Blacksnow Zero Page 11

  Her reverie was broken as President Taylor walked in the room, approached her and held out his hand. She stood and the two shook.

  “It’s good to see you,” the man said with a forced smile. “Please have a seat.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  She waited until he had sat at his desk before she took her own seat.

  “And thank you, Mr. President, for giving me the opportunity to meet with you.”

  He waved that away. “No problem.”

  She studied the man closely, and was, as always, repulsed by his demeanor. It was obvious he hated dealing with her and had only agreed to meet because of the up-coming election.

  “My chief-of-staff tells me you had something urgent to discuss?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go ahead, then.”

  “Mr. President, before the assassination –”

  Taylor frowned and interrupted her. “A tragic event in our nation’s history.”

  “Yes, sir. As I was saying, President Wilson and I had been working on a resolution to our debt crisis….”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, sir. We devised a plan that would fund our overspending and borrowing.”

  Taylor gave her an icy glare. “You’re aware that Wilson had pretty much capitulated to Chinese demands, in exchange for their underwriting our debt?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. And he was miserable about it. The poor man aged considerably over the last couple of years.”

  “He was weak, Megan. Admit it.”

  She didn’t want to argue with Taylor, but she still felt loyal to Wilson’s memory. “He was doing the best he could, under the circumstances.”

  Taylor shrugged and said in a cold voice, “Doesn’t matter now. He’s gone.”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir. As I was saying, we came up with a plan that would have the Swiss buy our Treasury bonds, instead of the Chinese. We felt the Swiss would not interfere with U.S. foreign or domestic policy.”

  An incredulous look crossed his face. “The Swiss? Those bastards barely sniff at our bonds.”

  She reached in her briefcase, took out an envelope and placed it on the desk. “We offered them a very attractive proposal. The details are all in there. You should be aware that the Swiss have agreed to it. Of course, now it’s up to you. You would have to approve it.”

  Taylor opened the envelope, took out the document and began reading.

  A few minutes later he looked at her. “Interesting. But you’re making the assumption that the Swiss would not interfere with our affairs like the Chinese have.”

  “It’s in the agreement, Mr. President.”

  “I saw that. But once they taste the power they have over us, who’s to say they won’t renege on that part of it?”

  “I know their chief banker well, sir. He’s an honest man.”

  “You’re naïve, Megan.”

  Her face turned red, but she bit her tongue, knowing she had to keep her emotions in check. She took a deep breath. “Mr. President, I think this is workable solution for our country. We’re in a big hole and we desperately need to climb out. This plan does that.”

  The president leaned back in his chair, became pensive.

  “Okay, Megan. I’ll read this thoroughly and review it with my advisors. I’m not making any promises, but I will consider it.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  ***

  Aboard the USS Nevada

  U.S. Navy Trident nuclear submarine

  60 miles south of Hawaii

  The Pacific Ocean

  Commander Roger Lamont smiled as he turned off his laptop. He had just received a new encrypted message from the Pentagon. Using a notepad, he wrote down the new coordinates.

  Standing up, he went to the phone, which was mounted on the wall of his cramped quarters, and punched in a call.

  When Lieutenant Johnson picked up on the other end, he said, “Lieutenant, come to my quarters. I’ve got a new heading to give you.”

  There was a pause on the other end. “Sir, is it just for us?”

  “No. This involves all the Trident subs in the Pacific.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Lieutenant responded in a somber voice.

  ***

  Special Operations

  Marine Corps Detachment

  Training Facility, Building 14

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  Sergeant Thomas was in his office when his cell phone buzzed. He unclipped the phone from his belt clip and took the call.

  Captain Garcia’s voice came over the phone. “Sergeant, I’m still in Washington, but I just got the orders. The next phase is a go. Get the guys ready. Take the jet. I’ll meet you out there.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Thomas responded.

  The call was disconnected and the sergeant replaced the phone back on the clip.

