The Tree of Liberty: Lawson Holland Thrillers, #3

By M. P. MacDougall

He just saved his son. Together, can they save their country?

Lawson Holland has returned from rescuing his son Tony in Afghanistan, hoping to finally live a normal life. But when war breaks out close to home, Holland, Tony and company are caught up in it. The resulting fight will decide the future of their country, but it may cost them everything.

The Tree of Liberty is the third book in the fast-paced Lawson Holland thriller series. This high-intensity, shocking technothriller in the style of Tom Clancy, Brad Taylor, Vince Flynn, Brad Thor and Nelson DeMille will grab you on page one and won't let you go. Get The Tree of Liberty today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dysfunctional Dozen Press
• Release date: Dec 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9780990978145

M. P. MacDougall

M.P. MacDougall is an American historian, voice actor and author of political/military thrillers, humorous satire and fantasy. The youngest of twelve children, he grew up on a suburban farm, spending much of his free time chasing cows, perfecting bicycle stunts and playing in the dirt, and he never had to wear a helmet or use anti-bacterial soap. He was a professional air traffic controller for more than 26 years, serving in the US Air Force, Oregon Air National Guard, Department of Defense, and finally the Federal Aviation Administration. He controlled traffic in eleven different control tower and radar approach control facilities in three different countries on three continents, as well as in four different US states. He retired in 2017 to pursue his lifelong dream of writing. MP lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and three children.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

CONGREGATIO TEMPESTATE

15 Days After the Crash of AIR FORCE ONE

The United States of America was a country in chaos.

Only fifteen days had passed since a freak accident had caused Air Force One to crash in an Idaho wilderness. Within twenty-four hours of the accident, terrorists had coordinated hundreds of attacks on civilian locations across the country, resulting in thousands of deaths and mass panic. Many of the victims were civic leaders and governmental officials, a fact that contributed heavily to the rapidly spreading sense of fear and uncertainty.

The American government had quickly proven itself incapable of wringing order from the chaos. Vice President Aron Reese had been sworn in as the new president within hours of the downing of Air Force One, but glaring inconsistencies in reports about the causes of the accident, as well as the presence or absence of survivors, had fed conspiracy theories and wild speculation. Some people at the highest levels of government suspected, and others whispered, that Reese might have played some part, either active or passive, in removing his former boss.

Those whispers grew to shouts several days later. Shocking video footage surfaced of President Tolliver, very much alive hours after the crash, being shot to death by a single assassin in a remote mercantile near the Montana-Idaho border. Having already reported that Tolliver’s body had been found, burned in the plane crash more than fifty miles away from that mercantile, Reese was backed into a corner, his role in the assassination and his legitimacy as president overshadowed by a fast-growing cloud of suspicion.

Then, Secretary of Defense David Coleridge had turned up dead in his home, dangling from an upstairs railing by his own necktie. Speculation started growing about Coleridge’s potential involvement with Tolliver’s assassination, and how close his ties had been with the new president, Aron Reese. Coleridge was potentially the second assassination victim in less than two weeks, and his death only served to increase pressure on Reese and his already stumbling transition.

Unable to explain away his role in the events, Reese had withdrawn, eventually cancelling all press briefings and eliminating his public appearances altogether. Aides agreed that the new president seemed mentally unstable at best, and completely unhinged at worst. Most people believed the country had just suffered a coup, but no one seemed to know what to do next.

With his enemies and opponents circling, Reese became more and more isolated and less in charge of the day-to-day events of the country. Drastically weakened at home and abroad, America suddenly found itself a ripe target for foreign opportunists.

The significance of America’s sudden vulnerability was not lost on the rest of the world. Terror attacks continued to break out around the country, executed by sleeper cells of radical Islamists and home grown radicals alike. Reprisals by civilian groups spread as well, resulting in a general disregard for the rule of law, growing vigilantism and an increasingly realistic fear that the entire nation might collapse under the strain.

Overseas, the Russians saw an opportunity and began moving men and equipment to their Far East. Their eyes were on Alaska, and they were gambling that the United States would not have the resolve or the resources to respond to the threat.

In Europe, the NATO powers scrambled to find a solution, knowing that the wholesale collapse of America both economically and militarily would soon lead to a similar fate for them.

