When Totems Fall (27 page)

Dalton's neckline and pockets lay empty on every engagement except this one. Still, he'd only taken the keepsake from the general as an act of respect, a reminder of all that was at stake. And it was a good one.

The totem, so to speak, had fallen in Seattle and throughout all of Western Washington. While these formerly American citizens surely had a wide variety of figures they might place on their own individual statues, the one they all held in common was the one most painful to them now.

Zeb wanted to break out of this way-too-serious moment in his mind. Something told him to keep his lips closed. In the hush he ruminated about the ancient residents of these trails, peaks, and rivers.

I know why you guys worshiped this stuff. It makes sense on the surface.

We had nothing to do with it. We didn't design this incredible place.

Somehow, we plopped down in the middle of it. It's bigger than us.

Better than us.

Loch broke the silence.

"Two klicks to target," he whispered.

Walking on, the duo matched the vibe with a quieted yet persistent bearing.

Forty-five minutes later
Loch held his right hand up and made a fist. They were nearing now, close enough that the roar of rushing water would soon overtake their voices. Loch kneeled, signaling Zeb to move toward him
.
They spoke at three-quarters volume.

"Well, it's show time, maaah friend."

"I don't like this part of the plan, Loch. Way too exposed. Too many ways to get trapped. Too many options for pain-filled death, if you know what I mean."

"Stop whining. You and I both know this is how it haaas to go down. The message wasn't any more specific than this, so we have to live with it. Could be good."

He paused for effect.

"Could be baaaad. Very baaaad."

Sometimes it almost seemed like he wanted trouble.

"We'll know soon enough," Zeb said. "That's for sure."

Another fifty yards. Slow, purposeful. The wet, natural cover only thickened, the rumblings ever more intrusive, affecting their reasoning and reactions. Startling white noise. Their ears no more use, eyesight alone would have to make up for this sensory loss.

The drop zone was north of the falls. They'd actually overshot it, the price to be paid in gaining thick camouflage cover. The extra time and mileage proved worth it. Stopping near the head of the gorge would've left them out in the open.

Zeb stayed still in the oversized greenery, behind a couple of generous ferns at water's edge. Cold river spray covered him. A thousand freezing droplets. Shivering.

The crest of the waterfall, some 260 feet above, sent a relentless volume of liquid over its precipice. This was the heavy rain season, with snow-melt flowing off alpine ridges, forcing its way into swollen tributaries and reservoirs. From there the circular, downward force pulled anything near it downstream. Dark water, the lovely pool at the base, was topped with a frothy layer of whitish foam. The whole thing was unbelievably beautiful and mercilessly powerful.

Loch held three fingers up and pointed far left, to the ledge above.

Of course, a guard post would be here.

Zeb looked up, where Loch had motioned.

Three Chinese soldiers stood to the side of the lower entrance of the large gray, concrete structure. From there a metal doorway led to a stairwell and down another 300 feet. The generating plant on the site had been built 75 feet under the bottom of the falls—as in underneath the waterline—with a second turbine another half mile downriver. The three men up top reminded them that more still lingered in the vicinity and not so far away. Though the value of Snoqualmie was something the Chinese couldn't leave to lax security, these men were not exactly the picture of disciplined vigilance. Uniforms: untidy. Guns hanging to the side at awkward angles and unavailable for quick deployment.

With their smoke break finished, they ducked back inside.

Loch tapped his wristwatch, hand over his mouth. It was time. They would wait here in silence.

Heady mist dripped down Zeb's face and then off his clothing. A small puddle gathered at the soles of his boots. He kept looking up, scanning the area every few seconds. Dalton had a good look forward and to the sides, but his "six" was closed off. With Loch out front of him, this was a most unpleasant reality.

Nothing.

Five minutes more.

Still nothing.

Ten, fifteen, thirty minutes.

Bust. Like a dud firecracker on the fourth of July. All anticipation, no payoff. This was another of the scenarios examined in the sit room at Ft. Clark. Their greatest fear was that bad guys would respond to the call. Yet there was just as strong a potential no one at all would see the lighthouse signals and arrive on time. And then they would be on their own. Stevens' timeline allowed for only three hours here before proceeding. Like a beautifully choreographed ballet, all assets had to be advancing at once, moving toward the hoped-for climax, as more actors than Loch and Dalton now shared this stage.

U.S. Naval power was heading steadily, and hopefully stealthily, across the Pacific, ready to engage when or if the opportunity presented itself. The geeks back at the Vault kept tabs on the degradation of the Chinese code and reduction in control over U.S. nuclear assets. And this two-man contingent faced extremely long odds in not only getting in place unimpeded but also somehow making the Chinese finger on the big red button go away.

The red button. This was Zeb's job. He was sure he could make it happen but in this moment, with cold and wetness all around him, doubts grew as to whether he'd actually get a shot.

1330 came and went. As did 1430 and 1530.

He and Loch had shifted positions over the last 120 minutes but only slightly.

Two more rotations of the guards up top.

1615.

Loch turned, giving Zeb the tap the watch-face cue. Pull out. Gear up. They were on their own.

Lochland backed up. Still crouching, he slid past Zeb and turned, facing deeper into the thicket leading out, alongside state highways and then to their next objective on the near side of Lake Washington. Less than ten hours now to achieve their next station. It was possible but hustle would be called for.

Zeb followed two steps behind Loch and then stopped, mid-stride, body weight pulled back on his heels.

