by Matt Miksa
THE FERVENT BELLOW of a hundred men rumbled like thunder. The guttural roar echoed throughout the PLA National Defense University as it did most evenings, especially near Yan’s Pit.
Army recruits had affectionately named the gaping mud crater on the far edge of campus after the mythological Chinese god of death. Yan ruled over hell. The demon god passed judgment on the departed, one soul at a time, condemning the wicked and the weak.
Similarly, no academy trainee could avoid the unforgiving evaluation of Yan’s Pit. The odious hole tested the mettle of hopeful soldiers. Those who possessed strength of body and character would ultimately ascend to the officer ranks of the honorable Chinese army, the largest standing ground force in the world. Those who did not were rejected, expelled from the university in disgrace.
General Huang Yipeng overlooked the pit, where a throng of exhausted young men executed crisp martial arts maneuvers. They lunged into powerful stances and hurled clenched fists at invisible opponents, their hardwired muscles performing automatically. Battle-hardened drill instructors paced the elevated pathway along the pit’s rim. They shouted under wide-brimmed hats, lobbing orders at the bare-chested recruits, whose PLA uniforms had yet to be earned. A sea of sinewy arms and legs, smeared with dark mud and sweat, pulsed in unison like forlorn souls struggling to escape purgatory. Yan’s Pit gurgled beneath their bare feet as the netherworld threatened to swallow them from below.
The platoon released another primal yell, and General Huang shivered with a semierotic charge. The deep, masculine vocalization reminded him that real power exuded from the raw flesh of men, not from missiles and tanks. Men were infinitely more dangerous than anything metal. When properly motivated, that is.
A young lieutenant approached, his pant legs swishing, and invaded the general’s concentration. Huang returned the junior officer’s obligatory salute. Lieutenant Wang Peng served as the general’s aide-de-camp, but Huang thought of him more as a son than as a subordinate. The two men, a generation apart, had discovered their shared philosophy on geopolitics early in Lieutenant Wang’s posting. Huang took pride in shaping the junior officer’s worldview. China advanced only when its youth carried the banner for revolution; history had proved this. Huang saw great potential in Wang. One day he would become a respected leader.
“Xiao Wang, what do you have for me?” General Huang asked, referring to his aide by the paternalistic sobriquet “Little Wang.”
“Lhasa is getting worse, sir, but the army has secured a perimeter. Ground transit throughout the TAR is under tight control.”
“You don’t seem convinced,” Huang said.
“Despite our efforts to confine the disease to Tibet, nine new cases of Blood River virus were reported in Chengdu this afternoon. Three of them are university students from Nanjing on a backpacking trip. They likely contracted the disease somewhere in the Sichuanese countryside. The Ministry of Health is testing the residents and livestock at local farms.”
“Where are they now?” Huang asked. “The ill ones?”
“Three men, six women. They’ve all been quarantined at West China Hospital. It’s on the Sichuan University campus. The Ministry is keeping this quiet for now. Nobody wants the city to panic. The public still thinks the contagion is contained in Tibet.”
“Word will leak. It only takes one paranoid nurse to start a flood of rumors,” Huang said.
The general descended a battery of stairs and began a brisk march toward the academy’s eastern quadrant. Lieutenant Wang lengthened his stride to keep pace, yet the general seemed to cover twice the distance with each step.
“Send in a squad of PLA patrolmen to guard the hospital,” General Huang instructed. “Full combat uniform.”
“Sir, won’t that raise suspicion?” Wang asked. “Everyone is talking about the disease. If armed soldiers show up at a hospital in Chengdu, people will know the virus has spread.”
“Let them. The people must know the truth, Xiao Wang, and President Li refuses to tell them.”
“Surely there must be a more delicate way to—”
“We are under attack.” The general’s voice snapped with electric passion. “Li is a fool. He’s a disgrace to the men who rebuilt this nation after a century of abuse at the hands of the imperial dogs. He submits to the West like a whore with an opioid habit. But, Xiao Wang, do you see the great irony?”
“Power never respects weakness. Only strength,” Wang answered.