And in China, the Communist Party leadership also saw a golden opportunity as they watched the developing situation. It quickly became obvious to them that the time was ripe to manipulate events to further their own gains.

America was gravely wounded, its enemies were circling, and time was running out.

1

PATIENTES NULLA

Beijing Capital International Airport

Beijing, China

Day 15

Gao Jianli was sweating, in spite of the air conditioning. The four blank-faced soldiers escorting him to his departure gate had mostly kept the crush of people in the terminal at a wary distance, but Gao still had to pause when the crowd waiting at his gate got too dense. He turned slowly and looked at the scowling Guoanbu agent following behind him.

Gao had been in the custody of the Guoanbu, better known as the Chinese Ministry of State Security, for the past seven years. His crime had been to speak out against the Chinese government at an international symposium on human rights, and the government had responded by arresting him, seizing all his assets, and sentencing his wife to life in a forced labor camp. She had died there two years later.

In the years that followed, Gao had had plenty of time to wish that he had died in her place. The Guoanbu had not been gentle. When he wasn’t in solitary confinement, locked in a four foot by four foot cell with no room to lay down, he’d been subjected to a never ending variety of torture and interrogation. He had been constantly sleep deprived, sick and repeatedly beaten. He wasn’t certain any more how he’d survived, much less why.

He was even less sure about why he was now standing at a gate in the largest airport in China, under a departure board indicating a non-stop flight to Los Angeles, California. He didn’t know if he should be happy or if this was just another method of torment the Guoanbu had come up with - tempting him with freedom and then dragging him back to his cell at the last moment.

The agent scowled at Gao, shoving his way past and pushing through the crowd to the boarding agent. He flashed his ID and spoke to her in hushed tones, pointing behind him at Gao, who watched the exchange with dread.

The woman’s eyes widened slightly, then she motioned Gao forward. Your ticket, please.

Gao glanced at the Guoanbu agent again, then handed over his ticket. His hand was shaking. The woman scanned the ticket, then disconnected the nylon strap blocking access to the jetway entrance. Gao looked at her, but she averted her eyes, so he started to move forward.

He jumped when the Guoanbu man clamped a hand on his shoulder and spun him around. The man had eyes like a snake. He stuck his face close to Gao’s and spoke through clenched teeth.

You are fortunate, traitor. The Party has decided that you are of more value alive than dead. I have no idea why - I would have preferred to see you executed for your crimes against the state, but that was not my choice. He glanced over Gao’s shoulder out the window. Take a good, long look. It will be the last time you ever see China. He leaned in close and hissed into Gao’s ear. If you try to come back, I will happily kill you myself.

Gao nodded once, and the man released his grip. Gao took a deep breath, squared his shoulders as much as he could, and shuffled through the gate into the jetway. He had no idea what awaited him at the other end, but he was certain the Guoanbu man was right.

There was nothing left for him in China.

Fourth Military Medical University

Department of Biomedical Engineering

Xi’an, China

How does it work? Colonel General Ma Yong’s eyes were wide as he stared through the thick glass into the bright lights of the Level Four biological containment laboratory on the other side.

President Zhao Shen started to answer. As I understand it, this gene…

The ZC3H12 gene, the doctor interrupted.

Zhao glared at the man before continuing. As you say. This gene is essentially a protein that is crucial for the efficient growth of a variety of organisms, but most importantly for our purposes, for several types of deadly viruses.

The doctor sniffed. That is a simplification, but yes, it is accurate enough.

Zhao glared at the doctor again, but the man seemed oblivious. At any rate, Zhao said, the presence of this gene helps these viruses to grow. And we have developed a method for encouraging the gene itself to grow unchecked.

But how? Ma was still staring through the glass at the half dozen people working in HAZMAT gear on the other side, as if he was afraid some horrible pathogen would burst through the window and kill them all.

Zhao looked at the doctor. Perhaps you would like to explain it more clearly, Doctor.

The man nodded and turned to Ma. You recall the MERS scare several years ago, when many Western governments panicked and pushed through experimental mRNA vaccinations?

Yes, of course.

We had people working on the research teams at two of the American companies that produced those vaccines.

Ma’s eyebrows went up. You’re saying they laced their vaccines with a virus?

