Apocalypse Drift

by Joe Nobody

  Hong paused to take note of the indifferent faces comprising his audience. None betrayed their thoughts, but Hong didn’t expect them to. Instead, he used the short gap in his presentation to demonstrate his stoic, controlled approach to the subject.

  “With Operation Golden Mountain, we can guarantee our economic growth and eventual domination of global affairs. As the only truly civilized race, we will take our rightful place at the head of the world’s table. China will once again control its own destiny. As most of you know, the European Union is in shambles. The insolvent capitalist governments of Spain, Greece, and Italy have failed, and there is general anarchy in the streets. Our intelligence reports detail the ongoing battle between Muslim political groups and organized crime syndicates to establish control. Germany is withdrawing its support of the euro, causing France to be the next to fall. The British are barely holding on, a result of nine years of recession. Today the United States and India are considered global dominant forces, but both countries are weak and teetering on the edge of collapse as well.”

  No one spoke for almost a full minute. It was the Minister of Finance who broke the silence. “Minister Hong, first of all I wish to congratulate you on the progress of this project. I do, however, have some small reservations that I feel deserve to be aired before this wise council. As well planned and detailed as this operation is, there is substantial risk. If discovered, the United States will consider our actions as an act of war. They have numerous methods of retaliation at their disposal. If deftly handled on their part, they could unite a significant portion of the world against us.”

  Two others nodded their heads in agreement, but Hong seemed not to notice. His response was controlled, “You are correct as usual, Minister. There is risk, but I feel it is warranted. If our plan is discovered, it is unlikely to happen until the damage to the US is done. They will be weakened at that point and have fewer options. The People’s Republic will publically deny any involvement, blaming the exaggerated claims on organized crime syndicates and drug cartels. I also believe there is a strong possibility that many nations will see a wounded beast and decide to finish the job we started. Russia, several countries in the Middle East, and most of OPEC would no doubt prefer a weakened, less intrusive United States of America.”

  The president began speaking without waiting for any response to Hong’s statement - a clear indication of his support. “Ministers, I believe this operation is warranted for other reasons as well. Our economic growth becomes more and more difficult to sustain. Our government is less popular than ever before. Our people are being misled by the false promises of the West. Should the United States suffer the projected damage from this plan, our method of governing would be recognized as undeniably superior. The issue would be settled once and for all – what we are doing is the right choice for the Middle Kingdom.”

  Without further questioning, Hong’s proposal was authorized. Within two hours, orders were issued to begin the attack on the United States of America.

  January 14, 2017

  San Jose, California

  Zang examined the suit and high heels in the mirror one last time. She smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt as she had important business today, and wanted her appearance to reflect the significance of her responsibilities. While she would never admit it, her nerves were more than a little frayed.

  The 24-year-old hadn’t felt such emotional turmoil since entering the United States just over two years ago. Her immersion into western society had been stressful. Extensive preparation provided by MOSS had sustained her, even as she waited in line at the immigration office. She had continued to remind herself that no law had been broken, and there was little risk of arrest – yet. Her degrees in mathematics and engineering were legitimate and could withstand any level of scrutiny. I’m just one of the thousands of Chinese wishing to join her family in the United States, she kept telling herself. If I believe that, live that, and feel that, these crass, American barbarians won’t suspect the truth.

  After receiving her green card, working at the Silicon Valley technology firm enabled her to establish a routine. Routines reduced stress. Her new employer performed research on advanced storage technologies for laptop computers and smart phones. Zang was stunned at the quantity and quality of scientific information that crossed her desk practically every day. It would have taken her countrymen years to develop what she saw in her email inbox and departmental updates every week. She was pleased to bundle the valuable information and send it back home where teams of engineers and students happily dissected the data.

  Often, Zang wondered why she hadn’t been discovered. Didn’t the Americans wonder why Chinese factories were ready to produce the latest products before the specifications were publically available? Her newest project involved lab testing a micro-sized hard drive for cell phones. The electronic storage unit was no larger than a small coin and stored gigabytes of information. When her testing was completed, the US cell phone providers would seek bids to mass-produce the device. The Chinese factories would undercut even the most efficient competitors because they had been studying the plans and specifications, secretly provided by Zang, for months. The combination of industrial espionage and cheap labor was invincible.

  Her covert task today wasn’t criminal as far as she knew. The assignment was so unusual she exasperated her superior by her request for clarification. The raspy Mandarin voice on the other end of the phone was impatient with the junior agent’s questions, and his tone relayed that clearly. After researching the mission thoroughly for the past three days, she was ready. Turning off the bathroom light, she headed to the door, scanning the flat one last time, verifying she wasn’t forgetting anything.

