When Totems Fall (19 page)

"We need your wisdom, Yasu."

"Please speak, direct us."

"Give our brother Junjie success. Protect him. Give him courage."

Simple yet heartfelt pleadings. Expectation and dependency cast on their faces, heard in their voices. Ten minutes later a calmness—palpable, emotionally tangible—settled in the room. It wasn't a cure-all. The seriousness of events around them had not faded, much less been resolved. They were neither foolish nor naïve. No, this trouble-tested contingent stood more clear-eyed than ever about the dangers before them. Failure, imprisonment, even death. These were very real prospects, triggered by any actions they might undertake. Still, they evaluated these outcomes in light of greater things. This perspective, this eternal set of lenses, made all the difference.

Junjie spoke.

"My dear brothers and sisters. I cannot thank you enough for receiving me. I realize I have broken our safety protocols but felt I had no choice. This is the only place I could come where Beijing might not probe so easily."

Rising emotion lodged the next few words in the back of his throat. Junjie swallowed hard, doing his best.

"I have lost friends, colleagues... stood over their lifeless bodies myself. Quan, Feng; both gone. And now I am a threat as well; one more contingency to be managed."

Eyes dropping to the tabletop, he found himself unable to look his cohorts in the face.

"I had nowhere else to run."

Aside Junjie a withered, age-spotted hand reached out, trembling, and then landing gently on his left forearm. The timely gesture came from a woman, deeply respected and honored in their ranks. She was the smallest and oldest of those gathered in the cramped space. She was also the elder who, after others talked for a while, centered them again with quiet yet potent words and faith
.

Biyu Fong
empathized
with Junjie's angst—his fear, because her story intertwined with his, and intimately so. Like so many others from their village back in Gansu, she also had experienced the transformation, as it came to be known.

A new pair of eyes. A re-made heart and mind. They lived differently now. They dealt with one another and peered into the unknowns of futures and fortunes... differently than before. Such matters of faith and life would not be abided by their leaders. Instead, they were received as rebellion. And such could not be left unchecked in the new China. So it was that she bore the same marks on both body and soul that the young executive carried.

For her family's acts of treason her husband Lee had been imprisoned at the same time as Junjie's father. Biyu herself was beaten on multiple occasions. Teams of uniformed men wreaked havoc, demanding renunciation of this perceived foreign loyalty. Their home was burned, left as rubble, while the few worldly treasures they'd accumulated lay disfigured, discarded in a smoldering, blackened pile. And just to finish the horrific scene? PRC soldiers stood by, laughing callously at their loss.

Biyu could not forget these images. These travails shaped her. Still, she came out of it more courageous, more tenacious, and surprisingly more forgiving; unhindered by the bitterness that should've held fast as shackles on her soul. The woman's sorrows ran deep yet her heart remained strong, so strong.

"Young one," she spoke, smiling, searching Junjie's face while stroking his arm.

"You carry much regret. Your eyes... "

Biyu lifted his chin in her tiny hand, reassuringly.

"Your gaze is faint, my child.
"

It was so true.

Junjie had spent an unhealthy, inordinate amount of time the last few days battering his heart over the
what if
scenarios. Somehow he needed to break free from the unmanageable burden of it all. Those minutes on his knees in his office were a good start. Still, shaking the relentless voices, all seeking validation, all wanting to place blame at his feet, had been a pitched battle.

Whenever he closed his eyes he was forced to endure again the likenesses of dead friends, seared cruelly into his minds-eye. And what of his precious family? Envisioning his wife and child held as dangerous pawns, drawing him to surrender, sickened him. He despised the license his work had conferred upon evil men. Junjie so wished to turn back the clock, to make different choices. The young man spoke honestly now, calling on the woman as a spiritual parent.

"I know, mother Biyu. It is a heaviness that will not lift. I do not know what else to do."

This last phrase had barely passed his lips before tears began to flow. He wasn't weak. Nor was he a coward. Committed to the course before him, Junjie merely foresaw with clarity the potential suffering on the near horizon. It was unbearable. Gravity pressed in as if carrying a special, increased load as of late. Each movement a struggle. Every thought dulled.

Biyu squeezed his arm once more.

"Junjie. Listen, my son. This burden is not yours to carry unassisted. You cannot make these things right by yourself. You can only cooperate now with the plans of heaven...

... and with the resources of heaven. Yes, go forward you must. But you do not go alone."

These words took on an authority disproportionate to her unimpressive physical bearing and a tangible strength, unexplainable in human terms, transferred in that moment to Junjie's heart. Growing in certainty; a peace not of his own making.

They gathered in a small circle of unity around Junjie's chair, the ragtag coalition placing their hands on the young man. A show of support. An act of sending. Then they got down to work.

__________________________________

Ft. Clark, Senior Leadership Unit

"So Captain, tell me:
am I crazy? Or does our curious visitor have what it takes to save his countrymen from the ravages ahead?"

The general had started the conversation off directly, that was for sure. Seated across from him in his office, Dr. Mac reviewed her notes again before answering. Her opinion, she knew, held substantial weight in the commander's determination. She needed to frame this up well. By her estimate, Zeb presented a huge upside. On the other hand, she couldn't just dismiss her many apprehensions. So she proceeded cautiously and, as always, professionally.

"Sir, there's no question Dalton is a unique asset. Almost too good to believe. One could think it fortuitous to have him on-base at this juncture."

Stevens preempted her next statement, cutting her off mid-breath.

"Your diplomacy is noted, Captain. It's also annoying me, so shoot straight. Am I hearing your reticence? You're uncomfortable with him engaging this mission?"

