by Joe Nobody
As they approached Tiananmen Square, Hong experienced a mental flashback to 1989. Today, just like so long ago, Red Army tanks blocked the intersection and smoke filled the air. Hundreds of policemen with riot shields and helmets lined the streets. But today, the broad expanse of Tiananmen was devoid of even a single soul. The minister craned his neck and could see a sizable crowd only a few blocks distant. Rows of soldiers blocked the throng’s access to the square – desperately trying to deny the protesters the street. Hong knew why the military had drawn the line far from the square. The crowds would no doubt be emboldened if they reached the now legendary location.
The driver had to turn several times before reaching their destination. Hong decided he would make a positive remark on the man’s service record for negotiating the treacherous route without comment or panic.
Arriving at the Zhongnanhai complex late, Hong had to step at an impolite, hurried pace in order to make the scheduled start of the council meeting. After the security guard outside the conference room opened the door, Hong entered the room and momentarily froze. Instead of the anticipated six members of the council, only the president and the Minister of Finance were present at the table. Along the opposite wall, two men he didn’t know stood with their hands behind their backs.
“Greetings, Minister Hong,” stated the president, his tone unusually cool. “I’m delighted to see you have arrived promptly as usual.”
Hong ignored the criticism and moved to take his normal seat. The president held up his hand to stop his progress. “That won’t be necessary, Minister.”
“Sir?”
Reaching for the single sheet of paper resting on the table in front of him, the president looked up at Hong with eyes that reminded him of a snake ready to strike and consume a rodent. The cold, hard, emotionless state of the president’s gaze sent a chill down Hong’s spine. Something was wrong – badly wrong.
“Minister Hong,” the president began, “As I’m sure you are well aware, our people are suffering badly. The momentum is gone from our economic growth. Millions find themselves unemployed. Our collected tax revenues are at a ten-year low. Relationships we have nurtured, both political and economic, have disappeared.”
The president paused, but only for a moment.
“Social unrest, labor strikes, and general bedlam have broken out all over the country. You, no doubt, witnessed evidence of these facts on your way here.”
Hong, unsure of where this was all going, simply nodded his agreement.
China’s leader continued, “A polarization of the international community has occurred, resulting in an alignment against China. The Golden Mountain project, initiated by your ministry and managed by you personally, has resulted in economic hostilities against our country on an unprecedented scale. To make matters worse, the people are widely aware of why their jobs have disappeared. The general population knows why such hard times have befallen the Middle Kingdom. They demand justice.”
The president pushed the single piece of paper across the table at Hong. With hesitation, he picked it up and began reading. Before he had finished, he looked up and hissed, “This is a confession! You expect me to take all of the blame for what has transpired?”
The president pretended to be busy with other papers. Without looking up, he simply stated, “Sign the confession, Minister.”
Hong slammed the paper down on the table. “I will not sign such a lie! What treachery is this? Both of you approved this operation, and it succeeded. My plan disabled the single biggest threat to our future. The actions of my ministry brought America to its knees. It isn’t my problem that the rest of our government couldn’t take advantage of the situation. Why am I to be dishonored when I’ve done nothing but succeed?”
The president continued to work on the stack of papers in front of him. He didn’t acknowledge Hong’s words in any way. “Sign the confession, Minister.”
Hong’s head snapped from the president to the Minister of Finance and back. Now, understanding how the game was going to be played, he made an instant decision not to participate. He turned toward the door, reaching for the handle.
One of the men standing along the wall calmly brought his hand from behind his back. In his grasp was a brightly colored handgun that appeared to be made of plastic. Before Hong’s hand could turn the door knob, the stranger pulled the trigger.
A two-pronged projectile exited the pistol-device trailing two wires. The man was an excellent marksman, and his aim was square in Minister Hong’s back. The sharp, pointed edge of the projectile penetrated Hong’s clothing and embedded itself in his skin. Almost instantly, 15,000 volts of electrical energy flowed through the wire and into the minister’s body.
Unlike the US version of the Taser, which is designed to disable the target’s nervous system, the Chinese weapon was built to disable with pain. Using a lower voltage and higher amperage achieved the desired effect.
Hong felt as though his entire body was on fire. Every nerve ending seemed to be burning, even his bones. The shock of the pain caused his field of vision to momentarily flash white and then completely black. Within a second, the muscle control of his legs gave out, and he fell to the floor with an audible thump.
The president waited a few seconds before glancing down at Hong. China’s leader turned to the two strangers and nodded, prompting them to quickly set the barely conscious minister in his chair.
Hong’s upper body swirled, barely staying upright in the high-backed seat. The president said, “Sign the confession, Minister.”
Despite the pain and lack of muscle control, Hong managed a single motion from his head - no. His eyes focused on the president, and his mouth moved to say the word, but no sound came out.
The president looked up at the strangers and nodded.
