When Totems Fall (20 page)

Stevens made his decision.

He would prepare Dalton as best he knew how and send him back, over the mountains.

Into China.

Could there be a reclamation of all that the Americans left behind were losing daily, their everything—their core? He didn't really know. Still, he prayed this might be the case while hoping that at some level there could be a restoration for Dalton as well.

Opening an email composition window on his laptop, he typed out a few, significant words:

Attention: Ft. Clark Senior Command. Immediately commence...

Operation: Restore Totem
.

__________________________________

Undisclosed Location, Qingdao

Literally on the other side of the world,
another plan went into motion. Junjie had advanced the idea. The committee concurred. The young executive would be heading back home, to Gansu. From there he would attempt a reversal of the tragedies progressing across the Pacific. This journey, taking him back to first things, was ironic, both in an existential and technological sense. The place of his birth was not a major city, not even a small one. Yet insignificant Gansu would work quite well. Out of the way, it was a case of hiding in plain sight and counter-intuitive to those who would pursue him. The challenge, Junjie knew, was obvious. In order to even have a shot at succeeding, two primary resources would be required: fast internet and reliable power. In his village, even under ordinary circumstances, both could prove hard to come by. To make this work he needed some help.

"You cannot simply
manufacture power, Junjie."

The voice, stereotypically technician-speak, was a great match for the individual from whom it had emanated.

Quan Doh
pushed black, wire-rim glasses back up his nose, let out an exasperated breath, and started again. Maybe he could get through to his aggravatingly slow pupil this time.

"You must multiply power which is already there," he lectured. "But not in ways that get you noticed."

The young man let his half-scolding hang, mid-air.

Quan was beyond brilliant. Mensa would have been fortunate to have him on their membership rolls. As the technical lead for this team supplying resources to the unregistered church he performed vital yet often unnoticed services. His job? Help Christians in China who chose not to affiliate with the state church increase their effectiveness in teaching and training by providing them with strategic communications and electronic assets.

"So, Quan my friend, how do we do this?" Junjie asked.

"With this," Quan tapped his right forefinger down onto the work table in front of them. "... of course."

It appeared to be nothing spectacular, just a small-ish black box. Male receptacle on one end. Another on the opposite edge. Topside, three run-of-the-mill computer to wall connections.

Junjie trusted the be-speckled man. Still, he had to ask.

"This looks like some sort of power strip. Correct?"

Quan was crushed at Junjie's under-valuing of his work. For a moment it seemed he might walk away, sulking.

"Quan, I'm sorry," Junjie backed up. "I know this must be much more than that." Doing his best to keep him talking: "Please, explain it to me."

The technician's head rose slightly.

"This..." he continued. "Provides ten times the capacity of a regular residential outlet."

Junjie did the quick mental math. Impressive. He was more alert now to the possibilities of the basic black box. Quan went on, pointing to the first male end.

"The existing electrical service connects here," he indicated. "Transformers inside condition, clean, and amplify the current, giving you a small generating station's worth of it. But here..." he beamed. "Here's the real magic. The outgoing current is transformed back to exactly what went in the front end. Dirty, intermittent, whatever. And the net result for you will be..."

Junjie finished his sentence.

"I remain invisible. No spike in electrical usage for anyone to observe. Nothing for local authorities to note at all."

He opened up in praise. "Quan, this is amazing. And so critical. Thank you, brother."

The younger man's heart was bolstered at the vocal appreciation of his work.

"Junjie, I have a few other items I think you might be interested in as well."

Quan completed the show-and-tell
session and Junjie couldn't help but think he had just experienced the Chinese version of a James Bond film, where the spy gets a tour of all the new gadgets and weapons at his disposal before embarking on a mission. A slick British operative, Junjie was not. But these last few minutes had served their purpose, increasing his odds, even if only marginally. That in itself was encouraging.

TWENTY EIGHT

Formerly Seattle City College—West Seattle Campus

The instructor stood before his classroom, patiently reviewing the unfamiliar characters of the Chinese alphabet while searching for comprehension in his students' weary, defeated faces.

The middle-aged, Caucasian teacher
had presented this material many times throughout the course of his career. The content was familiar, his syllabus the same as always; standardized, best-practices, ordinary. While the coursework was what might be expected from a Community College-level introduction to Asian languages, the setting and circumstances most certainly were not
.
In years past students approached him of their own accord, preparing for a stint in foreign service work or relocation with major international corporations. Still others came for personal enrichment, an expansion and experience outside of their normal cultural context. Those rooms had all been populated with self-motivated students, looking to better their lives or that of others. Today? This classroom was held fast by far more basic realities; one's occupying the lower end of Maslow's Pyramid. Fear. Control. Survival; for themselves and their loved ones.

To be fair, a few chairs this morning sat inhabited by someone minimally intrigued by the challenges of learning the new material. Most, though, had been pressed into action by the image of two PRC Army guards posted inside the back door, coldly performing their room monitoring duties with JS 9mm submachine guns in hand. This was not an isolated, unfortunate anomaly as the same scenario was playing out in every last classroom available across the Seattle Metro area. When these classrooms filled, offices, waiting rooms, and janitorial closets surfaced as the next best options as holding tanks of the oppressive tutelage. Professors like this one served at the behest of new management. The majority of former faculty at SCC where now students themselves, forcibly introduced to what in better circumstances would've been valuable, deepening enterprises.

