Further into the unending stand of seventy-five-foot evergreens she slid, relaxing only the slightest bit, enough to look back at what was sadly becoming a ghost town.
Unbelievable. Just unbelievable.
"Not the end of the story, though," she whispered. "Not if I have a say."
__________________________________
Three hundred yards from Sanchez' position, Major General Mike Stevens, US Army I Corps, Commanding Officer JBLM, stood stock-still, watching an endless flow of men and materiel load into the gargantuan flying containers known as the C17 Globemaster III. The Boeing cargo carriers' job was to ferry American combat troops and equipment wherever and whenever needed, answering every planned for and unannounced call of duty. From this timeworn place of honorable service they had been reduced now to little more than an expensive fleet of flying moving trucks for the retreating U.S. forces. Disgusting was the acceptable version of the words coming to mind, as each plane lifting off the runway planted only increased bitterness in the general's mouth; a taste few American leaders had ever been forced to experience.
The last full-forces retreat the U.S. Army executed was in 1975. Ending the extended conflict in Southeast Asia reluctantly, the South Vietnamese had been left to fight on their own against advancing northern soldiers. This was not in any way a complete parallel to the present circumstances. As with Ho Chi Minh City, all other U.S. retreats were exits from foreign lands and often on behalf of allied countries. This situation was unsurveyed territory. Unfolding before their very eyes: for the first time, U.S. troops removing themselves from American soil and under the direct orders of another sovereign nation. As both historian and battlefield commander, none of this sat well with the major general. In fact, everything in him revolted at the thought.
"Colonel Meers, operational status?"
"Sir," the colonel replied. "We are on time for completed evac as of 0800 tomorrow. Resettlement facilities are coming online in Wenatchee. Arrival and formation of command structure is in process as we speak. New runways are active and barracks are scheduled for completion in the next twenty-four hours."
The general's mind fixed for a moment on the impact to be absorbed by the sudden imposition of 25,000 men and women and a major wartime outpost on the small city of 32,000 on the other side of the Cascades.
"Well, they said we'd have to move over the mountains. They didn't say how far, now did they, Colonel?"
The subordinate officer half-smiled.
"No, sir... they did not."
"Alright then, Meers. Keep me apprised of progress. You and I will be the ones to shut the lights off when we leave."
Stevens followed orders, even those he could barely stomach. He also carried a fire in his belly telling him this wouldn't be the last time he stood here as Commander of Army I Corps. Leaning down, he picked up a small rock. Placing it into the right breast pocket of his uniform, he made a solemn vow: to return it upon recapturing this sacred ground. Then the general's thoughts shifted yet again, focusing on the 2.5 million civilian residents they were leaving behind.
His life's work? To protect and defend the Constitution of the United States of America, and therefore by extension, to protect and defend all who lived under the rights enumerated in this cherished document.
Stevens could not foresee what would happen next but he did know this: he wanted to fight, to bring every resource and tactic he had to bear on the situation, to recapture and secure his people's freedoms. At the moment, there was nothing more for him to do than wait.
Wait, and plan. And then wait some more.
SEVENTEEN
"That can't be good," the wife mumbled as she hovered over her cellphone screen.
"What, honey? What?" her husband replied from the driver's seat.
The mid-thirties woman was trying to keep the light as dim as she could, not giving any Chinese patrols they might stumble upon a reason to pull them over.
And then find Zeb under some blankets in the rear storage area of the minivan.
"No. Don't be so stupid," she said to the screen.
"What. What is going on, babe?"
Her eyes widened in concern, growing into the unmistakable expression of fear.
"At Pike Place," she stammered. "There must be ten thousand people there."
Zeb added his voice now.
"Ma'am, please, just tell us what's happening."
"People are everywhere. Sidewalks couldn't hold anymore. Everybody's yelling."
She stopped and inhaled sharply. "Oh no. Ten, no twelve, Chinese soldiers. Backed up to the edge of the plane debris. They've been disarmed and the crowd is pushing them toward the wreckage."
It was exactly what Zeb had feared would happen. American pride, foolishness. Or maybe courage. Sometimes they look the same.
__________________________________
Undisclosed location: Western Pacific Ocean,
off the Coast of China
"Fire control, this is your captain. Commence firing sequence on my mark. Mark, three, two, one."
__________________________________
Pike Place
The four square block area lit up in eerie blue luminescence. The contrast against the darkening light of the end of day and the fact that the crowd had shattered almost every street light in reach, was stunning. Among the many who had gathered in some vain attempt at liberty, every single digital device broadcast the same image: video of the launch with timestamp and countdown gracing the bottom of the frame. Dawn Star's technology showed itself useful once again. The Chinese had commandeered every screen the crowd was carrying. People felt a buzzing and heard their text notice tones go off. Pulling them out, they all saw the same thing.
