Empire Rising (50 page)

There was a knock on the door, accompanied by a loud, demanding request. Christine's heart leapt to her throat—it was most likely security guards searching the South Wing, room by room. With one and probably two dead SEALs in the Great Hall, they'd be searching for another man wielding an MP7, not a woman sitting behind a desk in her office. But that was true only as long as Huan was dead or unconscious. She cursed herself for not putting a bullet into his head. If he recovered, they'd know exactly who to search for and she wouldn't stand a chance.

The door was locked and Christine stood frozen behind the desk, hoping whoever was outside would move on. But then she heard the metal jingling of keys, and the round doorknob twitched. Another jingle and twitch. Whoever was outside had master keys and would eventually find the right one. If they discovered her in the office after she ignored their request to open the door, they'd be suspicious and examine her closely.

Her only hope was to open the door.

Christine walked toward the door, searching her memory for a Mandarin phrase that would suffice in this situation. Halfway to the door, she selected one, calling out, “It's nice to meet you!”

She winced after the words left her mouth, but it was all she could come up with on short notice, and she hoped the door muffled enough of her voice that her response was unintelligible. The keys stopped jingling and the doorknob fell still.

Christine forced a smile onto her face, then twisted the doorknob, disengaging the lock, and pulled the door open. There were three men in the hallway. The man in the middle, wearing a white shirt and blue tie, held a ring of keys in one hand. The other two men were uniformed security guards, their pistols drawn. Their eyes widened, no doubt surprised by the appearance of a Caucasian woman. If that wasn't enough, Christine realized her inability to carry on a conversation with them in Chinese would be even more suspicious. Her only hope was to brush them off quickly. She strung together two phrases that might work.

“Good morning. How can I help?”

Christine had been prepared to utter the second expression during the planned meeting with her counterpart two weeks ago. Unfortunately, the few remaining phrases she knew were insufficient to carry on a conversation with the three men in front of her. She probably wouldn't be able to work in “Thank you” and “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

The guard on the right replied to Christine's greeting.

She had no idea what he had said.

Christine decided to cut the conversation short. That meant she had to answer the man's question with something that made sense. Unfortunately, she didn't understand his question. She guessed they were inquiring about the intruders in the Great Hall, wondering if she'd noticed anything suspicious. She decided to keep her answer simple.

“No,” she replied in Mandarin, then turned and headed to her desk, hoping her answer was sufficient and that the men would move on. However, as Christine settled into her chair, the guard moved into the doorway and asked a second question, the tone more demanding.

This question was probably more pointed and Christine had no idea how to answer it. As she stared at the man in silence, she sensed him growing impatient. She had to answer, but how? Glancing at a thick manila folder on top of the desk, she latched on to an idea.

Twisting her face into an aggravated expression, she picked up the folder, waving it excitedly at the man as she replied in English. “Does it look like I have time for this? I've got to finish translating this for the general secretary by noon! Do you want to explain to him why I'm not finished?”

Christine prayed the man understood English. It appeared he did, or at least enough to understand her response. Fear flickered in his eyes for a second, then he bowed his head slightly. After uttering something else in Chinese, the tone of his voice subdued, he stepped back and closed the door. Christine waited tensely for a few seconds, then her shoulders slumped in relief.

After a long moment, she stood, focusing on the next two items required to accomplish her goal. Their owner would hopefully arrive anytime now.

She had to be ready.

*   *   *

It was only a few minutes later, with Christine seated behind the door with the Glock in her right hand, when the doorknob turned. Christine stood as the door opened, and it began to swing shut after a Chinese woman stepped into the office, headed toward the desk. After the door shut, Christine reached over with her left hand and pressed the lock in the center of the doorknob. The woman stopped at the side of the desk, noting the absence of her chair. She dropped her purse onto the top of the desk as she turned with a perplexed look on her face, searching the office for the wayward chair. The woman spotted three things almost simultaneously—the chair by the door, a pistol pointed at her, and Christine with her index finger over her lips.

The woman's jaw dropped but thankfully no sound came out. The finger over Christine's mouth and the Glock pointed in her direction had communicated the desired response and consequence if directions weren't followed.

“Do you understand English?” Christine asked.

The woman nodded, swallowing hard.

“Stay quiet and do as I say, and you won't get hurt. Understand?”

The woman nodded again.

Christine shoved the chair toward the woman. “Take a seat.”

*   *   *

A few minutes was all it took before the woman was taped to her chair, her chair taped to a leg of the desk, and her mouth taped shut. Before taping the woman's mouth shut, no coercion was required to extract the required information. The woman confirmed the peak time for traffic in the Great Hall was during lunch. Christine didn't relish the idea of waiting the next four hours in the small office where she would be cornered if discovered, but the wait was worth the risk.

Christine stepped back to examine her work. It was possible the woman could wriggle her way out of the tape after she left, but Christine figured it didn't matter. She would need only a few minutes. In the meantime, the woman wouldn't need her badge. Christine transferred the badge from the woman's blouse to hers, then searched through the woman's purse on top of the desk, retrieving a compact mirror, which she opened in her left hand.

Huan's two punches to her face had done some damage, but thankfully the swelling had subsided. His first punch had caught her squarely on the left side of her face, but there was only a faint blue bruise along her jawline. The second fist to her face had done more damage, splitting open her upper lip. After entering the woman's office this morning, she had wiped her face clean with a tissue from the box on the woman's desk. She must have done a decent job, because the guard she encountered a few minutes ago didn't seem to notice. As she examined her face in the small mirror, tilting her head from side to side, she was pleased. The split lip had sealed, forming a thin scab. She ran her fingers through her hair, making herself as presentable as possible, then returned the mirror to the purse.

