This call, distracting him from his tears, was just what he needed. If Junjie's presence on the other end of the line signaled there remained a chance of stopping this madness, then Feng garnered strength from simply hearing his voice. Though odds of successful action against the massive governmental machine were long and lonely, the call put some fight back into his heart.
Their conversation ended with the boss confirming his coworker's address and promising to be over as soon as he could.
Thirty minutes later Zang parked on the third level below ground of the Beaufort residential complex and then jogged from car to elevators. The luxury, modern building in the expanding Chaoyang District provided visual confirmation of the meteoric rise of Dawn Star and the financial perks it provided to key personnel.
Feng, a loner with no hobbies to speak of, spent little of his significant salary. There was no mistress to keep happy with clothes and gifts, no extravagant nightlife to support. An audacious man he certainly was not. On first inspection then, this towering glass and steel structure was a mismatch, an apparent contradiction to his austere style and habits. In the end, financial consultants had convinced Feng it would be a good investment, a relatively stable place to deposit some of his newly found wealth. So he had signed the papers, paying in cash while never quite feeling at home in the extravagant surroundings.
In the elevator car now, Junjie pressed the button for the main floor. Once there he strode across the crowded lobby, folding into the normal, workaday flow of relationships and work. Everything appeared so routine. Residents moving about languidly. No obvious unease on their faces. Had no one gotten the memo that they were forcefully taking a part of the U.S. as their own?
Or worse yet, maybe they were pleased.
Mild paranoia settled in. People should be looking at him suspiciously, he thought. They weren't, at least as best he could tell. Slipping into the elevators that would take him to Feng's tenth-floor apartment, Junjie tried to avoid the mounted security cameras. Once he'd arrived, the doors opened again and he exited, moving tentatively down the hallway.
Ten feet away: the door—ajar.
Lord, no. Please, no.
Minor clues of forced entry. A bent latch. Tiny splinters from wood casings hung askew, so small as to escape notice unless one was really paying attention. Junjie might have missed them too, if not for his hyper-aware state of mind. Summoning basic courage, he opened the damaged door.
A first, cautious step into the modern, open-concept space, showed the front room to be neither spotless nor total disaster. This was no panicked, chaotic scene. Whoever had entered before Junjie knew what or who they were looking for. Painstakingly, he crossed the fifteen or so feet ahead. There he stopped, breath caught in his lungs. Heart racing, motionless.
Feng's feet and lower legs, visible at the edge of the kitchen entryway: completely still.
The single fixture over the sink area illuminated the scene poorly, making it quite possible he and Feng were not alone. Hiding, somewhere near, would not be difficult.
Zang approached his friend. No movement, his chest cavity neither rising nor falling. Junjie's eyes grew bigger and mountains of pent-up anger and sorrow found expression. The young man stood, leaning back hard against the stainless steel fridge door, stringy bangs of jet-black hair held tightly in both hands. Defeated and lost, he kicked backward forcefully, his right heel striking the cold metal surface.
Feng's body lurched in a painful upward motion and a sudden, vigorous gasping for breath, for life.
Junjie rushed to his friend's side, placing cupped, open hands under his head and neck. A slow, steady stream of blood flowed from behind Feng's left ear, pooling at Junjie's wrists. The mortally wounded man coughed, his eyes pleading, confessing fear of impending death. His lips moved little despite great effort, trembling. His gaze was locked, yet strangely unfocused onto the eyes of his friend and co-worker. The pale man's mouth opened and closed spasmodically. Junjie couldn't make out a word he was saying. The harsh mixture of heavy blood and faint voice distorted each attempt at speaking. Feng's trachea rattled one last time and his entreating eyes, fixed upward, closed. His body relaxed.
Junjie woke up to the reality of the moment.
"The trail is being erased," he said to no one in particular. "We're all liabilities. Risks to be accounted for. Neutralized."
Junjie rested Feng's head down to the floor respectfully.
He so desired to stay longer. Moving on like this only tore an ever deeper hole in his heart, forcing a hasty goodbye that instead should have lingered.
FIFTEEN
Swedish Medical Center's First Hill Campus was overrun with casualties.
Every sixty seconds or so the hydraulic whoosh at the automatic doors of the emergency room entrance ushered in another tragedy. Gurneys rolled off the back of ambulances. A few stepped out of family cars in the drop-off zone, proceeding feebly, yet upright, toward help. Others showed up due to the kindness of strangers, an innate empathy among fellow human beings surfacing amidst the chaos. A wide range of traumas thrust itself upon the staff and resources of the hospital, some so severe that at first glance their fate was clear; their bodies were failing. The best they could do in these cases? Pain management, combined with a gentle waiting for the inevitable while families and friends, if present, were called in to mark these last few hours of life together.
Conscious or not, no one wants to die alone.
Other situations demanded a vigorous, defiant battle against failing biology; every technique applied, every effort given. With even a slim chance of survival, these skilled and brave healers would stop at nothing to win this round. Some of the wounded stabilized, regenerated, revitalized. Many did not survive the day. Those bearing minor afflictions would rebound in time, at least physically. Gauze, tape, and a few stitches would cure their presenting injuries. But another wound, this one emotional and psychological, was beginning to spread as the gaping, infected sore it would soon enough become.
