His hands came together above him. He laughs and a sense of ease comes over him.
43.
In the seventeenth century, monks of the Shaolin order offered themselves to the Ming dynasty, helping to defend them from the invading Qing forces. Jealous of the monks’ fighting ability, generals convinced the emperor that the Shaolin would eventually turn against him. As a precaution, the emperor ordered the Shaolin monastery burned to the ground. Only eighteen monks survived. Determined to avenge their dead brothers, they founded a secret society and adopted as their symbol a triangle, representing the unity of Heaven, Earth and Man. They became known as the Triad.
The Chinese Central Intelligence Committee, infuriated by Quan Jintao’s escape, requested the assistance of the 14K Chapter of the Triad in New Hong Kong. An order was relayed to their Triad affiliates in San Francisco.
San Francisco, California
It was 2:00 in the morning at the Imperial Palace restaurant in Chinatown. The restaurant was dark except for a narrow beam of light splaying out from under double doors of a private dining room on the second floor. In the smoke-filled room, nine Triads of the Wah Ching clan sat around a large round table covered with white linen. Two were young men in their teens, four were in their twenties, and two were over thirty. The older men were dressed in black suits while the younger men wore casual clothes.
Plates were being passed around on a rotating platform at the center of the table. Snatching with chopsticks, the men lifted beef and vegetables onto their individual bowls of rice. With bowls held to chins, the younger men shoveled the food into their mouths as if they hadn’t eaten in a month. Talking and laughing with mouths full, they stopped only to gulp from bottles of Tsingtao and Baijiu.
Among them was Li Honzu, Mountain Lord of the Wah Ching clan, with hands hard as steel and arms tattooed from wrist to shoulder. With a scowl permanently screwed to his clammy face, Honzu was known for his brutal reprisals. He was the kind of man who would just as soon knock someone on the head as say hello. Tonight, there was good reason be angry. Seven Wah Ching operations had been shut down by the SFPD Asian Gang Task Force and DEA agents had intercepted two heroin shipments. The result was a huge financial blow, plus the loss of face with his peers in China.
Gazing through narrow eye slits, Honzu said, “Word has come from our brothers. It will be a long time before we receive any new shipments. Until then we must tighten our belts.” Looking at the younger members, he added, “Remember your thirty-six vows. We must stick together.”
One of the younger men suggested bombing the local PD headquarters in retaliation. Honzu reminded him that it was always better to coexist than to wage war. On many occasions, the Triad had worked in secret for the government. Cooperation was mutually beneficial. The recent setbacks were more than likely the result of a government official looking for recognition and the raids would stop after the next election.
“Accept the blows and be strong,” he told them. “In the meantime, we will direct our energies to an assignment that will pay off quickly. Someone has made fools of government officials in New Hong Kong, stealing equipment and technology, and transporting it to the United States. They have turned to us for help. We are to return Quan Jintao to China by any means possible—alive.”
That night, Honzu chose five men—all were forty-nine-level soldiers (four times nine, symbolic of their thirty-six vows). Big Yao was appointed Red Pole of the crew. Johnny K. was in charge of explosives. Huojin and Iron Zha were the muscle. The fifth was a teen, Yen-Tin. He was tech-savvy and this would be a training mission for him.
Their plan was simple: explosives to distract, grab the target, and split.
Honzu tossed a nylon pouch onto the table: cash, a viewflex map, and pictures of the young Jintao.
“Make it a clean job,” he said with eyes hard as steel.
They all knew what the look meant. Failure was not an option.
44.
The Black Mountains, New Mexico
Evening came and the monastery was quiet. In a dimly lit stone room, the Cardinal’s pale gray watery eyes peered at a column of text hovering in a view field above his blanket. His index finger traced the glowing words while moving images flickered on his face. He was listening to what Quan said near the end of the Monahan interview.
“By all accounts the man they called Jesus may have mastered the principle of transference. He may have explored other dimensions. It’s a pity he was unable to explain his experience in scientific terms. It would have saved centuries of confusion. The churches further corrupted his teachings by building an elaborate mythology to serve their own purposes.”
