The China Dogs (12 page)

There's a click as Molton comes on the line. “Xian, an unexpected surprise. How are you?”

The Chinese leader detects a deliberate overfriendliness in his counterpart's voice. “I'm in good health, Mr. President. As I hope are both you and your family.”

“They are indeed. Thank you for asking. To what do I owe the honor of this call?”

“I wanted to personally follow up on our discussions at the summit. As I mentioned, China is keen to help America come to an arrangement over both its financial difficulties and the terror threat that it is facing.”

Molton heads him off. “Well, thank you for your consideration, but I believe I dealt with this pretty directly when we spoke. We have a perfectly acceptable and official financial arrangement with China and I see
no
reason at all to alter it. And I am not aware of any terror threats that we need your assistance with.”

Xian pauses while he pours more tea into the simple clay cup that he always drinks from. “General Zhang is concerned. He believes that the type of incidents he warned Mr. Jackson about in Miami will spread and cause an even greater loss of life.”

Molton exhales wearily. “President Xian, I'll be honest with you. I am struggling to take this seriously.” His tone becomes less cordial. “The whole notion that weaponized canines could be used to attack American people seems hugely preposterous to both myself and my advisors. We see no evidence whatsoever that this so-called third party threat has any credence.”

The Chinese leader wipes a drip of tea from the camphor desk. “Then I will bid you good day, Mr. President. I wish you well and look forward to the time when we may speak again.”

“Good day to you too. Thank you for your call.”

As the line goes dead, Xian presses a button on his phone and tells his secretary to show General Zhang in.

Seconds later the door opens. The military commander enters and closes it in a swift and orderly motion. Aware that this meeting demands even more formality and respect than he normally affords, he marches to the edge of the desk, stands ramrod straight in front of his leader and salutes.

Xian nods his consent for him to sit. He weighs up the eagerness in his colleague.

A soldier
ever
-hungry for war.

A man desperate for power.

His power.

“There is an old superstition that if you hear a dog howl late at night, then someone somewhere is dying. Today you come to me, Zhang, seeking to make a whole army of dogs howl and many, many people die. Are you
certain
that this is the moment for such disturbance?”

“Our hearts train our ears to crave silence, but our minds know that discourse is the only way to secure true peace.”

Xian cradles the clay cup and sips his tea. “And what words of wisdom are your scientists telling you about the control of these weaponized canines? I ask because it is clear from your reports that they can be activated at will, but to date I have seen no evidence of pacification. Any coward can find a moment to catch an unsuspecting person off-guard and deliver a duplicitous cut—only a respected physician can provide the means to heal.”

“Physicians also need to cut. I believe we are ready to do both as and when needed.” Zhang pauses and wonders if Chunlin has secretly been briefing the president, apprising him of the problems he's been having with the scientists.

“You hesitate, General. Is it because you are thoughtful or because you are worried?”

“Thoughtful, President Xian. We have all the control we need.” He slides over three thick manila files, stacked with satellite photographs, charts, reports, data analyses, and summaries. “Only two weaponized dogs were activated in the area we warned the Americans of. One was shot on a beach. The second in a park. Those files also show you the locations and activation timetables of the other weaponized dogs.”

Xian doesn't even glance at the documents, let alone examine them. “Command is a matter of trust and loyalty. Men who rise together also fall together. Tell me, Zhang—will our country stand on your proposals to me and reach even greater heights, or will the weight of such ambition cause us to collectively and personally stumble and fall?”

The general chooses his words carefully before replying, “Project Nian will bring even more greatness to China, President Xian. It will restore our position as true leaders of the world. We have waited long to strike the first blow. Now that our hands have been shown and our enemy has seen the intent in our eyes, we
must
deliver the blow quickly.”

Xian lifts the classical Gong Fu style teapot and delicately pours more of the calming brew while he contemplates the bigger picture. Never again will America be so weak. Poor leadership and a gangrenous economy have drained them of their financial wealth. Badly fought wars on distant battlefields have left their military forces unpopular, underresourced, demoralized, and depleted. He knows that Zhang is right about momentum. The power of the moment is with him.

