The sniper paused, thinking to herself that this was probably the end of the road. AQ had been their aim. That asset, and the opportunities it presented, were now compromised. Even if Program Eleven worked, Zeb couldn't exactly type in any new commands from outside the room, she surmised.
"Okay, Mr. Beautiful Mind," she said. "Whaddaya have for us now?"
Sanchez' quiet utterance, referencing a movie about a brilliant mathematician who "saw" things no one else did, snapped him back to reality.
"The buses," he said. "Go for the buses."
"What?" Loch said, not understanding. "What in the world are you blabbering aboooot, LT?"
Sanchez looked around, trying to make sense of his directive in light of the wave of people exiting 25 and forming a growing, milling populace with nowhere specific to go, nothing to do. And then it registered.
"Yeah," she said. "The buses. I got you, Dalton."
One more, quick instruction before they moved out.
"Break up," he cautioned, although somewhat needlessly, considering to whom his words were directed. "Don't sit together. Wait until we offload and I'll give you more info. Go, now. Fade in. Go."
Loch still wasn't following him. He'd lose valuable time, though, and possibly even strategic advantage, if he didn't obey the directives he had right now. The ad hoc team had no official leader. Instead, the agreement was to lean into one another's strengths as each came to bear. At the moment, Dalton had a plan. That was enough.
Sanchez boarded the closest bus in line, taking an open seat next to a middle-aged Caucasian guy. Dalton strode up the stairs and almost all the way to the back, squeezing into a two-person bench along with the two people already there. Loch, finally on board, took another few steps past Sanchez and stood in the aisle with about ten others, holding to the wrist straps overhead.
The big transport, surprisingly powerful for a next-generation green vehicle, pulled out of the Microsoft lot and out onto the street. Everyone's weight shifted as the thirty-foot-long behemoth took the first left a little too sharply. A communal groan but no real protest arose among the passengers. Their muted response came chiefly due to the single PRC thug at the front of the bus, standing firm with arms crossed over rifle and solemness across his young face.
The man beside Sanchez mumbled something.
She gave him a look saying, "Come again?"
He must've figured her safe enough to repeat it, but still only a little louder this time.
"Red bastards."
Her expression again said, "not following you."
He leaned over, whispering and also looking away; his best version of being secretive.
"They think we'll just play along. This whole thing is such a setup. Well... they can force us there at gunpoint but they can't make us look happy about it, that's for dang sure."
Striking Sanchez like a sharp slap upside the head, a minor recollection flashed in her mind's eye.
The poster. The one hanging out front of Building 25. They had walked by so fast. Couldn't have been any bigger than a foot across. The quad was filled, packed with people. He saw it, she thought. And he put it into his big old head full of scenarios.
Stealing a glance back at Dalton, she smiled—just enough to let him know she was more in the know. His return look acknowledged an understanding between them. They were heading downtown.
Sanchez played out the new info more fully in her mind. Apparently their new overlords felt the time was right to show the world just how much of a favor they had done for this pitiful, decaying nation by invading them in the first place. This "resurgence" was all a good thing, after all. Ah yes, the conquered masses surely had come to this realization. Of course.
Today was to be a glorious, extremely public demonstration of this gratitude. Other nations would step back from their previous posture of horrified but quieted protest and come to accept the situation as well. Privileges, prosperity. All would flow because of China's actions in this new province. All would become so normal. So right.
The bus merged onto 520 West, toward the downtown corridor. Zeb, Sanchez, Loch and the other fifty-some passengers on their bus joined alongside an endless stream of transports. The procession ambled across the floating bridges over Lake Washington where as usual, the northern side of the structure held back choppy, rough water flowing in from Puget Sound while the southern side appeared calm.
The contrast seemed fitting to Sanchez as she looked out through the thin, glass windows. There was wrong and right in this world, she was sure of this. Concrete, moral boundaries. No amount of propaganda or pressure would make rough "waters" smooth in her mind.
The line of vehicles wound on through a rat's nest of on and off ramps and past the University District, eventually merging onto Interstate 5 southbound. One last, gentle curve to the right and the city came into full, unobstructed view.
No one was prepared for it.
The collective gasp couldn't have been held back, had they all given their best effort. The sight was too shocking. Too offensive. Emasculating. Even after all they'd been subjected to in previous weeks, this was still over the top. Entering a tunnel momentarily and plunged into semi-darkness, they experienced a brief respite. This was only a momentary relief. Exiting into daylight on the other side, the image struck them all again, even harder this time.
Swaying gently in a springtime Seattle breeze: an enormous Chinese flag, red field with gold stars, draping the city's most iconic structure—The Space Needle.
The insult burned so deeply, salting wounds still open and quite vulnerable. A few women on the bus started crying. Men's faces puffed crimson in equal parts shame and anger. The worst reality of all? Helplessness. Absolute impotence.
Keep it together, Sanchez.
The veteran warrior commanded herself to focus. Staying steady took more effort than usual as she glared at the sickening picture.