  By Chinese standards, her San Jose apartment was actually quite lavish. The one bedroom efficiency had a dishwasher, microwave, and solid surface cooktop. In her native country, only the upper echelons of society, living in the major cities, enjoyed such luxury. Zang rejected the place when she first toured the complex, because her mandate dictated that she appear to mesh with average Americans of the same socioeconomic situation. Standing out or drawing attention to oneself was strictly forbidden. It had taken her a while to realize the apartment was normal by local standards. Still, always conservative with money and image, she had opted for a third story unit, amazed that its monthly rent included a discount because most folks in this country didn’t want to climb three flights of stairs. She leased modest furniture and purchased essential pots, pans, silverware, and linens at a nearby discount store. After a few months, her concerns faded with the comfort of routine.

  Zang rummaged in her purse, locating her key chain. After locking the door behind her, she began her trek down the stairs to the parking lot.

  Driving a car had almost been the death of her. Motor vehicles are still a rarity in China, with waiting lists of more than five years to acquire even a modest family sedan. As a college student, she rode a bike on campus. Upon graduation, Zang located a flat that was a comfortable walking distance to work. The idea of navigating through superhighways while steering around traffic snares was more than a little daunting. It wasn’t like she had toured the countryside with her family, buckled in the back seat of an SUV or completed a driver’s education course in secondary school. Zang had only ridden in an automobile twice in her life before arriving in the states. After acquiring legal status to work, the original plan had been for her to gain employment in the San Francisco area and use the mass transit available there. The chance job opening in San Jose had been a perfect fit for her background and qualifications, so it was decided that Zang would learn to drive.

  The Chinese gent who operated the On Track Driving Academy chain-smoked cheap cigarettes with a stench that betrayed their Taiwanese origin. His late model, training sedan was fully equipped with passenger side brake pedal, extra-large beanbag ashtray and family size bottle of Tums. Normally, within four weeks, new drivers were competent enough to complete the class. Zang
passed on the third time through the course. She was never sure if the instructor’s nerves couldn’t deal with her obvious anxiety anymore, or if she had obtained the necessary skills. Even then, she failed the official state driving test twice before being issued a State of California operator’s license on the third attempt.

  Purchasing her first automobile was another revolutionary experience. The glistening showrooms, fast talking salesmen, and seemingly endless options amazed Zang. She was almost at complete cognitive overload when a co-worker rescued her, explaining the process, and visiting several dealerships with her in his spare time. More than once, Zang studied the San Jose bus routes and cost associated with taking a taxi everywhere. Those options were simply impractical, so she made a cash purchase of a brand new, wonderful smelling Ford Escape. She had her first fender bender pulling into traffic from the dealership.

  Zang unlocked her car and carefully maneuvered out of the apartment complex’s lot. She drove only on side streets to and from her office or the occasional trip to a nearby shopping area. Today she was going somewhere new, and the concept terrified her.

  Twenty minutes and numerous single-finger insults later, the harried girl parked in front of the Almaden Plaza strip mall. A bubbling, young real estate broker energetically escorted her thought the small retail space that was available for immediate occupancy. Within two hours, a new California business was born – Red and Gold Check Cashing and Postal Center would celebrate its grand opening two weeks later.

  Zang rented space for three different branch locations of Red and Gold that day. She was unaware that MOSS seeded hundreds of similar enterprises throughout all 50 states, all under the operation of Chinese immigrants. The sheer number of the mail/check cashing centers would have aroused suspicion if anyone tracked such things. Most communities welcomed the fledgling establishments, replacing empty storefronts pasted with “For Lease” signs with a business and jobs.

  Houston, Texas

  January 30, 2017

  Morgan shifted into park and reached to switch off the ignition, but then paused. Seeing the house made her contemplate staying in the air-conditioned car just a little longer. Even with the moderate temperatures this time of year, the house would be muggy and close. The occasional hot flash made it practically unbearable. Darkness came early with the winter-shortened days, and she rarely got home before the sunset. Still, the house seemed to hold the heat inside no matter how many windows Wyatt and she opened. She would never have believed a cold-water shower could feel so good.

  The sauna-house didn’t seem to bother Wyatt as much. She wondered if menopause was more to blame than the humidity, but shrugged off the thought – there wasn’t anything she could do about either. Still deliberating about going inside, she wondered what mood Wyatt would be in. She fully understood the relationship between the current financial crisis and the bailout deal Wyatt was trying to put together. The daily newscasts had gone from bad to worse, and even her co-workers were becoming concerned. In the past, few people paid attention to events surrounding Wall Street and big banks - now, everyone did.

  A year ago, she would have been anxious about her husband’s health. After all, over the last few months there had been a noticeable change in him. He often seemed beyond caring or even capable of worry. Maybe he had learned not to let things get to him. At least he didn’t show anxiety like he used to. Still, she wondered if the pressure wasn’t building up inside like a big dome of lava under the crusty mantle of a volcano. Eventually, the volcano erupts.