  He packed his laptop computer in his ready bag and went into the training area, which was a cavernous, warehouse space with high ceilings. The team was in a corner of the room, cleaning their weapons. “Pack it up guys!” he yelled across the room, the sound echoing. “It’s a go!”

  The group hurriedly began to stuff their gear into large duffel bags.

  Half an hour later they were on their way. The small, unmarked jet sped down the runway and lifted off the airfield.

  Thomas stared out the co-pilot’s seat window as the sprawling military base below receded from view. He was looking forward to the next phase. The team hadn’t seen any action in days and he was itching for something to do.

  12 Days to Zero Hour

  Los Angeles, California

  Bobbie Garcia got out of the gray Toyota Camry he had rented earlier under one of his aliases. He grabbed his backpack from the trunk, took out several small containers and slipped them in his pockets. Then he put on the backpack and glanced around the half-full parking garage.

  A minute later a black Ford cargo van pulled into one of the empty slots a few cars down. His team began to climb out of the vehicle. Like Garcia, they were dressed in casual clothes – jeans, golf shirts and T-shirts in muted colors, so as not to stand out. Two of the men had backpacks. Several of them also carried hand-made signs with anti-Chinese slogans.

  Sergeant Thomas broke from the group, walked over to him.

  “The men ready, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re good to go.”

  Garcia nodded.

  He strode down the aisle toward the stairs, the group following behind.

  Ten minutes later Garcia stopped on the sidewalk a block from the Chinese consulate to survey the scene. A large group of demonstrators were pacing in front of the building, carrying signs and chanting. The crowd was a mixed assortment of people – business types in blazers, soccer moms, homeless men, and young college students, the last group being the most vocal. For the most part, the demonstration appeared peaceful, though several uniformed LAPD officers stood right by the front gate, ready to diffuse trouble before it started.

  It was a brutally hot day in LA, the sun beating down from a cloudless sky. Garcia brushed perspiration from his forehead and inhaled the city’s peculiar odor of smog, asphalt and car exhaust.

  Garcia scanned the sidewalk on both sides of the street and spotted his men, who had now blended in with the protesters.

  Marching closer to the crowd, he saw Thomas and gave him the go-ahead sign.

  Moments later Garcia heard loud shouting and saw a scuffle break out as several in the crowd surged forward. A woman screamed, as a sign was thrown at the gate. Then a flurry of rocks flew, hitting the façade of the building. Glass shattered and he noticed one of the cops go down to the ground. Several of his men began to lob small black objects.

  Rushing forward, he pushed through the mêlée, the crowd all around him.

  He heard an explosion and saw the wrought iron gate blow open. His men went into the courtyard, followed by the younger members of the crowd. The older protesters stayed back, obviou
sly fearing the mounting violence.

  Garcia followed the rioters into the courtyard, grabbed an incendiary grenade from his pocket, pulled the pin, and lobbed it at a consulate window. The device shattered the glass and exploded immediately, the burst of flames visible from the courtyard.

  To his left he spotted Thomas doing the same.

  Uniformed Chinese guards opened the wide front door of the consulate and pointed AK-47 rifles at the unruly crowd, but seemed reluctant to fire.

  Shots rang out and one of the guards crumpled to the ground.

  Garcia pulled his compact Berretta semi-automatic from a pocket and fired point-blank, hitting a second guard in the forehead, bringing him down.

  The Chinese began firing indiscriminately and several of the protesters fell in the courtyard, wounded. Garcia fired again, as did the rest of his men and in moments the guards were either dead, wounded or had retreated inside the building.

  A large fire erupted from inside the consulate, the flames licking out the windows and the open front door.

  Garcia emptied his automatic and stuck the gun in his waistband. Then he hugged the wall by the door, which was now bullet-ridden and partially on fire. Three of his men took cover behind the stone pillars on the portico and continued firing into the consulate.

  He took off his backpack, pulled out the rest of the incendiary grenades, and while his men continued to provide cover fire, he lobbed the explosives into the building.

