When Totems Fall

by Wayne C. Stewart

  He knew it back then. He experienced it again now, all these years later.

  And then Junjie let weariness win, his eyelids closing gently, satisfyingly.

  FORTY

  The Oval Office, Washington, D.C.

  The president's daily security briefing listed one and only one item on the agenda. This had been the case for every such document over the prior three and a half weeks.

  Midway through the reinforced doorway the National Security Advisor paused, considering again the depth and impact of all that'd happened in this small window of time. The veteran policy analyst shook her head, recalling the bizarre, brutal actions of the past few weeks. Had a colleague called this out as a likelihood six months ago, she'd have laughed them out of the room. Claiming it to be probable, her next move would've been to refer them for psychiatric care. Half-awake at the surrealistic nature of the moment, she entered the famous office.

  Instead of the usual eight to ten people seated at two couches and around the edges of a seventeenth-century mahogany coffee table, only three figures now loitered in the room. The President, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and Secretary of Homeland Security, all huddled at the stately desk, poring over a single page of text. An electricity surged in the room. The late-comer sensed it immediately. Her heart beat more rapidly. Something of significance was unfolding this morning.

  Please, let this be a breakthrough.

  The heavy carpet muted her approach. Engrossed in the situation at hand, her entrance had gone completely unnoticed by the trio. NSA made some noise, just so the men wouldn't be startled or embarrassed.

  A faked cough.

  The president's head snapped upward and back, his eyes acknowledging her presence in the room.

  "Mr. President."

  "Good morning," he replied. "In fact, it may be a very good morning. Have a seat."

  His suit coat draped an Elizabethan-era highback chair and his tie dangled, loosened at the neck. The aroma of cold coffee lingered. That stale scent plus the sight of an overflowing ashtray on his desk gave away what had been an Oval Office all-nighter.

  A smoker. This well-hidden peccadillo was something the First Lady and the president's physician voiced displeasure over, and often. Their combined efforts to cajole, coerce, or otherwise influence him into quitting hadn't worked so far. They weren't about to give up. They were playing the long game, tag-teaming his sorry butt on this issue until he capitulated.

  Homeland Secretary appeared somewhat disheveled as well. As usual, the Chairman radiated brass and polish. No one had seen him in any other condition. NSA pictured him mowing his lawn in full dress. She wasn't too far off the mark. The three men broke from their tight little circle hovering the desk and then sat back down again on the couches. They fidgeted, like twelve-year-old boys struggling to keep a secret.

  "It's happening," the president began.

  The chairman sketched the picture out more.

  "This morning the Pentagon geeks reported that changes potentially favorable to regaining our nuclear assets were in play. Three different commanders tried to explain the details. Trust me, it's all gibberish as far as I am concerned. Here's the bottom line: we can now add to the instruction sets ourselves. Just after 0200 one of our techs had the door opened for him, so to speak. We've been monitoring the situation ever since."

  "We broke it, General?" NSA interjected.

  "Well, no. Not from what they tell me. More like the dang thing invited us to the party."

  She studied all three men's faces quizzically, wanting more information. The president breached the pause.

  "Our people can add instructions but not take over. At this point we're still significantly handicapped. The Pentagon thinks this is the first step toward recovery."

  "Excuse me, sir," she inquired. "How do we know this is not some kind of ploy by the Chinese?"

  "Well, honestly Karen... we don't. Still, I can't imagine what sort of advantage would be gained on their side by letting us alter the coding. As far as we know this is a significant advantage, a new opportunity we'll want to exploit to the fullest."

  "Here," the general offered while referring her midway down the page. "Latest projections. Time and levels of oversight regained."

  NSA, glasses at the bridge of her nose, scanned the document.

  "Sirs, if this is in any way an accurate assessment and projection it's reasonable to think we may regain some form of nuclear strike capability within... only eighteen hours."

  "Correct, ma'am," he continued. "But we still need our man on the ground to take us all the way home. The boys at the Vault are all bluster and for good reason. In this case they're humbly accepting that the need outpaces even their heady skillsets. They don't like it but they know we need this..."

  SecDef perused the notes again.

  "... this Dalton fellow, to finish the job."

  The sense of newly acquired hope was palpable, energizing. It was also matched by the gravity of what came next, what lay ahead were they to actually succeed.

  __________________________________

  Beijing

  "Gentlemen. It would appear we are at a crossroads in our little expansionist drama."

  President Xi stated the obvious as the two other senior leaders in the room absorbed the indirect censure.

  "Most unfortunate," he pressed on, venting his anger bit by bit. "Perhaps the assurances given on this project are not as ironclad as we'd been told? Yes, maybe this was our greatest mistake—believing these promises in the first place?"

  General Chen Bingde absorbed the sting, the barb of each word landing solely in his realm of responsibility. He abided the rebuke, as any good soldier would.

  The president continued.

