our embassy in Johannesburg. My boss.”
Liam nods. “That’s damn awkward.”
CHAPTER 126
THE SECOND SCARIEST event in Tucker Wyman’s life was when he was in the 82nd Airborne, and his main chute tangled up during a night drop over the Holland Drop Zone at Fort Bragg. He worked hard to get the lines free but it wasn’t working, then the damn reserve chute was jammed somehow, and in the darkness all he knew was that he was approaching the unforgiving earth with just seconds to spare.
One more tug and the reserve popped open, late but still good enough to let him land and survive, with one broken foot and one broken ankle.
That had been some scary shit.
But that was fun and games compared to what he’s seeing in the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon, now as General Tucker Wyman, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
The phones are ringing, the display boards are lit up, and more support staff are streaming in as he and others on the Joint Chiefs of Staff are trying to figure out why in hell China is on the move this morning.
The NMCC is a labyrinth of rooms and conference centers deep into the basement of the Pentagon. General Wyman is in the Current Actions Center, where the latest information from the DoD’s elaborate network of surveillance ships, aircraft, and satellites feed through in real time.
The information this morning is coming quick at him and the members of the J-3 (Operations) Directorate. A woman Navy commander comes up to him and says, “Sir, it looks like everything the Chinese can fly, float, and drive are heading out of port, bases, and airfields. I’ve never seen anything like it, even in simulations.”
Wyman says, “Do we have contact with the SecDef?”
“No, sir,” she says. “Communication problems in his aircraft over Japan. Might be electronic interference from the Northern Lights…there’s a heavy solar storm screwing up transmissions. The deputy secretary is on his way here.”
Wyman hears the low voices, the tapping of the keyboards, the ringing of the phones, but his experienced eyes are up on the screens, showing a massive Chinese exodus of military forces from their bases.
The vice chairman of the JCS, Marine General Wade Thompson, comes to him and says, “Never seen anything like it, sir.”
“What in hell prompted this? Do we have any action reports? Aircraft encounters? Ship collisions? Inadvertent missile firing?”
“Nothing,” he says.
“Any of our surveillance aircraft go off course?”
“No, sir,” he says.
“And we don’t have a Freedom of Navigation Drill going on near Taiwan or the disputed islands? That usually gets them wound up, but nothing like this.”
“All quiet on that end for now,” the vice chairman says.
Like all military officers of a certain age, Wyman knows his military history. He recalls how things quickly got out of hand during the early days leading up to the outbreak of World War I: panicked generals and leaders had to get their armies on the move first, afraid their enemies would strike first, and the Austrians, Serbians, Germans, Russians, Italians, French, and English soon fell into a maelstrom that killed millions.
If only someone could have nipped that chain of events in the bud before it got out of hand.
Like now.
To the vice chairman, Wyman says, “I’m going to duck into the Comm Room. See if I can chat with my counterpart. Hold down the fort here until I come back.”
“Yes, sir,” the vice chairman says.
A few minutes later, accompanied by his assistant, Colonel Doug Leonard, Wyman enters a cool, slightly darkened room, subdivided into two offices. The one on the right maintains the original hotline between the United States and Russia, begun in 1963, which evolved from teletype to faxes to secure emails.
The room on the left holds the latest hotline, set up in 2008, maintaining communications between Washington and Beijing. But this hotline isn’t as robust as its older brother. It’s a voice-only system, which can lead to awkward moments and silences.
He opens the door and he and his aide go in. Two female and one male Air Force NCO stand up when they spot him, and he motions them back to their seats. Before them is a communication console with computer screens and three telephones.
“I need to reach Beijing,” he says. “Now. Make the call.”
“Yes, sir,” the male NCO says, handing over a headset, which Wyman puts on. The older female picks up the phone and through the headset, Wyman hears the ringing of the phone.
The other noncommissioned officer serves as a translator, as the line is picked up, nearly seven thousand miles away.
“Zhongnanhai,” the NCO says, repeating what he’s hearing, and Wyman knows it’s the Zhongnanhai telecommunications directorate in Beijing.
“This is the United States Department of Defense, General Tucker Wyman calling.”
A slow sentence in Chinese, which is nearly instantly translated by the NCO to the room. “This call is in violation of Article 3, Section 2a of the Defense Telephone Link Treaty of 2008, indicating these calls should not be made without a forty-eight-hour notice to the other side.”