The cold, smooth edge
of Army issue eight-inch steel pressed remorselessly against his neck. Positioned right at his Adam's apple, the blade didn't waver, not even a single millimeter. He couldn't speak, didn't want to take a breath for fear the sharpened surface would forge his skin, bleeding him out, right there on the forest floor.

Loch took one more pace and stopped. Sensing his partner's physical presence changing, he pivoted. The image of Zeb held there at knife-point informed him to enter the situation gingerly.

"So, I'm gonna puuuut my weapon down and we can all proceed with caution, 'kay?"

A little more assurance for the assailant:

"I'm sure we can make sure mah friend leaves this place with his cranium atop his shoulders, can't we?"

The other voice spoke now.

"Who are you? What are you doing here? I want answers. Short, clear, truthful."

"Well, my teammate and I.... ", Loch was looking for the right approach.

"... we were only shining a little light in the darkness, you see."

Was his hint subtle enough?

The knife came away and Zeb coughed instinctively, placing his hand where the blade had been. A slight imprint, but no severing of the derma, remained as evidence of the attacker's skill. Whirling, he scowled at the newcomer.

"Just, who...
what
in the world... ?" he sputtered.

"Well, it's not the entire 1st Armored Division like I was hoping for," the aggressor remarked. "But I guess you gotta start somewhere."

The combat knife was sheathed as expertly as it had been brandished.

"I assume we're on the same team... gentlemen?"

A smaller hand extended, was received tentatively, and introductions began.

"SFC Jessica Sanchez, Army 1 Corps, Sniper/Recon. And you might be...?"

"Well, Sergeant," Dalton spoke up. "You have before you a retired signal corpsman and a staff sergeant who is quite a piece of work... and a one-man wrecking crew. Sorry to disappoint," he continued. "But given we've been waiting in the mist here for three hours, it would appear we're all you've got."

THIRTY EIGHT

Fifteen miles outside Gansu Province

The bus rolled on, mile after hot, dusty mile. Four hours passed since the last time its doors had opened. The air inside the mostly sealed tube was thick, heavy, stagnate. Extreme stress. Elevated carbon dioxide levels. Despite his best efforts, Junjie's mind wandered. And the memory surfacing in this half-dream state was one he preferred not to revisit.

Black equipment racks.
Ten identical columns, aligned in rows and stretching out two-hundred feet. A general darkness in the room, the product of dimmed fixtures overhead, accentuated a never-ending parade of status lights, marching to their data-infused rhythm. The hour was late or early, depending on how you thought of it. Another long work day had regressed into yet another extended evening at the office. Junjie spent the better part of it preparing, studying. The committee would meet only seven hours from now, requiring a commitment to full implementation or some very substantial reasons for slowing or halting the launch. Slumber, even on his comfortable office sectional, turned out be a lost cause. Though this was not a small space, the walls still closed in on him. Time for a walk.

The building lay empty, as you would expect for the middle of the night. An occasional security guard on post. Cleaning crews. A few departments at Dawn Star ran a third shift yet even these seemed lonely places, populated only with minimal personnel.

Junjie walked on through largely emptied and unlit spaces; thinking, considering. Eventually the late-night stroll landed him here, at the entrance to Dawn Star's massive server room.

This room stood as the payoff, the net result of his company's labors, everything asked of them by their government and investors. Not as spacious as other server farms across the world it was nonetheless more powerful, square foot per square foot, than any other yet devised. Full scrub suit donned head to toe, the young executive exhibited an utter non-threat to the sensitive machines within. Junjie's people had achieved the unthinkable. Remarkable. Much of the cabling and hardware, beyond experimental—Sci-Fi in every sense of the word. Except for the fact the science was now functional as opposed to fictional. Even their young, brilliant leader had to admit he was impressed. While fully his vision, some of the details at this level outpaced even his considerable technical expertise. Junjie was one of the best around. Even at this, their aims required more than his admirable skill sets could provide.

The project's avant-garde approach demanded high throughput—unimpeded data transfer—to do its job. Little-used polymers, mated with the highest grades of rare copper alloys, matched the need well. But they also presented a downside: a high sensitivity to static electricity and minute temperature changes, some as small as the increase of too many people standing nearby.

A single workstation occupied the far northeast corner of the room. A lone island of human activity among the black forests of caging and cables. Only one technician on duty, he keyed a few strokes into the beast and then sat back, observing the many dials and on-screen indicators monitoring stability and efficiency. All was proceeding well, as far as Dawn Star's current beta run was concerned.

Junjie approached, clearing his throat, not wanting to spook the man.

"Ahem."

"Mr. Zang," the young man offered placidly, his attention still fixed forward. "It is late. Can I help you with something?"

"No, and I am sorry for startling you," Junjie said, knowing he had done no such thing.

Junjie eyed his name badge as the man finally turned about in his seat.

"Supervisor… Jin. I do not believe we have met."

"Correct, sir. This is only my second week at Dawn Star."

Junjie paused, making sure his displeasure at the government's removal of long-trusted staff members didn't show in his expression. Still, as owner and leader of this company he felt justified in his concerns. He didn't know this man. He did, however, know the potential power of what they were working on. Those two facts alone troubled him.

A subnet window popped up, displaying the name of the active routine. Both Junjie's and the technician's eyes locked onto the workstation's center section. The words on the LCD panel? Ominous.

U.S. Strategic Command...

Accessing... authorizations...

Junjie almost jumped out of his suit.

"Stop! What is this!?"

The supervisor replied, calm, yet firm.