When Totems Fall (30 page)

Multiple groans. A few choice words over the air from the rest of the team. Nine skilled touchdowns later the squadron entrusted their planes to their equally adept crews for refueling, maintenance, and stowage. From there they jostled and pushed one another while walking toward the superstructure, like pre-teen boys with a surplus of pent-up energy. Some moments you'd be surprised that men of this order had charge of life and death and multi-million dollar machines. Most days their commitment and skill would make you proud they were on your side.

"Commander on deck."

The proclamation stopped their horseplay, bringing them to attention.

Rear Admiral Knowles appeared from behind a bulkhead, encountering the just-returned flight leader and his cohorts. They responded appropriately, respectfully.

"At ease," Knowles ordered. "I hear you had another fine dry-run today; that your squad is as ready as the American people will need you to be. Is this correct?"

Knowles was not the kind of commander to use drummed up confrontations to establish and reinforce her authority. She really wanted to encourage and challenge her sailors and airmen to excellence, readiness. Conversations like this were welcomed by her crew.

"Ma'am," the lead pilot responded. "We were ready, on station, systems as green as they could be. When we get the call, we'll do the job."

The admiral smiled broadly, so they could catch it.

"Good to hear, Captain. Carry on, men."

With that, she released the aviators, off-duty now for the evening.

Carrier Group 2 closed in on China. Another ten hours and her men and machines would be in place, anxious for their orders. They had achieved a measure of surprise so far. This would not continue to be the case for long.

__________________________________

Former U.S. Embassy Compound, Beijing

Though still officially
the United States' Ambassador to China, Gary Locke was performing his last assignment—closing down Beijing Station. Once completed, he would leave the post behind and along with it, his position. The American President had ordered the action; a necessary, albeit weak, response. Locke's days since had been overrun with administrative duties and sensitive materials handling. With a staff of over seventy-five there were lots of personal and personnel issues to take care of. These things he presided over now. A sense of defeat and dread clung to the air, discoloring the few remaining hours he had in this office. Mundane. Painful. Though the Chinese had not demanded the severing of relations, it was a forgone conclusion the United States would no longer maintain an active consulate in the PRC.

Locke stood, staring into space for a moment. Evidences of the man's faithful service to a great nation once lined these shelves. They now sat stacked unevenly in boxes, to be shipped who knows where. He had always tried his best to be a diplomat moving relations forward in the world. Hardball was not his favorite tactic, preferring instead to protect the interests of America as well as advance the welfare and prosperity of the nations he was tasked to inhabit. He was convinced there were many ways to do both at the same time. The heaviness of it all hit hard, most days. Professional disgrace. Failure. But the weight he carried wasn't only for himself.

The man was a long-time resident and civil servant of the former State of Washington. He was from there. His family and friends, many of them, still there. How were they fairing? What must it be like for them? Are they being singled out for their connection with me?

An odd buzzing sound brought Locke out of this semi-mourning state. The pager rang twice again, its display illuminating the few inches around it on the desk.

2444HCO*# —appeared on the small, yellow screen.

Most modern diplomatic communication occurred via secure land lines or cell nodes. Occasionally the foreign services of countries would use this outdated technology but only in situations where the sender desired to remain especially incognito.

Locke walked over to the wall safe and dialed the combination. Drawing out a thin notebook, he opened it and searched rows of data, tracking the characters until he found the match.

Well, this should be interesting.

With the ledger shut he placed it back into the vault, locking it away again.

Then, informing no one, Locke grabbed his overcoat and keys, leaving through a chiefly unknown exit at the back of his private bathroom.

Twenty-five minutes later
he arrived unaccompanied, the standard protocol for this kind of meet, at a nondescript warehouse in the steel manufacturing sector of the city. Pushing both hands into the pockets of his black overcoat, he strode toward the entrance. A few last steps and the door opened for him. Inside, two guards motioned, pointing forward with the business end of their side arms. The hallway was narrow, maybe three feet wide with a single, aging light bulb overhead. Twenty paces later came another wordless instruction: to the left, into an empty room. Empty that is, except for two chairs facing each other in the middle of the space. One was already occupied. The other? Clearly meant for him. Though the unidentified person's back was turned to Locke at this point, the voice was quite familiar.

"Mr. Ambassador. So good of you to respond to my call."

FORTY TWO

Seattle's Near Eastside

Zeb's head rolled forward, committing neither to full consciousness nor retreating to the comfort of sleep quite yet. Not sure where he was, he moved little, playing it safe until he gained a better grip on what was going on around him.

Underneath and behind him:
cheap vinyl. Slippery. An oil and gasoline smell in the air. The temperature all around was hot—a heat carrying a musty, thicker mien. Zeb moved his feet. Cartons and bags strewn at his ankles. Not much room at all for him to maneuver or shift his weight. Hands at his side and still, Zeb paused a second longer. Scanning subtly with his peripheral vision, he sought the final pieces in the emerging puzzle. Add it all up: in the back seat of a car.

A crappy one.

"Hey, Aurora. Sorry to bring you bad news. There's no prince around right now. And I sure 'ain't gonna give you the wake-up kiss."

Sanchez.

Zeb had met the woman only recently. Already, he liked her. Aside from their first moments of introduction, with her pressing a knife against his throat, he was coming to believe she represented quite the advantage on this little mission.

Dalton sat up straight, stretching. A few deep breaths and he took it all in. Remembering.

"How long was I out for?"

"Too long, LT. A bit toooo long, I say."

Loch. Of course, it was Loch.

