Fallen Angel (27 page)

"Bartley is still here. He said another chaplain will be over tonight. He's called the wives of some of Moyer's men. A couple are coming over with dinner for the family. Maybe they can get them to eat."

PRESIDENT HUFFINGTON HAD ENTERTAINED
Ambassador Hui Xu on several occasions. One of the hallmarks of his administration was tightening the bond between China and the United States. Huffington was about to blow that out of the water.

Huffington stewed as he sat in his high-backed leather chair behind the presidential desk. Hui was late and there could only be two reasons: One, he was conferring with his home office, or two, he was making known his displeasure about being summoned on short notice. Either way, the man succeeded in making Huffington angrier than he already was.

The phone on his desk beeped. He punched a button and heard the gentle voice of his personal secretary. "Ambassador Hui is here, sir."

"Show him in."

Helen Brown entered a moment before Hui, took one look at the president, and sighed. "This isn't going to be pretty, is it?"

"Not by a long shot."

The door to the Oval Office opened and Hui, a thin, aristocratic-looking man entered, a disingenuous smile glued to his face. Brownie moved to him, bowed slightly, and held out her hand. Hui took her hand and held it for ten seconds. He then bowed to her.

"It is always my highest pleasure to see you, Ms. Brown. I hope you are well."

"I am, Ambassador Hui."

They turned to face Huffington. What was supposed to happen, what had happened in the past, what Huffington originally planned was this: The president would stand, step to his guest, bow, take the man's hand in a gentle but protracted handshake, praise him for coming on such short notice, and ask about his health. He would refer to the man by his title and family name. Never his given name—which in China always appeared second—and use his title frequently.

That was what was meant to happen, but Huffington decided he had enough of small talk and social customs.

"You're late, Xu."

Two insults in three words. A new record for the president.

The color drained from the ambassador's face, replaced by a red tinge. "Yes, Mr. President. I had urgent business that delayed me."

Here is where Huffington was to offer Hui a seat. He didn't.

"Remind me, Mr. Ambassador. Whose country are you in?"

The man paused and pressed his lips together. "Why, I live in your wonderful country."

"Do you like it, Hui?"

"Very much, Mr. President." The man had to press the words through clenched teeth.

"I see. Well, since you are so busy as to keep the president of your host nation waiting, a president with some pressing business of his own, I'll get down to business."

"I can sense some tension, Mr. President. Perhaps we should sit and discuss what it is that is bothering you."

"You will not sit in my office until I'm satisfied with the next series of events." Huffington stood and motioned Brown to open the doors of the custom entertainment center where a large flat-screen television sat.

"I don't understand the source of your anger, Mr. President. Perhaps I should come back at another time." He turned.

"If you walk out that door, you will need to go to your embassy and pack, because I will have you, your family, and your staff escorted out of the country." Huffington rounded his desk and stepped close to the ambassador, invading his personal space. "I'm going to talk. You're going to listen."

"I'm not used to being treated so rudely."

"You'll live, even if your career doesn't." The president took a breath, the kind a man takes when he's about to let loose a tirade. "Not long ago one of your satellites targeted, impacted, and knocked one of our satellites from the sky."

"Sir, I have already apologized for the inadvertent—"

"There was nothing inadvertent about it! We have done a trajectory analysis and know for a fact you targeted that one satellite with hopes of bringing it down in eastern China. But we moved it at the last moment. Not much, but enough to change its path of entry. It landed in eastern Siberia. This you know because using a very clever ploy, you dropped five men into the area. They're at the crash site right now."

"Sir, I know nothing about this."

"I think you do, Ambassador. I know for a fact you do. Do you know how I spent my time while waiting for you to show up? I spent it talking to President Urie Solovyov. Have you met him? Nice guy. A real progressive. I asked a favor." He turned to Brown. "Hit it, Brownie."

She touched the play button on the DVR just below the television. The screen brightened and ran a thirty-second video of a cruise missile leaving a Navy destroyer, then cutting away to it striking a bunker. Brown turned the screen off.

