This novel picks up a few years after the ending of Shadow Partners. Manfred Kurtz is still the Special Agent in Charge (SAC) of ATF's Detroit Field Division, and Angelo Tana is his assistant. The joint ATF Detroit Police Department (DPD) task force continues to work successfully on matters that cross jurisdictional lines. The story begins with a series of brutal murders in three separate States. Seemingly, they are not connected. Local jurisdictions are busy investigating the crimes, with no reason to suspect any relationship to other incidents. When she chances upon a Detroit crime scene, AUSA Janet Evergreen misses being killed by seconds. Although Janet had not witnessed the assassination of a DPD officer, she did take note of the driver of a getaway vehicle-a man who recognized Janet. Manfred Kurtz and the Task Force members become involved after another source reveals facts about another murder. Assigned ATF agents and DPD officers again begin work on what first appears as a simple case. Far from being an elementary, the men and women will become embroiled in political corruption, murder, firearms trafficking and the first (ALPHA) strike against America by a determined terrorist organization. China wants to make inroads into America's love of guns through established firearms' importation procedures. However, the legitimate effort has been subverted by new adversaries from China. Led by a Chinese colonel from the People's Liberation Army and a cabal, consisting of a select group of military and political members of China's elite, a subplot surfaces. Alliances and treacherous activities will quickly pit radical Muslims from Iran, Iraq and China, against Kurtz, the Task Force and Chinese investigators with similar credentials as ATF. Before long, the race is on to identify and neutralize the terrorist group responsible for many dead Americans. The country's law enforcement is stymied on the makeup of the group and where they might strike again. In a bizarre turn of events, ATF becomes the number one target of criticism from all sides of the firearms' issues, and is blamed for the attacks. With the ATF/DPD Task Force morale wavering, even with promising leads in hand, the Director of another agency decides ATF has been mortally wounded. He calculates that the time is right to scrape up the tidbits developed by the Task Force. His agency identified what the group's acronym stands for, and intends to parlay what he has into a chance for significant publicity. Even so, the Director might not have all of the information he requires for success, or does he? Faced with having to relinquish the investigation, Manfred Kurtz and Angelo Tana receive a lifeline. It's tossed to them by a Chinese criminal investigator. Colonel Mozi Zemin has come across information vital to the Task Force. However, Kurtz and Tana must travel to Hong Kong where they race to intercept a shipment of weapons of mass destruction. Back in the U.S., the Task Force investigation continues--and so do the assassinations of American citizens. Progress is being made, though. Bit-by-bit, ATF and DPD officers and their support people begin to build a picture of the scope of the terrorist operation. But, just before a national enforcement operation, Washington decides to hold back ATF. Instead, their bosses at the Treasury Department acquiesce to a partial case-takeover by the Departments of Defense and Justice. A small carrier task force will search the Pacific for the arms shipments, while ATF handles the countrywide raids.
In the Red Dragon's Shadow - Come the Jackals
Alpha Strike at AmericaBy B. H. La ForestAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 B. H. La Forest
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4567-1986-9 Chapter One
Alpha (1st) Strike Against America—The Beginning
Cold March days were common in St. Paul, Minnesota. Today was no exception. Strong upper level winds whipped menacing dark clouds around the gray skies. Meteorological action guaranteed some form of precipitation would hit before noontime.
Harold Bauer had just kissed his wife of thirteen years goodbye at their suburban home in Popple Creek. Before their father walked down the steps, he had paused, turned and gave each of his three boys a generous hug. He strolled across the yellowed grass, opened the door to an old brown Chevrolet, and started the engine. Backing out of the double-ribbon, cement driveway, Bauer waved in the direction of the porch before he drove away, headed to his job in St. Cloud. The loyal postal worker would not return to his family that day, to his wife and children waving back from the porch.
Two blocks north of Bauer's home, a large white step van eased away from the curb. Slowly accelerating, it eventually picked up speed and pulled behind the brown Chevy. The driver was a dark-skinned young man, dressed in a black leather jacket, Levi's and military-style boots. In one smooth motion, he reached down with his left hand and pressed a small button alongside his seat.
Two red lights winked on-and-off inside the concealed portion of the truck. Sitting quietly on bench seats, two bearded men in their early thirties moved when they saw the lights. A rectangular-shaped table ran the length of the vehicle's cargo area. Someone had worked hard at installing well-built wooden cabinets above the benches, and on the front wall of the cargo area. Between the upper and lower units, a skilled carpenter had built modest work areas for tasks described in detail. Down the center of the van, some dandy metal work complemented the cabinets. The carpenter had installed an eight-foot long stainless-steel table, and bolted it to the carpeted floor. Beneath the table were built-in metal drawers of various dimensions.
