They all knew better than to offer an answer to the deadly rhetorical statement. All eyes averted his gaze, focusing on the page of intelligence notes in front of them in refuge from his anger. Slowly, they looked up again. A few beats later the president continued, more in control now.
"So I ask for possibilities and what you're telling me is my only move is to give them Starbucks, Mt. Rainier, and the grave site of Jimmy Hendrix."
__________________________________
Five Hours Later: The Oval Office
My fellow Americans...
Following a long line of Chief Executives before him, the president began his nationwide broadcast with this singular, inclusive opening. The message preempted every sporting, news, and entertainment offering currently airing, the executive reserving this privilege of every citizen communication for moments with dire national security or natural disaster implications. This moment qualified as such as television, radio, and web audiences across the country dropped everything to tune in. They knew no details, other than to expect something important from their elected leader and his cabinet.
"It is with a heavy heart..." he began. "... a sense of deep earnestness that I come to you today as your president..."
The ninety minutes following the meeting in the white house situation room had been a furious storm of political, military, and diplomatic activity at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, the Capitol Building, CIA Headquarters in Langley, and the Pentagon. Hastily called meetings with key leaders and thinkers pressed into action. Each one producing the same answers. Every report effectively said the same thing: without a nuclear strike option and no allies standing beside her the U.S.'s hands were tied. The only move available?
Capitulation. Submission.
The timeline closed on them like a vice and the National Security team made the call no one else wanted to. And a scant thirty minutes before deadline Ambassador Locke signed documents that for the first time gave away United States territory to a foreign aggressor with not so much as a single shot fired. No boots on the ground. No warplanes in her airspace.
Though not uncommon in the history of nations and kingdoms it was a serious offense to this young country that believed such a fate would never befall them. To date, America's unbroken, westward expansion had experienced no real challenges to her desire for continental wholeness. Her super-powered presence in the world, even throughout economic recession and monumental cultural shifts, had remained undaunted, unstoppable. At least until now, as the vast majority of American citizens now heard the news directly from their president.
"... as unbelievable as this seems, I have no other choice than to yield to the People's Republic of China and order the peaceful transition of United States military and governmental assets out of the Puget Sound Region. I am advising all civilians to remain calm, not to interfere in any way with the process of annexation. Your cooperation in the days and weeks to come will ensure the avoidance of unnecessary loss of life and property."
He paused, having a hard time coming to grips with the words proceeding from his mouth, and those poised next for him to speak on the TelePrompTer.
"The Chinese government has given their assurances. Opportunities for portions of the civilian population to leave, to immigrate to the broader American States, will come over time. For now, all non-military and police personnel are to stay in place, resuming their daily activities as ordered. We have been warned. Unauthorized movements of residents will garner a nuclear response. Chinese military and governmental leadership will begin their transfer into the region seventy-two hours from now."
Head lowered, his tired eyes left the camera frame for just a moment. More pastoral than presidential this time, he offered an honest appeal:
"Heaven help us. Heaven help us all."
Ten minutes later the lighting and production crew had packed and gone. The Secretary of Defense, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and the National Security Advisor were the only ones remaining in the room.
The president looked them in the eye squarely, speaking clearly and calmly.
"I don't care how you do it. I don't care what it costs us. Get our nukes back. Get them back, now."
THIRTEEN
Dawn Star Integrated Systems, Beijing, China
Junjie's worst fears had not only been realized, they'd been surpassed ten-fold. He dearly wanted to be surprised at the events unfolding around him. Sadly, this was not the case.
Alone in his office the young man sat, shocked, processing what it all meant. The sound from the TV affixed to the wall lay muted, even as the broadcast video stream played on. Not unexpectedly, the local anchors carried quite a different tone than that of their American journalistic counterparts. Beijing's official statements spoke of "national glory" and the "natural and destined expansion of the superior Chinese culture and life." Junjie's personal response turned out to be something altogether less positive, having vomited twice so far in his private washroom. The aftertaste of bile, still present in his mouth, only underscored the horrified feelings he held in his heart.
I could have stopped this from happening. I should have stopped this from happening.
The merciless self-beating was neither constructive nor fair. Still, the what-if scenarios flowed unabated, like wildfire over dry timber, carrying his mind ever further toward despair. Weariness of body and soul pressed down on his weakened frame like a schoolyard bully. Over the last 48 hours, sleep had completely evaded the young man, forcing him into a half-alert state where his emotions only became more raw by the hour, more susceptible to the endless string of recriminations taking up space in his head. Since handing over the project, imagining his way toward some different, better circumstance had turned out to be an exercise of the deepest kinds of futility.
Following the meeting with Dhe and the committee, Zang had gone down to the company's server room, occupying the majority of the twenty-third floor. There, in front of the control stations and under the guise of checking in, he fantasized about pulling one giant plug out of the wall, shutting the whole enterprise down.
Just pull the plug, Junjie. Game over.