Christine glanced at her watch. It would be a few more hours before lunchtime, when the corridors would be sufficiently crowded for her journey. As long as the security guards didn't sweep by the office again in the meantime, her plan might work. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

 

72

WASHINGTON, D.C.

In the Situation Room beneath the West Wing of the White House, Captain Steve Brackman took his seat at the conference table, waiting for the briefing to begin. Gathered around the table, with the president at the head, were Secretary of Defense Nelson Jennings and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff on one side, Captain Brackman and senior members of the president's Cabinet lining the other. At the front of the conference room, the image of Admiral Vance Garbin, head of Pacific Command, flickered on the large monitor.

“The SEAL team mission was a resounding success, sir,” the Admiral began. “All PLA communication nodes and command and control centers are off-line, as well as their newest missile systems. Also, our Atlantic Fleet SSGNs launched over three hundred Tomahawk missiles, destroying the older Chinese missile systems that weren't networked. Between our Tomahawks, another round of B-1 bomber attacks, and the computer virus, Chinese air defense is practically nonexistent. Our aircraft have complete control of the skies over Japan.

“After our satellites came up, our submarines downloaded the new torpedo software, which has been extremely effective. The fast attacks sanitized the approach lanes for our MEFs, sinking over twenty Chinese submarines. Our fast attacks have penetrated the Nansei Island chain, and will soon be attacking Chinese ships ferrying men and supplies onto the Japanese islands.”

“How are the MEF landings going?” the president asked.

“The beachhead has been secured and the MEFs are off-loading men and equipment. The three Marine air wings are providing support as ground forces move inland. Once we've gained control of an airstrip or the Marines finish building one, we'll begin moving Air Force fighter squadrons and Army troops in to assist. Unless something unforeseen occurs, Mr. President, this war is all but over.”

The president nodded, a grim look of satisfaction on his face. “What about the SEAL team that injected the virus?”

“I'm afraid that's the only piece of bad news,” the Admiral answered. “The virus was inserted five hours ago, but no one has exited the Great Hall of the People. We have to conclude the team members have been either killed or captured.”

There was silence in the conference room as the president absorbed the Admiral's assessment. The mission had been an enormous success, but the men—and woman—had likely paid with their lives.

“Thank you, Admiral,” the president replied. “Keep us informed if anything changes.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

The view screen flickered off, and the president directed his attention to the men and women seated at the conference table. They were silent, awash in relief from the success of their counterpunch against China, but keenly aware of the probable death of the president's national security advisor. Finally, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Hodson, expressed his condolences.

“Mr. President, I'm sorry to hear about Miss O' Connor.”

The president remained silent for a moment, then leaned forward in his chair and placed his elbows on the table, his forearms crossed in front of him. “How well do you know Christine?”

The chairman answered, “Not very well, I admit. Our interactions were limited to the various briefings we attended together.”

“Let me provide some background,” the president began. “There are two important things you should know. The first is that she's a tenacious woman, willing to put up with a lot in an effort to achieve her goal. Hell, she puts up with me. And Hardison!” Hardison nodded glumly as the president continued. “She agreed to work in an administration of the opposite party, butting heads every day with the likes of me, Hardison, and SecDef, with the hope she could make sense out of our hare-brained national defense policies.

“The second thing you need to know is that Christine has a vindictive streak. You don't want to cross her or the United States. Do you remember the
Kentucky
incident?” The General nodded. “And you remember what happened to Israel's Intelligence Minister afterward?”

General Hodson replied, “He was assassinated by his own Mossad.”

“Not the Mossad,” the president replied. He kept his eyes locked on Hodson until what really happened dawned on him.

The General's eyes widened. “Christine killed him?”

“She insisted on the assignment,” the President answered. “And she did a stellar job.

“My point, gentlemen,” the president added, “is that I wouldn't underestimate Christine. She could very well be alive, somewhere in the Great Hall. And if so, my best bet is—she's not thinking about escape.”

 

73

BEIJING

Xiang Chenglei entered the Politburo conference room, taking his seat at the head of the table. The lights were dim, matching the mood of the other seven Politburo members. Joining the Politburo today was General Cao Feng, head of the PLA's Fourth Department, responsible for China's cyber warfare, who was seated at the far end of the table. Also present—in electronic form—was Admiral Tsou, his grainy image displayed on the large monitor on the wall opposite Xiang.

It seemed impossible. Events this morning had unfolded at a whirlwind pace, quickly reaching a crisis level. Xiang found it difficult to believe the situation had deteriorated so drastically, and decided it was prudent to obtain the information firsthand. Surely, the data streaming into the Great Hall had been garbled. It was time to obtain an accurate update.

Xiang was about to address General Cao when the doors to the conference room opened and Huan, who had been unexpectedly absent all morning, entered. Wrapped around Huan's head was a white gauze bandage, a tinge of red seeping through the right side. Huan settled gingerly into a vacant chair at the end of the conference table. Xiang decided his questions about Huan's absence and physical condition could wait until after the meeting. He returned his attention to General Cao.

“What is the status of this American virus?”

General Cao cleared his voice. “A virus was uploaded into the main communications center here in the Great Hall, and it is spreading throughout the entire PLA command and control infrastructure, infecting all communication and tactical networks. The virus manifests itself in two ways. The first is that it corrupts the computer operating system, shutting down the computer and preventing start-up afterward. The second effect is that even when the computers are restarted from backup operating system discs, the virus corrupts the computer IP assignments, preventing the transfer of information between computers.”