"That, Ambassador, is an older version of one of our TLAMs—that's Tomahawk Land Attack Missiles. Forgive me for not giving details, but the one I have in mind is newer and, shall we say, more effective. I can put one of those within ten feet of any target I like. Right now that target is my fallen satellite. Of course your men are there."

"You would fire on the Russian Federation? I think not."

"Think what you will, but I already have permission from the Russian government. Once Solovyov heard it was Chinese military that invaded their land under a ruse, well, he was begging me to pull the trigger."

"I shouldn't have to remind you that you have a team within their borders. We have our sources too, Mr. President."

"I'm sure you do, Mr. Ambassador."

Hui frowned. "It causes me pain to be so rude as to bring up the enormous debt the American people owe my country—"

"I'm aware of the debt created by previous administrations, but be careful about throwing that in my face. We've made our payments as scheduled. Your name means 'wise,' Mr. Ambassador. It would be unwise to challenge me on this. Do not think because we are indebted to you that we are owned by you."

"Mr. President—"

"We're done, Mr. Ambassador. Your tardiness has caused me to be late for an important meeting. I want your men clear of the satellite in the next hour, or you will be picking up their pieces for months to come."

"I will speak to my government."

"Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. You now have fifty-nine minutes."

Ambassador Hui Xu walked from the room.

"Ouch. I knew you were going to blindside him, but I didn't expect you to beat him with a verbal bat."

"I'm a little irritable tonight."

"You normally have me in the room when you talk to heads of state. How hard did you have to work President Solovyov?"

"Are you kidding? I didn't talk to him. The runt hates me. He'd never give permission for a cruise missile skimming his eastern mountains."

"You amaze me."

"You should see my poker game."

"I think I just did."

CHAPTER 31

PENG STOOD NEXT TO
the still-smoldering wreckage of the American satellite and tried to wrap his mind around the thought that the object, not that long ago, was circling tens of thousands of miles overhead. It was an interesting truth, one he might have dwelt on were it not for other concerns on his mind. Gao, his master sergeant, passed the Geiger counter to Peng and took one of the three points of the triangular perimeter his team established. The three lowest-ranking men lay on their bellies, scanning the forest line a short distance off for any movement. Hsu, the only other officer on the team, stood with Peng at the satellite.

Peng passed the handheld device over the crumbled, burned, bent, metal corpse. "No radiation beyond background. The fuel cell must be intact."

"A good thing for us. I plan on having more children—normal children."

Peng seldom joked but couldn't resist. "Think of the advantage of having a boy who glows in the dark. Easy to find."

"Yes, sir."

"You're agreeing just to be polite."

The lieutenant smiled. "Yes, sir."

Peng glanced around the area one more time, then confident they were alone in the wilderness, called for the tools.

Hsu dropped his pack and fished out a kit of battery-powered microtools. They were lucky, one of the items they were tasked to find was within easy reach, the result of a lucky bounce. Peng focused on a scarred and scorched plastic window. He ran a gloved hand over the surface and brushed away mud, grass, twigs, and leaves. He cupped his hands, blocking the glare, and peered into the space behind. A large lens was mounted in what looked like a universal bracket that allowed the lens to move in two dimensions. He was told the lens system was probably a compound system of several lenses, a charged-couple device that converted images gathered from space into digital format for enhancement and transmission.

The technology was well beyond him, but he knew enough to know he was looking at the latest advancements. He was also looking at billions of dollars of research and development. A little back engineering and his government could make great strides in a very short time.

Peng was also to photograph everything. Carrying off in-flight propulsion units would be useful but impractical. Thruster design had not changed dramatically over the last few years—or so he was told. In truth, his government excelled in that area. However, optics were highly specialized.

The team was also to retrieve the "brains" of the satellite, the computer that monitored position, analyzed image integrity, and communicated with ground control.

He was also ordered to remove anything that looked interesting and if he couldn't remove it, to photograph it in detail. Peng had no idea what his superiors might consider interesting.

Hsu removed a small, battery-powered set of sheet metal shears, set the sharp jaws into a gap formed by buckled metal, and pulled the trigger. The noise set him on edge, the sound of it echoing down the narrow valley.

