Five Tribes Page 4

  His opinion of Chip had been solidified during the Battle of Abu Hamam in Syria, when he and Chip were both in Joint Operations Command. One hundred thirty-five marines were pinned down near the central market by roughly two hundred fifty Syrian soldiers. That was bad enough, but things went from bad to ugly fast. A battalion of five hundred Syrian soldiers with Russian “advisers” were heading up the road to encircle the town. Curtiss had ordered Walden to strike the battalion while they were exposed on the road. But Walden had already deployed all his available drones on other missions. In order to strike he’d have to use manned aircraft—F-35s and F-16s out of Cyprus. Suspecting the Russians had given the Syrians surface-to-air missiles, Walden had stalled, making excuses about fuel and armaments. When Curtiss confronted him—knowing full well the fuel and armaments were there—Walden changed tactics and said he’d need to send in wild weasels before authorizing a full strike against the battalion.

  For Curtiss it was unconscionable. One hundred thirty-five marines needed air support, but Walden wouldn’t give it to him because he didn’t want his career tarnished by the death of even one pilot. And Curtiss knew it had nothing to do with the pilots themselves—who were fully aware of the risks they took—and everything to do with Walden’s career.

  In the end, Curtiss had gotten the F-35s from the USS Stennis in the Mediterranean, but it had taken an additional half hour, and in that time fourteen Marines were killed.

  In the aftermath of the operation, Curtiss had pushed to have Walden court-martialed. It hadn’t stuck, but Walden never forgot how Curtiss had tried to blemish his sparkling record.

  Now Walden was looking across the table at Curtiss with the same contempt that Curtiss had always shown him.

  “Well, Vice Admiral,” Walden said. “Why don’t you tell me everything? And no more of this ‘need to know’ bullshit.”

  Curtiss sighed inwardly, then gave a slight bow to his assistant.

  The wall-mounted iSheet came alive, showing drone footage of a parched, windswept landscape. In the center of the screen was a huge traffic circle, with roads coming off it like spokes on a wheel. “This is the site of the incident,” Curtiss began. “Only fifteen people have seen this footage. Unfortunately, the drone did not capture what actually happened, only the aftermath.”

  Curtiss had seen the images hundreds of times, but it still amazed him. Four destroyed Z-10 attack helicopters were visible at various points in the distance, all of them ablaze and sending long plumes of black smoke into the sky. Near the center of the frame were four huge military transport trucks—three clustered together and a fourth tossed two hundred yards from the others like a child’s toy, crumpled at the end of a long trail of debris.

  “Good Lord,” Walden muttered, leaning forward on the edge of his chair, his contempt for Curtiss replaced by amazement at what he was seeing.

  The drone’s camera zoomed in near the cluster of military trucks. Here the ground was littered with at least fifty bodies, most in Chinese army uniforms. Many were bloodied, and the resolution on the camera was so good you could make out bones that protruded from skin and clothing.

  Curtiss continued: “Eyewitness accounts confirmed that this destruction was accomplished within a matter of seconds. That is: the downing of four Z-10 attack helicopters; the killing of fifty-three Chinese soldiers using weaponized nanosites that entered their bodies and killed them from the inside; lifting a nine-ton HG-17 military transport truck and depositing it one hundred ninety yards away; and neutralizing two American JDAM antipersonnel air-to-surface missiles.”

  “Such power!” Walden said. “And he did it all with his mind?”

  Curtiss nodded.

  “What have you learned about this . . . this man?”

  “Almost nothing. The images we have of his face don’t match anyone in the NSA’s database.”

  Curtiss’s assistant pulled up a blurry image of the man. He had sullen cheeks and a raised upper lip and thick black hair that rose haphazardly around his head. Curtiss found the face disturbing. There was something unnatural about the man. At least now he understood why.

  “We are confident he has a way of disguising himself, which, considering his power, would be easy.”

  “But he saved your people?”

  “Yes,” Curtiss said.

