When Totems Fall (13 page)

As one of three highway passes through the Cascades, Snoqualmie was now closed, a no-proceed zone for civilians. ID checkpoints like this one had come online only hours after the official surrender from D.C. had been recorded on paper.

For his part, Dalton had been extremely lucky advancing this far undetected.

This checkpoint, existing outside of any specific municipality, was monitored by Washington State Patrol. No less than three cruisers, two SUVs, and a mobile communications trailer blocked the only way through and out of the area. The new Chinese province was becoming sealed off at every turn.

The former State of Washington, with its natural barrier of the Cascades to the east, the Pacific Ocean as its western demarcation line, and the Columbia River to the south, provides an ideal set of borders, ones easily defended, especially when you carried a weapon of mass destruction advantage in your pocket. Yet, even without the nukes, the topography could secure an international border all by itself. They'd planned for this, had done their homework. Virtually no one could survive the wilderness of the Cascades, so it made sense only a few policed stations would be required along these mountainous routes. It also made the possibility of a much smaller invading force a reality, where barriers like this one replaced the role of thousands of troops.

And as added precaution, neighboring governments were called upon to do their part, too.

The Canadians complied, assuming authority at the Blaine crossing in the north. Stopping Washingtonians from immigrating kept them clear of two outcomes: blame for a possible nuclear attack, and the potential radiation fallout mess incurred from shifting winds. In her time of trouble, America's closest friends stood at a distance with arms and borders closed. To be fair, they mostly had their hands tied.

Dalton looked up
from his seated position, hidden in heavy underbrush. Blockaded by concrete pilings, the passage up and over the mountains was winnowed down to only one entrance/exit lane. Passing through in a vehicle without inspection would be impossible. Visually sweeping the forest on the west, nearest the gate, Zeb surmised they would need no such presence there, either. Though he couldn't see over the edge from here, he didn't need a front row seat to get the picture.

His assumptions were correct. The edge of the roadway dropped off beyond the pavement as a few hundred, if not a thousand, feet of sheer wilderness awaited those leaving in that direction. No guardrail. It wouldn't help, so it was never constructed. Anyone attempting to bypass this station needed to be an extreme conditions expert as well as skilled mountaineer, not to mention straight up lucky.

One option remained: the woods on the eastern side of the road. This would be Zeb's only shot at getting past the officers. It also wouldn't prove to be so easy as every twenty-five yards large, portable light stanchions illuminated the dark, forested void. The troopers hated it yet they did their job, nonetheless.

Viewing the police routine, Dalton devised a strategy. He had observed shift movements and protocol over the last two hours and was drawing up a mental plan of action for getting through this checkpoint and over the mountains.

The trek would top out at over 4,000 feet so he needed assurance of where he was headed. Surviving this lunacy depended on following a basic outline of the roadways—in this case Interstate 90—while maintaining anonymity to any patrols that might happen by. Even with Zeb's extensive training and field experience, traipsing off into the untamed Cascade Range was, well, crazy. It was springtime in the Northwest. At these elevations, temperatures would still drop below freezing after sunset.

40-60. These were Zeb's calculations of getting over the mountains alive. If the nighttime cold and rigorous traverse didn't do him in, there was always the occasional bear or cougar to turn the tables of nature, making him the hunted. After emerging from a lean winter these beta predators would be hungry and more likely to take on any kind of foe. He shuddered at the thought.

Though the plan was settled, planning alone wouldn't guarantee him success. Dalton had a strategy for
after
he got through the checkpoint. For this first step, escaping the troopers and lights, he was in need of some raw luck.

Crescendoing up the mountain roadside
, increasing in volume and authority every few feet: a car full of runners, flat out disobeying directives and committed to getting out of the region one way or another.

Had they not seen what just happened at Pike Place? Or did they still not care?

Soon enough the sound arrived, announcing the driver's intentions of neither slowing nor stopping. Coming into view in the dark, clear air the Hummer H3 abandoned any pretense of compliance, heading straight for the concrete barriers. Then, at the last moment, their commitment wavered, swerving forcefully to the left—the western, unprotected side of the alpine roadway.

85mph.

Science was not in their favor. The physics in play came off as unyielding, brutal. Front wheels jammed hard left, as if a last-minute change of heart would cause the car to obey, turning back their ill-fated plan and instead sending them merrily back down to the city.

No. Instead, the 5000 lb. vehicle shifted its weight over onto her passenger side, rushing toward the cliff-like edge of the two-lane mountain highway. Unbroken kinetic energy kept it moving forward, then into a spiraling motion as the car leapt from the road and out into the void, landing in the small, tree-lined valley below. The impact was almost silent at this height and distance. The visual results of the impact were not.

Exploding fuel and combustible liquids lit up the night sky, revealing towering hundred foot firs and the peaks themselves, all around. A strangely beautiful sight, the conflagration served as backlighting for a horrendous scene of destruction and senseless loss of life. The patrolmen responded, moving at once to the edge of the roadway. Not a thing they could do.

It was all Zeb needed. There would be no better cover than this. Making his way up the mountainside, hugging the line of the road—just off it to the east by fifteen meters or so—he left the scenic recreational spot behind.

EIGHTEEN

The soothing rhythm of wheels over tracks partnered with a soft, gray sky. Together, the two made for a powerful, compelling invitation to sleep.

Junjie's nervous system
had worked as designed, passing a sense of danger from hypothalamus to glands, spinal cord, and then onto his extremities. The resulting heightened state of awareness and self-preservation lasted long enough to effect an unseen exit from the capital city. With those exciter chemicals now leeched from his blood there was only the tempting, inviting call to rest. A fair fight it was not. Body and mind gave in. Dreams felt good, so good and consciousness soon gave way to replays of pleasant images from his past.