Peng hoped there was no one else to hear.

MOYER, OUT OF IMPATIENCE
born by too much time in the back of a delivery van, took point, jogging at a slower rate than his mind begged. Six men—he left Lev to hide and protect the FedEx vehicle—tramping through a thin forest at full run would be heard at distance. Moyer didn't want to be heard.

The slower pace gave him another problem. It gave him time to think. Normally a good thing, thinking had become problematic: 98 percent of his thinking was about Gina. Even now as he ducked beneath low branches, her image flashed on his brain like a strobe light. His stomach twisted into a tighter knot; something he didn't think possible. The urge to fall to his knees and weep alternated with the pressing desire to scream at the top of his lungs and shoot anything that moved.

Although no scholar, Moyer did enjoy a good read. His wife gave him Edmund Morris's
Theodore Rex
, the story of Theodore Roosevelt and his rise to the presidency. Teddy Roosevelt was a military man's president, tested in battle and not afraid to unleash soldiers into battle.

One part of the book touched him. He hadn't known Teddy lost his mother and wife on the same day, in the same house. A young New York legislator at the time, the future president raced home by train and buggy in time to hold each as they died.

The sudden deaths so grieved him he lost himself. He wrote in his journal, "Today the life has gone out of my life." He took his newborn child—Roosevelt's wife died in childbirth—and presented her to his sister. He then took care of the funerals, left home, went hunting in the wilderness, and killed everything that moved. The list of animals he felled numbered in the hundreds. When Moyer read the account, he assumed Teddy overreacted. Now he understood. Killing something sounded good.

Pushing aside unwanted thoughts, he forced himself into soldier mode; something he seldom had to do while on mission. It lasted thirty seconds. As he trudged up the slope he thought of Stacy. She must be beside herself. How could he not be there for her? What good were a husband's strong arms when they were so many miles away?

Then there was Rob. More teenager than man. Never tested by hardship; never forced to face danger; never called upon to step up. He missed his son.

A sound, mechanical but distant, pushed through the noise of his footfalls and heavy breath. He snapped one hand up in a clenched fist. His team stopped midstep. Moyer raised a cupped hand to his ear, signaling he heard something. The sound of birds filled the air, then the noise reached them again. Moyer, a lover of tools, recognized it immediately. Someone was using a power tool on metal. The fact he could recognize it told him they were close to the satellite, and as he expected, the Chinese were already there.

Moyer moved to the crest of the hill and took cover behind a fallen tree. Shrubs grew around the moldering trunk. Before dropping behind the tree, he extended his left arm to the side, calling for an abreast configuration. His men spread to the side forming a line, each separated by three or more yards, depending on the cover they could find.

Moyer raised his binoculars and studied the situation. The battered remains of Angel-12 lay partially buried in the soft dirt of the valley. Surrounding the satellite stood five Chinese soldiers in full gear. Two worked on the satellite; three formed a perimeter.

"I make five armed hostiles," Moyer whispered, the throat mike picking up every word.

"Roger that, Boss. I make the same." It was Rich's job to confirm the situation. "I count four QBZ-95 automatics and a QBU-88 good-guy killer."

"Boss?"

"Go, Colt."

"The QBU-88 is an anti-personnel, anti-material sniper rifle. Suggest we target him first. I don't want to eat any rounds, but I sure don't want to eat one that treats my body armor like tissue paper."

"Colt, you're on him but don't fire unless I tell you. That goes for everyone." He sighted the area. "Shaq, you take the guy with the tool; Junior, I want you sighted on his partner. Doc, you take the perimeter man on the east. I got the other one. I repeat, no shooting until I give the go."

Moyer scanned the forested area to the northeast. That's where they'd approach. He saw nothing. He listened but heard only the action of the power tool on sheet metal. The tool was laboring. Apparently the beast was made of sterner stuff than the Chinese anticipated.

"Hawkeye?"

"Go, Boss."

"Time to do your magic. Break out a nano."

"Roger that, Boss. Got just the thing."