This simplistic solution was no match for what he and his colleagues had developed. Their systems sat leagues above anything else, anywhere in the world. The intricate interplay of energy grids, hardware, and visual interfaces in this room remained impervious to even the latest and most sinister attacks, much less a basic power-down sequence: an "on/off" button. He knew this because he had hired the best to try it.
Six months prior to launch, Junjie quietly contracted with the hacktivist group MilwOrm. The members of this secretive organization, infamous for their penetration of the Bhabha Atomic Research Centre (BARC—Mumbai) in 1998, were especially adept at breaching high end defense and power systems. The challenge? Take the beta version of Dawn Star's technology on a shakedown cruise of sorts. Over the course of those three weeks their people were afforded every opportunity to prevail upon the code and processes at Junjie's firm. At every turn they had failed. It was certain now that the team's work would be secure, even when facing the world's most sophisticated attempts at diverting or destroying it. But this was a double-edged sword, as its potency could be safeguarded only as long as the tech remained in the hands of reasonably moral people. For it to be used toward malevolent ends, the front door would have to be opened wide, the keys handed over, so to speak.
The young man couldn't shake it. This was the vision he wanted to wake from, to find it the result of bad pizza and too many beers the night before. He was one of only a handful of people on the planet holding a detailed, intimate understanding of what their work could do. Such knowledge terrified him.
Now, having heard of his government's actions, the code's full reach slapped him in the face. The further Junjie traveled this path, the more it seemed it would not wash away like a few horrible moments of dreaming.
He was so very conflicted.
Junjie's pride of heritage ran deep, gladly
receiving his people's diverse and ancient life, culture, and achievements. That did not mean he trusted this century's Chinese leadership or their desires and methods. As wide-eyed a native son as Junjie was, he was still taken back by their brazenness and the now-revealed scope of their ambitions. Exhausted, he slumped out of his chair, to the floor, and to his knees.
Voice cracking, quiet, plaintive:
"Our Father...who art in heaven..."
Junjie Zang was Chinese.
He was also Christian.
Among the one and a third billion of his countrymen, Junjie's faith made him part of a very small minority, a minimally tolerated, constantly controlled minority. In a system where divergent ideas stand out as possible precursors to revolutionary action, religious freedoms were cautiously allowed and carefully monitored. In some measure this was understandable.
Christianity, though a world religion with deeply embedded roots in the Ancient Near East, over time had become synonymous with the Western, democratized world. Such an association cast it in the light of a presumed, existential threat. And when working to maintain a state-controlled system, threats need to be managed, or at least re-purposed toward nationalistic ends.
The current, official form of the Chinese Christian Church (CCC), undergirded by the Three-Self Patriotic Movement, presents as an odd mixture of faith and government oversight. Ironically, its three pillars: self-governance, self-support, and self-propagation, could largely be attributed to foreign mission efforts during the mid-nineteenth century. The thinking, unique for that season of Christian missions, was this: if The Faith was to take hold in China, it would come as a result of indigenous application and contextualizing of the gospel. In essence, white, European and American influence would have to lessen in its non-essential, cultural aspects. Indeed, if they were to accept the teachings and life of Christ, it would only be to the extent they regarded him a Chinese savior—in their terms, language, and ways. Though the broad scale horrors of early communist pogroms against religious people were now largely in the past, China remained a very messy place to practice any kind of faith.
This was Junjie's world.
The young executive had provided no reason for his loyalties to be suspect. The vetting process, incredibly thorough, had included his church attendance and ties. The government looked into it, interviewing friends and associates. Ultimately, nothing of consequence had been found. Nothing worthy of denying them the work. Enough eyes and ears around to warn his overseers of any trouble, the presumption went. In the end, DSIS held the requisite skills and expertise the government needed. They were also young and hungry, looking to make their mark. Thrilled to find this team among their own countrymen, Dhe and his cohorts took on whatever minimal risks this young businessman's strange beliefs presented. Considered merely another cost of doing business, the advantages were enormous; too good not to act on.
Initially, Junjie had seen nothing but upside as well. Surprised that the contract had been awarded to his then-unknown firm, he couldn't wait to tell his wife.
Dai-tai was always learning. This was only one of the many reasons Junjie loved her so. Dai's given name meant "leading a boy in hopes" and Zang was still smitten, captured by her and the hope she brought him daily, even twelve years now into their life together. Her dark, warm eyes radiated life, an air of constant curiosity. He could attempt anything, fail or succeed, so long as she stood by his side. Junjie's bride was as playful and twice as bright as himself. Intimidating? No, instead he felt greatly blessed to be partnering in this life with someone of her depth and beauty. Together they'd brought a precious son, now almost two, into this world.
Always displaying a flair for the dramatic, Junjie had placed the award letter, folded in half, inside the book his wife was reading and then waited impatiently for her to open it that evening.
