Rogue Threat (39 page)

“Very well, follow me,” Chen said, standing.

They walked out of the small cabin and down a narrow set of stairs. Ballantine had not spent any time on a ship and was surprised at how little room there actually was to maneuver. It was single file everywhere he went. They continued down a circular staircase and then popped out onto a deck that overlooked the shipping containers.

As they walked, Chen turned to look at Ballantine. “Your injuries, serious?”

“No. I’ll be okay.”

“You’re brave warrior, Ballantine. I am happy to be allied with you,” Chen said.

“And I with you,” Ballantine responded.

“And your friend in brig, what is his purpose?”

“He is simply a means to an end.”

They reached the railing of the deck that overlooked the entire ship. Ballantine could see containers stacked nearly seventy feet into the air, almost eye-level with the bridge.

“
Fong Hou
built to exceed size of largest merchant ship in world,
Sovereign Maersk.
Danish ship,” Chen said. “This ship three hundred eighty meters long and fifty meters wide,” he said, pointing in both directions across the ship’s bow.

The superstructure of the ship was positioned all the way at the aft end, and they looked out over 300 meters of ship to their front.

“Three hundred thirty meters only one thousand feet of runway. No problem for Sherpa, but Predator require two thousand feet for takeoff. So we make like aircraft carrier, with catapult.”

“I see. Good job on building these containers to conceal the runway,” Ballantine said. “I was unprepared for that when I landed. Good thing that I didn’t come in too high.”

Chen smiled. “My instructions to stay low, right?”

“Yes.”

“These
containers,”
Chen
said
pointing
at
the
top
row,
“they
have
openings.
Forty-millimeter
Bofors inside—anti-aircraft guns can quickly rotate out and elevate. We can use them in anti-air or anti-ship mode.”

“Impressive.”

“Yes, best of Chinese engineering to develop this ship past ten years. Most impressive is runway to solve problem of length. Come, I show you.”

“When can I see our precious cargo?”

“Soon,” Chen assured him as he motioned Ballantine forward.

They returned to the stairwell and spiraled all the way down to an exit door that opened to a giant garage-like structure. Ballantine looked up and could see the ship had been built with a shell that stepped from the rails on either side upward to the center. Huge I-beams created an inverted stairway of sorts that allowed Chen to stack containers on top of the shell that made it appear to the outside observer that the ship was full of containers. In reality, though, there existed a 100-foot-wide and 1,000-foot-long runway inside the shell.

“Amazing,” Ballantine said. He saw his plane parked to the side. A ground crew had pushed it into a corner.

“Look here,” Chen said, walking him onto the runway, complete with centerline striping.

“Unbelievable,” Ballantine said.

“Centerline groove holds catapult, just like aircraft carrier. Our flight engineers modify Predator landing gear so we can control during takeoff. We tested in Pacific Ocean on way over.”

Ballantine looked at him.

“It worked perfectly. Because Predator only needs one thousand feet to land, we bring it aboard safely using tail hook and cable system as added precaution.”

“So you still have all of your Predators?” Ballantine asked.

“Yes, of course. Mission calls for this. And yours? You still have them?”

“The Predators are hidden in a cave, but the ground control station was captured by the Americans,” Ballantine admitted. “So my two are useless for now.”

“How do we strike those targets?”

“Well, I may have to take one down with my Sherpa,” Ballantine said.

They walked along the centerline catapult. Ballantine could see that the lane went the length of three football fields. “Why does it look like we are enclosed?”

“Ah, we make other addition.” Chen walked to the wall and pointed at a series of buttons not unlike a garage door opener. “These control bow of ship. They make flat. Add forty meters more to runway. Allow Predator to stabilize after leaving catapult. And of course, runway completely concealed from satellites.”

“You have outdone yourself, Admiral,” Ballantine admired. “Let’s look at our cargo.”

“Of course.”

They reentered the stairwell and walked down another level into a much smaller compartment about the size of an underground parking garage. Ballantine immediately saw the Predator UAVs.

“Here they are.” Chen swept his hand across the UAVs sitting on the flight deck like angry hornets. Their inverted wings and large heads made them appear decidedly insect-like—hibernating wasps inside an evil lair. “Fifty-foot wingspan, thirty-foot length. UAV can fly five hundred miles from ship and, if target area is bad, we can recall home. We use stealth technology from downed American aircraft in Kosovo air war in 1999. Combination of structural makeup and low-speed flight capability help in radar avoidance. Through ground control station, we can program each for specific grid coordinate. Once in air, they can fly to target alone . . . and have ability to converge in pairs on separate targets or mass on single target.”

“What about what the scientist gave us. Is it reliable?” Ballantine asked.

Chen stared at Ballantine a moment. “Predators programmed appropriately to swarm if target is identified. If not, they destroy priority targets in sequence. However, I must admit, I am concerned that your ‘Dr. Insect’ has been captured.”

Ballantine looked at Chen. “I think it will be okay.”

“Now, this switch”—Chen was pointing at a similar device used for lowering the bow of the vessel one level up—“opens deck above, and this switch raises platform.”

“Just like an aircraft carrier,” Ballantine confirmed.

“Only better. Everyone thinks I have plastic Barbie dolls on board, not Predators and weapons-grade uranium.”

“How have you containerized the material?”

“Our scientists only have enough material to create four bombs. Others will carry nerve gas,” Chen said.

“So the ruse worked. Develop these chemical and nuclear weapons, secretly ship them to China and Canada, and then entice the Americans into Iraq. Brilliant. Have you reviewed the target list?” Ballantine asked, running his hand atop one of the Predator drones.

