When Totems Fall (14 page)

Qingdao was a thriving, bustling port city filled with beautiful buildings, parks, and marinas. The cabbie and his passenger were not currently enjoying these parts of town. Instead, they passed by endless rows of 1960s era warehouses and manufacturing units. These structures supported blue-collar work, the kinds done below the shiny outer layer of a growing middle class. Mundane—yes, yet so essential to the city's economic well-being. Aesthetically, they left a bit to be desired. Functionally, they sufficed. For Junjie's purposes, they could not have been any better.

Into the next warehouse entrance on the right they drove, steering past the door and around back. Twenty meters out of view from the street side they stopped with the cab's engine running quietly.

"Zhanqiao Prince"—from up front, nonchalant, businesslike.

Though GPS tracking would have recognized the incongruity, an audio-only surveilling might remain satisfied, at least for the moment.

"Thank you. This should cover it," came from the backseat.

Junjie handed fifteen Yuan to the driver and stepped out. He gathered his things and closed the car door, looking around the backlot one more time. They'd not been followed to this point, he thought. If someone was trailing him, he hadn't seen them. Either that—they were actually in the clear—or their trackers were superb.

With no more words from the front seat, the red cab turned around and left.

NINETEEN

Without looking back Junjie picked up his things and traversed the rest of the lot. Squeezing through the sideways slats of a fence line, he emerged onto a sidewalk and then crossed another busy street.

The alleyway
leading to his final destination was like any of dozens of others in Qingdao. Drainpipes serviced water off rooftops, down angled recessions to the pavement, from there flowing into the sewers of the massive urban space. Mangy cats stood watch beside garbage cans, their scruffy heads poking out, warding would-be intruders off their hard-fought turf.

Exhausted, yet so awake to all that was going on around him, Junjie walked the first ten yards of the narrow passageway casually. Then, with a swift move up and to the right he mounted the back entryway porch of an old cargo loading bay. Three more steps. Kneeling down in the center of the space and reaching out beyond the toes of his left foot, pausing.

Was he being watched? If someone approached, he would feign dropping his keys or tying his shoelaces.

Another second.

Undetected, he popped open a floorboard, sliding a pen beneath its upper left corner. The hinges whispered. With the trapdoor opened the software engineer on-the-run descended a short flight of stairs, disappearing in broad daylight. With his next step in mid-air a sudden brightness overtook his vision. Junjie lost his balance, arms and hands raised reflexively, palms outward, trying to diffuse the light and leaning back onto the balls of his feet, just to keep from falling. A hoarse, thin voice, questioned his appearance in the mysterious place:

"Junjie?"

Again.

"Junjie...it is you?"

Stepping into the light and now warmly embraced, the businessman was immediately enfolded into the smallish body connected to the voice.

It worked. All the subterfuge had worked.

Junjie's actions were quite covert, this was true. But they had nothing at all to do with governments, politics, or espionage. Those who knew him would find this laughable. No, Junjie was not a spy. He was, rather, a key player in the unofficial Christian Church in China. At one time commonly referred to as the underground or house church movement, the situation had become more or less "visible but unregistered" in the past decade or so.

With China's emergence into the broader world economy she had also begun to loosen some of her tight bonds on social and religious groups. Democracies worldwide were less inclined to do business with what they perceived as a bad actor in the human rights arena. So, they softened their approach some. At least, this was the outward and tentative effort out of Beijing. There was a day when association with anything other than the official state church meant harsh treatment, prison terms, ostracizing, even death.

For much of the twentieth century and into the twenty-first as well these kinds of things were considered a challenge to unity and progress. Rogue believers were deemed a "concern" in government-ese and caught up in a ruthless web of regulation and punishments along with many other artistic, cultural, and intellectual entities. This overly-severe approach had not turned out as the government had assumed it would. The result, instead, was a significantly greater problem than they had on their hands to begin with.

Not unlike the persecutions of Christ-followers in Ancient Rome, these hardships only fanned belief into hotter, more widespread flame. Indeed, this had been a gross underestimation of strategy and outcomes. Actual numbers are unknown. Informed projections of "hidden" Christians approached one hundred million by the end of the millennium—five times that listed on membership rolls of the state church.

From a certain viewpoint, the communists had no other options. Any group this numerous, even operating under benign activities, presents a threat: at some point they may not bow the knee to Beijing. That proposition was unacceptable. Even today, in a rapidly modernizing China, partnership with unregistered faith groups brought its repercussions. Junjie knew them in today's climate. He had experienced them firsthand in their former, more tragic phases as well.

The charges: "traitorous, anti-state rebellion."
Such misdeeds took the form of meeting before sunrise, voices muted as they sang, taught one another, and prayed together. They also "looked like" caring for widows, orphans, and the sick. Sadly, Junjie's people had grown a wariness toward newcomers in the area who, while posing as those looking for a church or a family in need, might actually be spies. It was the price to be paid; one that was quite personal.

His father's death, just three years ago, had come after more than a decade behind bars. Though years of struggle had taken the strength of Pastor Zang's body, his spirit remained indomitable. To the end, alone and battered by the elements in a poorly constructed cinder block cell-house nine hours away from home and family, Junjie's father still smiled as he spoke to guards and other inmates about the hope and love he had found in Yasu. Far from a broken and embittered man, he somehow weighed these circumstances as reasonable service. A sacrifice? Yes, but more like a joyful offering to the one who was the object of his faith and on behalf of those he was privileged to lead. Surely no one outside of Gansu had ever heard of him. No adoring crowds. Neither fortune nor notoriety fueled his work. Incredibly brave. Kind. Principled. Humble.