“Precisely. For thousands of years, kings and sultans sent lavish delegations to pay tribute to our emperors. They bowed before our rulers, begged for protection. China was the Middle Kingdom. The nexus of worldly power.” General Huang halted and gripped Lieutenant Wang’s shoulders. “I believe we can achieve greatness again, Xiao Wang. But we must never ask for deference. Do you understand me? We must demand it, through sheer, unrivaled dominance.”
* * *
Lieutenant Wang Peng typically found the general’s grandiose musings on Chinese supremacy engrossing. Today, however, he worried that the man’s deep-seated disdain for President Li, his political nemesis, had clouded Huang’s judgment. Challenging the general was never prudent, and especially unwise while the man was so spun up. Better to concede with bobbing head nods and firm yes, sirs.
General Huang had a point, after all. President Li believed that committing wholeheartedly to the international order—the same one rigged by the Americans and their Western allies—would protect China’s peaceful rise. Li’s flowery speeches bloomed with words like reform and liberalism. It was the immature vision of a hopeless optimist, Wang thought. The Americans’ lust for iPhones and cheap T-shirts would feed China’s economic engine, but only as long as it remained docile and supplicant. If the sleeping dragon were to awaken and threaten American hegemony, the United States would certainly wrestle China back into submission. For this reason, China’s military had to modernize in secret. Not even President Li knew how powerful the PLA had become over the past few years. Huang had built an impressive war machine, and Wang believed the general fully intended to use it.
The two men traversed a large, rectangular courtyard, the junior officer following his boss in lockstep. Enormous cypress trees, their twisted branches extending from thick, gray trunks, cast webbed shadows across the stone pavers. General Huang pivoted forty-five degrees to his left and headed in the direction of the airfield. Wang spun on his heel to keep up.
“Are you familiar with the Mandate of Heaven, Xiao Wang?” General Huang asked. The lecture resumed.
“Yes, sir. Our ancestors believed the emperor ruled by divine blessing. Our leaders were ordained by Heaven as kings on earth,” Wang said.
“As long as they governed justly,” Huang added. “If the emperor failed, Heaven revoked the mandate and bestowed its blessing upon another—someone worthier of the position. The sitting emperor lost legitimacy and his claim to the throne.”
Wang remembered the stories from childhood. He’d dismissed the Mandate of Heaven as a superstitious remnant of a less sophisticated era. Yet he knew some Chinese still believed today’s leaders governed with a divine endorsement of sorts—a tenuous privilege that required a careful balance of strength and benevolence.
“I realize it may sound old-fashioned, but the concept has merit,” Huang said. “Our people once thought floods and earthquakes were proof the emperor had lost his heavenly mandate to rule. Entire dynasties crumbled because the people believed it was Heaven’s will.” General Huang’s breakneck march slowed to a shuffle. He paused and squinted into the setting sun. “This disease. This plague. Maybe it’s God’s judgment. He has unleashed this pestilence to decry President Li and his gang of spineless capitulators.”
Lieutenant Wang was puzzled. The outbreak certainly wasn’t born from the wrath of a disappointed deity. The idea was absurd, and surely Huang—the consummate realist—agreed. Sure, the government’s limp response to the virus revealed its incompetence and frailty, but Lieutenant Wang didn’t need God
or any other supernatural force to tell him that.
The approaching helicopter’s rotor blades whooshed above them. The general and his aide stood beside the landing platform, their eyes drawn skyward as the craft gracefully descended to the helipad. Wang pinched the brim of his olive-green hat to prevent it from flying away in the warm downwash. He shouted over the chopper’s throbbing hum. “Li wants to bring in a foreign reporter.”
“Yes, I heard,” Huang said.
“The man lands in Beijing in the morning. President Li has approved his full access to the research team.”
“American?” Huang asked.
“Yes, sir. Seven years with the AP. Two with the New York Times before that, where he covered the Middle East. Recently, he’s written a few puff pieces about West Nile cases in North America, mostly about prevention. Wash your hands. Wear long sleeves. Nothing overtly political.”
“Do we have a photo?” The chopper rested on the pad but didn’t power down. Huang made a beeline for its open hatch.