Wyman says, “Tell him we’re making the call under Article 3, Section 2c, allowing immediate communications in a crisis situation. We are in a crisis. We see a widespread movement of your military forces. I need to talk to either General Li Fenghe, minister of national defense, or General Wei Zuocheng, the chief of the staff. It’s very urgent. We want to discuss what’s occurring and how we can de-escalate the situation before shooting starts, before it all spins out of control.”
No one on either side of the world speaks for a moment.
General Wyman feels a growing weight of responsibility and of history weighing down his shoulders.
A faint click.
The senior Air Force NCO turns to Wyman.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he says. “The call’s been disconnected. The Chinese don’t want to talk to us.”
CHAPTER 127
IN THE REAR seat of the armored Suburban, CIA Director Hannah Abrams keeps close view of the traffic and the pedestrians out there on the sidewalk, wishing for a moment that she was out there, just scurrying along, only worrying about one’s bank balance or the grocery list or an upcoming visit with a school principal.
A minute ago they went through Washington Circle and now they’re on the four-lane-wide Pennsylvania Avenue.
The driver, Alec, says, “Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“We have two Metro DC police cruisers coming up behind us, lights flashing,” he says.
Hannah turns in her seat, looks through the darkened windows.
Two white-and-blue cruisers are speeding through the traffic, and other traffic is moving aside to let them go by.
“Ma’am?” the driver asks again.
She turns around.
Just several more blocks to go.
“Ignore them,” she says. “Keep on going.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The air inside the Suburban is now thick with tension, with Hannah sensing growing fear and concern for what might happen next. Hannah checks the side street as they roll on by, 21st Street NW. Getting pretty close now.
Alec says, “Ma’am, there’s a roadblock up ahead. Four cruisers parked across the road. They also have deployed spike strips.”
Hannah shifts her position to look through the windshield. There’s a mess up ahead, with four DC Metro Police cruisers parked front bumper to trunk, stretching across Pennsylvania Avenue, lights flashing, officers outside wearing ballistic vests, some carrying shotguns.
“Do we have comms with the lead vehicle, or are we still being jammed?” she asks.
“Hold one, ma’am,” the driver says, and picks up a handheld Motorola radio and says, “Sparrow Two, Sparrow Two, this is Sparrow One. Do you copy? Over.”
Quickly the loud reply comes through the radio. “Sparrow One, this is Sparrow Two. Read you five by five.”
Hannah says, “Good. Tell them not to stop. Tell them they’re to open a path for us.”
Not even a moment of hesitation from her driver. “Sparrow Two, Raptor advises you to clear a path. No stopping.”
The answer comes back just as quickly. “Roger that, Sparrow One.”
She sees two things happen at once: the lead Suburban speeds up and aims for a point where there’s a gap between two police cruisers, and the three security officers in her Suburban take out their weapons.
“It’ll be all right, Jean,” she says.
No answer from her seatmate.
Alec says, “Make sure your seat belts and harnesses are tight.”
It happens in a moment, the details coming hard at her, as the lead Suburban rams through the two cruisers, forcing them back and shattering metal, glass, and bits of bumper up in the air, sparks flying, the tires sending up black smoke as they are shoved across the pavement.
The Suburban wobbles some and keeps on going. Her own Suburban follows, the armored SUV shuddering as it drives over the spike strips, but each Suburban has special tires that remain inflated.
She turns in her seat, sees the chaos back there, two of the cops raising shotguns but not firing. At least that’s a bit of much needed luck this morning.
“Alec, check on the lead.”
He picks up the portable Motorola, says, “Sparrow Two, this is Sparrow One. What’s your status?”
“All fine,” a voice replies.
“Good,” Hannah says. In a minute or two, IDs displayed, they pass through the gate blocking Pennsylvania Avenue and turn right at the Northwest Gate, reserved for White House staff and credentialed visitors.
A gate is lifted and the lead Suburban goes in—Hannah can see its tires are partially shredded—and then her Suburban passes through, the gate is closed, and now they are on White House grounds.
But they could be a million miles away from the Oval Office for all the good it does her.
The Secret Service members out here are part of the Uniformed Division. Most now are wearing tactical gear, fatigue clothing, ballistic vests and helmets, and carrying automatic rifles.
