When Totems Fall

by Wayne C. Stewart

  This last phrase had barely passed his lips before tears began to flow. He wasn't weak. Nor was he a coward. Committed to the course before him, Junjie merely foresaw with clarity the potential suffering on the near horizon. It was unbearable. Gravity pressed in as if carrying a special, increased load as of late. Each movement a struggle. Every thought dulled.

  Biyu squeezed his arm once more.

  "Junjie. Listen, my son. This burden is not yours to carry unassisted. You cannot make these things right by yourself. You can only cooperate now with the plans of heaven...

  ... and with the resources of heaven. Yes, go forward you must. But you do not go alone."

  These words took on an authority disproportionate to her unimpressive physical bearing and a tangible strength, unexplainable in human terms, transferred in that moment to Junjie's heart. Growing in certainty; a peace not of his own making.

  They gathered in a small circle of unity around Junjie's chair, the ragtag coalition placing their hands on the young man. A show of support. An act of sending. Then they got down to work.

  __________________________________

  Ft. Clark, Senior Leadership Unit

  "So Captain, tell me: am I crazy? Or does our curious visitor have what it takes to save his countrymen from the ravages ahead?"

  The general had started the conversation off directly, that was for sure. Seated across from him in his office, Dr. Mac reviewed her notes again before answering. Her opinion, she knew, held substantial weight in the commander's determination. She needed to frame this up well. By her estimate, Zeb presented a huge upside. On the other hand, she couldn't just dismiss her many apprehensions. So she proceeded cautiously and, as always, professionally.

  "Sir, there's no question Dalton is a unique asset. Almost too good to believe. One could think it fortuitous to have him on-base at this juncture."

  Stevens preempted her next statement, cutting her off mid-breath.

  "Your diplomacy is noted, Captain. It's also annoying me, so shoot straight. Am I hearing your reticence? You're uncomfortable with him engaging this mission?"

  "General, sir. There are outstanding reasons to deploy the lieutenant. There are also a few cautions to account for. For example, his family history..."

  "Please Captain," Stevens broke in, abruptly again. "I know all about that. Read it myself, you know. He has daddy issues... don't we all."

  "Sir, with all due respect. The deep wounds resulting from these kinds of things can be of great significance in determining fitness for duty. If you would indulge me for a moment."

  Mental health screenings, she reminded the general, were nothing new for men and women of the armed services as minds, emotions, and stability are key factors affecting a soldier's performance. Since many of Zeb's combat assignments over the years were of a specialized nature, these inquiries dug deeper than usual. Fifteen full-scope evaluations. Over three hundred hours of prodding and poking. Every word and nuance recorded for scrutiny and posterity. Intense, thorough. Yet even at this, the best the U.S. Army could offer only scratched the surface of such a complex, deep past.

  For the next ten minutes, Mac meticulously connected the dots between the entries in Zeb's record. The official summary read: detachment from authority associated with loss of paternal trust. The full story, of course, was quite a bit more complicated than that.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  1997.

  Zeb, a high school senior, was just trying his best to enjoy the springtime of his youth while keeping as low a profile as possible. It was the classic teen dilemma: be known for cool stuff and don't stick out from the crowd. This delicate balance, challenging enough for most males in the throes of puberty, turns out to be a wholly more formidable undertaking when your father is famous.

  James Murifield Dalton pastored a large, Suburban Seattle church. His ministry had grown steadily over a dozen or so years, from small congregation on the outskirts of King County to four thousand parishioners and ultra-modern facilities, complete with worldwide television, print, and internet presence, on the more upscale eastside of the city.

  Pastor J, as he preferred to be called, was everywhere during those years. Omnipresent, some might say. Court-side season tickets at Sonics home games. Ribbon cuttings. Broader religious community gatherings. One minute you might hear him testifying at a city council meeting and the next catch his opinions via interview on the nightly news. This was extraordinary in Seattle.