Not at all, the doctor sniffed again. He didn’t seem capable of hiding his disdain for less intelligent people - even when those people were the two most powerful men in China. What they did do, he continued, was alter the mRNA the vaccine was built around. People who received the altered vaccine would experience rapid overgrowth of the ZC3H12 protein gene, but would have no outward indication of that overgrowth.

Ma shook his head. Forgive me - if there is no effect, then what would be the point?

The doctor frowned, looking down his nose at Ma as if he was an idiot. "The point is, that when a host carries a protein gene that has been instructed by the altered mRNA to replicate on a massive scale when exposed to a certain viral agent - and the viral agent itself thrives because of that protein, you have a perfect storm for spreading an infectious disease. The subjects get the vaccine and then go about their lives, completely unaware that they have willingly received the first half of a binary biological weapon into their bodies.

The second half of that weapon is a genetically modified version of the Marburg virus that is even more contagious than the naturally occurring strain - because we have discovered how to make it airborne - but it is mostly benign in any host who lacks the modified gene protein. In those cases, it would present as nothing more serious than a common cold. We have completed extensive research on fruit bats, which are the natural hosts of the Marburg virus. These animals show no outward symptoms of the disease, even when blood tests show they are clearly infected. We used that knowledge to work backward and perfect a method -

Wait, Ma interrupted, holding up a hand to stop the flood of information. You’re saying we had people on the American R&D teams that developed the MERS vaccines?

The doctor scowled. Yes, I said that, but that is not the interesting part. Now, as I was saying about the fruit bats -

Ma ignored him, looking back through the window into the laboratory. And those people inserted the modified mRNA into the vaccines, but the mRNA is essentially invisible…

Until the vaccinated person is later exposed to our similarly modified Marburg virus, the doctor said, exasperated that Ma seemed uninterested in his line of explanation. Once that happens, the Marburg virus runs its course. The mortality rate is incredibly high, and all known treatments are mostly ineffective.

How high?

I’m sorry?

The mortality rate, Ma said. How high?

Ninety percent, in our live trials. The doctor folded his arms across his chest and let slip a thin smile.

Ma looked at Zhao. And this is ready to deploy?

Zhao smiled slightly. "It has already been deployed."

Ma’s jaw dropped. When?

This morning. As soon as our friend Gao Jianli boarded his flight to Los Angeles. He looked at his watch. Another carrier should be landing in Moscow within the hour. Two more have already arrived in Irkutsk and Khabarovsk.

The Russians developed their own vaccines during the MERS outbreak, the doctor explained. But by the time they did, we had already infiltrated their laboratory as well. The same modified mRNA was added to their stock that we added to the western nations’ vaccines.

Ma was stunned. He looked at Zhao, then the doctor, but words escaped him. It was all he could do to maintain his composure as he turned away, staring dumbly back into the lab.

Time of incubation from first exposure runs from a week to ten days, the doctor went on. "We should be getting reports of multiple outbreaks within that time frame. The first deaths will follow immediately after.

Computer simulations show the secondary infections from the aircraft passengers on the Los Angeles flight alone will reach most of the population centers in North America. Tertiary exposure, people contacting those who contacted the passengers, will be exponentially higher. The spread will be more rapid in Russia, since we are going in with three hosts, all of them diplomatic attachés with wide contacts in the Russian government. The outbreak will be global in a month.

Ma felt bile rising in the back of his throat. He could feel his own pulse pounding in his head.

You have done well, doctor, Zhao was saying. We look forward to the success of the project.

Thank you, sir. The doctor bowed slightly and backed out of the room.

Zhao stood next to General Ma and clasped his hands behind his back, following Ma’s gaze into the lab. Are you unwell, my friend?

Ma turned and faced him. The man before him had been his friend since they were young boys. They’d risen together in the Party, but Ma had no illusions that his own ascendance had been anything more than a reflection of Zhao’s. Ma had pursued promotion as a means to privilege and luxury, but Zhao had always been more driven, more ruthlessly focused in his pursuit of advancement, and that drive had won him the most powerful position in China. Ma knew that Zhao was capable of -no, guilty of - brutality, but until now he’d been able to rationalize it away as a necessary evil, an unfortunate corollary of the incredibly powerful position his friend held.

But this?

