"Program Eleven was still running when we left. If successful, we're in—access to the actual code stream. If it worked, we don't need the big machine anymore. A basic interface will do. If Eleven does the trick, from here forward it's really a matter of line commands. Extremely complicated line commands but still, something that can be achieved with your standard-issue HP running DOS 5.0."
"DOS?" Sanchez replied, not catching the old school reference.
"Yeah... you're probably a little young to remember, Sanchez. Let's just say that if the door has been opened, then we're good to go."
"No catches?" Loch interjected. "A desktop unit with keyboard and monitor?"
"Well, almost. We do need an internet connection that won't show up to the Chinese web watchdogs."
"Thus, the ferry?" Loch asked.
"Yep."
"Okay," Sanchez asked, the slightest look of hope growing in her countenance. "So where do we get on and where do we get off?"
Zeb pointed toward the waterfront district.
"Pier 52. And then onto the lovely port city of Bremerton; in that order, my friends. A two mile walk from here and, if memory serves me, next passage is in an hour and a half. From there, another thirty minutes across the beautiful waters of the Sound and we'll know whether or not Eleven did its job."
Zeb paused, taking in one more, big breath. His body had settled back into a decent cardio rhythm during the break in the action. Letting it out now, he finished the thought.
"We can presume recovery crews have been trying to access AQ ever since we left. It'll take them awhile to bust in but they will open that door again. Eleven can only help us as long as it's running, undisturbed. Unfortunately, there's no way to assess how long we may, or may not, have."
Sanchez, ever up for an adventure, especially when she cared so deeply about the outcome, jumped in. She didn't hesitate. Not even a second.
"Oh, we'll get there Dalton. And your little magic fingers will do their thing."
She placed her fist in the middle of the trio.
"All in?"
"All the time," was the sure echo of the men.
FORTY NINE
Soon enough Zeb and cohorts arrived at their destination, numbered piers all laid out in a row and sea salt aroma weighting the air. Cars lined the two-lane street, awaiting hourly western transits to the Peninsula and from there northward, out to the San Juan Islands.
The team's transition from SoDo District to waterfront proved surprisingly, yet pleasantly, uneventful. They'd moved efficiently the two miles away from the sporting stadiums, through heavy industrial corridors and seagoing shipping docks. Astride railroad tracks, remaining undetected turned out to be relatively easy as there were things far more worthy of attention in this lesser-traveled part of town than three humans on foot. Mechanical cranes swung, lifted, and moved overhead. Seaworthy vessels, as long as three football fields—standing higher than your average building—placidly received their cargo, readying for another contest between international corporations and the unyielding forces of weather and water. Endless warehouses lined the four-laned streets, many grinding out the gritty side of the economy day by smelly, dirty day. And then there was the fact that Dalton, Sanchez, and Loch were all experts at making use of their environment for cover. This had helped some, too.
Beyond the visual clutter of the area, the Chinese had contributed unknowingly to the team's safety as well. Any competent military unit would have become at least minimally alerted by the trio. There were simply none around, competent or otherwise. The necessary reassigning of assets for the gathering at the stadium had left this sector with little in the way of a security presence. A few sleepy guards in lonely shacks posed the only potential challenge to unhindered passage.
Irony. Or maybe more a blessing, and a timely one at that.
None of them had eaten anything recently, not since their last steps out of the Snoqualmie Wilderness, much earlier on this long and stressful day. Rations had been passed out then, the understanding being that these thin provisions would need to last, at least until they could improvise at some point. Now they were hungry. So improvise, they did.
"I don't like this," Sanchez confessed.
The men glanced back at her with equally uncomfortable looks.
"I get it, Sanchez. But we really don't have many options here," Zeb offered. "You know we'll get tagged if we don't use the debit card. We'd also get tagged if we did use one. I really wish the team back at Clark had had more time. The IDs were genius. The banking system is a whole other universe. You know they would have figured out how to crack it if they'd had a few more days."
"Bloooody reds. Seems they've thought of every way possible to make these people cower."
Loch summed up the scenario perfectly. The PRC had thought of every way possible to control these people's lives. Right down to how much food they could buy and from where. Cash, either American or Chinese was no longer a usable currency in Penghu. Neither were bank accounts, as those had all been frozen until the new regime decided who should have what kind of resources. Of course, anyone partnering with the new leadership would get more than their neighbors and friends. That's the way it always works.
These sobering facts led the team to an action they were averse to, in any fashion.
Zeb took up the observation post outside their mark, a Northwest trinkets and tourist shop on the docks, his shoulder toward the storefront window while still facing up the sidewalk. In this position he could both keep an eye on the street while using his left-side peripheral vision to make sure all was well inside the store. He gave quick directions to the others.
"As good a place as any, I guess. I'll stay here. Sanchez, you charm the pants off the teenage boy at the counter... keep him from noticing that Loch's pockets are getting heavier."
