When Totems Fall (12 page)

Americans, resuming their daily lives under the watchfulness of Beijing? This was the lynch-pin that would keep it all from imploding.

The orders out of Beijing, now echoed in Olympia, were to stand down. Clearly, some would have no stomach for such a thing. Regardless of the consequences, or maybe in some vain attempt at helping their countrymen, there would be those who disobeyed.

Dalton knew without a doubt there would be runners. He also knew he'd be one of them.

SIXTEEN

Sergeant First Class Jessica Sanchez—Army I Corps, moved quietly, undetected along the tree line off the main airfield at Joint Base (Army, Air-Force) Lewis-McChord.

The frenzy of activity at JBLM
, an hour south of Seattle and only a few miles outside Washington State's fourth most populous urban area—Tacoma—provided ample cover for her unauthorized exit. The twenty-eight-year-old Sniper Assessment School Instructor was doing what she was trained for, and in turn, had trained many others to do.

Disappear, completely.

Even without the chorus of C17 cargo planes' turbine engines roaring around her she could've walked past the perimeter guard and into the distance without so much as a broken twig betraying her presence. She was that good. That JBLM's 25,000 active duty and administrative personnel were being hastily evacuated and resettled east of the Cascade Mountain range made it not much of a challenge at all. Under threat of nuclear strike the Army had only twenty-some hours left of the seventy-two they'd been given to complete this formidable task, leaving the city-sized compound for the invading forces. She used this environment of controlled chaos to her advantage, perfectly.

Her "kit" was a little different than your regular sniper tech. Not currently active-duty in the strictest sense, she carried the older M24 rifle with Leupold Mk 4 LR/T M3 3.5-10-40mm variable power scope. Preferring as much flexibility as possible in the field, this setup would work just fine.

Orders had come down from base command for full evac and there was little time to think, even less to act. Though the terrain here was a marked contrast to what she encountered during her six total tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, the same ageless adage applied: adapt or die. She was battle-tested yet not battle hardened. Such a rare outcome for someone in her position. The transition from hot zone combat had been, thankfully, easier than what many other good men and women had experienced. She'd had help.

Sanchez' CO understood when to call it quits on her behalf. After the initial distaste of being recalled had faded, her disappointment morphed into thankfulness for the transfer, a quiet appreciation she needn't press fate one more time. She had performed at the highest levels in the harshest of circumstances, serving her country with honor and distinction. So the seasoned warrior turned from ops to prep, training up the next generation of stealthy warriors. For the last two years Sanchez had run a pre-qualifying unit at the joint-forces base in Washington, functioning as the prelim filter for the rookie classes of the formal two-year sniper school at Fort Benning, Georgia. Ever the demanding tutor, her students had taken the program at Benning by storm, carrying on her personal legacy of excellence and valor in her stead.

Sanchez wasn't averse to lethal force, applied in wartime situations. Bothering herself with the bigger questions involved always seemed a few steps removed from the needs of the moment. She didn't enjoy it. She found it necessary. She was good at it. The young officer bore the intellect, body type, training, and personality to do the job, so she would get it done, whatever that meant. Make no mistake, the sergeant would start a shooting war with China all on her own if needed. But her main goal right now, the second vital skill-set of sniper personnel, was battlefield recon. Her country would need someone eyes on as their new bosses settled into place in Western Washington. So her first act of patriotism was simply to go away, to become a non-person in the surrounding environment.

Further into the unending stand of seventy-five-foot evergreens she slid, relaxing only the slightest bit, enough to look back at what was sadly becoming a ghost town.

Unbelievable. Just unbelievable.

"Not the end of the story, though," she whispered. "Not if I have a say."

__________________________________

Three hundred yards
from Sanchez' position, Major General
Mike Stevens,
US Army I Corps, Commanding Officer JBLM, stood stock-still, watching an endless flow of men and materiel load into the gargantuan flying containers known as the C17 Globemaster III. The Boeing cargo carriers' job was to ferry American combat troops and equipment wherever and whenever needed, answering every planned for and unannounced call of duty. From this timeworn place of honorable service they had been reduced now to little more than an expensive fleet of flying moving trucks for the retreating U.S. forces.
Disgusting
was the acceptable version of the words coming to mind, as each plane lifting off the runway planted only increased bitterness in the general's mouth; a taste few American leaders had ever been forced to experience.

The last full-forces retreat the U.S. Army executed was in 1975. Ending the extended conflict in Southeast Asia reluctantly, the South Vietnamese had been left to fight on their own against advancing northern soldiers. This was not in any way a complete parallel to the present circumstances. As with Ho Chi Minh City, all other U.S. retreats were exits from foreign lands and often on behalf of allied countries. This situation was unsurveyed territory. Unfolding before their very eyes: for the first time, U.S. troops removing themselves from American soil and under the direct orders of another sovereign nation. As both historian and battlefield commander, none of this sat well with the major general. In fact, everything in him revolted at the thought.

"Colonel Meers, operational status?"

"Sir," the colonel replied. "We are on time for completed evac as of 0800 tomorrow. Resettlement facilities are coming online in Wenatchee. Arrival and formation of command structure is in process as we speak. New runways are active and barracks are scheduled for completion in the next twenty-four hours."

The general's mind fixed for a moment on the impact to be absorbed by the sudden imposition of 25,000 men and women and a major wartime outpost on the small city of 32,000 on the other side of the Cascades.