Junjie often wondered: would he measure up to such faithfulness, were he asked to walk this same path?

His father kept their little congregation a secret for the majority of his childhood, faithfully teaching and loving the people under his care, all away from the public eye. And so, what Junjie saw lived out before him in his youth, he tried to emulate as a man—supplying resources, money, and training for marginalized believers in China. Though not many churches felt the need to actually be "underground" these days, their options and activities were still quite heavily regulated and limited if they chose not to associate with the State. Buildings were bulldozed and materials confiscated if the government felt they were in any way a threat to Chinese life and culture. Although a rarity, one such instance had recently resulted in the death of a pastor's wife, buried alive as the walls of the ditch out front caved in and she was pulled under with the roiling soil and concrete.

Junjie felt a special kinship with these brothers and sisters, even as his place on the rolls was at a sanctioned church in the city. Unannounced raids and quick imprisonment were not nearly as common as they were in the past. Still, providing significant aid to unregistered churches would bring swift reaction from the police and the kinds of attention Junjie did not need were he to continue growing his company, as well as help his friends.

He was not an out-front leader like his father. But in using his position, skills, and salary, Junjie still gave his best to the cause. His vocation allowed him travel and connections, a means of assisting these churches' ongoing life and health. It was fitting then that this spiritual underworld, one he helped sustain, would provide a safe haven in return—in his moment of need.

His next words in the overly-lit space resonated with relief.

"Bohai. Such a pleasure to hear your voice, my friend. It is I, Junjie."

"I am also glad to hear the sound of yours brother," came the reply. "But have to admit I am surprised by this unexpected visit. Why are you here? We were not alerted to your coming in the usual way. Zenshi almost left you. A driver who was not ours would be suspicious. There are many eyes on the streets."

"I know," Junjie said. "I must apologize, yet I had no other choice."

Junjie held a most important question.

"Dai-tai?... and Chi?"

A searching face and quivering voice gave away deep tenderness for his wife and child, his eyes begging for a good report.

"They are both secure. We have..."

"
No,
Bohai," Junjie insisted. "Do not not speak what I may not be able to conceal under duress."

"Of course. You are right," the other man conceded.

"It is enough to know they are protected for now. What I must do would bring them harm. I cannot guarantee I would have the fortitude to choose well if they become pawns in all of this."

The strain on his friend's face instructed Bohai to proceed tentatively.

"This thing you must do, Junjie? It is due to our country's recent aggressions?"

"Yes, my friend. I do not know if I can be successful but I must try."

"Certainly. You know you are safe here. I should be able to gather the committee by week's end. Until then, rest Junjie. You will need it."

Junjie looked down. A few seconds later his eyes lifted again, landing on his ally. His gaze was sure yet also betrayed an understandable amount of weariness.

TWENTY

The open glass nose-cone of the bulky airframe dipped beneath the cloud ceiling at just under twenty-eight thousand feet.

Captain
Xian Weng
took in the beautiful, unobstructed view, traveling ever deeper into the former Puget Sound Region of Washington State. Wild coastline. Snowcapped peaks cresting the Olympic Mountain Range to the East. A land rich with lakes and rivers. From this viewpoint it appeared a solid mass of living green
.
Reaching up to his flight computer, the thirty-six-year-old Peoples Liberation Army Air Force pilot punched in the approach sequence for the airfields of China's newly acquired, recently deserted base, now re-commissioned as Baotong Air-Ground Base (BAGB). It was a fine addition.

Weng's flight, originating out of Shahezhen Air Base—Beijing, had traced an arc up and over the northern rim of the Pacific Ocean of more than 8700km, with only a single mid-air refueling above the Aleutians keeping the IL76-MD, its five crewmen, and 42 ton payload from having to make any stops along the way. The captain's aircraft, now completing its second full trip in the invasion force, sat at the front edge of a sixteen jet formation. It had been the same scene every day: an endless parade of tail sections, red star on red band ID'ing them as Chinese military, arriving wave after wave.

This particular craft of Soviet manufacture was one of thirty-five the PLAAF operated, providing long-range, multi-platform delivery of materiel for the Chinese. A big, dangerous bird, the 76 carried all the tools needed to enforce their claim on these lands. With six-thousand feet of permanent, paved runways awaiting—more than enough to do the job—and clear conditions in both airspace and on the ground, Captain Weng expected an unremarkable arrival and offload. His assumptions proved correct. As it stood, the Americans were following orders nicely.

Reports indicated the crew's time here would be little different than the six-hundred-some other transport missions of the captain's career. Drop the men and cargo. Refuel. Mandatory downtime and then the return run to Beijing. Weng saw nothing out of the ordinary as he descended through hazy, gray skies. The sights from the ground, though, for those being conquered?

They were equal parts extraordinary and frightening.

You could see it in their faces, sense it in their bearing. There was little talk of rebellion anymore. Those first spasms of courage, such a natural fist-in-the-air reaction, had been replaced by an ever-growing consciousness that they had no options, that their destiny now lay in others' hands. Like rats in a maze with no exits the people of Seattle were warming to their lot as a captured, cornered people. Turn left, turn right. Go slow. Speed up. It really didn't matter.

Wang manipulated the plane's steering yoke in and to the left. The giant machine complied, nosing downward some twenty miles out from BAB. Swelling with pride, the captain reflected on the base's new title: Baotong, so named in honor of a North Korean war ace whose kills during that three-year-long conflict had been all U.S. pilots. As the long-serving flyer assessed it, America's imperialist intrusion into Asia sixty years ago had now come full circle.