Stopped, frozen in time. The president's statements left them speechless. Throughout every floor it was the same story. Medical, social services, and administrative staff ceased their valiant efforts and stared silently at the events unfolding around them. Many, gathered here to pray and await word of their loved ones' conditions, now faced an entirely new set of challenges.
Zeb was as stunned as anyone else.
His last moments in the chaos at Pike Place left him with an uneasy feeling, an unshakable sense that the destruction and loss of life came as the result of something more than just a random accident. What he heard in confirmation of his intuition now, though, flew beyond the pale. More than a terrorist attack. Far deeper than the considerable pain and shock that even that kind of event brings to a community.
Turning away from the television in the ER waiting room, he struggled to process these words as true. It was in fact, all too surreal. Around the room, panic remained eerily distant. A strange quietness prevailed. A lull. For the moment, a collective disbelief held everyone in place and calm. Then, in rapid succession, the dots became connected in people's thinking. Women began crying, men's cheeks turned red, bloating in rage at their impotence to act on that most basic of instincts—to protect those around them. Children, scared, took their cues from the countenances of adults nearby.
The horrors of the last twenty-four hours had landed initially as pain without purpose. Though a face, a culpable party, had appeared, the unveiling of the "who" barely satisfied their needs. Because, as they now saw clearly, this revelation held out an even more horrific future for all of them.
Eight-hundred-twenty-four souls lost at the market. This was a harsh enough strike in its own right. But these people would soon lose everything they valued as Americans as well. Their ancestors had lived and died for over two centuries without facing subjection to a foreign power. No current citizen of this great nation had ever felt the sting of such powerlessness.
Two hundred years.
Dalton broke away from the crowded room. Once around the corner he tried to gain the attention of the young woman at the nurses' call station.
"Excuse me, Miss?"
She stood there, consumed by the words spoken by her president.
Again.
"Excuse me... Miss?"
She looked at Zeb and cried.
Dalton treaded lightly. He wasn't the king of tact. Neither was he a complete interpersonal dolt.
"Miss," he tried once more. "I just wanted to see if the young woman I'd inquired about earlier is doing any better."
Zeb hadn't shown up at the ER for himself. Bearing only minor contusions, his injuries didn't really meet the needs test, compared to those around him. His body would be fine if he took it easy. A few tender ribs on his right side, his left shin mildly sore. Other than that his thirty-something frame had held up reasonably well, considering what he'd experienced back at Pike Place.
He gave the nurse a softer, knowing look. Upon realizing the crucial nature of her job she found her voice again, ignoring her own fears in favor of caring for others.
"Uh... so sorry," she said. "Of course. Her name, again?"
"Maryska. Her first name is Maryska. That's all I got."
"Are you a family member?" she asked, staring blankly past him as she spoke, out into the open hallway where an overload of patients waited, being assessed and prepped for the next available procedure room.
Zeb looked her in the eye, trying to draw her back to a place of reason. An obvious really? played across his face. He was minimally compassionate but also very impatient.
"Oh, yes. Here she is..." Looking at her computer screen. "Doing much better. Smoke inhalation. She's resting now."
So good to hear.
Following Zeb's failed attempt to rescue her elderly friend, Maryska indeed went back into the building on her own. In the chaos of flare and heat he must've rushed right past her. To overlook her again when she came out would have been impossible. Exiting the inferno and then falling to the ground, the young woman lay there limply. Across the street at the time and not hesitating to take another opportunity for redemption Zeb got up from where he sat, immobilized in despair.
Gathering Maryska up like a roll of carpet and throwing her smallish body over his right shoulder he sped away from the crash site. He ran a full four blocks east of the market before it felt safe enough to hand her over to the professionals. The exhausted rescuer looked in on her through the small back window of the ambulance, her body lying still on the metal gurney inside.
This news now—that she would recover? A small, welcomed blessing on a day of such multiplying sorrows.
Satisfied, Zeb walked away but then paused.
The TV screen in the waiting room caught his attention. The scene was changing from DC to local broadcast, an important follow-up to the president's speech expected next.
With a single podium in focus, the Rotunda of the Capitol building in Olympia filled the rest of the shot. Polished marble floors, high, arched ceilings. Symbols of political sovereignty hanging on every wall and mantle. The physical volume of the space magnified the smallest of sounds, making the vacuous dome even more ominous on this solemn occasion. Crews scrambled, setting lights and running cables while aides and interns rushed about. The last worker-bee exited the camera frame as Paul Tilden, Director of Emergency and Disaster Services for the State of Washington, stepped up to the platform, speaking into the bouquet of microphones. With printed page in hand and experiencing as much shock as everyone else he addressed the viewers while network and cable outlets carried these historic events to every corner of the United States and abroad.