  "Irrelevant. The only item occupying our thinking should be the protection of our new province... and the mainland, when or if the United States re-establishes its strategic nuclear forces."

  Li Keqiang, Chinese Premiere and Chair of the State Council, added to the conversation next.

  "Mr. President. This is one small advance for the Americans. True, they have initial access to the code but we have been informed it will take someone with the highest skills to direct it in any actionable manner. Our best people are telling us they do not think this to be likely."

  "As conceivable as sympathetic code migration ever occurring in the first place, Comrade Li?"

  Li took the hit as well and proceeded cautiously.

  "We know their people, Mr. President. They have no one to meet the need in this case. We simply have to manage the digression as best we can. We have taken our objective, secured the new province."

  "For now, Li. For now. We must prepare for any circumstance. I will require hourly status reports from all departments and ministries."

  The men stood, bowed slightly, and then left the richly appointed office quietly.

  The president needed time to think on his own, without the voices of these naïve advisors trying to soothe him. Xi stepped across the room and over to a long, felt-covered tabletop. Accent lighting highlighted a stack of loosely organized notebooks. He ran his hand over a thick red-covered volume.

  Eyes-Only, President. National Administration for the Protection of State Secrets: Top Secret.

  Once opened, the pages divulged a table of contents bearing stark, ominous headings.

  VII: Scenarios for Nuclear Engagement—Western United States.

  Appendix D: Death tolls, fallout, and recovery.

  XII: Decisions Matrix: Pan-Pacific Nuclear Exchange. Defense of the Homeland.

  The president was a pragmatic man. This character trait, above all others, had gotten him to this place of influence and power. An economist by education, he viewed life in terms of cost/benefit and degrees of incentives. He understood every decision humans make to be undergirded by values, the opposing and sometimes balancing weights of what mattered enough for people to attain, defend, or bargain for a desired item or outcome. He spoke most comfortably in
numbers, not names. Though appearing aloof when tolls rose to the level of the tragic and expansive, he had learned early on that leadership often required sidestepping the emotions of the moment. Left unchecked they could cloud judgment, skew data. Still, this—the outcomes he reviewed again now—were almost impossible to process.

  The probable chain of events was not some kind of mysterious unknown. The Americans would threaten—no, they would undertake—military action to recover their territory. His people would counter with limited nuclear aggression in the new province, just as they had in the discharge of two missiles over Puget Sound earlier in the takeover. America would respond in kind, threatening the Chinese mainland itself. Everything hinged on who flinched first.

  Or who might finally pull the trigger.

  For more than a half-century the world remained a delicate balance of nuclear powers. The appearance of detente had convinced everyone the unthinkable was impossible, and that the newest, more limited threat would now come from non-state actors; terror groups bent on destruction in pursuit of their causes. But all had forgotten: there were still enough warheads between the major players to blow everyone to Mars and back a hundred times. And this war, as horribly imagined for seventy-some years would be one in which entire nations of people were suddenly and violently excised. Industry, culture, and environment eradicated. Smoldering piles of rubble and decay kept at a distance by a radioactive shield diminishing slowly over decades, if not centuries.

  The president walked to his desk and engaged the intercom line on his phone.

  "The Foreign Minister, please. I will need to speak with him at once."

  FORTY ONE

  Central Pacific Ocean

  The heads-up display in the American pilot's visor declared all systems go as he awaited final clearance to engage. The blinking green visual—outlines of nuclear-tipped ordinance on a small LCD screen—meant his missiles hung hot. Targeting vectors: received, confirmed, logged.

  Flipping open a small plastic cover on the flight stick revealed a red fire-control switch. His finger hovered, ready to act, to release these hounds of hell on their fated trajectory toward China's unsuspecting populace of billions. Highly controlled breaths; each one pronounced in his ear canal. Every heartbeat: weighty, as the airman fought back the very natural physiological reactions to the task before him. His training and duty guided him. Still, underneath deep layers of patriotism and professionalism, the real toll of following orders such as these settled on him with an understandable weightiness.

  "Tiger-Five. Awaiting go. Confirm."

  "Roger. Tiger-Five," the radio squawked in reply. "Clear for... return. Cool the birds down. Come on home."

  The cover eased back over the button. A few more keystrokes into the fire-control computer and the green ordinance visuals disappeared as well. Upon pulling hard on the yoke the sleek airframe banked, descending on a return path to the USS George H.W. Bush.

  "Tiger squadron, this is Tiger Leader. We are done for today. Good job. Call that another successful exercise run and we'll be back in time for chow. Cookie says there is a lovely meatloaf special this evening. You all deserve the finest the U.S. Navy can muster."

  Multiple groans. A few choice words over the air from the rest of the team. Nine skilled touchdowns later the squadron entrusted their planes to their equally adept crews for refueling, maintenance, and stowage. From there they jostled and pushed one another while walking toward the superstructure, like pre-teen boys with a surplus of pent-up energy. Some moments you'd be surprised that men of this order had charge of life and death and multi-million dollar machines. Most days their commitment and skill would make you proud they were on your side.