  Faith leaders in this significantly agnostic part of the country rarely double as public figures. Some religion is fine of course, so long as it doesn't become the dominant factor in your life. That would be fanaticism. Add to this a systemic distrust—again the independent pioneering thing—toward anything construed as overbearing or controlling and you get the kind of situation where the older Dalton's presence and influence was quite surprising. Yet counter to this socio-cultural reality, the personal charisma and reach of Pastor J ensconced him as something like the Jesse Jackson of the Puget Sound. Appreciated by some, a source of skepticism for many.

  Zeb's father's notoriety cast a long, inescapable shadow over young Dalton's adolescence. He and his father were not close, meetings and speaking engagements taking precedence over ballgames and help with schoolwork. The things normal dads do with their kids at night and on weekends, the everyday bonds that many parent-child relationships are built upon, were all but absent in this case. Still, a deep regard for his father had taken root early, a foundational piece of Zeb's family life and worldview. Though struggling with doubts, a reasonable uncertainty about truths his father held without question, Zeb remained convinced of the basics. At least until the Autumn of '98.

  There was no way to buffer the young man from what came to light. The furious downward spiral, front page news, served as fodder for blog and water cooler commentary for the next six months. It was a classically tragic fall from grace. Embezzlement of church funds. Illicit sexual relationships. A well-hidden dependence on prescription drugs. Though settling somewhat during the protracted investigation, the pain and humiliation kicked up again with renewed force as his dad's excruciatingly public trial, verdict, and sentencing dragged on. At the start of the new millennium, Pastor J was facing seventeen years in Walla Walla State Penitentiary. Guilty—all counts. The financial side of the scandal topped out at over three million dollars with drug-selling charges thrown in to boot. As far as society was concerned, Zeb's dad would pay for his sins.

  Tragically, so would Zeb.

  __________________________________

  "Captain, you've only told me what I already know," General Stevens intoned.

  She had to make this stick.

  "Sir, again with respect. This is the defining matter in Dalton's life, the fundamental reason he's a risk. Everyone holds something as the corpus of their psyche. For some, it's a political system. Others hold to religious ideals. Some believe they, themselves, are all they need: the mantra of self-reliance."

  She was in her depth now.

  "For Dalton, this foundational inner anchor was his father. Even though they weren't close, he was his center. This all came crashing down at nineteen years of age... and he never replaced it…

  ... not with anything."

  "Under duress, an individual's center-mass of identity is what keeps them from imploding; on task, in the fight. Dalton doesn't have this anymore; hasn't for quite a few years. It's no exaggeration, psychologically speaking, to say he is empty... void."

  Mac slowed again, assuring nothing would be left unsaid.

  "This is the weakness we can't predict, can't control."

  The general leaned forward, ever-present cigar dangling from his right hand as he received the briefing; capturing and processing every word.

  "Alright. Thank you, Captain," he said somewhat softer. "You are dismissed."

  Stevens allowed himself another moment of reflection after she'd left the room. Thinking as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes came forward to th
e desk, landing on a miniaturized wooden totem pole displayed prominently among the mess of personal memorabilia he kept there. Sitting forward and picking it up, he fingered the rough edges of the carving, turning it over, considering it. He remembered how the miniature replica had been a gift from his daughter some years back, brought home after a field trip to one of the many Native American communities in the state. She was so excited to tell him all she had learned, especially how this symbol functioned as a visual representation of the totality of a tribe's life, with the very top figure serving as "overseer", their protection. In battle, she'd been told, the significance of a fallen totem was unmatched. If indeed it fell, this represented the utter destruction of everything the community believed in. The removal of their center—their core.

  Stevens made his decision.

  He would prepare Dalton as best he knew how and send him back, over the mountains.

  Into China.

  Could there be a reclamation of all that the Americans left behind were losing daily, their everything—their core? He didn't really know. Still, he prayed this might be the case while hoping that at some level there could be a restoration for Dalton as well.

  Opening an email composition window on his laptop, he typed out a few, significant words:

  Attention: Ft. Clark Senior Command. Immediately commence...

  Operation: Restore Totem.

