“I can’t tell.” The two-story townhomes and mountainous roads blocked Chase’s view. The buildings on their left rose up like the face of a cliff as the road curved up a small mountain.
They passed several more homes and shops before turning a corner, where dozens more people stood in similar fashion, staring at something in the distance. They made another turn and their line of sight cleared. Their right side held an expansive view of the cityscape and ocean.
And then Chase saw what everyone was pointing at.
“What the hell is that?” the driver asked, hunching low to see.
Chase watched in horror as six large shadows from the west began a steep nose-dive toward the ocean, one after the other.
“Stop the car.”
The driver brought the vehicle to a skidding halt where they could get a better look.
“What kind of planes are they? They look like Air Force C-17s, right?”
Chase shook his head. “Naw, man. Those are Chinese Y-20s. Long-range military transports. Same kind they had in Ecuador last year. Looks like they’re diving toward the airport.”
As the two CIA men watched, each of the six aircraft pulled out of its dive, leveling off at about one thousand feet over the water. As the transports crossed the coastline, their noses pitched up. They slowed, flaps coming down. Chase could barely see their rear doors opening.
“Shit…”
Now the aircraft were flying slow in single file. A trail formation, about a half-runway separation between each bird.
And they were dropping gray puffs in their wake. Hundreds of them.
The first wave of paratroopers.
“Come on, man, let’s roll,” Chase said. The car accelerated again, and the driver began taking turns with increased speed, bouncing along the uneven roads.
“So much for a month to prepare while the Chinese sail across the Pacific.”
Chase removed an M-4 from the duffle bag at his feet, throwing the weapon’s sling around his neck. He had no way to contact the safehouse remotely. Standard operating procedure for Lima was radio silence lest a foreign signals intelligence agency locate the safehouse’s position. He had hoped that the deputy station chief would have his burner turned on, but his inability to even get a signal made Chase think that the Chinese might have disabled all cell phone networks.
“That air drop was definitely by the airport.”
“Yup.”
“Estimated strength?” Chase would need to send out this information as soon as he picked up the team at the safehouse.
“Battalion size, by the look of it. Six aircraft. Probably two platoons per bird.”
“Those’ll be their version of Rangers,” Chase said.
“Yup. So expect a second wave at T+4 or so.”
Chase felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. The driver was exactly right. The first wave would be ground troops. Specialists with a mission to take out any enemy personnel and defenses that could be a threat. The second wave would bring in heavy equipment and extended anti-tank capabilities.
Resistance would be minimal here in Lima. But if the Chinese were seizing control of the airport, Chase’s primary evacuation route for Rojas was compromised.
“Take this right. The safehouse is on this street,” Chase said. “We’ll need to switch to one of our alternate exfiltration plans. There’s a—”
Chase went silent as the car navigated the last bend and the safehouse came into view.
Smoke was pouring from the second-story window.
“That it?” asked the driver. He was hunched forward, scanning the rooftops and second-floor balconies along the street.
“That’s it.”
They parked the car two houses away, threw on the parking brake, and got out, heading cautiously toward the home. Chase kept his M-4 trained forward, its stock positioned against his shoulder blade, jogging heel to toe to quiet his steps.
The rattle of machine gun fire echoed in the distance, miles away. The first sounds of the country transforming into a war zone.
As they approached the safehouse door, Chase caught something out of the corner of his eye. He glanced up and saw the old woman on the second-floor balcony of the townhome next door. The surveillance asset.
She was slouched against the two-by-four wooden beam holding up her porch overhang. Lifeless. A small trail of crimson streamed from a hole in her forehead.
Chase stepped into the safehouse’s security entrance. The half-shredded front door lay on the ground, blown off its hinges. Mike, the CIA security team member Chase had been joking with only yesterday, now lay dead on the floor. A scattering of bullet holes marred his neck and head.
They raced past the body and through the second security door, also blown wide open. Chase crept up the stairway, his weapon aimed ahead of him, clearing the stairway corner and then taking in the scene.
The Lima CIA station chief and his deputy were sprawled out across the floor and living room couch, their service weapons at their side. Bullet holes riddled their clothes. The couch was smoldering, and the room smelled of gunfire.
Chase and his companion continued clearing each room of the house in silence until they were sure the threat was gone. No sounds except the now-constant crackle of gunfire miles in the distance.
After a minute, the CIA ground guy announced, “It’s clear.”
Chase nodded, forcing his emotions into a box for later. Right now, he had to move. “Help me get their bodies into the car.”
As they began carrying the first corpse down the stairs, Chase said, “We’ll need to go to the port at Callao.”
“Not the embassy?”
Chase shook his head. “We should assume it’s compromised by now. I need to get information back to the States. My contact at Callao will get us out of the country, but we need to move before the Chinese take the port.”
“Where’s the scientist? Rojas?”
“The Chinese have him.”
7
Victoria sat up, dazed, looking around the chaotic flight deck. A torpedo must have hit the ship. Dark smoke billowed from somewhere forward of the hangar. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard the shipboard speaker, the 1MC, announce a series of alarms.
“FIRE FIRE FIRE,” followed by “FLOODING FLOODING FLOODING.”
The ship’s damage control teams raced through the various compartments, trying to save the ship, while others continued the fight.
Through open hangar doors, she could see sailors running inside the skin of the ship. She winced in pain as she stood, using the helicopter’s nose for balance. She almost fell back over, and realized she was leaning heavily to one side. A standing angle normally reserved for the maximum roll of a large wave.
But the ship wasn’t taking heavy rolls.
The ship was listing… and dead in the water.
Not good.
She looked into the helicopter cockpit. Plug sat in the right seat, waving and yelling to get her attention. Victoria walked over to the cockpit door and opened it.
Plug said, “We’re offline. No one in Combat is talking on the radio anymore. Boss, we gotta lift off now. We’re a sitting duck here.”
Victoria looked around the flight deck, still getting her bearings. The flight deck party was scattered, the maintenance chief yelling at his men to get on their inflatable life vests. The aircraft was still chocked and chained. It would take a few minutes, but it still might be possible to get airborne…
Victoria felt a shudder beneath her feet and heard an explosive rumble somewhere in the ship. Plug’s eyes widened. Soon the deck began pitching downward at a slow but alarming rate.
She said, “We can’t take off. We won’t make it.”
He nodded and began unstrapping with the urgency of a man possessed. The flight deck continued pitching forward. Soon it would transform into a giant ramp, its steepening angle forcing everything and everyone on it to slide down into the hangar.