The Armageddon Machine by Mike Ramon
Chapter Three
Washington, D.C.
May 26 -- 21:45 UTC/5:55 pm local time
The plane ride into D.C. had been a bumpy one, but David had been on worse flights before. Upon landing at Dulles Norwalk and Greeves--the latter’s nose beginning to look eerily identical to an eggplant--had handed him off to a beautiful, dark-eyed woman who introduced herself as Agent Sarah Marquez, also with the NTRA. Now David sat in the back of another black government-issue car, with Agent Marquez seated beside him. A light drizzle pattered against the tinted windows. They were driving through heavy traffic, on their way to who the hell knew where. Agent Marquez, like Agent Norwalk before her, divulged information only sparingly, and most of David’s questions had been met with the standard response of, “You will be fully briefed when we arrive at our destination”.
The driver--who David had not been introduced to--was a beefy G.I. Joe-type, undoubtedly a soldier, or at least a former one; he drove in silence, seeming to take no notice of his backseat passengers except for a couple of occasions when David caught him looking back at them in the rearview mirror. Then again, he may have just been checking to see if they were being tailed.
“How long until we’re there?” David asked.
“About ten minutes,” Agent Marquez replied. “Maybe a little less.”
David glanced at his watch. When they arrived at their destination, he glanced at his watch again; Agent Marquez had been right on the money--it had indeed taken ten minutes. At the gate the driver flashed his identification and the security guard hit a button, raising the barrier arm and lowering the tire spikes that barred free entrance into the parking lot. They drove through, and the driver quickly pulled up to the main entrance of a drab, non-descript building.
“This is where we get out,” Agent Marquez said.
She opened her door and hopped out, and David followed suit. The car pulled away, and Agent Marquez led David through the entrance. Immediately upon entering the building they were confronted with something that resembled the toll barriers you see in subways. Agent Marquez swiped an ID badge through the slot on top of the apparatus and pushed on through. David followed after her.
“I don’t see any security guards,” David said. “Anyone could just hop over that thing to get in.”
“Trust me, we’re being watched. If anyone tried to get in without a badge this lobby would be filled with guards in less than fifteen seconds.”
They got onto an elevator, and Agent Marquez swiped her card into a slot on the panel before punching the button for the eleventh floor. The elevator rose quickly and smoothly. After disembarking from the elevator Agent Marquez led David through a series of bare, white hallways. Every office door that opened off of these halls had either a keypad or a place to swipe an ID badge next to the door.
At last they came to a door that stood alone at the end of a winding hallway. This door had both a keypad and a card swipe. Agent Marquez swiped her ID and punched five digits on the keypad too quickly for David to follow. The little light on the keypad turned from red to green, and Agent Marquez opened the door. When they entered the room the door shut behind them with a soft click. They were in a short hall with another door at the end of it, this one just a plain door with no security clearance needed to get through. Agent Marquez opened the door and they entered a large office filled with busy people who were moving back and forth between desks, sitting at computers or hunched over stacks of papers.
David followed Agent Marquez through the room, past the rows of desks. At the back of this room there was a large conference room walled off with glass. A lone guard stood at the door to the conference room, and when he saw David approaching with Agent Marquez he opened the door for them. Agent Marquez tipped him a nod as she and David walked past; the guard, inscrutable, did not return the gesture.
Immediately David saw General Hank Cromwell sitting at one end of a long conference table, looking sharp in his greens and deep in discussion with a couple of aides. General Cromwell was a black man with graying hair and a thick mustache speckled with white. When the General saw David he waved the aides away, his face breaking into a broad smile as he stood up. He stood at least a couple inches taller than David.
“David Diehl; long time, no see,” said the General.
David walked up to him and stuck out a hand; instead of shaking the hand the General enveloped David in a bear hug.
“It’s good to see you, buddy,” General Cromwell went on.
He pounded David good-naturedly on the back before releasing him.
“It’s good to see you, too, Hank. You’ve gotten old since the last time I saw you.”
“Yeah, well, don’t let my hair fool you--I could still knock you on your ass if I wanted to.”
They both laughed. David had seen Hank in action long before he had stars on his shoulders, and this was one man he didn’t ever want to tangle with.
“Take a seat, David,” General Cromwell said. “Everything’s ready--we were just waiting on your arrival.”
David obliged, and searched for an open seat. The table was packed, and there were more people standing against the walls. Agent Marquez motioned to him, and he took a seat beside her. David looked around expectantly, waiting for someone to tell fill him in on just what in the hell was going on. The General gestured to a man standing near the exit and the man flipped some switches on the wall. Immediately the overhead lights dimmed, and the glass wall separating the conference room from the larger outer room changed, suddenly becoming heavily tinted. David had to blink his eyes; it had happened so fast, looking almost like an optical illusion. But it was no illusion, though; David could no longer see out of the conference room.
