The China Dogs

by Sam Masters

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hao’s not sure he does. “The Americans and the West have developed ways of infecting our dogs. We have more than twenty million in our country, Jihai. Twenty million—that is like a whole country of dogs. The West, with all its research into cloning and genetic modification, has found a manner in which to bring diseased breeds into our country and have them multiply, turn on us and destroy us. This is why we still have rabies and they do not. Why we have had to ban dogs growing above knee height, ban them from being allowed out during the day, ban them from all parks, public places, and—”

  “Sir—”

  “Let me finish. These are the reasons our work here is so important. We must fight back. We replicate the aggression in order to find the passivity. Each day that we fail, the Americans breed more and more of these dogs—”

  “What if that’s not true?” Jihai jumps in. “What if it’s propaganda and lies?”

  Hao doesn’t understand, and his face shows it.

  Jihai tries to explain. “I have read things on the Internet about the Americans being attacked by dogs. Killed by wild dogs—wild in the ways we have seen in our own experiments.”

  Hao dismisses his child’s ramblings. “Dogs are savage animals, Jihai. Wolves by nature.” Another thought occurs to him. “Have you been reading noncensored sites?”

  The young man shakes his head in despair. “Everyone reads them—everyone with a brain. Government censors can no more lock a toilet door, let alone secure a global power like the Internet. These days there isn’t a student in China who doesn’t know how to escape ‘the lock.’ ”

  His father is surprised, and instantly realizes he shouldn’t be. His son and friends were born into the technological revolution. It is clay in their hands, to be modeled and shaped as they wish. Whereas he had to encounter it in his later years, and the experience was like meeting an alien creature and needing to learn its languages and habits.

  Hao points to the microscope. “I must finish. I have work to do.”

  Jihai understands he is being dismissed. “Please eat some food—and please think on what I have said—not as a foolish son, but as one scientist to another. What if things are not as General Zhang says? What if our work is not to stop lethal American dogs, but to create Chinese ones?”

  36

  Greenwich Village, New York

  The reporter’s money is scorching a hole in Danny’s pocket as he leaves his run-down rental and heads across town.

  He has plans for it.

  Crazy, crazy plans.

  He glances over his shoulder and checks reflections in storefront windows. As far as he can tell, he hasn’t been followed. The last thing he wants is anyone on his tail.

  Next to the newfound cash is a set of keys. Keys to a second apartment. One that neither he nor the three other hacktivists he operates with can live in. This is strictly a workplace, stuffed with the kind of technology NASA would die for.

  Danny was still at college when he was recruited and paid to put the hacking group together. He wasn’t sure what was happening at first. It was just one of those things that started small and snowballed into something bigger.

  Much bigger.

  He’d been at a party and a friend of a friend introduced him to an Ivy League dude with a bad coke habit and money to burn. As a favor, he set up his 3D home media entertainment system for him. It was one of those obscenely expensive domestic networks that plays your videos, music, and Internet all over the house and gardens. Afterward, the guy says he has a friend who will pay him a fortune to screw up a competing company’s computer system. It wasn’t exactly a fortune, but back in college two grand seemed so. Next thing Danny knew, he’s being introduced to other rich boys with grudges, no principles, and lots of money that they’re happy to part with in return for some clinical and cynical cyber skulduggery.

  Then came the envelope.

  Five grand in cash and the keys to a loft in SoHo, with the message: “Go in the spirit of the Slaughterhouse.” It was a cryptic reference to the Cult of the Dead Cow, a group of U.S. hacktivists who worked from a secret HQ known as the Slaughterhouse, which got burned down way back in the nineties.

  Whoever sent it knew they had the right man. From the time Danny first turned on a computer he’d been interested in using it for mischief. He’d grown up learning about the antics of groups like CDC, Hacker con, Ninja Strike Force, and Hacktivismo. At a time when most kids adopted sports stars as their heroes, his were Omega, the Cult of the Dead Cow, and the “Hong Kong Blondes”—a group of dissidents who disrupted censored networks across the People’s Republic of China.

  Danny briefly reflects on it all as he walks around his group’s new base. There’s a large open hardwood floor dotted with ­generous-size desks and new high-end computers and servers. The place smells of the fresh leather of four brown La-Z-Boys, and there are a couple of giant sofas in zebra fabric to crash on as well. A screen hides an area to cook, and a big fridge is filled with soda and beer. By the front door there are boxes of Tyvek suits and latex gloves—the hackers know they should leave no trace in either the real world or the virtual one.

  The place is perfect.

  Danny can’t wait to get to work.

  37

  Weaponization Bunkers, North Korea

  The noise and the jolt wake him

  Hao had been asleep.

  He’d dozed off at the microscope. Fallen from his stool. On the way down, knocked over the food Jihai had brought him.

  Now he is on the floor, surrounded by spilled fruit, rice, and fish, feeling an ache in his elbow and the back of his skull.

  For a moment he doesn’t move. He just stays there in the mess and stares up at the strips of neon on the ceiling.

  Failure.