  The tight financial situation hadn’t been a complete negative for the family. If Morgan forced herself to be optimistic, there were a few small, silver linings to be found. Wyatt often teased that his wife could find something positive in a heart attack. One reassuring point was Wyatt himself. These days, the talk around the water cooler commonly included accounts of men who lost their livelihood and took a nosedive right into the deep end. Details always involved drinking, divorce, abuse or other tales of horror. Wyatt was an exception to what had become the stereotypical bread earner who had succumbed to bad behavior after an economic demise. While he didn’t smile as often or laugh as easily, he was basically the same man as before. Quiet and surreal would be better words than moody, she thought.

  Morgan shut off the motor and walked gingerly to the front door. Her feet were killing her after the ten- hour shift. She was taking all of the extra hours she could get, but with the price of everything going crazy, many of the other nurses were working overtime, too. A few years ago, working weekend and holiday hours was easy, now there were lotteries to secure prized overtime shifts.

  She found Wyatt in the kitchen, his gaze fixed on some point in space. A heaping mound of envelopes and circulars were stacked on the table in front of him. “Hey, babe,” she greeted, causing him to focus and then look up.

  His expression immediately put her on alert, broadcasting that something was terribly wrong. A weak “Hey,” was his only reply.

  “What’s wrong, Wyatt?”

  Wyatt’s voice was low and his face grim. “It’s not been a good day, hun. The phone call I’ve been dreading… the merger is off. Rick delivered the news as gently as possible, but it’s still a no-go. He said the partners didn’t want to do anything with what’s going on in the markets right now.”

  Morgan moved to his side, “Oh baby. I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you call me and let me know? I would’ve gotten a sub and come home right away. Are you okay?”

  Wyatt looked up at her and faked a smile. He reached for the pile of mail in front of him and held up a rather thick bundle of papers. “A deputy came to the door with this a few hours ago.” Morgan looked down at the top sheet, and the print was large and bold. She saw the words, “Notice of Foreclosure,” across the top.

  Morgan’s knees suddenly felt very wobbly, and she staggered a little before sitting beside her mate. If Wyatt noticed, he didn’t acknowledge anything. Morgan’s eyes darted from the paper to her husband’s face. His eyes were watery and red, his complexion pale. She leaned across the table and embraced him in a gentle hug. Only a few moments passed by before each was crying on the other’s shoulder.

  The couple realized months ago that their house was no longer affordable. Even with Morgan’s extra hours and the cutbacks on household expenses, they couldn’t replace Wyatt’s share of the household income. The mortgage payments were the biggest single expenditure in the budget, and they knew it wouldn’t be long before the bank became impatient.

  Fourteen years ago, the couple purchased their home, offering a hefty down payment. Because they never missed an installment and took great pride in the upkeep of both the grounds and residence, Wyatt initially believed there was equity in the property. When the accounting firm began to flounder, Wyatt and Morgan decided they would take two courses of action. First, they would put their homestead up for sale. Even though the house encompassed a lot of memories, the kids were grown now anyway. Their son, David had enlisted in the army. Sage was in college, on a full scholarship and living off campus in her own apartment. As the only two full-time residents, Wyatt and Morgan simply didn’t require 4,000 square feet of living space.

  The second means of stabilizing their finances involved applying for a mortgage modification. Years ago, the government had forced the banks to offer various programs designed to help people struggling through the down economy. In the off chance that the house did not move quickly, Wyatt would maneuver through the necessary paperwork to complete this process.

  Within a few days, Wyatt and Morgan stood with a young realtor after finishing a pre-listing walkthrough of their home. The house-peddler had bad news. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think your home will sell for more than $200,000. It’s a wonderful space, but the kitchen and master bath are outdated, and there are hundreds of competitors on the market right now.”

  Wyatt was shocked. “But we paid more than $400,000 for this place almost 15 years ago. I still owe $250,000 on the note. Things are
that bad?”

  The realtor had expected the reaction. She hated this part, no matter how many times she had to deliver bad news; she would never get accustomed to it. “Yes, things are that bad. I know you probably think I’m just trying to low ball your home to get a quick commission,” she answered, anticipating their unstated objection. “But I’m not. If you have a little time this weekend, I will be happy to show you some of my listings. Once you get a feel for what the market has to offer, you will see – there are hundreds of homes larger and more modern than yours, and most are listed for significantly less than what you owe. You’re not alone. I meet so many people who are in the same boat. That’s why you read so much about people just walking away from their homes.”

  Morgan and Wyatt had taken her up on the offer and returned in a soured mood. The agent had been right, there was no way anyone would buy their property, based on what was available. Clearly, people were desperate to get out of their mortgages.

  Plan-B was the mortgage modification. For two whole days, Wyatt filled out the endless forms required by the lender. The process bought them some time, but in the end, their request was rejected. Their income didn’t meet the modification guidelines. The final rejection letter arrived less than a month ago.

  Wyatt shook his head, thinking the bank hadn’t wasted any time throwing them out.

  Overcome by the finality of their loss, tears flowed freely while the two silently hugged, both of their minds racing with questions. It was Morgan who broke the embrace and reached out to hold her husband’s hand. As gently as possible, she asked, “What are we going to do, Wyatt? Will they put us out in the street?”