  __________________________________

  Undisclosed Location, Qingdao

  Literally on the other side of the world, another plan went into motion. Junjie had advanced the idea. The committee concurred. The young executive would be heading back home, to Gansu. From there he would attempt a reversal of the tragedies progressing across the Pacific. This journey, taking him back to first things, was ironic, both in an existential and technological sense. The place of his birth was not a major city, not even a small one. Yet insignificant Gansu would work quite well. Out of the way, it was a case of hiding in plain sight and counter-intuitive to those who would pursue him. The challenge, Junjie knew, was obvious. In order to even have a shot at succeeding, two primary resources would be required: fast internet and reliable power. In his village, even under ordinary circumstances, both could prove hard to come by. To make this work he needed some help.

  "You cannot simply manufacture power, Junjie."

  The voice, stereotypically technician-speak, was a great match for the individual from whom it had emanated.

  Quan Doh pushed black, wire-rim glasses back up his nose, let out an exasperated breath, and started again. Maybe he could get through to his aggravatingly slow pupil this time.

  "You must multiply power which is already there," he lectured. "But not in ways that get you noticed."

  The young man let his half-scolding hang, mid-air.

  Quan was beyond brilliant. Mensa would have been fortunate to have him on their membership rolls. As the technical lead for this team supplying resources to the unregistered church he performed vital yet often unnoticed services. His job? Help Christians in China who chose not to affiliate with the state church increase their effectiveness in teaching and training by providing them with strategic communications and electronic assets.

  "So, Quan my friend, how do we do this?" Junjie asked.

  "With this," Quan tapped his right forefinger down onto the work table in front of them. "... of course."

  It appeared to be nothing spectacular, just a small-ish black box. Male receptacle on one end. Another on the opposite edge. Topside, three run-of-the-mill computer to wall connections.

  Junjie trusted the be-speckled man. Still, he had to ask.

  "This looks like some sort of power strip. Correct?"

  Quan was crushed at Junjie's under-valuing of his work. For a moment it seemed he might walk away, sulking.

  "Quan, I'm sorry," Junjie backed up. "I know this must be much more than that." Doing his best to keep him talking: "Please, explain it to me."

  The technician's head rose slightly.

  "This..." he continued. "Provides ten times the capacity of a regular residential outlet."

  Junjie did the quick mental math. Impressive. He was more alert now to the possibilities of the basic black box. Quan went on, pointing to the first male end.

  "The existing electrical service connects here," he indicated. "Transformers inside condition, clean, and amplify the current, giving you a small generating station's worth of it. But here..." he beamed. "Here's the real magic. The outgoing current is transformed back to exactly what went in the front end. Dirty, intermittent, whatever. And the net result for you will be..."

  Junjie finished his sentence.

  "I remain invisible. No spike in electrical usage for anyone to observe. Nothing for local authorities to note at all."

  He opened up in praise. "Quan, this is amazing. And so critical. Thank you, brother."

  The younger man's heart was bolstered at the vocal appreciation of his work.

  "Junjie, I have a few other items I think you might be interested in as well."

  Quan completed the show-and-tell session and Junjie couldn't help but think he had just experienced the Chinese version of a James Bond film, where the spy gets a tour of all the new gadgets and weapons at his disposal before embarking on a mission. A slick British operative, Junjie was not. But these last few minutes had served their purpose, increasing his odds, even if only marginally. That in itself was encouraging.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  Formerly Seattle City College—West Seattle Campus

  The instructor stood before his classroom, patiently reviewing the unfamiliar characters of the Chinese alphabet while searching for comprehension in his students' weary, defeated faces.

  The middle-aged, Caucasian teacher had presented this material many times throughout the course of his career. The content was familiar, his syllabus the same as always; standardized, best-practices, ordinary. While the coursework was what might be expected from a Community College-level introduction to Asian languages, the setting and circumstances most certainly were not. In years past students approached him of their own accord, preparing for a stint in foreign service work or relocation with major international corporations. Still others came for personal enrichment, an expansion and experience outside of their normal cultural context. Those rooms had all been populated with self-motivated students, looking to better their lives or that of others. Today? This classroom was held fast by far more basic realities; one's occupying the lower end of Maslow's Pyramid. Fear. Control. Survival; for themselves and their loved ones.