  Failure is exhausting him.

  Failure is breaking him.

  Jihai’s doubts had been the last straw. They had broken his concentration and shut down his brain. He could not cope with the thought that all their work and sacrifice of the last years was to create something murderous rather than to counter it.

  Such thinking has to be banished from his mind. And from Jihai’s.

  He focuses.

  Reminds himself of his predicament.

  He had been so close to perfecting a pacifier—then everything changed. For weeks nothing went according to plan. It was as though the progress he’d made had all been a fluke and couldn’t be repeated. He’d rerun all the tests using exactly the same measure of chemicals and made sure they were added, mixed, and dispensed in exactly the same doses.

  Failure.

  He had gone back and done it all again, this time putting the errors down to a difference in the breeds of dogs.

  Failure multiplied by failure.

  But even in the face of defeat he’d refused to give up.

  He wondered if variances in the dogs’ weight, sex, or age might have been to blame.

  They weren’t.

  So now he knows he has to go back to his formulas.

  Pick himself up and start again.

  Hao does just that. He slides his hands across the food-­splattered floor, eases himself upright and brushes himself down.

  He has to put Jihai’s comments out of his mind. Such thinking was crazy.

  Such thinking could get them killed.

  38

  Historic District, Miami

  Ghost is too tired to eat when he gets home.

  He’s spent the evening starting up an Incident Room to manage information on the dog attacks, and now he’s wiped out.

  He kicks off his shoes, throws his jacket over a chair, and grabs two beers from the fridge. He’s so tightly wound; it’s going to take at least two to relax him.

  He pops the caps and sprawls out on the settee. Days don’t come a lot worse than t
he ones he’s having at the moment. Two dead kids within twenty-four hours and a grandfather killed as well.

  He’s never known anything like it.

  Seventeen-year-old Kathy Morgan. Ten-year-old Alfie Steiner. Fifty-five-year-old Matt Wood. He closes his eyes and sees all their faces. Their faces and their injuries. The terrible bites, the fractured bones, the missing flesh.

  Ghost finishes his first bottle and puts the second to his forehead to cool it down. He’s trying not to think of the relatives now. Of the children’s parents, of Wood’s wife, whom he’d only seen fleetingly at the station while Annie dealt with her. The poor woman looked even paler than him. Going through her husband’s life and searching for a reason for the attack will be a horrible process that will feel like it never ends.

  The thought makes him restless. He gets up and takes his beer to the window. Looks out at the sweltering city and its swirl of lights and feels desperately alone.

  It’s almost midnight when the second bottle is empty and he’s finished plotting out which few people he can detail to which numerous tasks in the not-too-far-away start to the new day.

  He finds himself dialing Zoe’s number while simultaneously wondering whether he’s going to make a fool of himself.

  She must have gone to bed, because all he gets is her voice massage. “Hi, you’re through to Zoe Speed, photographer, adventurer, and lover of life. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you. That is, unless you’re on my shit list, in which case go . . .” A long bleep fills the gap. “. . . yourself.”

  He’s laughing as he leaves the message. “Zoe, you said call, so I’m calling. Sorry it’s so late, I was just—”

  She picks up. “Hi, it’s me. The real me, I mean. I just didn’t get to the phone in time.”

  He sounds startled. “Oh. Hi.” There seems no point beating about the bush. “Listen, I’ve had a truly shitty day and I think you might be the only person who can make it all right. My head is full of stuff that I really don’t want to think about. Do you fancy catching a late drink somewhere?”

  “No, not really.”

  The answer knocks him back. “Oh.”

  “But I do fancy catching a cab to your place. And I’m confident I can make you forget your messed up head and sleep soundly. Would that work instead?”

  He laughs again. “Yeah. I guess it would.”

  “Give me a minute to steal something from my friend’s closet, then I’ll be with you.”

  39

  Beijing

  President Xian Sheng sits at his large presidential desk, a spacious block of ancient camphor wood so wide it takes him several strides to reach either end.

  General Zhang is already pacing outside, eager to see him.

  Before Xian lets him in, he pours a cup of green peony tea and waits for his call to the White House to be routed to the President of the United States.

  There’s a click as Molton comes on the line. “Xian, an unexpected surprise. How are you?”

  The Chinese leader detects a deliberate overfriendliness in his counterpart’s voice. “I’m in good health, Mr. President. As I hope are both you and your family.”

  “They are indeed. Thank you for asking. To what do I owe the honor of this call?”

  “I wanted to personally follow up on our discussions at the summit. As I mentioned, China is keen to help America come to an arrangement over both its financial difficulties and the terror threat that it is facing.”

  Molton heads him off. “Well, thank you for your consideration, but I believe I dealt with this pretty directly when we spoke. We have a perfectly acceptable and official financial arrangement with China and I see no reason at all to alter it. And I am not aware of any terror threats that we need your assistance with.”

  Xian pauses while he pours more tea into the simple clay cup that he always drinks from. “General Zhang is concerned. He believes that the type of incidents he warned Mr. Jackson about in Miami will spread and cause an even greater loss of life.”