A split screen appeared and the message was unmistakable. On the left side, the remaining countdown and flight path image. On the right, a satellite shot of the crowd itself from overhead. The numbers were far too low.
0:03:53
Some began to get the picture. The Chinese were giving them one last chance to disperse.
__________________________________
Back in the car, the woman was willing the crowd to do the right thing, even though it struck her deeply as the most painful kind of weakness.
"Please," she begged from her location a few hours away from the action. "Please, please."
Zeb found himself sitting on his knees, leaning onto the backseat, as forward toward the unfolding saga as he could without revealing himself in the rear of the van. As he did, the leftmost screenshot of her phone changed, pulling up, far above the city, enough to reveal a wide angle that covered the entire waters of the Sound. Barely discernible yet clearly there, two airborne projectiles streaked westward as they crossed the Olympic Range.
Chaos ensued on the ground at Pike Place. It was ragged and ugly. People lay trampled and left uncared for. Broken limbs. A few suffering punctured lungs from sharp objects the more aggressive in the crowd were carrying.
Ten thousand people ran for their lives, in every direction.
__________________________________
"Fire control... disengage flight and detonation sequence..."
The missiles obeyed, their trajectory softening into an earthward arc. Splashing down into the choppy green of the Sound, they began their descent to the muddy bottom, some two hundred feet below.
__________________________________
The van pulled over, coming to an abrupt stop.
"Out," was all the man said as he looked away from Zeb and out the window vacantly.
Zeb heard him.
"I said get out," he repeated. "Now."
No longer willing to aid and abet the fugitive, they left him on the side of the road in the quickly darkening twilight of the day.
This event was Stage Two of Zeb's illegal exodus from Seattle-proper. Stage One had been five days of slow, methodical progress from urban space to eastern fringe. It was a nerve-racking sequence of hiding quietly for hours wherever he could find cov
er and then moving on rapidly when the moment demanded it. The tail end of these days he'd found himself in the back of an old pickup truck, winding along backroads and laying still for an hour at a truck stop. The diner is where he had transferred to the couple's 1988 Toyota Previa van for the truncated trip on the two lane highway into the ascending elevations of the Cascades. Now? Zeb was lying low in the forested hillsides, just shy of the ski slopes at Snoqualmie Pass. Though it was peaceful, the sight of the security checkpoint below only ratcheted up the sense of dread now draping the region. The guards on duty here seemed extra vigilant. That made sense, given what had happened in the last two hours.
As one of three highway passes through the Cascades, Snoqualmie was now closed, a no-proceed zone for civilians. ID checkpoints like this one had come online only hours after the official surrender from D.C. had been recorded on paper.
For his part, Dalton had been extremely lucky advancing this far undetected.
This checkpoint, existing outside of any specific municipality, was monitored by Washington State Patrol. No less than three cruisers, two SUVs, and a mobile communications trailer blocked the only way through and out of the area. The new Chinese province was becoming sealed off at every turn.
The former State of Washington, with its natural barrier of the Cascades to the east, the Pacific Ocean as its western demarcation line, and the Columbia River to the south, provides an ideal set of borders, ones easily defended, especially when you carried a weapon of mass destruction advantage in your pocket. Yet, even without the nukes, the topography could secure an international border all by itself. They'd planned for this, had done their homework. Virtually no one could survive the wilderness of the Cascades, so it made sense only a few policed stations would be required along these mountainous routes. It also made the possibility of a much smaller invading force a reality, where barriers like this one replaced the role of thousands of troops.
And as added precaution, neighboring governments were called upon to do their part, too.
The Canadians complied, assuming authority at the Blaine crossing in the north. Stopping Washingtonians from immigrating kept them clear of two outcomes: blame for a possible nuclear attack, and the potential radiation fallout mess incurred from shifting winds. In her time of trouble, America's closest friends stood at a distance with arms and borders closed. To be fair, they mostly had their hands tied.
Dalton looked up from his seated position, hidden in heavy underbrush. Blockaded by concrete pilings, the passage up and over the mountains was winnowed down to only one entrance/exit lane. Passing through in a vehicle without inspection would be impossible. Visually sweeping the forest on the west, nearest the gate, Zeb surmised they would need no such presence there, either. Though he couldn't see over the edge from here, he didn't need a front row seat to get the picture.
His assumptions were correct. The edge of the roadway dropped off beyond the pavement as a few hundred, if not a thousand, feet of sheer wilderness awaited those leaving in that direction. No guardrail. It wouldn't help, so it was never constructed. Anyone attempting to bypass this station needed to be an extreme conditions expert as well as skilled mountaineer, not to mention straight up lucky.
One option remained: the woods on the eastern side of the road. This would be Zeb's only shot at getting past the officers. It also wouldn't prove to be so easy as every twenty-five yards large, portable light stanchions illuminated the dark, forested void. The troopers hated it yet they did their job, nonetheless.