This was too much. Zhao had unleashed biological warfare on the entire planet apart from China. If that smug doctor was even halfway correct in his projections, millions - no, billions, Ma corrected himself - would die as a result. A sudden impulse welled up within Ma, screaming out at him that the man he had thought was his friend, the person whose coat tails he’d ridden to his own success, was actually a genocidal monster.

He had to do something. He had to stop him; stand up to him, even if it meant just reaching out and taking him by the throat, choking the life out of him right then and there, for the greater good of mankind -

General Ma. The hint of menace in Zhao’s voice startled Ma, who realized with a start that he’d been staring blankly.

I - ah, forgive me, Ma stammered. My mind was… elsewhere. He quickly lowered his eyes, afraid that Zhao would somehow discern his thoughts. "No, lingxiu. I am not unwell. Thank you for asking."

Zhao sniffed. You look sick to me. He motioned toward the door. Shall we go, then? We both have much to do. Perhaps you should make time to see your doctor?

Ma found that his good intentions were not enough to overcome his own weaknesses. He wasn’t strong enough to take matters into his own hands, to reach out and kill Zhao, even if it would be for the greater good. It was all he could manage just to nod and meekly follow his leader out of the building.

Someone else - anyone else - would have to stand up to Zhao.

Gao tried to relax as the plane lifted off and turned to the east. He could feel his pulse racing. As the aircraft climbed through ten thousand feet and the cabin crew started moving around, passing out drinks, he felt tears welling up. A thousand thoughts and memories flooded his mind, but especially he thought about his wife, and the last time he’d seen her, crying as the Guoanbu had dragged him from their home. Even though she’d been dead for five years now, he felt a sense of betrayal in abandoning her this way, leaving the country of their birth like some common criminal going into exile.

It was irrational, he knew, but he still couldn’t ignore it. She had wanted him to stand up to the Communists, to speak out and risk everything in the hope that his voice might change something. But still, Gao knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his actions had led directly to his wife’s murder at the hands of the Chinese government.

Even worse, he had somehow survived. For whatever reason, he was still alive, and was finally escaping from the brutal regime he and his wife had opposed throughout their marriage. He was alive, and she was not.

He tried to hide his tears as the flight attendant came to his row, but she didn’t look at him, much less offer him a drink. After serving the two people on his right, she moved on. Gao knew she did it out of fear. He knew she was afraid that if she showed him kindness, another member of the crew or one of the passengers would report it to her superiors. He knew that was the case, but deep inside, his self-loathing told him it was just confirmation that he was beneath even the simplest act of compassion.

He turned his face to the window and watched his homeland recede below him. He was alive, but try as he might, he couldn’t think of a single reason to want to be.

Irkutsk International Airport

Irkutsk, Russia

Georgy Toporov snaked his cab through the crush of traffic in front of the terminal, cutting off another cabbie and stopping next to an Asian man dressed in a cheap suit. Georgy hopped out and walked around the cab, grabbed the man’s case without asking if he wanted a taxi, and tossed it into the trunk. The man opened his own door and climbed in the back seat. Marriott, he said simply, then busied himself with his cell phone, ignoring Georgy.

Perfect, Georgy thought. Twenty minutes out, another twenty back. He’d have time to grab a bite to eat before picking up one more fare, then he could go straight home. He’d had a busy day today, and he wanted to go home early. After a couple of failed attempts at small talk, Georgy left his passenger to himself and enjoyed the drive. He barely noticed the two times the man sneezed on the way to the Marriott.

Los Angeles International Airport

Los Angeles, California

The Boeing 787 Dreamliner that brought Gao to Los Angeles had been packed to capacity. The nationwide flight restrictions imposed by the Americans immediately following the crash of Air Force One two weeks earlier had only been lifted for a few days, and the backlog of travelers was still immense. About two thirds of the passengers on Gao’s flight were Chinese nationals, but the other third were Americans, with several Canadians and two Mexicans mixed in. The close seating made it a foregone conclusion that the latent, modified strain of the Marburg virus that Gao was carrying would spread to the people seated around him, and the thirteen hour flight time made it even more certain.

Gao didn’t know it, but he was the delivery system for a weapon the Chinese government had been working on for years. Prior to releasing him from prison, Gao’s captors had given him a variety of injections, telling him they were vitamin shots and basic vaccinations. He hadn’t believed them, but he’d been in no position to argue, and now that he was safely away and hadn’t become sick, he’d forgotten the episode altogether. He didn’t know that they had injected him with a deadly virus, and that throughout the flight, he’d been unwittingly infecting his fellow passengers with it.