  “And he said that he got his power by using your technology . . . what was it called?”

  “Forced Evolution,” Curtiss said.

  “Well, it doesn’t look like you’re running a very tight ship, Admiral. Someone in your organization must have leaked it to him.”

  “Or he hacked in,” Curtiss said.

  “Either way, it’s inexcusable. You really screwed this one up. Now the question is, how do you intend to stop him?”

  Finally, Admiral Garrett broke in. “Chip, the Joint Chiefs discussed this and we don’t feel particularly inclined to pick a fight with an enemy we don’t fully understand.”

  Walden shook his head then pointed at the screen. “Anyone who can do that either needs to be on our side or neutralized. So this is what we are going to do: We are going to find out where he is, then we are going to find out what he is, then, if necessary, we will destroy him.”

  Curtiss and Garrett shared a glance of skepticism.

  “Sir, we need to be prepared for the possibility that killing him may not be possible,” Curtiss said. “Eric Hill and our AI team estimated that he was eight to ten years ahead of us at the time of this encounter . . . and that was seven months ago. He told Hill that he can advance a decade in his own development every hour. If that’s true, then by now the gap would be enormous.”

  “Well, if he got that far using your own technology, you’d better figure out a way to do what he did, because I have a real strong feeling that when push comes to shove, this guy is not going to be on our side.”

  There was a pause. Again, Garrett and Curtiss made eye contact. Curtiss closed his eyes for the briefest of seconds. This was the part he had been dreading the most. As much as he hated Walden, this was the type of news that you didn’t wish on your worst enemy and, quite honestly, he felt sorry for the man.

  Garrett shifted in his seat and leaned forward.

  “Chip, there’s more. And it’s the real reason the Joint Chiefs kept you out of the loop.”

  Walden straightened in his seat, a look of cold resentment on his handsome face.

  “There were six civilian casualties during the incident. They were innocent bystanders traveling nearby in their cars. We don’t know why this man killed them—perhaps he didn’t want any witnesses—but they were killed nevertheless.”

  Walden tilted his head to the side and eyed the CNO suspiciously. “What are you saying?”

  “Look at the date, Chip.”

  Walden picked up the briefing. “Are you telling me . . . ?”

  A look of shock and uncertainty flashed over his face, like a boxer who’s been hit by a blow he didn’t see coming. He shook his head, still trying to understand.

  “You told me she died in a car crash!”

  This was the moment Curtiss expected Walden to really explode, and for a moment he seemed like he would. He rose from his chair, fists clenched, neck muscles tights.

  “You,” he said, pointing his finger at Garrett. “You came to my house and told me she died in a car crash. You lied to my face.”

  Garrett’s visage remained hard. “The decision not to tell you was Ellis’s,” he said, “but he made it on my recommendation. I told him not to tell you, at least until we had a better idea of what we were up against.”

  “I had to fly to Beijing to identify her body. They had her in a fucking freezer at the embassy. Do you have any idea what that was like?”

  Curtiss tried to imagine the scene, except with his own wife in place of Walden’s. Even though Walden and his wife Jackie had been divo
rced for two years, it was no secret that Walden had hoped to win her back.

  “I hope you can forgive me, Chip,” Garrett said. “But the reason we didn’t tell you still stands: You can’t go using your power and influence to wage a personal vendetta. Now that you’ve been promoted, it’s even more important.”

  Walden said nothing. The fight had gone out of him and he sat back, unsteadily, into his chair. “Murdered . . .” he whispered to himself. After a minute Garrett gave Curtiss a nod. The two men and their assistants began to collect their things, but before they left the room Curtiss spoke to Walden. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”

  Walden flinched and looked at Curtiss as if he were a complete stranger, an expression of confusion on his face. Then he seemed to remember himself.

  “Go to hell, Curtiss.”

  Chapter Four

  Ghosts and Demons

  November 4, 2026

  Namibia

  Xiao-ping heard the shouting and screaming from across the compound. It was an alarming sound, the unbridled rage of so many desperate men, a roar that broke the jungle night. He watched as most of the guards in his cellblock ran in that direction.