  "Commander on deck."

  The proclamation stopped their horseplay, bringing them to attention.

  Rear Admiral Knowles appeared from behind a bulkhead, encountering the just-returned flight leader and his cohorts. They responded appropriately, respectfully.

  "At ease," Knowles ordered. "I hear you had another fine dry-run today; that your squad is as ready as the American people will need you to be. Is this correct?"

  Knowles was not the kind of commander to use drummed up confrontations to establish and reinforce her authority. She really wanted to encourage and challenge her sailors and airmen to excellence, readiness. Conversations like this were welcomed by her crew.

  "Ma'am," the lead pilot responded. "We were ready, on station, systems as green as they could be. When we get the call, we'll do the job."

  The admiral smiled broadly, so they could catch it.

  "Good to hear, Captain. Carry on, men."

  With that, she released the aviators, off-duty now for the evening.

  Carrier Group 2 closed in on China. Another ten hours and her men and machines would be in place, anxious for their orders. They had achieved a measure of surprise so far. This would not continue to be the case for long.

  __________________________________

  Former U.S. Embassy Compound, Beijing

  Though still officially the United States' Ambassador to China, Gary Locke was performing his last assignment—closing down Beijing Station. Once completed, he would leave the post behind and along with it, his position. The American President had ordered the action; a necessary, albeit weak, response. Locke's days since had been overrun with administrative duties and sensitive materials handling. With a staff of over seventy-five there were lots of personal and personnel issues to take care of. These things he presided over now. A sense of defeat and dread clung to the air, discoloring the few remaining hours he had in this office. Mundane. Painful. Though the Chinese had not demanded the severing of relations, it was a forgone conclusion the United States would no longer maintain an active consulate in the PRC.

  Locke stood, staring into space for a moment. Evidences of the man's faithful service to a great nation once lined these shelves. They now sat stacked unevenly in boxes, to be shipped who knows where. He had always tried his best to be a diplomat moving relations forward in the world. Hardball was not his favorite tactic, preferring instead to protect the interests of America as well as advance the welfare and prosperity of the nations he was tasked to inhabit. He was convinced there were many ways to do both at the same time. The heaviness of it all hit hard, most days. Professional disgrace. Failure. But the weight he carried wasn't only for himself.

  The man was a long-time resident and civil servant of the former State of Washington. He was from there. His family and friends, many of them, still there. How were they fairing? What must it be like for them? Are they being singled out for their connection with me?

  An odd buzzing sound brought Locke out of this semi-mourning state. The pager rang twice again, its display illuminating the few inches around it on the desk.

  2444HCO*# —appeared on the small, yellow screen.

  Most modern diplomatic communication occurred via secure land lines or cell nodes. Occasionally the foreign services of countries would use this outdated technology but only in situations where the sender desired to remain especially incognito.

  Locke walked over to the wall safe and dialed the combination. Drawing out a thin notebook, he opened it and searched rows of data, tracking the characters until he found the match.

  Well, this should be interesting.

  With the ledger shut he placed it back into the vault, locking it away again.

  Then, informing no one, Locke grabbed his overcoat and keys, leaving through a chiefly unknown exit at the back of his private bathroom.

  Twenty-five minutes later he arrived unaccompanied, the standard protocol for this kind of meet, at a nondescript warehouse in the steel manufacturing sector of the city. Pushing both hands into the pockets of his black overcoat, he strode toward the entrance. A few last steps and the door opened for him. Inside, two guards motioned, pointing forward with the business end of their side arms. The hallway was narrow, maybe three feet wide with a single, aging light bulb overhead. Twenty paces later cam
e another wordless instruction: to the left, into an empty room. Empty that is, except for two chairs facing each other in the middle of the space. One was already occupied. The other? Clearly meant for him. Though the unidentified person's back was turned to Locke at this point, the voice was quite familiar.

  "Mr. Ambassador. So good of you to respond to my call."

  FORTY TWO

  Seattle's Near Eastside

  Zeb's head rolled forward, committing neither to full consciousness nor retreating to the comfort of sleep quite yet. Not sure where he was, he moved little, playing it safe until he gained a better grip on what was going on around him.

  Underneath and behind him: cheap vinyl. Slippery. An oil and gasoline smell in the air. The temperature all around was hot—a heat carrying a musty, thicker mien. Zeb moved his feet. Cartons and bags strewn at his ankles. Not much room at all for him to maneuver or shift his weight. Hands at his side and still, Zeb paused a second longer. Scanning subtly with his peripheral vision, he sought the final pieces in the emerging puzzle. Add it all up: in the back seat of a car.

  A crappy one.

  "Hey, Aurora. Sorry to bring you bad news. There's no prince around right now. And I sure 'ain't gonna give you the wake-up kiss."

  Sanchez.