"Well, they said we'd have to move over the mountains. They didn't say
how
far, now did they, Colonel?"

The subordinate officer half-smiled.

"No, sir... they did not."

"Alright then, Meers. Keep me apprised of progress. You and I will be the ones to shut the lights off when we leave."

Stevens followed orders
,
even those he could barely stomach. He also carried a fire in his belly telling him this wouldn't be the last time he stood here as Commander of Army I Corps. Leaning down, he picked up a small rock. Placing it into the right breast pocket of his uniform, he made a solemn vow: to return it upon recapturing this sacred ground. Then the general's thoughts shifted yet again, focusing on the 2.5 million civilian residents they were leaving behind.

His life's work? To protect and defend the Constitution of the United States of America, and therefore by extension, to protect and defend all who lived under the rights enumerated in this cherished document.

Stevens could not foresee what would happen next but he did know this: he wanted to fight, to bring every resource and tactic he had to bear on the situation, to recapture and secure his people's freedoms. At the moment, there was nothing more for him to do than wait.

Wait, and plan. And then wait some more.

SEVENTEEN

"That can't be good," the wife mumbled as she hovered over her cellphone screen.

"What, honey? What?"
her husband replied from the driver's seat.

The mid-thirties woman was trying to keep the light as dim as she could, not giving any Chinese patrols they might stumble upon a reason to pull them over.

And then find Zeb under some blankets in the rear storage area of the minivan.

"No. Don't be so stupid," she said to the screen.

"What. What is going on, babe?"

Her eyes widened in concern, growing into the unmistakable expression of fear.

"At Pike Place," she stammered. "There must be ten thousand people there."

Zeb added his voice now.

"Ma'am, please, just tell us what's happening."

"People are everywhere. Sidewalks couldn't hold anymore. Everybody's yelling."

She stopped and inhaled sharply. "Oh no. Ten, no twelve, Chinese soldiers. Backed up to the edge of the plane debris. They've been disarmed and the crowd is pushing them toward the wreckage."

It was exactly what Zeb had feared would happen. American pride, foolishness. Or maybe courage. Sometimes they look the same.

__________________________________

Undisclosed location: Western Pacific Ocean,

off the Coast of China

"Fire control,
this is your captain. Commence firing sequence on my mark. Mark, three, two, one."

__________________________________

Pike Place

The four square block area lit up
in eerie blue luminescence. The contrast against the darkening light of the end of day and the fact that the crowd had shattered almost every street light in reach, was stunning. Among the many who had gathered in some vain attempt at liberty, every single digital device broadcast the same image: video of the launch with timestamp and countdown gracing the bottom of the frame. Dawn Star's technology showed itself useful once again. The Chinese had commandeered every screen the crowd was carrying. People felt a buzzing and heard their text notice tones go off. Pulling them out, they all saw the same thing.

A split screen appeared and the message was unmistakable. On the left side, the remaining countdown and flight path image. On the right, a satellite shot of the crowd itself from overhead. The numbers were far too low.

0:03:53

Some began to get the picture. The Chinese were giving them one last chance to disperse.

__________________________________

Back in the car,
the woman was willing the crowd to do the right thing, even though it struck her deeply as the most painful kind of weakness.

"Please," she begged from her location a few hours away from the action. "Please, please."

Zeb found himself sitting on his knees, leaning onto the backseat, as forward toward the unfolding saga as he could without revealing himself in the rear of the van. As he did, the leftmost screenshot of her phone changed, pulling up, far above the city, enough to reveal a wide angle that covered the entire waters of the Sound. Barely discernible yet clearly there, two airborne projectiles streaked westward as they crossed the Olympic Range.

Chaos ensued on the ground at Pike Place. It was ragged and ugly. People lay trampled and left uncared for. Broken limbs. A few suffering punctured lungs from sharp objects the more aggressive in the crowd were carrying.

Ten thousand people ran for their lives, in every direction.

__________________________________

"Fire control...
disengage flight and detonation sequence..."

The missiles obeyed, their trajectory softening into an earthward arc. Splashing down into the choppy green of the Sound, they began their descent to the muddy bottom, some two hundred feet below.

__________________________________

The van pulled over,
coming to an abrupt stop.

"Out," was all the man said as he looked away from Zeb and out the window vacantly.

Zeb heard him.

"I said get out," he repeated. "Now."

No longer willing to aid and abet the fugitive, they left him on the side of the road in the quickly darkening twilight of the day.

This event was Stage Two
of Zeb's illegal exodus from Seattle-proper. Stage One had been five days of slow, methodical progress from urban space to eastern fringe. It was a nerve-racking sequence of hiding quietly for hours wherever he could find cover and then moving on rapidly when the moment demanded it. The tail end of these days he'd found himself in the back of an old pickup truck, winding along backroads and laying still for an hour at a truck stop. The diner is where he had transferred to the couple's 1988 Toyota Previa van for the truncated trip on the two lane highway into the ascending elevations of the Cascades. Now? Zeb was lying low in the forested hillsides, just shy of the ski slopes at Snoqualmie Pass. Though it was peaceful, the sight of the security checkpoint below only ratcheted up the sense of dread now draping the region. The guards on duty here seemed extra vigilant. That made sense, given what had happened in the last two hours.