  Molton exhales wearily. “President Xian, I’ll be honest with you. I am struggling to take this seriously.” His tone becomes less cordial. “The whole notion that weaponized canines could be used to attack American people seems hugely preposterous to both myself and my advisors. We see no evidence whatsoever that this so-called third party threat has any credence.”

  The Chinese leader wipes a drip of tea from the camphor desk. “Then I will bid you good day, Mr. President. I wish you well and look forward to the time when we may speak again.”

  “Good day to you too. Thank you for your call.”

  As the line goes dead, Xian presses a button on his phone and tells his secretary to show General Zhang in.

  Seconds later the door opens. The military commander enters and closes it in a swift and orderly motion. Aware that this meeting demands even more formality and respect than he normally affords, he marches to the edge of the desk, stands ramrod straight in front of his leader and salutes.

  Xian nods his consent for him to sit. He weighs up the eagerness in his colleague.

  A soldier ever-hungry for war.

  A man desperate for power.

  His power.

  “There is an old superstition that if you hear a dog howl late at night, then someone somewhere is dying. Today you come to me, Zhang, seeking to make a whole army of dogs howl and many, many people die. Are you certain that this is the moment for such disturbance?”

  “Our hearts train our ears to crave silence, but our minds know that discourse is the only way to secure true peace.”

  Xian cradles the clay cup and sips his tea. “And what words of wisdom are your scientists telling you about the control of these weaponized canines? I ask because it is clear from your reports that they can be activated at will, but to date I have seen no evidence of pacification. Any coward can find a moment to catch an unsuspecting person off-guard and deliver a duplicitous cut—only a respected physician can provide the means to heal.”

  “Physicians also need to cut. I believe we are ready to do both as and when needed.” Zhang pauses and wonders if Chunlin has secretly been briefing the president, apprising him of the problems he’s been having with the scientists.

  “You hesitate, General. Is it because you are thoughtful or because you are worried?”

  “Thoughtful, President Xian. We have all the control we need.” He slides over three thick manila files, stacked with satellite photographs, charts, reports, data analyses, and summaries. “Only two weaponized dogs were activated in the area we warned the Americans of. One was shot on a beach. The second in a park. Those files also show you the locations and activation timetables of the other weaponized dogs.”

  Xian doesn’t even glance at the documents, let alone examine them. “Command is a matter of trust and loyalty. Men who rise together also fall together. Tell me, Zhang—will our country stand on your proposals to me and reach even greater heights, or will the weight of such ambition cause us to collectively and personally stumble and fall?”

  The general chooses his words carefully before replying, “Project Nian will bring even more greatness to China, President Xian. It will restore our position as true leaders of the world. We have waited long to strike the first blow. Now that our hands have been shown and our enemy has seen the intent in our eyes, we must deliver the blow quickly.”

  Xian lifts the classical Gong Fu style teapot and delicately pours more of the calming brew while he contemplates the bigger picture. Never again will America be so weak. Poor leadership and a gangrenous economy have drained them of their financial wealth. Badly fought wars on distant battlefields have left their military forces unpopular, underresourced, demoralized, and depleted. He knows that Zhang is right about momentum. The power of the moment is with him.

  “You have my permission to escalate the deployment of Nian dogs, but not uncond
itionally and not throughout all of America.”

  “President Xian—”

  “Do not interrupt me.”

  Zhang nods respectfully.

  “Give the Americans one more show of strength. One they cannot this time explain away. Extend your operation from Miami to all of Florida, but no farther. Call Director Jackson and make it clear to him that what he is about to witness is the full wrath of weaponized canines, a loss of life he could have prevented.”

  The general knows better than to argue.

  “One more thing, Zhang. The day after tomorrow is the eighth; this is the number in which we have the greatest trust. Wait until luck is on our side before you tempt fate.”

  PART TWO

  What is evil but good tortured

  by its own hunger and thirst?

  KHALIL GIBRAN

  40

  Beijing

  And so the time comes.

  The world’s newest and most insidious weapon of mass destruction is about to be deployed, without fanfare or ceremony, at precisely the moment President Xian believes it is most likely to bring success.

  He is merely following an age old tradition that still sees Singapore Airlines reserve flight numbers starting with eight to China—and in Korea saw the Petronas Towers in Malaysia stop at the eighty-eighth floor.

  General Zhang is in the military control room and gives the green light to Xue Shi, his most trusted lieutenant, the man he has placed in minute-by-minute charge of the campaign that will secure his place as the eventual successor to Xian.

  At six feet tall and 180 pounds in pure muscled weight, forty-two-year-old General Xue cuts a distinctive figure in most places, but especially among his diminutive colleagues.

  Zhang’s protégé diligently visits row after row of intelligence officers seated at computer terminals. He gives each of them specific details about which dog needs to be activated and when to do it.

  He returns to Zhang and proudly confirms their readiness. “We are operational. I will see that you are not troubled unnecessarily, General, and will update you only on major developments.”