"General, sir. There are outstanding reasons to deploy the lieutenant. There are also a few cautions to account for. For example, his family history..."

"Please Captain," Stevens broke in, abruptly again. "I know all about that. Read it myself, you know. He has daddy issues... don't we all."

"Sir, with all due respect. The deep wounds resulting from these kinds of things can be of great significance in determining fitness for duty. If you would indulge me for a moment."

Mental health screenings, she reminded the general, were nothing new for men and women of the armed services as minds, emotions, and stability are key factors affecting a soldier's performance. Since many of Zeb's combat assignments over the years were of a specialized nature, these inquiries dug deeper than usual. Fifteen full-scope evaluations. Over three hundred hours of prodding and poking. Every word and nuance recorded for scrutiny and posterity. Intense, thorough. Yet even at this, the best the U.S. Army could offer only scratched the surface of such a complex, deep past.

For the next ten minutes, Mac meticulously connected the dots between the entries in Zeb's record. The official summary read:
detachment from authority associated with loss of paternal trust.
The full story, of course, was quite a bit more complicated than that.

TWENTY SEVEN

1997.

Zeb, a high school senior,
was just trying his best to enjoy the springtime of his youth while keeping as low a profile as possible. It was the classic teen dilemma: be known for cool stuff and don't stick out from the crowd. This delicate balance, challenging enough for most males in the throes of puberty, turns out to be a wholly more formidable undertaking when your father is fa
mous.

James Murifield Dalton
pastored a large, Suburban Seattle church. His ministry had grown steadily over a dozen or so years, from small congregation on the outskirts of King County to four thousand parishioners and ultra-modern facilities, complete with worldwide television, print, and internet presence, on the more upscale eastside of the city.

Pastor J, as he preferred to be called, was everywhere during those years. Omnipresent, some might say. Court-side season tickets at Sonics home games. Ribbon cuttings. Broader religious community gatherings. One minute you might hear him testifying at a city council meeting and the next catch his opinions via interview on the nightly news. This was extraordinary in Seattle.

Faith leaders in this significantly agnostic part of the country rarely double as public figures. Some religion is fine of course, so long as it doesn't become the dominant factor in your life. That would be fanaticism. Add to this a systemic distrust—again the independent pioneering thing—toward anything construed as overbearing or controlling and you get the kind of situation where the older Dalton's presence and influence was quite surprising. Yet counter to this socio-cultural reality, the personal charisma and reach of Pastor J ensconced him as something like the Jesse Jackson of the Puget Sound. Appreciated by some, a source of skepticism for many.

Zeb's father's notoriety cast a long, inescapable shadow over young Dalton's adolescence. He and his father were not close, meetings and speaking engagements taking precedence over ballgames and help with schoolwork. The things normal dads do with their kids at night and on weekends, the everyday bonds that many parent-child relationships are built upon, were all but absent in this case. Still, a deep regard for his father had taken root early, a foundational piece of Zeb's family life and worldview. Though struggling with doubts, a reasonable uncertainty about truths his father held without question, Zeb remained convinced of the basics. At least until the Autumn of '98.

There was no way to buffer the young man from what came to light. The furious downward spiral, front page news, served as fodder for blog and water cooler commentary for the next six months. It was a classically tragic fall from grace. Embezzlement of church funds. Illicit sexual relationships. A well-hidden dependence on prescription drugs. Though settling somewhat during the protracted investigation, the pain and humiliation kicked up again with renewed force as his dad's excruciatingly public trial, verdict, and sentencing dragged on. At the start of the new millennium, Pastor J was facing seventeen years in Walla Walla State Penitentiary. Guilty—all counts. The financial side of the scandal topped out at over three million dollars with drug-selling charges thrown in to boot. As far as society was concerned, Zeb's dad would pay for his sins.

Tragically, so would Zeb.

__________________________________

"Captain, you've only told me
what I already know," General Stevens intoned.

She had to make this stick.

"Sir, again with respect. This is
the
defining matter in Dalton's life, the fundamental reason he's a risk. Everyone holds something as the corpus of their psyche. For some, it's a political system. Others hold to religious ideals. Some believe they, themselves, are all they need: the mantra of self-reliance."

She was in her depth now.

"For Dalton, this foundational inner anchor was his father. Even though they weren't close, he was his center. This all came crashing down at nineteen years of age... and he never replaced it…

... not with anything."

"Under duress, an individual's center-mass of identity is what keeps them from imploding; on task, in the fight. Dalton doesn't have this anymore; hasn't for quite a few years. It's no exaggeration, psychologically speaking, to say he is empty...
void.
"

Mac slowed again, assuring nothing would be left unsaid.

"This is the weakness we can't predict, can't control."

The general leaned forward, ever-present cigar dangling from his right hand as he received the briefing; capturing and processing every word.

"Alright. Thank you, Captain," he said somewhat softer. "You are dismissed."

Stevens allowed himself another moment of reflection after she'd left the room. Thinking as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes came forward to the desk, landing on a miniaturized wooden totem pole displayed prominently among the mess of personal memorabilia he kept there. Sitting forward and picking it up, he fingered the rough edges of the carving, turning it over, considering it. He remembered how the miniature replica had been a gift from his daughter some years back, brought home after a field trip to one of the many Native American communities in the state. She was so excited to tell him all she had learned, especially how this symbol functioned as a visual representation of the totality of a tribe's life, with the very top figure serving as "overseer", their protection. In battle, she'd been told, the significance of a fallen totem was unmatched. If indeed it fell, this represented the utter destruction of everything the community believed in. The removal of their center—their core.