Moyer looked to his left. The newest team member was pulling gear from his rucksack. Crispin was part of the team for this very reason: He was an expert in nano UAVs. The tiny, remote-control aircraft were growing in use for recon work. Unmanned Aerial Vehicles ranged from full-sized aircraft to small planes like the Wasp III micro air vehicle used by the Air Force Spec Ops. Its wingspan was just a little over two feet. Still, that was too large for this situation and difficult to carry in backpacks.

The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—DARPA—had been developing these small aircraft for years. MAVs, sometimes called nanos, were so small that at a distance they could be mistaken for birds or insects. Crispin's toys were a little larger, but not by much.

Moyer pushed back from the log and crawled to Crispin's location. When he reached the young soldier's hidey-hole, he found him busily setting up what looked like a toy.

"I'm assuming a hovering recon would be best, as opposed to a quick flyover. I've got both." He opened a padded box and removed a white plastic plane with rear wings and a rear propeller. It looked like a great toy, except it was far more expensive. From nose to tail it was just a few inches long. Crispin opened another box and removed a four-inch-long helicopter. "I recommend the
Voyager
. We don't have much wind and it has good gust control."

"Will they hear it?"

"Not likely. I can keep it high enough that they shouldn't see it or hear it."

"Just the same. I want to keep it out of view of the Chinese."

Crispin looked at him. "I thought you wanted a bird's-eye view of what they were doing."

Moyer shook his head. "I already know what they're doing."

"Ah, you're thinking the Russians."

"You got it. Now earn your nick, Hawkeye. Send your toy around the tree to that area over there." Moyer pointed northeast. "If I've guessed correctly, our new friends are going to come through there. They need an area with few trees to get that truck in. If they're not there, then you can do a flyby over the Chinese, but make sure it comes from across the valley. If they see little Binky, I want them to think it came from the direction opposite us. Got it?"

"Got it, Boss." Crispin pulled a device from his bag. It reminded Moyer of a game controller, except it had a screen. "I can have
Voyager
up in two minutes."

"Take three minutes if you need it."

"Gee, thanks, Boss."

Moyer returned to watching the Chinese. The tall man was switching batteries in the tool.

"What now, Boss?" Rich's voice came over Moyer's earpiece.

"We wait, Shaq. We wait for the others."

"But we can pop these guys now, then set up for the Russians."

"We wait, Shaq. That's it."

"If you say so, Boss."

"I say so."

Two minutes, thirty seconds later, Moyer heard a buzzing to his left. The micro helicopter rose from a flat bit of ground directly in front of Crispin. Deftly he guided it through the trees to the edge of the clearing, then along the edge of the forest. Moyer soon lost sight of it and switched attention to the display screen Crispin was using to fly the diminutive craft.

"How's it going?"

Crispin grinned. "Sa-weet, Boss. Man, I love this stuff."

"Let's see if you like what comes next." The grim tone in his voice surprised Moyer. Of course, he had a right to be grim. For Crispin, this might be a high-tech camping trip, but in a minute his mettle would be tested.

The monitor showed, in black-and-white, the valley floor scrolling by. A rabbit sprinted from one bush to another. The first pass revealed nothing.

"Can you take it higher? Above the trees?"

"Sure can, Boss. Just so I don't go too far out there and lose my signal."

The view in the monitor changed from valley floor to treetops. Moyer watched with the kind of interest reserved for the best action movies. These scenes, however, were not pretend. Something evil moved through the woods and Moyer wanted to know where it was.

"Target." Crispin kept his voice low.

Moyer saw it too. "Make another pass, but keep it high. Don't get too close."

Crispin followed the orders without a word. Moyer counted close to eight men, each armed with AK-47s. Their dress varied. At best they were a ragtag squad, but Moyer had no doubt they knew how to use the weapons in their hands.

"Listen up. Eight hostiles on foot; military grade automatic weapons and sidearms; approaching tree line a half klick to our right."

He paused and Rich used the opportunity to ask a question. "Target priority?"

"Hold your fire. Do not engage unless they engage us."