People’s Republic and transferred him from the Guoanbu’s limousine to the network’s mobile surgical facility. In central Beijing, Modules 105 and 106 were testing the new wireless communications system that had been installed in the tunnels of the Underground City, which would soon fulfill its original purpose as a bomb shelter. And in an apartment on Dupont Circle in Washington, D.C., Module 112—formerly Yang Feng, the chief Guoanbu agent in America—stood guard over the immobilized body of a forty-five-year-old U.S. Defense Department official. The man, now designated Module 147, had been selected for incorporation because of his knowledge of the Pentagon’s classified information systems. After performing the implantation procedure and waiting six hours for the neural connections to strengthen, Supreme Harmony gained access to the man’s long-term memories. It soon retrieved the passwords for the Global Command and Control System, which the Defense Department used to monitor its deployments around the world.
Within seconds Supreme Harmony connected its servers to the Pentagon system so it could view the American response to the PLA attack on the Seventh Fleet. The surviving warships from the carrier strike force— one cruiser and two destroyers—had retreated from the Chinese coast, but the U.S. Air Force had moved several squadrons of fighter jets closer to the theater of operations. Nearly two hundred F-15s, F-16s, and F-22s were poised for takeoff at airfields in Japan and South Korea. A dozen B-2 Stealth bombers had just left the island of Guam, and six nuclear-powered attack submarines were cruising at full speed toward the East China Sea.
Supreme Harmony’s satisfaction deepened. The American counterattack would be the beginning of the end. The war would soon spread around the world, killing billions in Asia, North America, and Europe. Governments would fall and the global economy would collapse, and billions more would die of starvation and disease as the human race descended into chaos. Then Supreme Harmony’s reign would begin.
SEVENTY
Crossing the border into Burma was a snap. Wang Khaw and two of his goons escorted Kirsten to the smuggler’s black Mercedes, and then they left Pianma, heading northwest. After a twenty-minute drive on a dirt road, they came to an isolated border post. A Chinese flag fluttered over the gatehouse, but there were no PLA soldiers here. The post was manned by two intoxicated border policemen, both clearly on Wang’s payroll. They waved cheerily at the smuggler’s Mercedes and didn’t even ask him to stop. On the Burmese side of the border, the dirt road looped through the jungle, gradually ascending the tallest hill in the area. The palm trees were so thick and close, Kirsten felt like they were driving through a humid tunnel. Then they reached a clearing at the top of the hill and found themselves in the middle of a military camp.
Several dark-skinned men in green uniforms pointed their AK-47s at the Mercedes, but they lowered their rifles once they saw Wang in the front passenger seat. They let the car proceed to the center of the clearing, where at least twenty canvas tents had been erected. Dozens of militiamen occupied the camp, some marching in formation with their rifles on their shoulders and others gathered in small clusters to eat their dinner rations. A few battered motor scooters were parked next to a mud-caked pickup truck with a fifty-caliber machine gun mounted in the truck bed. As the Mercedes halted beside the pickup, Wang Khaw looked over his shoulder at Kirsten in the backseat.
“This is a unit of the Kachin Independence Army,” he said. “About two hundred soldiers. The militia has ten thousand men in all, but they’re scattered all over Kachin State.”
Kirsten nodded. “And I assume they’ve heard about the PLA deployment at the border?”
“Yes, they’re reinforcing their defenses. The Chinese outnumber them, but the militiamen know the territory better. The People’s Liberation Army is in for a fight.”
Wang pointed at one of the canvas tents. Behind it was a whip antenna for communicating with other Kachin units and a dish antenna for satellite communications. “His name is Morrison,” Wang said. “A young man. Too young. I don’t like him.”
Kirsten stared at the dish antenna. It would be better to use that radio than her phone, she decided. Why take any chances? “I’m going to get in touch with my bosses now. They’ll arrange for the delivery of your payment.”
She extended her hand to say goodbye to Wang, but he shook his head. “I’m not going back to Pianma yet. For the next few days I’ll be safer here.”
Kirsten shrugged. He was probably right. She opened the car’s door and headed for Morrison’s tent.
The tent flaps were open and a tall blond man was inside. He was in his late twenties, dressed in khaki pants and a polo shirt. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of an L.L. Bean catalog, except his shirt was soaked with sweat and his pants hadn’t been washed in weeks. Bending over his radio, he shouted into the microphone of his headset. “Wait a second! How many are coming? And how are they getting here?”
Kirsten waited until he finished the call. Then she stepped into the tent and Morrison did a double take. He took off his headset and gaped at her. “Uh, who are you?”
“Kirsten Chan, NSA.” She showed him her sat phone, which was as good an identification as any. “I need to use your radio.”
“NSA? What are you—”
“Sorry, Morrison, there’s no time.” She held out her right hand, palm up. “Give me the headset.”
“Whoever you are, you’re gonna have to wait. Twenty Special Ops troops are coming in by helicopter tonight and I need to—”
She stepped forward and snatched the headset out of his hands. Then she nudged Morrison aside and knelt beside his radio. “Why is Special Ops coming to visit? Did your bosses finally notice there’s something funny going on in the People’s Republic?”
He stood there, looking confused. “There’s nothing funny about it. Didn’t you hear what the PLA did?”
Kirsten looked at the kid and her chest tightened.
“They sank the Seventh Fleet. We’re at war with China.”
SEVENTY-ONE
It felt so good to hold her in his arms again. Jim grabbed his daughter by the waist and lifted her off her feet, and she clung to him just as she had when she was a child. She didn’t even weigh much more than she did back then. As he held her, the memories of those days came rushing back, the happy years when he and Layla had been inseparable. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, and he felt the cold skin of her shaved head against his jaw.
The two Chinese boys stared at him. Their heads were also shaved, which meant Supreme Harmony had planned to incorporate them, too. Jim didn’t know how Layla had saved the kids and escaped from the Operations Center, but he could make a guess based on how she’d handled the drone swarm. He was so proud of her.
After a while, Layla pulled away and he reluctantly let go. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “How did you find me?”
“I saw you on one of the surveillance feeds. The swarm was sending video to Supreme, Harmony, and some of it was displayed on the monitors inside the tower’s control station.” He pointed at the trailer below the radio tower, about a mile away.
Layla’s brow furrowed as she gazed at the trailer. “Are there any servers in there?”
“Yeah, a lot. And a couple of terminals, too. I know a shutdown code that can crash the network, but I can’t input it until I figure out Supreme Harmony’s password.”