The second man produced his own version of the plastic pistol, this one a different color and of a slightly different shape. Without hesitation, he smoothly pointed the weapon at Hong and pulled the trigger.
Another metal pitchfork flew at the minister, this time striking him in the arm. Before his brain could acknowledge the sting, 8,000 volts raced down the leads and entered his already weakened body.
This time the current lasted longer than before. Hong’s mouth opened wide, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head while his entire body bounced up and down in the chair. After two seconds, the electricity ceased its attack, and Hong fell forward, his forehead banging into the table. A small whiff of smoke rose from the cloth of his shirt, and the smell of urine filled the room.
It took almost a minute before Hong showed any sign of life. The four other men in the room detected an unusual, high pitched sound that they soon recognized as Hong’s weeping. For the fourth time, the president said, “Sign the confession, Minister.”
Hong managed to lean back in the chair, his complexion ash white and skin covered in sweat. The head of MOSS seemed to be having trouble focusing his eyes, but the intent of his head’s motion was clear. “No.”
The president sat back in his chair and sighed. “Hong, I’ve known you for a long time. You should place your trust in my words. These two men have dozens of reloads for their little electric toys. They’ve not progressed to the stage where permanent brain and heart damage occur - yet. You and I, we both know you are going to sign that paper. Why not do so now and avoid all of this unpleasantness?”
Hong managed to turn his head toward the strangers. Without any facial expression, one of the men took a single step toward the conference table and sat a handful of orange and red tubes on the mahogany surface. He then broke open the pistol-device and reloaded the weapon. His ice cold, emotionless gaze settled back on Hong.
The president calmly said, “Hong?”
The Minister of MOSS nodded at the paper. The president placed a pen in Hong’s shaky hand.
AP Press Release –Tokyo, Japan 08:00 GMT January, 18, 2017
The Chinese Central News Agency today reported that the minister of China
’s super-secretive Ministry of State Security had been arrested on charges of treason, embezzlement and sedition.
According to Chinese news reports, the powerful member of the ruling council is directly to blame for recent cyber-attacks on the United States.
A spokesman for the president is quoted as saying, “Minister Hong has been arrested and is awaiting trial. The Chinese government is conducting a full investigation into the matter. The evidence uncovered so far indicates unauthorized, covert actions were taken against the US, but to date all indications are that the results were negligible and have been greatly exaggerated by Washington.”
Another source within the Chinese Ministry of Information added, “The United States is using China through the unlawful actions of this one man as a scapegoat. China is and will always be a nation of law. The president condemns these acts and promises to take measures to ensure no such event occurs in the future.”
Anonymous sources inside of the State Department expressed skepticism that the Chinese cyber-attack was the result of a single man’s actions.
Shanghai, China
March 9, 2018
Huang Fu rose from behind his desk and verified his office door was locked. Now would be an unfortunate time for an interruption, he thought. Moving to a wooden bookshelf in the corner of the spacious office, he removed a specific volume and carried it back to his desk. He glanced again at the door, fighting an urge to check the locks again. He chided himself for the thought and whispered under his breath, “You are a small fish and unworthy of attention. Quit acting like a man cheating on his lover and get on with it.”
Huang opened the book. Inside the hardbound cover, several pages had been neatly carved out, resulting in a small rectangular storage compartment. Lying flush within the paper-container was a thumb drive that could be plugged into the computer residing on his desk. He had imitated the clandestine storage method after seeing an old western spy movie some years ago. It made him feel stealthy and calmed his nerves - somewhat.
Mr. Fu’s shaking hands fumbled with the small object, having to make two attempts to remove it from its paper hiding place. Throwing one more nervous look at the door, he inserted the drive into the computer and began typing in the three levels of password security required to access the data.
His computer monitor changed to display a neatly organized spreadsheet containing rows and columns of numbers. He had named the file “Future,” because that’s what was stored inside – his future.
Fu Machine and Tool had been in business for 17 years. Mr. Fu had started the firm in a small shack-like structure on the outskirts of Shanghai after graduating from university. A second-hand drill press and small lathe were the first equipment, purchased with a government grant from a British-owned facility in Hong Kong.
Huang still had those original machines, now sitting clean and freshly painted in the lobby of his 11,000 square meter factory. Practically museum pieces when initially acquired, those two simple devices had been the beginning of a new chapter in his life. He would miss walking by them every morning on his way to the office.
While he waited for the numbers to update on his screen, Huang thought about what would happen if his actions were discovered by the authorities. Technically, what he was doing was illegal in so many ways, yet by the strict code of the law, building Fu Machine and Tool had been a violation as well. It was all so confusing.
His primary education was strictly communist. The state owned all industry, and the people worked to contribute to the common good of everyone. By the time he entered secondary school, the lines became blurred. When China regained control of Hong Kong in 1997, everything started changing rapidly.