Hannah lowers her window as a mustached officer approaches. She displays her identification.
“We have an emerging crisis on our hands, and I need to see the president, as soon as possible,” she says.
The Secret Service agent carefully examines her identification and gives it back to her.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re on lockdown,” he says. “No one’s getting in today.”
Fool, she thinks, I’m trying to stop a goddamn war and you’re stuck on procedures!
Hannah forces out a smile. “This is a national emergency, and I need to get in. Look, I know you have your orders. Understood. But contact Carlton Pope. Get him down here and we can sort everything out.”
“Ma’am, I—”
“Please,” she says, reaching out to touch his arm. “This is incredibly important.”
He waits, and she waits, and if she lives through this day and tomorrow, a cynical part of her thinks this little showdown will rank at least a chapter in her memoirs.
The Secret Service agent nods.
“I’ll give his office a call.”
“Thank you so very much,” she says. “You won’t regret it.”
He enters a guard station and next to her Jean says, “You think you can convince Pope to let you in?”
“I’d better,” she says, “or I’ll have to go to Plan B.”
“Which is?”
“Shooting our way in.”
But ten minutes later, there is no need for a Plan B, as a confident and smiling Carlton Pope comes down the paved driveway on the North Lawn. To Hannah he looks like an over-muscled parolee, walking to freedom with a strut in his walk, already planning his next crime.
He stops in front of the open window and says, “Director Abrams.”
“Mr. Pope.”
“I understand you want to see the president.”
“Urgently,” she says.
“This is quite the surprise,” he says, cocky smile still on his face. “Why didn’t you phone ahead?”
Hannah thinks, You bulky creep, you know exactly why I couldn’t call you.
“My cell phone battery died,” she lies. “Just one of those things. Please, Mr. Pope, it’s vital that I talk to the president. I know the White House is on lockdown, but it’ll just be me and my deputy, Jean Swantish.”
He leans down, looks over at Jean, stands up. Scratches the back of his head.
“Oh, I guess I could get you in,” he says. “But do you mind stepping out so we can talk about it?”
CHAPTER 128
LIAM GREY STEPS to the door, with Lin and Benjamin following him. He’s carrying one of the Agency’s M4s slung over his shoulder when Lin says, “Be careful. He’s smart, tough, and very tricky.”
“I just want to hear what he has to say,” Liam replies.
Benjamin says, “Suppose he shoots you on the spot?”
Liam puts his hand on the doorknob. “Why, Benjamin, I expect you to avenge me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
It’s a late, cool afternoon and as Liam walks down the dirt driveway, he’s filled with memories of old Westerns, when the good guy and bad guy met in the center of town to hash things out. Difference is, of course, that while this place does resemble the American West, the bad guy approaching him has about twelve other bad guys backing him up.
The Chinese rezident stops, nods.
Liam halts about a meter in front of him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Han.”
He smiles, and looks like someone’s grandfather who passes out sweets and money at family gatherings. “You have me at a disadvantage. Your name, sir?”
“Mr. Smith.”
“Ah, how dull.”
“But it’ll work for now. How goes it?”
“Reasonably well,” he says, pulling out a gold cigarette lighter and pack of cigarettes. As he lights one, he offers the package to Liam, who says, “No, thanks.”
“Ah, good sense for you. Tell me, Mr. Smith, may I ask what part of America you are from?”
“Nebraska. How about you? Which part of China?”
“Guangdong province,” Han says. “What a world we live in, that a child from Nebraska and a child from Guangdong should meet here, in South Africa.”
Liam says, “Yeah, that’s pretty strange. Tell you what, you leave now, and we’ll go on our way. A year from now, we can have a reunion. Drinks on me.”
Han’s smile widens. “I’m afraid that’s not a possibility.”
“Figured as much. What do you want?”
“Chin Lin.”
“Not going to happen,” Liam says. “You see, that house and bit of property back there belong to the United States of America. She’s asked for asylum. I’m duty-bound to give it to her.”
He cocks his head a bit. “And I’m duty-bound to demand that she return to us.”
“Well, we’re at an impasse, aren’t we?”
“There will be shooting, then, and deaths.”
“Only if you and your folks come closer.”
Han sighs and turns his head, still smoking. “All right, I’ll sweeten the deal.”