Two-hour shifts, six days per week, all conquered individuals reported to their local learning centers. Some before work, many during the workday. Still more, after hours. Math and Sciences instruction would continue normally and as needed. History, language, and economic theory, though, had been replaced with new coursework, composed and authorized thousands of miles away on the Chinese mainland. It was the logical next step: an identity transition that each resident of this former American state would now undertake. The social engineers in Beijing would harness the transformational powers of language and culture. They also understood the value of borders.

Impassable mountain ranges.
An internationally policed border to the north. A large river to the south. It all added up to an almost impenetrable stretch of land to inhabit and protect. Some two and a half hours south of Seattle, these advantages were becoming obvious, day by day.

The
Columbia River
, head-watered in British Columbia, Canada, flowing southward and west to the Pacific, creating an imminently defensible southern border between this newly acquired soil and the State of Oregon. As the third largest river by volume in America, the Columbia passes through wide runs and deep channels, her waterways easily patrolled and defended.

Chinese military presence here was already unmistakable. After navigating ocean to river via Cape Disappointment, sixteen Shanghai-2 gunboats now roamed her brownish-green waters. Built for this exact purpose and at a displacement of 135 tons, these attack boats reached speeds upward of 25 knots. Such quickness would not be needed, still, it guaranteed they'd neither be overtaken nor outrun. With four 35mm deck mounted turrets, the same number of 25mms, and one 81mm long-range gun, they owned more than enough firepower to fulfill their role as a curtain of steel as their crews—thirty-six naval warriors each—stood ready to defend their new province against all challengers.

Thus, one-hundred-fifty or so miles of mountainous foothills to deep sea waters created a formidable boundary, one that would not be challenged anytime soon. The physical aspects of this place made the proposition of regaining it costly in both men and materiel. Beijing had chosen well and intended to use these natural borders as their new, western Wall.

It was both a tragedy and an irony. Such stark beauty had been enjoyed, bolstering local pride for as long as the area had been inhabited. Now, these very qualities were becoming tools that despotism would use to conquer and control. But the Chinese weren't leaving it all up to nature, either. In addition to the riverine defense corridor of the Columbia herself, they were also creating fortresses out of three cities along the waterway. Vancouver (WA), Kelso, and Astoria were rapidly transforming into heavily guarded embattlements, with non-vital personnel displaced to counties under an hour away. Left behind now was a minimal populace, one more in line with these new towns' true purpose: defending and protecting the edges of their territory. Part of their attractiveness was that they could only be broached from the south by bridges over the Columbia. These steel-engineered marvels, once fair-traveled mechanisms of interstate commerce and life, were now the site of an international border, and one between quite unfriendly neighbors. Chinese tanks maintained their brawny stoicism at the halfway point over each concrete span, where, at the slight arc of a two-lane highway over the river, a pair of hostile, sovereign nation-states now met. Everywhere you looked the imprint of occupation made its mark. Overflights from the recently-christened Baotong Air Base near Tacoma policed the skies above as crews of mortar and small arms fire teams manned sandbagged positions every few hundred yards along the banks of the mighty Columbia.

Raw force and propaganda became the two extended fists of the invasion. Each was necessary. Each would be brutal. And only a few hours north of these barbed-wire, artillery zones, classroom lessons spoke of a new, golden age dawning in Western Washington.

A Chinese Age.

__________________________________

"Instructor.
I am glad to see your pupils so hard at work," the man said with presumption of power dripping off every word. "I am wondering, though, have we overlooked something this morning?"

Still dark outside, not 6:00am yet, the grating, thin voice of the school's supervisor—their new chancellor—matched the mood in the room perfectly. No one wanted to be here, at this or any other hour. But especially not at this hour.

"I am sorry, Chancellor. We have been so vigorously engaged that we... forgot."

"Well then, some amount of disorder initially is understandable, instructor, but let's be about the business of good citizenry."

Rotating toward the classroom, the chancellor continued his improvised lecture. He walked the aisles, enjoying his newfound authority while effusing a twisted version of reality, step by ugly step.

"You have before you a remarkable opportunity. The chance to be prospering, fulfilled members of the greatest nation on the face of this planet. Your country, admirable in its rebellious infancy, is now a mere shell of its former strength, a spiral of national and cultural degradation that has been proceeding for some time. You are escaping a sinking ship. A grateful response to such an invitation is in order, is it not? It reminds us all how fortunate we are."

The chancellor looked to the instructor, indicating a desire that the class respond to his timely reminder of their fortuitous situation. Reluctantly, the former professor called for his students to stand. He couldn't bring himself to meet their cast-down eyes, managing instead only a feeble hand motion for them to follow. In unison they recited what was projected at the front of the room:

We are happy, thankful citizens of the People's Republic of China. Though we come from different origins, we are all a part of each other; laboring for the good of all and the glory of our new motherland
.

The energy expended in the recitation was less than impressive.

"Well then," the chancellor said, satisfied for the moment. "Carry on, instructor."

TWENTY NINE

Northern City Limits—Tacoma