  As the grenades went off, he glanced back into the courtyard. The area was chaotic, with dead and wounded guards and protesters littering the square. He spotted the bleeding bodies of two of his men on the ground, unmoving. He cursed to himself, grieving for the dead, but realizing there was no other way.

  Just then Garcia felt an intense heat and saw the brilliant flash of an explosion from inside the consulate. The multiple grenades had worked.

  In the distance he heard the wail of police sirens and he motioned to his men. I was time to get the hell out.

  ***

  Garcia sipped a Coke while he surfed the channels, looking for news. He was in a seedy room of a gritty motel that had seen better days. The place was located in a run-down part of East Los Angeles, a perfect place to lay low for a while. He sat on the foul-smelling, lumpy mattress, his back to the wall, and stared at the small TV. He was so focused on finding news about the riot that he barely noticed the decrepit décor.

  Surfing past the daytime wasteland of talk shows, infomercials and soap operas, he finally found Fox News. An attractive brunette was the reporter and he turned up the volume.

  “The scene here at the Chinese consulate is chaotic,” the woman said into the mike. She was standing on the sidewalk across the street from the building. The camera’s wide-angle shot showed the avenue blocked off from traffic by police barricades. The area was filled with fire trucks, black-and-white cruisers, SWAT trucks and ambulances, their flashing lights blending together in a strobe-light effect. Uniformed firemen, police and EMT personnel rushed about, while numerous local TV camera crews were setting up outside the crime-scene tape areas. Plumes of black smoke rose from the consulate itself. Its façade, which was visible beyond the shattered gate, was a mixture of soot, charred wooden trim, and blackened stone.

  “According to the fire marshal,” she continued, “the blaze in the consulate has been extinguished, but damage to the building is extensive. For those of you just joining us, the fire broke out during an anti-Chinese demonstration protesting the assassination of President Wilson.” She paused, lowered her voice. “As I mentioned earlier, estimates are now that a total of twenty-three people have died here.” She paused again, held one hand to her earpiece and then continued. “We’ve just learned of a shocking new development. Of the twenty-three dead, fifteen were American protesters, shot by Chinese guards as they tried to quell the riot.”

  Garcia shook his head slowly and sipped the now-warm Coke. He knew that of the dead, three were his men. Silently, he said a prayer for them and for the American protesters.

  ***

  Aboard the yacht Solstice

  Cruising the Mediterranean Sea

  Ten miles south of Monte Carlo

  Henry Mueller reclined on the chaise lounge at the rear deck of his ninety-foot yacht, watching the news streaming on his iPad.

  Looking up from the device, he glanced over at his wife, who was asleep next to him on her chaise. They had been married for many years, but he still admired her Nordic good looks. Her voluptuous body was barely covered by a tiny bikini.

  The steward brought him a fresh martini and set it on a side table. Taking a sip of the drink, Mueller went back to the news broadcast. The scene had shifted from the flooding in Bangladesh to a breaking story from the United States. A fire had decimated the Chinese consulate in Los Angeles, with a number of deaths reported. He watched intently – he was apprehensive about anything that could affect the pending American deal.

  Just then the satellite phone on the table rang. He picked it up and heard the voice of Megan Lewis on the other end.

  His wife woke with a start and asked who it was.

  Mueller covered the receiver, said, “Senator Lewis from the States.”

  His wife grimaced, closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

  “Megan, good to hear from you,” he said.

  “Likewise, Henry.”

  “Senator, funny you should call now – I was just watching this tragic event in Los Angeles.”

  “Yes, the fire is tragic. But not totally unexpected. The protests here are spreading. The American people are furious.”

  “Understandable, Megan, in light of what happened.”

  “If it’s true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s some evidence the Chinese may not have been behind the assassination.”

  “But…I watched your new president…he sounded so certain.”

  “I’d rather not talk too much about this, Henry, over this line.”