Viewing the police routine, Dalton devised a strategy. He had observed shift movements and protocol over the last two hours and was drawing up a mental plan of action for getting through this checkpoint and over the mountains.
The trek would top out at over 4,000 feet so he needed assurance of where he was headed. Surviving this lunacy depended on following a basic outline of the roadways—in this case Interstate 90—while maintaining anonymity to any patrols that might happen by. Even with Zeb's extensive training and field experience, traipsing off into the untamed Cascade Range was, well, crazy. It was springtime in the Northwest. At these elevations, temperatures would still drop below freezing after sunset.
40-60. These were Zeb's calculations of getting over the mountains alive. If the nighttime cold and rigorous traverse didn't do him in, there was always the occasional bear or cougar to turn the tables of nature, making him the hunted. After emerging from a lean winter these beta predators would be hungry and more likely to take on any kind of foe. He shuddered at the thought.
Though the plan was settled, planning alone wouldn't guarantee him success. Dalton had a strategy for after he got through the checkpoint. For this first step, escaping the troopers and lights, he was in need of some raw luck.
Crescendoing up the mountain roadside, increasing in volume and authority every few feet: a car full of runners, flat out disobeying directives and committed to getting out of the region one way or another.
Had they not seen what just happened at Pike Place? Or did they still not care?
Soon enough the sound arrived, announcing the driver's intentions of neither slowing nor stopping. Coming into view in the dark, clear air the Hummer H3 abandoned any pretense of compliance, heading straight for the concrete barriers. Then, at the last moment, their commitment wavered, swerving forcefully to the left—the western, unprotected side of the alpine roadway.
85mph.
Science was not in their favor. The physics in play came off as unyielding, brutal. Front wheels jammed hard left, as if a last-minute change of heart would cause the car to obey, turning back their ill-fated plan and instead sending them merrily back down to the city.
No. Instead, the 5000 lb. vehicle shifted its weight over onto her passenger side, rushing toward the cliff-like edge of the two-lane mountain highway. Unbroken kinetic energy kept it moving forward, then into a spiraling motion as the car leapt from the road and out into the void, landing in the small, tree-lined valley below. The impact was almost silent at this height and distance. The visual results of the impact were not.
Exploding fuel and combustible liquids lit up the night sky, revealing towering hundred foot firs and the peaks themselves, all around. A strangely beautiful sight, the conflagration served as backlighting for a horrendous scene of destruction and senseless loss of life. The patrolmen responded, moving at once to the edge of the roadway. Not a thing they could do.
It was all Zeb needed. There would be no better cover than this. Making his way up the mountainside, hugging the line of the road—just off it to the east by fifteen meters or so—he left the scenic recreational spot behind.
EIGHTEEN
The soothing rhythm of wheels over tracks partnered with a soft, gray sky. Together, the two made for a powerful, compelling invitation to sleep.
Junjie's nervous system had worked as designed, passing a sense of danger from hypothalamus to glands, spinal cord, and then onto his extremities. The resulting heightened state of awareness and self-preservation lasted long enough to effect an unseen exit from the capital city. With those exciter chemicals now leeched from his blood there was only the tempting, inviting call to rest. A fair fight it was not. Body and mind gave in. Dreams felt good, so good and consciousness soon gave way to replays of pleasant images from his past.
"You know, Junjie, we are different now," his father said.
The older man paused at the worn workbench in the small, unheated shop, turning to face his oldest son. Peering into his eyes; a familiar, knowing look. With full attention assured, he continued.
"The only question to ask before was: 'What is it I want?'"
Gentle yet firm hands rested on Junjie's shoulders, the gesture underscoring the moment.
"Now..." he emphasized, "... we must also add the questions first: 'What is right... and what would please him?'"
Another pause. Junjie took a moment to consider its meaning and significance. The father observed his son's reflection, pleased the truism was p
enetrating the young boy's thinking. Finally, he added the recitation of an ancient proverb, meant to complete, to seal this moment of instruction.
"It is said: 'Better a patient man than a warrior'," he concluded. "'One with self-control, than one who takes a city'."
A glance at his father indicated he understood; a slight nod of his head. Mastery of this principle hovered at arms length, requiring many years and the testing of its trustworthiness in his own life. But the look said yes, he understood its basic truthfulness. Junjie trusted this man fully, the way a twelve-year-old boy should be able to, and loved these moments when something critical to life and wisdom was being passed down to him. His father's smile glowed, warm and assuring. The strong voice washed over his mind and heart in ways few other sounds could.
A long curve, negotiating the bend, tilting ever so slightly on axis. It was a minute change but enough to notice, even from the shadowy realms of semi-consciousness. The minor aberration to the constant, smooth carriage called Junjie back up, out of this scene from years past. He tried valiantly to cling to it, for another moment floating somewhere in that in-between space, enjoying the peace that comes with even half-sleep.
When Totems Fall Page 9