“The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is handling his paperwork and security orientation,” Wang said. “All of his information is in their database. Naturally, I’ve requested a copy.”
“Who is on surveillance?”
“MSS,” Wang replied.
The general scowled. “We can’t trust the Americans. And we certainly can’t trust the half-wits at the MSS. Brief the 2PLA on everything we know about the reporter. Tell Foreign Affairs we’ll handle all in-country transportation—as a courtesy to President Li, of course. In fact, the entire investigative team will take my personal plane to Lhasa. It’s the least I can offer.”
Huang deftly climbed into the helicopter. A member of the flight crew began to close the door, but the general reached out an arm to hold it open.
“And Xiao Wang,” he shouted. “Get me that reporter’s picture.”
Lieutenant Wang backed away from the landing pad, and the chopper climbed into the blackening sky. The trip didn’t appear in the general’s official schedule, but Wang knew where his boss was headed.
Ngari Prefecture. The rocky badlands of northwestern Tibet were over a thousand miles from the epicenter of the outbreak, but the general didn’t plan to survey the quarantine zone. Huang was overseeing the construction of a new air base. Lieutenant Wang had seen the documents—mostly topographical surveys, engineering plans. Sometimes the general asked him to compile briefing books. The entire project was highly classified.
The new air base would give the PLA superior access to trouble spots in the region, like Kashmir and Pakistan. China needed to keep a close eye on its quarrelsome neighbors—so went Huang’s pitch to the National Congress. Lieutenant Wang knew his boss cared more about monitoring the internal threats: Tibetan and Uyghur rebel organizations that operated in the area. Huang obsessed over separatists. If the recent outbreak sparked uprisings in the western regions, the general would use the nearly complete Ngari installation to squash the insurgency. As a bonus, Wang knew, the far-flung outpost gave Huang something he enjoyed even more than oppressing seditious minority groups.
Privacy.
DAY 9
CHAPTER
8
Beijing, People’s Republic of China
AEROFLOT FLIGHT 704 wrestled a patch of rough air, shaking Officer Olen Grave from a shallow sleep. The flight crew had dimmed the cabin lights for the red-eye to Beijing. Dozing passengers draped themselves across their tiny seats, folding into unnatural positions. Called by a familiar urge, Olen unfastened his seat belt, lumbered to the forward lavatory, squeezed inside, and unzipped.
He caught his reflection in the mirror. A scrappy, field-tested journalist stared back. The faded flannel shirt, worn Levi’s, and mud-stained Timberland boots spoke of years chasing stories in war-torn Afghanistan. The overgrown hair and perpetual stubble marked him as a true reporter, not some plastic anchorman. This dude kicked over rocks in dark places and didn’t give a nut about looking shiny on camera. The cover persona—Kipton Stone—fit comfortably. Kipton was a man who thrived in the wild. A man who owned a mountain bike, went fly-fishing in the Snake River, had friends with beards who called him Kip.
Olen washed up and dried his palms on the front of his jeans. He searched his pocket for his digital recorder, which he tucked into a sock before opening the bathroom door. In the main cabin, now illuminated for landing, passengers twisted their contorted bodies back into shape. Some pulled white surgical masks over their faces. A flight attendant moved down the aisle handing them out.
The U.S. Department of State, along with a handful of European governments, had warned travelers to avoid China, to steer clear of the outbreak. Easier said than done. Like Olen, the other passengers probably had little choice in the matter. In reality, nobody on that plane would come within two thousand miles of an infected person. Nobody except Olen. He was headed directly into the hot zone.
Olen settled into his seat. Outside, the sky slowly brightened to deep cobalt as the first light of morning peeked over the horizon.
Not long after, the wheels of the Boeing 747 touched down with a puff of white smoke. Olen gathered his gear. Field journalists carried everything on their backs, so he’d packed light—a pair of backup jeans, a half dozen boxer briefs, two flannel shirts, laptop, camera, cell phone. Most of it would be confiscated by Chinese customs agents. He could feel the digital recorder still concealed in his sock.