None of the Chinese passengers were in danger - they hadn’t been injected with the hastily developed American MERS vaccine years before that had carried the necessary mRNA trigger. The Western passengers were a different story. One of the Mexicans, all of the Canadians, and ninety-five per cent of the Americans on board the flight had received the MERS vaccine with the modified mRNA. When one of them inhaled even a microscopic aerosolized particle of liquid that Gao breathed out, the ZC3H12 protein they carried would recognize it as an instruction to reproduce on a massive scale. In turn, the modified virus would feed on the growing proteins and then reproduce rapidly, and it would tear through their bodies like a wildfire.

The lucky ones would die quickly.

Gao emerged from the jetway and into the terminal in Los Angeles, and started to follow the crowd as it shuffled toward the customs area. He noticed a man coming toward him against the flow of people, and he stopped, suddenly fearful again. The man’s suit and manner told Gao clearly that he was a police officer or government official of some sort. Gao glanced around, but there was literally nowhere to go, so he simply stopped and waited. If they had allowed him to come this far, only to return him to custody now, they were even more sadistic than he’d imagined. His knees felt weak as he watched the man approach.

Mr. Gao?

Gao looked at the man. I am Gao Jianli.

The man smiled and thrust out his hand, causing Gao to flinch. Dave Proctor, U. S. State Department. Welcome to America, sir.

Gao looked dumbly at Proctor’s outstretched hand. He couldn’t bring himself to respond.

Proctor withdrew his hand, looking uncomfortable. I apologize that we had no one else here to greet you, Mr. Gao. Things around here have been, well, chaotic to say the least, and your arrival wasn’t made known to us until the very last minute. They sent me over as soon as we heard you were on the flight. Normally, we would have arranged for a more, uh, appropriate welcome, but under the circumstances, I guess I’m it. He stuck his hand out again, this time raising an encouraging eyebrow.

Gao slowly took his hand. He struggled to respond, since he hadn’t spoken English in years. No need to apologize, Mr. Proctor, he finally said slowly. "I did not expect to survive, so any welcome is appreciated."

You must be exhausted, Proctor said. If you’ll come with me, I think we can dispense with the need to wait at immigration. We’ll set you up with a temporary place to stay for the time being, until we can work out where you want to settle down. He gently ushered Gao toward a doorway off the main corridor. Is this your first time in America?

No. Gao stopped abruptly, caught off guard by a sudden mental picture of the first time he’d been to America. He’d come on a business trip with his wife shortly after they were married. They had both been arrested and interrogated by the Guoanbo after they returned to China from that trip, and after their release, both of them had found they had plenty of reasons to think more critically of their government. In a way, it had put Gao on a path to this very moment.

Mr. Gao? Proctor was looking at him. Is everything all right?

Gao blinked back the tears that had welled up again. Sorry. I was just remembering someone. He straightened up and forced a smile. It is fine. I will come with you now.

Proctor escorted Gao through a maze of hallways before they finally made their way into the main terminal, and then out to the parking garages, where Proctor had left his vehicle. He hurried to open the passenger door for Gao, who looked embarrassed by the attention. As Proctor got in and started weaving the car through traffic toward the exit, Gao stared vacantly out the window.

Why ‘chaotic’? he asked.

Excuse me?

You said inside, that things were ‘chaotic.’ Why?

Proctor glanced over at him. "Sorry. I forgot you’ve been… out of the loop, so to speak. When did they let you out of prison?"

This morning, Gao said softly. He half turned his head toward Proctor. I thought they were taking me to a firing squad. He looked back out the window. But they took me to the airport instead.

Proctor shifted uncomfortably in his seat. I guess that explains a lot. You wouldn’t have heard about everything going on here. We can catch up on that later, though. I don’t want to dump on you right now.

Please, Gao said. I would like to know what has been happening. I have not had much information since I was sent to the prison. Any news would be better than being kept in the dark.

That might depend on the news, Proctor said. But if you really want to hear it, I’ll do my best to bring you up to speed. Just stop me if it gets too much, all right?

