When Totems Fall

by Wayne C. Stewart

  Dalton had kept up a moderate exercise regimen over the last number of years. This was something altogether different. Only thirty-six hours since being officially assigned to Operation: Restore Totem, the task was now starting to feel like Special Forces Hell Week on steroids. No one thought they could make a super soldier out of this retired signal corpsman. Still, at a minimum, they needed to be assured he could handle himself in the field. Fatigue would be an enemy to overcome all by itself. There'd be moments of all-out sprinting and the low-level drag of constant stress and life-saving decisions. His brains were the ultimate weapon in his kit, sure, but if he couldn't maneuver through or around warriors standing in his way this advantage wouldn't matter much. And were he to become a physical liability somewhere along the way, his magnificent mind vault would be just one more useless asset.

  Still leaning over the trash can, bile elevated, threatening an upward trek through his esophagus again. Zeb kept it from overtaking him this time.

  No.

  No one would catch him in this condition. He'd agreed to this crazy scheme but he would not show weakness in any way to his new superiors. Collecting himself, Zeb stood and turned toward another mile and a half on the rubberized, lined surface. At the edge of the track he steeled himself for the grueling last phase of the run and then fell back into a decent, if reduced, pace.

  A voice surprised him, approaching quickly from the rear.

  "Anything ah can doooo for ya, LT?"

  Zeb stayed quiet, eyes and body focused ahead.

  Ignore him. He's a cretin. Just ignore him.

  Sergeant Lochland pulled into step with Zeb, exchanging slow, even breaths—barely perceptible, as he jogged alongside.

  "Would there be any way ah can make you feel better, mah friend? A nice, soft couch... or a bigger caaan to puke in?"

  Undeterred for the next five minutes, every few steps brought more of the same from Dalton's new workout buddy. Then, just for fun, Loch parlayed the verbal assault while running backward.

  He finished the last 400 this way.

  Zeb completed his run and walked another fifty steps, doing his best to not simply fall over. Still, as spent as he had ever been in his life, placing hands on hips was as far as he would go in communicating how awful he really felt. If pain was "weakness leaving the body", his body was facilitating a mass, chaotic exodus of the substance. His lung tissue seemed as thin as one-ply toilet paper, each breath requiring a total commitment of mind and strength. So far as his battered systems were concerned, this moment was all about surviving. Eventually, the heaving of his chest slowed, ragged but steady. Dalton turned to face the barracks. Thirty paces later he stopped at attention in front of CG General Stevens. Standing this still was excruciating but he would do what was expected, what was required.

  "Carry on, Lieutenant."

  "Sir," his simple reply.

  Zeb headed inside, planning nothing more than to collapse in the shower before moving onto the rest of this day's demanding schedule. Having advanced only two strides from the general, both men turned as a blurry figure raced past.

  Loch had stayed out there, adding on another 800 meters at full sprint, just for kicks.

  Zeb, exhausted and demoralized, went inside.

  The blur came off the course. Breathing no harder than if he had just gotten out of bed, Loch approached his CO. A salute was offered and responded to.

  "Lochland," he probed. "Tell me what you think. Don't sugar-coat it."

  The sergeant toweled off; a needless exercise as not a single bead of sweat loitered anywhere on his body.

  "Well, sir. Ah will put it this way... he won't save us all with his physical prowess ah-lone."

  "That is to be expected," the superior officer replied.

  The general took a step toward the building and turned back again to complete his thoughts.

  "... and that is also why you are going in with him."

  The best Loch could do was mutter his reply, as Stevens was already walking away.

  "Bloody hell. That worn out soldier will get us all killed, right good."

  __________________________________

  Aboard the USS George H.W. Bush—Pearl Harbor, HI

  The orders came fast for the nine warships comprising Carrier Group 2, stationed at Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam (JBPHH). Under cover of night and out into the open, boundless Pacific, graceful steel gray hulls cut through mild surf, with no moonlight to betray either their presence or passing. In addition to the flagship Bush, three Ticonderoga-class cruisers: Philippine Sea, Leyte Gulf, and Anzio, as well as the five warships of Destroyer Squadron 22, were in motion. Their offensive air complement included Carrier Wing 8, comprised mostly of FA18 Hornets. The two attack subs in the cohort—Albuquerque and Seahorse—glided along silently beneath. Though unobserved by the enemy during their sudden exodus, chances were that Group 2 would not remain undetected as long as necessary. Everyone involved assessed the risks. The hope was simply that odds would work out in their favor. Timing and luck. Both would be needed, in equal quantities.

  The warships headed out on an eastward bearing, almost five thousand miles between themselves and China's eastern coast. The task ahead? Stay hidden, undetected, until gaining strategic advantage. When floating this much tonnage and steel one might think this impossible. But the Pacific Ocean is a vast hiding place, even for something as large as a carrier consort. The proposition was straightforward: reposition GHW Bush with her escorts and air power within range of the Chinese mainland. Not unlike a boxer with longer reach holding a shorter-armed opponent at bay, the question would come down to this: how close could you approach before having to engage?