The glare shot from the sniper recon back at Dalton was as fatal as if she'd aimed and pulled the trigger at him from anything less than a mile away. Though she had used much the same actions on the admiring Chinese soldier back at 25, this struck her as different somehow. Something about how Zeb said it cheapened the value of the strategy. Dalton absorbed the disapproving look, nodding toward Loch while also trying to reflect her brutal gaze.
"What? You think he can even approach something resembling charming?"
Her eyes followed Zeb's, landing on the Scotsman.
"I see your point," she said. "I don't appreciate it, but I do see your point."
"Hey nowwwww. What's not to love here?" Loch countered, drawing an imaginary circle around his face with his right hand.
It was settled. Zeb would be eyes-on. Loch, the procurement specialist. Sanchez, the diversion.
Two minutes and they were in and out again. The total score was three Snickers bars, four packs of peanuts, and a handful of penny candies. Either Loch wasn't all that picky or the shop stocked a slim assortment to choose from. Sanchez pulled herself away from the young man at the counter, having successfully absorbed his teen attention span as long as needed. It had required little effort to keep his eyes off of Loch; your basic smile and a slight leaning forward while asking for directions.
Oh. Just up the street? That way? Really?
How did I miss it before? You're so helpful.
With her mission accomplished she walked out the front door, turned toward Zeb and then stopped, eyes shifting from Dalton to the three or four feet above his head. He noticed the change in focus.
"What?"
Zeb moved his left shoulder awkwardly, trying to catch what was so important hanging over his head.
"That," she said quietly, a half smile forming across her lips.
Understandably, his attentions had been zeroed in on the open doorway, so he'd missed it. That, and its presence didn't register because he was leaning back against it.
The head of an eagle.
Beneath that a mask, resembling the face of a man.
Next and below: the wide snout of a grizzly bear.
&n
bsp; On it went, ever lower toward the ground, each level an image wonderfully carved out of native hardwoods and reverently hand-painted.
"Gotta be a sign, right Dalton? We're rollin' now, boy."
Though the solid wood totem above and behind Zeb stood out as a somewhat prodigious happening, Dalton couldn't muster up quite the same degree of faith as Sanchez at the sight. Nevertheless, he still slipped his right hand into the front pocket of his jeans, fingering the smaller totem that General Stevens had handed him before the op began, way back on the other side of the mountains. So long ago now. In many ways it felt like the faint remembrances of a dream, quite a few nights past. The feel of the figurine in his pocket verified again that this was all very real, connecting him to the present, broader purposes of their covert, deceptive, and possibly destructive actions.
Zeb turned, looking into the windows to his left. The reflected image of the ten-foot-high totem on the sidewalk loomed large in the glass storefront.
Operation Restore Totem, huh? he thought to himself.
Well, here we go.
__________________________________
The Oval Office, Washington D.C.
"Yes, Mr. President, that is correct. The Chinese Ambassador contacted me directly, extending the opportunity for a peaceful resolution of our differences."
Ambassador Locke, having just returned from the hastily called meeting on the outskirts of Beijing, was passing along the new information as quickly as possible.
"Peaceful? The hostile taking of one of our states... sovereign territory... an act that can be resolved peacefully? Are they actually insane?
Another pause, trying to calibrate his thinking to the new realities.
"Please Gary, tell me there is more to it than this."
The former Ambassador knew he would have little time to swing the president toward compromise so he countered as convincingly as he knew how.
"Mr. President. All I can say at this point is they are aware as well that the code is deteriorating. In light of this fact they find themselves in a compromised position of power, yet not wholly without advantage. Sizing up the possibilities, they're seeking open channels in a desire to avoid the horror we all know is coming if hostilities are to further escalate."
"What you mean to say is that they're scared spit-less," the chief executive responded. "We reassert a measure of control of our nukes. We'll use them in retaliation. They know that's the score now. And they also realize this would be understood as reasonable by most of the world, aside from their allies."
The ambassador didn't need to step in on this point. His input wasn't required, not requested.
The president took a deep breath, exhaling markedly before speaking again. One of the most significant decisions of his nation's history waited to be released in words, stated out loud.
"Gary, here's what we're going to do. You tell them in clear and certain terms: we want peace as well. It won't be simple. I mean, a hundred thousand Chinese troops are spread across... what are they calling it now... Penghu?"
"Correct, sir. Penghu Province."
"Okay, you tell them to keep channels open. That will be all for now."
Locke sighed, relieved. Hanging up the phone, he left to communicate the message to his Chinese contact.
Back in the Oval Office two men stepped out from a side room, having heard the entire conversation over a secure system.
"Mr. President, we will assume—unless otherwise instructed—that in the event we regain our strategic forces, we have the green light... and will be expected, to employ them."
Silence.
"Thank you, Mr. President."
The two men, one in full dress uniform, the other in a well-tailored business suit, stood and left the room. They had their orders, and along with them, a veil of deniability for their leader.
It had been decided.
