When Totems Fall (23 page)

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The situation room at Clark
appeared just as hastily put together as the rest of the camp. It had everything necessary, at a very basic level, to launch and preside over a major op. A conference table, seating up to ten. Chairs here were more comfortable than others throughout the camp, owing to the fact that people occupied them over extended periods of time. These were nice upgrades. The coffee, sadly, was still bottom barrel Army-issue. Browning, burnt bottoms and sides of glass carafes spoke volumes about the lack of care given to such a critical component of modern warfare.

Zeb stared, offended, as any coffee snob would be.

Dr. Mac was in place, as was Colonel Meers. Loch sat across the table from Zeb and another aide to the commander.

Everyone stood.

General Stevens entered and all were seated, only to rise again as the video wall came to life, the Presidential Seal filling the space, signaling the call was about to begin. The feed jumped and then settled, revealing a wide-frame view on the other end.

From inside the Oval Office,
Sec Def, Homeland Security, and the National Security Advisor sat along one side of chairs and couches. CIA and FBI heads took up places opposite them. Key aides lingered in the near-background. The focal point was forward, aimed at the president's desk, as the Commander-in-Chief waited for confirmation of signal lock. Given the go-ahead from the on-site tech director, he opened the conversation.

"General Stevens," he said. "Good to see you again. I wish it were under better circumstances."

The president was always personable, even under great duress.

"First off," he continued. "Thank you for handling the evacuation and resettlement duties so well. It is a credit to your professionalism and that of your staff. I know this was perhaps one of the most challenging things this nation has ever asked of you. I am indebted for how you have comported yourself and led those under your command."

"Mr. President. That is a great compliment. I will pass it along to the many fine soldiers who've made hard things happen this past week."

"Yes, General, I am certain you will."

Long-time friends, their early paths traced a parallel arc, with much in common regarding backgrounds, schooling, and ways of thinking. Both had enjoyed some of the finest leadership training in the country. Mike Stevens had applied these lessons over a lifetime of military service. The president, obviously, had walked the path of political influence and governance.

"General..."

He paused, formalities seeming unnecessary, and started again.

"Mike... we've been working on two scenarios concurrently. It's time to coordinate and make some decisions. I have authorized Carrier Group 2 out of Pearl to proceed eastward, toward China. Our current understanding of the code degeneration is still very dicey but we need assets on the move, covering all contingencies."

"Yes, Mr. President."

Stevens could not bring himself to refer to his friend by first name.

"And so," the president asked. "How is your side of the ballgame looking? This human asset that showed up the other day. Is he ready? I need to hear it from you, Mike."

Stevens, along with everybody else in the room, looked over at Zeb in unison.

"Mr. President, he is prepped... and he's the best chance we've got."

Zeb didn't expect to be thrown under the bus. Still, the general's words and tone were most encouraging.

"Well then, Mike, I am authorizing full green light—every aspect. God bless your team. We'll need it."

The screen went black. Noticing they'd been holding their collective breath, everyone exhaled simultaneously.

Zeb and the general
were the last two exiting the room. Almost at the doorway Dalton turned, looking like he wanted to say something to the senior officer.

"General?" he started.

Stevens glanced up.

"Sir, I know I've been a pain in the keester... "

The general neither challenged nor corrected this assertion.

"... but you have to know. I am fully committed to this thing. Our country has taken a blow every citizen feels deeply, a wound only continuing to fester until we do something. Something crazy, sure. That's all we've got, so far as I can tell."

Zeb paced his last statement because it seemed corny, like a bad line in a B movie script, but he meant it.

"Sir, I will do my best. You have my word... as a soldier... and an officer."

That sealed it. Stevens knew he'd made the right call.

"I know you will, son. I know you will."

THIRTY TWO

Five Miles North of Central Beijing: the manufacturing corridor

Screams of agony could be heard throughout the abandoned warehouse and the empty lots encircling the unremarkable, gray pole-building. That is, if anyone was nearby to hear them.

Dusk.
This area on the urban fringe of China's capital city lay ravaged in the growing darkness of the day, in large part due to a sagging economy. Buildings sat orphaned in the wake of unexpected, dramatic downturns in the financial sector. Yet, grim as these untended shells appeared, a more immediate downside became apparent as this day faded. There was no one around. Nobody to notice or care that something bad was happening to another person.

Zhou Dhe sat in the middle of the cavernous space with arms folded across chest, unmoved by the repeated pronouncements of innocence. Stoic in the face of endless cries for mercy, his eyes had neither flinched nor flickered in the last three hours. His face was still as stone, his countenance twice as cold. Not his first time to bring pain to bear in acquiring information, it was also not the first time the man had enjoyed it.

The tragic figure in the chair across from him fell forward limply once more, held in place only by a twisted mass of bungee cords at his midsection. His sobs were quiet yet deep. Only weakness remained in the barely audible voice now, long past exhibiting any manner of defiance. His eyes had swollen shut. Even if this were not true, the man wouldn't dare look Dhe in the face.

The minister's work was not progressing as planned.

"Again," he ordered.

"No... please... no," the victim pleaded. "I hired on only a few weeks ago at Dawn Star. I know nothing. I told you this. Please, no... no more."

The interrogator looked up, almost imperceptibly, toward the only other person in the room.

Continue.