Once the aircraft parked at the gate, Olen joined the line of passengers tottering up the aisle to deplane. In Beijing’s international terminal, sunlight flooded through the towering glass walls. Thousands of crisscrossed steel beams reinforced the lofted ceiling as if it were a space-age cathedral. Olen had only seconds to appreciate the terminal’s grandeur before an Asian man in a dark suit and absurd Top Gun sunglasses approached him.
“Mr. Stone, Beijing welcomes you!” the man said through a toothy smile, arms spread wide.
“Kipton Stone, Associated Press,” Olen responded, extending a hand. “You must be Maverick.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Hey, nice shades, man,” Olen joked.
“Yes, yes. Please, come with us. We have much to do.” Maverick whisked Olen from the gate, his heels click-clacking on the shiny tile.
“I’m here at the invitation of the Ministry of Health,” Olen explained. He’d expected some special attention, given the sensitivities surrounding his visit. No other foreigners had visited the quarantine zone. “I assume they’ve sent you to escort me, but I don’t need—”
“Of course, Mr. Stone. But first you must complete your safety briefing. It’s compulsory,” Maverick said. “Come, come. There isn’t much time. We must hurry.”
Olen nodded compliantly. The outbreak had everyone a little jumpy. No doubt the Ministry would insist on babysitting him at all times, which would make his mission more challenging.
The two men moved deftly through a sea of tourists and businessmen. The airport’s usual frenzy seemed unaffected by the news of a terrifying disease plaguing the hinterland. Olen’s host led him through a set of double doors marked RESTRICTED ACCESS in four languages. At the end of a long passageway, they reached another door guarded by a short man in a military uniform. Maverick held up a badge, prompting the guard to punch a code into a keypad. The code had seven digits, Olen noted, listening to the bleeps. The door opened with a buzz, revealing a narrow corridor lined with long windows fitted with two-way glass. Through each window, Olen saw cramped, closet-sized rooms, furnished with identical square tables and aluminum chairs. Interrogation rooms.
“Right this way, Mr. Stone,” Maverick said, and ushered Olen into one of the empty rooms. He then grabbed Olen’s backpack and camera bag and handed them off to a soldier who had materialized from nowhere. The soldier vanished again, along with Olen’s gear.
“Hey, what the hell! That’s my stuff, man,” Olen objected.
“Inspection. For your safety,” Maverick explained. “Lift your arms, plea
se.” He vigorously frisked Olen’s torso. In one fluid motion, he removed Olen’s belt and shoved it into a clear plastic bag. Then Maverick dropped to one knee and roughly patted Olen’s pant legs, traveling up his inseam.
“Easy, fella,” Olen barked when Maverick cupped his genitals.
“It’s compulsory,” the man repeated. “Sit down, please.” Maverick tugged on Olen’s left boot and immediately noticed the unnatural lump in his sock. Olen made a guilty face, as if the school principal had just discovered his weed stash, but actually he was pleased. He’d expected the Chinese to examine him for contraband, so he’d planted something for them to find. A street-smart journalist might’ve considered it clever to hide a digital recorder in his sock, but no self-respecting intelligence officer would risk such an obvious deception. The amateurish ploy strengthened his cover—audacious American journalist, not a spy.
Maverick stuffed the recorder into the plastic bag along with Olen’s belt and cursed sharply in Mandarin. No doubt some unlucky technician would waste days scrutinizing every inch of the completely benign device. Olen had filled its hard drive with Taylor Swift tracks just to drive them all batshit.
Maverick took a seat across the interrogation table, still wearing the ridiculous mirrored aviators. “Listen carefully, Mr. Stone. I am going to explain the rules.” The Chinese man futzed with his tie, smoothing the silk. “In a few moments, we will escort you to a military aircraft, where you will join a scientific research team bound for the restricted area. You will interact solely with the members of this team. You are not permitted to speak to military personnel unless they engage you first. You are not permitted to conduct interviews of ordinary people while in China. You will be under the direct supervision of the scientific team leader and will obey all instructions without question. Most importantly, Mr. Stone …” Maverick leaned back, arms crossed high on his chest, morphing from Asian Tom Cruise to Triad Crime Boss. “No photographs, no recordings, and no phone calls. Is this clear?”