Peace would not come, no matter the outcomes of either the code degeneration or harried negotiations currently underway between both sides' diplomatic corps. The president had been won over by the argumentation of power and the dark projected future of a certained, ever-growing subjugation for his country. There could be no reasoning with a nation-state that had already chosen invasion. No, this would stop here and now. Appeasement of any kind would only invite more of the same. The only way forward was war. And in this case full, unbridled nuclear war.
The president had thought long and hard over such an engagement. In even the most hope-filled projections little of either country remained to be inhabited once the conflagration had cleared. Little left of a people for millennia at the forefront of human discovery. Little remaining of a nation that had re-invented government, leading to the flowering of modern liberty and prosperity. These were grim outcomes to be sure. The only viable step as far the president was now concerned. Rebuilding from the ashes, unbelievable as this possibility appeared, was the only realistic action placed before them. Beijing had started them all down this path. It was up to the American Commander-in-Chief to press on, forward, to the inevitable.
Once outside the office the man in the business suit pulled a pager from his left breast pocket, keying a string of characters and then hitting send. The return ping took only a second.
Received. Understood.
__________________________________
And then Sgt. Lochland put his micro-pager away, keeping the orders from his teammates, and to himself.
__________________________________
Aboard the MV Klickitat, ferrying westward toward the Peninsula
Breathtaking. If not for the circumstances they found themselves in this would have been a moment to savor, to remember. The open waters of Puget Sound broke against the bow of the boat, passing along her sides and creating a soft, foamy wake running behind. The gentle motion of the Klickitat's keel floated over and cut through the waves. A pleasing springtime sun beat down on their skin, warming the image of snow-capped peaks reaching above 7,000 ft. at both bow and stern. The cityscape fell behind, smaller every few minutes of the crossing. From here the view appeared rather like it did a month ago—seemingly untouched by the upheaval taking place in her streets, homes, and people.
It all made for a sense of calm. Surreal. Utterly surreal.
Construction repairs still lingered from the airliner impact at Pike Place, marked by scaffolding and crane works throughout the market space. With no prior knowledge of the devastation, one could assume it to be only one more evolving corridor of a constantly developing city. From here few visual clues surfaced as to the terrors hidden in the distance. The only telltale sign of trouble might possibly be the massive Chinese flag flowing off the heights of the Needle. Yet, even that—from here—could simply be dismissed as some kind of community ethnic pride thing.
Leaning out over the white, painted rail, looking down the clean, curved line of the boat, Zeb glanced at Sanchez. Face up to the sun, she was breathing slowly with eyes shut, taking in the muted warmth on her skin. The sunlight brought a reddish tint to her dark hair as the breeze tossed small strands about.
What in the world is going on in her head? Zeb wondered.
No telling. Probably some combat prep exercises.
Does she have family? Are they in the region as well? Has she had any contact with them?
Zeb let his mind wander for just a moment, to thoughts of his own clan.
His mom. Such the warrior. As strong as they came. Even with dad going off the deep end she was always such a rock. When had he last talked to her? It'd been way too long, no question about that. She wasn't the one who deserved his distance and coldness. No, that would be reserved for his father alone.
And what the hell was that all about anyways? Zeb tossed up and out to the universe.
Why our family? Why couldn't the aerospace engineer guy across the street have been my dad. The guy went off to work everyday and still didn't miss a sports event or band concert for his kids. Couldn't we have just been normal like everybody else
. What—Dad's religion made him special, somehow?
Such a pile of crap.
Zeb shook off old, painful, tired images of his father, refusing them any space in his thinking, much less any part of his affections, his heart. He would afford them no place at all in these potentially last, precious, important moments.
No.
I will not waste any of the possibly last hours of this life on that man.
No good thoughts. No bad ones.
No thoughts at all.
FIFTY
The large, steel-plated platform lowered slowly, groaning as it settled onto the dock's warm asphalt surface. Below, a froth of green, stirred up during the ferry's final approach toward shore, crashed against the weathered, tar-laden supports, washing over the barnacled substructure with an almost human rhythm.
A few hundred foot passengers disembarked first, before the ship's three larger decks released its parade of sedans, minivans, and trucks. Zeb, Loch, and Sanchez stood in line, waiting their turn like everybody else.
They'd made it.
Bremerton. The smaller city of 40,000 residents lay westward of the Seattle metro area, across Puget Sound and tucked in and behind the very upscale Bainbridge Island. Though mainly blue-collar she wasn't a suburb per se. A commuter town, yes, but also a community fighting back against gentrification in fierce retention of its own purpose and identity. As a port city she sported deep waters, deep enough to host a great variety of vessels. Trawlers, day craft, dry container and petrol barges; her weathered docking posts had known them all. Aside from her plentiful berths she also was a protective shield, her landform providing relief from the harsh seasonal weather patterns brewing on the open waves of the Sound. Though her waters and lay of the land were significant factors in the development of the area, recognized and treasured by even the earliest indigenous peoples, these were not the reasons Zeb had brought the team west, away from Seattle proper. No, Dalton's interest here was focused on a singular strategic asset: former Naval Base Kitsap. Bremerton was the target because she was a Navy town.
When Totems Fall Page 26