"You know, Junjie, we are different now," his father said.

The older man paused at the worn workbench in the small, unheated shop, turning to face his oldest son. Peering into his eyes; a familiar, knowing look. With full attention assured, he continued.

"The only question to ask before was: 'What is it I want?'"

Gentle yet firm hands rested on Junjie's shoulders, the gesture underscoring the moment.

"Now..." he emphasized, "... we must also add the questions first: 'What is right... and what would please him?'"

Another pause. Junjie took a moment to consider its meaning and significance. The father observed his son's reflection, pleased the truism was penetrating the young boy's thinking. Finally, he added the recitation of an ancient proverb, meant to complete, to seal this moment of instruction.

"It is said: 'Better a patient man than a warrior'," he concluded. "'One with self-control, than one who takes a city'."

A glance at his father indicated he understood; a slight nod of his head. Mastery of this principle hovered at arms length, requiring many years and the testing of its trustworthiness in his own life. But the look said yes, he understood its basic truthfulness. Junjie trusted this man fully, the way a twelve-year-old boy should be able to, and loved these moments when something critical to life and wisdom was being passed down to him. His father's smile glowed, warm and assuring. The strong voice washed over his mind and heart in ways few other sounds could.

A long curve, negotiating the bend,
tilting ever so slightly on axis. It was a minute change but enough to notice, even from the shadowy realms of semi-consciousness. The minor aberration to the constant, smooth carriage called Junjie back up, out of this scene from years past. He tried valiantly to cling to it, for another moment floating somewhere in that in-between space, enjoying the peace that comes with even half-sleep.

A steady drizzle fell. Water in the atmosphere interacted with the warmer interior air, producing dampness on the hard, inner surface of the train window. Small groupings of droplets danced to vibrations of steel and fiberglass at 200 mph and then merged into one. Gravity took over from there, freeing the water off the windowpane and bringing the cold liquid into contact with the young man's resting head.

Junjie's eyelids flickered open, his not-yet-awakened mind trying to deal with the rude intrusion. Soon enough he had reestablished a sense of place and time. Reclined against a pillowed headrest, he was physically comfortable. He was also emotionally drained, empty.

Too quick.

The beautiful dream moment with his father had ended far too soon, leaving him to wrestle with the lingering emotional aftertaste of love and loss. His heart pounded in his chest, not out of fear, but from the cruel recognition that mourning a cherished one brings. The memories were wonderful. The pain of realizing they were only memories, almost too much to bear. The son tried to recapture the faint, distant touch of his father's presence; anything to re-link him to this man he revered. Eyes closed. Gone.

Junjie so needed him right now.

Looking down, he checked his cellphone. Only ninety minutes until their scheduled arrival in Shandong Province. He would need every second of this time to collect his thoughts, preparing for what may lie ahead. Given the alarming occurrences of his last twenty-four hours in Beijing, this trip to the coastal city of Qingdao had been both hastily arranged and completely required. A simple enough plan emerged. Junjie would disappear amongst the nine million inhabitants of this city before making any next moves. The government made itself conspicuous everywhere you went. But they didn't know everywhere to look, especially given his network of contacts in this city.

Exactly eighty-
nine
minutes later the bullet train pulled into the grand station, gliding to a full stop at its assigned platform. Junjie disembarked and immediately his eyes were drawn upward. Soaring sidewalls rose, combining gracefully at the pinnacle of the domed structure, some eighty feet above. Beautiful. Even in his haste the young executive was taken back by the scale and detail surrounding him. It was utterly unique; this place where high-tech transportation met old world decor in rather odd fashion.

While railways in Western China are thoroughly modern, the enormous waiting hall in this city still bore its original German architecture, a reminder to visitors and residents alike of past occupancy by Northern Europeans in the late nineteenth century. Counter to what one might assume, Teutonic influence here wasn't the byproduct of militaristic invasion. Instead, a business arrangement in which the entire city was leased to Germany turned out to be a reasonably good investment for both parties. But this city held a darker story regarding interaction with outsiders as well. If a lederhosen, beer-hall feel still lingered from their former German hosts, the horrors of foreign control post-WW1 cut more like a deep scar and still-festering wound. A quirk of history at Versailles—handing this city over to Japan—had produced a burdensome classism between the peoples. It was a division still felt and nurtured deeply. And the proximity of the Japanese mainland—only a little over five hundred miles away—guaranteed these tensions would stay at a low simmer, ever-threatening to boil over into broader aggressions.

Junjie scanned
the cavernous waiting room. The cabby's face lit up and then reset to a disinterested stare, just as quickly. Anyone else, unless watching closely, had likely missed it.

Yes.

Once outside, the rear door of an unremarkable auto unlatched and the weary refugee slipped in, briefcase in hand, suitcase placed on the seat next to him. Rain still fell, small bubbles dancing on the hood of the sedan as it exited the parking queue .

"Zhanqiao Prince Hotel," was all Junjie said by way of directions.

From the front, just as curt: "Very good, sir."

The luxurious waterfront accommodations on Qingdao Bay would've been a marvelous place to stay, were he to actually spend any time there on this trip. The misdirection, though simple, was for the benefit of anyone listening at the time via devices planted in the car. The driver's field craft was excellent and they entered the heavy flow of mid-day traffic seamlessly, maintaining a very ordinary, unsuspecting trajectory. A few turns later, assured of no active tailing, they arrived at their real endpoint, the Shinan Industrial District, where mottled aluminum siding over brick foundations and wood framing provided a drab visual backdrop for Junjie's actions.