“Yes, we have prepared UAVs with preprogrammed grid coordinates. One dirty nuke, as you say, will go into Fort Bragg 212 miles from here. Another will hit naval base only twenty miles from here, and another will hit Pentagon 190 miles to north. Last is for target of your choosing.”

“Thank you. And the chemical bombs?” Ballantine asked.

“Chemical bombs go into Philadelphia to north and Raleigh, North Carolina, to south. That should sufficiently set conditions for follow-on attacks,” Chen said.

“I should say so. How are our communications with our sleeper cells?”

“They are good. We will go to communications center next. I believe you will be satisfied and that you will find it suitable for your international television appearance tonight.”

“I will be satisfied when our mission is complete, Admiral.” Ballantine’s voice was dark and tense.

They reentered the spiral staircase and climbed to the top of the bridge into a Plexiglas enclosed communications hub. It contained computerized digital display screens, radio banks, satellite hookups, television screens and two digital cameras.

“Before this camera is where I will make my presentation tonight?” Ballantine asked.

“Yes. Has satellite uplink, and we can tap into major cable stations such as CNN and Fox News. We tested ten-second broadcast last week. We blasted digitally into their bandwidth and dominated spectrum. We watch on our satellite televisions and see our encoded message.”

“What was the message?” Ballantine asked.

“Phase Two.”

“Phase Two? Don’t you think that’s a bit risky?”

“Perhaps, but Americans have no sense of this threat. Their soldiers fight and die overseas. Right now, they huddle in their gated communities.”

Ballantine shook his head. “Okay, I will broadcast at 2100 hours tonight. Nine p.m. As the Americans say, prime time.”

“Okay, we relax for while, then. Satisfactory, General Ballantine?”

“Yes, Admiral Chen, quite satisfactory. I believe we can have that drink you mentioned.”

Chapter 45

Aboard the Fong Hou, Chesapeake Bay

Zachary Garrett felt a surging pain rocket through his upper back as he rolled over. He wasn’t sure where he was, though he seemed to be realizing
who
he was. A step in the right direction, he figured.

The room faded in and out of view as if his mind were a camera, recklessly zooming in and out. The image of Matt hovered in his mind like a rising sun crawling out of the ocean’s horizon.

His short-term memory allowed him to think back to two nights before, when he had been bound to the chair. The black woman had left the room, and then suddenly Matt had appeared from nowhere. Then they were separated just as quickly.

His mind began to steady a bit. He could feel the tightness in his back and he remembered being shot. Having been shot before, he knew the feeling of a bullet slapping him in the back. He remembered falling into his brother’s arms and how good it felt to be held by him, if only for a moment. He could see in Matt’s face the anguish, the hope, and the love of a brother who had probably not accepted his disappearance. For all he knew, Matt and the rest of his family had considered him dead and would have had a funeral service for him.

Zachary sat up, the drugs wearing off enough that he was able to steady himself. He studied his new environs, trying to make sense of the white walls and bars, like an animal cage. He found himself laughing inside, wondering whether he could possibly be in a zoo, but somehow he knew that was not right. He had so many conflicting thoughts and emotions that he was having a hard time making sense of anything.

He couldn’t hear anyone and saw nothing but a sterile hallway beyond his cell. He continued to feel a bit groggy, lightheaded. He slid onto his knees and slowly crawled over to the edge of the cage. Now he really did feel like an exhibit at the zoo, crawling around, dragging his heavy legs, limping on his left arm as he tried to maneuver himself.

Reaching the edge of the cage, Zachary stuck his face between two bars, pressing against them until he could go no further without getting his head stuck. He shifted his eyes to the right and then the left without noticing anything of significance.

He began to pull back, then wedged his face in again, this time until it hurt. He turned his head just a bit to the right to try to understand what he thought he had seen.

A fire hose and axe were encased in glass on the opposite wall about twenty feet away. While that was unusual, the most interesting part of his discovery was that Chinese or Japanese characters were inscribed beneath the casing.

Zachary pulled his head from between the bars and slid back to the far wall. He looked around again. There was nothing.

A cage. A fire hose and axe. Chinese writing. Where the hell am I?

Chapter 46

Middleburg

Vice President Hellerman paced the grand living room of his estate, the plush carpet sinking beneath his feet with every step. It was Tuesday afternoon. He had taken a break from the alternate command post across the lawn, the incessant activity of attacks, reports, analysis, and meetings all proving to be a stimulant. He needed to step away from the operations center before he became too excited.

As he stood in his living room, he could feel the eyes of James Madison and Thomas Jefferson upon him as they peered down from their portraits. He thought about the paintings that hung in his official mansion in the Naval Observatory in Bethesda. So many vice presidents, forgotten men who did so little. He could hardly name five of them, and he was a history buff. The thought put a fine accent on the moment, this moment in time.

Yes, the people would remember him as the one who had reunited the country for generations to come. But, frankly, it was not so much the recognition that would rightfully fall his way, but the resurgence of an ideal borne out of repression and tyranny over 230 years ago. They would begin to mix his name with the likes of Revere, Madison, Monroe, Jefferson, and Hamilton—all great statesmen willing to risk everything for a greater good.

Who could argue with the need? The country was polarized, he mused as he stared at a fifteenth-century Chinese Ming vase. He didn’t think it was anything special, nothing a third-year art student couldn’t do with some practice.

He stared at James Madison’s portrait. Looking like so many of the others from that era, he had the white wig and the pale, angular face that the artist touched with a hue of pink. A white ruffled shirt protruded from beneath his top coat. Madison had a hand placed lightly on a chair.