"Bao Bao, what are you reading these days?" he probed playfully, a smile in his eyes as they leaned back in bed, books opened and lights dimmed overhead.
"Oh, nothing of real significance," she said, enjoying the term of endearment from her husband. "... a boring story about a boy and a girl. They fall in love, have children..."
Her gaze moved off the page in front of her and into Junjie's waiting eyes. With all pretense of the story left behind she leaned in close, her right hand opened against the side of his chin.
"... and, his company is awarded the biggest contract they've ever seen... they work hard and live happily ever after."
"Junjie," she said. "I am so very proud of you."
This was all he needed to hear. The long workdays had become more than either had bargained for. Yet even in the hardest moments, the exhausting effects of single parenting showing on Dai's face and body, they shared a core, sustaining belief: they were in this together. They would come out of this season intact, even stronger than before.
Pulled back into the present, Junjie realized he had made a terrible trade, a fatal miscalculation. The project had enriched his bank account and kick-started his career, this was true. It was also obvious now to have morally impoverished his family and his country in exchange. If he had shared with Dai his fears about the government's requests, she would've stood in strong, principled opposition to it.
Why had his most trusted advisor been left outside of this loop?
Pride, arrogance?
Likely.
He only knew now that he regretted it deeply. But regret can be productive if channeled in the right direction, and in those few minutes of deep reflection the pain, despair, and confusion gave way to resolve, and a right—even righteous—anger at all that had unfolded. Time on his knees, time at rock bottom, had been good for him. What he must do, what was required of him, was becoming clearer every moment. In order to gain a greater sense as to the "how" he stayed there a while longer.
FOURTEEN
The dark figure moved efficiently, stealthily throughout the small office area of the downtown Beijing apartment.
With gloved right hand the intruder rifled through each drawer in the light maple desk, eager for any signs of what he'd come for. Behind him, the body on the floor took on an unnatural position, growing colder, rigor mortis appearing in the extremities. From his initial sweep, the violent trespasser found nothing to indicate trouble, no evidence the deceased had voiced concern regarding their work for Dawn Star and its groundbreaking communications project. This would please his employers.
He continued, scanning email accounts linked to the desktop computer and then removing the hard drive. Finally, he shorted out the motherboard, completing the assignment. Most importantly, the actual threat—the elite coding skills of the victim—sat useless on thin, worn carpet. His specialized experiences and expertise had vanished into the ether at the ceasing of brain function.
The cell phone on the dining room table rang. The visitor turned toward it. An electronic blue wash—the caller ID tag—lit up, contrasting against the darkened space.
Zang, Junjie.
On the other end: a desperate, barely audible plea.
"Come on, Lee. Pick up. Pick it up."
A brief recorded message, spoken hauntingly by a voice—no, a person—lying forever silenced in the room.
The tone.
"Lee, this is Junjie. You need to get back to me as soon as you can."
Across town the anxious young executive pushed "end" on his smartphone, immediately wondering about the wisdom of making the call.
Lee Quan, the dead man, was one of Junjie's first hires, back at the very beginning. Their introduction had been a meeting over coffee on his first official recruiting trip. Quan, referred by a friend of a friend, came with the highest recommendations.
A graduate of MIT, Lee returned to China after getting his Ph.D., hoping to help his people enter more fully into the modern age of communication. As a double major in Math and Computer Sciences he could have filled many posts in the emerging tech marketplace. Although a brilliant mathematician, Quan found his true calling in t
he ones and zeros of computer code. Millions of lines of sterile text commands; that's what most people thought of his work. Lee saw things differently, recognizing function and form—even beauty—in their efforts. On his best days he fashioned himself more binary artist than simple code-jockey.
The strong professional collaboration of these two young cohorts had blossomed, in rather a short time, into a real and honest friendship. One of the first on Junjie's staff to alert him to the ever-growing demands of their government overseers, Quan's voice and mind was a key asset, every step along the way. Had he known at the time of this call that his friend and co-worker was dead, he would have immediately and deeply mourned his passing. That would come in time.
The stranger in Lee's apartment tapped out a text message report:
Clean at Quan. Moving down list.
Zang trying to contact Quan.
Move JZ up list?
Three calls and hushed voice mails later, someone finally answered Junjie's attempts in person.
"Feng, it is so good to hear your voice. You have been watching the reports also, I assume?"
"I have. Did we really do this, my friend? Is this what has come from our labor together? Please tell me this is not what it seems."
Feng Wan, as distraught as Junjie had been earlier, welcomed the reassurance that came with his boss's voice on the other end of the phone. It was a centering strength in a world suddenly and violently turned upside down. Like his friend, he knew all too well that their work was at the heart of this audacious power grab. And just like Zang, he felt powerless to reverse the deed. Upon first hearing of the provocation he had considered the culturally noble gesture of taking his own life, an attempt to appease the universe somehow for his wrongs. He couldn't bring himself to do it. Knife set aside, he wept in brokenness.
When Totems Fall Page 7