  “What’s happening?” he whispered to the voice in his head.

  “I’m creating a diversion.”

  He heard gunshots and his heart rate jumped.

  In the Valor, Eric considered giving Xiao-ping a mild sedative but decided to wait. A little adrenaline at this point might be a good thing.

  By now the noise was rousing the other prisoners. Within moments they were all awake, pushing and jostling at the bars in hopes of getting a glimpse of what was going on.

  “It’s happening!” someone said.

  “The mutiny!”

  One of the mine managers ran by, wearing overalls and a yellow hardhat. When he saw the remaining guards, he called to them. “What are you standing there for? Get down to number eight!” The guards obeyed.

  The voice in Xiao-ping’s ear spoke again. “Move to the back of the cell. I’m going to open the door.”

  “What? How?”

  The Kryptonite lock that had held the door fell to the floor in pieces, and the door swung slowly open with a creak.

  The prisoners at the front hesitated, peeking out to make sure no one was watching. But almost immediately the prisoners in the back pushed them out in a flood.

  “Wait a moment,” the voice said. “Let them all go.”

  Most of the men made for the front gate, others hatched a quick plan to use one of the bulldozers to ram through the perimeter fence, still others made for cellblock eight to join the fight.

  A moment later Xiao-ping looked up and realized he was alone in the cell. He stared at the open door, still not sure if he was dreaming or not. There it was. Freedom. After all these years.

  “What do we do now?” said a voice in Chinese. But it was not Xiao-ping or the stranger’s voice.

  Xiao-ping turned to find Yong standing just behind him, as silent as snow. As soon as he saw the man, Xiao-ping knew he couldn’t leave him.

  “Tell him to join the others,” the voice said.

  “No, we have to take him with us.”

  “Nǐ zài gēn shéi shuōhuà?” Yong asked. Who are you talking to?

  “My mission is to get you home. You and only you.”

  “You don’t understand. He won’t survive. Another month in the camp and he’ll die.”

  “We don’t have time to talk about this. You need to move now.”

  “Not without Yong.”

  Eric knew he could do nothing but agree. He had to get Xiao-ping out fast. There were too many moving pieces, and a delay could be fatal not only to Xiao-ping, but to the other operatives now on the ground.

  “Okay, okay, just get moving.”

  Eric quickly relayed the change through the command net. Sawyer is not going to be happy about this.

  Outside was pandemonium. Everywhere Xiao-ping looked, the brutal battle was being fought. While some of the prisoners had rifles, much of the fighting was primal hand-to-hand combat. Many guards had been overwhelmed, but dozens were still fighting, using their batons as clubs.

  About twenty enraged prisoners had captured the warden and put a rope around his neck. They were dragging him to the top of one of the guard towers, while some of the guards appeared to be mounting a counterattack. The bulldozer had been successfully captured and was making its way toward the first perimeter fence. Three men sat on its hood, one with an AK-47 taking wild shots at the guards.

  The voice came again. “Make for the fence on the northeast corner, between cellblocks four and five. Then wait there.”

  Xiao-ping knew that getting out would be difficult. There were eight cellblocks in the compound, arranged in the shape of a horseshoe. At the bottom of the horseshoe was the mess hall, the officers’ and managers’ quarters, and a small shack that served as the infirmary, plus two wooden guard towers on either side of the main gate. The prison compound area was surrounded by an eight-foot-high fence, but the entire compound itself was set inside a seven-square kilometer rectangle that was also surrounded by a ten-foot tall fence topped with loops of razor wire.

  Xiao-ping turned to Yong. “Wǒmen zǒu ba!” Let’s go! They moved together, hunched over and trying to stay in the shadows. The locks of the other cells had by now been opened and men were streaming all around them, but no one seemed to notice them or care. As they emerged from the alley between cellblocks four and five, they found it deserted.