  “Yes, I agree. When are you coming back to Zurich?”

  “Soon. I met with Taylor recently. Reviewed our deal with him. I’m hopeful, but at the same time, I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “Of course. But my board keeps asking….”

  “I want this as much as you do, Henry.”

  “Yes.” Mueller glanced at his wife, who appeared to be fast asleep. Nevertheless, he lowered his voice to no more than a whisper. “Maybe we could have dinner again, when you return?”

  She let out a throaty laugh. “That’s an excellent idea. You were a special treat.”

  “Thank you for saying that, Senator. Goodbye.”

  He replaced the phone back on its cradle and noticed his wife had awakened.

  “What was that about?” she asked in French, her tone clearly annoyed.

  “Business, dear,” he replied, in the same language. “That deal I told you about before.”

  Her eyes turned into slits. “Make sure it’s just business, Henry. If I find out it’s more than that, there’ll be hell to pay. Remember, divorces are expensive. Very expensive.”

  ***

  Washington, D.C.

  Erica Blake strode down the aisle of the worn, sad-looking cars, checking the prices marked on the windshields. This was the third used-car lot she’d been to this morning and after a few minutes realized the pickings weren’t any better here. But since the Bureau had taken away her SUV and she hated borrowing Steve’s car for more than a few days, she was a motivated buyer.

  Just then a salesman popped out of the small office, a phony smile plastered on his face. The mustachioed man wore a pink pin-stripe shirt, a blue tie and blue suspenders. His jet-black hair looked odd, as if he were wearing a wig.

  “How you doing, Miss,” he said, his voice fast and loud. Already she knew she wouldn’t like this guy.

  “Looking for a car?” he asked.

  “No. I’m shopping for potatoes.”

  He gave her an odd look
, then laughed. “Yeah. Stupid question. Well you came to the right place.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because we got the best used cars in D.C., at the lowest prices.”

  “Save it, buddy. I’ve heard it all before.”

  He appeared surprised at her tone. “Okay. I see you’re a sophisticated buyer.” He pointed to the neon sign over the office, which read, Honest Tony’s Carland!

  “I’m Tony Toluca,” he said, as he stuck out his hand. “What’s your name?”

  They shook and she noticed he had a limp handshake. Another bad tell. “Erica Blake.”

  “Erica. That’s a pretty name for a pretty lady.”

  She reached out with one hand, grabbed his tie and yanked him forward. “Listen, Tony. I’m here to buy a car, not here to listen to bullshit. Are we clear?” She let go of his tie, and he stepped back from her.

  “Sure…sure…I understand,” he stammered. He took out a blue handkerchief and mopped his moist brow.

  She crossed her arms in front of her. “I’m looking for reliable transportation. A car that won’t break down as soon as I drive off this sorry lot.”

  He pointed to the late-model Jaguar sedan she had driven into the lot. “You’re used to fancy wheels, Miss. I’ve got a couple of used cars that are somewhat comparable, just a lot older.”

  She shrugged. “The Jag belongs to a friend of mine. I don’t need anything fancy.”

  “Okay. What’s your budget?”

  She told him and he nodded.

  “That’s not much,” he said, “but I’ve got something that may fit the bill.”

  “Let’s see it, Tony.”

  He led her back to a corner of the lot, pointed to a Ford Taurus sedan with faded green paint. There were dents on the doors and hood.

  “Looks like a piece of crap, Tony.”

  He gave her a brilliant smile. “Looks can be deceiving. I just got this one in, had it checked out. It runs good, even if it looks tired. And it’s within your budget.”

  She walked around the car, noticed the balding tires and the small crack on one of the side windows. She opened the driver’s side door and unlocked the hood. Walking back to the front of the vehicle, she lifted the hood, inspected the engine compartment carefully. Surprisingly, the engine was clean and appeared well-kept. She slammed the hood shut, got in the car and sat in the front seat. The seats and dash were worn, and smelled of stale cigarettes.