Gao nodded, continuing to stare out the window.

All right, Proctor said, taking a deep breath. So, a couple of weeks ago, President Tolliver’s plane crashed in the mountains up in Idaho…

Sorry, Gao interrupted. President who?

Tolliver. Galen Tolliver? Proctor caught himself again. "Oh, right, you wouldn’t have known that he was even elected. So, Galen Tolliver was only about two years into his first term as president, okay? He was on a trip across country and his plane flew into a storm and crashed. He survived, but then he was assassinated the next day as he hiked out of the mountains. They haven’t caught the assassin yet.

Then, on the same day as the assassination, a bunch of Muslim terrorists staged attacks against civilian targets all across the country. Killed lots of people, including quite a few members of Congress, Supreme Court Justices, you name it.

Oh, my. I am very sorry to hear.

Yeah. So Aron Reese, who was Tolliver’s Vice President, takes over. There’s rumors going around that Reese had something to do with Tolliver’s death, but you didn’t hear that from me, okay? Proctor chuckled.

Gao looked at him in horror. In my country, even joking about such a thing would get you arrested; most likely shot.

Proctor’s grin evaporated. Sorry. We’re a little freer with our gallows humor over here, I imagine.

You are freer in many more ways than you appreciate, I think.

Probably. You want me to go on?

This time Gao managed a slight smile. You mean there is more?

Oh, yeah, Proctor said. It’s mostly along the lines of civil unrest and economic disaster, though. People have been really nervous since the attacks, and nobody in the federal government seems to have a good handle on what to do. You ask me? This country is on the brink of collapse. Not to detract from what you went through in prison, but this might not be the best time to come here. You’re not exactly catching us at our best.

Believe me, Mr. Proctor, Gao said. Even at its worst, America is better than China at its best. I wanted to make China more like America, and they imprisoned me and murdered my wife for it. You have great freedom here. That may be a vulnerability - it makes it easier for terrorists to attack you, for example - but in my country and others like it, freedom is seen as a threat to those in power. They wouldn’t have tortured me and killed my wife if they weren’t frightened by what we had to say.

Proctor nodded, accelerating as the airport exit road finally merged with the freeway. I understand your point, but forgive me for asking - if they saw you as such a threat, why let you go now, after what, seven years? That doesn’t make sense.

Gao thought about that for a moment, then shook his head slowly. "It may make no sense to me or you, Mr. Proctor, but do not be deceived. The Chinese Communist Party does nothing - nothing - without having very good reason for doing it. I do not know how they think my release will benefit them, but if they did not think it would, they would not have let me go. He fixed his eyes on Proctor. They would have put a bullet in my head and saved you a trip to the airport."

Proctor fixed his eyes on the road. He believed Gao was right, and the thought gave him no comfort.

2

PONAM AEREAS

Anadyr-Ulgony Airbase

Chukotka Autonomous Okrug, Eastern Russia

Day 15

Fools! Colonel Pavel Karpov stormed out of the operations building, into the cold light of a subarctic midday. He was supposed to be planning an assault schedule, but every day brought another setback. The original war plan - more than twenty years old and rushed into use in response to the ongoing terrorist attacks and political crises in America - had called for a widespread airborne assault against multiple targets in Alaska, with fifteen thousand airborne troops deploying in the first wave. Karpov had known that plan was overly optimistic, since it was based on the total number of heavy lift aircraft in the Russian Air Force’s inventory. In reality, less than half that number of planes were actually combat ready - the other half were victim to mechanical failure, incomplete maintenance or parts cannibalization.

Karpov had just ended a conference call with his superiors at Air Force Command in Moscow. They had blithely informed him that he would have to execute their original plan with still less; they were only able to provide him four Antonov AN-124 heavy transports, and twenty-seven Ilyushin IL-76 medium transports. Even if they made good on that much smaller number, which Karpov was beginning to doubt, it would leave him with the ability to deliver little more than three thousand troops in the first wave.

One fifth, Karpov thought. He was required to carry out the original war plan as written, with only one fifth of the troops allotted in that plan. High Command had tried to reassure him that additional troops would be landed from amphibious assault ships which were already enroute. Still more were to be transported in successive waves as the transport aircraft returned from their initial sorties, but Karpov knew that wasn’t good enough.