  To be fair, a few chairs this morning sat inhabited by someone minimally intrigued by the challenges of learning the new material. Most, though, had been pressed into action by the image of two PRC Army guards posted inside the back door, coldly performing their room monitoring duties with JS 9mm submachine guns in hand. This was not an isolated, unfortunate anomaly as the same scenario was playing out in every last classroom available across the Seattle Metro area. When these classrooms filled, offices, waiting rooms, and janitorial closets surfaced as the next best options as holding tanks of the oppressive tutelage. Professors like this one served at the behest of new management. The majority of former faculty at SCC where now students themselves, forcibly introduced to what in better circumstances would've been valuable, deepening enterprises.

  Two-hour shifts, six days per week, all conquered individuals reported to their local learning centers. Some before work, many during the workday. Still more, after hours. Math and Sciences instruction would continue normally and as needed. History, language, and economic theory, though, had been replaced with new coursework, composed and authorized thousands of miles away on the Chinese mainland. It was the logical next step: an identity transition that each resident of this former American state would now undertake. The social engineers in Beijing would harness the transformational powers of language and culture. They also understood the value of borders.

  Impassable mountain ranges. An i
nternationally policed border to the north. A large river to the south. It all added up to an almost impenetrable stretch of land to inhabit and protect. Some two and a half hours south of Seattle, these advantages were becoming obvious, day by day.

  The Columbia River, head-watered in British Columbia, Canada, flowing southward and west to the Pacific, creating an imminently defensible southern border between this newly acquired soil and the State of Oregon. As the third largest river by volume in America, the Columbia passes through wide runs and deep channels, her waterways easily patrolled and defended.

  Chinese military presence here was already unmistakable. After navigating ocean to river via Cape Disappointment, sixteen Shanghai-2 gunboats now roamed her brownish-green waters. Built for this exact purpose and at a displacement of 135 tons, these attack boats reached speeds upward of 25 knots. Such quickness would not be needed, still, it guaranteed they'd neither be overtaken nor outrun. With four 35mm deck mounted turrets, the same number of 25mms, and one 81mm long-range gun, they owned more than enough firepower to fulfill their role as a curtain of steel as their crews—thirty-six naval warriors each—stood ready to defend their new province against all challengers.

  Thus, one-hundred-fifty or so miles of mountainous foothills to deep sea waters created a formidable boundary, one that would not be challenged anytime soon. The physical aspects of this place made the proposition of regaining it costly in both men and materiel. Beijing had chosen well and intended to use these natural borders as their new, western Wall.

  It was both a tragedy and an irony. Such stark beauty had been enjoyed, bolstering local pride for as long as the area had been inhabited. Now, these very qualities were becoming tools that despotism would use to conquer and control. But the Chinese weren't leaving it all up to nature, either. In addition to the riverine defense corridor of the Columbia herself, they were also creating fortresses out of three cities along the waterway. Vancouver (WA), Kelso, and Astoria were rapidly transforming into heavily guarded embattlements, with non-vital personnel displaced to counties under an hour away. Left behind now was a minimal populace, one more in line with these new towns' true purpose: defending and protecting the edges of their territory. Part of their attractiveness was that they could only be broached from the south by bridges over the Columbia. These steel-engineered marvels, once fair-traveled mechanisms of interstate commerce and life, were now the site of an international border, and one between quite unfriendly neighbors. Chinese tanks maintained their brawny stoicism at the halfway point over each concrete span, where, at the slight arc of a two-lane highway over the river, a pair of hostile, sovereign nation-states now met. Everywhere you looked the imprint of occupation made its mark. Overflights from the recently-christened Baotong Air Base near Tacoma policed the skies above as crews of mortar and small arms fire teams manned sandbagged positions every few hundred yards along the banks of the mighty Columbia.