Loch—his face told the whole story. If not for self-discipline kneaded into his character throughout his years of service he would've snapped for sure.
Their bus pulled off I5 along with all the others, winding its way through the narrow, steep side streets of the urban core. The city fathers had chosen a beautiful waterfront setting for this trading outpost, butted up against seven sizable hillsides. Its development over generations took into account this strong vertical orientation, resulting in a maze of massive hi-rise buildings, many with bases laying at extreme angles to the pavement. It made for the feeling you were always either falling forward or leaning way back. At this moment, the challenge to their physical equilibrium matched their experience as Americans.
Dizzying. Disorienting.
Parked alongside nearly a hundred other busses they disembarked, beginning the mile and a half asphalt trek to their destination: the gated entrances of Century Link Field.
The modern, open air stadium seated 76,000 screaming fans when hosting the city's football and soccer teams. It was also the location of today's Appreciation Rally, scheduled to be televised and streamed across the internet for worldwide consumption this afternoon.
FORTY EIGHT
Tens of thousands moved forward, surging into and filling the stadium under the purview of both armed guards and well-camouflaged gun mounts. There was enough firepower here to maintain order, but not so much as to present an image of forced attendance to an interestedly watching world. After all, this was supposed to be a thankful crowd.
The massive south end zone Mitsubishi Diamond Vision screen lit up, visible from even the furthest outlying parking lots, showing once more that the Chinese propaganda machine knew what it was doing. High energy, emotionally charged symphonic music resonated throughout the stands. String swells and percussive barrages rang out, perfectly timed with looped images of happy, fulfilled citizens of the PRC filling the eighty-four-foot-wide display. Their faces: Asian, Caucasian, Black, Hispanic—and in an obvious play to the history of the area—indigenous American Tribal Peoples.
Shufflin
g forward as only one of the many, Zeb noted a change in the musical underscore and looked up. The screens had transitioned from the happy people sequence to a super wide view from what had to be one of the stadium's upper decks. Panning from end zone to end zone, the screens displayed a field covered in military equipment and personnel with a properly elevated dais set right in the middle, at the fifty-yard line. This was to be a grand celebration, no expenses spared. Tanks. Transports. Ground to air missiles mounted and waiting on their portable launch systems. Artillery units. It was an island of green and gray, metal and electronics, all draped in a deep red ocean of ribbons and banners. And it was working, at least for a portion of the gathered throng.
You could see it in their eyes as well as their physical bearing. Still and standing tall, brimming with pride at this momentous occasion for their people, their homeland. Zeb, on the other hand, found it hard to believe. He'd been at the stadium a few times since its construction. A handful of football games, a summer concert series by aging rock acts. Even now he could remember the flyover of F18s and the national anthem before kickoff. At this moment, those powerful memories and the pride he'd held all his life seemed so far away. And then it struck him. They were the same. These young Chinese faces were filled with the same assured look he had borne at the time. He didn't have to like the circumstances, and their methods were certainly up for discussion. But at a very basic level he understood their commonality.
The screen changed again, emblazoned now with the pudgy, pockmarked face of a man stepping up from his prominent seat on the dais as he took the podium. A mid-level bureaucrat from Shanghai with family ties deep in the Party strata, the Interim Governor of the new province was only an immediate solution to a pressing need, filling a vacuum created by the invasion and nothing more. In time a seasoned and more capable man would be assigned the post. For now, this simpleton had been asked to do little more than manage public affairs while military leadership attended to the greater concerns of population control and re-education efforts. Still, this was his moment. Political payback would soon pass into thin air. For now the limelight was his to enjoy.
Zeb's bus load were some of the last to arrive and had been directed initially to the southwest concourses of the stadium complex. On arriving at their gate they were told in no uncertain terms that all regular seating was now full. They would be required to walk the length of the structure, through the northernmost gates and from there gather in temporary seating at that side's end zone. The image, again, was exactly what the Chinese were looking for.
An overflow crowd. Their kindly new leaders would make sure they all had a good seat. So many appreciative men, women, and children.
Right.
The ceremony opened. Though Zeb, Sanchez, and Loch were not quite into the stadium yet, the voice and image carried well enough for them to get the gist of what was going on.
The disposable leader paused, gripping the podium with both hands. Looking out into the seated masses, he spoke from prepared notes, statements both crafted and authorized by others.
"Fellow citizens of the People's Republic of China, welcome."
There were a few seconds of lag as his voice bounced across the structure.
"Today is indeed a day to celebrate," he declared. "For you have been given new life. For too long the foundations of your country have been fading onto the horizon of history. Your time was ending. Now we... together... face a new beginning. Instead of a failed system flowering a mere few hundred years, you are joining a stream of culture, development, and humanity spanning thousands."
This next break was planned for effect, so he waited a beat before moving on.
"And so, the faces I look upon here today... are ones sensing a new hope, no longer wondering if their best seasons are behind them." He continued, his voice growing in intensity and volume, crescendoing toward the speech's summation and climax.