  “There’s no one here,” Xiao-ping said to the voice.

  Just as the words were out of his mouth, he saw the walls on both sides of him begin to move. He jumped back with fright, and Yong let out a yelp of surprise. It was like seeing a shimmering mirage, as if a man had just emerged from the cinder block wall. But not a man, a ghost of a man, a specter that could change color as needed to reflect the things behind it. Only when it moved could he see it and then only barely.

  The first ghost spoke, “Xiao-ping. I’m Sawyer. This is Patel,” he motioned to the other ghost. “Does your friend speak English?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Then I’ll need you to explain everything I tell you to him.” Sawyer handed him a lightweight windbreaker.

  “First, put this on. In a moment you’ll be just like us.”

  It was true, as soon as the jacket was over his shoulders he felt a sudden coldness all over his body then he was a ghost, too. He looked at his arm and saw only the copper colored mud that covered the ground. It gave him a slight dizziness. One function of the eyes is to help the inner ear maintain balance, and without the visual confirmation, his brain was confused as to exactly where he was in space, and he pitched forward like a drunk. Sawyer steadied him. “Just wait a minute and you’ll get used to it.

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have one for your friend. Please explain to him that it is imperative that he stays as close to the rest of us as possible. He doesn’t have protection like we do and if he moves more than five feet away from us, he will be vulnerable.” Xiao-ping did his best to explain it to Yong, who still couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Suen Peng had been a prisoner in cellblock eight when the rage had overcome his mind. But his rage had taken a different form. Instead of a bloodlust to kill the guards, he wanted to kill the other prisoners. Peng was the leader of the Corpse Squad, so he had always known that if there were ever a mutiny, he would do his best to help the guards, because if the mutiny succeeded, he would surely be killed.

  During the initial moments of the riot, he had played along, pretending his rage was directed at the guards, but once out in the open he hid between the treads of an excavator. He watched more guards being overwhelmed and killed, his panic rising. He had to think of a plan, for he knew that when all the guards were out of commission, they would come looking for him.


  Just then another prisoner scrambled under the excavator, Peng turned on him, ready to pounce. Then he realized it was Keung, another member of the Corpse Squad. “Guòlái zhèlǐ,” he hissed. Come over here.

  A plan began to take shape. Peng had seen how the guards’ weapons had refused to work, yet had somehow fired when Enlai killed one of the guards. A thought came to him.

  “The rifles,” he hissed, “if we can get them, we might have a chance.”

  Keung pointed. Near the entrance of cellblock six lay a dead soldier, face down in the mud. It took Peng a moment to see the butt of the Kalashnikov sticking out of the mud. He ran for it, knelt down in the mud and rolled the soldier over. He scraped the mud from the barrel and trigger guard. At that very moment two prisoners came out of the door behind him. He pivoted on his knee and fired. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Bullets cut them down. Keung came and knelt beside him. Peng gave him the soldier’s pistol.

  The battle raged around them. The bulldozer had breached the first perimeter fence, and the warden was swinging from the guard post, his face purple, hands tearing at the noose, legs treading invisible water.

  The battle was turning into a rout. Everywhere Peng looked, prisoners with rifles were shooting guards and prison officials. Those who didn’t have guns were fighting hand-to-hand. Peng realized the only way for them to get more rifles was to kill the prisoners who had them. He motioned to Keung, and they took the long way around the mess hall where they were fewer lights, hoping to surprise the prisoners pushing toward the front gate. On their way they found Ju Long, another member of the Corpse Squad. If they could each get a rifle, they might turn the tide of the battle.

  “Viper One, this is Night Owl, I’m picking up something. Four bogeys coming in from the northwest.” It was the voice of Master Sergeant Don Hendricks, the pilot of the Predator drone.

  Suddenly Eric’s audio feed was filled with chatter.

  Sawyer: “Can you identify?”

  Night Owl: “They’re moving too fast to be choppers, but too slow for jets. Most likely Z-15 gunships . . . Black Widows.”