“Bovie,” croaked the Cardinal in a voice that sounded like an ancient amphibian. “Bovie!” The view field flinched and a smaller window popped up on top of the text he was reading. The face of a priest appeared, a man in his mid-forties, head shaved, deep creases in cheek and mouth, eyes glistening like steel ball bearings. A scar ran down from the right side of his forehead to where it ended in a deep groove just above his cheekbone.
“Your Eminence,” he said.
“There is blasphemy in the world, Bovie. It must be cleansed.”
“Yes, Your Eminence, I’m coming.”
The Order of the Silver Nicene had kept its existence in the Black Mountains of New Mexico quiet since its founding. It’s name was a reminder of the thirty pieces of silver that Judas was paid to betray Jesus. The cloister was dedicated to the protection of the Churches of the Americas and was home to one Deacon Bovie, also known as “the Shepherd’s Sword.” It was 4:00 in the morning when Bovie walked barefooted down the cold stone hallway, but the Cardinal’s voice hadn’t awakened him. Bovie never truly slept. He kept himself in a vigilant state, somewhere between his nightmares and holy penitence.
Bovie stood barefooted on the stone floor at the foot of the Cardinal’s bed. He wore only a hooded robe, tied at the waist with a thick rope.
Hazy waters welled up in the Cardinal’s eyes as he spoke. “There must be no other Gods. We must not bow down to graven idols. These are God’s laws, my son. This merchant of lies says our faith is built on ignorance.” The Cardinal passed his thinly skinned hand across the view field revealing a picture of Quan Jintao. “He wants us to believe his understanding of existence is greater than that of the Son of God. Blasphemy!” he shouted. “Heinous blasphemy!” he coughed.
“Yes, Your Eminence. You wish me to deal with him?”
Making an up-down, side-to-side gesture with his hand, the Cardinal spoke in a voice like wet bubbles rising in a muddy pond. “There can be but one God: the Father, the Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, of worlds seen and unseen.” From somewhere under the blanket, the old man produced a large envelope and slid it across to Bovie. “Bless you, my son. You are the sword of righteousness. God’s will be done.”
In an earlier life, Dan Bovie had been a Special Forces Ranger and served five tours of combat before the “come to Jesus” revelation that changed his life. Leading his squad through the fabled Khyber Pass in pursuit of terrorists, he was ambushed in a barrage of pulse cannons and sidewinders. The ordnance tore through his squad, miraculously leaving him as sole survivor. With his hearing gone and what was left of his men strewn around him in pieces, he saw the image of Jesus, walking toward him out of the smoke, his white robes billowing. The vision spoke to him. “Defend my church from those who would subvert my teachings. Through me, you shall come unto the Father and have life eternal.”
Badly wounded, Bovie stumbled from the carnage, spending the next two days in a small mountain abri until a recon team pulled him out. After his discharge from the military hospital at Landstuhl, he was awarded a Purple Heart and he returned to his home in the Black Mountains. A penitent man, Bovie joined the seminary, trading his combat armor for a monk’s robes. From then on, he spent his days reading scripture and his nights praying and subjecting himself to excruciating exercises in atonement for the lives he had been responsible f
or . . . and lost.
Because of his military skill, the Order had called on Bovie twice before to do “special work” for the church. Alone in his room, he emptied the contents of the envelope onto the heavy gray blanket on top of his bed: an identity chip, a flexmap, names, a view card with pictures of Brane Research Center personnel, and a folded note. As he read, the words resonated within him. “Our Lord Jesus bestows unconditional love upon us. We who defend his church will know life everlasting.”
Within an hour of receiving his instructions, Deacon Bovie was sitting inside a decommissioned interceptor, dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a brown leather jacket. He was traveling west, away from the enclave with a large duffel bag on the bare metal floor behind his seat.
San Francisco
The setting sun was rippling across San Francisco bay as a faded white, eight-wheeled freighter rumbled down the gravel road at Hunters Point, sliding to a dusty stop behind a rusty steel shack. Washed-out letters on both sides of a hybrid freighter read, “Sung Yip Marine—Wholesale Seafood.” The roll-up door at the back of the truck clattered open, finishing with a loud bang.