"How soon to target?" Zeb asked, trying to reassert his position on the team.

"Thirty minutes if it holds up like this," Sanchez shot back.

"Okay," he said. "We agreed on the operational sequence?"

"Check."

This time the response came from Lochland, holding down the forward passenger seat. Sanchez, to his left and in front of Zeb, sat behind the wheel.

Early morning.
The sky was gray and, not unexpectedly, fostered a slight chill in the air. The defrost in the car left long, cleared ellipsoidal patches on the two side windowpanes. Other than that everything stayed pretty foggy. Neither of the backseat windows was clear. The windshield exhibited an interesting penumbra effect.

Dalton leaned back, closing his eyes. It all lit up again—the giant, interactive display.

Lines, curves, time stamps. Personnel and pathway data. Every detail interconnected in a vast array of possibilities. Not matter how obscure or abstract it was all there, all at the same time. Had anyone been able to peer into Zeb's head at this moment it would have come across as unmitigated chaos, an untamed mess of disparate items, pictures, numbers. To the retired soldier, though, it seemed one big, beautiful symphony; an ensemble to be called upon to gain insight into whatever scenarios they might encounter.

The only thing missing from this kaleidoscopic playground of the mind? The powers to actually shape realities, not merely to foresee them for himself and his unlikely partners. This was something no amount of data, or even the infinite ability to re-arrange it, provided. Somewhat unfairly, his prodigious gifts did not produce the one thing he most desired. Control. This had always irked him about life. One would think a talent such as his would translate into an actual ordering of outcomes. Try as he might, Zeb learned early and often this was not the case.

Seeing everything he needed to see for now, Zeb opened his eyes again, leaning forward between the two front seats.

"Chevy?"

"Yeah...Lumina," Sanchez replied. "Ain't she a beaut'? Drove something like this my senior year in high school, all piled up with rowdy teens on a Friday night. Had to stop every two hours to fill the radiator and add oil—which we need to keep any eye on with this one, too. But hey, what more do you need when you're on your way to save the world?"

They had happened upon her
on an abandoned logging road running parallel to the meanderings of the Snoqualmie River. The sedan sat there under a stand of hundred foot firs, at the edge of a dirt and gravel path—one that long ago had borne the constant press of commercial tree harvesting equipment. Now it lay quieted, solemn, yet straight and mostly cleared. A few minutes of removing branches, needles, and cones and they stared at the car, then back at one another with an air of disbelief.

Rust patches marred the back driver's side wheel-wells. The hood didn't close completely, due to some serious warping of the metal at the edges. A busted passenger-side mirror. True, the decades-old car wasn't gorgeous. She also wouldn't stick out along rural roadways in economically depressed towns, the very places they would be passing through.

Ten minutes more and Loch had her running, roared to life and exhibiting a rousing appreciation at being set back to work. About a half tank of gas languished in her belly. This would have to do; stopping at a filling station would be too risky. Too many people. Too great a chance a random patrol might roll up on them without notice.

Sanchez slid into the driver's side and shifted the manual transmission into first gear. Just like that, they began the next leg of their journey, coasting down worn blacktop on their way to the eastern metropolitan edge of Seattle. Transportation needs now satisfied, their team development was coming along as well, even if slowly.

Initially a rugged, quiet period of testing and distrust had ensued. Chatter was minimal, body language watched and interpreted incessantly. Each movement might prove fatal. This being the case, eye movements, hands, shoulders, torso were all worthy of constant, cynical observation. Within the hour Sanchez and Loch, the more naturally combative of the trio, came to an uneasy truce. For now they would extend trust but only minimally so. It was a thin line, easily crossed, as they headed off the lower Cascade elevations, down through curved mountain highways and into the eastern suburbs of Seattle.

They had lately merged onto State Route 520,
the main east-west arterial in the urban core, transitioning from boondocks into some of the more affluent residential areas in the central Puget Sound region. It was an abrupt shift from woodsy, old car-laden acreage to multi-million dollar homes with manicured landscaping and lengthy driveways, all intended to keep the "riff-raff" at a distance.

Dalton caught brief looks as they motored by. Chinese flags lay planted squarely in front or hanging off rooflines, in every single yard and home.

So, you like the neighborhood, eh?

The pricey accommodations seemed acceptable to the incoming Chinese leadership, be they Communist Party heads sent over to direct re-education efforts or PRC Army big shots whose job was to enforce the new regime's desires by intimidation and arms.

Zeb sat back in place as the car slowed down from highway speed, pulling over to the right. Though probably the least efficient way to handle traffic, the PRC Army had established checkpoints at all major roadways. The lines were long yet reasonably quick. Given the Chinese held the ultimate pressure point on the populace in the threat of a nuclear strike, their on-the-ground systems appeared less heavy-handed than imagined. This deceptively lighter touch, combined with ongoing, over the top presentations of the glories of Beijing's "offer" of a better life, almost seemed reasonable. Almost that is, until you woke up as a conquered, second-class citizen of the PRC.

All three straightened up a little. Coming to a full stop, Sanchez lowered the window.

Zhengjian! was the simple command.

He was only twenty, maybe twenty-one. His youthfulness flashed Sanchez back to her first few years in the military. Would her naivete at the time, fueled by an impassioned patriotism, allow her to take part in something so clearly a violation of human rights and dignity? Doubtful. The army was all she had ever known, and yeah, she loved her country. Still, such unprovoked aggression would have struck her deeper, at a primary level of basic justice—simple right and wrong. No, she reckoned, she would have shed her vows at that point, walking away, dignity intact.