At first the authorities had looked the other way when a few, daring, young entrepreneurs had started cottage businesses to supplement their income. Inspired by their cousins to the south, the tsunami of privatization rolling north from the former British colony had been unstoppable.
Huang shook his head thinking about those early days. The apprehension he felt over his secret data store was nothing compared to what those early adaptors had endured. He still marveled at the change he had witnessed during his lifetime.
Mr. Fu understood timing was important in all matters of life, and his business timing had been perfect. His endeavor had ridden a wave of new freedoms fueled by economic growth and his country’s determination to play a role on the global stage. At first, other Chinese firms had been his customers. Machining simple bicycle parts had led to more complex work for the military. His quality and timely delivery resulted in additional orders – large orders.
A trade fair in Shanghai was the first time he’d met an American. The odd man fit several of the stereotypes he had heard about westerners, but was also different in many ways. The American wanted to place an order for tractor parts. A lot of tractor parts.
The permits, paperwork and general bureaucracy had been a struggle, but he waded through, determined to grow his business. In four months, Mr. Fu received an export license and never looked back.
In two years, America was his biggest customer. After four years, he exported more than what he sold domestically. After ten years, he didn’t even bother with domestic orders. The profit margin realized by selling goods to other Chinese firms just wasn’t worth it.
FM&T grew to over 200 employees in just 10 years, reaching a peak of 380 just a year ago. The Fu family remained humble with their newfound wealth. Their flat was more expansive than many, but not enough to flaunt their success. Fu registered on the list to acquire an automobile just like millions of other citizens. He waited months before his name came to the top of the list, only then to be offered a substandard product. Mr. Fu graciously accepted delivery of the unreliable, featureless automobile even though he could easily afford to purchase the most expensive German model and have it imported.
Over time, the frustration with the vacillating direction of the government began to set in. He was part of a growing upper class of successful individuals who were responsible with improving the lives of their fellow citizens, yet he couldn’t relax and enjoy the fruits of his labor. The communist leadership was always a dark cloud looming on the horizon. No one could predict how strong the storm would be…how much wind, lightening and rain it would generate. Some thought it would simply blow over without harm. Others hunkered down and waited for intense destruction. The Communist Party was always the shadowy figure looming in the background - a stifling presence at best; a deadly threat at worst.
The new upper class of China began to network. They initially banded together in a brotherhood of growth, always communicating under the premise of trying to improve the lives of their employees – and the communist system. Over time, it became a complete façade. The deep undercurrent of their cult-like activity became prosperity. Emails, social networks and face-to-face meetings may have appeared innocent enough to any authority peering in, but in truth there was an embedded secret code that could only be deciphered by those who had tasted success.
Huang orbited around the core of this new society. He wasn’t a brave man – definitely not a political risk-taker. His primary motivation was to build things and expand the lifestyle of his family. He had no interest in political or social change. Over the years, he justified the eavesdropping and fringe involvement as a means to grow his company. Any inquiry by the authorities could be answered with the plausible justification of making new contacts to increase business and help the people. In many ways, it was truthful. All of that gradually changed as FM&T continued to grow.
There had been a few watershed events leading to his ultimate corruption. His first trip to Europe had been one of the early experiences. A wide-eyed, young factory owner, the five-day trade expo in Belgium had exposed Huang to the power and capabilities of the West. His first trip to America had almost blown his mind. He realized that his fellow business owners were telling more truth than the government. The West was already where his countrymen wanted to be, in fac
t, the evil democracies were light years ahead. If capitalism and free enterprise were so terrible, why had these forms of government enabled such advancement? This question troubled him, leading into the deep analysis necessary to reconcile his empirical evidence of the success of western culture and the evil image communism gave it. Mr. Fu was uncomfortable with the results of that examination. He didn’t know what to do – couldn’t come up with any plan. The internal struggle was pushed deep below the surface of his psyche and hidden in the innermost compartments of his being. That was the only thing more secure in his life than the data appearing on his screen.
Eight months ago, everything had been flipped upside down. His biggest customer, America, had collapsed in just a few days. His accounts receivable, almost 100% owed from US customers, was wiped out in less than a week. The newscasts made it clear that he had little hope of ever getting paid.
Then the Americans pointed their military toward China. Like most other citizens of the Red Nation, patriotism and pride had overridden any business concerns. That initial swell of nationalism soon dissipated, however. The Americans never attacked, and business dried up.
Mr. Fu removed the thumb drive and inserted it back into its hiding place. After returning the book to the shelf, he leaned back in his chair and recalled those troubled days.
The strongest image in his mental playback was of the hundreds of employees at FMT, standing around with nothing to do. Each day they would clock in, greeting each other as they streamed into the plant. There were no orders, nothing to be made. Any maintenance, cleaning or other make-work had been completed days ago. The plant was as spotless as it had ever been. Having nothing to do, the workers had simply reported to their assigned work area and waited, silently watching the clock. The supervisors and low-level managers had joined them in the ghost-like ritual.