"As of 12:00 pm Pacific Standard Time," he began. "The Governor's Office has enacted Executive Code 3315.76. I will read its full text:
'All residents of the Puget Sound Region are to remain in their locales while transitioning to Chinese military leadership over the next seventy-two hours. All citizens are ordered to stay within five miles of their legal place of residence until more regular routines are established.'"
A cough. He continued.
"'Municipal and County law enforcement agencies will ensure this is achieved in an orderly fashion. Checkpoints on major arterials will be secured and photo identification required at every stop. Once the new authorities assume their place in our communities, police and sheriff's departments will then disarm and decommission, yielding to the transitional government."
Looking up from prepared notes, he spoke into the camera.
"This is an unfortunate yet necessary measure ensuring the greater public safety. Please, please do not endanger your fellow citizens by engaging in reckless, useless acts of rebellion or refusal."
A pause, considering his next words.
"If there was any other way, I would say 'fight'. There isn't. So don't. Please... don't."
This last statement—unscripted—translated as heartfelt plea, a recognition of humanity's recoil against shackles of oppression and control even in the face of impossible odds.
More awake than ever to what was going on, Zeb backed away from the screen and headed for the front lobby entrance. Conversations arose behind him in the waiting room. A few sounded defiant. Others attempted to talk the would-be rebels out of their foolishness. Many were simply scared.
The Chinese had demanded all civilians and law enforcement stay in place until their authority in the region could be established. It made sense. To mold the region to their vision they needed bodies, workers. The other option, a mass exodus of citizens from the mainland come to populate this place in their stead was both impractical and not really the point. This invasion was about land, yes, but it was more than just that. To conquer land was one thing. To transform a people, something completely other. Besides, if no Americans lived here, no one to threaten with nuclear force, their leverage of reprisal shrunk considerably.
Americans, resuming their daily lives under the watchfulness of Beijing? This was the lynch-pin that would keep it all from imploding.
The orders out of Beijing, now echoed in Olympia, were to stand down. Clearly, some would have no stomach for such a thing. Regardless of the consequences, or maybe in some vain attempt at helping their countrymen, there would be those who disobeyed.
Dalton knew without a doubt there would be runners. He also knew he'd be one of them.
SIXTEEN
Sergeant First Class Jessica Sanchez—Army I Corps, moved quietly, undetected along the tree line off the main airfield at Joint Base (Army, Air-Force) Lewis-McChord.
The frenzy of activity at JBLM, an hour south of Seattle and only a few miles outside Washington State's fourth most populous urban area—Tacoma—provided ample cover for her unauthorized exit. The twenty-eight-year-old Sniper Assessment School Instructor was doing what she was trained for, and in turn, had trained many others to do.
Disappear, completely.
Even without the chorus of C17 cargo planes' turbine engines roaring around her she could've walked past the perimeter guard and into the distance without so much as a broken twig betraying her presence. She was that good. That JBLM's 25,000 active duty and administrative personnel were being hastily evacuated and resettled east of the Cascade Mountain range made it not much of a challenge at all. Under threat of nuclear strike the Army had only twenty-some hours left of the seventy-two they'd been given to complete this formidable task, leaving the city-sized compound for the invading forces. She used this environment of controlled chaos to her advantage, perfectly.
Her "kit" was a little different than your regular sniper tech. Not currently active-duty in the strictest sense, she carried the older M24 rifle with Leupold Mk 4 LR/T M3 3.5-10-40mm variable power
scope. Preferring as much flexibility as possible in the field, this setup would work just fine.
Orders had come down from base command for full evac and there was little time to think, even less to act. Though the terrain here was a marked contrast to what she encountered during her six total tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, the same ageless adage applied: adapt or die. She was battle-tested yet not battle hardened. Such a rare outcome for someone in her position. The transition from hot zone combat had been, thankfully, easier than what many other good men and women had experienced. She'd had help.
Sanchez' CO understood when to call it quits on her behalf. After the initial distaste of being recalled had faded, her disappointment morphed into thankfulness for the transfer, a quiet appreciation she needn't press fate one more time. She had performed at the highest levels in the harshest of circumstances, serving her country with honor and distinction. So the seasoned warrior turned from ops to prep, training up the next generation of stealthy warriors. For the last two years Sanchez had run a pre-qualifying unit at the joint-forces base in Washington, functioning as the prelim filter for the rookie classes of the formal two-year sniper school at Fort Benning, Georgia. Ever the demanding tutor, her students had taken the program at Benning by storm, carrying on her personal legacy of excellence and valor in her stead.
Sanchez wasn't averse to lethal force, applied in wartime situations. Bothering herself with the bigger questions involved always seemed a few steps removed from the needs of the moment. She didn't enjoy it. She found it necessary. She was good at it. The young officer bore the intellect, body type, training, and personality to do the job, so she would get it done, whatever that meant. Make no mistake, the sergeant would start a shooting war with China all on her own if needed. But her main goal right now, the second vital skill-set of sniper personnel, was battlefield recon. Her country would need someone eyes on as their new bosses settled into place in Western Washington. So her first act of patriotism was simply to go away, to become a non-person in the surrounding environment.
When Totems Fall Page 8