The opposite wall started to move then, rolling up completely to reveal a large screen. The screen came to life, showing an aerial image of what looked to David like a military base. There were a series of small buildings built in a rough square, and off to one side stood a much larger structure.
“This is the Xining Military Complex,” the General spoke, “located approximately thirteen hundred kilometers west-southwest of Beijing. A little over three months ago there was a raid on this base--or at least on the main building on the base--in the dead of night, by at least a dozen armed men. Based on intel we figure that there were between thirty-five to forty soldiers on duty in the main building at the time of the raid.”
“Is that all?” someone interjected. “Seems light for such a big place.”
“Yes,” the General answered. “It seems that in the early hours of the morning the number of troops in the main building were at their lightest. If the raid had happened just ninety minutes later the number of troops would have been doubled, maybe even tripled. Which means?”
The General waited for someone to speak up; when no one did David stepped in:
“It means that they knew when the best time was to strike,” he said.
“Correct,” the General confirmed. “They knew when the number of soldiers on base would be at an ebb, and they used that information to their advantage. As far as we know every soldier in the building at the time of the raid was killed. When they were finished, the assailants planted enough explosives to level the building. That big building you see there was reduced to a smoking ruin.”
The picture changed to a more recent image, and everyone in the room could see for themselves the truth of the statement.
“What was the purpose of the raid?” someone asked.
“That took us some time to figure out,” General Cromwell said. “We knew about the raid within twenty-four hours, but for quite some time we didn’t know why it happened. One week ago we received our answer, courtesy of a high placed official in the Chinese government who has given us reliable intel in the past.”
General Cromwell motioned to an aide who sat alone at a small table in the corner of the room; the aide bent to the laptop set in front of him and hit a button. The image on the big screen changed, and a reproduction of an official-lo
oking document appeared on the screen.
“This is a translation of a document that was sent from Chief of the General Staff Ma Shangkun to the Minister of National Defense,” the General told those assembled.
David studied the document on the screen.
***
Doc-1306471-0
Authent# Q881d627H
From: Gen. Ma Shangkun (CotGS)
To: Gen. Ling Wanquan (MoND)
EchoEcho
I regret to inform you that Dragon’s Breath has indeed been lost after the callous and villainous attack on the Xining Military Complex that we discussed previously. I had hoped that Dragon’s Breath would be found in the wreckage; unfortunately it was not. I will leave it to you to inform all necessary parties.
EchoEcho
DD043914266K
Washington, D.C.
May 26 -- 21:45 UTC/5:55 pm local time
The plane ride into D.C. had been a bumpy one, but David had been on worse flights before. Upon landing at Dulles Norwalk and Greeves--the latter’s nose beginning to look eerily identical to an eggplant--had handed him off to a beautiful, dark-eyed woman who introduced herself as Agent Sarah Marquez, also with the NTRA. Now David sat in the back of another black government-issue car, with Agent Marquez seated beside him. A light drizzle pattered against the tinted windows. They were driving through heavy traffic, on their way to who the hell knew where. Agent Marquez, like Agent Norwalk before her, divulged information only sparingly, and most of David’s questions had been met with the standard response of, “You will be fully briefed when we arrive at our destination”.
The driver--who David had not been introduced to--was a beefy G.I. Joe-type, undoubtedly a soldier, or at least a former one; he drove in silence, seeming to take no notice of his backseat passengers except for a couple of occasions when David caught him looking back at them in the rearview mirror. Then again, he may have just been checking to see if they were being tailed.
“How long until we’re there?” David asked.
“About ten minutes,” Agent Marquez replied. “Maybe a little less.”
David glanced at his watch. When they arrived at their destination, he glanced at his watch again; Agent Marquez had been right on the money--it had indeed taken ten minutes. At the gate the driver flashed his identification and the security guard hit a button, raising the barrier arm and lowering the tire spikes that barred free entrance into the parking lot. They drove through, and the driver quickly pulled up to the main entrance of a drab, non-descript building.
“This is where we get out,” Agent Marquez said.
She opened her door and hopped out, and David followed suit. The car pulled away, and Agent Marquez led David through the entrance. Immediately upon entering the building they were confronted with something that resembled the toll barriers you see in subways. Agent Marquez swiped an ID badge through the slot on top of the apparatus and pushed on through. David followed after her.
“I don’t see any security guards,” David said. “Anyone could just hop over that thing to get in.”
“Trust me, we’re being watched. If anyone tried to get in without a badge this lobby would be filled with guards in less than fifteen seconds.”
They got onto an elevator, and Agent Marquez swiped her card into a slot on the panel before punching the button for the eleventh floor. The elevator rose quickly and smoothly. After disembarking from the elevator Agent Marquez led David through a series of bare, white hallways. Every office door that opened off of these halls had either a keypad or a place to swipe an ID badge next to the door.