Overwhelming force, he’d argued. They needed overwhelming force in the first wave, not a piecemeal buildup over the course of several hours or even days. Alaska was immense, and with no less than fifteen military, industrial and port facilities designated as critical targets, Karpov had been concerned that fifteen thousand troops were barely enough to accomplish Moscow’s goals. But three thousand? It was a logistician’s nightmare.

Karpov fumed all the way back to his office, a tiny room at the back of an ancient cargo terminal that felt more like a janitor’s closet. He pulled up his operations order on his computer, going over it line by line and trying to determine which targets he could ignore until the second or third wave, and which ones he could bypass altogether. Karpov mentally eliminated every Alaskan Coast Guard station on his list, since those facilities were geared mostly for search and rescue rather than combat operations - they posed minimal threat. Their runways would need to be targeted by cruise missiles in order to deny their use to the Americans, but Karpov couldn’t justify using any of his limited personnel to take those sites.

Fairbanks, a thousand miles east of Anadyr-Ulgony, had three major airports that the Russian forces would need to control right away. There were another three in Anchorage. The first priority would be to take Elmendorf and Eielson Air Force bases, as well as the Army installations at Forts Wainwright, Richardson and Greely. Those bases housed the majority of the American military personnel in the state, so neutralizing them would go a long way toward ending the campaign.

Each of those installations would be targeted by cruise missiles first, then assaulted by airborne troops immediately afterward to secure their airfields and whatever infrastructure survived. The amphibious ships would land more troops and heavy equipment that would support the airborne forces, but the landing ships had to cross nearly two thousand miles of ocean before they could bring their equipment to bear. Anything could happen during the week it would take to make the journey; for them to arrive in time to correspond with the airborne assault was, to Karpov, little more than a fantasy.

Karpov’s other major consideration was capturing intact the Alaskan oil production facilities. Spread over eight hundred miles of mostly wilderness from Point Barrow in the north to Seward in the south, those facilities accounted for almost one quarter of all domestic American crude oil production. The Alaskan refineries were smaller and had a much lower production capability than their counterparts in the continental U.S., with the majority of their output being jet fuel rather than automotive gasoline or other products; but the Russian forces would desperately need that jet fuel, as well as the crude oil it came from, in order to press their conquest further into North America. Taking those resources would not only bolster the Russian position in Alaska, it would make it even more difficult for the Americans to fight back.

Three thousand men, he thought again, shaking his head. Even with the severely diminished strength of the American armed forces in Alaska, thanks to the massive drawdown under the late President Tolliver, Karpov was still almost certain that it couldn’t be done.

And yet, he had no choice.

Lemhi County Sheriff’s Office

Salmon, Idaho

Sheriff Ferrara. Lemhi County Sheriff Sam Ferrara held the phone loosely to his ear as he tried to stir powdered creamer into his cold coffee.

Sheriff, it’s FBI Special Agent Marsden with the Salt Lake Field Office.

Agent Marsden! I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about us. How’re Dumb and Dumber holding up to questioning? Ferrara was referring to the two Air Force Office of Special Investigation agents he’d arrested several days earlier in connection with the cover-up of President Galen Tolliver’s assassination. Ferrara had turned the men over to Marsden and the FBI.

That’s what I’m calling about, Marsden said. When I first took those two off of your hands, I figured Coakley would be a hard sell, but Ford looked like he was close to spilling the whole story.

Were you right?

Not exactly. Ford clammed up, but Coakley? After sitting in a holding cell for twenty-four hours, we laid out how many years of hard time he was looking at. Told him he was headed for the supermax prison down in Colorado. Twenty-three hours a day of solitary confinement for the rest of his life. He started crying, you believe that?

Ferrara chuckled. Actually, yeah. I can picture it. When the loudmouths break, they usually break pretty hard.

Well, he broke hard, all right. It was pretty embarrassing, actually. Guy blubbering and crying all over himself, begging us to cut him a deal.

He give you anything worthwhile?

Quite a lot. You ever hear of a private security contractor called Hydra Security International - HSI?

Ferrara let out a long breath. Can’t say as I have.

Well, it turns out these two were working as independent contractors on the side for HSI. They were both recruited by that Air Force General you told me about.

Pope.