Dhe embraced such unpleasantness. While often justifying this kind of work as patriotic duty, in reality, he only thought about himself, his position, his dominion. He was a man who viewed the world as a closed system, a zero-sum contest. In his mind, if someone was stronger, he was weaker. This was unthinkable, untenable. Yet at the same time a very practical man, he knew when to walk away, to cut his losses. This interrogation was a loss not because life ebbed away in front of him but because hours had been wasted. These were hours he did not have. Over the last day he had facilitated three such sessions personally. So far, no actionable intelligence had come from his efforts.

Dhe stood, turned, and left—wordlessly—as if the previous events of cruelty and dehumanization had never even happened.

A black Mercedes E240 idled in the parking lot. Zhou exited the warehouse, stepped the few feet to the car and slipped through the opened door. Stretched out, yawning, he arched his back into the dark leather upholstery the exact moment the man inside the building drew his last breaths.

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Nearing Gansu

The road-worn diesel bus
was filled to overflowing. Every window had been forced open, its AC in disrepair. The air outside, a maelstrom of dust, was still cleaner and cooler than the stagnant, unmoving atmosphere hanging on and around each person, in every seat. Three dogs, two goats, and five uncaged chickens were along for the ride. Only two stops in fourteen hours. Junjie hoped they might result in fewer people and animals. Instead, every time the doors opened, this rolling carnival only took on more patrons, of both the human and non-human kind. These accommodations were quite different than those he'd become accustomed to lately.

As CEO of a prosperous tech firm Zang held a fondness for first class everything. A frequent flyer across China and throughout Southeast Asia, Junjie savored these perks of the gig. Instant service. Retractable seating on overnight flights. Thinking back, it made him smile. His leisurely daydream was rudely interrupted as an older woman tried to make her way to the bathroom. Unknowingly, she'd almost tripped over his gear. Junjie overreacted, arms shooting out in defense, trying to keep her from stepping on these valued resources. She gave him a harsh look.

Whoa. Calm down, Junjie. You're totally going to give yourself away.

The last thing he needed was busted-up equipment. He shouldn't have worried. None of it was especially fragile—Quan Doh had seen to that. Still, maintaining perspective was a constant challenge. Junjie's other life, a life built so carefully and loved so dearly, felt very far away and horribly fragile. He shook his head a few times, just to confirm this was all real.

Yes. Yes, it was.

The busted radio up front had been screeching non-stop since the boarding at Qingdao. There was only one item on every channel. Unrelenting, government-produced accounts of victory in the northwestern corner of the U.S.

Chinese sovereignty and influence grows daily in the new province.

America has capitulated to the demands of Beijing.

The expansion of the People's Republic has landed firmly on the shores of the North American Continent.

The incessant narration was intended to inform and inspire. Junjie had principally tuned it out the last few hours. Still, when he caught a phrase or two it ate at his bowels like a low-level influenza. Thankfully, the man in the driver's seat was the only one paying attention to this drivel. An oversized grin revealed his opinion of the recent actions, as well as the fact that many of his upper teeth were missing.

If this truly is a great nation, naturally expanding its reach and opportunity to the fortunate populaces of the world, it seems to have skipped over the lives of the people on this steaming junker.

The young businessman could be so cynical.

Junjie needed rest but sleep would not come. He had tried earlier. Each time his eyes got heavy a random procession of two and four-legged creatures down the aisle awoke him to the unpleasant present. No, he would remain conscious while trapped on this marvel of public transportation.

They were near now, at least in terms of Chinese geography. Only another four to five hours from home. This last phase of the journey would take him through the mountains surrounding his village, winding down into the low plains of Gansu. These hardly two-lane roads, some of the most treacherous anywhere, somehow hosted few accidents along the way. Call it localized risk management. Drivers here assessed when to press their luck and when to play it safe.

The laborious auto slowed, pulling over to the side of the road. Once stopped, the ever-present motor and wheel noise died away, leaving an uneasy chasm of peace in its place.

THIRTY THREE

"Fuel. Ten minutes. No more," the motorist said.

Junjie looked out the window.
A small market. An ancient gas stand. That was all. It had been seven or eight hours since he'd last eaten anything. The man's stomach seemed contented but his bladder called out to him more urgently now.

There must be a restroom somewhere in the building, he reasoned. If not, the aging row of shrubbery out back would suffice. True, a commode could be found at the posterior of the vehicle but each time someone cracked it open he rehearsed a solemn, silent vow not to go in the place, fearing he might be overcome by fumes, never to come back out. That was not the way he imagined the whole thing going down. The mounting pressure begged him to get off. The only thing keeping him in place? The cases, down by his feet.

Two minutes. I can be gone two minutes.

Junjie walked forward, down, and out into open air.

Thirty-five, thirty-six...

Across sand, rocks, and pavement. Over to the front door.

Forty-nine, fifty...

Inside: the head, to the left. Six people queued before him.

Okay, the bushes.

The eastern side of the building, also the most exposed side for these duties, maintained the greatest line of sight to his seat. It would have to do.

Seventy-seven, seventy-eight...

The roar of the motorcycle's
damaged muffler came from behind, up a side road perpendicular to the shack disguised as a store. Approaching with a vengeance and clearly on a mission, he came to an abrupt stop. Dirt kicked up by its knobby wheels hadn't settled before the rider had dismounted, moving quickly toward the coach operator, currently enjoying a smoke break
.