“You have my permission to escalate the deployment of Nian dogs, but not unconditionally and not throughout all of America.”

“President Xian—”

“Do not interrupt me.”

Zhang nods respectfully.

“Give the Americans one more show of strength. One they cannot this time explain away. Extend your operation from Miami to all of Florida, but no farther. Call Director Jackson and make it clear to him that what he is about to witness is the full wrath of weaponized canines, a loss of life he could have prevented.”

The general knows better than to argue.

“One more thing, Zhang. The day after tomorrow is the eighth; this is the number in which we have the greatest trust. Wait until luck is on our side before you tempt fate.”

 

PART TWO

What is evil but good tortured

by its own hunger and thirst?

K
HALIL
G
IBRAN

 

40

Beijing

A
nd so the time comes.

The world's newest and most insidious weapon of mass destruction is about to be deployed, without fanfare or ceremony, at precisely the moment President Xian believes it is most likely to bring success.

He is merely following an age old tradition that still sees Singapore Airlines reserve flight numbers starting with eight to China—and in Korea saw the Petronas Towers in Malaysia stop at the eighty-eighth floor.

General Zhang is in the military control room and gives the green light to Xue Shi, his most trusted lieutenant, the man he has placed in minute-by-minute charge of the campaign that will secure his place as the eventual successor to Xian.

At six feet tall and 180 pounds in pure muscled weight, forty-two-year-old General Xue cuts a distinctive figure in most places, but especially among his diminutive colleagues.

Zhang's protégé diligently visits row after row of intelligence officers seated at computer terminals. He gives each of them specific details about which dog needs to be activated and when to do it.

He returns to Zhang and proudly confirms their readiness. “We are operational. I will see that you are not troubled unnecessarily, General, and will update you only on major developments.”

Zhang nods his appreciation then lifts the cuff of his uniform to check his watch. “It is time for my telephone conference with the American.”

“The office next door has been prepared, sir. I will personally put the call through to you.”

Zhang leaves feeling pleased. Xue is loyal and trustworthy. Which is more than can be said of Chunlin. One day he will have to remove that man from his position and put someone more reliable there.

He settles at a cheap bare desk in the adjoining communications room and waits for the call to be patched through to him.

A woman's voice comes on the line. “I have Director Jackson for General Zhang.”

Xue answers. “I have the general on the line and I am putting you through.”

Data capture machines in Beijing and Washington silently record the conversation as it begins at 8:30
A.M.
Beijing time on August 8, and 8:30
P.M.
Washington time on August 7.

“General, this is Brandon Jackson, what can I do for you?”

Zhang has no time for pleasantries. “My president instructed me to call you as a matter of grave urgency. You will recall my warning when we were together in Beijing?”

“Of course. You played me that
unforgettable
footage.”

“And since then you have seen it for yourself in Miami. You have seen it yet you still do not believe it.”

Jackson doesn't answer.

“From midnight tonight—your time—the weaponized dogs we warned you of will extend their terror across Florida. Let me be clear—this is your terror. Bred by your arrogance and unleashed by your ignorance. Do not make the mistake, Mr. Director, of ignoring this final warning. If you do so, then you will find all of America chased by these dogs of war and then not even God, let alone China, may be able to help you.”

41

The White House, Washington DC

C
lint Molton leaves his family in the lounge on the second floor to take the hastily scheduled late night call in the study next door. If he's lucky, he'll get back in time to see who makes it through to the final of
The Voice.

He picks up the secure line and slips behind the desk that he's certain innumerable Presidents have taken late calls at. “Hi there, Don—what's got you working so late?”

“I'm very sorry to trouble you, sir. I just spoke to General Zhang in China and he gave me another of his heavily loaded warnings.”

Just the mention of Zhang's name makes the President grow tense. “Tell me the worst of it.”

“Well, it was uncomfortably similar to last time. A heads-up that these weaponized canines are going to start killing people and—”

“Hang on, Don, didn't you and I agree that this guy had a screw loose and we were going to ignore him?”