  With a striking distance of somewhere around 500 nautical miles, the fighter wing would need lots of time to move in without notice. Missiles from ships and the two subs alongside could be set loose somewhat farther out, say up to 2000 nm, and still do the job. This was a whole other kind of battle, one they all would rather avoid. The naval group's mere presence stood in clear violation of mandates from Beijing. And if Beijing still had their thumb on the button, millions of people would be murdered in a firestorm of primal forces released onto American soil.

  Rear Admiral Marianne Knowles, a keen observer of her crew and people generally, approached the ensign at the communications station. She stopped to address the fear broadcast in his tense posture and furrowed brow. The greenish pall of light coming off the bridge's navigation equipment underscored his worries, as well as those inhabiting every quarter of the group's flagship.

  "Ensign. Status report," she commanded.

  "Admiral," he replied. "We are full systems ready. Silenced rules until 0600."

  "Superb."

  Her tone allowed that there might be more to it than this. "Anything else, ensign?"

  Slowly, he opened up.

  "Ma'am. Do you think this will work? I mean, what are the chances we'll arrive at the right time... that we'll regain control of our nukes?"

  Knowles shifted her posture ever so slightly, communicating an ease and purpose to the broader crew on duty. Orders for Operation: Restore Totem rang in her head. The concept, on paper, was simple enough. Take back American diplomatic and national destiny. Somehow, the Pentagon believed an opening for action existed. For her part, the stated tactical objectives strayed as far from certainty as the mariner had ever experienced in a mission scope before. While these facts led her to a place of significant personal doubt, leadership of the thousands of fine men and women under her command begged for a more measured response.

  "Our job is not to predict the outcome, sailor. It is to be in position if there is to be any kind of fight. And if a fight is to be had, we'll bring it."

  THIRTY ONE

  Combat Training Center—Ft. Clark

  Dalton had occupied the hard metal chair for over an hour, nearly every exposed part of his body covered with sensors. Adhesive pads rubbed his skin red, pinching hair on his arms and legs. Capturing every con
ceivable piece of biometric input, the Ft. Clark team ran Zeb through its paces. He had been given tests like this before. This one was, at least, interesting.

  A first-person, game-like simulation projected onto a twenty-five-foot-square image in front of him. Turns, doorways, and paths unfolded in a series of options, more confusing at every stage. No tangible cues to gain his bearings by. No obvious landmarks or visual oddities to keep Zeb focused and moving forward. The three-dimensional reality bore no textures, no surfaces, requiring the ability to process complex, raw directional datum and demanding a high degree of independence from the very elements most humans require to problem-solve. It was a bit like a mathematical equation containing only variables.

  And Zeb was killing it.

  Dr. Mac looked on from the hidden observation booth at the back of the room, astounded by what she was seeing. This particular test had been in use for over three years, probing the abilities of three hundred seventeen subjects. The furthest anyone had ever gotten was the seventh run before tapping out. Dalton was currently making his way, unhindered, through round twenty-three, with no signs of stopping anytime soon. Had the doctor been able to witness all that was going on inside his head, she'd have been even more impressed and as equally intrigued.

  It was all there.

  Every turn, each decision. Like one giant, multi-dimensional heads-up display. Every choice made over the last sixty minutes as present as the one before it, all fitting together. An active, symbiotic, living puzzle.

  Then the screen in the room went blank.

  Nothing.

  General Stevens, standing next to Dr. Mac in the small, dark space, posed the obvious question:

  "What. Did it break?"

  Given the rapid deployment at Ft. Clark, maybe they didn't have the best install? Techs left out a few screws here or there?

  The eminent psychiatrist waited before responding, then turned and spoke with a sense of disbelief.

  "Sir, not exactly. The programming was never finalized, the budget was cut after eighteen months. Somebody on the Hill thought we were wasting time and money on "video games for soldiers", got some senators riled up, and poof, there goes the project. We hoped it would still be a viable assessment tool for us. To this point, it has been. We thought no one would get this far. Dalton went over the edge, sir. Incredible."

  Impatient as always, Zeb tore the sensors off his forearms and thighs.

  Abruptly, the captain stepped into the open room.

  "Lieutenant Dalton. Please, wait a moment."

  Zeb was all tangled up in wires. He also wasn't slowing down any to sort it all out.

  "Okay, that was fun but I'm a little tired now. Gotta be lunchtime already. And I'm sure that robot of a trainer is waiting to put me through more of his sick, twisted amusements this afternoon. So, if you don't mind..."

  Mac could tell there was more still to come of the verbal barrage he was unloading.

  "Look," Zeb said. "I can't do anything here, on this side of the mountains. I come all the way over to offer help and we're playing computer games."

  More lines and tape, balled up, discarded.

  "Which, by the way, I did not break."

  Dr. Mac looked to the back of the room, seeking a cue from her CO. She got it.

  "Lieutenant Dalton," Stevens' disembodied voice broadcast over the speaker system. "We are done with evals. Report to mission prep at 1300 in the sit room. That is all."