"A people given opportunity to join the most robust economy of all the nations of the world. A chance to live, again, with pride and purpose."
Silence.
A raw, gaping silence dissipated into the cool northwest air, underscored by the reverberation of his last words off the stadium's solid surfaces.
There was no immediate applause, nothing from or among the tens of thousands seated in the stadium itself. For those viewing online the scene came off as something entirely different.
A steady hand brought the fader up in the production booth and a sustained chorus of shouts, cheers, and clapping animated the speakers and ear buds of those currently tuned in via the web and official state television, now being rebroadcast across fifty-some international networks. These joyous sounds played while the video shot remained focused on the speaker's upper body.
Back in the stadium, guards strategically placed outside the camera frame raised their guns in the air. This time the people responded as expected—as required—allowing the speaker to continue only after it became necessary for him to quell the celebration with opened, overturned hands. After all, he still held back a few more lines for them to digest.
"A chance..."
This next pause came completely scripted. An actual cue on the TelePrompTer said "hold, 2 seconds."
"... to be set apart for greatness."
More supplemental applause online, this time pumped back into the stadium via loudspeakers.
The governor stopped, his gaze spanning the eastern side of the stands before continuing.
"So, it is with a deep sense of both satisfaction and thankfulness I present to you... officially... the newest province of the People's Republic of China...
... Penghu Province."
The principally unrecognized moniker appeared alongside freshly designed provincial symbolism on the Diamond Vision. Its deeper meaning was not registering immediately, nor much at all, to the gathered throng. Zeb knew exactly what they were doing.
"Gotta give them points for creativity," he mumbled.
Penghu, an islet in the Taiwanese chain, had served for many years as the focus of a bitter territorial dispute between mainland China and the breakaway province. The PRC annually refused recognition of their claims of independence, insisting this group of nearly 24 million were merely another segment of people and land within her sovereign reach. America—rather haughtily through the years—had recognized The Republic of China as a separate nation, over and against the will of Beijing.
Well played, boys. Well played.
One giant poke in the eyeball. That's for sure.
The mass of bodies around Zeb and the others had ceased forward progress, shuffling a bit in line yet not proceeding into the stadium during the governor's introductory comments. Dalton could sense this would soon change, that the guards would turn their attention back to the standing masses and prod them, like everyone else, into the grand occasion set before them. He also knew that upon being sucked into the stadium with everyone else, their chances of escaping would be reduced to pretty much zero.
A gunshot rang out and generalized panic ensued, masking its point of origin. Good enough. Zeb slid the 9mm back into his waistline as freely as it'd come out. His frantic shouting and pointing, directing attention away from himself as the shooter, achieved the reaction he had hoped for. Guards scrambled left and right, trying to assess the moment, to retake control.
Sanchez knew what was happening and looked for Zeb through the angry hornet's nest of humanity. Loch followed the cue as well. And like the fire alarm at Microsoft, the single gunshot did its job.
People rammed into the unmoving backsides of those in front of them. Falling, they trampled one another in trying to flee the trouble in their midst. Remarkably, the guards got the people-flow moving in the right direction again. Only minor injuries, scrapes, bruises. A few people had been pinned up against the chain link fencing at the gate. Even the unfortunate recipient of the flesh wound from Zeb's pistol discharge was receiving the needed medical attention. His foot would bleed some. Soon enough it wo
uld be stanched, from there requiring only stitches and minimal pain management. Barely a minute later the commotion had ceased and all efforts turned to searching for the shooter. Outside the gates there was a shocked surprise among the guards, a disbelief that someone would ruin such a glorious occasion with an unseemly act of violence. Inside the stadium this minor event hadn't registered at all, not even slightly so, and the festivities continued as planned with the interim governor of Penghu Province blithely presenting the rest of his speech.
Four hundred yards north of Century Link the team stopped, trying to catch their breath. Well, at least two-thirds of the them needed a moment before moving out again. Loch looked like the sustained sprint had taxed him no more than getting up from the couch.
"Nicely dooone, LT."
Zeb, breathing more heavily: "... had to take it."
"Okay, boss," Sanchez said. "What's the plan from here? Now that we can't use the Freaky Friday supercomputer back at Microworld, we're kinda running for no reason, right?"
Sanchez, as always, added a helpful sarcastic edge to the conversation, easing some of the stress that came along with life-threatening situations. It was another of the little details that made her such a winsome leader; making it easy to partner with her regardless of the odds one might be facing.
"Wrong," Zeb said. "That was only stage one. I mean, it would have been fun to finish the job there but honestly, it would've been a bit like taking an A-bomb to a water fight. We've still got options. Next we need to go for a little boat ride, my friends."
"What? Why?" Loch questioned.
Dalton knew it would be impossible for them to comprehend the multiplicity of data existing in his head. He did his best to bring the others up to speed, nonetheless.
When Totems Fall Page 25