“We did, sir, and I apologize. I trouble you because Zhang has been somewhat specific. He claims there will be more attacks tomorrow. He said, and I quote, ‘You have seen it for yourself in Miami. You have seen it yet you still do not believe it. From midnight, the weaponized dogs we warned you of will now extend their terror across Florida.' ”

“How did he sound when he said it? Speculative or sure?”

“Relaxed and cocky. Like some punk who has a card in his hand that we really didn't think he had.”

The President examines the computer screen on the desk in front of him. “I've a space in my diary at eleven. I'm due to be with the VP. I think it would be good if you came over and talked to us both.”

“Yes, sir. I'll be there. I'll also have my people extend their monitoring of police activity and ER rooms from Miami to all of Florida.”

“Let's hope there's nothing untoward to report. Good night, Don.”

“Good night, Mr. President.”

42

Lake Jackson, Florida

A
hard night of summery thunderstorms yields to a soft dawn sky that's a psychedelic mix of purples, pinks, and pallid blues. Beneath it a cool silver mist swirls over an eight-mile-long lake.

Thirty-year-old marathon runner Ellen McGonall has ninety minutes for her training run before the weather becomes unbearably hot and she begins her shift at the nearby aquatic reserve.

She starts out on the west side of the flat-bottomed lake that's brimming with bass, crappie, and bluegill and works her way clockwise. Her husband Tommy caught a large-mouth bass out here two weekends back and took home the Tallahassee Trophy Rod.

A beep from her wristwatch tells her she should already have done her first mile, and she hasn't. Ellen digs in and quickens her pace. She just got back in training since suffering from shin splints, and her schedule is geared to get her fit for the Bay Marathon in October, then the Pensacola and Space Coast marathons in November, before finishing the year with the Mangrove and Jacksonville Bank events in December.

Six miles out she's back on time and feeling good. The sky is clear and not yet too hot. She's thinking of the blue herons and wood storks they've spotted recently, and the big old alligator that scared the daylights out of a boat of fishermen at Meginnis Arm. More than anything, though, she's thinking how lucky she is to be alive. How fortunate to live in this awesome part of the world and have her good health, a handsome and loving husband, and two beautiful young babies.

Life is amazing.

As she bowls along Millers Landing her eyes roam over the vast water and back toward her house on the other side, at the bottom of Treeline Drive. She and Tommy bought the bungalow five years ago when it was little more than clapboard, and he's fixed it up just fine.

Her head swivels the other way, down the track leading to where her friends the Coopers keep some kennels. She does a double take. Strange that the dogs are still asleep. Usually there's a bark or two as she goes by. And generally Zack and Zef, their big old Alsatians, run down to meet her.

It's no trouble for Ellen to jog down the track and out the other end. It'll add thirty seconds or so to her mile time, but so what? She turns in and immediately sees Zack.

He's dead.

She doesn't need a longer or closer look to confirm it.

Something's ripped his throat out.

Ellen breaks her stride and starts to slow. Ten yards away to her right she sees Zef.

The sight of him stops her.

He's on his back, legs splayed and white belly fur bloodred.

It's a gator.

She just knows it is.

Those things grow to be ten feet long and weigh over five hundred pounds. They can chew-down a dog like a kiddie can crunch up a candy bar.

She walks tentatively down the gravel toward the house and the big old barn at the side where the Coopers keep the pups they breed

“Pete!” She wouldn't normally shout, but hell, what's gone on here isn't normal. “Lizzie!”

The barn door is busted open. It's splintered, like someone's driven a small truck clean through it.

Ellen's blood runs cold. Her bare arms come up in goose bumps and she rubs them as she walks toward the black hole in the timber.

“Hello!”

No way
is she going inside. Not in a million lifetimes. She stands ten feet back and at first can't see anything. Then her eyes balance light and shade and she starts to see clearly.

There's nothing in there. No movement. No noise.

No pups.

They must have got out.

Blood.

A stream of it is running down the center of the concrete floor and into the drain her husband helped Pete put in so he could wash away any mess the dogs made.

Ellen feels spooked.

She spins around.