At last they came to a door that stood alone at the end of a winding hallway. This door had both a keypad and a card swipe. Agent Marquez swiped her ID and punched five digits on the keypad too quickly for David to follow. The little light on the keypad turned from red to green, and Agent Marquez opened the door. When they entered the room the door shut behind them with a soft click. They were in a short hall with another door at the end of it, this one just a plain door with no security clearance needed to get through. Agent Marquez opened the door and they entered a large office filled with busy people who were moving back and forth between desks, sitting at computers or hunched over stacks of papers.
David followed Agent Marquez through the room, past the rows of desks. At the back of this room there was a large conference room walled off with glass. A lone guard stood at the door to the conference room, and when he saw David approaching with Agent Marquez he opened the door for them. Agent Marquez tipped him a nod as she and David walked past; the guard, inscrutable, did not return the gesture.
Immediately David saw General Hank Cromwell sitting at one end of a long conference table, looking sharp in his greens and deep in discussion with a couple of aides. General Cromwell was a black man with graying hair and a thick mustache speckled with white. When the General saw David he waved the aides away, his face breaking into a broad smile as he stood up. He stood at least a couple inches taller than David.
“David Diehl; long time, no see,” said the General.
David walked up to him and stuck out a hand; instead of shaking the hand the General enveloped David in a bear hug.
“It’s good to see you, buddy,” General Cromwell went on.
He pounded David good-naturedly on the back before releasing him.
“It’s good to see you, too, Hank. You’ve gotten old since the last time I saw you.”
“Yeah, well, don’t let my hair fool you--I could still knock you on your ass if I wanted to.”
They both laughed. David had seen Hank in action long before he had stars on his shoulders, and this was one man he didn’t ever want to tangle with.
“Take a seat, David,” General Cromwell said. “Everything’s ready--we were just waiting on your arrival.”
David obliged, and searched for an open seat. The table was packed, and there were more people standing against the walls. Agent Marquez motioned to him, and he took a seat beside her. David looked around expectantly, waiting for someone to tell fill him in on just what in the hell was going on. The General gestured to a man standing near the exit and the man flipped some switches on the wall. Immediately the overhead lights dimmed, and the glass wall separating the conference room from the larger outer room changed, suddenly becoming heavily tinted. David had to blink his eyes; it had happened so fast, looking almost like an optical illusion. But it was no illusion, though; David could no longer see out of the conference room.
The opposite wall started to move then, rolling up completely to reveal a large screen. The screen came to life, showing an aerial image of what looked to David like a military base. There were a series of small buildings built in a rough square, and off to one side stood a much larger structure.
“This is the Xining Military Complex,” the General spoke, “located approximately thirteen hundred kilometers west-southwest of Beijing. A little over three months ago there was a raid on this base--or at least on the main building on the base--in the dead of night, by at least a dozen armed men. Based on intel we figure that there were between thirty-five to forty soldiers on duty in the main building at the time of the raid.”
“Is that all?” someone interjected. “Seems light for such a big place.”
“Yes,” the General answered. “It seems that in the early hours of the morning the number of troops in the main building were at their lightest. If the raid had happened just ninety minutes later the number of troops would have been doubled, maybe even tripled. Which means?”
The General waited for someone to speak up; when no one did David stepped in:
“It means that they knew when the best time was to strike,” he said.
“Correct,” the General confirmed. “They knew when the number of soldiers on base would be at an ebb, and they used that information to their advantage. As far as we know every soldier in the building at the time of the raid was killed. When they were finished, the assailants planted enough explosives to level the building. That big building you see there was reduced to a smoking ruin.”
The picture changed to a more recent image, and everyone in the room could see for themselves the truth of the statement.
“What was the purpose of the raid?” someone asked.
“That took us some time to figure out,” General Cromwell said. “We knew about the raid within twenty-four hours, but for quite some time we didn’t know why it happened. One week ago we received our answer, courtesy of a high placed official in the Chinese government who has given us reliable intel in the past.”
General Cromwell motioned to an aide who sat alone at a small table in the corner of the room; the aide bent to the laptop set in front of him and hit a button. The image on the big screen changed, and a reproduction of an official-lo
“This is a translation of a document that was sent from Chief of the General Staff Ma Shangkun to the Minister of National Defense,” the General told those assembled.
David studied the document on the screen.
***
Doc-1306471-0
Authent# Q881d627H
From: Gen. Ma Shangkun (CotGS)
To: Gen. Ling Wanquan (MoND)
EchoEcho
I regret to inform you that Dragon’s Breath has indeed been lost after the callous and villainous attack on the Xining Military Complex that we discussed previously. I had hoped that Dragon’s Breath would be found in the wreckage; unfortunately it was not. I will leave it to you to inform all necessary parties.
EchoEcho
DD043914266K