The very same. Apparently, Pope was using his position at the Pentagon to line his pockets as a headhunter for this HSI company. Trolling the military to find willing subcontractors.

What - for assassinations?

Among other things. Apparently, HSI has operatives all around the country. Mostly ex-special forces types, guys with specialized military training. When they had a job that required a tactical team, they’d call those guys in.

Let me guess. Pope handled logistics, transportation, that sort of thing.

"You got it. So our boys Ford and Coakley get a call from Pope shortly after Air Force One turns into a smoking hole in the mountains. He sends them out to the Trail’s End Mercantile as a sort of clean-up crew. Tells ‘em to collect one of the bodies, and make it disappear."

They strong-armed the medical examiner up there. Threatened him.

That lines up with what Coakley told us. They came in and collected the body of this supposed John Doe, then took it to a local funeral home that had access to an incinerator and an owner willing to look the other way.

So now we know what happened to President Tolliver’s body.

We do.

Pretty good chance that the three ‘independent security consultants’ that were executed at the crash scene were one of HSI’s teams, then?

We think so, Marsden said. Seems like HSI covered its tracks pretty well as far as employee records, but we’re making some headway. One of those guys in particular we were able to connect to HSI right away.

Which one?

The one with the bullet hole behind his right ear, Teodor Skizak. Went by the alias of ‘Teddy Skeet.’ Second generation Polish immigrant. Did two years in the Navy before getting kicked out for punching a training supervisor during SEAL selection, of all places. That was right before Tolliver drew down the military. Looks like our Mr. Skizak was an adrenaline junkie of sorts. Couple of arrests after he left the navy, for base jumping off of several prominent buildings without permission. Then he ended up working at HSI.

How’d you find that out, if they were so careful about their records?

"They were careful; Skizak wasn’t. His apartment was full of news clippings showing different major events that he claimed to be involved in through HSI. He’d written on them with a magic marker a bunch of stuff about how he was a hero, saying ‘my company, HSI’ did this or that. Real ego trip, that guy must have been. We put together a lot of pieces just from what we found at his place.

The other two victims at the Air Force One site were basically just what you said they were before we took over the investigation. Both special forces vets, pushed out of work by Tolliver’s foreign policy. They both listed their occupations as ‘independent security consultants’, just like Skizak and Newill.

So, what about HSI itself? You said Pope worked for them?

Indirectly. We’ve started digging into that as well. Found something pretty interesting, too. It looks like the company was formed by several investors, but they aren’t specifically named on the company’s filing documents. We had to dig through a bunch of shell parent companies to find out who was really behind HSI.

You’re killing me, Agent Marsden.

Marsden laughed. Sorry. It was Coleridge.

Ferrara almost choked on his coffee. The late Secretary of Defense?

Yes, sir. Turns out, Coleridge started HSI in response to the years of military downsizing. He figured there was still a demand for some of the personnel who got the axe, and he could hire them and get their old jobs done for much less than Uncle Sam. He did that, and was still able to make millions in the process, using his position in government to ensure that HSI got the most lucrative contracts, but he managed to stay out of the limelight in doing it.

Ferrara sighed. And then when Tolliver gutted the military, Coleridge was already in position to pick up the slack.

That’s right, Marsden said. They did all kinds of stuff, all for a premium. Hostage rescue, hits on cartel bosses, midnight snatch and grabs on violent criminals, you name it. They’d activate whatever operatives they needed, use military transport to get them to the job, then send them back to their normal lives after it was over. Their teams would just vanish back into society, and nobody would be the wiser.

A lot easier to hide a paramilitary group if you hide ‘em in plain sight, I guess.

That’s a fact.

So, do you think Reese had Coleridge killed? To cover up his involvement?

That’s certainly an angle we’re exploring, Marsden said. If I had to bet, I’d lay good money on it.

What a mess. Ferrara yawned. Sorry. I had a long day yesterday.

You’ve had more than your share of those lately, I gather?

He laughed. Yeah, more than I’d like.

The crash recovery team isn’t giving you too much trouble, I hope?

Oh, no. They pretty much stick to the airport and their hotel, when they’re not flying back and forth to the crash site. No, we had a big structure fire in town last night, so I’m pretty much on no sleep right now.

Not terrorist related, was it?

"No. Drunk teenager related. Small town, kids get bored, sooner or later