  __________________________________

  The situation room at Clark appeared just as hastily put together as the rest of the camp. It had everything necessary, at a very basic level, to launch and preside over a major op. A conference table, seating up to ten. Chairs here were more comfortable than others throughout the camp, owing to the fact that people occupied them over extended periods of time. These were nice upgrades. The coffee, sadly, was still bottom barrel Army-issue. Browning, burnt bottoms and sides of glass carafes spoke volumes about the lack of care given to such a critical component of modern warfare.

  Zeb stared, offended, as any coffee snob would be.

  Dr. Mac was in place, as was Colonel Meers. Loch sat across the table from Zeb and another aide to the commander.

  Everyone stood.

  General Stevens entered and all were seated, only to rise again as the video wall came to life, the Presidential Seal filling the space, signaling the call was about to begin. The feed jumped and then settled, revealing a wide-frame view on the other end.

  From inside the Oval Office, Sec Def, Homeland Security, and the National Security Advisor sat along one side of chairs and couches. CIA and FBI heads took up places opposite them. Key aides lingered in the near-background. The focal point was forward, aimed at the president's desk, as the Commander-in-Chief waited for confirmation of signal lock. Given the go-ahead from the on-site tech director, he opened the conversation.

  "General Stevens," he said. "Good to see you again. I wish it were under better circumstances."

  The president was always personable, even under great duress.

  "First off," he continued. "Thank you for handling the evacuation and resettlement duties so well. It is a credit to your professionalism and that of your staff. I know this was perhaps one of the most challenging things this nation has ever asked of you. I am indebted for how you have comported yourself and led those under your command."

  "Mr. President. That is a great compliment. I will pass it along to the many fine soldiers who've made hard things happen this past week."

  "Yes, General, I am certain you will."

  Long-time friends, their early paths traced a parallel arc, with much in common regarding backgrounds, schooling, and ways of thinking. Both had enjoyed some of the finest leadership training in the country. Mike Stevens had applied these lessons over a lifetime of military service. The president, obviously, had walked the path of political influence and governance.

  "General..."

  He paused, formalities seeming unnecessary, and started again.

  "Mike... we've been working on two scenarios concurrently. It's time to coordinate and make some decisions. I have authorized Carrier Group 2 out of Pearl to proceed eastward, toward China. Our current understanding of the code degeneration is still very dicey but we need assets on the move, covering all contingencies."

  "Yes, Mr. President."

  Stevens could not bring himself to refer to his friend by first name.

  "And so," the president asked. "How is your side of the ballgame looking? This human asset that showed up the other day. Is he ready? I need to hear it from you, Mike."

  Stevens, along with everybody else in the room, looked over at Zeb in unison.

  "Mr. President, he is prepped... and he's the best chance we've got."

  Zeb didn't expect to be thrown under the bus. Still, the general's words and tone were most encouraging.

  "Well then, Mike, I am authorizing full green light—every aspect. God bless your team. We'll need it."

  The screen went black. Noticing they'd been holding their collective breath, everyone exhaled simultaneously.

  Zeb and the general were the last two exiting the room. Almost at the doorway Dalton turned, looking like he wanted to say something to the senior officer.

  "General?" he started.

  Stevens glanced up.

  "Sir, I know I've been a pain in the keester... "

  The general neither challenged nor corrected this assertion.

  "... but you have to know. I am fully committed to this thing. Our country has taken a blow every citizen feels deeply, a wound only continuing to fester until we do something. Something crazy, sure. That's all we've got, so far as I can tell."

  Zeb paced his last statement because it seemed corny, like a bad line in a B movie script, but he meant it.

  "Sir, I will do my best. You have my word... as a soldier... and an officer."

  That sealed it. Stevens knew he'd made the right call.

  "I know you will, son.
I know you will."

  THIRTY TWO

  Five Miles North of Central Beijing: the manufacturing corridor

  Screams of agony could be heard throughout the abandoned warehouse and the empty lots encircling the unremarkable, gray pole-building. That is, if anyone was nearby to hear them.

  Dusk. This area on the urban fringe of China's capital city lay ravaged in the growing darkness of the day, in large part due to a sagging economy. Buildings sat orphaned in the wake of unexpected, dramatic downturns in the financial sector. Yet, grim as these untended shells appeared, a more immediate downside became apparent as this day faded. There was no one around. Nobody to notice or care that something bad was happening to another person.

  Zhou Dhe sat in the middle of the cavernous space with arms folded across chest, unmoved by the repeated pronouncements of innocence. Stoic in the face of endless cries for mercy, his eyes had neither flinched nor flickered in the last three hours. His face was still as stone, his countenance twice as cold. Not his first time to bring pain to bear in acquiring information, it was also not the first time the man had enjoyed it.

  The tragic figure in the chair across from him fell forward limply once more, held in place only by a twisted mass of bungee cords at his midsection. His sobs were quiet yet deep. Only weakness remained in the barely audible voice now, long past exhibiting any manner of defiance. His eyes had swollen shut. Even if this were not true, the man wouldn't dare look Dhe in the face.

  The minister's work was not progressing as planned.

  "Again," he ordered.

  "No... please... no," the victim pleaded. "I hired on only a few weeks ago at Dawn Star. I know nothing. I told you this. Please, no... no more."

  The interrogator looked up, almost imperceptibly, toward the only other person in the room.