In single file, four men with backpacks walked from the shack to the back of the freighter. Stepping inside, they took their places on a mattress at the far end, backs against the metal walls, packs at their feet. The men waited while two loaders brought empty boxes, stacking them across the back of the freighter, blocking the view of the men inside. The metal roll-up door clattered again and slammed shut.
Tires clawed gravel as the freighter climbed up the road, away from the shed. Teeth clenched and hands grabbed mattress edges as the freighter rocked back and forth, repeatedly pitching the men against the metal sides. Reaching the asphalt roadway at last, the vehicle turned and headed west, toward Highway 280. Yen-Tin, the youngest of the four, pointed silently at the shirt pocket of the man across from him and put two fingers to his mouth. The older man withdrew a pack of smokes, pulled one out, and tossed it over.
Big Yao, the driver, was steering down the city streets, looking repeatedly at a scanner, crudely bolted to the dashboard with four mismatched cap screws. Scanning the police band, he picked up only low-level chatter. Minutes later he was on highway 280 heading south, tires humming against the asphalt.
Inside the cargo hold, the cool air was laced with the smell of cigarette smoke and dead fish. All the men wore dark jackets except for Iron Zha, who wore only a black T-shirt. Built like a bull, his rounded shoulders and arms were huge. A bandolier was slung diagonally across his chest, sheathing a large knife, the kind a cook would use to chop meat.
Across from Zha, Huojin took out a .45-caliber handgun and checked the magazine. “What’s the matter,” he said, looking at Zha, “you don’t like guns?”
“Guns are okay,” said Zha, patting his knife. “I bring this for circumcising little dicks like you.”
Johnny K. snickered.
Huojin took a viewflex out of his backpack and switched it on. The glow lit his face, highlighting a row of small marks over his left eye, dimples from recently removed stitches. The picture of a young man with closely cropped black hair popped into view. Huojin looked concerned. “Looks familiar. Who is this dog fart, anyway?”
“He’s a scientist,” said Johnny K. “Saw him on the news.”
“I know him,” scoffed Yen-Tin. “That guy’s been scamming the round eyes big time.”
“They want him back in China,” said Huojin.
“Probably bonking some minister’s wife,” said Yen-Tin, talking through his cigarette smoke.
“We’re supposed to bag him. That’s all I gotta know,” said Iron Zha, his eyes steady on Yen-Tin.
Looking at each of the others, Huojin grumbled, “Mountain Lord says he might have protection. Better check it out.”
“No worries,” said Johnny K. “I’ve got enough PE4 to put the place in orbit.”
The men settled back, resting uncomfortably while the freighter rolled along for another two hours. At last the brakes hissed and the freighter came to a stop. The man closest to the roll-up door reached into his backpack, fingers on a snub-nosed automatic.
It was dark outside and Big Yao made his way around the freighter. He unlocked the roll-up door. It went up with a rumble and crickets stopped chirping.
“This is it,” he said, lifting a crate down from the right side of the freighter. One by one the others climbed down to the desolate country road. “Two more kilometers,” said Yao, pointing at the road ahead. “Follow the ravine to the right. I’ll meet you back on the road in two hours.”
The crickets resumed their singing.
~~~
It was dark when Bovie reached his destination. Amid clouds moving overhead, patches of moonlight came and went. Three clicks south of the Research Center access road, he maneuvered his small craft in between a stand of acacia trees. Cinching a Kevlar sack tight to his back, he took off at a steady trot, holding his small Trijacon automatic with both hands. Seven minutes later, he reached the ravine and slid on a pair of night-vision goggles. Around him, everything lit up with a bright fluorescent green glow. He could see the rocky ravine where it emerged from under the highway and he followed it west. Crouching as he went, he moved along the rim a short distance before settling to his haunches. He waited, looking . . . listening. Suddenly, in one fluid motion he sprang from where he was, landing silently on a large flat rock two meters below in the ravine. Stepping from rock to rock on treadless rubber soles, Bovie traveled almost a kilometer before he froze.