There's nothing there.

She breathes a sigh of relief. Those gators can move quick over short distances, twenty miles an hour or even faster, and despite all her training that's still a whole lot quicker than she can run.

A noise comes from over at the house.

Thank God.

Ellen heads toward the side door. She sees two Labradors standing there.

The dogs have their heads down. They're playing with something. Pulling it between them.

“Pete!” He can't be far away.

The dogs hear her and look around.

Now Ellen sees what they were playing with—and she knows Pete isn't going to be returning her shout.

She backs away. Hopes that if she moves slowly and confidently they're going to let her go.

But deep down she knows things aren't going to work out that way.

The dogs lose interest in Pete's head and prowl toward her. The one on the left bares its teeth and starts to growl. The other dips its shoulders.

And begins to run.

Ellen turns and sprints as fast as she can.

Gravel slips under her right foot.

She stumbles but doesn't go down.

Twelve feet away are the lower branches of an old hickory.

She veers to her right and then snaps left to throw off the dogs.

Three feet to go.

Ellen checks her stride and readies for the jump.

The first Labrador bites her left thigh. Takes out a hand-sized chunk of muscle.

She crashes head first into the old trees.

Mercifully, she's unconscious by the time the second dog bites into her.

43

Beijing

T
wo hundred miles above the earth, silently drifting Chinese military satellites slowly buzz into life and alter their angles, tilts, and focus.

Cutting edge technology that's been copied, stolen, and modified has given the People's Republic the lead when it comes to snooping.

Gigantic lenses fix like beady eyes on Florida, especially a remote patch of land and buildings off the east side of Lake ­Jackson.

The optical imaging systems on the reconnaissance satellites are powerful enough to focus on the eye of a rat. But their targets today are bigger than that.

Much bigger.

Coordinates are being programmed by military operators in Beijing. Shiny, unblinking robot eyes in the skies follow the fresh movement of newly activated, weaponized canines.

Lieutenant General Xue Shi stares into the never closing eyes of the satellites orbiting the earth. They shift and jerk imperceptibly as they follow the transmitted coordinators of the weaponized canines.

The man in charge of Project Nian scans the streams of constantly changing data and the stacked banks of monitors recording constant video feeds.

The pictures of the dogs come in black and white, color and 3D. In long shots, close-ups, real-time, recorded, and slow motion.

They come with map and graphic overlays of streets, rivers, towns, and cities, with text boxes highlighting hospitals, police HQs, fire stations, ambulance bases, and army camps.

Xue pulls up an overview of the orbit schedules for the newest generation of recon satellites and the older, more basic fifteen-ton Lacrosse-class radar-imaging satellites. He compares past, current, and predicted positions of the animals and forms a model to demonstrate the shape and speed of the military progress he expects to be made.

The whole project is a marvel to him. The genetic engineering. The cutting-edge system of tracking all the weaponized dogs. The wonderful logistics and covert operations that went into moving the hounds into the right locations. It had been like training and mobilizing an invisible army.

The positions of China's secret soldiers show on Xue's matte black screens. All he has to do is pick which ones he wants to deploy, sit back and watch the devastation. More accurate than smart bombs. More insidious than napalm. More emotionally traumatic than suicide bombing.

Xue uncaps a bottle of water and takes a long, cooling swallow as he watches the Labradors finish off the last of the woman jogger.

44

Greenwich Village, New York

T
he Village is still bathed in the cool of twilight as Danny Speed shuffles down the stone stairs of his old apartment block and approaches his motorbike.

The street smells comfortingly of summer blossom, and he can't help but feel the excitement of a new day.

Danny's up early. He's got lots of things happening. Big things. Serious things. World-changing things. Especially if anyone catches him doing them.

Not that they will.

He's cautious. More than anyone he knows.

He puts his helmet down on the sidewalk, drops into a press-up position and checks beneath the chained and alarmed superbike before he even touches it.

Caution starts on his own doorstep.

After a visual check, he runs two handheld scanners around the entire frame. One is to detect any tracking device that may have been attached. The other will tell him of the presence of something more serious.