Someone had treated the step van's metal-paneled walls with a heavy, rubberized padding. In all, they had achieved the desired effect. Only the muted sounds from outside traffic made it through the barriers on both sides of the vehicle. The latter modification made little difference to the bearded men, since neither was listening for interference from the outside. Both were calmly attending to their all-important task for that morning. While assembling a brand-new Type-81 machine gun and its telescopic sight, the older man took the lead.
Recently issued to members of the People's Liberation Army (PLA), the machine gun looked almost identical to China's AK-47 platform. Even so, the Type-81's design greatly enhanced the traditional AK-47's reputation. It had much less recoil, a better flash suppressor, and included certain elements that had increased its efficiencies as a sniper platform. Chinese manufacturers had copied the latter characteristic from Russia's Draganov sniper model which Yevgeny Dragunov designed in the 60's. It was quickly becoming a standard squad support weapon for the PLA.
The other man was a bit younger, and occupied himself with a state-of-the-art video camera. Associates had recently stolen the professional system from a local TV station. Along with the camera, thieves had also swiped a case that held a first-rate telephoto lens.
Up ahead, Bauer glanced in his left-side mirror when he neared the intersection for the right turn onto Hwy 23. As he did, he noticed the driver of an idling step van was glaring at him. Bauer watched the man's reflection in the Chevy's side mirror. The guy's threatening, unwavering stare, made the postal worker squirm in his seat. Spying an opening behind a blue pickup that was waiting to turn left, Bauer suddenly accelerated and jerked his steering wheel to the right. After his turn, he checked over his shoulder and out the rear window. Pleased with himself that the rapid move had worked, he could see the step van was still at the stop sign.
Twenty minutes later, Mr. Bauer was about to drive onto the DeSoto Bridge. At more than thirty feet above the swollen Mississippi River, the span would deposit him near the post office at Second Street and Ninth Avenue. Taken by surprise, Bauer was not prepared when the step van changed lanes behind his car. A streak of white flashed across all three of his mirrors. He thought he had left the delivery truck behind. The postal carrier applied his brakes and slowed, still shocked at its appearance. He watched it drive by on the right side, then pull well ahead of his Chevrolet. Relieved by the indifferent maneuver, he was pleased to see the step van traveling a little faster than before. The more distance placed between his vehicle and the van was a good thing, thought Bauer.
Ignoring its presence, Bauer attempted a grin at his momentary fear of the other driver. When he thought a bit more, his smile promptly faded. No denying, the van's driver had acted belligerently. Who the heck would want to hurt an innocent mailman, he thought?
Almost in the center of the bridge now, he checked his rear view mirrors for other traffic. Oddly enough, the morning's DeSoto Bridge traffic was unusually thin. With only seven blocks to go before he arrived at the post office, he felt safe. Even when the white step van slowed perceptively, the postal carrier did not consider it a hazardous omen. He had already dismissed the issue from his mind as he passed the center mark of the span over the Mississippi River.
Harold Bauer never made it to the other end of the DeSoto Bridge. Fidgeting in his seat while he tried to light one last cigarette before work, he missed seeing the open slot in one of the van's rear doors. Just two inches of the barrel protruded from the small aperture. Strapped to the table inside the van, was a new Type-56. Its specially thickened barrel rested securely in a black tripod.
Dressed in camouflage fatigues, the middle-aged passenger lay on the metal table. From this prone position, he took careful aim at the driver's head. It filled the twelve-power scope's eye piece, less than fifteen car lengths behind. The sniper watched for a brief moment, amused to see his mark struggling to light his last cigarette. A tiny hole formed in Bauer's windshield a micro second before his head jerked back. A copper-jacketed, 7.62 round passed through his skull, the headrest, and through the rear window—leaving a bloody trail in the backseat. Before the spider web had begun to form across the surface of the windshield, the Chevy careened out of control.
Traveling fifty yards behind, the driver of a GMC pickup heard a thunk when something struck his bumper. He paid little attention to the sound—more concerned with what was happening to the car in front of him. He watched, fascinated, as the Chevrolet gained speed as it swerved from side to side. Without warning, the car straightened, and then roared headlong toward the right-side of the DeSoto Bridge. A second and a half after it smashed into the high curb, the car was airborne. Flight lasted just until the Chevy's two front wheels struck the rail running along the top of the cement wall. Rubber from blown tires flew in every direction as both front wheels buckled underneath the car and...