A few meters in front of him were four men, lying against the bank of the ravine, backpacks at their feet. Unaware of his arrival, they continued looking through binoculars, their speech barely audible. Bovie tugged on his earlobe, turning up the gain on his cochlea implant. He still couldn’t make out what they were saying. It didn’t sound like English. He stood up to see what they were looking at . . . a cluster of buildings in the distance.
Advancing cautiously in the shadows, he stopped barely four meters from where they stood. He could hear them now—some kind of Asian speak—maybe Chinese. He advanced another meter, and spoke in a hoarse voice, “Hands in the air. You move, you die.” The men turned instantly, shocked at the sight of Bovie, his face covered by a night-vision mask, his weapon raised, ready to shoot. Before Bovie could say another word, Iron Zha acted on instinct, flinging his blade at Bovie. The response was instantaneous—a flash from Bovie’s gun. The big man collapsed backward, shot through the heart.
Turning his weapon toward the youngest man, who was slowly reaching for something in his pocket, Bovie growled, “You move, you die.” Taking his free hand off his weapon, he beckoned and said, “Come here.”
As Yen-Tin approached, Bovie grabbed the boy’s jacket, turned him forcefully, and pushed him to the bank. Patting for weapons, he kept his gun pointed at the others. In the jacket, he found a folding knife and tossed it out of the ravine. In the cargo pockets, he found two grenades and a laser pistol and pitched them over the bank.
Pushing Yen-Tin back toward the other two, Bovie asked, as if to himself, “What are you slopes doing out here, anyway?” Signaling to the next man, Huojin, whose eyes were glaring with hatred, Bovie gestured and said, “You. Come here.”
As he approached, Huojin lifted his chin in defiance and spit words at Bovie. “Si pi yan.”
“Yeah? Well, fuck you, too,” said Bovie, grabbing the man’s sleeve.
As Bovie started to turn him, Huojin struck out, fast as lightning—an elbow to the cheekbone—a fist to the short ribs—then the hand at Bovie’s throat and the sweeping leg from behind—a sequence the ranger was conditioned for. Bovie stepped over the leg as it swept through, turning his torso and driving the heel of his weapon squarely into the man’s throat. Huojin made a gurgling sound and crumpled to the ground.
Quickly turning his weapon on the other two men who were charging toward him, he yelled, “Freeze!”
Johnny K. said something incomprehensi
ble. Time slowed. Bovie watched his bullets, glowing in night-vision green, heading straight for the chest as Johnny K.’s backpack came around to block. Bovie watched as two more rounds left his weapon. The first two bullets struck Johnny K. and time slowed even more. The last two were on an intercept course with the backpack. Bovie saw a brick of PE4 sliding from the pack and saw his last bullet strike the detonator. The explosion was enormous.
McGowen bounced off his bed and rushed to the door. Seeing a brush fire in the distance and gray smoke rising in the moonlight, he came fully awake. There was no fire department to call. The nearest town was a good forty minutes away. He bolted back inside. Jumping into pants, boots, and a jacket. Grabbing a flashlight and extinguisher, he jogged toward the blaze. Entering the smoke-filled area, burning manzanita and the smell of plastic explosive chafed his nostrils. The blast left a crater about fifteen meters wide. He walked around the crater’s rim and triggered small bursts from the extinguisher, snuffing out hot spots. Gray smoke turned to white where he sprayed. Setting the tank down, he picked up a twig and poked at a smoldering chunk. He gagged. It was human.
From his bungalow, Quan could see a chocklight searching through the billowing smoke. David came up next to Quan, followed by Lotus and von Ang.
“Is that Mr. McGowen out there?” asked David.
“Yes, I think so,” said Quan. “Don’t be alarmed. He’s got it under control—whatever it was.”
“Definitely an explosion,” said von Ang. “Is there a propane tank over there?”
“I’ll go find out what happened,” said Quan. “Everyone stay here.”
Satisfied that the brush fire was out, McGowen was making his way back to the compound when Quan met him. “What was it?”
“Nasty business, that was—body parts everywhere and an odd mix of weapons. Whoever they were, they weren’t friendly. Best I can make out, they were on some sort of mission. They may have been planning to destroy this whole place. We’re lucky something went wrong.”
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